Spring Showers Box-set
Page 6
common, and"—she threw him a lascivious wink—"the things we don't."
He studied the woman appreciatively, allowing his eyes to follow the curvature of her body. He
couldn't deny that she was attractive, though her eyes were tired and hard. Desire filled him, the
voice in his head whispering of carnal desire, lusting for passion, begging for death. It took
considerable effort to ignore it.
I'm not here for that, he thought. He might have allowed himself the luxury of a distraction, but
he had a purpose here this night.
"Sorry, darlin’, I'm fresh out of coin or I'd take you up on that." He gave her bottom a pinch,
which elicited a delighted squeal from her. "I don't get paid ‘til the ship leaves tomorrow, and I'll be
sailin’ out with it. Next time I'm in Voramis, though…" he trailed off, a suggestive look on his face.
The wench, though disappointed, gave him a small smile, and promised to make herself
available next time he was in port.
"And ye'd better have a full purse," she reminded him. With a saucy look over her shoulder, she
walked away, the exaggerated roll of her hips intended to show him what he was missing.
The Hunter had spent his fair share of time in the company of whores and courtesans, but he
always left feeling repulsed—not by them, but by himself and his desires.
The weakness of the flesh. The urge grew irrepressible immediately following a kill. It would
remain in the back of his mind until he satisfied it.
He eyed the woman as she minced away, swaying through the crowd. The men of the tavern
called out for her, their language rough.
Animals. He felt disgust at their crude nature—a nature he saw reflected in his own lustful
desires.
Soulhunger throbbed in his mind, agreeing with his disdain for the men around him. The
weapon—hidden beneath his clothing—radiated its loathing for the noisy, sweaty, drunken crowd.
The bartender placed a giant mug of frothy ale before the Hunter, who drained it quickly in an
effort to distract himself. He gestured for another, turning his attention to the people around him.
His ears strained to pick out the various threads of conversation woven into the hubbub of the bar.
"I heard his body was found at the bottom of Dead Man's Cliff," said a rough voice a few seats
along the bar to his right.
"Some say it was the Hunter's work," whispered a man at a table behind him. "Riddled with
arrows, oozing blood the color of vomit."
Word of Lord Damuria's demise had spread quickly.
A feeling of elation ran through him as he relived Damuria's final moments. Even now, he
could feel Soulhunger plunging into the noble's chest, the blood warm on his hands, the power
coursing through his body.
A fleeting smile touched his lips, hidden by the tankard of ale he held in front of his face.
"I've heard tell," said the man to the Hunter's left, "that one look in the bastard's eyes and you drop dead from fear. He's a demon, is what he is!"
"He's no demon," shouted the man's companion, "but a ghost of the Swordsman come back to
punish the wicked."
"Idiot," cursed the man next to the Hunter. "You can't believe everything you hear. No one
knows who he is," he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "or what he is."
What am I, indeed? The Hunter found the question ringing in his mind. How many times have I
asked myself that question, yet found no answer?
We are death, a quiet voice whispered in his mind.
At times like this, with liquor coursing through his veins, he would sift through the few
memories that remained to him.
His memory stretched back to the time immediately before he arrived in Voramis. He had a
faint memory of a nearby village— Horranz, I think it was called—but prior to that, nothing but
ragged gaps and empty voids filled his mind.
But the memories of death will always remain.
The faces of every man and woman who had died at the end of Soulhunger's blade were
etched into his memory.
Those faces never leave.
We fed well, his inner voice crowed.
The dagger's bloodlust rose within him and begged for death. He needed a distraction, and
quickly.
At a gesture, the pub landlord brought him another tankard, and he set to work draining his
third mug of ale.
Focus on the conversations around you, he told himself.
"Found three bodies near Reveler's Lane a few nights ago, they did." This voice belonged to a
drunken man stumbling towards the door, hanging on to his marginally less inebriated friend for
support. "Deader'n my Aunt Winifred."
"But," protested his friend, "it can't be the work of the Hunter. He's only s'posed to kill when he's paid to."
It seems my exploits are the talk of the tavern. It's always good to know one's handiwork is
appreciated.
One conversation in particular interested him.
"I heard copper's the thing to kill the Hunter," insisted one man in a loud, drunken voice.
"They say it turns his blood to solid metal."
"No, no, you fool," retorted his friend, "you're thinkin’ of silver. It's why I always carry me lucky half-drake with me."
A steady stream of patrons moved through the taproom. The volume within the bar increased
as the night wore on and the tavern filled. Conversations ebbed and flowed around the Hunter, but
he was content to simply sit and listen.
After all, listening is always the best source of information.
Their conversations were so mundane, so blissfully unaware of reality.
Fools! The voice in his mind echoed his contempt. So content in their ignorance. If only they
knew who sat among them this night.
A glazed window behind the bartender cast his reflection back at him. The face he wore
tonight bore heavy, dull features—nothing like the handsome face he called his own.
