The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen

by Andy Peloquin

He pictured Farida the way he had seen her that day in the Temple District, with that same bright smile. She was happy. That was what mattered, and that was what he would remember.

  I'm doing this for her.

  Chapter Seven

  A rough hand shook the Hunter from sleep. Instinct kicked in. Seizing his assailant, he pressed his sword to the man's throat.

  Visibos's eyes flew wide and he held up his hands. "Easy, Hardwell. Just waking you for your turn at watch."

  The Hunter nodded and lowered the sword.

  Visibos shook his head. Rubbing red-rimmed eyes, he stumbled toward his blankets with a yawn. Within seconds, the low rumble of his snores floated around the campsite.

  Darkness hung on the campsite like a thick blanket. Only glowing embers remained of the fire, but the Hunter made no effort to rebuild it. He preferred shadow. Unseen, he could watch both the forest and his new traveling companions.

  He filled his lungs with the fresh, clean night air and rolled his neck and shoulders to work out the kinks of sleeping on the forest floor. His blankets, while thick and warm, provided little cushion against the hardness of the earth beneath him.

  Slinging his baldric over his shoulder, he buckled on his sword. A quick inspection of his saddlebags revealed nothing out of place. He ran a hand across the smooth surface of the iron-lined box. Soulhunger's voice pounded in his mind, pleading to feed. A twinge of pain settled behind his eyes.

  The Hunter savored the scents of the forest around him. The smoke from their dying campfire hung heavy in the air, and beneath it, he smelled muted hints of plant and animal life. A cool breeze rolled past, carrying with it the scent of decaying leaves, pine sap, and a sweet-scented flower he couldn't identify.

  The Hunter wrapped his cloak tighter about himself as the chill of the early morning wind sent a shiver down his spine. The crook of a large tree offered him a comfortable place to sit his watch, as well as protection from the occasional gust. He leaned against the thick trunk, curling his legs to his chest. The shrouds of his dark cloak hid him from his companions, and he was all but invisible beneath the forest canopy.

  His eyes roamed over the sleeping forms of his traveling companions. Only the red tresses of Sir Danna's hair were visible, her thick bedroll swaddling the rest of her in a snug bundle. Loud snores rose from the lump he knew to be Visibos.

  'Kill them!'

  The demon's intensity startled the Hunter. The creature filled his mind with images of Soulhunger drinking deep of the knight's heart-blood. His sword sliced into Visibos' neck, spraying crimson.

  No! The Hunter shook his head, endeavoring to shake loose the gory thoughts. His fingers traced the scar on his chest. I will not harm them.

  'Leave them alive, and they will discover your lie. You are no more Hardwell of Praamis than you are Danther the tailor or Lord Anglion the Foolish.'

  Rubbing his eyes, the Hunter tried to calm the pounding in his head.

  How could they know? They have no way to uncover the truth. No, they are no threat to me.

  'Foolish Bucelarii! How little you know. The humans you protect will be your undoing.'

  The Hunter closed his eyes, massaging his temples.

  Why will you not leave me alone?

  He was so tired of hearing that voice in his head. He wanted freedom from that voice. He needed peace.

  'You know what you must do.'

  Climbing to his feet, the Hunter threw back his hood and paced the clearing. The chill breeze washed across his face, dimming the fire in his mind. He searched the darkness for any sign of life. A futile effort, but he didn't care—he welcomed any distraction from the loathsome voice.

  The familiar weight of the sword at his hip comforted him. The leather-bound hilt creaked beneath the force of his grip. Drawing the weapon, he fell into a defensive stance. The sword moved through the darkness without a sound, the Hunter's body attuned to the weight of the steel in his hands.

  The simple form helped to clear his mind, setting him at ease. With smooth movements, he progressed into a more advanced sequence. Every step, cut, parry, and lunge was deliberate, every twist of his body controlled. In utter silence, he danced to the tune of the world around him, nothing but his sword and his heartbeat to tug at his thoughts.

  With a final thrust, the form came to an end. The Hunter stood unmoving in the silent night, heart pounding, blood rushing in his ears. Warmth spread through his limbs, driving away the evening chill.

