Queen of Thieves Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  Two of the mercenaries carried three-bladed daggers. The Hunter recognized the weapons—he had one mounted on his wall of exotic weapons. Only the blacksmiths of Odaron knew the secret forging techniques to craft the blade's three sharp edges, which twisted to a razor sharp point. Named surgeonsbanes by the men who faced them, the daggers carved devastation into their victims. Field doctors could do little to stop the hemorrhaging, and men died of wounds too large to suture. Whoever had designed these blades not only excelled at killing, they relished it. Just as with Soulhunger.

  He shoved the handheld crossbow into its sheath at his hip, the movement collapsing the spring-loaded arms into the stock, and drew Soulhunger.

  He stalked toward the mercenaries, eyeing their tight formation. Sergeant Rakhan stood at the front, flanked by two more. At his approach, Captain Dradel and the remaining mercenary slid along the walls.

  The Hunter stepped back, unwilling to let them flank him or reach the door. Growling, Sergeant Rakhan darted forward and attacked.

  In the spacious room, the Hunter could swing his sword freely. The blade whistled through the air with enough force to shear through the sergeant's neck. Sergeant Rakhan ducked, his right arm coming up at an angle to deflect the Hunter's sword up and over his head. His left fist drove forward, jabbing the short end of the tong fa toward the Hunter's gut.

  The Hunter whipped Soulhunger across his midsection, blocking the strike. Before he could bring his sword around, the sergeant whirled the tong fa in his left hand. The solid length of wood smacked against the Hunter's side. And rebounded from his leather armor.

  Grinning, the Hunter drove his knee up and into the sergeant’s chin. Rakhan stumbled back, dazed. The two flanking mercenaries rushed forward, their weapons whirling in vicious circles. Even as the Hunter blocked the blows, he sensed Captain Dradel and the last mercenary edging around him.

  Feinting right, he darted left, spun into a crouch, and lashed out with his long sword. The blade bit deep into the thigh of the third mercenary. The man cried out and fell against the wall, dropping his three-bladed dagger. The stink of blood filled the Hunter's nostrils; the mercenary would bleed out from the severed artery in his thigh in a matter of seconds.

  Something thumped against the side of his head. He blinked back the pain and struck out, blinded by the spots dancing in his vision. His sword shivered as wood clacked against the steel. Another whirling length of wood crunched into his right leg. Only his instinctive retreat prevented the blow from shattering his knee.

  His sight cleared in time to see a dagger whipping toward his head. He ducked and punched out with his right hand. The crossguard of his long sword sported a short blade running parallel to the sword's edge. Instead of disemboweling the man, it clanked against the mail shirt hidden beneath his clothing.

  Cursing, the Hunter took another step back, out of reach of the vicious blade. The two mercenaries pursued. One darted to his left, no doubt trying to herd him toward Captain Dradel. The Hunter lunged toward the man instead of away. The whirling baton thumped into his ribs with jarring force, but he was inside the mercenary's guard. Before the man had time to bring his three-bladed dagger back into the fight, Soulhunger had opened his throat.

  The Hunter didn't pause to let Soulhunger feed. He pushed back against the blade's protests—he had no time for that.

  The creak of the opening door snapped his head toward the end of the room. Captain Dradel stood framed in the doorway, the shadows of night beyond. With a growl, Hunter dropped Soulhunger and scooped out his handheld crossbow. The arms snapped out with spring-loaded precision, the string pulling tight, the bolt prepared to shoot. He pulled the trigger.

  Pain flared in his left leg, and he stumbled. The bolt thunked into the wooden lintel above Captain Dradel's head, and the man disappeared from view.

  With a roar of rage, the Hunter whirled on his attacker. A recovered Sergeant Rakhan stood beside the remaining mercenary. Sheathing his crossbow, the Hunter gripped his long sword in both hands. He had the advantage of reach. He wielded steel, not wood. His superior strength and the blade's edge could chop through the tong fas with ease. He read the truth in the mercenaries' grim expressions: they knew they looked into the eyes of death, but by the Keeper, they'd face it like warriors, not cowards.

