The Last Bucelarii Book 3: Gateway to the Past

by Andy Peloquin

  The Hunter winced. Hope I didn't hit him too hard!

  More shouts of alarm sounded from the halls ahead, and the Hunter dashed through the halls. He called to mind his memory of the route he'd taken with Captain Al-Zahar and Samia. If he could find his way back to the Queen's chambers, he could retrace his steps and find the hidden passage out of the palace.

  The sound of clanking armor greeted him, and he hurled himself into a side corridor. He had no desire to face more Royal Guards. They would only slow his escape, and he might be forced to kill them. He only wanted to leave the palace—and Al Hani—forever.

  He rushed down a familiar corridor and slammed his shoulder into the door to the queen's private chambers. Servants looked up in terror, but he barreled on. The way he sought lay just ahead.

  A familiar sight stopped him. The curved sword of Nasnaz the Great lay on the queen's office table. My sword.

  He drew the blade with reverence. The gildwork on the hilt sparkled in the candlelight, and the leather wrappings felt just right in his hands. A part of him wanted to take it. Like Soulhunger, the sword was a connection to his past, a memory of who he had once been.

  I was Nasnaz the Great. This belonged to me.

  Yet another part rebelled at the thought of wielding the sword. The blade had carved a kingdom in the heart of the desert, at the cost of thousands of lives. He needed Soulhunger, but he could live without the ornate sword. Too much blood had stained its blade.

  If Nasnaz the Great truly was as the demon claimed, it is a part of my past better left forgotten.

  He sheathed the sword with a ring of steel on leather. Replacing the ornamental scabbard on the table, he seized the plain hilt of the Royal Guard's blade. It would suffice.

  With one final look at the beautiful sword, he hurried from the queen's chambers. Instinct took over in the near-identical corridors, and he allowed muscle memory to guide him through the labyrinthine halls of the palace. He'd only come this way once, but years spent hunting prey had taught him well. His internal compass would lead him unerringly.

  His heart leapt at sight of the tapestry that hid the secret corridor. A company of guards clattered toward him, forcing him to duck out of view. Pulse racing, he waited. Had they seen him?

  The armored figures clanked past, shouting in the language of Al Hani. His fingers traced the outline of the al-Malek's ring, hidden in a secret pocket in his robes. He had only one mission: escape with his prize.

  He waited a dozen heartbeats and peered around the pillar. No sign of life. Perfect!

  He felt along the wall behind the tapestry. Captain Al-Zahar had done something and…

  Aha!

  His sensitive fingertips detected a slight depression in the wall. A push, and stone rumbled to one side to reveal a gaping mouth into darkness.

  He cast a glance over his shoulder. Across the palace courtyard, a pillar of fire towered from the al-Malek's chambers. Smoke billowed into the heavens, blotting out the stars. Shouts and cries added to the din of the alarm bells that tolled around the palace.

  Lifting a lantern from the wall, he rushed into the darkened passage. Stone ground against stone, and the hidden passage swung shut.

  He was free.

  ***

  Adrenaline coursed through the Hunter, lending wings to his feet. He pulled his dark cloak tighter. If anyone spotted the blood staining his clothing, they would raise an alarm. The Shouting Sword seemed an endless distance away. He forced himself to move at a fast walk. No sense attracting attention, not with the city at full alert.

  Few people traveled the streets at this time of night. Those he encountered ran in the direction of the palace. Alarm bells pealed throughout the city. The palace burned, and the people of Al Hani wanted to see the spectacle.

  One problem out of the way, now to deal with the next. Somehow, he had to track down Younis without being spotted. He had no idea where to start. If I can discover how he's communicating with his men, I may be able to buy myself some time. At least enough to find a way to eliminate them.

  He had no doubt Il Seytani's men had orders to kill him once they had the al-Malek's ring. Il Seytani might claim to be a man of business, but the Hunter had seen how ruthless he could be. His fist clenched at memory of the blood pouring from Hailen's neck. He wouldn't trust Hailen's fate in the hands of the bandit leader. He'd have to free the boy himself.

