No! No more.
It was a vain protest. He had journeyed to Malandria to find Soulhunger. He needed the blade, no matter how much he hated it. How could he resist its call?
'Death is inevitable. It comes to all. It is only for you that death serves as a source of power.'
I want none of that power! I will not pay the price.
Bardin snorted, and the sound snapped the Hunter from his reverie. The activity and life around him pushed back the demon's voice, but it was not gone. It would always be there, haunting him, mocking him.
Movement at the far end of the enclosure drew the Hunter's attention. A procession of Beggar Priests strode through the door, arms loaded with bandages, salves, and assorted ointments. The clerics wandered among the beggars, treating sores and wounds, applying unguents, and exchanging filthy bandages for fresh ones.
A young priest picked his way through the crowd, his eyes locked on the Hunter's face.
"That eye looks nasty. Can't let it get infected." The Beggar Priest squatted, reaching a hand toward the Hunter's face. "May I?"
The Hunter almost waved the man away, but a fresh wave of pain changed his mind.
Cautiously, the fresh-faced priest removed the patch. His eyes widened and he turned an intriguing shade of pale grey. "I-I h-had best take care of it."
With gentle hands, the cleric applied a foul-smelling salve to the wound.
"Mind the sting. The salve will prevent any infection from setting in."
A shadow fell across the Hunter's face. The newcomer—another priest—watched the younger man apply the salve, nodding approval.
The Hunter jerked back in surprise, the demon in his mind snarling its rage.
Visibos!
Chapter Three
The Hunter stared up at the Beggar Knight, mouth agape. He imagined wrapping his fingers around Visibos' throat and squeezing the life from the man. His fists clenched of their own accord.
I expected him to be in Malandria, but here? Now?
The young priest applying the ointment scolded him. "Careful! I nearly got your eye with my thumb."
"Sorry," the Hunter mumbled. He pitched his voice low, mimicking an accent he'd picked up from sailors on the Endless Sea. "Hurts is all."
"Aye." The fresh-faced cleric nodded. "Just the salve doing its work."
Visibos leaned close to study the Hunter's eye. He showed no sign of recognition, only interest in the raw, painful wound. After a moment, he patted the priest's shoulder, turned, and strolled away without a backward glance.
The Hunter watched the Knight Apprentice pick his way through the crowd, never taking his eye from the man until he disappeared through door into the main temple complex. He ground his teeth to hold back the demon's demands for blood.
The young priest stood, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his belt. "Done! Come back in a few days and I'll give you some more of this stuff. By the grace of our God, that eye should heal in no time."
"Thankee," the Hunter mumbled.
With a nod, the cleric moved down the line.
"What was that?" Bardin whispered.
The Hunter flinched away from the bald man, wiping spittle from his ear. "What was what?"
"You. You seemed to recognize the older priest. The bald one."
The Hunter raised an eyebrow at the word 'bald'. Bardin seemed not to notice.
"No, I never seen him before. The blasted salve hurt, that's all."
"Oh, sure, and I'm the Lord High Princess of Praamis." Bardin's eyes glazed over and his voice turned musing. "T'would be nice to be a princess, you know. You'd get all the fancy things, like…" His rambling continued, but the Hunter stopped listening.
Visibos is here, which means I can find out what he's done with Soulhunger and the Swordsman's blades. And my money, of course. I will take back what's mine!
The Hunter's eyes wandered, his mind racing.
Three figures on the balcony above caught his attention. A white-haired man leaned on the railing, his ancient hands gripping the balustrade. He wore the same white robes of the Beggar Priests, with four blue rings around the collar. Beside him stood a second figure, dressed in a dark grey cloak, back turned to the Hunter.
The Hunter's heart leapt into his throat at the sight of the third figure.
Farida?
A child stood next to the ancient priest, chubby hands clinging to the white robes. Dark hair, round cheeks, a curious smile; the child looked so much like the little girl he had lost in Voramis.
His heart threatened to burst from his chest, and his vision blurred. This can't be possible!
