'Kill her!'
He grunted as her flailing fists connected with his gut and neck, but refused to release his hold. The anger in her face turned to panic, then terror, as she fought to breathe. Her struggles grew weak and her eyes rolled up in her head.
He released his hold on her throat and slumped to the floor, gasping. He ached all over—his stomach, his throat, the places where their cloths had sliced into him, and the tender spot between his legs. For a long moment, he lay there, unmoving.
'There could be more of them,' the demon whispered. 'Find them and kill them all!'
No! You will feed when I say so. Even after the events of Malandria and the weeks of travel, the voices still refused to accept that he was in control.
'But you know what they meant to do.' The demon would not give in easily. 'Would you lose every trace of your past, again? All because you refuse to cede?'
Why didn't he kill the unconscious priest, or these women that attacked him? He had no reason to leave them alive. Indeed, they had planned to erase his memories, to deprive him of everything he held dear. They wanted to eliminate all traces of Farida, Bardin, Hailen, and those most important to him.
His fingers felt for the marks on his chest. This was why he wouldn't kill. He wouldn't add more scars, not if he had another choice. He wouldn't feed Kharna, the Great Destroyer, Breaker of Worlds, any more than he had to. If it meant fighting the voices in his mind a little longer, so be it.
I will kill, but only when I must. Once we leave the city, they will have no way to track us. We will be safe.
'Can you be certain?'
The whispers in his thoughts turned dark and menacing. He thrust them away, concentrating on the throbbing and searing of his battered body. With a groan, he pushed himself to a sitting position and slowly climbed to his feet. His knee ached from the impact with the woman's forehead. Salty, warm blood streamed from his nose and dripped into his mouth. He touched it and winced. Probably broken.
He pressed the cartilage back into place, grunting at the flash of pain. Gritting his teeth, he stumbled toward the stairs, his knee protesting with each step. His broken nose forced him to breathe through his mouth, and blood trickled from his arms, face, and back. But he was free.
He pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and peered into the hall. Not a soul stood in the corridor beyond, but he could hear laughter, the clink of pewter mugs, and a loud buzz of conversation. Pale golden sunlight spilled through a filthy window at the end of the corridor. Sounds of passion drifted from behind the doors lining the hall. He stumbled toward the light, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the brightness.
Drawing his hood over his face, he slipped into the bustling taproom of a tavern he didn't recognize. The laughing, shouting patrons seemed to take no notice of him. Navigating through the drunken crowd proved challenging. He stumbled over a figure lying unconscious in a pool of vomit and nearly collided with a big man waving his mug and singing at the top of his lungs.
The heat and closeness of the tavern pressed in on him. Soulhunger begged to feed, and the demon's curses pounded in his mind. His head felt as if a spike had been driven into his eye. He pushed through the crowd, ignoring the drunken protests of men and women he shoved aside in his hurry to escape. When he finally burst through the crowd and stumbled out into the open air, he gasped with relief. He sucked in a deep breath, glad for fresh air free of the scents of vomit, dried urine, hops, and weak ale and beer.
A filthy, faded sign hung above his head, rattling in the breeze. It proclaimed the tavern to be The Laughing Farmer Alehouse. He'd seen the place before but never felt temptation to enter.
Master Umai had warned him away. "Only the wrong sort drink there," the tavernkeeper insisted.
But this would be the perfect place to bring a captive. It is where I would have done it back in Voramis.
A chill breeze tugged at his cloak and sent a shiver down his spine. Winter had not yet released its grip on Einan, and the temperature plummeted after sunset. The sun nearly touched the rooftops of Azmaria.
Watcher's teeth! He would have to hurry to reach the caravan in time.
Sounds of merriment came from the houses and shops around him, but the crowds in the street had thinned. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and hustled up the muddy lane, boots squelching with every step. From within the depths of his hood, he watched the men and women he passed, wary for any sign of the dusky-skinned women that had captured him. His skin crawled and his heart pounded in his chest. Though he saw only the sun-darkened faces of Azmarians, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.
