Kill! Soulhunger screamed in his mind.
Yes. We will kill them, and anyone else who lays a hand on my friends. In that moment, the “how” mattered far less than the fact that those he cared for were in serious danger. Rage flooded him, and he charged into the room, eyes blazing, teeth bared in a snarl. The guards stared at him in horror, but neither had time to cry out before the Hunter reached them.
The Hunter wrapped an arm around the captain's neck even as Soulhunger opened the other guard's throat. The man's eyes bulged as fear seized his body. The Hunter twisted, and the Dark Heresiarch's spine snapped with an audible crack. The captain slumped to the floor, splashing in the puddle leaking from his comrade's corpse.
Power coursed through the Hunter as Soulhunger drank its fill. He stalked from the room without a backward glance. His feet left bloody footprints on the cold stone floor, but he didn't care.
I can't let these bastards hurt anyone! He thought of the beggars living in his building, the outcasts he had come to call his friends. I have to protect them.
He sprinted down the hall, relishing the feeling of stretching his muscles again. An inferno of rage burned in his chest as he raced through the empty corridors of the Hole. He had no idea where to go, but simply ran, desperate to escape and save his friends.
The Mistress' own luck was with him. The twisting corridors led him to an exit, where a single Heresiarch barred his escape. A snarl of rage burst from the Hunter's throat, and he raced toward the guard with every bit of speed he could summon. Soulhunger plunged into the man's gaping mouth, drinking deep.
The man died with a wordless scream, his lifeless eyes staring vacantly as the Hunter raced into the Voramian night.
Chapter Nineteen
The Hunter slipped across the rooftops of Lower Voramis, power coursing in his veins. The chill night air sent a shiver down his spine; the breeches he wore offered little protection from the wind whipping across the rooftops.
The stench of refuse that permeated the Beggar's Quarter drifted toward him. He scanned the building ahead for signs of life. No sound came from within, and he saw no movement. He closed his eyes and cast out his senses, letting his consciousness drift. Soulhunger pulsed in his hand, whispering its desire for blood.
The weapon had changed. It seemed more alive since the death of the Beggar Priest. The blade had fed less than a half hour before, and yet it throbbed every time it came within a few feet of a living human being. The insistent demand for death had grown louder, and it was harder for the Hunter to ignore the voice in his mind.
No matter, he thought. Tonight that will serve me well.
He slid the door to his safe house open, taking pains to move in absolute silence. Darkness filled the rooms beyond, but Soulhunger's voice burned in the back of the Hunter's mind. The blade had found its prey.
There's someone here.
Soulhunger pulled him toward the nearby wall, sensing blood. We must feed.
Wait, the Hunter told the blade. I need to be sure—
He nearly slipped on something warm and sticky. The Hunter's sensitive nostrils filled with the reek of blood, and the skin of his bare feet crawled. He crouched, slowing his breathing and closing his eyes. Scents washed over him.
The foul, alcoholic stench of the rum Jak drank every time he got his hands on a few coins. The smell of rotting fish that wafted in with Harrn at the end of a day hanging around the docks. The scent of the flowers Filiana sold. After years of living with the beggars, the smells were as familiar to him as his hands.
The scents had already begun to fade, replaced by the foul reek of death from the unmoving bodies. The ones he had called his friends lay still and silent around him in the darkness. Sorrow washed over him, but the fires within him transformed the grief into a burning rage.
Derelana curse you, Lord Jahel. You, and every one of your accursed Dark Heresiarchs, will pay for this.
More scents filtered through the smell of death surrounding him. Dust from the streets. Steel whispering from a leather sheath. Sweat. Fear.
Men.
Men who deserve to pay for what they've done.
He moved without thought, his body responding beyond his control. Instinct took over, and the Hunter stalked through the darkness in silence.
His sensitive ears detected the sound of breathing from the other side of the wall, and he slithered through the shadows toward his prey. He had no need to see the man, for he felt the very beat of his heart. With a silent lunge, the Hunter clamped a hand over the man's mouth. The thug died before he knew what hit him, Soulhunger driving up through the base of his unprotected skull.
