The Hunter nodded.
"It's right there." The man pointed a pudgy finger at the massive building that had caught the Hunter's attention. "You can't miss it."
"That? That is the House of Need?"
"Aye. And not a very needy house, if you ask me." The merchant's glare returned. "Now, off with you! You're scaring away my customers."
With a longing glance at the meat, the Hunter limped up the street. He was so close; just a few more shambling steps, and he could rest.
The opulence of the House of Need was breathtaking, even from a distance. The temple's dominant spire reached hundreds of paces above the nearest building. Four smaller spires surrounded it, dazzling white crystals slicing into the perfect blue of the sky.
Twisted hell! How did that happen?
In Voramis, the temple to the Beggar God was a forgotten, forlorn thing. Here, the Beggar Priests worshiped in a building grandiose enough to rival a king's palace.
Things are quite different in Malandria.
Up close, the temple was even more impressive. It straddled the entire eastern section of the fourth tier—or the Impedimenta, as he had heard it called. Its pristine white walls stretched out of sight to the north.
It has to occupy at least as much space as the entire Temple District in Voramis, the Hunter thought.
Only five spires were visible from a distance, but now he saw dozens of smaller steeples rising from the temple walls. The white marble façade reflected the sunlight with blinding brilliance, a gorgeous contrast with the red brick and dark wood structures surrounding it.
Vertical fluted columns nearly a half-dozen paces wide supported elaborate entablatures. Scenes of battles from the history of Einan adorned the temple's exterior walls. Statues stood silent vigil at the entrance to the temple, their cold, grey eyes fixed on the Hunter passing between them.
The sheer magnitude of the temple made him feel terribly small.
No doubt the purpose of the damned thing!
Through the columns, a staircase hundreds of paces across descended into the temple complex. Marble walkways cut through emerald gardens. Swaths of color snaked among the sea of green, and a delightful fragrance wafted from within the temple.
"You there! Where do you think you're going?"
Chapter Two
A hand seized the Hunter's arm and spun him around, nearly knocking him to the ground.
"Your kind is not permitted to enter the Temple Proper!"
The man to whom the black-gloved hand belonged stood at least a hand taller than him. A glare marred his achingly handsome features, and his hairless lip curled into a snarl. His white cloak and burnished plate mail breastplate shone in the noon sun.
The Hunter's fingers twitched. He was seized by a desire to draw the man's sword—an elegant blade with elaborate hilt-work—and open his throat. The demon fed the urge; it hadn't fed for days, and it wanted blood. An ache settled behind the Hunter's eye.
"Apologies, sir," he mumbled. Ducking his head to hide the flush of anger in his cheeks, he tried to scramble up the steps.
The guard held him fast. "That's Sergeant to you! Now, get out of here and find your way to the side entrance like all the rest of the filth." He shoved the Hunter, sending him staggering.
The Hunter, remembering his disguise, fell hard.
"Get up!" The guard seized his collar and yanked him to his feet.
"Yes s-sir…er, S-Sergeant." He fled as quickly as his hobbling gait allowed.
Despite his pretense of humility, rage burned within him. The demon screamed for death. The guard deserved it, no doubt. But the Hunter would not yield to the incessant demands. He had given in before, and what had happened? He rubbed his chest in an unconscious gesture, feeling the raised flesh of the scars through his tunic—the stains on what had been a clean slate.
Only once he passed through the columns and out of sight of the guard did he slow.
His eyes roamed the massive temple in search of the side entrance. Which way to go? He rubbed the shoulder that had struck the corner of a stone stair. His knees and blistered feet protested with every shambling step. He had no desire to walk more than absolutely necessary.
A muttering voice caught the Hunter's attention. "And so the barman says to the wench. He says…"
The Hunter turned to see a man whose tattered garments matched the condition of his own rags. A matted salt-and-pepper beard hung down to his chest, drawing attention away from the perfectly round shape of his bald head.
