Spring Showers Box-set

by Avell Kro

Opting for retreat, the Hunter found the hulking form of Rifter cutting off his escape.

  "My friend speaks the truth, wretch," Rifter growled, his breath heavy with alcohol and anger.

  "Ya owe him an apology, and an imperial for his clothing."

  Emon's clothing was clearly worth far less than an imperial—an entire year's wages for a day

  laborer—but the Hunter could see Rifter was spoiling for a fight.

  "Apologies, good sirs." The Hunter adopted the quavering voice of an old man. "It was clumsy

  of me not to see where you were walking. Alas, I have naught to give you."

  "Nothing, beggar?" Rifter's voice had a hard edge.

  "No, good masters. A poor man like myself can barely scrounge together two bits, much less a

  whole imperial. Please, I beg you to let me pass, and the gods will bless you for your generosity."

  The Hunter attempted to move once more, but Rifter's hand on his arm was firm, holding him

  in place. "If ya don't have an imperial to spare, beggar," the big brute said, "we'l just have to take what ya have and be content."

  Rifter reached out to pull back the hood, but the Hunter twisted away, catching the hulking

  man off guard. Rifter's sausage fingers closed around the Hunter's robe, ripping it from his

  shoulders.

  "Let's see what this has to…" Rifter's words trailed off in disbelief.

  The Hunter straightened, his eyes now level with his enemy. Rifter frowned as he took in the

  features of the handsome face of the Hunter; the sculpted nose, high cheekbones, and strong chin

  were not the features of a penniless beggar. His dark hair, near-black in the lightless alley, was

  pul ed back into a tight tail. His unadorned leather armor, clearly worn and wel -used, revealed a

  lean, lithe form.

  The Hunter's eyes, a color somehow darker than the starless night above, held no fear. He

  glared at Rifter with quiet calm, taking in the huge man's features, and his expression showed

  nothing but contempt and resignation.

  Rifter's gaze dropped to the sword at his waist, and the Hunter knew the man's dull mind was

  struggling to keep up. Only Heresiarchs were permitted to carry swords, but the Hunter cared little

  for the laws of the city.

  "Hey," shouted Emon from the ground, spitting foul muck and wiping black slime from his

  mouth, "he's not old! What’sh goin’ on here?"

  "Last chance." The Hunter added a menacing edge to his voice. "Walk away."

  In their befuddled states, Emon and Eld tried to comprehend the gravity of their situation.

  Good sense seemed to flash behind Rifter's eyes as his brain screamed for him to run away, but

  the big man's anger caused it to go unheeded.

  "Sorry, boyo," Rifter said, lapsing back into his usual brogue. He bared his teeth in an evil grin

  and balled his enormous fists. "You've insulted me mates, and now it turns out you've got

  somethin’ valuable beneath that ratty cloak of yours."

  "You've been warned," replied the Hunter, "and now you've seen my face."

  He stepped back as the foul-smelling Emon struggled to his feet. His hand dropped to the

  sword hanging from his belt, and he stared down into the drunk's bleary eyes.

  "That’sh mine now!" Emon stumbled forward and reached for the sword.

  The Hunter drew and struck so quickly it took Emon's drink-addled brain a few seconds to

  register the fact that his hands were no longer attached to his arms. He didn't even scream as he

  fel to his knees, blood spurting from the stumps of his forearms.

  "Emon!" Eld lashed out with a wild swing. The Hunter took a single contemptuous step back to avoid the drunken blow.

  Eld stumbled off balance, and before he could recover, the Hunter slammed the hard edge of

  his callused hand into the soft tissue of Eld's throat. Eld fell to the ground, clutching at his ruined

  windpipe.

  Rifter had not moved in the seconds it had taken the Hunter to dispatch his friends. He

  remained rooted to the spot, eyes wide. A flicker of fear flashed through his inebriated mind.

  "Two down, friend, " the Hunter rasped, his depthless eyes burning as he stared at Rifter.

