Entering the Villa Camoralia, home to the accursed Lord Cyrannius! Fire burned in his chest. He could not forget the demon, or what he had done.
Farida's face drifted before him, her innocent smile hanging like a mist in the darkness. A weight settled on his shoulders. He rubbed his eye, blinking hard to dispel the vision.
Not now. I cannot bear it.
The child's face vanished, replaced a moment later by another young girl. Golden hair curled around her ears, and her chubby cheeks broke into a gap-toothed smile. Then the smile faded. The once lively eyes grew dark and hollow. Purple bruises formed around the wasted cheeks and quivering lips.
A weak voice spoke in his mind. Sickness takes us all, but not you. The Hunter is immortal.
Please, leave me alone.
The child's gaze hit him like a punch to the stomach. She seemed to stare into his very soul. The fallen lament, and only you bear witness.
The Hunter found himself on his hands and knees, gasping for air. His chest ached, and his legs refused to hold him upright. He suddenly felt tired—so tired.
Keeper take you all! Leave me alone! Will I never find a moment's peace?
Silence was his only reply; the child had gone, leaving him alone with blood pounding in his ears.
Keeper's teeth! They always seem to choose the worst time to make an appearance.
Strength returned slowly. He climbed to his feet, using the balustrade to support himself. His hands and knees trembled, and his feet felt filled with lead.
Moonlight cast pale shadows through the towering picture windows, but did little to push back the darkness of the room. He groped his way along, all but blind. Finding the door, he lifted the latch and peered into the hallway beyond.
Candles set into wall sconces flickered in the darkness, casting eerie shadows around the hall. The Hunter padded along the corridor, his footsteps muffled by plush velvet carpet. He couldn't help admiring the mansion's opulence.
A massive staircase descended to the lower floor, where more candles revealed an ornate, fully-furnished ballroom. An elaborate marble banister circumnavigated the second floor gallery. The chandelier hanging overhead reflected the candlelight, a thousand facets glinting in the darkness.
The Hunter ran his hands along the smooth marble walls, marveling at the master craftsmanship. Tapestries and paintings hung along the gallery, statuary dotted the numerous alcoves, and even the torch sconces looked to be made of solid gold.
By the Apprentice, such wealth!
In all his years of entering the homes of the wealthiest of Voramis, he had never encountered this degree of luxury. But he had no interest in the treasures of Lord Apus, save one. He had to find the man's collection of books. They would be in a library or vault, no doubt. But where?
Graeme's voice droned in his head. "If you expose the books to sunlight and moisture, they warp and decay. They must be stored in a room where the temperature can be maintained, and with as little light as possible."
He grinned at the memory of his friend from The Angry Goblin bookstore. Ahh, Graeme, you fat bastard. How you loved to blather on. For once, your incessant chattering has been of use.
He padded down the hall, making no more sound than a wolf stalking its prey. He placed an ear to the nearest door. Snoring sounded from within. Occupied.
Silence met his ears at the next door. Cracking it open, he peered inside. Toys littered the floor of the room, and a child's bed stood empty in the darkness. The smell of dust hung heavy in the air. Clearly the room had not been used in some time.
Could it belong to the child I saw? The pale, wasted face of the little girl appeared. The Hunter closed the door—perhaps a bit too quickly—and rushed away from the room.
Bloody, dripping hell! This house is massive!
Three more doors stood at intervals around the second floor gallery. All were empty and silent. The third held only shelves from floor to ceiling, laden with clothing and shoes.
At this rate, he could spend all night here and find nothing.
A sudden thought seized him.
The spire. He had a vision of the monstrous obelisk scraping the clouds. Could the treasures be there?
It made sense. There would be only one way up or down, easily guarded from intruders.
An adjoining corridor led him toward a staircase, which spiraled upward and disappeared into the darkness. It had to be the way up.
