The Hunter said nothing, but only listened, trying to keep his expression neutral. The slashes he'd carved into Udell's corpse told the story of a ravenous beast.
The demon's voice purred in his mind. 'Ahh, such a pleasure, that kill. We fed well.' Soulhunger filled his head with its throbbing echoes.
For his crime, Udell got what he deserved.
The kill had silenced the voices, for a time. Nearly a week had passed since then, and he needed to find a new victim soon, before the voices drove him mad. Already, he'd lashed out at Hailen in anger and frustration. He pressed a hand to his temple; his head ached from the demon's screeching. How long before the voices drove him to do something he truly regretted?
"The Sirkar is worried," Kellen was saying. "He fears it is a bad omen."
Graden snorted, and a trace of mockery cracked his stoic expression.
"Sirkar Jeroen is always worried about something or another," Bristan said. "The other day a crow flew over his head when he walked out of his tent in the morning. He wouldn't allow the caravan to start until he had completed three rounds of prayers to the Apprentice. Even the color of his shite is a message from the gods."
Kellen shook his head. "Perhaps, but he fears this is something worse. I've heard him whispering to ward off the restless spirits of the dunes. And, if you hadn't noticed, he's doubled the watch at night."
Bristan shrugged. "At least he's being smart about it. We've been riding through Il Seytani's land for days now. Though the Swordsman has granted us safe passage thus far, it's best to be on the lookout for any sign of trouble."
"Aye." Kellen nodded. "And what with that load of his, he…"
Bristan's sharp intake of breath cut off the younger man's words. The Hunter saw the bearded man studying him from the corner of his eyes but pretended not to notice.
"Either way," Bristan said, "better to miss a few nights of sleep than to find ourselves with bandit swords in our bellies." His tattooed fingers whitened around the hilt of his sword.
Graden nodded his head, and his right hand moved unconsciously to stroke his left shoulder. Kellen's jaw clenched, his back stiffened, and he leaned forward in the saddle to scan the desert.
A tense silence descended over the four riders and stretched out for the better part of an hour. Soon, an eerie, keening wind raced across the desert. It reached them before they could find cover and bombarded them with stinging grains of sand and salt.
The Hunter hunched deeper in his cloak as the storm battered his head, drowning out all sounds save for the pulsing of his blood. More than once, he glanced over his shoulder to ensure the caravan remained behind them.
The Hunter's world narrowed until only he and the howling wind existed. The dim outlines of Graden and Kellen stood out like islands amidst a sea of chaos. He felt a twinge of concern for Hailen, riding in the dilapidated wagon pulled by Marin's flea-bitten, half blind mare. An image of Hailen huddled on the floor of the uncovered cart flashed through his mind.
His stomach churned and his head pounded, but it had little to do with the storm. Had the wind not dried the moisture from his eyes, tears would have threatened. He ached to ride back to camp and seek out the boy, but a nagging fear stopped him.
He needs time. Tomorrow, after the night spent with Marin, I will talk to him. He will understand. The words rang hollow even as they flashed through his mind. It was a vain attempt to justify his inaction.
His mood darkened with the sky around him. The wailing of the storm pounded at his ears, throbbing in time with Soulhunger's thirst and the demon's screams. His lips felt parched and shards of dust grated against his eyes, but he never bowed his head. He bore the suffering in silent resolution.
And then the tempest passed. Silence rang in the Hunter's ears, pulsing with the beating of his heart. A sky of impossible blue stared down at him, not a cloud in sight save for the whirlwind roiling to the west. For a moment, the world remained still. He was at peace.
Kellen's curse broke the calm. "Keeper's taint! What in the hells was that?"
"Spring sandstorm," Graden grunted. He shook sand from his hair and wiped his eyes with a dusty hand.
"You mean to tell me you've never been through one of those?" Bristan asked, incredulous.
Kellen shook his head. "It was the dead of winter when we came through here."
"Of course." Bristan nodded. "I keep forgetting that you're still a young'un on your near-first trek."
