The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen

by Andy Peloquin

  He had no desire to face the demon's vicious claws and inhuman strength. The darkness had hidden its features, but the bulky outline matched the nightmare he had encountered beneath Voramis.

  It looked like one of those demons I saw in my visions. Hideous, hellish creatures…

  Something nagged at the back of his mind. He ground to a halt, skidding on a patch of slime. Gasping for breath, he leaned against the wall and racked his brain.

  The demon was all wrong.

  When I had that vision back in Voramis, I smelled the foul stench.

  The face of the First— not the mask of flesh and bone he had worn as a human, but the demon's true face—floated before him, mouth spread in a mocking grin. The First had reeked of decay. The Third, too. But the creature in the maze…

  Keeper take me for a fool!

  The thing behind him stank of fire and death, but the scent of decay—the deep, permeating stench of rot—that had been missing. The damned thing didn't smell like a demon.

  Could it be that the creature isn't really a demon at all, but some other manner of monster?

  His mind raced. It had looked like a demon, but without that telltale odor, it couldn't possibly be.

  Perhaps there's a way to kill it!

  Adrenaline coursed through his body, dulling the aches and pains of his wounds. Closing his eye, he pushed aside Soulhunger's throbbing and the demon's insistent presence. He breathed deep, filling his nostrils with the scents of the maze. The myriad odors of death hung thick in the air. Yet beneath it all, he detected the creature's acrid smell. He strained his ears, listening for the telltale click, click, click.

  There! Faint, but he could hear it.

  Time to hunt.

  He sprinted down the corridors, but now he raced toward the demon. The click, click, click echoed louder. The thing hurtled toward him at an impressive speed, but this time, he was ready for it.

  He halted at an intersection of four corridors. The long halls gave him an excellent line of sight; he would see the demon well before it reached him. He had a fighting chance, and he was determined to take it.

  Shadows flickered at the end of the right-hand corridor, and the creature of nightmare barreled around the corner. The ominous click, click, click filled the Hunter's world. He ground his teeth against the instinctive surge of fear.

  Got you now, you bastard!

  He saw the same face he had seen before: long, sharp fangs, a leering mouth, horns sprouting from the thing's head. The creature's massive body filled the corridor, hurtling toward him at an inhuman speed. It seemed to hover above the ground, its movements stiff and ungainly.

  The Hunter knew better than to be afraid. He was ready.

  Fire blossomed in the corridor, filling the air with an intense heat that scorched the Hunter's hair and clothing. He threw himself into a side corridor, flattening his body against the floor. The flames raged hot over his head, but the demon didn't move. In the sudden illumination, the Hunter studied the creature's feet.

  What in the twisted hell? They were not talons at all, but wheels.

  Drops of molten liquid rained down on the Hunter, singeing his hands, neck, and back. He refused to move a muscle. His fear was gone.

  With a sputtering cough and a loud clunk, the fire died. The Hunter remained motionless for a moment, scarcely believing his eyes. Was it real?

  He leapt to his feet, half-expecting the thing to attack. Nothing. The dim light of the corridor revealed the leering face of the creature—nothing but hard stone.

  The Hunter laughed, a long howl of mixed disbelief and relief. It's a Keeper-accursed statue! The bastards nearly scared the piss out of me with a gods-be-damned statue!

  The "demon" had been carved from a dark stone, with a spout in its mouth—the source of the fire. Less than a hand's breadth separated its sides from the walls and ceiling of the corridor; he guessed it had been carved specifically to fit this place. He ran his fingers across the thing's face and arms, marveling at the intricate detail.

  I have to give credit to the sculptor. The thing looks incredibly lifelike.

  Almost too real. It bore an eerie resemblance to the demon in the Serenii tunnels.

  The statue suddenly lurched, and the Hunter tensed in preparation for an attack. Instead of advancing, it hurtled away from him. He realized the click, click, click wasn't monstrous talons on the floor, but some sort of internal mechanism.

  If this is a machine, there has to be someone controlling it. It could be his way out.