The lad standing in the shadow of the priest was too young to be Farida, his hair too curly to be the wavy lengths she had never managed to keep neat.
The white-robed priest was speaking. "My friends. I thank you for coming, but alas, sundown draws near. The House of Need will be closed for the night, so it is with a heavy heart that I must ask you to leave."
Groans echoed through the enclosure.
"However," the ancient cleric continued, holding up his hands, "the doors will open again tomorrow, and you will all be welcome at the Beggar's table. Until the morrow, my friends."
The Hunter watched the old priest stride away. His heart lurched when the child slipped from view. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he climbed to his feet and allowed the Beggar Priests to herd him from the enclosure.
A whispered plea for help echoed in his mind, but he ignored it. The voice faded as he shoved through the crowd and into the street beyond. With a final glance at the spires high overhead, the Hunter turned his back on the House of Need.
I'll be back later to claim what is rightfully mine!
Someone jostled him, all but knocking him over. He looked up to see Bardin striding away without a backward glance. The man muttered nonsense, his eyes glazed and unfocused.
"Bardin!"
Bardin either didn't hear him or ignored the call. Cursing, the Hunter hobbled after Bardin. The crutch made it difficult to catch up.
Keeper take it! Time to ditch the damned thing. Now that I have no fear of being recognized, I don't need to keep up the pretense.
The stick clattered into an alleyway, and the Hunter hurried after the bald man.
Bardin rounded on him, face red, eyes wide. "What are you doing following me? Leave me alone!"
Startled, the Hunter held up his hands. "Easy! You offered me a place to stay."
"Did I?" The bald man's mouth twisted and he scratched his head.
"Don't you remember?"
"Not really, but it doesn't sound much like me." He raised an eyebrow, giving the Hunter an inquisitive stare. "What's your name again?"
"Hardwell."
Bardin stared back with a blank expression.
The Hunter sighed. "Rell."
Bardin clapped him on the back. "Of course! Rell, my boy! Glad to see you'll be joining me. Let's be off. Got a long way to trek before dark." The bald man cast a furtive look over his shoulder. "Have to be out of the streets after dark. That's when the bad things happen…"
He scurried away, muttering under his breath and darting worried glances around. His fingers clutched something inside his shirt.
The Hunter had to run to keep up with the hunched figure. "What do you mean by 'bad things'?"
"Bad things," Bardin whispered in a conspiratorial tone. "The wizards come out at night."
The Hunter had read tales of sorcery in Voramis, but those few possessing such powers had died out millennia ago. Magic had no place in the world of the common man struggling to earn an honest—or, in most cases, dishonest —living.
"What in the Keeper's name are you talking about? Aren't wizards the same sort of stories as flying lizards and…"
He had been about to say 'demons'.
"They exist in Malandria, boyo." Bardin shivered, his eyes growing wide. His breathing quickened and grew shallow. "Every night…they come out and…gather a victim…for their hideous spells."
The bald man collapsed in a heap, unintelligible words pouring from his mouth. He sobbed and clutched his hands over his head, as if warding off some invisible danger.
"Bardin! Get up!"
The Hunter seized the bald man's arm, but Bardin jerked away, crying out in terror.
What is wrong with him?
The bald man's hand flashed to his neck, and he clasped something between forefinger and thumb. He stroked the object, humming to himself, and slowly his wailing died.
Bardin suddenly lifted his head. "Well, Rell, what are we waiting for? Let's be on our way."
Mouth agape, the Hunter extended a hand to help the man to his feet. Bardins' eyes were clear, focused. His expression showed no sign of terror, and all traces of hysteria had left his voice. It was as if nothing had happened.
"We have to get inside before the sun sets. That's when they come out." A hint of the panic returned, but the object around his neck seemed to soothe him. He stroked it unthinkingly.
It took a moment for the Hunter to collect his wits. What in the empty hell was that?
He rushed after the bald man. "What do you mean? Who is they?"