  That meant killing Younis and all his companions. The bandits wielded iron weapons, and they outnumbered him. Then he'd have to reach Il Seytani's camp before the bandit leader grew suspicious. Without his escort to vouch for him, his only hope lay in sneaking into the camp and getting Hailen out unseen. Alone, he had no doubt he could do it. The boy complicated things.

  He refused to think of what would happen after. Elivast was fleet and strong, but would be carrying two riders. Il Seytani's horses were bred to roam the desert. He had no doubt the bandits would catch him before he could travel more than a day or two, no matter the head start.

  How long would Hailen survive a flight across the desert, much less a desperate last stand against bandits armed with iron?

  What choice did he have? Il Seytani had to die, though it rankled him to think that the bandit's death could play into the plans of the Sage, whoever the man was. The Hunter ground his teeth. Every time he tried to go against a demon, someone ended up suffering as a result. What would happen to Aghzaret now?

  Enough! One problem at a time. He'd figure out his plans after rescuing the boy.

  'Why go back for him at all?' The demon's voice echoed in his thoughts. 'Why risk yourself?'

  'You go to do the impossible. You go to your death.'

  The demon wasn't wrong. The Hunter had little chance of success, even without the boy to slow him down.

  Enough. I do what I must.

  He would find a way. He had no other choice. Hailen had suffered enough for a lifetime. He'd watched the Hunter kill the Beggar Priests that were his only family. He'd traveled half-way across Einan with the man who had murdered the man who'd cared for him. He'd been taken by bandits, and caged and tortured like an animal.

  No more, the Hunter resolved. No more suffering. Hailen would live the life of a normal boy. No more following the Hunter on his quest to rid Einan of the demons. If it means I have to deliver the boy to the nearest House of Need, so be it.

  A twinge of fear coursed through him. The voices had fallen silent, but they would return. They always returned. How would he survive without Hailen's presence to push back the demon's shrieking, and Soulhunger's demanding insistence? It didn't matter. He would make do without the boy. He would find more victims to feed to the endless bloodlust raging in his mind. He would do it, for Hailen.

  He stroked Bardin's silver pendant. His friend had done the same when fear or anxiety threatened to overwhelm him. The Hunter found the gesture oddly comforting.

  Something drifted across his field of vision. A piece of sheer fabric drifted lazily on the evening breeze. His gaze followed the cloth—the sight so out of place in the chaos of the panicked city. A heartbeat later, the scent reached him. Lilies. Jasmines. Alyssum blossoms.

  Instinct kicked in, and he threw himself to the side as something sliced the air where he'd stood. His shoulder slammed into the packed earth of the street, but he rolled to his feet and drew Soulhunger in a smooth motion.

  "Well, well," came the familiar voice. "If it isn't the elusive Bucelarii." A woman stepped from the shadows up the street, a smile on her face. In the darkness, her skin looked barely a shade lighter than midnight. The taut lines of her arms and shoulders rippled like a beast of prey. Even had she worn more than the sheer fabric that clung to her svelte form, he would have recognized the large lips, thick nose, and tightly coiled hair.

  "Jemdara." His heart sank. "I don't have time for this. I have to—"

  "You have to what?" Jemdara's teeth gleamed in the darkness. "Murder innocents and drink their blood, demon? It is the way of your kind, is i
t not?"

  The Hunter snorted. "My kind?"

  "Yes, you Bucelarii," Jemdara spat. "My Sisters and I have heard the tales, passed down from our ancestors. For centuries, we have served the Illusionist Clerics, hunting down the monsters that plague this world. Your time has come to join your kin in whatever nameless hell spawned you."

  The Hunter scanned the shadows. How many hid in the darkness, waiting for him to turn his back? How many had the Illusionist Cleric sent to capture him?

  "Please, don't do this. Not now. An innocent child's life is at risk. Would you have that on your conscience?"

  Jemdara snorted. "Do you believe I am foolish enough to believe you, creature? There is nothing you can say that will sway me from my purpose."

  The Hunter shook his head. "That is what I feared." He passed Soulhunger to his right hand. "Forgive me for what I must do."

