Darkblade Assassin_An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Andy Peloquin

  "Very good," the noble said, his voice haughty and imperious. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to inspect the merchandise."

  "Of course, m'lord."

  Sor turned to the storage shed they had been guarding. He fumbled at his belt for a moment, his fingers numb from the cold.

  "Aha!" He produced the key. "The merchandise, sir."

  With a loud clang, the padlock snapped open. Sor moved to unlatch the chain, and pulled the door open with a grunt.

  The nobleman stepped forward, rubbing his hands together in eagerness. "Let us discover what the good ship Aeremor has brought us this evening."

  Moonlight shone on the pale faces of the women huddled in the shack. A horrifying stench of fecal matter and too many bodies cramped into too small a space wafted from within, and both of the thugs had to stifle a gag. The nobleman appeared unaffected, peering into the darkness.

  "The torch?" he demanded impatiently, holding out his hand to Sor.

  "Of course, m'lord."

  Sor handed the aristocrat the torch, and the nobleman held it aloft. More than a score of young women—girls younger than thirteen or fourteen, if I don't miss my guess, thought Sor—sat in the shed, a listless expression on their grimy faces. They shielded their eyes with their hands as the torch cast its meager light on their filthy, rotting rags.

  The noble stared at the girls for a long moment, then, with a nod of satisfaction, gestured for the two men to close the doors. A gentle murmur of protest ran through the women, but the lack of food and water left them too feeble to do more. As Yim chained and locked the wooden doors, the nobleman barked terse orders.

  "Make sure they are delivered to Mistress Croquembouche at The Arms of Heaven—after they are bathed, of course. And keep your filthy hands off them. They are to arrive unspoiled and untouched by"—he looked at their rough hands and faces with disgust—"anyone. Their purity is part of their unique charms, after all."

  "Very good, m'lord," Yim nodded. "Anythin’ else?"

  "That will be all, I believe." The aristocrat waved in dismissal as he turned to return the way he had come. "Your master knows where to find me."

  "Yes, m'lord," Sor called after the nobleman's retreating back, but the man showed no sign he’d heard them. Within a moment, the man had disappeared into the night.

  "Watcher-damned nobles," growled Yim as he pulled the cloak tighter around his shivering frame. "Leaving us workin’ stiffs in the cold to wait."

  "Aye, but at least we're here by the torchlight," Sor reminded him, "and not walkin’out there in the dark…where He is."

  "We don't even know He is—"

  Sor cut Yim's words off mid-sentence. "Oh, there’s no doubt about it, He is out there. I can feel him."

  * * *

  The voices of the thugs arguing behind him faded as the Hunter followed his target away from the shed.

  A fresh crop of virgins for the nobility of Voramis to deflower.

  A flash of pity ran through him as he imagined their fates. The flesh trade repulsed him.

  Lord Dannaros counted among the wealthiest noblemen in Voramis, courtesy of his marriage to the daughter of a duke and auspicious investments in gold, silver, and gemstone mines across the Frozen Sea. However, like most of Voramis’ upper crust, he tended to supplement his income in less than legitimate fashions—the nobleman’s. Yet the Hunter was surprised to find the man dealing in this particular commodity. Slavery was forbidden in Voramis, and any traffickers caught by the Heresiarchs faced imprisonment or death. However, this was Voramis, where a few coins in the right hands could purchase anything: life, death, wisdom, or ignorance.

  Throughout his years as an assassin, the Hunter had come to learn a cruel truth: everyone had dark secrets they preferred to keep hidden from the world. His research into his targets always uncovered some action or choice that caused pain and suffering. In the end, everyone had deserved the death he brought. He felt no remorse at his actions.

  Lord Dannaros had just joined their ranks.

  The nobleman strode through the dark port, confidence in his steps. He clutched his cloak tight to ward off the cold, but his black hair fluttered free in the wind that whistled through the empty port. The Hunter couldn't make out his features in the darkness, but he didn't need to. His nostrils filled with the man's scent even from this distance.

  Lord Dannaros, it has been a long time since we have seen each other. I have a feeling we will come face to face once again very soon.