"Excuse me," the Hunter said. "I—"
"He says, 'That impudent fool is trying to catch your attention, as if he knows what he's talking about. Why he's never seen the..."
Pockmarks dotted a thick red nose, and a whiff of unwashed human mixed with dried alcohol made the Hunter gag.
Lady's teats! The smell brought back memories of the Beggars Quarter in Voramis. The man reeked of the cheap swill Karrl and Jak had shared when—
No! Not now! He shook his head to dispel the images forming in his mind.
The man passed the Hunter without lifting his eyes from the street. He had an odd shuffling gait, as if his leg had been broken and healed incorrectly. He gesticulated with the same wild insanity that drove his rambling conversation with himself.
Has to be either drunk or insane. Probably a bit of both.
Uncertainty rooted him to the spot. This man certainly looked like a person who would go to the Beggar Priests for help.
What do I have to lose? He's my best chance.
With a groan for his tired, blistered feet, the Hunter limped in pursuit of the mumbling man.
The man shuffled along the outer wall of the temple complex, heading north. His voice rose and fell in pitch and volume. The Hunter caught occasional snatches of his dialogue.
"…shat himself in the back of the…"
"…bastard tricked us with the spoon…"
"…murder the purple chickens with the quill unless they…"
The Hunter snorted and shook his head. He followed the man at a distance, careful not to get too close. Those touched by the Illusionist were unpredictable, at best.
What could be going on inside that head of his? It must be one confusing landscape.
Something in the distance caught his eye. A stream of humanity shuffled, stumbled, and hobbled their way toward a door set into the wall of the temple complex. Bedraggled men and women clutched children with wide eyes and distended bellies. Tattered clothing, filthy bandages, and open sores marked them as the poor and destitute of the city.
This had to be the place.
The bald man pushed into the line near the front. He jockeyed for position, jostling a thin-pockmarked man and a hulking brute. The two stared back at the newcomer with empty stares and lifeless expressions.
The Hunter wedged himself between a half-asleep mother clutching a bawling baby to her breast and a man scratching the large boil on his nose. He was only too glad when the line moved forward—the smells were overpowering.
And I thought I reeked after a week on the road!
The queue moved forward, and someone shoved the Hunter. He stumbled into the woman holding the infant. The mother seemed not to notice the bawling of her child. She shuffled after those at the head of the line, her eyes drooping, shoulders slumped.
This section of the temple complex looked nothing like the gorgeous lawns and pristine gardens of the main entrance. Mud stained the floors, walls, stairs, and benches. Instead of the beautiful scents of flowers, a noxious odor rose from the mass of huddled bodies crammed into the room. He sucked in deep breaths, filling his nostrils with the stench of disease and filth. Sensory immersion was the only way to survive the assault on his senses.
The gods play a cruel joke. They twist the dagger in my side and reduce me to such a state as this?
"What's wrong with your eye?" The question came from the Hunter's left—his blind side.
The bald man stared at the Hunter with a quizzical look.
"Wolves."
"Many of those hereabouts?"
The Hunter shrugged. "I been traveling awhile. Road conditions aren't what they used to be." He spoke in the lilting accent of a Praamian.
"Traveling? With that leg?" The bald man stroked his matted beard, dislodging debris and bits of what looked like old food. "Must have made for slow travel."
"Lots of long, cold nights on the road. Not much in the way of food and water. Nothing but this"—he held up the crutch—"to protect myself…" He shuddered for dramatic effect.
"You've come to the right place, then. There's water aplenty here, though the bread's a bit hard. It's still something to fill your belly, though."
As if on cue, a door on the far side of the enclosure swung open and a bevy of Beggar Priests flocked in. The Hunter's stomach rumbled at the smell of bread rising from the covered baskets in their arms. More priests distributed water-skins.
The Hunter studied the Beggar Priests. All wore white robes, with nary a speck of dust on the pristine cloth. Their clothing was of a much finer quality than the threadbare garments of Father Reverentus and his fellow Beggar Priests of Voramis.