  He darted forward, and Soulhunger carved deadly arcs in the air. He thrust and cut with lightning speed, hoping to get her out of the fight before her sisters closed in. She wielded the cloth like a shield, blocking his blows. Baring her teeth in a wordless growl, she lashed out with the strip of fabric whenever an opening presented itself. Time and again, the blade sewn into the cloth snapped against his skin, and where it touched, blood flowed. In the space of a dozen heartbeats, the Hunter bled from twice as many tiny wounds.

  He tried to throw her off balance with a succession of quick blows and kicks, but she knocked them aside without hesitation. The cloth whipped and darted like a striking snake, gouging the flesh of his neck and laying open a cut above his eye.

  "I don't...have time…for this!" Each attack punctuated, but not a single strike landed.

  Too late, he heard the whisper of fabric on his left. Sandaled feet slapped on the road as Jemdara's Sisters surrounded him. A cloth snaked around his forearm and pulled tight against his wrist. He yanked hard, freeing his hand. Another coil constricted around his right elbow. Two more looped about his legs, and before he could react, they pulled taut. His legs flew out from beneath him. Arms restrained, his face slammed into the hard-packed earth of the street. Jemdara leapt astride him in an instant. The strip of fabric entwined about his throat, and she dug her knee into his back,

  Gasping for air, the Hunter struggled to move as cloths pulled tight around his wrists and ankles, dragging his arms and legs to their full extension. He thrashed in the dirt, helpless as a hobbled horse. His lungs cried out as the fabric around his throat cut off air, but the more he struggled, the tighter the cloths drew.

  "Thank whatever god you demons worship that we are not here to kill you," Jemdara whispered, her breath hot in his ear. "Were our orders not to bring you alive…"

  His vision clouded, and he fought to choke out a protest. Jemdara pulled his head back and dug her knee harder into his spine. Slowly, agonizingly, the world around him faded to true black.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Pain crushed the Hunter's neck, throat, and lungs. Every breath burned. He tried to turn his head, but something held it fast. He lay on his back, arms pulled to their full length. Something strong and thick held his limbs bound. The terror and panic of his inner demon echoed against his skull.

  How much time did I lose? How long was I unconscious? He scanned the darkness, looking for any ray of light to tell him if the sun or moon rode high in the sky. The only light in the room flickered outside his field of vision.

  I have to get out of here! I have to find Younis.

  "Welcome back, Bucelarii." The familiar maddening giggle of the Illusionist Cleric sounded beside the Hunter, and the man himself stepped into view. His face seemed to have grown new lines in the weeks since Azmaria. Only the barest hint of a bruise remained on his jaw.

  "You have to let me go." The Hunter's words came out in a rasp. His parched throat begged for water.

  "Hee hee, he says we have to let him go." The Illusionist Cleric—Imperius, Jemdara called him in Azmaria—spoke to no one in particular. He stared into the darkness, his eyes unfocused. "If only the little Bucelarii knew how much effort went into hunting him down after he fled Azmaria. Only with your power, oh mighty Illusionist, were we able to find him."

  The Hunter's heart sank. The cleric was as insane as the rest of his kind. He actually thinks he's talking to the Illusionist.

  "You don't understand. I—"

  Imperius patted the Hunter's arm and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You'd be amazed by what we can do, little demonspawn." He burst into a maddening giggle and waggled a finger at the Hunter. "Had we been given the command to kill you all those millennia ago, your kind would have been eradicated long ago. But the foolish brothers of the Beggar fail at their job time and again." His eyes flashed, and his face darkened into a deranged frown. "Idiots! They are the only ones with the tools to do what is necessary, but they are useless!"

  Twisted hell! He'd thought Bardin unpredictable, but his Malandrian friend seemed sane in comparison to this volatile Illusionist Cleric. Even Garanis had hidden his insanity better than Imperius.

  "Release me." The Hunter struggled against his bonds. "I have to get out of here."

  The cleric's anger turned to confusion."He wants to leave? Why would he not want to stay and let us help him, mighty Spellbinder?" His eyes lost focus again, and he cocked an ear. "How can he not see we are doing him a favor?"

