The Hunter stared into the man's eyes. What choice do I have? It's a necessary sacrifice to save Hailen. He tried to rationalize it to himself. He's a heartbeat away from the Long Keeper's embrace!
"I-I'm sorry, Bristan."
Weakened by the iron's poison, he struggled to raise Soulhunger above the dying man's head. He had no strength, but the weight of his arm drove the dagger between Bristan's ribs. With a scream muffled by pain and blood loss, Bristan shuddered and lay still.
Soulhunger shrieked in delight as it consumed the man's life force. Crimson light leaked from the gem set in the dagger's pommel. The blade, still embedded in Bristan's neck, fed on the man's soul and sent waves of power washing through the Hunter.
"May the Watcher have mercy on you."
The Hunter spoke the ritual words every time he took a life with Soulhunger, but Bristan was not like the others. He hadn't been paid to kill the man, hadn't even wanted to. He'd had no other choice.
I'm sorry.
The momentary stab of sorrow was drowned beneath a torrent of power. Soulhunger drank deeply, suffusing him with energy and life. He reveled in the sensation, but in the back of his mind, he felt disgust at his weakness. He had given in. Again.
The demon crowed in triumph. 'In the end, you always give in, Bucelarii!'
Why had he fought it for so long? The power coursing through him was as addictive as any opiate. Without hesitation, he seized the arrow embedded in his chest and yanked it free, uncaring that it tore muscle. Vigor pushed back the poison of the iron in his veins. Strength returned to his right hand, then the arm, then his shoulder and chest, and down his torso, to his legs. Blood pumped into his limbs as his body tried to heal the wound.
The wagon had pulverized both legs and cut off all sensation, but now he could feel the searing pain of his crushed bones. He screamed and though each twitch of his limbs brought a fresh wave of torment, struggled against the weight atop him. He had to get out from under the wagon, now.
His cries of suffering added to the chaotic din around him. Gritting his teeth, he repeated the agonizing process with the remaining two iron-tipped arrows and hurled them away. A few moments longer, and they would have killed him. Blood gushed from the wound in the Hunter's leg, but he paid it no heed. With the iron cleansed from his body and Soulhunger's power, he would heal quickly. Only the raw, jagged scars across his chest would remain--a reminder of every life Soulhunger claimed. Tonight, a new scar joined the others marring his flesh.
He studied the wagon atop his legs, trying to find a way to lift it. At least enough to squirm out from beneath.
"Hardwell?" The Sirkar's voice reached his ears. "Where are you, Hardwell?"
Relief flooded him. "Here! I'm trapped beneath the wagon!"
"Over here, lads! Kellen, Graden, help me." The sound of pounding feet drew nearer.
The Hunter froze. Soulhunger! His numb fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger, still buried in Bristan's neck. Ripping it free of flesh, he slipped it into its sheath. Not a moment too soon. No one could know what he'd done.
"Help me, lads." The caravan master's strong, confident voice sounded shaken. His sun-darkened face looked pale in the flickering firelight. Blood leaked from a slash across his forehead and a jagged cut down his forearm. The hand he touched to Bristan's neck showed bloody stumps where his pinky and ring finger had been.
Kellen, limping from a wicked gash in his left leg, and Graden, appearing unharmed, came into view. Together with the Sirkar, the three heaved. The Hunter felt the pressure on his legs easing, and, ignoring the agony of the shattered bones, dragged himself free in the heartbeat before the wagon slipped from Kellen's grasp and crashed to the ground.
"How bad is it, Hardwell?" Sirkar Jeroen stared down at him, genuine concern in his eyes.
"I'll be fine, Sirkar." The pain of his healing body threatened to overwhelm him, but he gritted his teeth against the fire coursing through his legs. He had no time for weakness. Hailen needed him.
From amidst the smoke and chaos came a woman's scream.
"Arealle!" Sirkar Jeroen cried. He glanced down at the Hunter.
"Go!" The Hunter waved them away. "Help your wife! Give me a moment, and I'll join you."
Sirkar Jeroen stared at him skeptically. His eyes flicked to the Hunter's legs, to the blood-stained holes in his tunic. The cry came again. Without hesitation, the caravan master sprinted away, Kellen and Graden following. The Hunter was alone. Alone, save for the still, silent corpse beside him.
He stared down at Bristan's unseeing eyes, slack features, bloodstained hands and fingers, skin pale in death. Remorse would come later. Right now, he could only think of one thing. He stumbled toward the tents, his legs protesting with every agonizing step. He had to find the boy, had to make sure he was unharmed.
The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Not his own. Marin's blood. Something resembling remorse nagged at the back of his mind. The old man had been nothing but kind to him and Hailen. Until tonight. Until the Hunter had plunged his blade into Marin's chest.
A fist squeezed his heart as he approached the section of canvas where his tent had once stood. Nothing but a towering inferno and smoldering ashes remained. The blaze had carved a fiery swath through the hastily-erected shelters, leaving death and ruin in its wake.
Something smoldered at his feet. The scent of charred meat assaulted his nostrils, setting the world spinning around him. He fell to his knees. The pain of the embers singeing his flesh paled in comparison to the sorrow that twisted a knife in his heart.
A child-sized corpse filled his vision.
The Last Bucelarii (Book 3): Gateway to the Past
Coming in 2017…
About the Author
Andy Peloquin has loved to read since before he can remember. Sherlock Holmes, the Phantom of the Opera, and Father Brown are just a few of the books that ensnared his imagination as a child.
When he discovered science fiction and fantasy through the pages of writers like Edgar Rice Burroughs, J.R.R Tolkien, and Orson Scott Card, he was immediately hooked and hasn't looked back since.
Andy's first attempt at writing produced In the Days: A Tale of the Forgotten Continent. He has learned from the mistakes he made and used the experience to produce Blade of the Destroyer, a book of which he is very proud.
Reading—and now writing—is his favorite escape, and it provides him with an outlet for his innate creativity. He is an artist; words are his palette.
Let's Get Social!
Be My Friend:
https://www.facebook.com/andrew.peloquin.1
Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/andyqpeloquin
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AndyPeloquin
Google+: https://plus.google.com/100885994638914122147/about
The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen Page 37