He groped along, placing his feet with care. The stairs curved along the outer wall of the obelisk, rising for what seemed an eternity. His legs and back ached from the effort, his lungs burned, and his knees protested each step. He climbed until he could go on no longer.
He leaned on the wall, panting. Watcher's twisted toenails! I must be close to a hundred paces from the ground. Why did the bastard have to build his house so damned tall?
He continued climbing until the burning in his legs matched the fire of rage in his chest. He rested as his body demanded, cursing the Beggar Priests and their poison with every aching step. His weakness was their doing, and by the gods, he would make them pay.
Finally, after what felt like hours, he reached the top. He slumped to the floor gratefully, panting, his muscles burning.
Pale moonlight shone through a window set into the east wall, providing enough light for the Hunter to study his surroundings. No more than a half dozen paces across, the landing was sparse, with none of the luxury displayed in the lower floors.
With a groan, the Hunter climbed to his feet and moved to the window.
Sweet Master, what a view!
Malandria stretched out far below him. Moonlight cast jagged shadows across rooftops. Tiny pinpricks of lights dotted the night, glittering like jewels in the bleached, colorless city. Beyond the looming shadow of the massive wall, the obsidian landscape rolled and dipped for leagues in all directions.
He turned his attention to the landing's only other feature: a plain door, with no lock, handle, or latch, set into the west wall. Close scrutiny of the door frame yielded nothing. He felt along the walls on either side of the door, searching for a hidden lock or trigger mechanism, but gave it up after a half-hearted attempt.
How in the Keeper's taint am I supposed to get in there if there's no way to open the door? What now?
He contemplated waking Lord Apus. A knife to the man's throat would render him compliant. He discarded the plan immediately—he had no desire to climb those stairs again tonight. Perhaps he could push it open. His muscles corded and he strained against the door, but the solid bloodwood held fast. A foolish attempt.
Keeper take the bastard! Now would be the perfect time to find a merchant who fails to protect his wealth. But, no! That would be too easy.
A noise from beyond the door drew his attention; it sounded suspiciously like a latch being thrown open. The Hunter's heart leapt to his throat at the unmistakable click of a lock.
Chapter Fourteen
A moment of panic seized him. The landing had no alcoves or recesses where he could hide. He had one choice: retreat.
He flattened himself against the stairs. With slow, silent movements, he reached beneath his cloak and drew the gutting blade. His nostrils filled with the dusty scent of the soft carpet, and he was gripped by the desire to sneeze. He swallowed hard and pinched the bridge of his nose. Any sound would alert whoever occupied the room.
The Hunter held his breath. The door creaked open, and soft light flooded the landing.
"Hello?" a man's voice called.
As slowly as he dared, the Hunter peered over the lip of the stair, trusting to the dark hood of the cloak to hide him.
A man stood in the doorway, framed by the light from the room beyond. He was tall, with shoulders nearly as broad as the door itself. His features were cast in silhouette, but the Hunter could see thick hair and a heavy beard. The Hunter caught the man's scent: dust, sandalwood, and a metallic tang he recognized as gold.
It could only be Lord Apus.
"Giac
asta, is that you? Captain Arllinn?"
The light from the room beyond rendered the man night-blind, but when Lord Apus reached behind the door—no doubt for a candle or lamp to illuminate the staircase—the Hunter knew he had to act.
He rushed up the stairs, crossing the landing with quick steps. Lord Apus swung to face him, candle held high. Shocked surprise registered on the man's face, but before he could react, the Hunter slammed his fist into the merchant's jaw with all the force of the Hunter's rush.
The impact rocked the merchant's head to one side. His legs sagged and he slumped backward, hitting the floor with a loud thump. The candle dropped from Apus's hand, but the Hunter scooped it up before it hit the ground.
A triumphant laugh bubbled from the Hunter's throat. He was in. Heart thumping, adrenaline pumping, he touched a shaking hand to Lord Apus's throat. The man would live, though he would have one wicked headache.
Lifting the candle, the Hunter studied the room.
By the Illusionist!