Kellen bristled at the older man's words. "I'm not young! I passed my second decade last…"
"No one gives a pig's pucker how old you are, lad." Bristan sneered at the younger man. "You're not a true caravan man until you've killed your first bandit, weathered your first desert storm, and bedded your first wench. Now you've done one of the three."
Kellen's face reddened and his mouth opened, but Bristan cut him off.
"And that was a small one, mind you!" He stabbed a finger in the direction of the storm, still visible over the dune rising in the west. "I've been through storms that lasted for days, not just minutes."
Minutes? The Hunter found it hard to believe. It had felt like hours trapped in the driving wind and blistering sand.
Graden shuddered, as if reliving a troublesome memory. The Hunter looked away, instead studying the position of the sun in the afternoon sky.
"Sunset isn't far off," he said, pointing. "If I know the Sirkar, he'll sound the end of the day."
The clear ringing of a bell punctuated the Hunter's words.
"Come on, lads!" Bristan called, an eager smile on his face. "Kiss your horse farewell and breathe easy. We're off duty tonight, and I have it on good authority that Allon's breaking out the spiced Praamian rum tonight. Better get some before it's all gone!" So saying, the big, bearded guard turned his horse's head and dug his heels into the beast's flanks.
The Hunter fell in beside Graden and Kellen. His spirits brightened at the prospect of grog. Yes, it's going to be a good night. He gripped Soulhunger's hilt. He would find a victim to feed the dagger and silence the voice. Tonight, I find peace!
Chapter Fourteen
Never in his life had the Hunter taken so long to finish a meal. Even after a long day on the road, the screeching in his head had pushed him to the limits of exhaustion and stole his appetite. He had no idea whether Allon's stew tasted good or not—though, judging by the noisy slurping around him, it must be excellent. He took small, occasional bites, not to savor the meal but rather to prolong it.
The rum helped. The strong liquor, distilled in Allon's own wagon, scorched the back of his throat with every swallow. He relished the burning sensation and the heavy taste of cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, and a few other spices he didn't recognize. Every mouthful pulled him from the languor that had settled on him over the course of the meal, drowned out the demon's insane shrieks.
Madelyne, one of the camp followers, lingered around him longer than usual, trying to catch his eye. She was pretty enough, in a tired, worn way. He'd visited her tent after Rill's death, and again after Udell, but he thought of her as nothing more than a way to satisfy the urges that followed every kill. He needed the release, and she welcomed his presence. Clearly she was interested in his company again.
He forced a smile. She returned it and mouthed something incomprehensible before hurrying away. Perhaps he would pay her a visit tonight. He needed something to take his mind off the inevitable torment. Without Hailen's presence to silence the voices, he knew what faced him: hours spent tossing and turning, staring into the darkness, desperate for peace. The dreaded pleas, wails, and insistent demands for death would plague him until he fell asleep. Then the memories would come, bringing a whole new form of torment. No, the more time he spent here, sitting among his hungry companions, the less time he would spend fighting for his sanity.
But eventually, unavoidably, the bowl sat empty and the last crust of trail bread swallowed. With a nod to Allon, he wandered away from the cookwagon, cup of rum clutched in his hand.
He sipped the strong brew, trying to make it last as long as possible. He didn't feel the effects—not as he had that night with Bardin, back in Malandria—but even the temporary reprieve from the voices soothed the ache in his head.
His feet carried him toward Ayden's covered wagon. Ayden sat outside, his pale faced pinched and drawn. The healer looked as if he hadn't slept more than a few hours over the last week. He barely glanced up when the Hunter approached.
"How are they?" the Hunter asked.
Ayden's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Eileen is in a very delicate condition, but there's hope for her. Natania…" His voice broke.
The Hunter felt an odd sensation. Sympathy, or something like it, he realized. The Hunter patted the healer's shoulder awkwardly, then hurried away.
Guilt twisted his muscles in knots as he approached his tent. Two figures disappeared around the corner of a nearby shelter, but not before the Hunter recognized Hailen's familiar form. He had an urge to go after Hailen, to bring him back to the tent. He couldn't face a night alone with the screeching and wailing in his mind. But he didn't know how to deal with the boy.