One down, thought the Hunter, lowering the man's corpse to the ground. His head spun as Soulhunger fed, power rushing through his body. He felt invigorated, invincible.
He sensed movement around the next corner, and he flowed toward the source of the sound. His foot lashed out, and he heard the sound of a shinbone splintering followed by a loud thud as a heavy body hit the floor. The fallen man gurgled for a moment, then lay still. Turning the body over, the Hunter found the man had fallen on his own blade.
Fool, he laughed silently to himself, pushing Soulhunger deep into the man's chest. Power burned in his veins. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
"Frann?" a voice whispered from the darkness. The Hunter moved toward the sound, slipping a concealed blade from a stuffed eagle hanging on the wall. "Frann, can you hear me?" No answer came from his dead companion. "Shite! He's here! Get him."
Two pairs of feet thudded toward him, but the Hunter melted into the shadows. Moonlight framed the heavy, scarred face of a man wearing dark colors, a bloody fist tattooed on his forehead.
The Bloody Hand.
The Hunter hurled the blade and the weapon buried itself deep in the man's eye. The crimson gushing from his wound looked almost surreal in the pale moonlight.
Another figure loomed from the darkness, and the Hunter struck out with his free hand. The thug slumped to his knees, gasping and struggling to breathe, his windpipe crushed. Soulhunger's razor edge opened the wheezing man's throat.
He watched with pitiless eyes as the man gasped out his final bloody breath.
Could the Bloody Hand already be aware of my escape? The thought of the Bloody Hand working with the Heresiarchs chilled him to the bone. His safe house had been discovered—whether by the Bloody Hand or the Dark Heresy, it made no difference—and he knew he had to leave quickly.
I have to put a stop to the Bloody Hand and the Dark Heresiarchs before they kill everyone I care about.
The Hunter stepped over the dead thugs as if they were nothing more than piles of refuse in the street. He strode to the armoire in the corner of the room, and his fingers probed the top of the furniture, searching for the trigger that would release the lock.
He smiled as it clicked open to reveal an assortment of sharp, bladed weapons.
Perfect.
The scent of his own clothing wafted up to him, and he nearly gagged.
I can't go around Voramis smelling like this.
His eyes turned to his bedroom, beyond which stood a bathing room and a bucket of—he hoped—clean water.
Chapter Twenty
The scent of leather, steel, and fear filled the Hunter's nostrils, mixed with the metallic tang of freshly-spilled blood.
"Damn!" He swore beneath his breath.
He'd tried three other safe houses in the last hour, but they had all been filled with Hand thugs or black-clad Dark Heresiarchs. Death had visited each of his houses, every one of the corpses belonging to men and women he had considered friends.
Even the children.
The Hunter had clung to the vain hope that this—his last safe house—would be empty, but he could hear men moving around inside and see the light cast by the torches burning within his building. He sidled along the wall, letting the night hide him from watching eyes. He placed each foot with precision to avoid the puddles of filth dotting the Beggar's Quar
ter. The hood of his dark cloak obscured all but his glittering eyes from view.
His hand gripped the sword in its sheath on his back, testing it to be certain he could draw it. A slow smile spread across his face, but the grin held no humor. Rage bubbled within his depthless eyes. His heart held only death.
Forsaking stealth, the Hunter raced through the streets leading to his home. With a wild laugh, he spread his arms wide, as if daring those awaiting to strike him down. A single crossbow bolt sped toward him, but the archer's poor aim sent the bolt clattering into the darkness.
"Come on, you bastards!"
"The Hunter!" shouted a voice from within the building. Fear tinged the cry, and the Hunter could smell terror on the night air. His fingers closed around the handle of the door, and the force of his anger ripped the flimsy wooden thing from its rusted hinges. He stepped into the room, and the smell of death greeted him—mixing with the scents of human excrement, mold, and refuse.
