The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen

by Andy Peloquin

  "I can feed myself," the Hunter snapped. He struggled to keep the bowl steady as he brought it to his lips. The hot liquid scalded his tongue, and he winced.

  "Easy, Hardwell," Sir Danna said. "Just drink a bit more, and you can rest."

  Sipping slowly, the Hunter finished the thin, salty broth.

  "Sleep now." Sir Danna draped a blanket around his shoulders. "Can't have you getting cold tonight. The wind can be pretty brutal up here."

  "Thank you," the Hunter said, his voice weak.

  "No, Hardwell," Sir Danna replied, "thank you. We would have died today had it not been for you."

  I nearly got you killed, all because I didn't kill Arric the first time. These words remained unspoken.

  'See what mercy gets you. The demon mocked him. You try to do the 'right' thing, and this is what happens. Next time, you'd do well to listen. I know what is best for you.'

  The blanket around his shoulders and the broth in his belly warmed him. His eyelids drooped, his eyes mesmerized by the dancing flames. A final thought churned in his mind before exhaustion—both physical and mental—overcame him.

  'I AM you.'

  * * *

  Voices filtered into the Hunter's ears, prodding him into consciousness.

  "Impossible!" He recognized Sir Danna's strident tone.

  "I saw it myself." Another voice—Visibos.

  The Hunter couldn't hear the whispered words that passed between the two. He closed his eyes, but his back ached too much to sleep. He couldn't feel his legs. A shiver wracked his body; the wind had blown his blanket open. But when he tried to pull the thin covering tighter around his shoulders, his body refused to obey his commands.

  Twisted hell! What's happening to me?

  He tried again, willing his arms, his legs, anything to move. Nothing. His throat constricted, his breath quickening.

  "Bucelarii." The word was as cold as the blade pressed to his neck.

  Sir Danna stood above him, her lips pressed into a thin line, her expression grim. The Hunter tried to speak, but his throat refused to form words.

  "See?" Visibos shuffled toward them. "The ferrospike venom has done its work."

  Ferrospike?

  "Does he speak true, Hardwell?" Sir Danna eyed him, her features a mask of rage. "Are you truly one of those accursed creatures we have spent our lives hunting down? Are you truly Bucelarii?"

  The Hunter's stomach lurched, his heart pounded, and a tremor shook his body.

  Cambionari.

  The name raced through his mind, panic pushing back his gloom. He had encountered the Cambionari in Voramis. Servants to the Beggar God, they had hunted the Bucelarii almost to extinction. And to encounter them here…

  The gods play a cruel joke.

  Sir Danna's jaw clenched. "I can see in your eyes that my apprentice speaks the truth."

  How could I have been so blind?

  The Hunter struggled to move, but his body refused to cooperate.

  "Ferrospike venom, demon," Sir Danna snarled. "Such a small, innocent plant, yet it was ever deadly to your kind. A poison your bodies can never truly deal with."

  The knight turned to Visibos and nodded. "You did well, apprentice. I should have trusted you when you said there was something off about him."

  "It is no matter, Sir Danna." A smile touched the corners of Visibos's lips.

  The bastard! How could he know?

  Visibos crouched over the Hunter, pulling back an eyelid to peer into the Hunter's dark eyes. "I am simply glad the ferrospike venom works even after all these centuries. I bet you didn't expect your broth to be poisoned, eh, demon?"

  "Visibos!" Sir Danna's voice held an edge of rebuke. "Servants of the Beggar God do not gloat over fallen enemies, even if they are demonkind. He will die soon enough" Her mouth twisted into a grimace.

  Screams rang in his mind. 'I told you to kill them, but no, you have to pretend at mercy. Look where that has gotten you!'

  Something primal within the Hunter fought to take control of his unmoving body, screaming him to run, to fight, to escape.

  "Sir Danna," Visibos called, "see what I found in his bags. It will make our journey home more comfortable." Coins clinked; they had found his fortune.

  "Visibos, you know we cannot keep it. We will bring it to the House of Need in Malandria, along with the rest of his belongings."