Chapter Four
"Master Hardwell!" Mistress Arna cried out as the Hunter staggered into The Brazen Fox. "You look a fright! Whatever happened to you?"
The Hunter mumbled something about getting into an argument with a drunken sheepherder and stumbled past the proprietress. He lurched up the stairs, rushed down the hall, and banged open the door of the room he had rented.
Relief drained the tension from his muscles. Hailen lay sleeping, curled up under a blanket. Sweat plastered the boy's dark hair to his pale forehead. He showed no sign of waking despite the Hunter's noisy entrance.
Peace, at last! The inner voices fell silent, and the ache in his head drained away.
The Hunter hurried to the bundles he'd packed earlier that morning. A quick examination of their contents revealed no sign anyone had rifled through them.
It seems Master Umai spoke true when he said his inn was the safest place in Azmaria.
He double-checked the bags just to be certain. A small fortune in precious stones sat in the hidden pouch, sewn into the satchel's lining. The complex knot holding shut his bulging coin purse remained untouched.
The Swordsman's blades—twin iron daggers given to him by the Beggar Priests in Voramis—lay at the bottom of his pack, wrapped in thick wool to protect them. He ignored the demon's inevitable protest at the daggers' presence. It hated the blades, weapons capable of killing demons…and him.
With deft movements, he tied the bundles together and slung them over his shoulder.
His eyes fell upon Hailen. The boy slept so peacefully, he hated to disturb him. But how much time did he have before the Illusionist Cleric awoke and sent the women after him again? No, he had to get out of there now. The caravan was his best chance of escaping this place, and it could depart at any moment. Crossing the Advanat alone would be nigh impossible, more so with Hailen to accompany him.
"Poor little lamb." Mistress Arna's voice sounded from the doorway, accompanied by a cloud of the heavy floral scent—a mix of mint oil and freesia—she applied generously to drown out her natural musk. A gentle smile touched her face. "All tuckered out from playing with Branna. Quite the unusual one, that child of yours. Is he—?"
"Thank you, Mistress Arna," the Hunter said quickly. He fished out a coin and pressed it into her hand. "For your fine hospitality and, most of all, your discretion."
The tavernkeeper's raised an eyebrow. "Discretion?"
"There may be some people coming to ask after me. If they do, tell them you saw us riding south. Understand?"
Mistress Arna's expression remained confused. "You're leaving? Now? But you've already paid for two more nights. I—"
"Yes. We must leave now. South, got it?"
Understanding dawned in the proprietress's face. "I have no idea what you're talking about. In fact, I don't recall seeing you and your boy at all."
The Hunter nodded. "Thank you. Now, if you could have Elivast saddled and ready to leave, I'll be on my way."
"Of course. Saul will have him standing out front in minutes." She turned to leave, but the Hunter caught her arm.
"In the back, if you please."
Mistress Arna nodded. "As you will." With a flurry of cloth, she bustled down the hall. The sound of her barked orders to Saul, the stablehand, brought a smile to the Hunter's face. He always loved a woman with a sharp tongue, so long as it
lashed someone else.
He splashed cold water on his face, scrubbing at the dried blood until the basin turned red, and patted his face dry with a small cloth placed there for just that purpose. He paused to study the sleeping child. Hailen needed the rest; he tired much more quickly than other children.
The Hunter turned the boy onto his back and reached for the strips of cloth draped over the bed frame. Dried blood had stiffened the fabric. He'd have to purchase fresh bandages at the first opportunity. For now, these would suffice.
He wrapped the material around the boy's hands. Hailen's fingernails reddened the moment the Hunter touched him. Within seconds, blood leaked from the nail beds, soaking into the cloth. He covered the boy's hands as quickly as he could, careful not to pull the fabric too tight. He hated this part, but it had to be done. It was the only way to carry Hailen without drawing attention.
