Damn you! He hated the voices, hated how they tried to overwhelm him whenever he lowered his guard.
Clattering hooves sounded behind him. He whirled, sword ready. A bandit—the one he'd kicked in the head—burst from the cave astride one of the sturdy desert horses, a second riderless horse close on its heels. The beasts churned the blood-soaked ground to mud as they hurtled through the clearing and down the far side of the Thalj Pass before he could reach them.
Damn it!
Scooping up a spear, he sprinted down the trail. Horses and rider came into view around a bend in the pass thirty paces below. The Hunter launched the spear in a desperate cast. The missile arced high into the air before plummeting toward the fleeing bandit. The man jerked in the saddle, and his cry of pain carried down the mountain.
The Hunter's triumph turned to dust in a heartbeat. The bandit retained his seat, and the spear clattered off the rocks behind him. With a howled war cry, he straightened and spurred his horses on. The cloud of dust grew farther away with every passing second.
Keeper take him!
He cursed himself for a fool. In his eagerness for death, he'd let one of Il Seytani's men get away. The man would return to camp with word of the Hunter's attack on their camp, and Il Seytani would kill Hailen. He'd signed the lad's death warrant.
No! He gritted his teeth. I won't let that happen.
Whirling, he sprinted back up the trail toward the clearing. The Swordsman's iron daggers lay on a patch of damp, bloodstained earth. Clenching his jaw against the searing fire in his hands, he lifted the blades from their grisly resting place and thrust them into his belt.
Time slowed to a crawl as he rushed down the trail to Al Hani. Elivast and his desert horse neighed at his approach, but he had no time for greeting. He vaulted onto Elivast's back and kicked his heels into the beast's flanks. Elivast leapt forward with a snort, and the desert horse fell into step behind Elivast.
The Hunter drove the horses up the pass, and they plowed through the ochre mud of the rocky hollow. He urged the horses to greater speed, but he knew Elivast couldn't run much faster. The narrowness of the trail made it dangerous. This high up, a plunge from the Thalj Pass would lead to a rocky death.
He had to risk it. He'd hunt the bandit down, even if he had to ride his horses to death.
Even as he thought it, he knew it was futile. The bandit had two well-rested horses bred for the terrain. He had pushed Elivast and his own desert horse hard in an effort to reach the pass before sunset.
What choice do I have? If the bandit reaches the camp, Hailen dies.
He had to kill the bandit before he warned Il Seytani. Gritting his teeth, he bent lower in the saddle.
***
Sweat streamed from Elivast's ears, neck, and chest. The horse stumbled, its head drooping, and staggered to a halt.
Damn it!
The Hunter ground his teeth and leapt from the saddle. His legs ached, but he refused to allow himself rest. He had to push on. The bandit had at least a half-hour's lead, horses bred to run for hours without tiring, and decades of sitting a saddle. The Hunter was a middling rider at best, and he'd pushed Elivast to exhaustion.
He'd bought the desert horse for just this reason. He could push the smaller, stocky beast harder, and Elivast could keep up without the Hunter's added weight.
"Easy." The Hunter patted Elivast's nose, and the horse pushed its face into the Hunter with a quiet nicker.
The darkness of the night hid his quarry's tracks, but the Hunter had no need for sight. Not yet, at least. He took a deep breath, tasting the scents of the desert. The sharp tang of scorched sand had faded with the setting sun, and the cool breeze brought him the scent he sought: dried sweat, cinnamon, coriander, and iron, mixed with the metallic tang of blood. The Hunter's thrown spear had wounded him.
I'm coming for you, you bastard!
***
The Hunter stumbled up a sand dune, panting from the oppressive late afternoon heat. Elivast staggered along behind him, tongue lolling. Even the desert horse's head hung low, its nostrils flaring with fatigue. But he refused to stop.
I'll make it, even if I have to walk!
He knew it was futile, but he had to try. He couldn't let the bandit reach Il Seytani's camp, couldn’t allow himself to picture what would happen if he lost the man's trail. For the last hour or two, the man's scent had grown fainter. The reek of blood, however, had grown stronger.
