This is the end. The Hunter felt his body go slack, his struggles weakening. Let it end.
The pressure around his throat suddenly eased, and the Hunter gasped and filled his lungs with air. He coughed, sending pain flashing through his body. It hurt to breathe, to move, even to think.
He felt himself being dragged along the ground, but he had no fight left in him. It required all of his will just to remain conscious. He was roughly hauled to his feet, but when the hands released him, his legs refused to hold him upright.
A hard slap rocked his head to one side, startling him from his daze. He opened his eyes, but a wave of nausea washed over him. The room whirled around him. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes until the spinning stopped.
"You might have been a bit too eager," the First said. Tane's only response was a grunt.
The Hunter cracked an eyelid, and to his relief, the room no longer spun. Opening the other eye, he found himself staring into the smiling face of the First. Tane stood scowling behind his master, watching him with a wary expression.
Cool stone pressed against the Hunter's back, and thick ropes held him fast. Try as he might, he could not break free of his bonds. Thankfully, they offered some support, holding him upright as his shaky legs regained their strength. He clenched his fists, feeling his hands grow cold as the tightness of his bonds cut off the flow of blood.
The First had called Tane "Third"—the missing Finger. The Hunter found it odd that such a high-ranking Hand member would pose as servant to Lord Cyrannius. He couldn't figure out how it fit, and his inability to solve the mystery frustrated him.
It just doesn't make sense!
Even as his mind searched for answers, his eyes took in the details of his surroundings. An eerie wind moaned through the high-vaulted stone ceiling of the cavern, carrying with it a horrifying smell of decay and rot—the foul odors of the Midden. Dust lay thick on the floor, and every step the First took kicked up small clouds of ancient debris.
His hands jerked instinctively toward his weapons, but they no longer hung at his side. A momentary stab of panic flashed through him; he felt naked without them. His eyes darted around the room in search of his sword belt. He found it—on the floor, between the feet of the hulking Tane.
His heart sank. Perhaps if he could break free, there was a chance he could reach them. He knew it would be next to impossible, but he had to try.
The First stooped over the Hunter's weapons, and his hand closed around Soulhunger's grip. For a moment, the First simply stood staring at the dagger, caressing the blade with delicate fingers, seemingly lost in thought. There was reverence in the way he handled the weapon. Soulhunger pounded in the Hunter's mind, yet it seemed somehow…off. The blade whispered in a voice filled with eager bloodthirst, but there was something else he couldn't quite explain.
"I know what you must be thinking, Hunter." The First turned suddenly to stride toward him. A sardonic smile spread on the man's face. "You find yourself tied up and at my mercy once again."
His mocking laughter infuriated the Hunter, who strained at his ropes in a vain attempt to break free. Tane stood like a massive statue in the background, his wary eyes watching the Hunter's every twitch. The First, however, paid no attention to his struggles. He had eyes only for the ornate dagger in his hands. His fingers played with the blade's sheath, turning it over.
"Forgive me for the restraints," he said, his voice almost apologetic, "but you can see why I found it necessary. Once I explain myself, I believe you may come to see things in a different light."
The Hunter, breathing hard from exertion, ceased his struggles.
"First of all," said the First, his gaze lingering on the blade, "I must thank you, Hunter. You have done me a favor this night."
"A favor?" the Hunter asked. "I've just killed most of your gang of thugs. By the time I'm done, the Hand will never be heard of again."
The First seemed to take little notice of the triumph in the Hunter's voice. "Ah yes," he said, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, "The Hand. The Bloody Hand. I have to tell you, Hunter, it did give me a feeling of power to control the city from behind the scenes." A tone of excitement filled his voice, but his eyes remained empty. "The crime, the vice, the horrors, quite the little thrill."
Acid rose in the Hunter's throat. "A little thrill? You've ruined countless lives, filled the city with chaos and death. And all for entertainment?" Of all the horrors he had witnessed in his years, the man's callous dismissal of human life seemed the worst.
