He'd been in similar situations before, and always found a way to break free—given time. But time was the one thing he did not have. His lie to Younis had bought him an extra day, but how long had he been held down here? Hours? Days? Hailen's life hung in the balance; any delay could prove fatal.
The muscles in his arms bunched, and he heaved on the bonds until the hard surface of the table dug into his back. Nothing.
Damn it! I have to get out of here, now!
A door opened behind him, and he barked a curse as blinding light flared in the darkness. Squeezing his eyes shut, he listened to the quiet footsteps shuffling toward him. His nostrils filled with the scent of tallow, beeswax, and juniper, accompanied by a subtler hint of roses and lilacs.
Imperius and one of his dancing girls. Jemdara, no doubt.
He held still, feigning weakness. It was not a hard act. His tongue begged for water, and his stomach growled.
Imperius giggled. "We're baaack!" He spoke in a grating singsong voice. He tapped a finger on the Hunter's forehead. "Let's see if deprivation has loosened the vaults of your mind, eh?" With a titter, he pried open the Hunter's eyelid.
The Hunter hissed at the bright light. He tried to jerk away, but the bonds held his head fast.
"There you are!" A deranged grin broadened the cleric's face, and he giggled. "I thought you'd sleep the night away. You're just in time to watch the sunrise."
The Hunter's mind raced. Sunrise? That means it's still night. Could it be the same night I was taken?
No, judging by his hunger and thirst, at least a day had elapsed. He was running out of time: Younis would be expecting him soon. He had no desire to find out what would happen if the bandit suspected anything was amiss.
I have to get out of here!
"What can I do to convince you to free me?" He tried to open his eyes, but the light still blinded him. The demon's cries added to the throbbing ache in his head. "I just need one week, and I will submit myself to whatever torments you have in mind. You have my word."
"Your word? The little Bucelarii is giving us his word, is he?" Imperius tilted his head, eyes glazing over, and stroked his sparse beard with a filthy hand. "How many of his kind have sworn the same, Mighty Illusionist, only to betray us when given a chance?"
The Hunter's heart sank. My fate is in the hands of this…madman!
The Illusionist Cleric shook his head, and pointed at some invisible object. "Of course, my god. I remember that well. But when we finally caught up to him, we certainly—"
"Please!" Though he hated it, the Hunter was willing to beg. For Hailen. "Give me one week. The life of a child depends on it."
Imperius continued his invisible conversation as if not hearing the Hunter. "He's no child, is he? He's much too large, and his clothing. No child would wear armor like that. Or would they? Never know with children. Nasty, unpredictable creatures they are. Just as likely to kick you in the shins as smile at you. Why, last time—"
"Cleric!" Jemdara's voice cracked like a whip. "The task at hand."
With a scowl, Imperius glared over the Hunter's head. "Yes, yes." He lowered his voice to a mutter. "Thinks she can order us around, does she? Well, she's not the one in charge. We are, yes?"
The Hunter met his dancing gaze. "One week, priest. That is all I ask."
"Oh no, no no." Imperius clucked his tongue. "Once the gateway has been opened, it must be closed."
"Gateway?"
"Yes!" An eager grin spread across his face. "Memories. The gateway to the past." His eyes suddenly narrowed. "How did you hear about that? Have you been spying on me?"
The Hunter eyed the man, unease tightening his chest. Imperius was clearly out of his mind.
The Illusionist Cleric nodded and ran a gnarled finger along the Hunter's forehead. "The gateway must be shut or the memories will return. It is a weight the mind cannot bear." His gaze lost focus, and he cocked his head, dropping his voice to a whisper. "He doesn't know about the others like him, does he? He never heard the tales of his kind going mad, turning feral. You haven't told him the ritual is a kindness? Your ways are ever mysterious, mighty Conjurer."
He sees this as a good thing? This is his sick version of kindness. The Illusionist Cleric had said the erasure gave him a fresh start, a way to start anew. But to start with nothing, no memories of who—or what—I am? He shuddered. That is a torture no man should endure.
"I cannot believe there is something so terrible that I should not be allowed to remember it. What horrors could possibly be locked away in my mind?"