It seems the generosity of the Beggar God extends more to some of his flock than others.
Clean-shaven and tonsured, they looked nothing like the old, world-weary clerics he had seen in Voramis. These sported paunches and rotund cheeks, their skin wan. They were young—few older than twenty, if I don't miss my guess.
The Beggar Priests strode among their flock, placing bread and water-skins into reaching hands. All wore forced, strained smiles.
Unlike most of the beggars the Hunter had encountered, those around him sat still, patient. None surged toward the priests, all waited their turn to be given bread and food. He understood why when he spotted a group of hard-looking men standing by the entrance to the inner temple complex. The thick truncheons in their hands would impel anyone to good behavior.
"They take their time, but they get to us eventually." The bald man sat beside him, muttering to no one in particular. His eyes wandered the room, his gaze unfocused.
The Hunter shook his head. Something is definitely wrong in his mind.
It felt like hours passed before the Beggar Priests placed a crust of bread into the Hunter's hand. The priest passed a water-skin to the man sitting next to the Hunter. The emaciated wretch stared at the skin with wide, glassy eyes, as if unsure of what to do with it.
Though stale and dry, the bread tasted delicious, and the Hunter devoured it in a few bites. Snatching the water-skin, he poured its contents down his throat. Water had never tasted so good.
"Hey! Don't finish it all, you bastard."
"Don't worry, Bardin." A young priest smiled down at the bald man, handing him another skin. "The Beggar God has plenty for all."
Bardin took the water-skin without a word of thanks, and emptied it with loud slurps and gulps. "Ahh, delightful!"
Shaking his head, the Beggar Priest moved on.
Bardin turned to the Hunter. "So tell me, what’s your story, young…?"
"Hardwell."
"Hardwell." Bardin tried it on his tongue. "Nah, I don't like it. I think I'll call you Rell. So, Rell, tell me what's your story." He giggled. "Rell, tell, hee hee, funny rhymes, funny rhymes."
"Well…"
"Rell, tell, well…" Bardin burst into a loud, ringing cackle that echoed through the small enclosure.
One of the stalwarts guarding the door turned toward them, giving them a menacing glare and a threatening wave of his truncheon. Bardin quieted down quickly, but he still chuckled.
The Hunter hunched his shoulders and pulled the tattered hood over his head to hide his face.
"This one's a poet." Bardin spoke to himself in a conspiratorial whisper. "Will make for good entertainment, this Rell." Wiping tears from his eyes, he turned to the Hunter again. "Do tell, good Rell."
He snorted at his cleverness.
"I'm from the south." The Hunter spoke quickly. He had no desire to draw attention. "A village a few days' ride from Praamis."
Why am I telling him all this?
His talkativeness surprised him. Had the exhausting weeks of travel, with no one but the snarling voice in his mind, driven him to madness? Perhaps the man reminded him just a bit of…
He clenched his jaw. No time for memories of things lost.
Try as he might, he couldn't quite shut out thoughts of the friends killed by the Dark Heresiarchs in Voramis.
"Praamis, eh?" Bardin wiped snot from his nose with a filthy sleeve. "And what brings you to Malandria?"
The Hunter shrugged. "The life of a wandering man, I suppose. My feet brought me here, so here I am." Despite his recalcitrance, it felt good to talk to someone.
"Those feet look like they could use a rest." Bardin thrust his chin toward the Hunter's boots. "Those must have seen better days, eh?"
"Aye." "Got any place to stay?"
The Hunter hadn't given much thought to his lodgings. His attention had been consumed with one thought: reach Malandria and find Soulhunger. Now that he had arrived, he had no idea where to stay, nor any coin with which to pay for an inn.
Thanks to those accursed Beggar Priests! May they rot in the foulest of the hells.
He shook his head. "No. But I'll figure it out once I have eaten."
"I declare that you shall join me in my inner sanctum." Bardin spoke in a magnanimous tone, as if he were a prince offering lodging in a fine palace.
The Hunter opened his mouth to refuse, then stopped.