"And don't you just love it?" the First asked, spreading his arms wide. "All of these horrors make the perfect niche for a man like you to claim as his own. With the chaos of the Bloody Hand, one man must rise to bring justice and righteousness to the city. I can see it now: the Hunter, the hero Voramis deserves."
"There are no heroes here," the Hunter said, his voice quiet.
"Ah, so the Hunter is truly nothing more than a killer for hire, earning a living doing dirty work. The people whisper, 'Is he the true power in Voramis? Who is this mysterious creature?' Tell me Hunter, who are you?"
"A killer, plain and simple," the Hunter replied. "But at least I'm not bottom-feeding scum like you and the rest of the Hand. Profiting off misery and chaos. I tell you now, First, by the end of this night, the Bloody Hand will cease to exist."
"Why of course!" The First stabbed a finger at the Hunter. "And it's all thanks to the unlikely hero of Voramis: the feared Hunter!" His mocking laughter echoed in the cavern.
Soulhunger pounded eagerly in the Hunter's mind as he watched the First toying with the dagger. Something about the blade's voice unnerved the Hunter.
"I applaud the theatrics, by the way," the First said. He assumed the pose of an actor on a theater stage. "The grand gesture, the startling reveal, the warning of death and doom! It definitely made for a spectacle, my friend."
The Hunter said nothing, and the First continued. "I, too, understand the value of making a statement." The grin on his face turned feral, ugly. "I assume you received my 'little message'?"
Rage burned in the Hunter's chest. He threw himself against the ropes, but his fury proved useless.
"She had nothing to do with this! She didn't deserve to suffer like that!" The man stood just out of reach, tempting the Hunter, mocking him with his proximity. Once more, he strained at his bonds, to no avail.
The First shrugged. "Of course, she didn't deserve to die, but it had to happen. But tell me true, Hunter, would you have waged this private war on the most powerful organization in Voramis had she not met her grisly end? It was her death which pushed you over the edge—exactly where I needed you to be."
He talks about her death as if it was just one more move in a game of Nizaa. The pain of his loss surged through him, fanning the fire of his rage. But instead of wasting his fury on the ropes that held him fast, he silently stoked the flame within, waiting for his opportunity.
The First seemed to take the Hunter's look as one of incomprehension, for he continued his gloating speech.
"Let me help you to understand exactly how you have unknowingly played a central role in the success of tonight's endeavors." He stepped closer to the Hunter. "Do you recognize me?"
"You are the First of the Bloody Hand," the Hunter replied.
"No, not my face. Do you recognize my scent?"
How does he know? No one else can know of my abilities.
"Breathe deep, Hunter," the First said, his face uncomfortably close, "and see what your senses tell you."
The Hunter inhaled deeply, filling his nostrils with the man's scent. He smelled perfume and lace, but beneath it all, a hint of rot and decay tinged the First's essence.
That scent of death is familiar, almost as if…
Something snapped into place in the Hunter's mind.
"It can't be," he breathed, disbelief flooding him. He had smelled it before. Could he be?
"Oh, yes, Hunter." The First threw back his head and laughed.
>
"Impossible!"
"It's a talent I have," the First replied, stepping back. "Let's just say it's in my blood."
The torchlight flickered for a moment, casting shadows on the man's face. There was nothing extraordinary about the First's features, nothing to indicate he was anything other than what he appeared to be. Then the face shifted. Muscle and bone moved, twisted, contorted, like maggots crawling across a carcass. The aquiline nose, sharp cheekbones, and thin lips of the First seemed to melt, and moments later, the hook nose and high forehead of Lord Jahel stared back at him.
Stunned, the Hunter looked at the face of the leader of the Dark Heresy.
"Quite a useful skill, isn't it?" Lord Jahel asked, giving the Hunter a thin-lipped smile of contempt.
He wore the bright robes of the First, but the face no longer belonged to the leader of the Bloody Hand. Even his voice had changed, though the scent of rot and decay still permeated the cavern. Cruel cunning burned within the man's eyes—empty pools of darkness mirroring the Hunter's own.
The demon!
"You!" the Hunter choked out.