  The harsh voice wrenched the big man from his stupor, and rage twisted his face. "Ya shite-

  eating bastard," Rifter growled at the dark figure. "Ya’ll pay for that!" He carried no sword, but the long dagger he drew from his coat was razor sharp. His huge fists dwarfed the blade, and he

  wielded it with familiar ease.

  The Hunter's eyes flicked to the dagger in Rifter's hands. Iron. His instinctive fear faded a

  fleeting moment later. The drunken man had no chance against him, iron dagger or no.

  "Now let's see how ya fare, ya dim-witted git," Rifter said, his voice low and filled with rage.

  The Hunter’s burning black eyes stared back at Rifter. Fear flitted across the big man's face. He

  saw his death written in the Hunter's expression.

  Rifter stepped forward, slashing with short, quick strokes meant to slice open the Hunter's

  intestines. His attacks lacked sophistication, yet there was brute force behind the blade's cruel

  edge.

  The Hunter didn't even bother to block the blows. A dagger appeared in his free hand. Longer

  than Rifter's weapon, the blade had a single razor edge and a slight curve—perfect for both

  stabbing and slicing. A small, transparent gem was set into its hilt, and the stone caught the light of

  the moon in its facets. Something about it made Rifter hesitate for a moment, but that was more

  than enough.

  In the time it took Rifter to swallow his terror, the Hunter's sword cut him to shreds. Blood

  flowed from gashes in the big man's neck, chest, and gut, and he fell to his knees with a gurgle.

  "I warned you , " the Hunter snarled, his voice quiet, "but you refused to heed. You are not my prey this night, yet you made the mistake of seeing my true face."

  He held up the wicked-looking dagger. "Your life is forfeit, but I leave your soul to the Long

  Keeper's embrace."

  The Hunter slid the blade smoothly into its sheath and gripped his sword with both hands.

  Moonlight glinted off the flashing steel as the Hunter struck. Rifter's blocky head fell from its place

  on the man's sloped shoulders, landing in the muck alongside Emon's bleeding body. His huge,

  decapitated torso slumped to the ground next to the convulsing figure of Eld, who somehow still

  lived, fighting for each breath.

  The Hunter surveyed his handiwork without remorse. He stooped over the dying man,

  keeping wel away from the iron dagger gripped uselessly in Rifter's hand.

  "May the Long Keeper have mercy on your soul, friend, " the Hunter whispered in the man's

  ears.

  Eld's eyes closed, and his struggles weakened. The dying man voiced no protest as the Hunter

  wiped his long blade on his clothes.

  Shaking his head in disgust at the foolishness of these men who had thought to accost him,

  the Hunter stooped, recovered his cloak, and donned the disguise of the old man once more.

  With slow, measured steps, he shambled away, leaving death in the street behind him.

  * * *

  The Hunter tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep. The musty scent of unwashed bed

  linens hung thick in the air, ignored. His blankets suffocated him, but chills shook his body when he

  kicked them off. He had no idea how much time had passed since he had climbed into bed. It could

  have been hours or days, but he cared little.

  While he hunted, the thrill of the kil sent shivers of pleasure
down his spine. He could stalk his

  quarry for days on end without sleep or food, as the inner voice urged him on.

  Disgusting mortals, it would whisper in his thoughts. So weak, so easy to kill.

  But once his prey lay dead at his feet, the absence of the voice echoed like a void in his head.

  The death of Lord Damuria had silenced the insistent chatter, filling his head with a numb, dull

  ache that pressed inward and muddled his thoughts.

  The end of the hunt brought on a weariness that days of sleep could not ease. He would lie in

  bed, staring up into the darkness or idly watching the movement of the sun through his windows.

  He could sleep for days and wake up exhausted, or he wouldn't sleep at all. He had no appetite; the

  power of the kill fed his body, yet it felt as if every death ate away another piece of his soul.

