Snatching the dagger from the floor, the Hunter leapt toward Arric. The bright red beard contrasted the pale, bloodless color of the man's face. Terror mixed with desperation, and Arric stumbled backward. The Hunter drove on, and Arric lashed out with a cry of horror. Something cold and hard sank into the Hunter's stomach, but he ignored it. He was beyond pain, beyond anything but an uncontrollable need to kill.
Screaming, sobbing, and laughing all at once, the Hunter drove Soulhunger into Arric's chest. The blade cracked ribs, sliced flesh, and punctured the man's heart, drinking deep. Arric's scream rose in a terrible symphony, harmonizing with the howls pouring from the Hunter's throat.
Pain flared in the Hunter's chest—a new scar etched into his flesh. Fire coursed through his veins, pushing his conscious mind aside to release the demon within. A scream filled the air. His scream.
All that effort to avoid killing? Why?
It felt so good. This was what it meant to be truly alive! How had he gone on so long without all this glorious power?
The Hunter stared into Arric's eyes, watching their light dim and fade. He felt nothing; it was as if he stared into the eyes of a marble statue. His inner demon added its ululation of triumph as the dagger devoured the bandit's essence.
Red filled his vision. The dagger slipped free of Arric's chest almost too easily. A dim part of him hated what he was doing, but he had no more control over his body than a marionette dancing on strings. From behind his own eyes, he watched his arms and legs move of their own accord.
Sword and dagger in hand, the Hunter stalked his prey. Soulhunger howled in delight, the demon echoing its pleasure. The Hunter basked in the glory of death.
All men deserve death! I am the hand of the Watcher, delivering justice!
A bandit rushed toward him, screaming in rage. Soulhunger laid open the man's throat, ending his cry in a wet, bloody cough. An ecstatic humming filled the Hunter's mind, crying out in pleasure. Did the voice belong to the demon, to Soulhunger, or were they his own thoughts? Lost in the dance of destruction, he could not tell.
A handful of bandits tried to stand against him. Blows rained down, but did little to hinder him. In his heedless, mindless fury, only the voice of his inner demon and Soulhunger's pleas for death drove him onward. The gemstone flared to life as the dagger drank its fill, bathing the cliffs around him with an eerie crimson glow.
Blood filled his eyes, his nose, and his mouth. Blood dripped down his arms, soaked his clothing, and plastered his hair to his head. The few that stood against him, he killed. Those who fled, died with his sword or dagger in their backs.
Then he stood alone. All was silent.
His heart hammered, and his lungs burned. The muscles in his forearms had cramped long ago. His clawed fingers refused to unclench. His face felt caked in mud. Gore drenched his hands, arms, and the front of his tunic.
Blood soaked into the dust of the trail, ran down the sides of the mountain, trickled into myriad crevices. Bodies lay strewn around him, mouths hanging open in silent screams. Glassy eyes stared unseeing into the vivid afternoon sky. The vibrant colors of sunset washed their pale faces in an uncanny radiance.
The human side of the Hunter stared around in horror. What have you done?
His inner demon howled. 'You mean what have WE done? We did what we must!'
We were done with killing!
'Never. Death is what we live for.'
No!
The demon would not yield. 'It is our destiny! We are meant to rule this pitiful world, as we did millennia ago.'
A shudder ran down the Hunter's spine, his blood turning to ice. Once more, he stood in the tunnels of the Serenii beneath Voramis, watching the Third plunge Soulhunger into a stone altar. An incomprehensible force pulled the power from the blade's gemstone deep into the earth. A massive heartbeat echoed in his ears—the heart of the Destroyer.
'With every life we take,' the demon whispered, 'our power grows.'
The Hunter's chest burned with the familiar pain of new-formed scars. He had thought to leave the pain in Voramis, but it had returned…would return every time Soulhunger took a life. It was a pain he would never escape.
His mind filled with Soulhunger's cries of pleasure. The dagger had fed well.
No more! Please, no more.
He struggled to loosen his hold on Soulhunger, to hurl the blade into the Chasm of the Lost. His inner demon would not release his strings.