  He shuffled forward, his feet moving with the precision of a dancer, and brought his sword slashing up toward Sergeant Rakhan's chin. The sergeant twisted aside, and the Hunter had to step back to evade the other mercenary's strike. His follow-up thrust was deflected by one of the sergeant’s tong fa, but he brought the sword back and around with a powerful chop. The blade sheared through the whirling tip of the other mercenary's weapon--and his left arm.

  The man fell back with a cry. Blood spurted from his stump, and he staggered backward to collapse atop his now-silent comrade. The pool of crimson grew larger as the dying man's heart pumped out his lifeblood.

  Sergeant Rakhan clenched his teeth and gripped his tong fas tighter. "You're making a mistake, you know. We're doing this for the good of—"

  The Hunter attacked with a snarl, bringing his sword slashing across at the level of the sergeant's chest. Sergeant Rakhan leaned back, but the tip of the Hunter's blade bit into the chain mail. Links snapped with the force of the blow. The sergeant stumbled, but recovered before the Hunter could follow up.

  He went on the offensive, his tong fas blurring in the poorly illuminated room. The Hunter gave ground. His keen ears picked up the sergeant's labored breathing, and the man winced every time he swallowed. Such minor hindrances, but they could be the difference between life and death.

  The Hunter's sword struck high, but he put hardly any strength into the blow. Just enough to draw the sergeant's attention upward, away from his kick. His boot crunched into Sergeant Rakhan's right knee with bone-shattering force. The mercenary fell with a sharp cry.

  Even injured, he refused to give up. He scooted away from the Hunter, kicking out with his uninjured leg. Not willing to risk the hobnailed boots shattering his ankles, the Hunter followed with caution.

  Passing his sword to his left hand, he drew out his second handheld crossbow and sent a bolt into the sergeant's left thigh. The mercenary grunted and bit down on a cry.

  The Hunter couldn't help admiring the man. He was no coward, that much was clear. He pushed back against Soulhunger's pleas to feed—Sergeant Rakhan deserved a fate worthy of a warrior. Raising his crossbow, he released the second bolt at the mercenary's head.

  The bolt drove through Sergeant Rakhan's open mouth and into the back of his skull. It crunched through the spine, burying itself in the wooden floor, pinning the sergeant's head in place. He died with a quiet shiver.

  A weak cough sounded behind the Hunter. He whirled, weapons at the ready. No more attackers faced him. The figure hanging from the ceiling coughed again and struggled to move. Blood trickled from wounds in his emaciated belly, sunken chest, and white beard, falling to the floor with a thick drip, drip.

  The Hunter hesitated a moment. Captain Dradel had fled less than a minute ago, and he could still hunt him down and put an end to the Brotherhood once and for all. But could he leave this man to die?

  He's not your concern, the voice in the back of his mind insisted. Find the captain and kill him! Soulhunger added its insistence. It wanted to kill, to consume. The dagger wanted death, indiscriminate of who he killed.

  Growling, the Hunter shook his head to clear away the voices. He stomped toward the hanging figure. A pair of manacles gripped the man's bony feet. The manacles were attached to a steel hook, which hung from a railing set into the ceiling—similar to the railings used to hang beef, goat, and pig carcasses in a butcher's shop.

  The Hunter had no key to unlock the manacles, nor needed one. One blow of his watered steel blade snapped the cheap lock. He hissed at the stink of iron. His arm encircled the man's slim waist as he pushed open the manacles with his sword's tip, taking care to avoid touching the metal.


  He lowered the man gently to the ground and studied his wounds: a bloody line along his abdomen, two vertical grooves cut into his chest, and a horizontal slash in each wrist. They were enough to kill him, slowly. If the Brotherhood had wanted him dead, they would have slit his throat or slashed the length of his forearms.

  The Hunter seized the dead Trouvere's cloak and ripped it into strips, which he used to bind the man's wounds. He worked with deft fingers. Though he healed from wounds far faster than other men, one learned basic field medicine in his line of work.

  As he dressed the wounds, he scanned the room. The walls were made of wood, plain and free of adornments, as expected of an abandoned building. One corner of the floor sagged, the planks rotting and crumbling. A closed door stood a few paces from where he knelt. The butcher's railing disappeared through an opening above the door.