Imperius' eyes darted around the room. "He doesn't know? How could he not? Has no one told him?" He giggled. "Of course, I will carry out your instructions, oh divine Illusionist. I follow your will." He reached a filthy hand beneath his robes and drew out his silver pendant.
Damn it! Time had run out. With an animal roar of rage and frustration, the Hunter strained against his bonds, poured every ounce of strength into the effort, jerking his arms, legs, and neck in an attempt to break free. Nothing. He slumped back on the table, panting.
The Illusionist Cleric giggled. "Jemdara's little cloths are so strong, aren't they?" He seized one of the bonds and tugged at it until his face turned purple. With a gasp, he slumped against the Hunter. "I can't break them either!"
Imperius was so close. If the Hunter could break free, he could wrap his hands around the man's neck and squeeze the life from him. But the bonds refused to budge.
The cleric's eyes widened, and his smile twisted into a savage growl. "Where did you get this?" He snatched at the Hunter's chest. Cloth ripped, and Imperius tore the pendant from around the Hunter's neck. "How did you take this from me? This is mine! You will not!”
"Cleric." Jemdara pointed to Imperius' other hand.
Imperius' rage melted away in a heartbeat, replaced by delight. "Two of them?" With a giggle, he made the pendants dance on their chains. "One, bright and shining. The other, faded with age, belonging to a High Cleric."
What? In Malandria, Bardin had spoken of the High Illusionist Cleric. The priest had taken him as a ward, trained him for years, before meeting a grisly end during the Purge of Malandria. Bardin must have taken it off his mentor's body before he fled.
The silver pendants sparkled in the candlelight. "So shiny! Like a star, twinkling in the night sky." The dance of shadow and light caught the Hunter's gaze and tugged at his mind, inexorable, unwavering. He tried to look away, but his eyes remained locked on the twirling jewelry.
Before the Hunter could protest, Jemdara seized his chin and shoved a filthy cloth into his mouth.
He coughed and choked, fighting to breathe. No! I can't let this happen! Struggle as he might, he could not break free.
Chapter Forty-Three
Light glinted off the swinging pendants, drawing the Hunter into their depths. Imperius spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, but his words held power. The air grew suddenly heavy, pressing in on the Hunter. Imperius' voice rose, but only a dull, soothing murmur filled the Hunter's mind. He drowned in the pendants, unable to tear his gaze away. He tried to cry out, tried to look away, but the twin silver teardrops sucked him in with their relentless beauty.
Like a fly in a spider's web, his efforts to break free of the hypnotic dance of metallic shadows proved fruitless, and he sank deeper into the smooth, shimmering surface. The cleric's words tugged at the fabric of his consciousness. One by one, memories flashed before his eyes.
Fighting Jemdara and her Sisters in the streets of Aghzaret. Plunging Soulhunger into the demon's chest. Watching Samia's body burn in the al-Malek's chambers. Battling the al-Malek and his Royal Guard.
The images slipped from his mind like sand through his fingers. He tried to cling to the fragments of memory, but the Illusionist Cleric's soft voice and the liquid silver pulled at the very core of his being.
Pain like nothing he'd ever experienced flooded him, a torment not of flesh and blood, but one that surged in every nerve in his body a
nd set his mind ablaze. The priest's ritual shredded his mind as it sifted through his memories, tore at him, ripped him apart and put him back together in jagged pieces. With every heartbeat, the gaping holes in his mind grew larger.
A voice whispered deep in the recesses of his mind. 'Please! Don't let him do this!' The demon emanated terror, like a cornered rat. 'Don't let him lock me away again!'
Some small part of the Hunter felt surprise at the demon's begging. It had always demanded. The torment in his mind rose to a sickening crescendo until his head felt as if it would burst. Then, suddenly, like the bursting of a bubble, the shrieks and screams faded, and the demon's presence grew distant.
He floated outside his body, watching himself writhe and scream on the Illusionist Cleric's table, yet silence echoed in his head. The pendants danced and swung in time with the beat of his heart, and the soothing voice filled his world, drawing him farther into the empty void.
Perhaps some good could come of this. The thought was dim, somewhere lost in the tangled, agonizing mass of his mind. Perhaps I will finally have peace.
