Darkblade Seeker: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Hero of Darkness Book 4)

by Andy Peloquin

  The demon's presence radiated disdain. “Coward!”

  It is prudence. The Hunter pushed back against the voice. The time will come when I will need you. But now I must remain cautious. I must remain in control, and I cannot have you assailing my mind. Give me peace, and you will have what you crave.

  Mocking laughter filled his mind. “Still you fight? In the end, Bucelarii, I always win! The blood of the Abiarazi—my blood—runs through your veins. It is what you are.”

  Do we have a deal?

  “We do.” The throbbing behind his eyes retreated, fading to a dull ache. “But if you do not keep your end of the bargain, Hunter...”

  Yes, torment and agony, I understand. He had no other choice. He needed to learn more about the Warmaster and his temple.

  Soulhunger's insistence remained in the forefront of his mind. Too much time had elapsed since he'd satiated the dagger's need for blood. Soon enough, Soulhunger.

  Ignoring the curiosity in the Elivasti's eyes, the Hunter strode into the Warmaster's temple. He hesitated only a moment before stepping through the doorway.

  The throbbing in his head grew to an agonizing intensity. Even though the voices remained silent, the temple seemed to amplify their very presences. It felt as if something had swollen in his brain, pulsing in time with the beat of his heart. He tightened his jaw against the pain. He had survived fire and frost, deserts and canyons, man and Abiarazi alike. He would live through this.

  Once again, it felt as if he stepped into another world. The building radiated a timelessness that put the opulence of Voramian mansions to shame. He reached out a hand as if to touch the power of the Serenii that flowed through the very stones of the temple. No human hands could have built this.

  Yet as he rested a hand on the wall, a chill ran through him. The air within the temple felt heavier, the gloom more oppressive. The temple seemed to swallow the light of the torches and alchemical lamps. Fingers of shadow splayed across the floors and ceilings. Even the echo of their boots on the staircase held an eerie reverberation that grated on the Hunter's ears.

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow. Pleasant place, isn't it?

  His eyes were drawn to the symbols and images carved into the walls. The swirling lines formed figures his mind couldn't grasp, yet something within him stirred to life. Blood rushed in his ears, a red haze tinged the edges of his vision. His fingers twitched toward Soulhunger. He wanted to draw the dagger and kill the Sage, the guards, everyone in this accursed place. The flames of his hatred and rage burned bright. He needed death, and he wouldn't stop until—

  No! He tore his eyes from the carvings, balled his fists to fight back the heat roiling in his chest. He couldn't allow the sorcery of the images—a dark, terrible power—to overwhelm him.

  Yet even as he climbed, he couldn't help but stare at the carvings. The images filled his mind with vivid scenes of carnage. Steel clashed, and blood hung thick in the air as warriors hacked at each other. Men screamed and died on a field of battle, the wounded crying out for their gods, their friends, their mothers. Women shrieked over the corpses of their fallen husbands. Children stared empty-eyed amidst the wreckage of their homes, the lifeless bodies of their parents. Fire consumed all in its path. Humans and creatures turned to ash in the crackling fingers of death.

  "Bucelarii!" The deep, booming voice snapped him back to the present. He looked up to see the Warmaster strode down the hall, arms spread in greeting.

  "You have arrived." The Abiarazi's face creased into a sneer. "And without that snake squirming in your shadow."

  "Warmaster." The Hunter bowed to hide his disgust. Yesterday, the Warmaster had beaten him for the sheer pleasure of it, and now he greeted him like an old comrade.

  "Come, come!" The Warmaster ushered him down the hall toward a massive set of double doors. "Tonight we feast in your honor." A wild light filled his eyes. "You have my word, it will be a night you will never forget."

  Chapter Twenty

  The Hunter stepped through the double doors and into a carnival of debauchery.

  An overwhelming array of scents assaulted his nostrils. The stench of unwashed bodies set his head spinning. The reek of dried wine, beer, and other unfamiliar spirits hung thick in the air. Aromas of sizzling meat wafted toward him, mixed with the tang of exotic spices and herbs. But the metallic odor of blood—fresh-spilled and ancient—permeated everything.