Every time the lad came in contact with demons—or the Hunter, half-demon himself—his fingernails bled, a reaction that still amazed the Hunter after weeks of traveling together. It seemed to cause the boy no pain, but it certainly made him stand out. That, his utter naivete, and his inability to understand that anyone in the world meant him harm. Hailen was too friendly, too innocent, which was perhaps why the Hunter felt so protective of the lad. The cold, cruel world was a harsh place for a boy like Hailen.
Seizing the cloak hanging from the bedpost, he threw it over Hailen's sleeping frame. With gentle movements, he scooped the boy into his arms.
He grunted at the effort. Lad's getting heavier by the day.
With one final look at the small room, the Hunter hurried through the door and down the stairs. Instead of heading to the taproom, he pushed through the kitchens and in the direction of the back entrance. Mistress Arna stood outside, holding Elivast's reins. No sign of Saul the stablehand or Master Umai.
"Thank you, Mistress Arna." He inclined his head to the woman. "You have been a gracious host. I will not forget it."
A smile broadened the proprietress's face. "You're always welcome at The Brazen Fox, Master Hardwell." She held out her arms to take the sleeping lad. Grateful, he handed the boy over.
Elivast nickered at his approach. The horse had been groomed, rubbed, and fed—perhaps a bit too well, judging by his sleek coat and the fat padding his barrel ribs. With deft movements, the Hunter lifted the bags from his shoulder and tied them to the saddle, atop the heavy blanket that hid his sword. A few tugs at the saddle strap, bridle, and cinches revealed that Saul had done good work. The horse nuzzled the Hunter's hand and sniffed at his clothes in search of a treat.
The Hunter pushed away the horse's nose and turned to Mistress Arna, who deposited Hailen in his arms once more.
The proprietress produced a small bundle and held it out. "His favorite cakes."
The Hunter eyed the bundle. A simple gesture, but the boy would appreciate it. "Thank you."
She smiled. "Look after him, Hardwell. He's so innocent, so happy. What this world will do to a boy like him…" She trailed off and her smile turned sad.
He could find no words to reply. What would a normal person do in this situation? All his skills as an assassin left him ill-prepared for common life. He settled for a forced smile.
"Farewell, lad." The proprietress patted Hailen gently. "May the Apprentice guide you in your travels, Master Hardwell."
With a nod and a tug on Elivast's reins, the Hunter turned his back on Mistress Arna and The Brazen Fox Inn.
***
The Hunter's eyes darted into the lengthening shadows around him. Though he stayed far from The Laughing Farmer, the short trek across Azmaria seemed one of the longest, most nerve-wracking journeys of his life.
As he rode, his mind raced with thoughts of the Illusionist Cleric and his women. He couldn't understand the reason they would want to erase his memories. The Illusionist had commanded it, that much he knew from the words Visibos had read from the Numeniad. But the 'why' of it all eluded him.
He ached to speed up the pace, but didn't want to wake the sleeping boy. With Hailen in one arm and Elivast's reins in the other, he felt vulnerable. If the Illusionist Cleric's minions found him, the Hunter would be in trouble. He could do little more than hope the dark hood over his face and the boy in his arms provided sufficient disguise.
His fears proved unfounded. Though he couldn't shake the feeling of eyes tracking his movements, he saw no sign of dusky skin anywhere. Only the dust-stained, mud-covered villagers of Azmaria crossed his path.
His arms ached by the time he rode into the caravanserai on the northern outskirts of Azmaria. The name of the roadside inn had long faded from the warped sign, but the building itself looked in good condition. Judging by the myriad wagons, carts, and animals that occupied the expansive paved courtyard, the inn saw a steady stream of customers. He threw Elivast's reins to a stablehand with orders not to touch any of his belongings.
The village of Azmaria lay at the mid-point between the cities of Nysl and Drash. Wine and spirits from Nysl passed through Azmaria on their way south, while fabrics, iron ore, and other metals stopped at the village before traveling north. The journey from Drash had taken over a fortnight. Traveling with Hailen had forced the Hunter to ride at a much slower pace.