As he crested the dune, he found the source of the smell. One of the bandit's horses lay at the base of the next rise. The Hunter slipped and slid his way down the dune, trusting Elivast and the desert horse to follow in his wake. He knelt beside the fallen horse. It wouldn't live much longer. Crimson stained its glossy black coat, and its chest rose and fell in shuddering gasps.
The Hunter patted the horse's nose. His desperate spear cast hadn't only wounded the bandit, but blood dripped from a tear in the side of its neck. The flow had slowed to a faint trickle. With every beat of its heart, the horse drew closer to the Long Keeper's embrace. Of all the carnage he'd caused, this death was the most senseless.
Despite his remorse, a part of him felt relieved. The fleeing bandit would have to travel more slowly, give his horse a chance to rest.
With renewed determination, the Hunter straightened and stumbled up the next dune. He had a chance!
Chapter Forty-Seven
The Hunter swayed in the saddle. Darkness filled the world. Stars twinkled high overhead; the moon bathed the desert in a pale glow. The undulating dunes rippled and contorted as exhaustion played tricks on his mind. He blinked tired eyes, and sand grated at his eyeballs like tiny daggers.
So…tired.
He cursed himself for a fool, but it lacked vehemence. He hadn't eaten in two days, and his water had run out yesterday. The horses had needed it just to keep going. Stupid, stupid!
'Foolish Bucelarii.' The demon whispered in his mind. 'You could have taken the bandits' supplies, but no! You had to rush off to rescue your pet human!'
The voice had returned during the night. When not swarming his head with incoherent wails, it mocked him, its disgust and disappointment ringing in his thoughts.
The Hunter groaned. Please! Leave me be.
The desert horse panted beneath him. Elivast staggered along behind the beast, flanks quivering. Exhaustion seeped into every muscle, but he couldn't allow himself rest. Even with a second horse, he had to press on if he wanted to catch the lighter, more experienced rider.
I can't go on much longer like this, and neither can they. The thought echoed with every step. Fear—not for himself, but for Hailen—gnawed at his insides. I'm not going to make it!
No, you can't think that. He clenched his fists against the despair. He had to keep hoping. For Hailen's sake.
Dark spots floated before his eyes. The serpentine sand dunes mocked him with their endlessness.
Hailen…
He reeled and swayed like a drunk, the world swimming around him, and he toppled. A bone-deep weariness tugged at his limbs, slowing his movements.
Can't rest!
Every fiber in his body ached as he climbed to his feet, groaning and wiping sand from his face. His mouth felt drier than the blasted sands. His stomach gnawed at itself, growling for food.
The warmth of Elivast's nose pressed into his hand, and the desert horse nudged his cloak. At least I'm not alone. The beasts' presence reassured him.
"Come on, then." His throat clicked as he swallowed hard. "We've got ground to cover."
A fog of exhaustion numbed his mind as he climbed into Elivast's saddle. How long until he caught sight of the fleeing bandit? He had two horses to the man's one, and even desert horses had to rest.
A chill breeze wafted across his face. When he filled his lungs with the cool night air, he caught a hint of the bandit's scent. It was faint, but there. Hope sent energy fluttering through his tired body, and he kicked Elivast into a trot. As if sensing his urgency, the horse broke
into a run. The desert horse kept pace, hair flying in the cool midnight wind.
The smell grew stronger with every heartbeat. He has to be resting for the night. The Hunter's heart leapt. Maybe there's a chance!
Another odor reached him, this one familiar: rot and decay, a timeless, eternal stench that brought acid surging to his mouth.
The smell of demons. But here, in the desert?
A memory flashed in his mind: four enormous standing stones breaking the horizon. Younis had called them "a place of evil—the place of the ytaq."
Twisted hell! If these were the same stones he'd seen the day he rode out of Il Seytani's camp, it meant they were close—far closer than he'd realized. He'd run out of time.
Gritting his teeth, he spurred Elivast to a gallop and scanned the rolling dunes for any sign of his quarry.
There!
Pale moonlight revealed a dark figure trotting up a towering dune. The bandit hunched low in his saddle, swaying with his horse's heavy, shuffling steps.