  Deafening cheers echoed through the circular, high-vaulted chamber. A crowd of scarlet-clad men—at least two hundred strong—sat on raised stone benches running along the walls. They shouted, jeered, and hurled insults at one another, yet their eyes never left the two figures locked in combat in the pit at the heart of the room.

  The man wore nothing but a loincloth and leather harness. He carried a long, leaf-bladed spear tipped with a heavy metal ball at the butt end. Though blood trickled from deep gashes in his muscle-bound chest and arms, his dark eyes showed no sign of fear or hesitation. He held his spear in a loose, comfortable grip, his face a mask of calm confidence.

  The desert greatcat snarled and circled him with wary tension in its haunches. The hypercarnivore moved with the power and grace of an apex predator. The black fur around its shoulders and haunches glistened wetly. A large slash across the beast's jaw dripped blood, revealing long, sharp canine teeth.

  A Hrandari beast pit. Humans pitted against animals, only one would leave alive. Many of the victors—man and beast alike—died of wounds or infections. The sport was forbidden throughout the south of Einan.

  "Glorious, isn't it?" the Warmaster shouted over the roar of the crowd. He pointed to the spear-wielding warrior. "Commodus has survived over forty fights in the beast pit. He has defeated every manner of foe from mountain gorillas to cave bears."

  The scars crisscrossing Commodus' body bore testament to the man's battles.

  The voices in his mind pounded with eager anticipation. Soulhunger twitched in its sheath; the blade had the scent of blood, and it thirsted. The demon's lust for death set his head throbbing. He couldn't hold them back much longer. He had to find someone to kill.

  He allowed the Warmaster to steer him toward the dining table. A pile of fresh bread sat beside a large pot of savory grain gruel. Boiled vegetables, fresh fruits, and brightly-colored extoci berries filled two massive silver platters. The smell of mutton and goat set his stomach rumbling. Roast pigs sat beside haunches of beef and half-eaten chicken carcasses. After a day of training with Master Eldor, he welcomed the feast. He piled his trencher high.

  "Come. You are to have the place of honor!" The Warmaster led him toward a massive throne at the rear of the hall. Gargoyles leered at him from atop the crest, and serpents writhed down the sides to end in gaping, fanged maws at the armrest. Plush velvet lined the bloodwood frames.

  The Warmaster dropped into his throne and motioned for the Hunter to sit in the smaller, less ornate chair beside him. "You dine at my right hand this night." He grinned. "Just in time, too. The fight is almost over."

  The Hunter returned his attention to the beast pit. The desert greatcat moved with a limp, favoring its right forepaw. Commodus advanced, spear at the ready. He darted forward and lashed out with the spear. The steel blade carved a line across the greatcat's forehead. Howling its pain and rage, the beast attacked. Commodus ducked beneath the blind leap and drove his spear up and into the greatcat's belly. The cheering rose to a deafening pitch as a torrent of blood bathed the crouching warrior. Before the beast recovered, Commodus drove his spear into the base of its skull. The greatcat's mighty muscles spasmed once, then it lay still.

  The Hunter glanced at his host. The Warmaster leaned forward in his chair, an eager gleam in his eyes. He leapt to his feet at the beast's death, shouting and applauding with the rest of the crowd.

  The blood-soaked warrior strode around the beast pit, spear raised in triumph.

  "Commodus! Commodus!" The chant echoed in the enormous room.

  The Hunter hid his disgust.
Savages, one and all. He'd killed when needed, but the thought of seeking out such sport—if one could call brutality such—turned his stomach.

  “Hypocrite!” The demon's voice set his head throbbing. “You seek to spill the blood of your own kind. How are you any better than they?”

  The Hunter gritted his teeth. I do not do it for pleasure. I do it because I must.

  “Do not pretend with me, Hunter. I am you. I know too well the thrill of the hunt, of the kill.”

  The wooden armrests creaked in the Hunter's grip. I hunt those who deserve it. Not beasts who have done nothing more than try to survive.

  “Tell yourself what you must.” Mockery filled his thoughts. “In the end, you know the truth.”

  Much as he wanted to, he couldn't deny the truth of the demon's words. He had killed many—far too many, perhaps—humans and Abiarazi alike. Yet he refused to believe he was anything like these bloodthirsty sadists.

