The towering walls of Azgharet shone bright in the midday sun, almost looking as if they dripped blood. The vivid red held him rapt. He'd only ever seen stone of a similar crimson hue in one other place: the Chasm of the Lost.
As they drew nearer, the Hunter could see signs of deterioration. Crags and cracks showed where the wall had decayed and only been half-heartedly mended. No soldiers patrolled the battlements and only a token force guarded the gates. The paunchy men looked better-suited to taking bribes and drinking ale than fighting an invading army.
Clearly Al Hani is a land of peace. Only a city unaccustomed to war would allow its defenses to grow so lax.
The guards gave them a cursory glance as they entered, and one spoke to Younis in the local tongue. The Hunter didn't understand the exchange, but the man's tone held no real suspicion. He seemed to be simply going through the motions rather than looking for serious threats to the city.
One man caught his attention: a thin, wiry fellow with skin a shade darker than the rest. He had the same narrowed eyes and wary expression that set Younis apart from the Al Hanese, with none of the plumpness of the other guards. Stepping forward with confidence, the man gripped the bridle of Younis' horse with a scarred hand. As he exchanged a few words with the bandit, the guard's eyes darted to the Hunter. He called out something in the local tongue, clearly a question.
The Hunter remained silent.
"Merchant?" The man spoke Einari with a thick accent.
The Hunter nodded, but offered no more information.
The guard jabbered at Younis, who responded with a few short sentences. Something about their exchange seemed off, but the Hunter couldn't put his finger on it. He almost missed it when Younis slipped something to the man—it looked like a small purse.
Clearly, everywhere in the world men have a price. None of the other guards seemed to notice, and the man waved them through without any change in expression.
Younis thrust his chin toward the city. "You know what to do, ytaq. You have your task. I'll be seeing you around."
"Wait! You're leaving me? What about my belongings?"
"In time. You won't need them yet."
The Hunter clenched his jaw. "How will I…?"
"I will deliver them, once I am certain you will keep your word." His eyes flicked to the city gates, then back to the Hunter's face.
Of course. The guard at the gate would be one more set of eyes to ensure the Hunter didn't flee the city before he completed his mission.
"But…"
He turned to Younis, but the bandit had disappeared. The Hunter scanned the crowd, but he could see no sign of the little man in the colorful robes. More accurately, he saw only little men—and women—in bright-colored garments. To his eyes, everyone around him looked exactly the same.
He was alone, in an unfamiliar city, among people who spoke an unfamiliar language. Worse still, he had no weapons, and no way to find the man who held Soulhunger captive.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Beyond the the city gates, it was as if the Hunter entered a whole new world. He was surrounded by people wearing bright-patterned clothing that seemed almost garish compared to the dull, somber colors worn by the common folk of Voramis and Malandria, whose robes hid rather than accentuated their features. A few wore garments that covered their body from head to toe, with only their dark eyes visible. Their skin tone ranged from dusky to near-black, and the faces staring back at him looked weather-beaten and worn. Their leather sandals looked far flimsier than the sturdy boots and shoes of the southern cities.
One thing remained unchanged: poverty. The reek of unwashed men, women, and children hit him like a physical assault. The people around him smelled different from those of the south, with deeper, musk-heavy aromas that overwhelmed his sensitive nostrils. He wrapped the headcloth around his face, both to hide his southern features and cover his nose.
Boys no older than Hailen chased a threadbare ball into an open sewer. A bone-thin, stooped woman well into her ninth decade of life yelled at a man lying face-down in a pile of refuse. Beggars sat by the side of the road, filthy hands extending bowls as they cried of their misfortunes.
Passing wagons and carts kicked up thick dust that covered everything and everyone within a hundred paces of the city gate. It muted the bright colors of the city, giving the buildings along the street a washed-out, dull appearance.
A hunched shell of a man shambled alongside the Hunter, his eyes downcast, clothes ripped and fraying, balding head uncovered. He sang to a melody that only he could hear, words spilling from his mouth in a jumble.
