Time seemed to stop as the woman hung in the darkness, like a flying beast of myth. Yet there was nothing mystical or magical about her shriek as the forces of nature gripped her and dragged her toward the unyielding cobblestones.
The wet thump rattled the Hunter's bones. He took an involuntary step toward her, stopped, and took another. The tangled heap of limbs and clothing shifted, groaned, and gave a weak cough. The bundle that lay a few paces away from her outstretched arms moved not at all.
The woman managed to lift her bloodstained face. Her eyes locked with the Hunter.
The servant woman!
Her gaze darted to the bundle, and the Hunter's followed. She tried to crawl forward on shattered arms and legs. Blood dribbled from between her lips, and her breath wheezed in her lungs. She managed to move just once before slumping to the ground.
Horror churned in the Hunter's gut. His eyes went from the dying woman to the pile of cloth. To her child.
He knelt and lifted the tiny, unmoving form, acid surging in his throat. The child weighed nothing in his arms. It made no sound as he placed the bundle in its mother's arms.
Unfamiliar sensations welled within him. His chest tightened, and his throat thickened. A voice spoke in the back of his mind. Your fault, it told him.
"No!" The Hunter shook his head and stumbled away from the bodies. He had no time for this. He had to get out of Lord Eddarus' mansion before—
Three guardsmen raced around the rear of the building, buckets of water clutched in their hands. They stopped at the sight of him. For a heartbeat, the Hunter's numbed mind and the guards' shocked surprise prevented movement and speech.
A guard's shout shattered the moment. "Assassin!"
Pails clattered to the ground, spraying water. One guard reached for his sword while the other two fumbled for the crossbows on their back.
The Hunter sized up the situation between heartbeats. He couldn't cross the twenty paces to the guards before they fired. Fleeing in the opposite direction would widen the distance between him and the bowmen, making him a smaller target. His body could heal from a crossbow bolt or two.
Turning on his heel, he sprinted toward the front of the house. He'd lose himself in the chaos of the mansion, slip out the front gate. A crossbow bolt traced a line of fire across the side of his right leg. The Hunter bit back a cry of pain as the second quarrel thunked into his upper back. The steel head grated on bone, sending agony lancing through him.
At least it's not iron!
"Assassin!" the guards shouted behind him. The commotion at the front of the house drowned out their voices but a few heads turned his way, eyes widening. He barreled onward, moving with a speed his pursuers couldn't catch. If he could get through the crowd gathered before the blazing mansion, he could slip out the gatehouse and disappear in the streets of Upper Voramis.
A quarrel clipped the side of his head. The crossbowmen were firing high to avoid hitting the crowd. He'd be out of their range within seconds.
His heart sank as more guards appeared from the gatehouse and raced toward him. He poured on the speed, hoping to close the distance before they could draw their weapons. The bolt lodged in his left shoulder inhibited the arm's movement. Soulhunger could heal him, but he needed the sword's longer reach to break through the guards. With a growl, he gripped the hilt tighter and poured on speed.
The foremost guard managed to raise the crossbow to his shoulder and loose a bolt. The Hunter twisted to the right, grunting as the quarrel buried in his left shoulder. Any chance the arm would heal in time for him to escape faded.
He brought his sword down in a vicious chop that severed crossbow stock and the arms holding it. The man fell screaming, blood spurting from his stumps. The Hunter ducked beneath a high swing, hamstrung the guard, and hacked through the bicep of his next opponent. Something slammed into his side with the force of a charging horse and spun him around. His breaths came hard, the steel tip of another crossbow bolt piercing a lung.
The Hunter's ribs protested as he cut down the next guard. The two men who had opened the gates to allow the mansion's occupants escape now wrestled the enormous doors closed. The Hunter's sword bit into one's spine just beneath his skull. Even as the man flopped, the Hunter spun and brought his blade across in a one-handed blow that severed the chain links of the guard's mail shirt.
Three more bolts thunked into the gate beside him, followed by a stab of pain in the back of his thigh. More guards swarmed from the front and sides of the mansion. Gritting his teeth against the fire racing through his shoulder, side, and now his leg, the Hunter slid through the open gates and dragged them closed with one powerful yank.