  He sprinted after the retreating statue, trying desperately to keep pace with it. But it moved at a speed he couldn't match. After a few twists and turns of the corridor, he gave up the attempt.

  Watcher take the blasted thing!

  Frustrated, he lashed out at a bloated corpse, sending its skull hurtling down the hall. It felt good to let out his anger, even on a dead body.

  I'm stuck in this damned maze with no way out! He had no idea what to do now.

  An ethereal voice echoed through his mind. Heed the lament of the fallen, Bucelarii.

  The Hunter searched the darkness for the source of the voice. A man appeared before him, the entire left side of his body pulverized and burned horribly. His bony right arm—the only undamaged limb—pointed down a corridor.

  "You want me to follow you?" The Hunter had enough of the silent communication.

  We will guide you.

  "Like last time? Last time I trusted you, I ended up here!"

  You are where you must be.

  "What does that mean?" No answer came. The Hunter pondered the words. "You mean the wizards are the ones responsible for all of your deaths? They are the ones controlling this place?"

  Silence greeted him, but the phantom finger didn't waver.

  The Hunter clenched his jaw. "Fine! Lead me wrong, and I'll find a way to rip every last one of you from the Keeper's embrace. I'll bring you back to life and kill you again!" An empty threat to those beyond the realm of the living, but it comforted him.

  How long since he had last spoken aloud? Hours, judging by the dryness in his throat. His stomach added its growling to the symphony.

  "Lead the way." Better to keep moving than allow inactivity to chip away at his sanity.

  The Hunter followed the glowing phantoms, ignoring the part of him that questioned the wisdom of following the dead. He charted his path in his mind, and slowly a map of the maze took shape. His steps led him toward the heart of the maze. Could the entrance be found at the center of the labyrinth, rather than at its fringes? Only the dead knew.

  The ominous click, click, click echoed through the maze.

  No running. Not this time.

  He threw himself from the path of the statue, flattening himself against the floor as the thing spewed fire above his head. He counted the burst of flame—eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Once again, the clunk and the fire died. Climbing to his feet, he brushed the foul mud from his clothes. The statue hurtled away into the darkness of the maze. He didn't bother to follow.

  I hope I don't run into too many more of these things. An utter waste of time!

  Something beckoned to him, pulling him toward the heart of the maze. The sensation reminded him of the tug he had felt that night beneath Voramis, the night the First of the Bloody Hand had summoned a demon. Instinct screamed at him to hurry. His hopes of finding Bardin alive decreased with every minute spent in aimless wandering.

  Trusting to the phantoms to guide him, the Hunter ran through the darkness. The dead led him down first one corridor, then another. He no longer questioned, but had only one thought: run faster!

  Then he was hurtling toward a dead end corridor. He slid to a halt before the blank wall, his eye casting about for an adjoining passage or corridor. Finding none, he turned to his phantom guide, but he stood alone.

  Keeper spit on their corpses! And to think I trusted them. Again!

  The wall caught his eye; there was something…off about it.

 
He faced the wall again, searching for any clue. It looked as solid as the stone around it. He reached out his right hand. Hard rock met his fingertips. Yet, when he turned away, the wall seemed to shimmer in the corner of his vision.

  What in the twisted hell?

  The fingers of his right hand met hard stone, but when he extended his left hand to feel along the wall, he met empty air. Another illusion.

  Clever bastards!

  From afar, the wall looked solid. Indeed, from even a half dozen paces away, it resembled every other wall in the maze. But up close, and from the correct angle, a thin sliver of darkness seemed to hover in the air.

  The Hunter followed the wall. An aperture stood less than an arm's length across—wide enough to allow access, but thin enough to be easily concealed. Two steps back, and the opening was all but invisible.

  I'll be damned! The bastards do have a way out. A wolfish grin touched his lips. Of course, that means I have a way out as well.

  His hands felt empty without a weapon, but he had no desire to desecrate another corpse. Clenching his fists, he stepped into the absolute blackness beyond the doorway.