  The sword in his hand gave him an idea. His pack contained oil, whetstones, and a cloth. Cleaning his blades occupied his mind and body, calming him.

  He ran his finger over the sword's edges, the darkness magnifying his sense of touch. He smiled—not a single nick or dent marred the blade. After carefully oiling the blade, the Hunter returned the heavy sword to its sheath.

  The Swordsman's blades came next. One at a time, he drew the ancient daggers from their leather-bound sheaths, wincing at the proximity of the iron. He handled the blades with care. The pure iron of the Swordsman's blades would flood his veins with poison. One touch of the naked metal might not be fatal, but certainly painful.

  The demon screamed in protest. The Hunter felt tempted to seize the naked blade in his hand, if only to torment the creature within.

  If it is painful for me, it must be hell for you.

  His head rang with the demon's mocking laughter. 'You would kill yourself only to spite me? Fool!'

  Do not test me.

  The threat rang hollow. He'd had the chance to destroy the demon before, and had chosen to live.

  Returning the iron blades to their sheath, he worked on his belt dagger. Traces of mud and dirt still stained the weapon's hilt and edge, forcing him to pay special attention to its cleaning.

  A smart craftsman always cares for his tools. These are the tools of my trade.

  He felt an urge to close his fingers around Soulhunger's familiar grip, to feel it drink deep of heart's blood. Try as he might to deny it, he craved that feeling more than anything. The sensations coursing through him after a kill—he would pay all the gold in the world to feel the torrent of power rushing in his veins once more.

  But was it worth the price?

  I could single-handedly bring back the god who very nearly destroyed this planet.

  The thought sobered and chilled him. The blade fueled him with every life he took, yet it gave him only a fraction of the power sent to Kharna the Destroyer, Breaker of Worlds. The more lives he took, the closer he came to the day when the malevolent god would return to Einan.

  For this reason, the Hunter refused to wield Soulhunger. For this reason, his blade remained locked away.

  In its iron-lined box, the dagger can do no harm.

  Yet still Soulhunger begged for blood. The dagger's voice was a faint echo, tinged with desperation and lust. The demon's mocking voice added to the chaos in the Hunter's mind.

  The Hunter's eyes roamed over the sleeping forms of his companions. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his belt knife. Temptation, fear, and desire warred within him. His hand, moving of its own accord, pulled the blade free of its sheath. He took a step forward. So easy…

  Sir Danna stirred, muttering in her sleep, and rolled over in her blankets.

  The sound and movement snapped the Hunter back to reality, and the cacophony in his mind retreated. With shaking hands, he replaced the dagger in his belt.

  For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of Visibos's eye in the darkness.

  The suspicious bastard probably sleeps with one eye open.

  He watched the figure, wary for any sign of movement. Visibos's chest rose and fell in the gentle rhythm of sleep.

  Was it just my imagination?

  * * *

  "Morning, Hardwell."

  Sir Danna's voice pierced the numbness filling the Hunter's mind. He jerked upright, throwing off his cloak and leaping to his feet. Sunlight peeked over the forest canopy, though the stars remained visible in the false dawn
.

  Did I fall asleep?

  He had struggled to stay awake through the night. The wool filling his head told him he had succeeded.

  "Morning."

  "A beautiful dawn, isn't it?"

  He grunted a noncommittal response, his mind thick after hours on watch.

  Sir Danna disentangled herself from her thick, warm blankets and climbed to her feet. With a yawn, she raised her arms over her head in a luxurious stretch. Leaves and twigs nested in the woman's ginger locks. She ran her fingers through her hair to remove the debris, deftly pulling her tresses into a careless tail that hung at the nape of her neck.

  She looks as if she slept in a feather bed last night, instead of on a hard forest floor. Clearly, she is accustomed to a night on the road.

  Sir Danna showed no sign of discomfort. She bent to roll her blankets into a neat bundle, her hands deft and movements sure.

  Visibos rolled from his blankets with a groan. Half-awake, he stumbled into the trees. A moment later, the acrid scent of urine accompanied the delighted groan of a man emptying a too-full bladder. He bumbled from the trees after a minute, snarling and slapping at a branch that caught him in the face.