He wanted to stop, to rest, to catch his breath, but he couldn't. Even if Lord Eddarus hadn't posted men on the wall around his mansion, the guards would swarm up to the parapet to shoot at him as he fled. He had to get out of range.
He sheathed his sword and shuffled forward as fast as he could manage. His leg refused to cooperate, the muscles protesting with each step. The bolt in his thigh hindered his movement. The adrenaline coursing through him dulled the pain, but he could feel his limbs growing weaker. Warmth flowed down his leg and filled his boots. The bolt had to have nicked or cut the artery in his leg.
Before he'd gone twenty paces, the shouts of Lord Eddarus' guards echoed from atop the wall. Crossbow bolts whistled around him. Most clattered on the stone street, but one sliced open his forearm, another carving a line of fire across the side of his neck.
The Hunter growled and forced himself to keep running. The gate groaned as it was hauled open. He had seconds before the guards charged out of the mansion and flooded the streets.
He half-staggered, half-fell around the corner. The wall of Lord Eddarus' neighbor hid him from view of the pursuing men, but his keen ears picked up the sound of the crossbowmen shouting at the men pursuing on foot.
Pain and blood loss played tricks with his mind. The image of the silent bodies, mother and child, floated before his eyes. The pulse rushing in his ears screamed at him. Your fault, your fault!
"Not my fault!" The Hunter's cry rang hollow, his voice weak from exhaustion. He had threatened the woman's life if she left her room. Her fear of him, of what he'd do to her child, had prevented her from fleeing the fire.
He tried to shake the image away as he stumbled onward. His legs grew heavier with each step. His right foot squelched from the blood filling his boot; he was bleeding out. He couldn't rip out the bolt for fear of damaging the artery worse. His body would heal, but he'd lose consciousness within a minute, maybe two.
I have to get out of Upper Voramis, now! The wealthier area of the city was home to vast mansions and sprawling estates. He longed for the twisting alleys and rundown buildings of Lower Voramis; he'd have endless options of hiding places. If he could just escape to the lower city, Lord Eddarus' guards would never find him.
Not a Keeper-damned chance I'll make it out the way I came in. It's too far.
The entrance to Upper Voramis lay half a league away from his current position at the southwest corner of the wealthier neighborhood. His steps led farther west, toward a steep drop-off. The wealthier neighborhood of Voramis sat atop a cliff, giving it an unrivalled view of the city below. As the Hunter slithered through the shadows toward the edge of the cliff, he couldn't help marveling at the beauty of Lower Voramis. Thousands of lights twinkled in the darkness; the city never truly slept. The wind brought the scents of the Merchant's Quarter that stretched out below him. The salty tang of sea air drifted up from the Port of Voramis. He just had to get down there, and he'd be safe!
His heart leapt as his eyes found what he sought: the hidden rope he'd anchored years ago against such an eventuality. A back way out of Upper Voramis.
Seizing the rope in his good right hand, he lowered himself over the edge. He bit down on a bark of pain as agony flared up and down his ribs, rippled through his leg muscles. His left arm had gone fully numb. His body could heal, but it n
eeded time to repair each injury. The multiple wounds overtaxed his abilities.
He slid down the rope at a terrifying speed, his back scraping rocks. His leather armor absorbed most of the abuse, but his feet and legs groaned in protest. He couldn't slow. His grip on the rope grew weaker as more blood pumped from his leg wound.
For a moment, he hovered between two worlds: sliding down a cliff side and watching the woman fall to her death. The image of the dead infant, its tiny form so still and silent, sent pangs stabbing into his heart that had nothing to do with the crossbow bolt in his chest.
His grip loosened and he plummeted to the hard ground far below.
* * *
The Hunter jerked awake. Pain lanced through his leg, his side, and his shoulder. A cold numbness seeped into every limb. He struggled to open eyes heavy with fatigue.