  This puzzled the Hunter. "What are you talking about? How are you helping me?"

  Imperius' eyes converged on the Hunter's face. "I keep you from the path of your fathers, little one."

  What in the frozen hell is he talking about?

  The priest spoke, and his voice had deepened, his eyes lost all trace of madness. "The blood of humankind runs through his veins, diluting the pollution of the Abiarazi. To the Bucelarii is given a choice: human or demon, which forefather will they choose to follow?"

  "Wait!" The Hunter's mind raced. "But why erase our memories? How does that serve?"

  As if something snapped, Imperius' gaze fixed on something invisible and the maddening giggle returned. "Your life is long, Bucelarii, far longer than it should be. The mistakes of humans rarely outlive them." He tapped the Hunter in the chest with a bony finger. "Your mistakes, your choices, live for thousands of years. With your memories erased, you are reborn. We offer you a clean slate, a chance to make of yourself a new, better creature."

  The Hunter shook his head. "But what if you remove the wrong memories? You say we have the chance to choose our own path, yet your actions remove all choice from the matter."

  Imperius's face grew solemn, but a trace of madness danced behind his eyes. "It is our most holy task." He threw himself to his knees, hands extended in supplication. "We do not question your truths, mighty Illusionist!" Bending double, face to the floor, the Illusionist Cleric babbled nonsense.

  "Imperius." A woman's voice pierced the muttering. Jemdara strode from behind him and placed a hand on the Illusionist Cleric's shoulder. "Remember what you must do."

  Imperius whirled on the woman, eyes flashing, teeth bared. At sight of Jemdara, his rage turned to delight in a heartbeat. "What's that, my beauty?"

  Jemdara ground her teeth. "The ritual, priest."

  Confusion stained Imperius' features. His gaze remained unfocused, locked onto something over Jemdara's head. The woman helped him to his feet and tugged the pendant from beneath his shirt. "Get it over with." She pressed the necklace into his hand.

  The puzzlement fled from the Illusionist Cleric's face at sight of the silver pendant, and sanity peeked through his smile. "Yes, of course. Thank you."

  Straightening his stained and ripped robes, he hefted the pendant and set it swinging in the candlelight. The Hunter locked eyes with the man. The madness had gone, replaced by utter confidence and calm. Almost as if the ritual gave his scattered mind focus, just as Bardin's "work" had.

  "You don't know what you're doing, priest," the Hunter growled. "If you do this, an innocent will die." He refused to look
away from the cleric's eyes. If he did, he would drown in the dancing silver.

  Imperius shook his head and spoke in a soothing singsong voice. "This is not the first time I have heard your kind beg for their lives. Oh, the excuses you concoct…" The pendant swayed faster, reflecting the flickering light.

  "This is no excuse!" The Hunter jerked his arms, trying to pull free. "I am telling you the truth. There is a young boy.”

  Something struck the Hunter hard. His ears rang, and dark spots danced and whirled around him.

  "He is too strong." The Illusionist Cleric's bizarre giggling reached him, sounding far off.

  "Leave him." Jemdara's voice echoed in the room. "Once his stomach shrivels and his throat begs for water, his mind will weaken. Hunger and thirst do strange things to a man's mind. It will affect even a creature of the hells."

  Imperius responded, but the Hunter didn't hear the words. The light receded as the Illusionist Cleric and Jemdara strode from the room. A door closed with a ring of finality, plunging the Hunter into darkness.

  ***

  Time passed at an agonizing pace. Silence thundered in the Hunter's ears, and sweat dripped down his face and stung his eyes. The slow thump, thump of his heartbeat sounded maddeningly loud in his ears. His shoulders ached from the awkward angle of his bonds, and his dry throat clicked as he swallowed. The demon's voice had returned, and now its terrified wailing battered his mind. He fought to keep his breathing under control—if he didn't, he would succumb to the panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

  He tested the bonds again, failing once more despite his inhuman strength. Whatever these are, they're far stronger than leather or rope!