  The voices in his head shrieked at him to ignore the door, to leave it alone and pursue Captain Dradel. He ignored them.

  The door creaked open, and a thick wall of reek slammed into the Hunter. The stench of blood—fresh, dried, and stale—assaulted his nostrils. Seven figures hung from manacles, dripping crimson into buckets placed beneath them. They bore wounds similar to the man in the main room—enough to weaken them, but not enough to kill.

  The sight and smells twisted the Hunter's stomach. Over decades as an assassin, he thought he'd seen the worst of humanity. Pederasts, rapists, murderers, thieves, arsonists, men and women earning a living or profiting off the misery of others—he'd hunted them all. Those depravities paled in comparison to this.

  Ignoring the protesting voices in his head, he strode into the room and set about cutting the men and women down. Their emaciated bodies, pale from blood loss, set disgust roiling through him. How could anyone heap such cruelty on these people, who already lived such difficult lives?

  The sight of the last hanging body stopped him cold. A boy, no older than seven, so thin the bones protruded from his slim shoulders. His ribs protruded against his skin, and hunger had bloated his stomach. He barely stirred at the Hunter's approach.

  Fury boiled hot within the Hunter. He envisioned Farida hanging there, her flesh pale, blood dripping from half a dozen wounds, slowly dying at the hands of the Brotherhood of Pestilence. Had he not been there, she would have been their next victim.

  For this, they die.

  Most lay dead in the room without. But one had escaped—Captain Dradel's death had only been prolonged, not averted.

  Though it took valuable time, he bound their wounds with the robes cut from the dead bodies outside. One woman stirred, her eyes opening. He turned away to conceal his face—no one could know his true features—until exhaustion and blood loss dragged her once more into unconsciousness.

  His mind raced as he bound their injuries. He didn't have the time to drag them to a physicker or the Sanctuary to receive healing from the Ministrants, priestesses of the Bright Lady, goddess of healing. He had to pursue Captain Dradel, bring him down before he fled to the safety of Lord Damuria's mansion. But if he just left these people here, they would die. Two of them—an ancient, wizened man and a young boy, no older than seven—were too pale, their breathing shallow.

  Growling in frustration, the Hunter rushed out of the abandoned building, through the alley, and into the streets of the Beggar's Quarter. Few people were on the streets at this time of night. A pair of drunks stumbled over a pile of refuse, uncaring that their boots emerged soaked and squelching with every step. Three beggars squatted around a pitiful fire that failed to radiate enough heat to push back the evening cool.

  Pulling up his hood to conceal his features, he strode toward the fire. "Want to earn an imperial for ten minutes' work?" he asked, his voice pitched to a low growl.

  The three men eyed him with unconcealed distrust.

  He produced the coin. Gold glinted in the firelight. "No trick."

  "What we gotta do?" one man asked in a thick, slurred voice.

  "At the back of that alley, you'll find an abandoned building lit by lamps. Inside, there are dead bodies, but a few still living. Haul them out and get them to a physicker."

  Greed lit up one man's beady eyes. "Sure thing, friend," he replied, too eagerly.

  With his other hand, the Hunter held up Soulhunger. "I expect a fair trade," he growled. "This coin for your assistance. Do we have a deal?" He spoke in a hard, cold voice, one that left no doubt as to what he'd do if they reneged.

  The beady-eyed man swallowed. His companion, a bearded fellow with one eye covered by a patch, nodded. "Aye, we do."

  The Hunter flipped the coin to the bearded man. "I will know if you fail." He had no way to find out if they kept their end of the bargain—all that mattered was that they thought he would.

  Without hesitation, the Hunter turned and sprinted in the direction he guessed Captain Dradel had gone. The man was fleeing for his life; he'd take the most direct route to safety in Upper Voramis and Lord Damuria's mansion.

  Instead of racing through the streets, the Hunter ducked into a nearby alley and clambered up a nearby wall onto the roof. The buildings of the Beggar's Quarter were packed together so tightly he could race across their rooftops—his own private highway, he liked to call it. Thieves had once roamed the world above Voramis, but not since he'd begun using them decades earlier. Anyone he found slinking across the rooftops had no business being here, and it had taken just three corpses to teach the Bloody Hand to leave this part of the city to him.