  "And his accursed blade? What will we do with that?"

  Soulhunger!

  "That thing will go with the rest. It will be safe in our vault."

  Visibos gasped "Lady's eyes! Could it be? What could he be doing with these? They look like..."

  "No matter. They will come with us to Malandria as well. If they are the Swordsman's blades, we will put them on display for the world to worship."

  The sound of footsteps approached. Sir Danna's face hovered before him.

  "I am sorry, demon, for what I must do. Your kind was never meant to live on this world."

  "Kill the damned thing, Sir Danna." The Hunter could hear the eagerness in Visibos's voice. "Once you have returned him to the hell that spawned him, we will finally be rid of their kind."

  Sir Danna spoke in a soft voice. "Goodbye, Hardwell. For what it's worth, your human side was decent."

  Something cold and sharp slipped between his ribs. Warm wetness spread down his side; he didn't need to look down to know it was dark, rich heart-blood.

  "Your death will be painless," Sir Danna said. "The ferrospike venom will cause you to bleed out quickly, and you will slip into darkness."

  She spoke truth. The Hunter felt no pain as Sir Danna slid the dagger from his chest. A fresh gout of blood spurted over her hand.

  "May the Beggar God have mercy on you, demon." Wiping the blade on his tunic, the knight climbed to her feet.

  The Hunter coughed weakly, his strength draining with the blood pumping from his chest. A chill spread through his inert limbs.

  Hands lifted him from the ground. He was being moved, but to where?

  Motion ceased. A cold, harsh wind ripped at his clothing.

  "One," Visibos counted, "two, three!"

  He floated free, nothing but empty air to hold him suspended. The Chasm of the Lost swallowed him in a yawning darkness broken only by a ribbon of silver sparkling far below.

  This is how it ends.

  The voice of his inner demon wailed in terror. It would die along with him.

  Something in the Hunter's mind snapped. A howl tore from his throat.

  'No! I must live. I must survive.'

  Darkness.

  Part Two

  Interlude

  The creature lived. Shattered and broken, yet alive.

  Its heart beat weakly, struggling to pump what little blood had not yet flowed into the earth around it. Its mind acted out of instinct, unthinking, struggling to move. Death's laughter mocked it.

  Sheer tenacity clung to life, refusing to take a final breath.

  The creature inhaled the scent of gore dripping from its body, draining onto the rocks upon which its corpse had been flung. It smelled the moss growing on the rocks stained wet by the flowing river.

  Hardly a flicker of light trickled down to the depths where it lay. Towering stone walls rose on all sides, swallowing the creature in darkness.

  And yet, it lived.

  * * *

  The bright sky blinded weary eyes. The sun shone high over the head of the unmoving creature.

  A cold, wet nose touched its flesh. The scent of blood greeted its nostrils—the scent of a fellow predator. A bear, with fur the color of deep rust mixed with swirling patterns of black, sniffed the meal it believed to be dead, growling upon finding its prey living.

  Large, dark mammal eyes stared down at the creature lying on the floor. Hunter sensed the presence of a fellow hunter.

  A soft growl in the prone creature's ear, accompanied by soft grunts and clicks. Acceptance. The giant, shaggy animal found a companion in the broken thing lying at its feet.
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  Movement…through cold rushing water, over hard stone. The animal dragged the unresisting body, its claws sunk deep into a shattered leg.

  Movement ceased. The welcome cool of darkness. Stone surrounded the creature on all sides. A hint of light from the distance.

  Peace.

  Chapter One

  "Oi, you!" A beefy guard barred the Hunter's way. "We've enough of your kind here, mucking up the place. Away with you!"

  The Hunter cut a pitiful figure. His dust-stained cloak had more holes than a cheesecloth, and his matted hair and beard did little to improve his appearance. The perfect disguise. "Please, sir," he said in the warbling voice of a man thrice his age. "I've been on the road for weeks, with hardly anything in the way of food and water."

  The guard studied him, stroked his bristling beard with a paunchy hand. The demon snarled at him to kill the guard, but the Hunter ignored the demanding voice.

