Something Kellen had said that day sprang to mind. Amidst the rest of his incessant chatter, the young man had described to Bristan and Rylin the greatcats that hunted in the desert. Perhaps Kellen's blathering will prove useful.
He sheathed Soulhunger and drew his belt knife. Let's see if I can't make this look real.
Chapter Twelve
Yesterday morning…
"Is that a new toy, Hailen?"
Hailen, engrossed by the carved wooden horse in his hands, didn't look up at the Hunter but only nodded. "Marin gave it to me."
Heat raced in the Hunter veins. That's the third one this week. Marin seems to have taken a liking to Hailen. His sensitive nostrils recoiled at the lingering hint of Marin's scent—a mixture of poppy flower, turmeric, and the cow's-foot oil the old man wiped into the caravan's horse tack.
The Hunter knew he was being irrational. He had little time to spend with Hailen. His duties to the caravan occupied his full attention. He couldn't afford to worry about Hailen while keeping a wary eye out for bandits. Sirkar Jeroen had warned them to be especially watchful as the caravan wended its slow way through the Advanat—the deserted, arid swath of land that separated the Twelve Kingdoms from the rest of Einan.
After long hours spent in the saddle, he wanted nothing more than to eat and sleep. With Natania and Eileen still suffering from influenza, Ayden had no time to spare for Hailen; all his time and energy went to caring for his wife and daughter. So who else did he have to care for the boy?
Marin's ready acceptance of Hailen's presence gave the Hunter peace of mind, after a fashion. He no longer worried for Hailen's safety. Marin gave all the children little trinkets and toys, and they loved him for it. It wasn't Marin's fault Hailen enjoyed their time together. But it rankled him that Hailen wanted to spend time with Marin. It made sense, then, that the boy would seek out the old man, who always had time to tell a story or play a game. But he felt as if Hailen sought any excuse to visit the old man, leaving the Hunter alone. Try as he might to convince himself he preferred to be alone, the increasing solitude left him both hurt and angry.
He was at a loss. Between his duties to the caravan and his inability to understand Hailen, the gulf between them grew more immense. He saw the way Hailen threw his arms around the old man, and a small part of him wished he could do the same. With every passing day, it seemed Hailen grew more distant, and the Hunter had no way to bridge the gap.
Yet, at the beginning of every new day, he forced a smile on his face when Hailen asked to spend the day with the old man. He had to think of Hailen's wellbeing, not just what he wanted. Even if his gut twisted tighter every time Hailen scampered away from the tent, and his happiness faded whenever Hailen's smile brightened at the sight of the man.
The loud clanging of the breakfast bell snapped the Hunter from his thoughts. He hurried into his boots and clothing, strapped Soulhunger and his sword to his belt, and drew his cloak over his shoulders.
"Come on, Hailen. Breakfast is served."
Hailen made no move toward his clothing, but continued playing with his carved wooden figurine.
"Hailen." The Hunter couldn't keep the anger from his voice. "Let's go."
The boy turned a sour face up at the Hunter. "I don't want to eat. I want to play."
The Hunter ground his teeth. Hailen had grown more reticent and stubborn in the last week.
"Hailen, I said we need to go. Breakfast is served."
"No." Hailen folded his arms and thrust out his lower lip. "I don't want to go. I want to see Eileen and Miss Natania."
The Hunter shook his head. "You know you can't. Ayden said they're still sick."
Hailen's voice turned plaintive. "But he said they'd be better by now."
"He said that days ago, but they're still not better. Now get dressed so we can go have breakfast."
"No." Hailen uncrossed his arms and resumed playing with his wooden figurine.
Anger and frustration set the Hunter's head pounding. Without thinking, he leaned down, snatched the carved figure from Hailen's grip, and hurled it across the tent. "I said we are going. Now!" He shouted the last word.
The sight of Hailen's widening eyes turned the Hunter's blood to ice. Lips quivering and eyes brimming with tears, the boy threw on his clothes and hurried from the tent. The Hunter almost called out to him, but what could he say?
'Serves him right,' the demon's voice whispered in his mind. 'The little brat deserved that and more.'