Its mocking laughter echoed in his thoughts. 'There will be more. No matter how you try, foolish mortal, there will always be more!'
The chaos in the Hunter's mind slowly faded. His grip loosened, and Soulhunger clattered to the floor. An immense weight dragged him to one knee.
Panting, the Hunter stared down at Soulhunger. Blood stained the dagger, but the blade had already begun to absorb the last traces of crimson. Its voice had fallen silent, its appetites satiated for the moment, but it would always be there. Ever in the back of his mind, waiting for the demon to take control of his body. Locking the blade away only delayed the inevitable.
I will never escape it, no matter how hard I try. One moment of weakness, and it will take over again.
Then came the pain. Agony flooded his body; he felt every wound, every bruise, and every injury. He had healed, but the phantom agony sensations—accompanied by the torment of his fresh scars.
With the return of sanity came a horrified realization of what he had done. A heaving sob bubbled up from his throat. His bloodstained fingers traced the new scars formed on his chest.
A groan sounded behind him, and the Hunter spun, sword at the ready. It was only Sir Danna.
The stubborn knight tried to push herself up to her elbows and failed, slumping back to the floor. The Hunter's eyes sought the prone form of Visibos. The apprentice's chest rose and fell. Relief flooded him. His companions lived.
Panic seized him. I can't let them see Soulhunger!
The Hunter stooped to collect the dagger, wobbling with the effort, and slipped the blade into his belt. His cloak would hide it from sight.
A cry came from behind him. "By the gods!"
Chapter Fourteen
The Hunter whirled.
Sir Danna held her head, her face screwed up in pain, stubbornly trying to stand on unsteady legs. Her eyes widened at sight of the Hunter. "You've been cut to shreds!"
The Hunter stared at his clothing. Ragged rents showed in his leather armor, blood staining the exposed flesh. His tunic hung in ribbons, soaked through with gore, yet he saw no wounds.
"I-It is nothing. The blood is not mine."
Sir Danna grimaced and staggered, and the Hunter reached out to catch the knight.
"Sir Danna, are—?"
"I am fine! They took me by surprise. I…" Blood trickled down her head, and her eyes wobbled. Face pale, she allowed the Hunter to help her to a sitting position. "This would never have happened had they not had those confounded slings." Even wounded, the knight had her pride.
"That looks bad."
She pointed a weak hand toward Pathfinder. "Get me my bags. I have a few draughts that should get me back on my feet."
Pathfinder snorted at his approach, but stood still long enough for the Hunter to retrieve Sir Danna's travel satchel. Dropping it at her feet, he hurried to check on Visibos.
He's going to have one wicked headache when he wakes, but the man will live. Or so he hoped.
Sir Danna groaned again, wincing every time her salve-covered fingers touched her wound. Once finished, she pulled a vial from within her bag and fumbled with the stopper. The knight gave the Hunter a wry smile before drinking down the contents.
She made a sour face and shuddered. "Ugh. Horrible stuff!"
"What is it?"
The knight shrugged. "Some sort of elixir Brother Repentus brews. I have no idea what is in it, but it does wonders for healing wounds."
Color had returned to Sir Danna's face, and her gaze was steady as she extended a hand to t
he Hunter.
"Help me up, Hardwell, and let's see how poor Visibos fares."
With a grunt of effort, the Hunter pulled Sir Danna to her feet. She tried to hide her unsteadiness, pushing the Hunter away and stumbling toward her apprentice.
Visibos groaned and his eyes fluttered open. "Ohhh, wh-what happened?"
"We were attacked, apprentice." Sir Danna placed her hand beneath Visibos's head and, with gentle movements, helped him sit up. The apprentice stared at the world around him through wide eyes, a befuddled expression on his face.
"Here," Sir Danna said, holding out a second vial. "Drink this." She poured the content into Visibos's mouth, ignoring his weak protests at the foul taste. She gestured for the Hunter to hand her the salve, which she applied to Visibos's wound.
The apprentice's eyes drooped, and the knight gave his cheek a gentle slap. "Stay awake, Visibos. You remember what happened to Sir Prentisse after Lord Knight Moradiss knocked him unconscious in the tournament last year."