The wealth displayed on the lower floors was a mere pittance compared to the treasures stored here. Dozens of padlocked chests stood in the corner. Glass cases displayed the bones of hideous, long-dead creatures. Row after row of shelves lined the walls of the room, creaking under the weight of innumerable books, artifacts, jewelry, and more valuables than the Hunter had seen in his life.
He wrestled with a flash of avarice. With a fraction of the riches in the room, the Hunter could live out his life in luxury.
A quiet voice whispered in the back of his mind. 'It would almost be a waste not to take something.'
His heart sank and his stomach lurched. The demon had returned; his momentary peace was at an end.
No, he told the voice, I'm not a thief.
'Thief, assassin—what difference is there?'
I only kill those who I am paid to kill, and those who deserve it.
'And you think this man doesn't deserve to have his money taken? He has more than he could ever spend in a lifetime.'
The Hunter had no argument.
'You could live well. At the very least, you could escape that foul shelter and get away from that insane creature Bardin.'
Of its own accord, the Hunter's hand reached for a jewel-studded necklace. Exquisite diamonds sparkled in the candlelight, and the smell of gold filled his nostrils. Thief or not, he knew it was worth a princely sum.
He forced himself to place it back on the shelf. I will not steal. I am NOT a thief.
'You need something to live on, once the money you took from those idiots in the Forgotten Ward runs out. Just something small enough to buy food, or a horse and some weapons. You will need them for your travels once you recover Soulhunger. The merchant won't even miss it.'
The Hunter's eye roamed over the myriad items on the shelves. A small sculpture caught his eye. Crafted in the shape of an owl, it had blue gemstones set into the eyes and gold filigree inlaid over silver feathers.
The voice of his inner demon goaded him on. 'That has to be worth something, and you can carry it in your cloak easily.'
This will fetch good coin, enough to feed Bardin and me for as long as I remain in Malandria.
The demon radiated satisfaction as he slipped the jeweled bird into a pocket of his cloak. The Hunter hated giving in, but what choice did he have? He needed something to live on. He had no reason to deprive himself.
He pushed the thought aside and turned to study the vault. He ignored the jewels, bones, and artifacts on the other shelves, seeking only the books—the real reason he had come. Hundreds, thousands of volumes lined the sturdy wooden shelves that spanned the entire length of the north wall. Books of all shapes and sizes, new, old, and ancient. He walked along the shelves, running his fingers reverently over the tomes.
Papers lay scattered across a small desk near the vault door. A small lamp provided illumination for the Hunter to read the parchment atop the pile. His mind immediately recoiled from the complex wording of what he guessed to be some sort of contract.
What in the Apprentice's name is he doing working at this ungodly hour?
He glanced at Lord Apus. The man's chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
He should be unconscious for a while. Long enough to peruse the books.
The Hunter's gaze wandered over the shelf beside the bloodwood door. These would be the volumes Lord Apus needed on hand, the ones he read most often. Elaborate titles, such as "The History of Malandria Following the Tessian War of Succession" and "An Emperor's Folly: The Fall of the Malandriatus" marked them as historical accounts. The binding of the volumes were only slightly wrinkled from use, their pages not yet yellowed by age. All too new to be the tomes he sought.
Farther from the door, he discovered books bound by cracked, faded skins, with pages bent and warped.
Now we're getting somewhere!
He pulled a book from the shelf at random and opened it with care. The title of the book read "The Empire of Dust". Cracking open another, he found he held "Volnis: The Forgotten Continent". He returned the book to its place on the shelf and reached for another. Faded embossed letters on the book's spine read "The War of Gods". The ancient binding crackled as he reverently opened the tome.
Could this be the one? Is this where I find my answers?
His excitement mounted, but his hopes were dashed a moment later. Water had damaged the book, and the writing was completely illegible—save for a few passages on the final page. They were written in a script he had never seen, yet somehow he understood the text.