  The Warmaster turned to him. "What a glorious triumph!" He pounded a fist on the arm of his chair. "But if you think that is a spectacle, wait until you see what comes next."

  The Hunter plastered a grin on his face, but held his tongue. His desire to be elsewhere warred with his need to learn more about the Warmaster. He had to find weaknesses he could exploit when the time came.

  Hiding a grimace, he emptied his goblet.

  The Warmaster roared for a servant to bring him wine. He extended a silver tankard to the Hunter. "Come, Bucelarii. Let us toast!"

  The Hunter accepted the glass.

  "To bygones," the Warmaster said with a sly grin. "Warriors like us, we are men of passion. No doubt you, too, have raised your sword in anger. But tonight, we put that behind us."

  "To bygones, then." The Hunter drank deep of the rich ale.

  The Warmaster gulped from his tankard greedily, beer dripping down his chin and bristling beard. "Ahh!" He smacked his lips. "Nothing like a drink after a good fight. Though I'd say I prefer what follows the drinking, eh?" He leered at a scantily-clad servant girl passing in front of his throne.

  The Hunter followed his gaze. Women dressed in sheer outfits moved among the crowd—of mostly men, he realized—surrounding the beast pit. He found his eyes drawn to their bare flesh. He hadn't felt a woman's touch for far too long.

  He ripped his eyes away from the women and focused on the crowd. The reek of bodily fluids turned his stomach. "Who are all these people?"

  "My Masters of Agony."

  They seemed to come from every corner of Einan. Pale-haired Voramians sat beside dark-eyed Praamians and swarthy men of Al Hani. Men with the stocky build of Malandrians jostled with rangy Drashi and diminutive Nyslians. A few even had the tow-colored hair and fiery red cheeks of men from across the Frozen Sea.

  They look so…normal. But what had he expected? A group of cannibalistic maniacs? Anyone—even the most ordinary-looking man—could be a bloodthirsty monster. These simply refused to hide their bestial nature beneath the polish of courtly manners or priesthood.

  "I didn't expect so many of them."

  "There are more around Einan, believe me. These are just the Masters in residence and the apprentices still in training."

  "How many are there?"

  "Enough." The Warmaster's gaze seemed to pierce the Hunter, as if searching for something. "It is good you have come. Your presence gives us something to celebrate."

  The Hunter nodded. "I, too, am glad to have found Kara-ket." For a number of reasons.

  "It's a pity you are locked up with that stuffy scholar, the Sage." He puffed up his chest. "He cannot offer you the delights I can. He is not like us. He plays games and reads books, but I can see you crave a life of action, of excitement. I can promise you battle, death, and glory!" He slammed his tankard onto the arm of his chair, and beer sloshed on his clothing.

  The Hunter shrugged. "I call his temple home, but only for now. I have sworn no oaths."

  The Warmaster's eyes darted around the room. "Come." He stood abruptly. "I would talk in private, away from prying eyes and ears."

  The huge demon swaggered through a nearby door. His massive frame filled the narrow tunnel beyond. A chill breeze greeted the Hunter as he stepped onto a balcony. He leaned against the railing, staring up at the twinkling stars, basking in the wind that whipped at his hair and clothes.

  The Warmaster stood stiffly beside him. "Let me speak plain, Hunter. I believe the Sage intends to use you."

  The Hunter kept his expression carefully blank. "Truly? He has been nothing but congenial since my arrival." He fixed the Warmaster with a stern gaze. "You, on the other hand…"

  The Warmaster's eyes shifted away. "I have already explained myself. Your actions…" He dismissed it with a wave. "It is in the past. But it is your future I wish to discuss."

  The Hunter crossed his arms. "I'm listening."

  "I have seen the way the Sage looks at you. Wheels within his mind, turning, turning, calculating. He seeks the best angle to use you, to beguile you into doing his will. Perhaps he has already convinced you. If, as you say, he has been nothing but congenial, the manipulation has already begun. He seeks to ensnare you with clever words. Then he will sink a dagger into your back like the accursed snake he is."

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Are you certain?"

  The Warmaster snorted. "You think you're the first 'ally' he has used and discarded? Trust me when I say he has left a trail of broken bodies in his wake. He is not to be trusted."