I have nowhere to stay, nothing to eat, and no knowledge of the city whatsoever. I might actually have to have to accept his offer. Watcher knows what sort of "inner sanctum" this crazy bastard has!
"Very well."
He regretted it the moment the words left his mouth. But what choice do I have? Better than sleeping on the streets.
"Wonderful!" Bardin clapped his hands, again drawing the attention of the stern-looking priests.
Ducking his head, Bardin whispered in the Hunter's ear. "Don't let them take you. They like to fiddle with your insides."
The Hunter wiped away Bardin's spittle. Great, I'm lodging with a madman! Thankfully, it's only temporary. Once I find my way into the House of Need, retrieve Soulhunger and the Swordsman's blades, and recover the gold they stole from me, I'll be on my way.
Bardin's eyes wandered, and his lips moved without a sound. His mind had clearly departed on a journey no sane man could follow.
Shaking his head, the Hunter leaned against the wall. He welcomed the shade of the enclosure; at the very least, it blocked the blinding sun. With his belly full for the first time in days, he allowed himself to relax.
Keeper's taint, it feels good to get off your feet!
He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. Resting his head on his knees, he closed his eye, breathing deep and savoring the calm.
Help me.
Had it just been his imagination? Did he really hear the voice?
Help. The whisper came again.
He jerked upright, his eye snapping open.
Not this again!
His gaze darted around the enclosure, seeking the source of the voice.
Priests mingled among the beggars, offering food, water, and what curative assistance they could. Men, women, and children huddled against each other. Some snored, others mumbled, but most remained numbly silent. None looked his way. Nothing seemed out of place.
The voice repeated. Please. Help me.
Then he saw the woman huddled on the floor of the enclosure. Suppurating sores covered her arms, disfigured her face, and leaked blood through the robes covering her emaciated body. She reached a bony, gnarled hand toward him in a gesture of supplication, her figure shimmering in the heat of the afternoon.
Help me. Her pleading voice filled his mind.
The Hunter squeezed his eyes closed, trying to ignore the vision. I can't. You're already dead.
/> She was still there when he opened his eye. Her shoulders sagged and her head drooped. The rise and fall of her chest slowed, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Then, with a shudder, she lay still.
She's dead. She died long ago.
The words rang hollow in his mind. Her corpse wafted away on the wind, until only hard stone met his gaze. Yet she had seemed so real
Damn it! It's getting worse. Even now, after all this time, I still hear the dead lament. Why is this happening to me?
Remember. An ethereal whisper filled his ear— a child's voice, soft, sweet, and filled with innocence. The voice he had tried for so many weeks to forget. Remember the dead, for they are all you have left.
"No!" The cry tore from his lips before he realized it. Heads turned, and the priests cast questioning glances at him.
The Hunter buried his face in his hands; as much to hide his face as block out the sight of Farida materializing before him.
No, he told himself, I'm not alone. There's still Her.
A hint of Her scent filled his nostrils. Her presence tugged at the back of his mind, beckoning him. Her face appeared to him.
He lay on the bed beside Her. Darkness filled the room around them, with only a sliver of morning light filtering through closed curtains. She turned Her face to his, Her full lips parting in a welcome smile.
Agony exploded in his head, and his heart ached as the vision faded.
The demon's sultry whispers pierced the cacophony in his head. 'So many victims! The power could you gain by killing them all.'
The Hunter eyed the filthy, malodorous crowd around him.
'These are the refuse of humanity. All too weak and frail to stop you. Not even those priests with their foolish sticks. You can take what you want.'
He clenched his fist, grinding his teeth until they hurt. What I want is peace—from you, from everything.
'Peace is only granted after death. And you have much to do before you die, Bucelarii.'
Leave me alone!
'Kill for me, and I will give you your peace. If only for a short time.'
The Hunter's hand traced the raised flesh on his chest. Four marks marred the smooth skin. Four deaths to feed Soulhunger, staining him with a permanent reminder of who he was.
The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen Page 11