"Y-yes," Visibos mumbled.
"You want that to happen to you?" Sir Danna pulled her apprentice toward an outcropping of rocks, where she propped him upright.
"N-no."
"Then don't you dare close your eyes." Her voice held a tone of command.
"Yes, Sir Danna." Visibos struggled to sit straighter, forcing his eyelids wider.
"Good man." Sir Danna patted her apprentice on the shoulder and, climbing to her feet, turned to the Hunter. "Now you, Hardwell."
This caught the Hunter by surprise. "Me what?" Numbness had begun to seep through his mind, filling it with fog—as it always did when Soulhunger took a life.
"Take off your armor, now." The knight's voice held the same tone she had used on her apprentice. "I need to take a look at your wounds."
The Hunter hesitated, loath to let the knight examine him. If she found no trace of wound, surely her suspicions would be aroused.
Worse still, what if they find Soulhunger?
Sir Danna saw his hesitation. "Modesty be damned, man. Yes, I may be a woman, but I'm a warrior first and foremost. Strip, now."
The command in the knight's voice penetrated the Hunter's stupor, and he obeyed. He dropped his cloak behind him, concealing Soulhunger within its folds. His sword joined the pile, and within a minute, he had divested himself of his leather armor.
Sir Danna examined him, her eyes tracing his shirtless torso. The scrutiny made the Hunter uncomfortable, especially when her gaze lingered on the new scars etched into his chest. The marks still had the red, raw appearance of healing wounds. Yet she said nothing.
"You must be one hell of a fighter to escape such a confrontation unscathed." Curiosity burned in the knight's voice. "Over a dozen men, and not a wound to show for it."
"The gods smiled on me," the Hunter said, forcing a smile. "But that head of yours looks bad."
"It's fine," Sir Danna snapped.
"Are you sure?" The Hunter bent to examine the wound. "At the very least, it will leave a nasty bruise. Do you feel any dizziness? Nausea?"
"I'm fine." The knight waved him away, impatient. "Nothing more than a glancing blow."
"Still," the Hunter persisted, "you know how head wounds can be."
"Leave it alone," Sir Danna all but snarled. "The salve and the elixir will do their work soon enough. I've taken worse injuries than this on the practice field."
The knight turned her attention to their surroundings. Her eyes narrowed and her brows furrowed at the sight of the corpses littering the road.
Sir Danna bowed her head, placed her hands over her heart, and closed her eyes. "May the Beggar God be with you as your souls journey to the embrace of the Long Keeper."
The words of his ritual flashed through his mind. May the Long Keeper take your bodies; your souls are forfeit.
"What are we going to do with them?" Sir Danna's question snapped the Hunter from his thoughts. "We can't just leave them here."
The Hunter tried to think of a solution, but his mind felt wrung out, empty. Numbness stifled his thoughts, a tingling spreading through his limbs. The adrenaline from the fight had fled, leaving him a hollow, exhausted shell.
"We throw them into the chasm," Sir Danna said. "Their souls have already joined the Long Keeper, but the river below will wash their bodies out to sea."
"It is better than they deserve." The anger in his voice surprised the Hunter.
Sir Danna raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps, but we are servants of the Beggar God. We must have compassion on them."
"Even after they tried to kill you?" The knight's naiveté bewildered the Hunter.
"Yes," Sir Danna said, nodding. "The Beggar God takes pity on the lepers and outcasts of the world. Even these outcasts."
The Hunter found himself at a loss for words.
"No, Visibos!" Sir Danna's head swiveled toward her apprentice, and her expression grew firm. "Sit. Rest."
The apprentice had struggled to his feet, but leaned against the rock wall for support. Blood still trickled from the wound in his forehead, and the color had not fully returned to his face.
"But—"
"I said rest!" Sir Danna cut off Visibos's weak protests. "Hardwell and I will deal with the corpses."
The Hunter turned his attention to the bodies strewn across the road. The nearest man lay face up, unseeing eyes fixed on him. Horror and fear stained the man's face beneath the blood. A burden settled onto the Hunter's shoulders. He lifted the body; it weighed far less than it should, as if all substance had fled in death.
