Spring Showers Box-set

by Avell Kro

  sitting on the inn rooftop. Midnight black eyes followed the noble's steps, and a scarlet ribbon

  fluttered in the breeze.

  Chapter Two

  The Hunter slipped into the abandoned building in which he lived. The massive structure

  looked on the verge of collapse, but the façade only ran skin deep. He had shored up the timbers of

  the building, ensuring it would continue to stand, even through the tremors that occasionally

  shook the city.

  He had taken great pains to ensure the construction remained as unattractive and

  unwelcoming as possible on the outside, even allowing beggars and lepers to occupy sections of the

  structure. After all, he reasoned, no one would look for anything more than the refuse of humanity

  in a place like this. The smells of offal and filth alone would dissuade even the most curious

  potential visitors.

  But the beggars were there for more than just disguise.

  On the rare days when they found somewhere else to spend the night, the emptiness of the

  building haunted him. He had begun to leave bundles of food and clothing out in the hope of

  attracting even a few looking for shelter from the night air. Something about having

  companionship—even that of filthy beggars and lepers—made him feel less alone when he lay in

  the silent darkness. They made him feel needed, and he had come to see himself as their protector.

  He strode past the forms of men and women huddled under their blankets, nodding to the ones

  he recognized. Jak the Thumb and Twelve-Fingers Karrl sat playing with a deck of ancient, frayed

  cards, gambling for scraps of who knew what. Jak stole a look at Karrl's cards as Twelve-Fingers

  waved at the Hunter.

  Passing Old Nan's tent, he scanned the mound of tattered cloth that marked her shelter.

  "You'll need more blankets soon," he said, crouching in front of the old woman. "Winter's not

  far off."

  "Aye," she wheezed, "don't I know it? These old bones feel the chill comin’ on." She coughed, a horrendous, wet thing that set her frail shoulders shaking. Hacking up a foul green gob of phlegm,

  she shivered and pulled her ratty bundle of assorted cloths tighter.

  She's not long for this world, the Hunter thought, studying the old woman's face—twisted and hideous from some unknown acid—and her liver-spotted skin, gnarled fingers, and stringy hair.

  She was almost too thin to be alive, and yet fire burned in her eyes. A stubborn determination to

  live kept Old Nan from the Keeper's embrace, but the Hunter knew she couldn't escape for much

  longer.

  The winter will be harsh on her.

  Sorrow flashed through him at the thought. He resolved to leave blankets and one of Graeme's

  healing potions the next time he returned.

  He felt oddly protective of the beggars who lived just beyond his door. They were outcasts

  from society, just as he was. He would not call them his friends, but it was as close to friendship as

  he came. It felt…good to do something for someone else, even poor, miserable wretches like Old

  Nan.

  With a gentle pat on the old woman's shoulder, he picked his way toward the door of his

  apartment.

  A toddler wobbled past on unsteady legs, interrupting his progress. The child, losing his

  balance, grasped the hem of the Hunter's cloak for support. The boy's pursuing mother shot an

  apologetic glance at the Hunter.

  "Arlo's walking quickly, I see."

  "That he is," replied Ellinor, a girl the Hunter guessed to be barely into her adolescence. Dark

  circles framed her bright green eyes, and she looked exhausted.

  The Hunter studied the sores and blisters covering the boy's arms, legs, and face. Graeme had

  told him they were the result of the lad's body burning him from the inside out. The slightest

  friction would cause the lad's skin to slough off, causing pain and festering wounds. It hurt to see

  Arlo, yet the lad always appeared happy despite the constant suffering.

  El inor had no money for bandages or poultices to manage the lad's sickness, so the Hunter

  left them in her small makeshift shelter whenever she was out. Even in her poverty, she fought to

  retain her dignity.

  "You'll want to keep a closer eye on him," the Hunter told her. "You never know where he'l

  disappear to the minute you turn your back."

  Arlo tugged on the Hunter's dark robe, and a smile played at the corner of the Hunter's mouth.

  The smile disappeared when the lad wiped a long trail of snot from his nose on a corner of the

  Hunter's cloak.

  "Back to your mother, lad," said the Hunter, giving Arlo a gentle nudge with his boot. The

  toddler waddled away, and Ellinor followed in the boy's wake without a backward glance at the

  Hunter.

  A bit of food for the growing lad wouldn't go amiss. He made a mental note to visit Graeme for

  bandages before the week's end.

  The voice in his head begged for blood as he slipped past the beggars, but he ignored its

  pleading.

  Not here. Not them. Once I've found my target, then you will be fed.

  Soulhunger's insistence remained a pounding headache in the back of his mind. It craved

  death, and he could only stave off its urges for so long.

  At the heart of the building, past the unpleasant odors emanating from the unwashed mass of

  bodies, lay his private rooms. A door constructed of bloodwood—one of the densest trees found on

  the face of Einan—guarded his room, with locks so complex they could only have been designed by

  an Il usionist Cleric.

  The mechanisms worked like a puzzle that required precise placement of each piece of the

  lock. With dozens of moving parts, thousands of possible combinations existed.