Shut up! The Hunter clenched his fists and ground his teeth. You stay out of this, or by the Keeper's teeth I'll…
Mocking laughter echoed in his thoughts. 'You'll what? Kill me? You know what that will accomplish.'
Impotent rage filled the Hunter. What could he say to threaten the creature that inhabited his mind? He could only push its voice out of his thoughts as he hurried after Hailen.
He found the lad sobbing in Marin's arms. The old man stroked his head and whispered soothing words into his ear. His face showed no expression at sight of the Hunter.
"Let me keep him for the day, Master Hardwell." Marin's voice was soft and gentle. "I've got something that will cheer him right up."
The Hunter resisted the urge to smash Marin's teeth in. He was angry at himself, not the old man. He swallowed and forced himself to calm.
"Yes." He nodded at Marin. "Thank you."
"Not a problem." Marin patted the Hunter's arm. "Strong man like you needs a good night's rest. He can spend the night in my tent tonight, if you need it."
Cold fingers gripped the Hunter's heart. Spend the night alone, without the boy there to bring me peace?
Having Hailen near kept the voices at bay. Somehow, the boy's presence silenced the demon's shrieks and Soulhunger's incessant demands for death. Perhaps he gave the Hunter something to focus on, something to occupy his mind and keep him sane. What would happen if the boy was no longer there? Over a week had passed since his last kill, and the voices had grown almost beyond his ability to stifle. After a day of fighting to ignore them, would they finally overwhelm him?
No, he resolved. Tonight, I find a new victim. It was the only way to survive.
"Yes, Marin. Thank you. The Sirkar wanted me on guard duty tonight, and I would rest easier knowing he is cared for."
With a nod, Marin led the still sobbing Hailen away. The Hunter felt a part of himself leaving with the boy. He wanted to call Hailen back, to take him in his arms, to apologize. But he did not. Instead, he just watched the old man and the boy disappear from sight.
He ate in sullen silence and glared at anyone who tried to strike up conversation. Few attempted it. Even after weeks of travel, the only ones that spoke to him were the men with whom he rode, Ayden the healer, the caravan master, and a few others. He knew a handful of names and faces, but the majority of the caravan were strangers to him. He tried to tell himself it didn't bother him, that he didn't need to make friends. Yet, as he ate, he felt completely isolated amidst a sea of people.
"Hardwell." Bristan's deep, booming voice carried over the crowd. When the Hunter looked up, the man motioned for him to follow with a jerk of his head.
The two had shared a handful of words in the last weeks. Neither had asked questions about the other's past, and both were content with the arrangement. They rode together in a silence broken only by Kellen's attempts to liven up the time spent riding. When not in the saddle, Bristan spent every moment with Gwen. The Hunter didn't grudge them their happiness. The gods knew Gwen deserved a bright spot after the hell she'd endured at Rill's hands.
The Hunter followed Bristan to the picket line, mounted Elivast, and trotted out to the head of the caravan. Kellen and Railley rode in the lead, engaged in animated conversation. The Hunter caught the words "caravan strongbox" before their voices trailed off. No doubt the two men spoke of the contents of Sirkar Jeroen's wagon. Kellen studied him with the expression of a child caught stealing a loaf of bread. The Hunter ignored the young man, content to keep his
eyes on the road ahead.
Travel through the Advanat had been dull at best. The desert sun beat down on them with mind-numbing force, without the slightest breeze or a wisp of cloud to provide respite from the shimmering heat rising from the undulating dunes.
"Keep a sharp watch, lads." Bristan's deep voice sounded beside the Hunter. "This is bandit country."
The Hunter wiped the sweat from his brow and shielded his eyes. The humped red-gold dunes rose on either side of the trade road. The soft sand made hard going for the horses, restricting the caravan and its scouts to the hard-packed earth of the caravan road. The poor line of sight made the Hunter uneasy. His hand never strayed far from the hilt of the sword at his belt.
"Don't lecture, Bristan," Kellen snapped. "We heard the Sirkar just as you did."
A few days prior, Sirkar Jeroen had warned them to be on the lookout for bandits. The caravan had passed into the region of the Advanat where it was said Il Seytani, the legendary outlaw of the desert, found his victims.