The Hunter gripped the silver pendant at his neck and swallowed the knot in his throat. The man reminded him of Bardin.
Rest well, my friend.
Elivast plodded up the street, moving in time with the crowd flowing around them. Squat, stocky buildings bordered the road. The dust-stained walls and ochre roof tiles gave the outer fringes of the city a gloomy, oppressive feel. Even the fabrics sold in the myriad stalls lining the highway were muted browns and greys.
An enormous building at the heart of the city drew his eyes like a lodestone. Dozens of fragile-looking towers rose around a massive, egg-shaped dome of mixed blue and gold. The towering wall surrounding the structure rivaled the Enclosure ringing the upper tiers of Malandria.
That could only be the palace of the al-Malek. If I am to find this Assad Ibn-Qadir, that is where I must go.
As if reading the Hunter's thoughts, Elivast snorted and kicked into a trot. Before he had traveled more than a few hundred paces, he found himself caught up in a throng of moving people. It seemed the ocean of humanity traveled in one direction—away from the Palace. He tried to force Elivast through the crowd, but the horse snorted and stamped, clearly nervous. He turned the beast's head and allowed himself to be drawn with the flow.
No way to fight the crowds, not with Elivast so skittish.
The insistent voice in his mind added to the din, setting his head pounding. The demon had grown more demanding since leaving Il Seytani's camp.
Deeper into the city, the dust and filth gave way to beauty and elegance. Delicate, pencil-thin minarets soared hundreds of paces into the sky, standing guard over the city. Domes dotted the skyline of Aghzaret, their gold, green, and blue exteriors reflecting the light of the midday sun. Alabaster statues and marble columns fronted the impressive, multi-tiered buildings along the avenue. White-washed walls provided a stark contrast to the elaborate beauty of semi-domes and lofty vaults. Tiles of mind-boggling patterns called out to him from every side, each a new wonder that clamored for his attention.
His eyes fell upon the sign of an inn. Bold Einari letters proclaimed it "The Shouting Sword", and beneath were etched symbols he guessed said the same thing in the local tongue. He dug his heels into Elivast's flanks and turned the horse's head toward the entrance. Passersby shouted and collided with the horse, but the Hunter ignored them. He had to get out of the press of people and quickly.
Breaking free of the crowd, he spurred Elivast through the stone archway and into the inn courtyard. A dark-skinned youth ran out to greet him, jabbering in the language of Al Hani. At the Hunter's blank stare, the boy shook his head and dashed back inside. A moment later, he returned with an older man in tow.
The man rattled off a string of words, but the Hunter shrugged. Again he tried, and this time the Hunter understood despite the thick accent. "You stay inn?"
The Hunter nodded. "Yes."
The man thrust a sun-browned finger at the boy, then at Elivast. "Ibraim care for horse."
"Good." The Hunter tossed a pair of copper bits at the youth, who caught them and studied them with a curious expression. The older man barked a command, and the boy took Elivast's reins.
The Hunter held out a hand. "Wait."
With deft movements, he untied his bags from behind the saddle and slung them over his shoulder. At his nod, the boy pulled the horse toward what had to be the stable.
&
nbsp; "Come." The older man beckoned and the Hunter followed.
What the inn lacked in elegance, it made up for in comfort. Couches and divans dotted the main room, surrounding a merrily bubbling fountain. A high-vaulted ceiling looked down on a floor covered in a complex geometric pattern of tiles. Simple tapestries and paintings adorned the walls, and fresh flowers sat in clay pitchers atop each of the dining tables.
A young woman hurried from the back of the inn, calling out to the older man in the local language. She stopped at sight of the Hunter, and the old man said something in a tone of clear distaste. After a brief exchange the Hunter didn't understand, the woman nodded.
"Please to come." She spoke in a smoky voice he found alluring. "To room."
The Hunter followed her through a maze of corridors. She led him past a number of staircases which descended into the earth rather than rising to a second level. The woman stopped at one such stairway and pointed to the curtain at the bottom of the half-dozen steps.
"Your room."
The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "No door?"