  The Hunter said nothing.

  "But I can offer you so much more! I am his superior in every way." The Warmaster held up a huge fist. "He believes he has Einan in his grasp, but he is a fool. He relies on the Elivasti, but I have my Masters of Agony, an army far stronger. Together, they are a force that cannot be defeated. The day is coming when I will rule all of Einan. He will not stop me from conquering, as we were meant to."

  The demon turned to him, his gaze piercing. "I recognize what you truly are, Bucelarii. The Sage calls himself Abiarazi, but he hides in the shadows, fearful as a mouse." He slammed his palm onto the stone railing. "He dishonors us with his cowardice. You, on the other hand, I have seen the fires of war burning in your eyes. You may have the blood of the pathetic humans in your veins, but our blood—the blood of greatness—courses through you. The song of battle sings in your bones, as it does in mine." He pounded his chest. "The Sage has turned deaf ears to the tune. He is a disgrace to the Abiarazi name."

  The Warmaster spread his arms wide. "Look around you, Hunter. Look at that view."

  The Hunter turned and studied the Hrandari landscape below.

  "Everything you see once belonged to the Abiarazi, and it will once again. But not if that viper is in charge. Because of him, we skulk atop a mountain instead of conquering Einan as we should. We have an army at our disposal, yet we hide? Would you swear your loyalty to a coward?"

  "You forget about the Elivasti's curse."

  The Warmaster spat. "I forget nothing! They are our vassals, sworn to our service. Whether they live or die matters not."

  I'm sure they'd disagree with you.

  The demon gave a dismissive wave. "So what if a thousand—nay, ten thousand—fall to the madness? We have more than enough to conquer this pitiful continent. My army is enough to crush any stronghold, overcome any fastness. Humans will join our ranks in droves just to avoid being slaughtered. They will bolster our numbers until we wash over this pathetic world in a wave of death and destruction. If only that cowardly Sth-za-krkl were dead."

  "And that is where I come in." The Hunter's words came out cold and cruel.

  The Warmaster gave a stiff nod. "Indeed." He stabbed a finger into the Hunter's chest. "You are the key to all of this. Once the Sage is gone, I will be free to conquer. We will do as we please."

  "Why not just kill him yourself?"

  The huge demon shook his head. "If only it were that simple. If I strike him down, the Elivasti still loyal to him would rebel. But your actions will be much
easier to explain away. You can claim it was your hatred of the Sage or, failing that, an act of vengeance, settling the score of your father or some such. No doubt the Sage's men will seek to take their anger out on you, but they will heed my command. I have given this a great deal of thought, and it will work."

  The Hunter screwed up his face in contemplation. "And what is my reward? Aside from a thousand Elivasti out for my blood?"

  "That is why my plan is so perfect! The Elivasti are sworn to serve me. Before they can have your head, they will be firmly under my control. They cannot act against my commands. And if I order them not to raise a hand against you, they will do nothing."

  "And what's to stop you from betraying me?"

  Anger flashed in the Warmaster's eyes. "Because that is not my way! I am no snake, slithering in the grass and striking my enemies in the back." His huge hands twitched, his face flushing. "I am the greatest warrior that has ever lived. Believe me when I say I do not need to strike from the shadows. I am an Abiarazi of honor."

  The Hunter nodded. "It sounds simple enough. But you still have not told me what I gain from the bargain."

  "Glory!" Maddened lust filled the Warmaster's expression. "The thrill of battle. The feel of your enemy's blood hot on your face. The song of death pounding in your ears." He licked his lips. "You were destined for greatness. The Bucelarii were created to fight alongside us. I offer you the chance to fulfill your destiny."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Hunter stifled his loathing. The Abiarazi were so predictable. They sought power, to rule, at any cost. Even if it meant killing their own kind, they would never hesitate. They seemed unable to comprehend that the Bucelarii—their own offspring—had any desire other than blood and death. That hubris was the weakness he sought.

  He could pretend to go along with the Warmaster, and the demon would believe him an ally. But that would turn the Sage against him. From what he had seen of the two, the Warmaster, for all his strength and skill, was a far less dangerous opponent. The Sage's cunning and guile made him the greater threat.