His thoughts were a jumble as he stared at the man, and confusion warred in his mind. The demon is Lord Jahel and the First?
"I see you remember me." Lord Jahel gave him a wan smile. "I trust memory of the Hole still burns bright in your mind."
"It does," the Hunter said, suppressing a shudder. "I also remember how easy it was to escape your fabled prison."
"Of course! Silly me." Lord Jahel's patronizing voice held a mocking edge. "You were so valiant, wrenching that chain from the wall and making a heroic escape into the night. An almost picture-perfect ending, if you don't mind me saying."
"Did you really think you could hold me there?" the Hunter asked. "Better men than you have tried to imprison me, and they all lie dead now."
"No doubt." Lord Jahel shrugged. "The Hunter is a creature of legend, and rightly so." He quirked an eyebrow. "But let me ask you: do you really think Lord Jahel, the feared Demon of Voramis, would allow the chains of his dungeon to weaken sufficiently to the point that they could be ripped free?" Lord Jahel's voice rose to a feverish pitch of excitement. "Could it be just a coincidence that you were locked in the one set of shackles that would allow you to break free?"
This revelation felt like a slap to the Hunter's face. He had been certain his strength and will had allowed him to escape, but it had all been a ruse.
"So you wanted me to get away," he said, trying to hide the doubt in his voice, "but you had no idea I would hunt you down. After all, you are a member of the Heresiarchs, as well as commander of the Dark Heresy. To kill you would set the Palace of Justice on my heels, essentially signing my death warrant. That would be a fight even I would not relish."
"Of course." Lord Jahel nodded. "You're far too smart to take revenge on someone as important as Lord Jahel. Which is why I needed a bit of assistance. Enter, the First of the Bloody Hand. A truly marvelous villain, the likes of which Voramis has never seen."
The torchlight played across Lord Jahel's shifting features as bone and gristle morphed. The Hunter didn't even try to hide his revulsion, but watched the transformation in dumbfounded amazement. In seconds, the face of the First stared back at him.
"You see this face?" the First asked. "This is the face you needed to hate in order to set tonight's events in motion. You had to want to destroy the Bloody Hand, and we gave you a reason when we captured and tortured you." He patted the Hunter on the arm. "Nothing gets the blood up like a bit of pain."
The Hunter fought to gather his thoughts, to spit the First's words back in his face. "You wanted to make me angry," he growled, "wanted me to 'break free' and attack you."
"Of course!" said the First with a smile. "I needed you to track me down, after all."
A sudden sinking feeling seized the Hunter. "Which is why Lord Jahel—you—left that scrap of cloth on the table." His stomach roiled, and he felt the urge to vomit. How could he have been so blind?
"Convenient, wasn't it? With that cloth, the bit torn from the First's robe, and the purse Lord Cyrannius gave you, you had everything you needed to find us. Or should I say me?"
The Hunter remembered the twisted, scarred cripple in the wheeled chair. The man who had hired him to kill the priest had reeked of decay, but the Hunter had attributed it to his age and deformity. He now realized why the scent had been so familiar.
"You were Lord Cyrannius as well." It explained why Tane—the Third—had posed as bondservant.
"Full marks, Hunter!" Lord Jahel said with a patronizing smile. "It was an act worthy of the greatest stage in Voramis."
He gave the Hunter a theatrical bow, one foot forward and his hands spread wide. He dipped low, and when he stood, the wrinkles, age spots, and disfiguring scars of old Lord Cyrannius stared back at the Hunter.
"I must say," Lord Cyrannius said, his voice thick with the effort of speaking through twisted lips, "hunching over in that wheelchair was extremely uncomfortable. Definitely one of my least favorite guises, but I believe I pulled it off with aplomb. Don't you agree, Hunter?" His features shifted to those of the First.
"You were Cyrannius." Disbelief warred with the evidence in front of him. "Why?"
"Think about it," the First said. "Why would I adopt the guise of an old man?"
The Hunter pondered for a moment and cursed himself for a fool. "To make me think my employer was harmless. That way I wouldn't expect the ambush."