The Hunter's heart leapt. I can make it! The demon's incoherent screeching set his head throbbing, and Soulhunger pulsed at his back, eager to feed.
The bandit's head turned. The Hunter imagined the widening of his eyes and the sharp intake of breath. He cursed as the man kicked his horse into a tired trot.
Elivast charged down the hill without slowing. The bandit disappeared over the next dune, and by the time the Hunter crested the rise, his prey had grown smaller.
Eyes locked onto his quarry, the Hunter hunched lower in the saddle and urged his horse to greater speed. Elivast closed the distance one agonizing step at a time, and the man's scent grew stronger with each heartbeat. A hundred paces became fifty, then thirty, then a dozen. The Hunter slipped his sword free. He was close. So close he could all but hear the man's gasping breath.
He leapt. His sword flashed in the moonlight, and the bandit fell from the saddle with a cry. The Hunter landed hard, his knees buckling from fatigue, but he rolled to his feet and staggered toward his fallen quarry.
The reek of iron hung in the air as the bandit drew his sword. He shuffled forward with an awkward, limping gait. The bandit waved his sword before him, snarling something in his tongue. The Hunter's eyes dropped to the dark, wet patch that stained the man's torso, and he couldn't help admiring the bandit's tenacity. A grave wound hadn't stopped him from carrying out Il Seytani's orders.
The man threw back his head and bellowed a war cry that carried across the dunes. With a curse, the Hunter realized the bandit's intentions. The man had to know they were close to the camp, and he cried out as a warning to his companions.
The Hunter's sword took the raider in the throat. Steel turned the cry into a wet, choking cough as blood washed over his hands and down his tunic. The defiance in the bandit's eyes gave way to fear, and he slumped to his knees, clutching his neck. The Hunter drove Soulhunger into the dying man's chest. Demon and dagger added their cries of ecstasy to the garbled shriek bursting from the bandit's lips.
Pain flared in the Hunter's chest, and he gritted his teeth as a finger of fire etched a line into his flesh. He knelt over the slumping bandit and tugged Soulhunger free.
May the Long Keeper have mercy on your body; your soul is forfeit.
When he rose, it was as if a weight had lifted from his chest, his thirst, hunger, and fatigue washed away. He'd made it! He'd stopped the bandit from reaching the camp.
Bloody hell! The camp! A stream of curses poured from his mouth. He'd been so focused on hunting down the bandit that he hadn't spared a second thought for how to actually find Il Seytani's camp. He slumped, not from fatigue or thirst, but from hopelessness. Il Seytani's camp lay somewhere in the endless sea of sand. He had nothing to guide him, not even a scrap of fabric from the robes he'd stolen from Il Seytani's camp.
How in the blasted hell am I going to find it? Without his ritual of seeking and Soulhunger to guide him, without a map through the uncharted desert, he was more likely to die of thirst than reach Hailen.
He lay back in the soft sand, staring up at the stars twinkling overhead. He closed his eyes as a cool breeze washed over him. The burden constricted his ribs once more. He'd come so far, done so much for the sake of rescuing Hailen. All that effort, just to fail. He was alone in the middle of the vast Advanat Desert, with no food or water, and no idea where to go. He could spend a lifetime wandering around the desert. For Hailen, that lifetime would be short when he failed to return.
No, it can't be over. His fists clenched, and he forced himself upright. He'd come so far. He wouldn't give up now. Think, damn it!
Over the last five decades as the Hunter of Voramis, he'd learned that prey always went where they felt safest. His quarry had fled across the Advanat, but not in an aimless attempt to escape. The bandit had been riding home.
He leapt into Elivast's saddle and kicked the horse up the dune. If he was returning to camp, that means I'll find it somewhere in this direction.
Cresting the rise, he Hunter drew Elivast to a halt and scanned the darkness, searching for signs of life. A flickering torch, the light of a campfire, sounds of humans or animals—anything to guide him to Il Seytani's camp. The wan moonlight revealed nothing but a vast ocean of rolling dunes and pristine sand.