He took in the scene inside the room. Those he called friends huddled beneath the stern gazes and raised swords of the Dark Heresiarchs, who stared eagerly at the door as if expecting him. As he entered, the swords fell, and more corpses joined the pile of bodies on the floor.
Impotent rage bubbled within him as he watched the slaughter. Old Nan's eyes stared up at him from where she lay on the floor, accusation filling her lifeless stare. Twelve-Fingers Karrl clutched his chest, only three fingers sprouting from his bloodstained hands.
A cry came from the other side of the room. The Hunter's eyes darted toward the source of the sound. Arlo cried in his mother's arms, covered in the blood leaking from the gash in Ellinor's head. The young girl sat dazed against the wall, staring helplessly as one of the Dark Heresiarchs raised his sword to cut off the child's terrified whimpers.
"No!" he cried, throwing himself forward. His sword crashed into the descending blade of the Dark Heresiarch. Soulhunger sank into the man's throat, drenching the Hunter in blood.
The Hunter ripped the blade free of the Dark Heresiarch's neck, turning to face the rest of the men crowding into the building. Soulhunger's pounding voice fueled his rage. Hatred twisted his lips into a snarl.
They are my friends, he thought, imposing himself between the Dark Heresiarchs and the pitiful figures of Ellinor and Arlo. They are here under my roof, my protection. No more of mine will die this night.
"Greet the Long Keeper for me, you bastards," he growled, just loud enough for the Dark Heresiarchs to hear.
One stepped forward, snarling. Larger than his companions, the man's bald head shone in the torchlight. A heavy beard covered his face, a large scar slashing through it. "Damned Hunter," the man cursed, drawing a massive broad sword in ham-sized fists. The huge blade whistled through the air, the force of the blow enough to chop the Hunter in half.
The blade seemed to hang in the air, hurtling toward him as if in slow motion. Contempt flooded the Hunter as the massive sword carved its deadly arc.
With fluid grace, he stepped aside. He moved like lightning, flowing across the floor and closing the distance to the huge Heresiarch. Too late, the man realized his error, and struggled to alter the direction of the strike. The Hunter didn't even bother to dodge as the huge sword whistled past his head. Inside the man's guard, the Hunter drove Soulhunger up beneath the bearded chin. The Dark Heresiarch's eyes widened in horror as the tip of the blade protruded from his skull. Blood gushed down the front of his uniform, soaking the black cloth.
The Hunter bathed in the flood washing over him, letting it stoke the fires of his rage. With a vicious wrench, the Hunter ripped Soulhunger free, brain matter still clinging to the tip of the blade.
"Who's next?"
Two more Dark Heresiarchs charged, short swords flashing in the torchlight. The Hunter bared his teeth in a wordless snarl and swung his long blade with all the force he could muster. His blow knocked the Dark Heresiarchs' weapons aside, and the tip of his sword sliced through the soft flesh of their throats.
Hot warmth sprayed his face, fueling his desire for revenge. He thrilled in the death around him—the death he brought this night. A scream burst from his lips, startling the next pair of guards and halting their advance. One of the men skidded in the slick puddle on the floor, losing his footing. The heel of the Hunter's boot crushed his throat, and a quick thrust pierced the eyeball of his fellow.
Power and strength flooded the Hunter with every life Soulhunger took, adding fuel to the furnace of his anger. He offered the Dark Heresiarchs no mercy, ignoring the wounds inflicted by their swords. His blood mingled with theirs in an ever-spreading puddle staining the floor, and still his rage demanded more.
The cramped space within the building forced the Dark Heresiarchs to attack him in twos and threes. Their numbers proved no match for his furious onslaught. The Hunter's long sword danced among the shorter blades of the Heresiarchs, laying open throats and piercing soft flesh. Soulhunger darted wherever an opening presented itself.
His eyes locked on the faces of the Heresiarchs before him, but he saw only the bodies piled on the floor. Beggars they may have been, but to the Hunter, they were the closest things he had to friends.
As the world around him faded into a blood-soaked haze, his rage transformed once more into sorrow. A lump rose in his throat, and he swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened at the corners of his eyes.