How much does a life weigh? The thought rang in his head.
He watched the body plummet into the Chasm of the Lost, his gaze mesmerized by the twisted mouth, glassy eyes, and pale face of his victim. He felt no joy in the deaths, nor sorrow. He felt nothing—nothing but the numbness spreading through his limbs.
He carried corpse after corpse, exerting himself in an attempt to push back the numbness filling his arms and legs. He wanted to shut his eyes to block out the lifeless expressions filling his vision. He drowned out all thought in activity, trying in desperation to stop the mounting pressure within him breaking free.
"The Beggar God watch over you." Sir Danna intoned her prayer as the Hunter hurled the last corpse into the chasm. "May he bring you to the comforting arms of the Long Keeper."
The knight turned to the Hunter. "Come, Hardwell," she said in a quiet, solemn voice. "Let us find a place to camp." With a gentle clap on the Hunter's shoulder, Sir Danna strode down the hill.
The Hunter looked up. Has so much time passed?
Only thin traces of color shone in the darkening sky; night would be upon them in less than an hour. He stumbled after Sir Danna, muscles aching from exertion, fatigue narrowing his vision. He staggered, pitched to one side, and caught himself on a rock shelf. Numbness weighed his limbs down, rendering him weak.
"Hardwell!" Sir Danna's voice sounded faint, distant. "Are you well?"
"Y-yes." His lips felt thick, his tongue heavy. "I'm f-fine." He found himself sitting on the hard trail, Sir Danna pouring tepid water down his throat.
Her hand felt warm on his cheek. "You're too pale. That fight must have taken more out of you than you cared to admit."
More than you could imagine. Killing with Soulhunger flooded him with power, yet when the power receded, only a husk remained.
"I-I just need to rest." His mouth felt dry, his head too ponderous to hold up. Sleep would provide an escape from the torpor.
"That settles it," Sir Danna said. "We make camp here for the night."
The Hunter tried to respond, but gloom eclipsed all thought.
"Don't move." She placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. "I'll go prepare a meal. We can travel on in the morning, but tonight you rest."
"Yes," the Hunter breathed. "Rest."
Darkness blurred his vision, and he floated through an empty void. Sensations from his aching body told him he still lived, but he could see nothing, hear nothing.
&nb
sp; It's never been this bad before.
His inner voice returned with an echo of mocking laughter. 'This is what happens when you resist me. You tried to fight me, yet I won. The harder you fight, the harder you will fall.'
But—
'There is no argument, foolish Bucelarii. Child of the Abiarazi, our blood runs through your veins.'
He wanted to spit an argument back in the demon's face, yet its voice flooded his mind, crowing victory.
'You tried to purge me with the accursed blood of the Beggar Priests, but you will never be rid of me. I am the part of you that cannot be restrained. The more you try to block out my voice, the greater my triumph. And triumph I will …never doubt that! '
The Hunter's hand crept beneath his tunic and found the fresh scars on his chest. Four neat marks, as if carved by an invisible hand. Four souls devoured by Soulhunger.
'Give me what I want! Feed me power, feed me death. Only then will I grant you a reprieve.'
The Hunter clenched his fists. I tire of being a death-bringer. I want to be something else. I want to be normal.
'You can never be anything else. You are not some pathetic human. You are Bucelarii, offspring of greatness!'
Visions of horror and death flashed before his eyes, the same visions he had seen in the Serenii tunnels beneath Voramis. Abiarazi in their true forms, creatures of nightmare crawling, flying, and striding across the world of Einan. Demons butchering mankind by the thousands, feeding on flesh, drinking lifeblood, and making mountains of bones. Fire and slaughter ruled the world—the hells spilling over onto Einan.
'That is what you are, or what you could become. When your forebears stride Einan once more—'
"Hardwell." Sir Danna's gentle voice broke into his delusions. "Drink some of this."
The Hunter's eyes snapped open. Night had fallen, the darkness broken only by a small fire burning a few paces away. With shaking hands, he took the bowl from Sir Danna.
"Feed it to him, Sir Danna." Visibos stirred the small pot hanging over the campfire. "He needs to eat."
The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen Page 9