  Dannaros' heartbeat called to Soulhunger. The knife throbbed with urgency, demanding to draw closer to its prey.

  Let me feed, it begged. Let me kill!

  Easy, Soulhunger. Soon enough.

  The weapon's insistence faded, but the blade would only be truly silenced once it had drunk the blood of its victim.

  The Hunter slipped through the darkness, confident in his dark grey cloak's ability to keep him hidden. His quarry moved ahead of him, completely unaware that death padded silently in his wake.

  The Hunter called to mind a map of the port, tracing Lord Dannaros' route to ascertain the place where the noble's carriage awaited him. Slipping ahead, he found the vehicle waiting in a deserted alley adjacent to the docks.

  Lord Dannaros scurried toward his coach, darting nervous glances in every direction.

  At last, his fear shows through his mask of calm.

  The carriage door slammed shut behind the noble. "Take me home, Ari," Dannaros' voice rang out in the silence of the deserted streets.

  The Hunter smiled and watched the chaise clatter away into the darkness of Lower Voramis. He had until the Feast of the Mistress—yet a week away—to complete his mission, but he planned to carry out the contract well before then.

  Until we meet again, my lord.

  Chapter Five

  The light of a new day filtered through gauzy curtains, chasing away the shadows of night. Shirtless and weaponless, the Hunter stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall of his bedroom in The Golden Sunrise.

  The face staring back at him belonged to Lord Anglion, a wealthy noble from the neighboring city of Praamis, a week's ride to the east. Lord Anglion made occasional appearances in Voramis, but only when the Hunter needed a persona that allowed him to mingle in high society. He had spent years cultivating the disguise as a means to gain access to the wealthy nobles and merchants he was often contracted to kill.

  Lord Anglion had a nose most would call prominent rather than long, high cheekbones, a weak jaw, and an angular chin. His blond hair hung to his shoulders in perfect ringlets, though the vain young lord preferred to tie it back with a bright green ribbon.

  "Brings out my eyes," he loved to say. Emerald featherglass lenses hid his depthless black eyes and rounded out the ensemble. His alchemical mask changed the shape of his nose, cheekbones, and orbital sockets enough to hide his true features.

  The Hunter despised the character of Lord Anglion, and avoided it as often as he could. Unfortunately, to carry out this contract, he must adopt the disguise of the overweening, primping aristocrat.

  He wore the young nobleman's face, but the hard, lean body reflected in the mirror could never belong to an over-indulgent member of the Praamian aristocracy. Years of killing had shaped the Hunter's frame.

  What stood out most, however, were the scars. The Hunter no longer tried to count them, but he guessed they numbered in the hundreds. They looked like tally marks, and served as a grisly reminder of the cost of Soulhunger's power—and the price of taking a life.

  Odd how these marks remain while all others fade. His body healed from the most grievous wounds, but not these scars.

  As he ran his fingers over the scars, memories flashed through his head. He could see a face for every mark on his body. They haunted him with their lifeless, accusing eyes.

  Such maudlin thoughts.

  A rueful grin split Lord Anglion's pompous face. Soulhunger's desire to kill pounded in his mind, and he blocked it out.
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  Today is a feast day, a day of celebration. He returned his attention to the looking glass, running the fine-toothed comb through Lord Anglion’s blond hair.

  The Hunter strode to the massive wardrobe opposite the mirror. Opening the heavy doors, he scanned the expensive garments hanging within.

  Lord Anglion would wear green on a feast day.

  He selected the outfit he deemed best suited for the occasion, donned it, and checked his reflection in the mirror one last time. Not a wrinkle showed, not a ruffle looked out of place. The Hunter nodded, satisfied.

  The disguise of Lord Anglion is complete.

  He stared at the room around him, marveling at the wasteful opulence. A set of elaborate couches occupied the antechamber in which he stood, and a massive four-post bed dominated the adjacent room. A walk-in wardrobe held Lord Anglion's fine clothing. Running water flowed in the marble sink, a rare luxury in Voramis.

  His rooms at The Golden Sunrise cost a small fortune, but he considered it a worthy investment. The inn's proprietor received a generous stipend from the “young noble” to keep his rooms available at all times.