Bristan glared at the younger man. "Just because no one has seen Il Seytani, that doesn't mean there aren't others out there more than willing to take what's ours."
Kellen shook his head. "Don't worry. I saw Graden riding ahead early this morning, and he had Rylin with him. If there's anyone laying a trap, they'll spot it."
Bristan looked unconvinced. "Be that as it may, best keep both eyes open as you ride."
"Thank you, Bristan," Kellan said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "I've only been doing this for months."
Bristan ignored the younger man's sullen tone and turned to the Hunter. "Hardwell, ride ahead and meet Graden and Rylin. Don't push too hard, but don't dawdle either. Blasted dunes make it impossible to see what's around us. I don't want any surprises."
The Hunter nodded and kicked Elivast into a jog trot. The pace, which had seemed so grueling his first days out of Voramis, now felt natural, familiar, almost comfortable. Weeks spent in the saddle had accustomed him to Elivast's bouncing gait. His legs no longer protested after a long day of riding, and he rarely needed Ayden's salve for saddle sores.
He was grateful to be ahead of the caravan. After this morning, he wanted a few minutes of quiet to think.
Why did I have to snap at Hailen? Why did I lash out like that?
He knew why. Partly, it had been out of frustration. He'd never had to deal with a child before and had no idea how to handle Hailen. When the boy lashed out, sulked, or defied him, his lack of understanding caused him to react in anger. Which only made things worse.
It was more than that, though. The insistent voice of the demon in his head had returned days ago. They followed him through the long, exhausting daylight hours, begging for him to slit Graden's throat, plunge Soulhunger into Bristan's chest, or choke the life from Kellen's lungs. He almost wished to encounter bandits, for they would provide him with an outlet for the desperation rising within him. Soulhunger added its voice to the demon's cries, and together, they pressed the Hunter beyond his limits of endurance.
I have to kill, and soon, before I lose control completely.
His head ached, the pounding narrowing his field of vision. He told himself he fought back the voices until he could find a suitable victim to feed to Soulhunger's thirsty blade. After all, he'd reasoned, he did the world a favor by ridding it of those who brought only misery and suffering. How many had died at his hands since he fled Malandria over a month past? How many more would die before…before what? What was he to do? Would he spend the rest of his life killing just to find peace from the voices? He couldn't keep Hailen around forever, could he?
Despite the scarf wrapped around his face, dust filled his nostrils, coated his throat, and whipped his face as he rode. He welcomed the discomfort, for it reminded him that he drew ever closer to his destination. His journey through this desert would soon end, but the odyssey through the wasteland of his life seemed to have no end. He was immortal. He would live forever; forever cursed to a life of killing to appease the voices in his head.
No, the killing would come to an end. Eventually, Soulhunger would take that one last life needed to unlock the Destroyer's chains. Kharna, Devourer of Worlds, would be unleashed upon Einan once more. He had no way to stop the mad god's return, which drew closer with every death. All because he lacked the strength to fight the voices.
Yet how much could he blame on the demon or the dagger? He remembered the Beggar Temple in Malandria. The agony of the iron in Lord Knight Moradiss's blood; The anger at Bardin's death; Hatred for the demon Garanis, who had ordered Father Pietus to kill Hailen. The swell of emotions had incited him to action, and he'd slaughtered the nearly two dozen Cambionari that faced him, turned the House of Need into an abattoir. He'd lost control because a part of him had thrilled at the death. The feeling of power rushing through him, the exhilaration of snuffing out a life. Try as he might to deny it, he ached for the kill almost as much as the demons.
He told himself he fought back the voices out of a desire to protect, to prevent the demons from unleashing the Destroyer upon the world, but that was only partially true. He fought back the voices because he feared what he would become if he allowed himself to give in to their demands. And he wanted to, more than anything else.
Try as he might, he could not escape death. It followed at his heels, burned in his thoughts, and flowed through his veins. In the back of his mind, he knew his actions hastened Kharna's return—and with it, the destruction of Einan. A part of him hated the fact that he fed the Destroyer with every life he took. But what choice did he have? He couldn't simply cast aside Soulhunger. The dagger was more than just his heritage as a Bucelarii; it was as much a part of him as his right hand, the only link to his forgotten past, the key to finding answers. More than that, he needed it to silence the voice of his inner demon. His only hope lay in fighting for control of his mind, his actions.