  Placing his tired fingers on the mechanisms, he let muscle memory guide him.

  This one up, that to the right, twist this knob, pull that lever, push these together.

  The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, and the Hunter slipped into his home—the only

  place in the city where he could escape the watchful eyes of the Bloody Hand and the Dark Heresy.

  Only here could he remove his disguises and show his true face. Not even those poor wretches out

  there could be allowed to see the real him.

  The false alchemical flesh required less than a minute to remove. A specially prepared

  unguent softened the now-rigid molding clay forming the "scar tissue" on the Hunter's face,

  making it easy for him to wipe away. The greasy black hair pul ed free, and it joined the scarlet ribbon in the concealed wardrobe where the Hunter stored all of his alchemical disguises.

  Outside his window, the last vestiges of night had begun to fade.

  The sun will rise in an hour. I'll have plenty of time to rest once the ritual is complete.

  A face stared back at him in the mirror—his face. It had grown unfamiliar of late, and he

  found himself uncomfortable staring at his true features. His disguises felt like a part of him.

  Who are you? His face mocked him. Who is the Hunter?

  His changing identity added another element of mystique to the legend. No one could see his

  true face and live, though few knew the real reason why. He preferred to keep his identity a

  secret—it would make it easier to hide should he ever have occasion to do so.

  He craned his neck to peer over his shoulder at his latest scar. It joined the multitude etched

  into his back, chest, and shoulders like raw marks on a fleshy chalkboard.

  One scar for
every life Soulhunger takes. How many are there now? He had no desire to count

  them, to remember each soul his blade had consumed.

  Casting a glance toward the dagger where it hung in his sword belt, he recalled the final

  moments of the hunt for Lord Damuria.

  He nearly escaped, but in the end, the Hunter always gets his prey.

  He couldn't remember where the name "the Hunter" originated. Truth be told, he didn't care.

  He only cared that mention of the name drove fear into the populace of Voramis.

  “Where the Hunter goes,” they say, “death follows in his footsteps.” He smiled at the thought. I

  like that.

  The Hunter encouraged the fear his reputation bred. The more the people of the city feared

  him, the more willingly they paid the high price he demanded for his services.

  A smile touched his lips as he recalled his brief encounter with the terrified noble earlier that

  night. He remembered the man's scent—the reek of fresh lace, perfume, and pomposity drowned

  out by the stench of fear.

  The foolish little lordling sent to meet the Hunter on behalf of his employer. His grin turned mocking. Pissed himself, that one did. Long on money, short on brains and courage. If only he knew

  how easy it would be to track him and his master down, thanks to that purse he gave me.

  He threw himself into a plush armchair and reached for a pitcher of wine. Exhaustion

  overwhelmed his body, but his mind stil ached for the thrill of the hunt.

  As he drank, his thoughts meandered. The wine was good, but he barely tasted its fruity notes.

  He studied his room, taking in the plush carpet and the soft bed with its many pillows. The Hunter

  had plain tastes, but he loved comfort.

  A collection of exotic weaponry hung on the wall, his one compromise to luxury. He had paid a

  small fortune for the pieces, many of which had belonged to ancient cultures long dead. The simple

  stone, bone, and wooden weapons looked primitive and odd, but he felt a sense of kinship with the

  artifacts. He was out of place in Voramis, just as these adornments were.

  This is my palace, he thought. These are my treasures.

  His thoughts turned melancholy, so he pushed them aside and forced himself to stand. He

  strode over to his sword belt hanging on its peg. The blade slipped free of its oiled sheath with a

  whisper.

  She is beautiful. The Hunter couldn't help admiring the way the light glinted off the watered

  steel. She has served me well for so long.

  He fell into a relaxed stance, extending the sword in a classic fencing pose. Tension drained

  from his body, and he moved slowly through a basic sword form he had learned… how long ago?

  Ragged gaps in his memory left him uncertain of his age, where he had been, or even what he

  truly was.

  He remembered nothing of his life before arriving in Voramis, as if a wall blocked him from

  recalling details of his past—his birth, childhood, his parents, anything. His earliest recol ection was

  of walking through the city gates. Before that, nothing.

  No human lives as long as I have. Voramis had been his home for at least four decades. Or is it

  five?

  His missing past had stopped bothering him long ago, but occasionally he found himself

  wondering who he had been before arriving in Voramis. He had ignored the question for so long

  the answer no longer mattered.

  Sweat broke out on the Hunter's lithe body as he moved faster and faster through the forms,

  his muscles rippling with each thrust and cut. His mind grew clear, and the aching in his chest

  diminished with every step. His movements blurred, his sword whistling as it sliced through the

  air.

  The Hunter relished the way his mind detached itself from his body. Muscle memory kept his

  motions consistent and quick, and he allowed his thoughts to wander. It served as preparation for

  what was to come, helped him to block out the voices in his head. As his heart beat faster, the

  sound of the blood rushing in his ears would drown out Soulhunger's lust. For a few short minutes,

  he found peace in motion.