  It is necessary to play the part of the visiting noble for the Lord Anglion disguise. No aristocrat in his right mind would stay anywhere but The Golden Sunrise.

  The doors to his room shut behind him with an audible click as he strode into the lavishly carpeted hall. Turning the key in the lock, he heard the deadbolt slide home with a satisfying thunk. He had insisted upon the extra security for his room, and a heavy purse of gold imperials had guaranteed acquiescence to the eccentric client's demands.

  Descending the stairs to the elegant foyer of the inn, the Hunter nodded to the rotund figure of his host. Master Aramon returned his greeting with a little bow.

  "Welcome to Voramis, my lord," he said, his voice cheery.

  "My thanks, good Aramon." The Hunter forced a pleasant smile, as expected of Lord Anglion. "It is always good to visit, particularly during the Season of Plenty."

  "My lord always comes to Voramis for the feast days," the fat proprietor said with an unctuous smile that set his three chins wobbling.

  "Of course," the Hunter replied. "When my good friend Lord Dannaros throws a party, it is in one's best interest to be in attendance. Besides," he lowered his voice in a conspiratorial whisper, "I hear the Lady Dannaros is looking particularly ravishing this year."

  A grin split Aramon's face. "Indeed, my lord. I hear that she has had every tailor and seamstress within a hundred leagues to her home. In search of the perfect dress, they say."

  "Well, tonight we shall see the fruits of her labors. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see Voramis in all its beauty."

  "Of course, my lord. With the Snowblossom trees in full bloom, you'll find the city is more radiant than ever."

  A voice called from behind Aramon, drawing his attention away from the Hunter.

  "Apologies, my lord," the fat proprietor said, "but business calls me elsewhere. Safe journeys." With a bow, he hurried away.

  "Until tonight, Aramon," the Hunter called after the man's retreating back.

  The front doors of The Golden Sunrise stood open, the midday sun shining beyond. The Hunter shaded his eyes as he strolled into the open air, letting them adjust to the brightness.

  He basked in the glorious sights and sounds of Upper Voramis during the Season of Plenty. These were the final weeks before winter's chill gripped Voramis, a time when the city was at its most beautiful.

  The lords and ladies of Voramis spent vast sums of money in an attempt to make their parties the event of the season. Their excesses served to remind the commoners of Lower Voramis just how little they had.

  At least some of the coin finds its way into the hands of the honest working merchant.

  A team of horses clattered past, pulling wagons laden with casks, boxes, and sacks filled with food and drink for the evening's festivities. The merchant perched on the lead wagon tipped his hat to the Hunter, who nodded in return.

  Much as the Hunter hated the disguise of Lord Anglion, he loved the freedom it provided. He could mingle with the wealthy nobles and merchants strolling leisurely through the guarded streets of Upper Voramis without calling attention to himself.

  Best of all, he could explore Maiden's Fields—the breathtaking gardens sprawled across a quarter of the upper city. It held a special place in his heart, especially during the Season of Plenty.

  Flowering trees thrust their multi-hued branches into the sky, the colorful blooms paving the walkways in a vivid carpet of petals. Marbled walkways twisted and turned through the manicured lawns of Maiden's Fields. Roses, lilies, and gardenias filled the air with their intoxicating scents, each unique and yet all blending into a harmony of fragrance.

  Being in the park during the Season of Plenty made him feel less alone. He loved to sit and watch the trees sway in the breeze. Their gnarled branches, rippling leaves, and bright petals always made him feel welcome.

  The nobles strolling the gardens wore colors nearly as bright as the plants around them. The latest fashion—a ridiculous one, in my opinion—demanded the wealthy dress in the oddest combination of garish hues. A mixture of yellow, purple, and a dull grey were in style this season.

  Men and women held hands, whispering to each other in the hushed voices of lovers. One young couple strolled through the Snowblossom trees, arms linked. The man whispered into the woman's ear, and she giggled in response.

  Fools, he thought with disgust, if only you knew that your love is nothing more than a lie. Soulhunger's voice in his head echoed his disdain.