  A muffled snort of laughter came from Sir Danna, and the Hunter fought to hide his own smile.

  "Good morning, Visibos!"

  Far too cheery first thing in the morning. But I guess that's how you feel after a full night of sleep.

  "Morning, Sir Danna." Visibos scrubbed at his eyes with one hand, struggling to cinch his belt with the other.

  "I trust the night treated you well, apprentice."

  "Well enough, though I believe the gods saw fit to curse me with the rockiest patch of ground on the face of Einan."

  Sir Danna's laughter echoed through the clearing—a sonorous, rich sound that brought a smile to the Hunter. Even the corners of Visibos' mouth twitched upward.

  Sir Danna clapped her apprentice on the back. "Ah, Visibos, you never fail to remind me of your disdain for the rugged comforts of life on the road."

  "Give me a feather bed any day." A wistful look filled the apprentice's eyes. "That, and a plate heaped high with fresh bread, sausage, and cheese. I grow weary of trail rations, my lady."

  "So gloomy! I daresay you'll feel much better once your morning prayers are out of the way."

  "Aye." Visibos sounded unconvinced.

  Sir Danna turned to the Hunter. "Would you join us, Hardwell?"

  The Hunter hesitated, uncertain how to answer. He had no desire to anger his traveling companions by turning them down, and even less desire to spend time in prayer.

  "T-truth be told, I'm not much of a praying man. Wouldn't know what to say."

  "Then I shall send up a prayer to the Beggar God for you." The knight's smile accentuated the ugliness of the scar marring her plain face.

  The Hunter bowed his head. "My thanks. Allow me to repay your kindness by preparing the morning's meal."

  "That would be wonderful. We will return in half an hour, and we shall see what sort of magnificent feast you have prepared for us."

  Sir Danna slapped the Hunter on the back, and turned to her apprentice.

  "Come, Visibos. I found a stream a few hundred paces away, and there we will say our morning prayers in peace."

  Visibos nodded. "As you say, sir."

  He fell into step behind Sir Danna, but slowed just before disappearing from sight. Distrust filled the hesitant glance he cast back at the Hunter.

  "Visibos," Sir Danna's insistent voice echoed from among the trees.

  "Yes, Sir Danna."

  With a reluctant expression, the apprentice turned his back on the Hunter and followed the knight into the woods.

  Suspicious bastard, indeed!

  Chapter Eight

  Half an hour later, the Hunter had a pot of water boiling merrily over a small fire. Steam rose from the cauldron, filling the clearing with a sweet fragrance. Honeysuckle leaves floated in the pot, along with a few herbs the Hunter had found while foraging in the forest.

  When Sir Danna and Visibos strode into the clearing, the Hunter smiled and held up a small wooden bowl. Within, a handful of berries had been crushed into a thick pulp.

  "Looks like we'll have some jam for our biscuits today."

  "Where did you find berries? And at this time of year?"

  "Took a bit of hunting, but I found a tiny bush hidden by a patch of brambles. Back near the trail."

  Sir Danna raised her eyes and hands to the heavens. "A blessing from the good god Himself."

  Visibos eyed the contents of the bowl. "You sure they're edible?" The apprentice made no effort to hide the skepticism in his voice.

  "Aye." The Hunter's smile never wavered. "Tested them myself."

  "Come now, apprentice, friend Hardwell promised to deliver a meal, and so he has. Let us enjoy it. We have many leagues to cover before nightfall, and we will need our strength to ride. Besides"—she rummaged in her bag—"anything to get rid of the stale taste of trail biscuits, eh?"

  The Hunter and Visibos both stifled groans. Ignoring the complaint, Sir Danna handed them each a biscuit. With a nod of thanks, she took the bowl from the Hunter and scooped a dollop of crushed berries onto the hard, dry cracker.

  "Delicious! Hardwell, I proclaim this the best meal we’ve had all day!"

  Even Visibos couldn't keep a smile from his face. "Indeed, Hardwell, these berries truly do make the bread somewhat close to edible." He coughed and struggled to swallow the dusty biscuit.

  "Here." The Hunter handed the apprentice a steaming cup. "Wash it down with this. It's hot."