He lay in an alleyway that cut between homes built at the foot of the cliff. Refuse lay piled high around him, a miasma of human waste hanging like a thick cloud. Yet atop it all, a thick blanket of snow carpeted everything. His heavy cloak and the snow had preserved his body heat, kept him alive as his flesh and bone healed.
Groaning, he sat up and studied his wounds. He ripped the bolt from his shoulder, his side, and leg, biting down hard on his leather glove to stifle his cries. Every attempt to reach the quarrel in the back of his shoulder failed. He could get to it later. His body had healed enough that he need not fear exsanguination as he stumbled to his home in the Beggar’s Quarter.
As he made to stand, something tugged on his cloak. He glanced down and recoiled at the sight of the cold, pale face peering up at him. A woman's face, lips blue with cold, wide eyes staring sightlessly into the sky. Her cheekbones, collarbone, ribs, and hips poked against skin that seemed little more than stretched hide. She, like so many of the poorest of Lower Voramis, had starved to death. Or frozen. The scraps of rags hanging from her emaciated frame offered little protection against the piercing, chill wind that whistled through the city. A second corpse--a man--lay a short distance away.
The Hunter rolled away from the dead body, but the movement dislodged something wrapped in his cloak. A bundle covered in rags and cloths that could only have come from the woman's clothing fell to the snow-covered ground beside the silent corpse.
The Hunter had no desire to touch the bundle, to look inside. He knew what lay within; it would be the second such he'd see tonight. The mother had no doubt wrapped the child in his cloak to keep it warm. She had died saving her baby.
A voice deep within him screamed at the sight. The same unfamiliar sensation washed over him: a tightening in his chest, a lump in his throat, and an emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Sorrow mixed with something else…could it be guilt?
He had no reason to feel guilty for this death. For the poor of Lower Voramis, death was forever waiting around the corner. The Long Keeper gathered hundreds of men, women, and children into his embrace every winter. The icy chill sweeping in from the ocean dropped the temperature well below freezing. Snow could pile as high as a man's knee, made worse by frigid winds that pierced even the heaviest of clothing.
Yet the guilt remained. His actions had led to the death of an infant. He had never taken the life of a child. Something within him, some innate instinct to protect the innocent, stopped him from even considering it. He would kill men and women, priest and killer, merchant and nobleman alike. But he would never cross the line to take a child's life.
In a way, he had taken a child's life tonight. Indirectly, yet the burden of guilt remained.
Pain raced through him as he climbed to his feet but he welcomed it. He deserved a bit of pain.
He backed away from the pair of corpses and stumbled toward the mouth of the alley. He had to get away from this place and the memories of death. Soulhunger had been sated—he would have peace from its incessant demands for a few days. He needed rest, if only to avoid seeing the faces of his victims floating before his mind.
Something stopped him a few paces away. Was his mind deceiving him, or did he hear a faint cry? He turned. The bundle remained unmoving and silent.
His eyes narrowed. There's no way—
It came again: a whimper so quiet even his acute hearing barely detected it. But he had heard it.
He stumbled toward the woman's body. The bundle moved now, the infant inside wriggling as it snuffled and whined. The Hunter knelt beside the infant and pulled open the wrappings.
The child lives.
The child was a girl, beautiful, with plump cheeks and dark hair that curled around her round face. She opened her eyes and stared up at him.
The Hunter's mind raced. What in the frozen hell was he supposed to do now? He couldn't care for the child. So why had he picked her up? What had prompted him to open the bundle and peer at the perfect face inside?
It didn't matter. He couldn't leave her here.
So what do I do?
Save her, that's what. Wrapping her in his cloak, he pulled up his hood and stumbled toward the mouth of the alley, out into Merchant's Quarter. If he hurried, he could drop her outside the House of Need before daybreak. Many orphaned and wayward children found their way to the temple of the Beggar God. The priests gave them a home in their decrepit temple. The girl in his arms would have a difficult existence—the Beggared children worked hard for meager earnings—but she would live. It had to be enough.
His actions had caused the death of one child this night; he wouldn't let his inaction cause another.
The Path of Vengeance
Summer…
"Seize her."