  Up here, above the city lights, he had only starlight and moonlight to guide him. It was all he needed. He'd traveled the rooftops for decades. He moved like a blur, a deeper shadow gliding through the darkness of the Voramian night. His soft-soled boots made less sound than the stiff breeze wafting past. With speed impossible for any normal man, he raced toward the Temple District.

  He had to cut Captain Dradel off before he reached Upper Voramis. In the affluent section of Voramis, he'd risk running into Heresiarch patrols. He had no desire to kill the red-robed city guards—after all, they were doing their best to keep the peace. But if he didn't overtake Captain Dradel before he reached the safety of Lord Damuria's walls, it would be bloody difficult to deal with him.

  The shabby wooden buildings of the Beggar's Quarter gave way to the brick-and-mortar constructions of the Merchant's Quarter, and still the Hunter saw no sign of Captain Dradel. He cursed himself for a fool—he could have used the captain's robe, abandoned in his flight, to hunt him down. The ritual of seeking would have bound Soulhunger to the captain's heartbeat, and the dagger would have drawn him toward his target like metal to a lodestone. But it was too late to go back; he'd have to keep running and hope he cut Captain Dradel off before he reached Upper Voramis.

  In the distance, the massive constructions of the Temple District loomed high into the night sky. The Hunter gritted his teeth and poured on more speed.

  Where are you, you bastard?

  He scanned the streets below but saw no sign of the fleeing mercenary. He contemplated trying to find the man's unique scent but shrugged it off. Amidst the myriad odors of Lower Voramis, it would be like searching for a blade of grass in a haystack.

  The avenues of the Temple District were too wide for him to leap across. He descended to the street and raced on, hood pulled high, ignoring the suspicious looks cast his way. A passing Heresiarch patrol shouted for him to stop, but he disappeared around the corner before they could do more.

  Past Divinity Square, into the Blackfall District, and toward the hill leading to Upper Voramis. There he caught sight of Captain Dradel, racing up the hill for all he was worth. With a sinking feeling in his gut, the Hunter watched as the mercenary ducked through the gates and into the relative safety of Voramis' wealthy neighborhood.

  He considered his options. If he charged after the man, the Heresiarch patrols would be on him before he got twenty paces into Upper Voramis. The nobility paid a small fortune to ensure only the best, most capable of the Heresiarchs
protected their streets. The Hunter could kill enough to get through, but he preferred to avoid excessive bloodshed. He was ruthless, but only when necessary.

  With a curse, he drove his fist into a nearby stone pillar. Cracks spidered outward and stone crumbled beneath his fury.

  Captain Dradel had escaped him.

  But not for long, he thought. After all, you coward, I know where to find you.

  When Lord Damuria fled the city—no doubt taking the captain with him—the Hunter would be ready.

  Chapter Seven

  The Hunter reached his perch atop the empty mansion's roof just as a loud bang shattered the early morning stillness of Upper Voramis. The flickering light from the braziers in Lord Damuria's courtyard shone on a pillar of thick, grey smoke billowing from a ground-floor window at the rear of the house. Some servant or mercenary would have just received a heart-stopping shock.

  The estate erupted in a flurry of activity. Mercenaries rushed around the courtyard and raced toward the rear of the house. A trio of servants stumbled from the side door, coughing and gagging. The thick cloths covering their mouths would do little to keep out the smell. Even just a few breaths of the noxious smoke would render them ill. The steel-clad guard who staggered out behind them fell to the perfectly manicured grass of Lord Damuria's garden, where he proceeded to violently empty his stomach.

  The Hunter almost felt a pang of guilt. The servants didn't deserve to suffer so for their master's sake. However, better a few ill men and women than a pile of bodies. The mansion was so heavily-fortified he would have had to fight his way through the Steel Company mercenaries, and he had no desire to risk innocent lives caught in the fray. Only two men needed to die today—Lord Damuria and Captain Dradel.

  Another bang, followed in quick succession by two more. Smoke poured from a top-floor window, with another thick pillar of grey rising from the rear of the mansion. Graeme's stink balls were doing their jobs.