  He tried to ignore the gnawing in his chest. His blade, Soulhunger, remained silent. The kill

  had temporarily sated its bloodlust. He hated the silence more than anything in the world. In these

  moments, his mind would replay memories of the hunt. The faces of his victims would float before

  him, their empty eyes accusing.

  He absentmindedly watched dust motes float in the rays of sun filtering through his window,

  all the while reliving the gruesome deaths at his hands.

  As their lifeless faces danced through his head, he drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, his

  thoughts filled with hate. He could discern irrationality from logic, but at times like this, he didn't

  care. He despised every single one of the humans around him, and the voice in his head echoed his

  ire. He could ignore the voice and its hatred of humanity when he surrounded himself with others,

  but when alone, the hate bubbled within him like a cauldron of vitriol.

  Hours passed, time moving at a snail's pace yet flashing by in the space of a few heartbeats.

  The light filtering through his window weakened, doing little to illuminate his bedroom.

  Peering outside, he saw the sun had begun its plunge into the Endless Sea. The ache in his head

  subsided, replaced by the voice whispering its renewed bloodlust.

  Feed me, it said. Fighting the profound weariness tempting him to remain in bed, he forced

  himself to climb to his feet. He shook his head to clear the languor, to push back the gloom filling

  his mind.

  It is enough. Time to get up.

  His clothes lay piled on the floor, and he sorted through them in search of an unsoiled garment.

  Let's see what new victims await me in this new day, what sport I can find to distract myself

  from this aching.

  * * *

  A chill hung in the night air, and sweat dripped down the nameless nobleman's back, soaking

  his thick tunic. He clenched his fists to still his shaking hands. His nondescript clothing blended

  with the rough crowd of the Blackfall District, and yet he felt eyes upon him, following his every

  step.

  He cast anxious glances around the alleyway, searching for a sign of…what?

  By Derelana, why do I fear so?

  Perhaps it was the terror of a moonless night, or the instinctive fear dredged up at the thought

  of meeting the legendary Hunter of Voramis.

  He chided himself. Bugger me for a jumpy little princess!

  He would rather be somewhere else, anywhere else, but here. He had no desire to face the

  creature the mothers of Voramis used to threaten their children into behaving. His mother had

  used those legends to frighten him, and he had developed a healthy fear.

  Focus. You have a job to do. Get in, get it done, and get the fiery hell out of there!

  The doors to the dilapidated tavern swung shut behind him, but none of the handful of patrons

  at the tables paid him any heed. He slipped a pair of copper bits into the bartender's hand.

  "Top of the stairs, door at the end of the hall," the portly pub landlord drawled as he made the

  coins disappear.

  The stairs creaked dangerously as the noble climbed, but he forced himself to place one foot in

  front of the other. The smell of mold filled his nostrils and threatened to make him sneeze.

  Swallowing hard, he stared at the door at the end of the shadowed hall. It looked like something out

  of his nightmares, and it made his blood run cold.

  "Hello?" he called in a weak voice as he entered the room.

  He saw no one in the gloomy darkness, and breathed a sigh of relief as he closed the door

  behind him. Believing himself alone, the noble took deep, calming breaths.

  "What brings you to the underbelly of Voramis, little man?" The voice sounded far too close for

  the nobleman's liking.

  He leapt backward, an effeminate squeak bursting from his mouth. His back slammed against

  the door, knocking the breath from his lungs.

  Bloody Hunter!

  The nobleman struggled to regain his composure, trying to ignore the thick drops of sweat

  rol ing down his face and coating his palms.

  "I-I-I h-have a c-c-commission for you, er, Hunter, sir," he managed to stutter.

  "Tell me more," the Hunter said in a rough voice. He stepped forward, pulling back his hood.

  Scars crisscrossed the dark face, twisting his upper lip into a perpetual sneer. Heavy brows

  hooded his dark eyes, and his crooked nose had been broken and badly set. A scarlet ribbon bound

  his midnight black hair, which hung in long, greasy strands.