  Chapter Three

  How much time had passed in this lightless tunnel? Minutes? Hours? With no light to measure the passage of time, he couldn't be certain.

  The darkness forced him to rely on his other senses to guide him. The stone walls felt rough against the Hunter's fingertips. His boots scuffed on the floor. His wounds occasionally protested, but a creeping fatigue threatened to dull his mind and drag him to the ground. He craved wine, ale, even water; anything to quench the overwhelming thirst. Only these sensations kept him grounded in reality.

  The air hung thick and stagnant in the passage. His boots squelched with every step, and the stench of blood filled his nostrils. Something else caught his attention. Beneath the coppery tang of blood, he detected a familiar odor: like a fresh, rotting corpse, with a much heavier, deeper scent. The timeless smell of a body that had moldered for centuries, nay, millennia.

  His heart raced. There may not have been a demon in the maze, but there is one nearby.

  He wrestled with indecision. Could he face a true demon in his current condition? Wounded, exhausted, a heartbeat away from collapse. He had no weapons, nor the strength to wield them. Why not leave the demon to the Cambionari? They could handle the creature; they had spent their lives training for just that.

  Yet every step led him toward the creature. If it barred his escape, he would have no choice. He had no illusions about his chances of success—or survival. If he could injure it long enough to find Bardin—

  He slipped on a wet patch and sprawled headlong with a curse. He threw out his hands to catch himself, and his hands squelched in the muck. The sickening stench of rotting meat filled his nostrils. He would have vomited had his stomach contained anything.

  Keeper take these wizards!

  He pushed himself to his feet, his right wrist protesting. He wiped his filthy hands along the wall. The cloying air of the passage was horrible, but better than the foul-smelling mire that reeked of death.

  The smells around him changed ever so subtly. Beneath the rot and decay, he detected the scent of metal, accompanied by a sweet, bright smell. Something about it stopped him in his tracks.

  Why is it so familiar? Where do I know it from?

  He breathed in deep, letting his sensitive nostrils filter out the other scents of the passage. Stronger than the smell of metal, dried blood, and stagnant air, he could nearly taste the strong, sweet fragrance. It brought back a memory: the memory of dying. Once again, he lay amid a tangle of blue flowers, their delicate petals stained crimson with blood. His blood.

  Here? How? He inhaled again. Yes. The flowers from the Chasm of the Lost.

  The fragrance of the flower mixed with the metallic tang of iron. He breathed deeply, trying to find the source of the smell. Near the floor. He bent and groped in the darkness with slow, cautious movements.

  Something brushed against his knuckles: a thin, metallic filament stretched across the passage, at the height of his calf. His skin recoiled from the contact. Iron.

  The clever bastards. Even if they saw past the illusion and found the hidden door, they would be unable to see the trip wire in the darkness.

  No doubt the trap released some sort of projectile, and, judging by the sweet smell of the blue flower, it would be tipped with poison. A precaution.

  Their victims never had a chance to escape. No wonder they were never heard from again. None ever lived. A grim smile spread on his lips. Until now.

  Moving at an agonizingly slow pace, he stepped over the wire and moved on. Tension corded his muscles. With every breath, he searched for the sweet scent that would indicate another trap. Minutes passed without a hint of the fragrance. Perhaps they had only the one snare.

  He moved more quickly now, breathing through his nose. The scent of decay grew stronger with every step. The demon was near.

  Could these wizards really be demons? It was possible. At least one of them had to be, that much he knew. If there is a demon among them, it makes them my business.

  How he would kill the demon, he had no clue. First he had to find a way out. He would deal with that when the time came.

  Sounds floated toward him, echoing in the empty corridor. He strained his ears but couldn't make it out. He moved as quickly as he dared, unable to see in the darkness. He couldn't risk another injury, not now, not when he was so close to freedom.

  The sound grew louder. He recognized voices, speaking in a language he couldn't identify, their words indecipherable. A whisper echoed in his mind, a faint touch that sounded like Soulhunger.

  Impossible!