He's better off with Marin. He'll be happier, at least for tonight. I always have tomorrow to make things right.
The demon's screams coalesced into low mutterings. 'Perhaps he would be better off with Marin for more than just tonight. You are a fool to think you are what's best for him. You killed everyone he knew back in Malandria, then whisked him away with you to lands unknown.'
He couldn't argue with the logic. Would Hailen be safer under Marin's care? What did he have to offer the boy?
Derisive laughter filled his thoughts. 'The life you lead is no life for a child, much less one like him. You would be better off without him.'
The Hunter strode past his tent and toward the darkness beyond the edge of the camp. He needed a moment alone, away from it all. Pressure mounted within his head, and his chest felt a heartbeat from bursting. His feet moved faster, his desperation growing, until he sprinted through the sea of tents and shelters. His vision blurred, his breath caught in his lungs, and his legs burned, but still he ran. He fled the mocking, demanding voices, but he could find no peace, no escape.
Be silent! Leave me alone!
His foot struck soft sand. Off balance, he sprawled, tumbling into a haphazard heap. The world whirled around him, and a sea of red washed over his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fists as if clinging to the last vestiges of sanity. He felt himself drowning beneath the current of anger, rage, and lust emanating from the blade. The demon's screeching laughter rang in his mind; the damned thing mocked him. It would not leave him alone, not until he gave in.
I am in control, he repeated. I decide when I take a life.
Over and over, the words echoed in his mind, driving back the pleading, demanding, insistent voices. Slowly, excruciatingly, the pressure in his head and chest retreated. It remained there, but faded into the background of his thoughts. His aches and pains asserted themselves. His hands protested. His lungs burned from running and from the sand he had inhaled. A sharp tingle ran down his right leg and knee as he climbed to his feet.
'Behold the mighty Hunter of Voramis. What a weakling!'
The Hunter cursed at the voice in his thoughts and forced his leg to support his weight. He focused on the twinge in his knee, using it to drown out the demon's voice. Deliberately, he stepped forward onto the injured leg. Though it threatened to buckle, it held.
A sound reached his ears: the low growl of a beast of prey. It came from somewhere off to his right, behind a small stand of rocks a few dozen paces back from the camp. He sniffed the air and immediately his senses were on full alert. The scent of predator met his nostrils: raw meat, blood, and the pungent odor the beast used to mark its territory. It mixed with another aroma, one he recognized. Scorched hair. Red-hot metal. Sweat-stained leather.
Graden!
The Hunter reached for his sword and cursed to find it missing. He'd left belt and blade hanging over the horn of his saddle. Only Soulhunger remained, the blade strapped in its sheath at the small of his back.
It will have to do.
He hobbled toward the outcropping of rocks as quickly as his injured knee allowed. The growling grew in intensity, accompanied a moment later by a loud, unmistakable grunt.
A new scent entered the melange, similar to the first, but distinct in its pungent odor.
Damn it! Two of whatever the accursed things are.
Ignoring the ache in his leg, he lurched forward into a run. Soulhunger slipped from its sheath with a ring of steel on leather. The dagger whispered in his mind, eager to feed. Man or beast, the blade didn't care; it craved blood, regardless of its provenance.
The Hunter raced around the pile of rocks, Soulhunger held at the ready. Graden lay on the ground, struggling with a massive shape so black it seemed a void in the evening gloom. Eyes of a horrible yellow burned above long fangs that shone in the darkness, and the creature's lithe muscles rippled beneath midnight feline fur. Graden's massive arms bulged as he struggled to keep the beast's raking claws away from his face. The battle was not going well.
To make things worse, another pair of amber eyes burned in the darkness beyond. The form moved like lightning, slipping through the night with all the stealth of a shadow. The burning orbs latched onto the Hunter and, for one heart-wrenching moment, stopped him in his tracks. Snarling, the beast crouched and leapt.