  Bloody twisted hell, no wonder he hides himself. I would too if I looked like that!

  The nobleman realized his mouth hung open, and snapped it shut. He belatedly tried to hide

  his revulsion at seeing the Hunter's grim visage, but knew it had shown through.

  The dark figure with the horrible face waited in silence, clearly unaffected by the nobleman's

  disdain.

  "My, er, master," stuttered the shaken man, gulping as he spoke, "requests your services in a

  matter of a, er, delicate nature."

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Your master understands that delicate situations cost more?"

  "Of course, sir, er, Hunter. I have more than enough to c-cover any extras beyond your usual

  fees." The nobleman removed a leather purse from his cloak. His hand trembled as he passed it to

  the Hunter, who balanced it in a burn-scarred hand.

  "Good. It will suffice." The purse disappeared into the Hunter's cloak with a movement that

  made the nobleman jump. His cheeks burned with shame, and he saw mockery in the Hunter's

  cold eyes. "You have the other item?" the Hunter demanded.

  "Of-of course," the noble stammered. He fished around in his robes for a moment before

  producing a handkerchief. His fingers brushed dangerously close to the Hunter's hand as the

  assassin took the kerchief, and his skin crawled.

  "I-I hope it is enough," the noble whispered, the fear in his voice audible. "It was all my master could procure."

  The Hunter's rough fingers traced the initials embroidered in one corner of the delicate cloth.

  G.D.

  "It will do," the Hunter rasped.

  "So you will take the job? You'll make the coward pay for his affront to my master? The

  swine—"

  The Hunter cut him off. "I care little for your master's reasons why. As long as I deem it worthy and the coin is good, the job will be done." He pulled the hood up, obscuring all but his mouth from

  the nobleman's view. "Does your master have any special requests?"

  "No," the noble replied. "He wishes for the job to be done before the Feast of the Mistress, and would prefe
r the target die in his own home. It is to send a message, you see, to all the nobles of

  Voramis that—"

  "No details, fool," the Hunter growled, interrupting him. "They matter not."

  The nobleman stiffened, offended at the Hunter's interruption. The muscles in his back went

  rigid, and he somehow summoned up the courage to glare at the Hunter. One look into the dark

  hood, however, and his pride deflated.

  "Good." The Hunter's mouth twisted into a horrifying semblance of a grin. "I will contact you

  when the job is complete."

  Shuffling nervously from foot to foot, the noble called upon all of his limited courage and

  limitless self-importance to stand tall, when he wanted nothing more than to flee. He thought he

  detected a smile twitch the corner of the Hunter's lips.

  "Have the rest of the sum at hand," the Hunter grated. "I wil expect it once I have carried out the contract."

  "Of-of course," the noble said, "I will…"

  He trailed off as he found himself talking to an empty room. The Hunter had disappeared,

  startling him and leaving him feeling like a fool.

  Long moments passed before the noble regained his shattered composure. The darkness of

  the room haunted him, and his eyes darted around as if he expected to see the Hunter standing

  there once more. His breath came in ragged gasps, and every muscle in his body tensed in fear.

  With a muttered curse, he wiped sweaty palms on his robes, and his hands trembled as he

  reached for the doorknob. His fear diminished with each shaky step toward the dim light of the

  stairwell, his relief growing as he stepped into the smoky alehouse taproom. Ignoring the few

  patrons sitting and drinking, he stumbled into the cool Voramis night.

  He breathed deep, filling his lungs with the foul-smelling air and letting the chill calm his

  nerves.

  "Watcher-damned Hunter!" The curse helped to restore some of his shaken confidence.

  His sweat-sodden robes clung to his body, causing him to shudder and pull his cloak tighter.

  The heavy garment offered some protection from the cold, but the noble knew it would be hours

  before he would be able to sit without feeling a stab of panic.

  With his attention consumed by his desire to leave the stinking alehouse and the horrific

  memory of the Hunter's scarred visage behind, the terrified man failed to notice the dark figure