The woman shrugged. "Safe here. No one…" She struggled to find the word. "…take things." She held out a hand and mimicked a chopping motion.
She stood so close to him, and he was suddenly very aware of her. Everything about her intrigued him. Her strong, well-formed hands belied her petite frame. The crimson scarf around her head and neck framed an angular high-cheeked face that he found appealing. Her dark eyes met his for a heartbeat, before dropping away demurely. She smelled of rose oil, cinnamon, and a spice he'd never encountered. His body stirred in response to her presence.
It has been too long. If I had a few coins to spare…
"Th...Thank you," he choked out.
Fool! He had no time to find out if she'd be interested.
She gave him a knowing smile and bowed from the waist. "Excuse me, please. Must to see al-Malek."
The words sent a jolt through the Hunter. "al-Malek? He is here?"
"In Sah Alkhwin." She stumbled over the words. "T-Traitor Square? For execution."
Perfect.
"What execution?" he asked.
The woman spoke a few words in her own language and shrugged. "Bad men."
"And the king…al-Malek…he will be there?"
The woman nodded. "He give command to kill."
The Hunter's heart leapt. All thoughts of desire fled, and his mind turned to his mission. He could easily hide in a crowd, and, with all eyes on the execution, he would have little trouble getting close to the king.
"Thank you. I will follow in a moment."
With a nod, the Hunter hurried down the stairs. Sparse and simple, the room held only a pile of blankets and a small table with a pitcher and basin. He didn’t mind. He doubted he'd be spending much time there.
He dropped his saddlebags onto the pile of blankets. They would be safe until he returned for them. Il Seytani's men had taken his weapons and the token valuables he'd left visible in his saddlebags. Only a few personal items lay within, along with a few sets of clothing and uneaten rations.
If the bandits didn't find my hidden loot, no one else will. Years of living in Lower Voramis had taught him clever ways to safeguard his fortune. He ripped the cloth lining of a saddlebag and drew out one of the stashed gold coins. It would suffice to pay for a few nights at the inn. Though if all goes well, I'll be out of here before the end of the day!
Never mind the fact that he didn't have Soulhunger or his sword. The man Younis held those; the Hunter would find a way to retrieve them before leaving the city. If he had to take them from Younis' lifeless corpse, so be it. The bastard deserved it.
But first I have to find a weapon.
Without Soulhunger, the Swordsman's blades, or his sword, killing the al-Malek would prove challenging. He could kill with his bare hands, had done so on many occasions, but he preferred the tools of his trade.
Let's see if the Shouting Sword lives up to its name.
Chapter Twenty-Four
With a muttered curse for Younis, the Hunter gripped the wooden hilt of the knife he'd pilfered from the kitchen of the Shouting Sword. The blade, hidden by the voluminous sleeves of the robe, was dull and worn from years of use slicing. It was better than attacking the al-Malek empty-handed, but not by much.
Right now, I'd give my right arm for any of my knives—or anything better than this pitiful weapon.
The bandits had searched him thoroughly and stripped him of everything. Since Malandria, he'd never gotten around to replacing the various daggers he'd once worn around his person. The Hunter of Voramis would never recognize the man who now slipped through the crowded streets of Aghzaret.
Men, women, and children pressed around him, their eyes bright and eager, voices filled with excitement. The Hunter had to pause for a breath as the musky, spice-laden odor of the people of Aghzaret assaulted his nostrils. The myriad scents only made the pounding in his head worse.
Of the hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of people in the street, most kept their dusky faces uncovered, though bulky robes hid the rest of their form from sight. A few sported the bright, patterned headcloths worn by those at Il Seytani's camp—similar to the one he now wore. These men—or women, he couldn't tell—obscured their faces with the cloths, revealing only their dark, glittering eyes.
The perfect disguise.
With the headcloth over his face and his hands hidden inside the ample sleeves, he looked like everyone else around him. Perhaps a bit taller, but not noticeably so. He allowed himself to be pulled along by the flow, moving at an easy pace.