The Hunter had only a moment to raise Soulhunger before an immense weight slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. Its warm, fetid breath reeked of blood and rotting meat. Drool dripped from the massive cat's jaws and soaked his face. He grunted as the beast's claws carved deep furrows across his chest, shoulders, and face. Blinded by his own blood, he struck out with Soulhunger and sliced through fur and flesh.
The beast howled and swiped at the Hunter with an enormous paw, laying open the arm he threw up to stop the claws from tearing out his eyes. Acting on instinct, he thrust Soulhunger upward. Hot blood gushed over his arm as Soulhunger's razor edge drove through flesh, bone, and cartilage inside the massive creature's gaping jaws.
The beast swiped at him, but the attacks grew weak. The Hunter, staring into the burning yellow eyes, saw primal fear fill its gaze. He forced the blade further, seeking the soft mass of the beast's brain.
The greatcat lashed out weakly with its massive paw, almost as if by reflex. With one final shudder, it slumped atop him and lay still, its immense bulk pinning him to the ground. Gore soaked through his clothing, assailing his nostrils with the scent of fresh blood. His face, chest, and arm throbbed where the raking claws had laid open flesh.
A stifled grunt of pain met his ears. Graden still wrestled the other beast, and the raking claws and long, razor-sharp fangs drew closer to ripping out the big man's throat with every heartbeat.
He can't survive much longer.
The creature had to weigh nearly as much as a horse, and every muscle in the Hunter's body strained as he heaved. Slowly, the enormous bulk shifted, lifted, and fell aside. Ignoring the burning slash marks on his upper body and face, he rolled to his feet and lurched toward Graden. He raised Soulhunger, its grip slick with dark blood, and slammed it into the creature's head.
The midnight cat barked in pain, but the blade's keen edge cut off its cries. The beast slumped, lifeless, and the Hunter shoved its bulk to the side. The effort sapped his last reserves of strength. He fell to his knees, panting, gasping for breath. Graden lay before him, clearly too exhausted to move.
'Kill him,' purred the voice in his head. 'Take his life force and let it fuel you. You're far away from camp. Everyone will think it was the beasts. Just like Udell.'
Soulhunger pulsed in his hands, lusted for blood.
Haven't you taken enough lives today? These two creatures died…
'Beasts! Insensate animals! We demand the blood of humans!' The demon's snarls set his head pounding with such ferocity that he nearly cried
out.
No. The Hunter clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. Not this man.
'Why not? What is he…'
Because I say so. He fought to push the voices back. You will have your prey, soon enough. But not him.
"You hurt?" Graden's deep voice rumbled like thunder.
The Hunter swallowed hard and pushed the voices away. "I-I'm fine," he stammered. His throat begged for water. The wounds on his chest, shoulders, and face ached, but already he could feel the flesh knitting together. "I just need a moment to rest."
"Don't wait too long." The huge man struggled to a sitting position, then climbed to his feet with the ponderous movement of shifting stones. "No telling if there are more of them in camp. Go make sure your boy’s safe."
"He's with Marin. He'll be…"
Graden's eyes widened in horror, his jaw dropping. "What? You left him with the nonce?"
"Aye." The Hunter nodded. "What of it? And what's a nonce?" He'd never heard the word.
Graden studied him askance, incredulity and suspicion mixed on his face. "You've heard what the priests of the Master do, yeah?
The Hunter's heart stopped. He felt as if a horse had kicked him in the gut. He saw an image in his mind: a leering, pale-faced man in the mottled blue and green robes of the Master ran a long-fingered hand over the exposed thigh of a boy no older than ten. The Arms of Heaven in Voramis catered to all tastes. It was whispered in low places that none could match the unusual appetites of the priests in service to Kiro, the Master.
"You mean...?"
Graden nodded.
Bloody, twisted hell! Acid burned the back of the Hunter's throat. And I trusted him with…
"Go!" Graden's shout snapped the Hunter from his stunned horror. "Find him!"
Without waiting for a reply, the huge man turned and sprinted into the darkness.
The Last Bucelarii Book 3: Gateway to the Past Page 10