  "Just one day of rest, sir. I implore you."

  "I know better than that. We've had too many of your ilk entering Malandria and mucking up our fair city." The guard spat and pounded his chest. "And it's us of the Watch who have to drive you out!"

  "In the name of the Beggar God, have mercy."

  The guard's expression wavered for a moment, and the Hunter hid a smile.

  Can't ignore that one, can you?

  "Very well." The guard's voice was stern, but without its earlier harshness. "Get yourself to the House of Need, wretch. The brothers there will give you something to eat and drink. But I expect you to be on your way before week's end. I'll hunt you down myself if you don't."

  The Hunter pretended to cringe beneath the guard's stern glare. "Of course, good sir. May the gods bless you for your kindness."

  With a grunt, the guard stepped aside and waved him on. "Get in line."

  The Hunter shuffled past the guard, leaning heavily on a crutch and dragging his left foot behind him. His bare toe struck a rock, splitting the nail. He winced at the myriad aches and pains of blisters, sore muscles, and fatigue. Adjusting his eye patch sent a fresh wave of pain through his left eye, and he fought the urge to scratch the raw flesh covering the entire left side of his face.

  These boots have seen better days. The clothes too. Better find something new to wear soon. Can't go around looking like this much longer. No longer than was absolutely necessary.

  With a weary sigh, he joined the people queuing for admission to the city. Such small things hadn't bothered him before, but now…

  He wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep right there. Too many sleepless nights had passed since the Chasm of the Lost. He needed rest. More than that, he needed peace from the incessant voice in his mind.

  Food would be nice, too. The guard had said the House of Need would have food and drink. A coincidence, or sheer good fortune?

  A weak voice throbbed in his head. He could sense Soulhunger's presence somewhere in the city. Perhaps finding the dagger would be easier than expected.

  The line flowed at a steady pace, but the Hunter chafed at the long wait. Few of the guards lounging in the shadow of the wall watched the traffic passing into the city. The people around him jostled each other, hurling insults, snarling curses, and complaining about the morning's heat. Sweat trickled down dirt-stained faces and soaked through tunics.

  A breeze wafted through the holes in the Hunter's ragged clothing, bringing momentary relief from the relentless sun. The myriad scents of the people and animals around him assaulted his senses, and the noise only increased the pounding ache in his head.

  To distract himself, he studied the high walls that blocked the city of Malandria from view. They had to be at least thrice the height of the walls of Voramis, made of a black granite that emanated a sinister menace. The gates were monstrous things: steel-banded logs, thick as the Hunter was tall, hanging on enormous chains.

  A massive portcullis hung a dozen paces above his head. He had a vision of those iron points impaling him, crushing him beneath its immense weight. It required all of his willpower to maintain his slow, shambling pace despite his racing heart.

  He couldn't help marveling at the sight of the city beyond. Hundreds of towers crowded the Malandrian skyline, a handful rivaling the height of the colossal city wall. Their pointed summits scraped the underbellies of clouds, looming over the city like elaborate sentry posts.

  The architecture in Malandria shocked him. In Voramis, buildings served to block out the winter chill and the icy breezes from the Endless Sea. Only the wealthy of Upper Voramis afforded the luxury of elegant construction, yet here even the simplest houses looked to have been designed by an artist. Every home boasted adornments and embellishments—utterly unnecessary and purely ornamental.

  So this is the City of a Thousand Spires. It is as beautiful as Sir Danna described it.

  "Watch where yer going, cretin!"

  He had no time to react. Something hard slammed into him from behind. He crashed into a nearby wall, the impact driving the breath from his lungs.

  Every muscle in his body aching, the Hunter struggled to his feet. Sewage soaked his clothes, filling his nostrils with its foul reek. With a snarled curse at the retreating wagon, he retrieved his crutch and continued his slow, painful journey up the crowded street.

  Weeks of travel had taken its toll. The pain of his ruined face had not given him a moment of peace in days. He had nothing left.

  Watcher take those Cambionari bastards and their cursed ferrospike venom!