He stared at the reflection of the face he wore—an unfamiliar one—peering back at him over
a large tankard of ale, and for a moment, he wondered who the man really was.
What is this big brute's story? Does he have a family, a wife, someone to care for him?
The men who filled the bar had companions to share their tables, or people waiting at home
for them, but even in the middle of this bustle and commotion, he was alone.
Better that way, he told himself. It is easier than having to worry about being stabbed in the
back, or being betrayed by a “friend”.
Someone slid onto the stool to his right, jostling him gently. He ignored the newcomer,
preferring to drink his ale and listen to the conversation in the tavern.
"Slumming it, milord?" a silky voice purred beside him, breaking into his stream of thoughts
mid-flow. Uncertain if the voice addressed him, the Hunter ignored the question.
A hand touched his arm gently, which got his attention. He turned to see a diminutive woman
sitting on the stool next to him. Dark eyes stared back at him, a mischievous smile playing at the
corners of ful lips. Her features hinted at something hidden beneath the rough exterior.
It's those silky locks that really make her stand out.
Raven hair fell to her shoulders in gentle waves, and the Hunter caught the scent of a delightful
blend of oils and herbs.
She wore simple clothing, which fought to hide her curves. Trying to avoid attracting too much
attention. The Hunter sized her
up. She looks as if she can hold her own in a fight and between the sheets.
"What's that you say, miss?" he asked, confused.
"I said, 'Slumming it, my lord?' " She emphasized the last two words.
Her question surprised him. He wore rough clothing and an even rougher disguise, meant to
blend in at The Iron Arms.
"Do I look like a lord, lass?"
"Not at all," she replied with a smile. "Your clothing certainly does give you the appearance of nothing more than a simple dockhand."
"But?" the Hunter asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Look around you." She motioned to the crowd filling the tavern. "We are surrounded by
rough, hard men burned by the sun, their hands callused. They stink of a full day's work." Her gaze
returned to him. " That is the sign of a true laborer, not just some rough clothing. Plus, you smell like old leather rather than old sweat, and you sit with a straight back while everyone else slouches
over their drink."
"And this makes me a lord?" he asked.
She graced him with another smile.
"I've been watching you for a while. You addressed the serving girl with respect, and only your
eyes wandered—your hands stayed on your tankard. I've not seen you shout once at a passing
patron, even though you've been bumped a handful of times."
She is good, the Hunter thought, at a loss for words.
"Don't bother to deny it, my lord," she cut him off before he could protest. "I know it has
become a popular pastime among the lesser nobility of the city to dress in lower class clothing and
experience ‘life on the underside', as they say. Hence my original question, 'Slumming it, my lord?'"
"Quite the eye for details," the Hunter said, shrugging by way of acceptance. "What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't," she responded with a sly smile. "Buy me a drink first, and we'll see if I feel like giving it to you."
For reasons he couldn't explain, the Hunter found himself intrigued by this woman. Something
about her pul ed him from his solitude, and he felt the desire to know more about her.
He signaled for the pub landlord, who deposited two fresh tankards of ale in front of them
before bustling away to attend to his other customers. The voice within him whispered lustful
thoughts, which he ignored.
"So," said the Hunter, "I guess you can say I'm guilty of 'slumming it', as you say." He adopted the role of a noble lord in disguise with ease. "It is good to get away from the perfumes, the too-sweet wines, the annoyingly slow waltzes—"
"The lavish banquets," she cut him off, "the comfortable carriages, the luxurious homes."
The Hunter shrugged. "It's not all bad, truth be told. Life isn't all suffering," he said with a grin.
She glared, clearly finding no humor in his words. "What makes it awful is that you treat our
lives like a novel experience, something to be enjoyed. It's just another thrill for you, but this is
how we have to live every day. Lower Voramis is a rough place, especially for those of us without a fancy mansion to return home to once we've had enough cheap ale and sluts."
Her anger surprised him. "I apologize if my lifestyle offends you, lady, but—"
She cut him off with an angry glare. "I'm no lady! Just as you're no dockhand."
What a woman! He thought. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, though he tried to be
unobtrusive about his interest.
She downed the contents of her tankard and gestured for the bartender to bring her another.
The Hunter motioned for a refill as well.
When the tavern keeper finally replaced the Hunter's pewter mug with a fresh, full one, it was
accompanied by an almost imperceptible nod. The Hunter's fingers closed around the small piece
of parchment folded beneath the cup, and he slipped it surreptitiously into his pocket.
I have what I came for, he thought .
Turning to face the woman once again, he slipped back into character. "Well, miss, I've got to
get back to the ship. Shame I'm sleepin’ on board," he said with a wink filled with veiled meaning.
He half-expected her to take offense at his forthrightness, but his mysterious companion
simply ignored him. Shrugging, he said, "Goodnight, miss."
"Goodnight," she responded, her voice icy with disdain.