"It is said they still roam Einan, though the gods conspired against them. They hide…nature…they will ever be hunted by those… cleanse the world of their kind….spawn of…"
The writing blurred, the middle of the page indecipherable. The Hunter's eye traveled down the page to find the few legible words in the last line.
"…nath…if ever they discover the truth of…lost home… could spell…end of the world."
His hand trembled with excitement. A jumbled mess of thoughts and questions raced through his mind.
Who are "they"? Could the book be talking about me, about the Bucelarii? What is "nath"? Where is the "lost home" of which it speaks?
He replaced "The War of Gods" and plucked the next book from the shelf without looking.
Before he could open it, a violent clanging tore the silence of the vault. The Hunter whirled to see Lord Apus standing near the door to the vault, a thin cord clutched in his hand.
The merchant-noble spat blood and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "You bastard! My guards will be here in minutes. They'll be coming up those stairs—the only way in and out of this room. Pray they kill you, thief. You don't want to find out what happens to those who steal from me!"
Lord Apus's dark eyes flashed to the tome still clutched in the Hunter's hand, and his raucous laughter filled the vault.
"Fool! You're going to be killed, and all over a silly book of histories."
The Hunter gave the merchant a wicked grin. "Who said anything about being killed?"
He rushed Lord Apus. Panic flashed on the merchant's face in the moment before the Hunter plowed his fist into the bearded face. Apus sagged to the plush carpet once more.
Damn it!
The Hunter debated what to do. If Lord Apus spoke the truth, he had minutes to get out. No doubt the guards had already begun their ascent of the winding staircase. He looked at the book in his hand. If he wanted to escape, he would have no time to read the title, no time to search for another tome. He cursed, frustrated. It would have to do.
Tucking the book into his cloak, he sprinted down the darkened staircase, straining his ears for the sounds of clanking armor or booted feet. Less than half-way down, he heard the guards.
Keeper take them!
He had the advantage. His dark cloak blended with the shadows of the stairwell, and the guards would be exhausted from the climb. If he reached them before they saw him, he could barrel through them.
&n
bsp; Sweat trickled down his back, and his heart pounded in time with his flying feet. He took the stairs two and three at a time. A fall would shatter his ankles. He stifled his fear, trusting his reflexes to save him from a misstep.
Flickering torchlight shone below him, accompanied by the clatter of weapons and the clink of chain mail.
"Protect Lord Apus!" cried a man's voice.
The Hunter gripped the gutting knife, his knuckles white. He had no desire to kill the guards—they were only doing their duty—but he would if forced to fight for his life.
The light continued its climb toward him. The Hunter slammed into a torch-carrying guard, hurling him into the wall. Without slowing, he barreled past and charged the four guards immediately behind the first. He rebounded from a heavy-chested man, sending him sprawling atop his companions. Before the guards could pick themselves up, the Hunter had left them far behind.
He raced down the stairs, free hand trailing along the wall for balance. His heart leapt to his throat. Every step he took in the dark increased his chances of stumbling, yet he couldn't afford to slow.
Relief flooded him at the sight of the bottom landing. He rushed toward the door and through the main corridor. Guards clanked up the main staircase toward him, but they had little chance of catching him. Indeed, they hadn't even seen him yet. He sprinted down the hall toward the room through which he had entered.
Not bothering to close the door behind him, he slipped through the darkened room and out onto the balcony. The fresh night air greeted him with a chill. Instead of slowing, he pushed his muscles harder and leapt onto the railing. With every ounce of strength, he threw himself through the air.
His fingers closed around the branch of a nearby tree. With a crack, the bough snapped and he plummeted. The hard ground raced up to meet him. Only the soft, springy grass of the garden saved him from serious injury, but it did little to lessen the impact.
Air whooshed from his lungs. He struggled to breathe, to move, but he could do little more than groan. A sharp pain raced up his spine. His ribs felt bruised, if not broken. His head whirled, and his left eye throbbed painfully.
The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen Page 19