He cursed. So what now? Ride into the desert, hoping for luck to guide him to the camp? He dismissed the idea out of hand. He and luck were rarely on good terms. Perhaps the bandit's horse would lead him. He glanced back, and his shoulders slumped. Two dark figures lay unmoving on the pale sand. The bandit had ridden his horse to death.
He sagged in the saddle, and his heart thudded fully as his last trace of hope died. For long moments, he simply sat, wallowing in defeat. He'd failed.
The chill evening breeze whipped across the dunes, kicking up sand. Grit and dust slapped his face and stung his eyes. He didn't bother to cover up—he deserved the pain.
But the wind carried more than just the biting sand. A familiar scent drifted up to him.
Iron?
For a moment, he thought it came from the bandit behind him. But no, it came from somewhere in the distance.
The familiar reek of iron fanned the tiny spark of hope burning within him back to life. He drew in another deep breath, his sensitive nostrils seeking the metallic tang.
There!
Fire flared in his chest, and a predatory grin twisted his lips as he kicked the horses into a gallop. The scent was faint and distant, yet unmistakeable. He had found it.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The Hunter peered over the crest of the dune. Soft sand seeped into his armor, but he ignored it. There, below him, Il Seytani's camp spread across the desert floor.
He slipped down the hill, making no more sound than the shifting sand underfoot. An eerie silence permeated the outer camp, broken only by the occasional bark of a dog or whinny of a horse. He ducked behind a tent just as a pair of armed men tramped past. Heart pounding, he pressed against the tent, hoping the shadows would hide him. He tightened his grip on Soulhunger.
The dagger sensed blood. Feed me, it begged.
The demon wanted him to charge through the camp and kill anyone who got in his way, but he knew better. If Il Seytani caught him before he reached Hailen, the bandit leader wouldn't hesitate to carry out his threat and kill the boy.
When the bandits disappeared around the next row of shelters, the Hunter moved. Moonlight shone on an unbroken wall of black canvas—he'd reached the tents that marked the perimeter of Il Seytani's inner camp. The tent openings all faced inward, to the fortified heart of the camp.
Now what?
He crouched in the shadows, not moving a muscle. Minutes ticked by in agonizing slowness, and still he watched and waited. The irony of his actions was not lost on him. He'd stolen into many places far more fortified and better-guarded than this. He'd entered and left death behind, uncaring of how many corpses he made. Now he entered to save a life. He couldn't risk leaving corpses this time. To ha
ve any hope of getting Hailen out alive, he had to do it right. That meant being patient and learning the guards' patrol pattern when all he wanted to do was hack his way through the bandits.
A second pair of guards marched around the perimeter of the tents. The Hunter muttered a curse. The patrols passed at intervals of five minutes or less.
I'll have to find another way in.
He moved like a wraith, gliding from shadow to shadow, crossing the open space to the nearest black tent. An ear pressed to the tent wall, he listened for any signs of life. Heavy breathing sounded from within. One occupant, sleeping.
Perfect.
Soulhunger, sensing the nearby heartbeat, pounded in his mind. The demon screeched at him, begging him to kill. The Hunter grimaced at the shrieking in his mind. Be silent. He must die without a sound.
The demon radiated anger, but it fell quiet. The Hunter had given it the death it craved. It would leave him alone, would give him peace. For now.
He had no desire to uproot one of the iron stakes that held the tent securely in place. He'd have to cut an opening.
Kneeling in the darkness beneath an awning, he drew Soulhunger. The dagger's razor edge sliced through the thick canvas like molten steel through snow, with little more than a whisper of parting threads. The shadows of the overhanging tent covering would hide the hole long enough for him to get in and out.
He slipped through the tear and into the tent. Crouching, he held his breath and listened to the steady breathing. One man. One silent death. His soft-soled boots noiseless on the carpeted floor, he slithered toward the sleeping bandit, clapped a hand over his mouth, and seized his throat. Before the man opened his eyes, the Hunter wrenched. The bandit's neck gave a sickening crack.
Good. Not a sound. He'd chosen this tent due to its small size—he'd guessed only one person lived within. No one would find the corpse and raise the alarm.
The Last Bucelarii Book 3: Gateway to the Past Page 33