The First applauded, his expression mocking.
"Bastard," the Hunter growled. The Hand thugs had caught him off guard, and it had been far too easy for them to capture him.
"I must thank you, by the way, for carrying out that contract for me."
"The priest?" the Hunter asked.
"Yes." Lord Jahel's face shifted, and the aristocratic face of the First peered at him once more. "A necessary part of this charade."
"You knew the truth of Brother Securus?" the Hunter asked.
"The Cambionari have hunted my kind for millennia," the First replied. "I have made it my business to learn everything about these Beggar Priests." He spat in contempt.
"But why did you need me to kill the priest?" the Hunter said. "Why not simply kill him yourself?"
"Aside from the delicious irony of it all?" the First asked. "You have no idea how many assassins we have wasted on that one priest. The bastard was good, I must admit." He spoke with grudging respect in his voice.
"You hoped I would be the one to kill him where all of your men had failed."
"I do love a bit of senseless death for death's sake," the First said, giving the Hunter a malicious smile, "but I found myself short on assassins to send to their death. I knew if anyone could do it, it would be you."
"It seems your plan worked." Anger burned in his chest.
"Like it wafted from the gods' own assholes!" the First exclaimed. "You not only eliminated the one threat to our plans, but you then delivered yourself right into our hands."
The Hunter's stomach sank. "The ambush, the torture. What was the purpose of it all?"
"We needed you angry," the First said casually, shrugging, "angry enough to look for someone to hurt. We needed you out for blood, but it seemed that torturing you wasn't quite enough to motivate you."
"Your man plunged a knife into my heart!" the Hunter shouted.
"I knew it wouldn't kill you," the First replied, waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "I am familiar with your kind. After all, we do share the same blood."
"That may be," spat the Hunter, disgust flooding him at the First's familiar tone, "but we are nothing alike."
"Don't be too certain, Hunter," the First replied, his voice clipped. "You may have human blood running through your veins, but you are still the offspring of the Abiarazi." For the first time, a hint of anger showed through the man's calm façade.
"Abiarazi?" the Hunter asked. He had never heard the word before. "Is that what you demons call yourselve
s?"
The First winced as if the Hunter had slapped him. "Demon," he snarled the word. "Such a crude term. You humans use it as a curse, but you have no idea the true power of an Abiarazi." The First's voice filled with something akin to ecstasy, and his eyes took on a faraway look. "If only you could have seen it, Hunter. They called it the War of Gods, but it was our war to conquer this world for our own."
He stared at the Hunter, his expression rapt. "When the Great Destroyer summoned us to this world, man had not yet spread across Einan like a plague. They were few in number, living such deliciously short lives." He licked his lips in an obscene gesture of delight, setting the Hunter's skin crawling.
"A fragile race, indeed. I ruled this world with my brothers, and, by Kharna, the slaughter we wreaked! The humans fell before us like wheat, and we fed on your bloated corpses. The power, oh the power!"
A shudder of pleasure ran through the First, and his features wriggled once again. For a long moment, the demon said nothing, seeming to relive some memory of a forgotten era. When he finally recovered it was with visible effort, and his shifting features solidified into the aquiline nose and sharp cheekbones of the First.
"But then that cowardly Swordsman defeated the Great Destroyer," the First snarled, "and our mighty ruler's essence was sentenced to the forgotten hells. Worse still, his body walked the heavens in the guise of a filthy beggar."
Rage twisted his features. "We were hunted nearly to extinction, and those of us who survived were forced into hiding. If only you could understand the frustration of being as powerful as the gods one moment, and the next having only a fraction of that power. Being forced to conceal who you are to avoid destruction."
"I may know more about that than you think," the Hunter said, his voice quiet.
"Of course you do!" the First said. "But do you know what it's like to have your children ripped away from you, never to be seen again?"
The lifeless face of Farida flashed through his mind, and a lump rose in his throat. A sense of loss overwhelmed him, just as it had when he’d placed her body on the steps of the House of Need.
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