Bardin stopped so suddenly the Hunter nearly crashed into him. He grabbed the ragged hem of the Hunter's cloak and pulled him into the shadow of a nearby alley. The Hunter opened his mouth to protest, but the bald man pressed a filthy finger into the Hunter's lips.
"The Order of Midas," he whispered. "They rule Malandria, have for decades."
With a snarl, the Hunter shoved Bardin away. He spat, trying to scour the taste of Bardin's finger from his mouth. "Speak sense, man."
Bardin nodded. "They removed the king decades ago, and now they control the city." He spoke in a hushed tone, his eyes darting up and down the street, never meeting the Hunter's gaze.
The Hunter found it hard to believe the bald man's words, especially after some of his earlier ramblings. Yet as he stared into Bardin's eyes, he saw genuine terror written there, smelled the acrid stench of the man's fear.
He looks perfectly lucid. Could this be more than just the ramblings of a mad man?
He studied the Hunter, his expression curious. "That's odd. Y-Your eye, Rell, it's…"
Curses! He had forgotten. The featherglass lens had fallen out long ago. Bardin stared into the Hunter's uninjured eye—the real one, with its depthless void.
Had he been discovered? Could Bardin know the truth? What would he do? The demon screamed for him to kill the man, but the Hunter ignored it.
I just need to distract him. Crazy bastard can't keep his head straight for more than a minute.
The Hunter held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Easy, Bardin. I'm sure these wizards are very real and very terrifying."
This seemed to soothe the bald man. He stepped back, the anger fading from his face. His hand never left his neck, his thumb stroking whatever hung there.
"Well then, we need to hurry. We've got only a short while to reach the inner sanctum before the sun sets."
Again, it was as if his flash of anger had never happened. He turned and rushed up the street without a backward glance to see if the Hunter followed.
Crazy old bastard. The Order of Midas. Wizards! What will he come up with next?
The Hunter straightened his clothes and, with a shake of his head, hurried after Bardin.
I'll have to humor him if I'm to have a place to stay tonight.
Chapter Four
"Welcome to the inner sanctum!" Bardin gestured to the pitiful shelter, his voice filled with pride. "You may enter my humble abode, good Rell."
That? A gentle breeze could knock that thing over. The Hunter schooled his expression, hiding his distaste.
'Humble' would be a palace compared to the pile of debris before him. A few boxes propped up by a collection of sticks, with a handful of threadbare blankets thrown over the top. Something had eaten hundreds of tiny holes in the cloth covering. The smell wafting from the shelter carried hints of human refuse, scraps of meals eaten long ago, and the thick muck covering the floor of the cramped alleyway.
He took deep breaths to desensitize himself to the overpowering scents. The embrace of the Long Keeper has never held so much appeal, if only to provide an escape from the stench.
But what choice did he have? Penniless, dressed in rags, and in a city he knew nothing about, he looked as much at home in the rubbish as Bardin.
The bald man failed to notice the Hunter's hesitation. "Forgive the mess. My work has so consumed me that I haven't found time to tidy up."
The Hunter squinted at the mess, raising an eyebrow. "Work?"
"Aye." Bardin smiled grandly, gesturing to the papers strewn around the shelter. "Important work, indeed. Very secret, if you know what I mean." Indecipherable scribbles covered the scraps of parchment—no doubt stolen.
The Hunter stifled a sardonic smile. "Well then, I will be certain not to disturb you."
Bardin's expression grew haughty. "See that you don't. Some very important people will grow very angry if the manuscripts are not delivered on time."
With a mistrustful glance for the Hunter, he shoved the crumpled papers beneath a moth-eaten blanket before crawling inside the shelter.
"Come on in. Make yourself comfortable, but mind you keep on your side!"
The Hunter wouldn't use the word 'comfortable' to describe the cramped space within the shelter. He bumped his head against boxes and foul-smelling crates, leaving a film of something oily and dirty clinging to his hair.