  He scratched at the raw, itchy skin around his left eye, sending a fresh wave of pain through his head. The faces of Sir Danna and Visibos flashed through his mind, and his stomach twisted in rage.

  'Foolish human,' the voice in his head mocked him. 'You have no one to blame but yourself. I told you how to deal with them…'

  The Hunter knew it to be true, but he had no desire to hear the truth. Instead, he searched for the familiar, compelling presence that tugged at his thoughts.

  Her.

  She filled his mind with a primal need. He felt a desire for Her in the pit of his stomach, stirring him to the core. Yet his need to find Her warred with his desire for revenge. Only his rage kept him stumbling forward on unsteady legs.

  First, I must recover what was taken from me. Soulhunger, the Swordsman's iron blades, his fortune. And those accursed priests will pay.

  Weariness blurred his vision. He hated the itchy eyepatch, but it hid the shredded, scarred flesh where his eye had been. Pain lanced through his head, a constant reminder of his body's failure. He cursed his human frailty.

  I've got to find a place to rest.

  He stopped a passing vendor and asked for directions to the House of Need.

  "Fourth tier, east side." The man wiped his hands on his tunic, making no attempt to hide his disdain. Without waiting for the Hunter's nod of thanks, he hurried on his way.

  The Hunter struggled to mimic the shuffling, uneven walk of a cripple, but it was an important part of his disguise. Sir Danna or Visibos might be in the House of Need. He couldn't risk their recognizing him.

  If it means I have to play this horrible role for a day or two, it's worth it.

  People jostled the Hunter as he made his slow way up the street. He was forced to dodge passing wagons, carts, and fellow pedestrians. Anger and frustration simmered beneath bone-deep weariness.

  He followed the vendor's instructions, though he had no idea where the road led. Entering Malandria through the south gate, he had taken the avenue to the east. The boulevard curved north, intersected occasionally by smaller roads. These arteries led up the hill toward the heart of the city. The city wall loomed to the east, curving parallel to the main thoroughfare.

  A carter lounging in the shadow of an empty storefront pointed to the northwest. "You'll want to go up the hill one tier."

  "Tier?"

  "City's laid out in five rings," the man said in a lazy drawl. "Fifth tier is all storehouses and wagon yards, fourth tier is for mer
chants and shops. When you hit the third tier, that's where you find the highbrows who think they're better than the rest of us. Second and first tiers are where the money's really at. Merchant-nobles and the like."

  The Hunter's blistered feet and exhausted legs protested with every step. The climb to Malandria's fourth tier felt interminable. Finally reaching the avenue, he leaned his hands on his knees, panting.

  Lady take pity! Is this what it feels like to be human? So fragile, so weak. How do they live like this?

  A nearby trough beckoned. The Hunter's thirst overwhelmed his disgust at having to share it with a pair of horses. He managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of dirty water before the innkeeper drove him away with shouts and curses.

  He leaned on the crutch, glad for the support. His legs threatened to buckle every time he scurried from the path of a passing wagon. The sun beat down on him without remorse, the heat adding to his exhaustion.

  A cluster of spires in the distance caught his eye; how could they not, the way they towered above the surrounding buildings? Their tips reached thousands of paces into the sky, rivaling the height of the mansions dominating the upper tiers.

  They have to be twice the height of the city wall!

  He had found the Temple District. Only the truly wealthy or truly pious ever constructed monuments of such conceited stature. Perhaps he would find the House of Need in the shadows of the spires.

  His stomach rumbled, and the scent of grilling meat filled his nostrils.

  The sweat-stained vendor wiped a filthy hand on an even filthier apron and glared at the Hunter. "Off with you! I've no food to spare, not even for a wretch as gods-awfully thin as you!"

  "Please, sir, could you tell me where to find the House of Need?" His voice cracked. It was no pretense. Days with no food and little water had left the Hunter weak. His trek through the city had sapped his last reserves.

  "Oh." The merchant's scowl disappeared. He raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "You're looking for the temple of the Beggar Priests?"