Everything around him faded. He heard nothing save the beat of his heart and the low murmur of the Illusionist Cleric's words. He was free of the mind-shattering screeching and the incessant demands for death.
Why do I fight?
He had so much to forget. He'd lost so much. Farida. Old Nan. His friends from Voramis. Bardin. Everyone who'd mattered to him, snatched away. He had to live with that torment or did he? He could forget the sorrow, the pain of loss. No more tearing, rending agony every time his mind returned to the familiar faces. No more living with the burden of the hundreds who had died at his hand.
Why not let it all go? Why not give in and let it all be wiped away? Glorious silence prevailed. The voices in his mind had gone, excised by the Illusionist Cleric's ritual. What if this could last forever?
He could let it happen, let the priest lock it all away. He wouldn't have to fight to push back the demon's voice, wouldn't be forced to kill to silence the insistent demands for blood. The endless struggle would be over. He could find the peace he so desperately craved.
Let it be over. Acceptance washed over him. He felt himself relaxing, and the torment in his mind faded. Let it end.
The demon's faint cry of desperation whispered through the void. 'Remember the boy!'
An image flashed through his mind: Hailen, sitting atop Elivast, a smile on his face. A moment later, the image faded, plucked from his thoughts by the Illusionist Cleric's ritual.
Something within him shifted, resisted, clung to reality with stubborn tenacity. Another memory surfaced: Hailen sitting beside a campfire, hands covered in mud, playing with a bundle of sticks. For an instant, he relived the moment, on the road north from Malandria. The boy had been happy. He'd been happy. Then the memory was gone, stolen away by the soothing words and liquid silver.
I can't let it happen.
He'd failed too many others before: Farida. Bardin. Even Hailen's current predicament was his fault. It was all his fault. He had to save Hailen, the only bright light in his dark world. Yes, he ached to find peace from the voices in his head, but at what cost? What was he willing to give up?
Another memory flashed through his mind: Her smiling face, staring down at him. He'd fought for so long to remember Her, whoever She was. He needed to find Her, the only link to his past. He couldn't let the Illusionist Cleric take Her from him. Without his memories, he was truly alone in the world.
She tipped the balance, and his need for Her outweighed his desire for freedom from the voices. He would give up anything—and everything—to retain what few memories he had of Her. If it meant he had to live with the voices, so be it. He had to fight, had to stop the Illusionist Cleric from completing the ritual. But how?
More and more memories trickled from his mind as the cleric's soothing voice dredged up images of his past and tore them to shreds.
Suffocating in the burqu, his arm aching from Captain Al-Zahar's firm grip. Pacing the queen's office, impatient to kill the al-Malek and rescue Hailen. Lightning coursing through him as he shifted the flesh and bones of his face. Listening with burning curiosity as Queen Asalah told him of his past life as Nasnaz the Great.
His grasp on reality slipped, and he hovered between consciousness and unconsciousness, tethered to his senses by the silver pendants dancing in his vision.
Wait! Shifting the flesh and bones in my face. He held the memory firmly in his mind's eye, fighting the ritual. He seized upon the spark of an idea and clung to it like a drowning man.
He heard Queen Asalah's voice. "Exert your effort on that part of your body and will it to be different. Tell it what you want it to do, what you want it to look like."
The cleric's words tore at his consciousness, and he heard himself screaming. But he would not allow the memory to fade. Every shred of willpower and tenacity went into remembering the words. With effort, he shut out the part of his mind that held his memories, as he'd done with his inner demon's voice. He focused on his body, feeling every twitch of his muscles, every pounding beat of his heart, every ache and twinge. The tearing at his mind faded as the physical sensations grounded him, bringing him back to the present.
"The power to change comes from within your blood, so use the vessels to shape it to your will."
He focused on his skull, exerting his will, commanding it to change. Power crackled and sizzled through his body with the force of a thunderclap. It felt as if molten lead scorched every vein, every nerve, and a howl tore from his lips. With agonizing slowness, the bones in his forehead shifted. Fire raced through his head and face, nearly stealing his consciousness, and the physical torment drowned out the anguish of the Illusionist Cleric's ritual.