The Demon of Voramis had lamented the paucity of lives fed to Soulhunger. Perhaps that meant the fewer people he killed, the less chance he would bring about Kharna's resurrection. A flawed plan at best, but he saw no other way to live with the hand the gods had dealt him.
In the distance, a plume of dust rose in the desert. He sawed on Elivast's reins, pulling the gelding to a halt. His eyes roamed the shapely contours of the dunes bordering the road, and his muscles tensed in anticipation of a fight.
'Good.'
"Come on." He dug his heels into Elivast's flanks and the beast leapt forward.
The Hunter reached for his sword, but before he drew it, he spotted the figures riding toward him. There was no mistaking Graden's massive frame and the enormous blue roan stallion beneath him. Rylin's slimmer frame and chestnut mare looked pitiful by comparison.
"Ho! Hardwell!" Rylin called out as he reined in his horse.
The Hunter nodded. "Anything out there?"
For reply, Graden grunted and shook his head.
Ever a man of few words, Graden. It made him the ideal companion.
"Good."
"Got any wine on you? Mine dried up an hour ago." Rylin's face creased into a sheepish smile and he shrugged. "Blasted desert heat takes its toll on you."
Without a word, the Hunter tossed his wineskin to the man. Rylin tipped it up and squeezed a steady stream of the tart vintage into his mouth.
"Ahh!" He used his sleeve to wipe away any traces of wine from the thin black goatee sprouting from his angular face and tossed the near-empty skin back to the Hunter. "My thanks, Hardwell."
"Let's get going," Graden said. Without waiting for the other two, he dug his heels into his horse's ribs.
Rylin gave the Hunter a rueful smile. "Really makes the time pass quickly, riding with this one. Quite the conversationalist."
The Hunter forced a weary grin and followed the two men back to the caravan. The sun seemed hotter, burned brighter than it had moments ago, and the demon's screeching drowned out the silence around him. As he rode, the burden on his soul grew heavier with every plod
ding step.
Chapter Thirteen
"Nothing to report?" Bristan barked as Graden and the Hunter reined in beside him.
Graden shook his head. "Road's clear ahead. At least a full day's ride."
Rylin nodded. "Nothing but the clouds overhead and the damned desert heat." He loosened his collar and removed the cloth wrapping from around his head. "I swear I'd have died of heat stroke if you hadn't sent Hardwell here. I owe you one."
"Report to the Sirkar, Rylin," Bristan ordered. "And bring Railley with you. After you report, join Siennen on the west flank. Railley, take east with Ashurr."
The two guards spurred their horses toward the caravan crawling slowly along behind the lead riders. The Hunter fell into place between Kellen and Bristan, and Graden kicked his horse into step with Kellen's mount.
The young man broke the silence. "Bristan and I were just talking about Udell."
Bristan snorted. "You and Railley were gossiping like milkmaids, Kellen. I was just trying to ignore you idiots and do my job."
Kellen smiled at Bristan's surly tone. "Ah, Bristan, you never did like the heat much."
The Hunter tried to keep his voice nonchalant. "What about Udell?" His fingers traced the latest scar to join the multitude on his chest.
"You saw him, right?" Kellen asked.
The Hunter nodded.
"What was left of him," Bristan grunted.
Graden remained silent, his eyes locked on the dunes bordering the road.
"The Sirkar said it was a desert greatcat." Kellen gave a slight shudder. "All those slashes and wounds, it had to be, right?"
Bristan shrugged. "Seems like an awful lot of ill-fortune on this trip. First Rill falls from that cliff—Swordsman be praised for that stroke of luck." He clasped his hands together in the sign of the Swordsman—thumbs extended and touching, index fingers steepled. "Then Natania and her little one fall ill. After that, the mysterious death of Wrenna, and Udell gored by the greatcat. Who will be next?"
The Last Bucelarii Book 3: Gateway to the Past Page 9