  You think you will find meaning in your life by joining it with that of another, but in the end, you'll die alone.

  All of the men and women he had killed had died alone, screaming, weeping, or cursing him and their gods. None had cried out for their husband or wife.

  He saw an elderly, obese lord wearing robes of a garish red and green checked pattern. The old noble had an arm wrapped protectively around a woman decades his junior, who listened to him speak with an expression of feigned interest, clearly forced.

  I wonder what lies she tells herself as she sleeps beside him at night. It's not so bad, she no doubt says, better than poverty and loneliness. Likely he lies and tells himself that she loves him for who he is, not for his wealth.

  It is all a lie, the voice of Soulhunger shouted in his head. You can trust no one, for all will lie to you.

  The Hunter believed this more and more with every life he took. He had seen the countless secrets his victims had fought to keep hidden from their so-called “loved ones”. With every death, his abhorrence for his prey grew.

  "Flower, my lord?" The shy voice of a young girl sounded at his elbow.

  The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile as he saw the familiar child beside him.

  Only the innocence of a child is beyond reproach.

  She had long, dark eyelashes, and piercing green eyes set above a smiling mouth. Rough clothing hung loosely on her thin shoulders, but she had grown since he saw her last. She stood nearly as tall as his chest, but her gaunt cheeks and pale skin made her look far older than her eight years.

  "Of course, child," the Hunter beamed at the waif. "Two of your finest roses, if you would be so kind."

  The little girl produced two long-stemmed roses, and the Hunter made a show of inhaling the flowers' scent.

  "These must be your best, child, for they smell so beautiful." The little girl smiled up at him. "I say, do you have a knife?"

  The girl he knew as Farida fumbled around in her cart for a minute before producing a small cutting blade. The Hunter trimmed the stems from the roses and tucked them in his lapel. "What do you think?"

  "Very elegant, m'lord," the girl responded shyly.

  "Wonderful." With a smile, the Hunter reached into his purse. "For you, my dear," he said, placing the imperial in her hand.

  The girl's eyes widened at the sight of the gold coin.

  "
But, m'lord," she protested, "it is too—"

  "Nonsense," he cut her off with a wave. "It will cover the cost of these two beautiful roses, and the dozen you will deliver to the house of Dannaros on my behalf."

  "Of course, m'lord," the child said, pocketing the coin.

  "Thank you, dear. Make sure that they are delivered with the compliments of Lord Anglion."

  "Of course, m'lord," she repeated.

  "Good. I will see you again when next I visit Voramis, won't I?"

  "Yes, sir. I love the Maiden's Fields, so I come here as often as I can." She stared at the gardens, a wistful expression in her eyes. "Though the Heresiarchs don't let me in much anymore."

  She probably wants nothing more than to run and play, like the child of a noble family. But she must work to eat.

  "Until next time, then." He waved her away, dismissing her as Lord Anglion would. The wheels of her cart clacked loudly on the cobbled stones as she pushed it in the direction of Lord Dannaros' palatial mansion.

  There is no lie in that one, no half-truths or distrust. At least not yet, not until this world sinks its claws into her. This life will sully her, poison her mind, and twist her until she is as deceitful as everyone else in this city. Life on the street is harsh, particularly to children like Farida.

  The Hunter had found the girl as a babe, abandoned in one of the many unnamed slums of Lower Voramis, lying next to the frozen corpses of her parents. He had no hope of raising her, but his effort to track down any living relatives proved fruitless. Only the Beggar Priests—servants of the Beggar God—would take her in. They had raised her as one of their Beggared.

  The red-robed Heresiarchs patrolling the city turned a blind eye to Farida and the other Beggared children whenever possible, and the coins she earned selling flowers from her small cart bought the meager food and clothing shared among the children living in the House of Need.

  For some unexplained reason, he found an excuse to visit her often, albeit always in disguise. He told himself it was a weakness he could ill-afford, but he found himself growing fonder of her with each passing year. No matter how hard he tried to keep his distance—for her protection, he insisted—his visits had grown more frequent in recent months. He made sure to give her a few extra coins every time one of his disguises paid her a visit.