  The voice couldn't belong to his dagger. Soulhunger lay in the vaults of Beggar Temple, so how could it be here? Besides, these whispers were garbled, unclear. The throbbing in the back of his head seemed unclean, tainted, almost…diseased.

  What in the Watcher's name is going on?

  A small pinpoint of light shone far in the distance, tantalizingly bright after the darkness of the passage. The Hunter hurried toward it. The walls suddenly seemed to press in around him. He gasped for breath, his lungs burning, his heart pounding. Memories of being buried alive in the tunnels beneath Voramis came back all too clearly. He longed for clean air, to feel the wind blowing on his face. He needed to get out.

  When he finally emerged from the tunnel, he felt as if he had crawled out of a grave. He fought to slow his racing heart, taking deep breaths to fight back the panic. He had escaped.

  Almost. He stood within a shroud of darkness, the shadows broken only by dim alchemical globes set in a circle around the heart of the room. To the Hunter's eye, accustomed to the lightless passage, they seemed as bright as the midday sun.

  The roof rose high overhead, and the light of the lanterns failed to reach the walls of the massive room. At the center of the chamber stood an altar—a simple thing, made of rough-hewn stone. Dark figures ringed the shrine. Each held a candle, casting faint illumination on the altar and reflecting eerie shadows. Their chanting filled the room. The Hunter couldn't understand the language, yet a chill raced down his spine.

  The wizards' dark rituals!

  A strong, rich voice rang out. "Brothers, tonight we have gathered to raise the Lament of the Fallen, the ritual that ensures our continued dominion over the people of Malandria."

  The chanting rose in volume. Oddly discordant, its notes blended in a cacophonous melody that grated on the Hunter's ears and turned his blood to ice.

  "With this sacrifice, death shall bring life. Through the blood spilled on this altar, we continue the peace that has ruled our city these many years."

  One of the hooded figures stepped forward. Strong hands—the hands of a man—emerged from within his voluminous robe, gripping a dagger in long, thick fingers. The man raised the gleaming blade high above his head, poised to strike.

  The demon in the Hunter's mind screamed at sight
of the dagger. Something about the gem set into the pommel seemed familiar. The way the myriad facets twinkled in time with the dancing flames…

  It can't be!

  The blade beckoned to him, its dark whispers echoing in his thoughts. Yet it felt somehow…wrong. The dagger's delight reverberated in his mind, its pleading cries jumbled and distorted. The Hunter couldn't understand its muttering, but its terrible intentions were clear: it wanted death. No, it demanded death.

  The Hunter stood stunned, his mind racing. He didn't dare move for fear of being spotted. His eye was inexorably drawn back to the altar, and for the first time he noticed the figure laying bound atop it.

  The cry came unbidden to his lips. "Bardin!"

  Chapter Four

  It was Bardin, no mistaking it. The alchemical lights outlined his bald head and familiar features.

  The chanting died at the Hunter's words, and the dagger paused in its descent. Hooded heads turned toward him. The faces staring back at him bore horrible features twisted in a perversion of animals. In the flickering candlelight, they looked truly terrifying.

  Demons!

  "Foul sorcerers!" The Hunter's voice echoed above the din of the chanting. "Your hour of judgment has come."

  Mouths agape, the wizards stared at him. To the Hunter's surprise, they seemed stunned rather than enraged.

  "W-Who in the twisted hell are you?" The quavering, hesitant voice, coming from one of the figures in the circle, sounded distinctly human.

  "That," said the man with the commanding voice, "is the Hunter." He spoke with no fear or hesitation.

  "Who?"

  "Did you say the Hunter?" This one spoke in the shaky voice of a man well into his later years. "Impossible! We left him trapped in the maze."

  "Yes, that we did." The fourth man's voice was strong, though the Hunter could hear shocked surprise. "There is no way he could escape the fiery death."

  "And yet," spoke the commanding one again, "here he stands."

  A fifth chimed in, his nasal voice grating on the Hunter's ears. "Even if he managed to survive the fire, how could he have found the tunnel? How did he pass the traps?"