  Visibos nodded his thanks and sipped at the fragrant tea. His eyes widened. "Gods be—"

  A harsh glare from Sir Danna cut off his words. "Be careful how you speak the name of the gods, Visibos."

  "Apologies, Sir Danna." Visibos's face reddened. He took slow sips of the tea, wincing at the pain of his scalded tongue.

  "That tea smells wonderful." Sir Danna reached for a cup. "What's in it?"

  The Hunter shrugged. "A few herbs I found here and there, along with the last of the tea leaves in my pack. And a few wild honeysuckles I found next to the berry bush."

  The knight sipped her tea, and a look of surprised delight crossed her face. "Wild honeysuckles? A brilliant addition!"

  "Aye. Gives it a hint of sweetness without honey."

  "It is official, friend Hardwell." Sir Danna clapped the Hunter on the back. "You have earned yourself the honor of being head cuisinier of this expedition."

  Warmth from more than the hot tea coursed through his body, and a smile teased at the corners of his lips. The knight's praise was a small thing, yet it surprised him how wonderful it felt. Almost like…acceptance.

  Perhaps they may become more than just traveling companions.

  Yet as he wiped biscuit crumbs from his face, he remembered he wore no mask. Only featherglass lenses and a convincing lie hid his true identity from these humans.

  Watcher-damned fool that I am! I cannot allow myself to become too friendly with them. Hardwell of Praamis could make friends, but the Hunter beneath had to maintain a safe distance from the pair. They cannot find out who I really am—what I am.

  The meal passed in an amicable silence, broken only by the sound of crunching biscuits and sipped tea.

  Sir Danna nodded her thanks. "Delightful. Alas, the sun rises high in the sky." She stood and brushed the crumbs from her tunic. "Let us be on our way. Visibos?"

  Visibos hastened to swallow the last mouthful of dried bread and tea. "Of course, Sir Danna." He climbed to his feet. "Thank you for the breakfast, Hardwell."

  The Hunter nodded to hide his surprise. "After your stew of last night, it was the least I could do."

  Visibos's words had held something akin to sincerity. Why did they make him feel good? How could such a simple statement have such a profound effect on him? He cursed himself for his weakness and set about packing up.

  Within minutes, they had e
xtinguished the fire, washed the pot and cups, and readied the horses.

  "We ride hard this morning." Sir Danna swung up into her saddle with an ease that belied the weight of her armor. "At least until an hour past midday. After a short rest, we continue until sundown."

  The Hunter nodded. "As you say, Sir Danna. I follow your lead."

  The demon screamed at him to ride away, warning of danger. The Hunter pushed the voice to the back of his mind.

  "Pathfinder will ride all day without tiring." Sir Danna stroked her horse's mane with affection. "Will yours match its pace?"

  The Hunter studied the black destrier, which towered over his own chestnut gelding. "Aye, the beast will keep up."

  "What is the creature's name?" Sir Danna asked.

  The question took the Hunter by surprise. The hostelier who had sold him the horse had named the beast "Chestnut", but it didn't suit. The Hunter hadn't thought to give the creature a name.

  "Elivast." The word came unbidden to his lips.

  "Elivast." Sir Danna tried the name on her tongue. "An elegant name, to be sure. What does it mean?"

  "Wanderer." The Hunter answered without thinking, yet the name and its meaning seemed fitting.

  "What language?" Visibos asked. Something about the apprentice's scrutiny made the Hunter uneasy.

  "I do not know." It was the truth.

  Visibos opened his mouth to speak, then shut it without a sound.

  What did I say? The Hunter found Visibos' curiosity unnerving.

  "It is a good name for a horse." Sir Danna shielded her eyes and studied the sky. "The sun rises. Come, my friends, we must be off."

  With that, the knight kicked her horse into motion and trotted from the clearing. The Hunter followed, keenly aware of the apprentice's eyes burning into his back.

  * * *

  True to her word, Sir Danna pushed hard through the morning. She never forced the horses to a gallop, but Pathfinder's jog trot ate up the leagues. The countryside passed in a blur of green and brown, the land morphing from forest to hill country. The Hunter barely noticed the world around him. He struggled to keep up with the punishing pace, until his body ached from the jolting ride.