The tightly-packed street gave way to a wide avenue, and the crowd spilled into an enormous plaza. The open space stretched hundreds of paces in every direction, surrounded by imposing multi-storied structures. People crowded the balconies, milled through the paved square, and climbed atop wagons and carts for a better view. Palm trees stood guard around the plaza, instilling an atmosphere of solemnity that hushed the crowd.
In the heart of the square stood an enormous platform. The rich aroma of acacia wafted from the scaffolding, but the scent of blood—fresh, dried, and ancient—hung in the air like a thick pall. The stench matched the rust-colored stains that darkened the wood.
Atop the platform, four bound and hooded men in ripped, bloodstained clothing stood side by side beneath a gallows. The sun shone bright off the conical helmets and white tunics of the half-dozen guards surrounding the prisoners. They studied the crowd with dark, serious eyes, hands resting on the hilts of their curved swords. The wariness in their faces and the tension in their shoulders spoke of professionals. Even their leather armor held a sheen that could only come from hours of painstaking care.
A fanfare of trumpets drowned out the voices around him, and the throng broke into deafening cheers of "al-Malek! al-Malek!"
At the far end of Traitor's Square, the crowd parted to reveal an ornate, gilded carriage drawn by six white horses. Velvet curtains contrasted sharply with the bright gold working. A pair of liveried footmen rode before the carriage on silver dappled horses, with two more riding behind.
Dozens of leather-clad guards with shining helmets, bright swords, and hard eyes followed the procession. The carriage pulled up alongside the platform, and the cheers intensified to a roar as the door swung open and a man stepped out.
So, this is the al-Malek.
The king of Al Hani was a tall, thin man with a neatly trimmed beard that accented his angular features. Dark, curly hair peeked from beneath the white turban coiled around his head.
Not a very imposing figure. The al-Malek raised a slim, graceful hand and waved to the crowd. Doesn't look like much of a warrior, either.
The Hunter eyed the somber, stone-faced guards that dismounted and took up positions around the king. Their hands never strayed far from their scimitars, and they kept a wary eye on the people, alert for any sign of danger.
He wasted a moment wishing he still had his crossbows. The accursed Cambio
nari—Sir Danna and Visibos—had taken them before dumping his body into the Chasm of the Lost. In his hurry to flee Malandria, he'd forgotten to recover them when retrieving Soulhunger and the Swordsman's blades from the vault of the Beggar Priests. His only hope lay in getting close enough to the al-Malek to put the stolen kitchen knife in him.
Not the best plan of action, I must admit.
He drew his clothing tighter around him and wished for the cover of darkness. Had he held Soulhunger or his sword, he would have attacked without hesitation. Armed with a weapon better-suited to carrots and potatoes than human flesh, he had to resort to caution and skill.
With slow, steady steps, he slipped through the crowd, taking pains to avoid jostling those he passed. He hunched to hide his height—just one more in a sea of people. His headcloth hid all but his eyes; he wouldn't stand out.
Closer to the platform, he struggled to worm his way past cheering men, women, and children, using his elbows when necessary. A few people barked at him, and he had no need to understand their language to recognize a curse. Ignoring them, he focused on navigating through the crowd.
He felt exposed and vulnerable among so many people, but he forced himself on. In his five decades as an assassin, he'd come to understand the importance of careful planning and precise execution. Yet he'd also learned to recognize the luck of the Mistress and take advantage of fortunate happenstance. It didn’t matter that he had no time to plan, limited knowledge of the city, and a weapon fearsome when facing a loaf of bread but less efficient for slashing throats. He was the bloody Hunter of Voramis, damn it! He'd done more with less, and the opportunity was too good to pass up.
If it means I can rescue Hailen, I will do it. Even if he had to fight his way through a sea of guards and people, al-Malek would die by his hands. He needed to silence the demon's shrieking. The aching in his head had grown to near-intolerable intensity. The voice didn't care whether he killed with Soulhunger or his bare hands; it craved death in any form.
The Last Bucelarii Book 3: Gateway to the Past Page 16