  With a final cut and thrust, he completed the form and slid his sword home in its sheath.

  Panting, dripping sweat and flushed with exertion, he was ready for the ritual.

  His hands closed around the hilt of the dagger.

  Soulhunger, we have work to do.

  Yes, the voice greeted him eagerly. We must kill!

  The Hunter lowered himself to the ground, sitting in a comfortable cross-legged position. He let

  his mind drift, and, closing his eyes, focused on the sensation of blood rushing through his body. At

  one with the world around him, the Hunter commenced his ritual of seeking.

  Soulhunger's razor edge sliced a shallow wound into his palm. The Hunter clenched his fist

  and squeezed a few crimson drops onto the knife's blade. The dagger's voice screamed in pleasure,

  setting his head pounding as it tasted blood.

  He removed a whetstone from his pocket and stroked it along the blade's edge. Soulhunger

  never needed sharpening, but the activity helped the Hunter clear his head in preparation for what

  came next.

  Pul ing out the handkerchief with the initials G.D. embroidered into it, the Hunter used it to

  wipe the steel clean. The contact of the cloth bonded it with the blade, and through the blade to

  him. The bond would remain until Soulhunger drank deeply of the man's lifeblood.

  His subconscious mind sought out the man to whom the handkerchief would link him. He saw

  a picture of the cloth's owner in his mind's eye, inhaled the scent of the man. His senses surpassed

  those of a bloodhound once he had located his target.

  Parchment, ink, and steel. The scent that belonged to only one man in Einan: Geddellan

  Dannaros, nobleman of Voramis

  He had the scent, and it would lead him to his prey. Soulhunger served as his divining rod,

  searching out his targets and leading him to them. The weapon amplified his own unique abilities,

  and without him, the weapon would be just another dagger sitting lifeless in a jeweler's case. The

  bond between man and weapon made it possible for the Hunter to do what he did.

  Long moments passed in silence, the Hunter breathing in a steady rhythm. His mind cast

  about the city of Voramis for his target, searching for the essence found in the handkerchief.

  There! A heartbeat echoed in his mind. I've found you now!

  We will feed, the voice of the dagger whispered.

  The Hunter knew Soulhunger would be drawn ever closer to that heartbeat until it finally

  sated itself. His target's heart would act as a beacon, and the Hunter would simply have to locate

  the man.

  Together, we are the Hunter.

  Truthfully, he had no idea how it worked. He didn't know if his abilities were sorcerous or

  pure animal instinct. But he didn't care. All that mattered was that it worked.

  With care, the Hunter replaced Soulhunger in its sheath. Even with the weapon encased in

  leather and steel, he could hear it in his thoughts, aching to find its target.

  Kill! The voice shouted. Feed!

  He pushed the insistent voice to the back of his mind.

  For now, I need rest. I will deal with the matter of hunting down my target later.

  He slept through most days, preferring to do his work under the cover of darkness. In the

  shadows, the risk of anyone seeing through his disguises diminished.

  Facele
ss, nameless, and yet with countless names and faces, the Hunter walks among the people.

  A grim pleasure filled him.

  Opening his wardrobe, he rummaged through its contents in search of a suitable disguise. His

  evening plans included a visit to a rougher part of Voramis, and he required a face that would allow

  him to blend in.

  He held up a mask of alchemical flesh—complete with false hair—and smiled.

  This will be perfect for tonight's activities.

  Chapter Three

  Business was brisk at The Iron Arms tonight, though most nights found the tavern well

  patronized. Thanks to its proximity to the docks, the alehouse saw a steady stream of day laborers,

  roughnecks, and roustabouts eager to quench their thirsts at the end of a long day.

  Drunken tradesmen and merchants filled the tables. Tired dockhands sat at the bar, nursing

  tankards overflowing with frothy ale. The smell of sawdust, peanut shells, and stale sweat

  permeated the tavern, and the sounds of clinking glasses, shouting patrons, and loud conversations

  filled the air.

  Barmaids wended their way through the crowd, delivering drinks with a hearty laugh and hard

  slaps to roving hands. Their tight bodices often looked in danger of spilling their luscious contents,

  a possibility that kept the men they served entertained and eager to buy more ale. Indeed, the

  wenches found themselves fending off advances from all sides, though occasionally one would

  hustle up the creaking stairs with a customer willing and able to pay for “additional services”.

  The man who entered The Iron Arms looked just like any other day laborer scattered around

  the bar, though he carried himself with more confidence than the slouching roustabouts. His heavy

  features gave him a vicious look, his huge arms banded with thick muscle. Those sitting at the bar

  gave him a wide berth as he sat down.

  The Hunter had donned the disguise of a rough working man for tonight’s activities, and he

  played the part well.

  "Well, aren't ye a big lad?" teased one of the barmaids flitting past. Her garment left little to the Hunter's imagination, her ample charms visible and evocative.

  "Tankard of ale," he grunted.

  "Aye," the wench smiled at him, "I'll have it right up for ye. Ye sure ye don't want to finish it upstairs? I know a good place beneath the roof where we can explore the things we have in