The Hunter stood and pushed his stool back from the bar. A spluttering sound came from
behind him, and he turned to find a huge man staring down at him.
Sloped shoulders and a square jaw were the man's best features. An oversized nose,
cauliflower ears, and far too few teeth gave him a bestial look. Beer dripped down the man's beard
and shirt, and anger filled his dull eyes.
"Watch it, idiot," the big men yelled at him, grabbing the Hunter's arm in huge hands.
"Excuse me. My mistake," apologized the Hunter. He made to move away, but the large hands
remained firmly wrapped around his bicep.
"I think you should buy me a drink," the big man said. "S'only fair." He gestured to his beer-soaked tunic.
The man's face was far too close for comfort, and the Hunter struggled to keep down the
contents of his stomach as the man's noxious breath filled his nostrils.
Heat rushed to his face, and the urge to break this man with his hands nearly overwhelmed
him. He took a deep breath, determined to swallow the anger flooding him.
With a nod, the Hunter signaled the bartender to bring the big man another drink. He tried
once again to leave, but the man's massive hand continued to hold him in place.
"Maybe," said the big man, "you should also buy my friends here a drink."
"Come on, Garlin," said one of the men sitting at the table, "he already paid for your drink."
Garlin's friend clearly had better sense, or was at least less inebriated than his hulking
companion.
Spittle accompanied Garlin's words. "I said, my friends need a drink." The big man stared into the Hunter's face, his eyes daring him to argue.
The Hunter stared back for a tense moment, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. He was
tempted to listen to the voice telling him to drive his dagger deep into the man's eye.
Let me feed, the dagger begged. It took every shred of his rapidly diminishing self-control to
ignore the voice.
At a nod from the Hunter, the pub landlord filled tankards for Garlin's three drinking
companions. The Hunter tossed a silver drake to the tavern keeper, who caught it in deft fingers.
The coin would cover the cost of the Hunter's drinks, as wel as the ale consumed by the
mysterious woman at the bar, the massive Garlin, and Garlin's friends.
"Now might be a good time to take your hand off me, " said the Hunter in an even tone.
Garlin studied him through ale-soaked eyes for a moment, smiled, and unclenched his sausage
fingers. "Aye, you've paid off your debts, boyo, so you can scurry away now."
The big man stepped around the Hunter, moving toward the woman sitting at the bar. He
draped a muscled arm around her shoulder, and spoke without taking his eyes off her.
"Now that you're leaving, let's see if this little lady doesn't fancy the company of a real man, eh?"
Whatever Garlin whispered into the woman's ear made her shudder in revulsion. Her face
twisted with disgust.
"Forget it," she spat, "not even if your shriveled cock was made of pure gold."
The big man's eyes narrowed, his face flushing with anger.
"I wasn't asking, girly." His voice turned ugly, with more than a hint of menace. "Time for you to play nice and come upstairs with me. If you need a
bit of encouragement, I can always bring me
mates along."
Before he realized what he was doing, the Hunter stepped toward Garlin.
"I believe the lady said something about wanting to leave the alehouse without a drunken
gorilla clinging to her arm." A dangerous light glittered in the Hunter's eyes. "Might want to get
back to that ale, friend."
He gripped Garlin's arm, and the drunken man found himself being steered away from the
bar.
"Bugger off, you little pissant," Garlin hissed at the Hunter, wrenching his arm free from the
vice grip. "The little lady and me are gonna have some fun, aren't we, my sweet tickle-tail?" Spittle flew as he leered at the woman. She glared back at him, wiping her face in obvious disgust.
The Hunter’s patience with the drunk had run out. "I said enough."
He accompanied his words with a short, sharp punch to the man's solar plexus. The force of
the blow knocked the wind from the big man's lungs with a loud whoosh. Garlin's legs buckled, and
the Hunter brought his knee up hard. It connected with the man's jaw, rocking his head back. His
huge frame slumped unconscious toward the floor, crashing through a bar table and a pair of stools
before finally hitting the sawdust with a loud thump.
A tankard slammed down on the table next to him, and the Hunter turned to see Garlin's
enraged friends charging him. He kicked high, and his heel caught a man in the temple. The
assailant dropped to the floor without a sound.
A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. The Hunter lashed out with his elbow, and he heard
a satisfying crunch from the man's nose. Hot blood spattered his arm.
Adrenaline surged through the Hunter's veins, an eager smile crossing his face. Soulhunger,
hidden in its sheath beneath his clothes, sensed blood and the voice pounded in his head, begging
to be fed.
Another of Garlin's friends swung a meaty fist toward him. The Hunter caught it in mid-air. A
quick twist of the man's hand sent the assailant to his knees, and the Hunter delivered a sharp
blow to the man's thick wrist with the edge of his hand.
The sound of cracking bones echoed in the bar, a sound soon replaced by the man's agonized
screams.
"Oh gods, me wrist! He broke me bleedin’ wrist!"