He had no time for sorrow.
The Dark Heresiarchs were well-trained, but tonight they faced the avatar of death. They fought for their lives, their souls. Soulhunger shrieked in the Hunter's mind as it fed him power, but he heard only the beating of his heart and the gentle voices of the friends he would never see again.
Then there were no more. The Hunter whirled around, searching for another victim for his rage-fueled vengeance. He didn't know how many of the Dark Heresiarchs he had killed, and he didn't care. He wanted to kill until the pain faded.
Only lifeless bodies greeted his eyes—the bodies of the Dark Heresiarchs lying atop the corpses of his friends. Rage burned in his chest, overwhelming his senses. Soulhunger pounded in his mind, lusting for more death.
A soft whimper sounded behind him, and he whirled, blade held at the ready. Arlo stood there, staring up at the Hunter, tears streaming down his bloodstained face. The toddler opened his mouth as if trying to speak, but nothing came out.
"Arlo!"
Ellinor struggled out from beneath the dead Heresiarch and raced to her child. She scooped him up in her arms, holding his head against her chest to hide the carnage around him.
The Hunter reached out to comfort her. "Are you—?"
"Stay away!" Ellinor shouted, backing away from him. Her eyes were wide in terror, but it had little to do with the corpses.
She was afraid of him.
"Ellinor," he started, "I—"
"Don't hurt us!" she cried, flinching back. "Please, just leave us alone!"
The words hit him like a slap in the face.
"But, I—"
"You're a monster!"
The Hunter looked down at his bloodstained clothes. Crimson covered his arms and hands, and dripped from his face.
"Please, Ellinor—" he begged.
With a cry of terror, the girl turned and fled into the night.
The Hunter felt as if a knife had been plunged into his stomach. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He watched the slim figure disappear into the darkness of Lower Voramis, at a loss for words.
Turning his back on the carnage, the Hunter stumbled toward the heart of the building, toward the place he called home. The bodies of his friends lay discarded on the floor behind him, but the Hunter couldn't look at them, couldn't see the accusation in their unseeing eyes.
Where were you? He thought he could hear them asking. Why didn't you protect us?
He dimly heard the click of the lock opening, and the solid thunk of the deadbolt sliding into its housing. The heavy door swung open, and the Hunter pushed into the darkened r
oom beyond. His apartments remained empty and undisturbed.
The scent of fresh blood filled his nose, and, looking down, he saw his dark grey robes covered in crimson. It dripped down the front of his clothes, soaking into his pants, filling his boots.
He stripped quickly, casting the fouled garments into a corner and throwing his bloodied weapons onto the room's lone table. He splashed cold water over his face to wash away the blood. The chill calmed his mind and dimmed the heat of his fury. The faces of the Heresiarchs flashed through his mind, the looks of horror as their lives slipped away at the end of his blade.
The Dark Heresiarchs deserve what is coming. They played a part in the death of innocents, on the orders of the accursed Lord Jahel. They will all pay, every Watcher damned one of them.
Numbness and fatigue stole over him, dulling the rage and clouding his mind. He couldn't think clearly. His eyelids drooped, and his limbs felt leaden.
His body moved of its own accord. Looking down, he found he had dressed himself. His boots were neatly tied, his weapons strapped around his waist. He was grateful that Soulhunger's voice remained silent in his mind, its lust for death temporarily sated.
I need rest, he thought, feeling the weariness in his bones, but not here. Not among the bodies.
He no longer had safe houses to flee to—the Bloody Hand and the Dark Heresiarchs had seen to that. The blood of his friends still stained the floors of the places he had called home. He had no desire to look into the empty eyes of those he had wanted so badly to protect.
But where can I go?
He craved anything to distract his mind from the death of the beggars. From his failure to protect his friends. From the look in Ellinor's eyes before she had fled from him.
There has to be a place even the Heresiarchs and the Hand would never think to find me.
The face of Lady Damuria flashed before his eyes. It was a foolish idea, but he was desperate. She would be enough to distract him, for a while at least.
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