He hadn't imagined the smell could get any worse; he had been wrong. The enclosed space magnified the foul odors, rendering them overpowering and nauseating. He forced himself not to think about the muck squelching beneath his toes, nor the trickle of something—definitely not water—running along the side of the shelter.
Somehow, he managed to find a spot fairly free of mud. A discarded piece of lumber provided him with an escape from the mire. With a sigh, the Hunter stretched his legs and leaned back against a crate.
His foot collided with a thin pole in the center of the tent. The structure wobbled and shifted, and the blanket roof sagged.
"Watch yourself, clumsy oaf!" Bardin lurched toward the pole, and his hasty movement knocked over one of the crates holding up the structure.
With a steady stream of invective, the bald man struggled out from beneath the pile of boxes and tried to rebuild the shelter. The Hunter offered what assistance he could, but Bardin waved him away.
"Stupid youngster," Bardin muttered. "Coming in here and ruining everything."
The Hunter stopped himself from pointing out Bardin's role in the shelter's collapse.
"Got the blasted thing rebuilt just in time." Bardin cast worried glances at the sky. The last rays of sunlight filtered over the hills to the west, and the first evening stars showed their twinkling faces.
The bald man turned to the Hunter, his face somber. "We must stay here through the night. Only once the sun has risen can we move about freely."
This again.
"Because of the wizards?"
Bardin nodded. "Aye. The bastards grab anyone they can find on the streets. Every night, someone goes missing, never to be seen again."
The Hunter rolled his eyes. "Where do they go?"
"The rituals…" Bardin shuddered, his eyes darting around, and he caressed the object at his neck. "They are …horrible. They drive men mad, but it's the torture that's the worst part. The screams…"
"And you've seen these wizards?"
Bardin looked confused. "Seen them? Oh no. No one has. Or at least no one living." He shivered and clutched his ragged cloak tighter. "But one can only imagine…"
The Hunter stifled a snort. Sweet Mistress! All that terror, just the product of his imagination.
Bardin must have sensed his incredulity, for the man rounded on the Hunter, eyes flashing, his face turning red. "I've already lost three friends to the Order of Midas! I'm not about to let myself become the next victim
in their horrible rituals."
Even if you have no idea that these rituals are real.
"But in here it's safe?" The Hunter gestured to the flimsy shelter around him, stifling a derisive snort. "This will keep out the Order of Midas?"
A few boxes, blankets, and sticks. Some protection this will be.
Bardin smiled, with the look of a patient adult lecturing an infant. "Right you are, young Rell. The wizards only grab those out and about."
The Hunter gave an exaggerated nod. "Very well. Then I shan't parade around the streets. I believe I'll stay in tonight."
"Just keep your volume down," Bardin snapped. "I've got to focus on my work here."
The man's sudden shift in mood surprised the Hunter, but he said nothing. He was growing accustomed to the man's unpredictable temperament.
Bardin had already turned away and now fumbled beneath his blanket. He drew forth the crumpled papers, and, squinting in the fading light, began to shuffle through them. "Now, where was I?"
The Hunter's keen ears picked up occasional snatches of Bardin's muttered nonsense.
"…secret tunnels through the walls of the bakery…"
"…the dogs did it, I could swear…"
"…how did he know? It must have…"
Bardin's mumbling faded into the background.
The Hunter lay back, pillowing his head in his hands. He eyed the pitiful shelter, and the reality of his situation finally sank in.
I'm staying with a Minstrel-cursed beggar, sharing a filthy blanket in some horrible hovel. How has it come to this?
Any one of the hells would be a welcome change from his current predicament. Fire, frost, blasted winds, mind-numbing emptiness—anything was better than this misery.
Why am I even here?
The question played over in his mind. Shelter from the wind? He had slept in the biting cold before. Protection from the 'wizards'? He snorted and rolled his eyes.
What possessed me to accept Bardin's offer to share this…cesspool?
Bardin intrigued him. The man had nothing, yet he offered it to the Hunter willingly. How was that possible?
The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen Page 12