A gauntleted fist slammed into her face. Fern reeled, and strong hands knocked her sword from her grasp and wrenched her arms behind her back. Her shoulders protested as the Warrior Priests dragged her from the training yard. The idea of resisting never crossed her mind; they wouldn't hesitate to beat her bloody in front of the other wide-eyed Novices.
World spinning, Fern blinked away the tears. A corner of her mind shrieked, confused and afraid. What had she done?
Into the cool darkness of the temple they hauled her. Through smoky, torch-lit corridors where the carved face of Derelana, Lady of Vengeance, Goddess of Warriors, stared down at her from every wall, pillar, and ceiling, accusation written in her eyes. The Warrior Priests they passed turned away to hide their faces from her shame.
Fern found her feet by the time they reached the high-vaulted Hall of Holy Wrath. The somber expression on Exalted Militant Fedon's tattooed face and Emetana's smug grin sent ice coursing through Fern's veins.
Fedon, a greying, broad-shouldered man with scars crisscrossing the tattoos etched into his face, spoke in a strong voice. "Novice Fern, you have been accused of our most serious offense: taking the Lady's vengeance into your own hands. You have sworn service to Derelana, which means you carry out her retribution. You have forsworn all personal vendettas, all desire of your own. You avenge those deserving of Derelana's wrath. Yet in your actions against Novice Athest, you have broken your vow."
Anger drove back Fern's fear. "If there is anyone who deserves the Lady's vengeance, it is Athest!" She pulled free of the Warrior Priests' grasps and tugged down the collar of her tunic. The ache of her bruised throat paled in comparison to the pain deep in her stomach and between her legs. "The tenets of the Warrior Priests forbid injury to one's fellow man or woman. He has broken his vows as much as—"
Fedon inclined his head toward the woman standing beside him on the dais, "According to Novice Emetana, your words are false."
"Exalted Militant, Fern accused Novice Athest of assaulting her, but I can attest that he spent the night in question practicing sword forms with me. We were in the training yard until the sun rose." Emetana's expression was the picture of humility, but a wicked gleam filled her eyes—the same gleam that had been there the day she swore Fern would never become a Warrior Priest.
"Novice Athest lies in The Sanctuary. The priestesses of the Bright Lady expect the Long Keeper to come for him
before the day's end. Novice Emetana swears that yours was the hand to deliver the Lady's vengeance."
Fern clenched her jaw. She couldn't deny it—she'd relished every meaty thunk of her wooden practice blade pounding his flesh, every crack of shattering bone. Athest deserved no less after what he'd tried to do.
"Novice Fern, you are not worthy to serve the Lady of Vengeance."
The hands seized her arms again. Fern tried to fight free but the Warrior Priests towered over her, all unyielding muscle and steel. Something struck the back of her knees. She fell hard, crying out.
Fedon turned and bowed to the Eternal Flame of Derelana, symbol of the Lady's wrath, which burned night and day in the enormous cauldron atop the dais. The Exalted Militant drew the ceremonial sword and set the blade in the flame. At his signal, a Warrior Priest worked the bellows. A pillar of fire burst from the cauldron, flooding the room with heat.
Fern fought in vain. The satisfaction in Emetana's eyes spilled over into a grin that contorted the swirling tattoos on her face. Fern lunged forward, aching to hurl her fellow Novice into the fire. The Warrior Priests held her fast.
Fedon pulled the glowing blade from the fire and held it high. "You have chosen your own will over that of our Goddess and, in doing so, broken your vows to Derelana. The Lady of Vengeance must give answer."
A Warrior Priest seized her head. She could do nothing but watch in frozen horror as the red-hot metal drew closer. Flesh sizzled and agony seared Fern's cheeks. The smell of charred meat filled the air. She screamed; the movement worsened the torment.
Fedon's voice echoed through her pain. "Only the devout may wear the brand of the mighty Derelana. You have proven yourself unworthy to serve and thus the symbols of our Goddess must be removed."
The Exalted Militant's final words filtered into her fading consciousness: "The Lady of Vengeance will not forgive."
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