Upon entering Azmaria days ago, the Hunter had heard of a caravan scheduled to pass through the village. A pair of farmhands with too many drinks in their bellies boasted about how they would join the caravan as guardsmen. The Hunter doubted the men knew their way around the blunt end of a sword, but they'd given him a way to cross the desert.
He pushed through the front doors of the inn and found himself in a large foyer. A wooden bench stood against the wall to his left, and on his right, the noise of a taproom drifted through an open doorway. The Hunter strode to the bench and set down his sleeping burden gently, so as not to wake Hailen or jingle the coins stowed in the bottom of his satchel.
Opposite the entrance stood an unctuous-looking man in long robes that marked him as the master of the inn. "How can I help you, good sir?" His scent—heavy with dried sweat, powdered talc, and a pungent odor the Hunter recognized as the oil of the patchouli flower—irritated the Hunter's nostrils.
"I seek the caravan master."
"Ahh, of course." The tavern-keeper rubbed his hands together. "The Sirkar of the caravan is at dinner, good sir. Perhaps I can convince you to join him. The meal tonight is particularly excellent, as expected from the Spring Festival. Pork-wrapped lamb served with fingerling potatoes and stuffed peppers. And, of course, a bottle of Nyslian Four Scents wine. Best in the house, I assure you."
The Hunter had heard the word Sirkar used before, a title given to the caravan master. "Thank you. I've already eaten."
The Hunter hid a smile as the innkeeper's face fell. The man recovered quickly and gestured to the open door. "What if I told you that the ale brewed by my wife is…"
"Later, perhaps." He had little patience for the fawning proprietor. Too much time had elapsed since he'd fled The Laughing Farmer. The Illusionist Cleric and his companions had to be hunting him even now. "I will speak to Sirkar Jeroen. Now!" He took a step toward the proprietor.
The man retreated a half-step. "Of course, of course!" His eyes flashed to the wooden bench, where Hailen lay sleeping atop the Hunter's bags. "Rest assured your belongings will be perfectly safe where they are."
"I have no doubt they will be." The Hunter's voice filled with menace. "I'd hate for someone to lose a hand, all because they couldn't keep their fingers out of places they have no business being."
The innkeeper showed no sign of fear, but gestured toward the doorway. "If you please, good sir. Sirkar Jeroen sits at the table of honor."
With a nod, the Hunter turned and strode into the noisy taproom. He always hated that first moment of stepping into an alehouse or tavern. His sensitive nose protested at the unique combinations of odors that greeted him like a blow to the face. This place smelled as foul as any other.
H
e studied the room, searching for the caravan master. The moment he laid eyes on the man, the Hunter recognized the comfortable air of command.
The Sirkar sat with his back to the bar, his feet on the table. A sword belt hung over the back of his enormous chair. Dark hair flowed down his shoulders, pulled into a tight tail at the nape of his neck. His coarse laughter rang out above the taproom din.
Conversation ebbed when a few of the room's occupants noticed the Hunter, but after a cursory examination, they evidently deemed him uninteresting and the buzz of the voices returned.
The Hunter strode toward the table where the huge caravan master sat. He allowed his eye to wander over the serving maid, who carried a tray piled high with bread and sausages. The urge for companionship flitted through his mind, but he pushed the thought aside.
Get out of town first, find a woman later. Once Hailen was safe, he would have plenty of time—and coin—to satisfy his body's needs.
A drunk rebounded off the Hunter and stumbled past, tugging at the ties of his breeches. He heard a loud slap and turned to see the serving maid storming away, her tray empty. A red-faced man pursued her to the jeers and shouts of his companions.
The Hunter planted himself next to the table, in full view of the caravan master, and hooked his thumbs in his belt.
"Sirkar Jeroen, I presume?"
Chapter Five
The caravan master didn't bother to remove his feet from the table. "Aye, that's me. Who's asking?" The man smelled of old beer, horses, and the grease that slicked his hair back. One hand wielded a thick sausage like a dagger, while the other clutched a tankard overflowing with frothing ale.
The Last Bucelarii Book 3: Gateway to the Past Page 3