He turned his attention to his wrists. Lightning raced through the bones, muscles, and tissue of his hands, setting his fingers twitching. He bathed in the torment, used it to tether himself to reality as he forced the transformation to continue. Heartbeat by arduous heartbeat, he bent his determination to alter his shape.
"Fiery hell!" Jemdara's gasp, distant and faint, pierced the murk in his mind. "What's happening to him, Master Imperius?"
The dancing silver wavered for an instant. In that moment, the trance snapped. The Hunter's eyes darted away from the shining pendants, and his mind was free. With a tug, he slipped his wrists from the bonds, ignoring the pain shooting up his arm. Bolting upright, he slammed his forehead into the Illusionist Cleric's face. Cartilage crunched, blood spurted, and the cleric fell backward, clutching at his nose and crying out.
Jemdara's scarf flicked out, catching the Hunter around the neck and pulling tight. He twisted on the table and drove his first into her throat. His wrist, weakened by the transformation, snapped like a dry twig, but she dropped to her knees, gagging.
He bit down on the cloth hard. This is going to hurt!
A cry burst from his lips as he concentrated on the shattered, awkwardly twisted wrist. He focused inward, willing his body to return to its original form. A jolt of energy lanced through him, and he writhed atop the table. Slowly, the throbbing in his wrist faded. His head ached; the effects of the Illusionist Cleric's ritual refused to fade. Fog filled his mind, slowing his thoughts. He ripped the gag from his mouth, spitting to clear the foul taste, and fumbled at his ankle restraints with thick, clumsy fingers. It seemed an eternity before the fabric loosened, and he pitched himself off the table to land on numb feet. Blood rushed through his legs, and the sensation brought a fresh wave of nausea. He leaned on the table for support.
I have to get out of here before Jemdara…
He took an unsteady step toward the door, and bit back a curse as he fell to his knees. Before him, Jemdara climbed to her feet, wheezing and gasping.
Soulhunger pounded in his thoughts. Free me!
Blinking back tears, he searched for the dagger. Where are you? Knives of acid twisted in his stomach. Soulhunger lay on the floor between Jemdara's shapely legs.
Jemdara followed his gaze, and her lips curled into a sneer. "Looking for this?"
The Hunter struggled to his feet. "Get out of my way!" His legs twitched and spasmed, and he clung to the table for support. "You don't need to die for that insane priest."
"It is my duty! I serve my god." She spat to one side. "As you serve yours!"
The Hunter's heart sank. He knew the fanatical look of a religious zealot all too well. She wouldn't let him escape without a fight. He took a threatening step forward, hoping she didn't notice his knees trembling. "Try to stop me, and I will kill you!"
She barked a mocking laugh. "Please, Bucelarii, your threats may frighten children, but I know your true mettle." She twirled her scarf in the air. "You will pay for what you have done to the cleric!"
The Hunter shook his head. "When you meet the Long Keeper, tell him you gave me no other choice." He seized the edge of the table, muscles bunching, and heaved. She darted out of the path of the hurtling table, but a corner clipped her shoulder. The impact slammed her against the wall. Her head cracked against stone, and she fell to the ground with a cry.
The Hunter leapt atop her and seized her weapon hand. Can't let her use that scarf! She shrieked as bone crunched beneath his fingers. He released her and drove his fists into her face with rage-fueled strength.
The demon begged for blood. 'Do it! Kill her, Bucelarii.'
Soulhunger added its voice to the maelstrom. Feed me!
Jemdara tried to protect herself with one arm, to no avail. Blood spurted from her nose, and her lip split beneath his vicious pummeling. Teeth bared, spittle flying, the Hunter wrapped the scarf around Jemdara's neck. She gasped and coughed, clutching at his hands in a useless attempt to break free. The Hunter pulled harder to tighten the noose.
Agony flared along his right side. He grunted, his grip on Jemdara's throat loosening. She shoved him hard, and he fell back, fumbling for the dagger driven to its hilt in his side. Blood streamed down his tunic, pooling on the dirt floor. His right lung refused to draw in air, and he gasped.
The Last Bucelarii Book 3: Gateway to the Past Page 30