Darkblade Protector

by Andy Peloquin

  The heavy doors to the al-Malek's chambers burst open. Boots thudded on the carpet, and dark hands pulled back the curtain as two Royal Guards in pristine white armor charged into the room. They stopped, eyes wide, at the sight of the blaze. One shouted in the language of Al Hani, his hand darting to his sword hilt. The second guard's blade flashed from his sheath and he rushed the Hunter.

  The Hunter cursed. He didn't want any more bodies than necessary. Soulhunger remained in its sheath; it had spilled enough blood tonight. He closed with the guard and, seizing his upraised sword hand, wrapped his right arm around the man's neck, spun, and hurled the armored figure over his shoulder. The guard cried out and flew through the air, crashing into his companion, and the two collapsed in a heap of tangled armor and limbs. Not waiting for them to recover, the Hunter rushed over and kicked out twice, hard. The guards slumped, blood streaming from broken noses and lips.

  The Hunter glanced at the burning corpses. The fire in the main chamber had spread to the plush couches and cushions of the sitting area, and tongues of flame licked up the hanging curtains. With a curse, he seized the guards by their collars and flung them into the tiled passage.

  They'll have a wicked headache from all the smoke, but they'll live. The tiled corridor held no fuel for the fire. The bodies in the bathing room will be unharmed. Whoever discovered the corpses would be in for a terrible shock at the sight of two al-Maleks—one very dead, the other awakening from the effects of an alchemical poison that mimicked death. The true al-Malek would be safe in the bathing room. Fire could not burn ceramic, stone, and water.

  Shouts of alarm rang out in the hall beyond. Armor clanked and boots clattered on the tile floor.

  Damn it! So much for getting out of here undiscovered. He cursed the demon and Captain Al-Zahar for setting the fire.

  He scooped up a fallen sword and rushed from the room, right into the arms of three armor-clad Royal Guards. He bowled into the first guard, driving his fist into the man's face. Another guard managed a swing, but the Hunter knocked it wide and slammed his hilt into the man's forehead. Dropping below a chop aimed at his head, he brought his elbow up into the man's jaw. The blow lifted the guard from the floor, hurling him backward to collapse in a heap against the wall.

  The Hunter winced. Hope I didn't hit him too hard!

  More shouts of alarm sounded from the halls ahead, and the Hunter dashed through the halls. He called to mind his memory of the route he'd taken with Captain Al-Zahar and Samia. If he could find his way back to the queen’s chambers, he could retrace his steps and find the hidden passage out of the palace.

  The sound of clanking armor greeted him, and he hurled himself into a side corridor. He had no desire to face more Royal Guards. They would only slow his escape, and he might be forced to kill them. He only wanted to leave the palace—and Al Hani—forever.

  He rushed down a familiar corridor and slammed his shoulder into the door to the queen's private chambers. Servants looked up in terror, but he barreled on. The way he sought lay just ahead.

  A familiar sight stopped him. The curved sword of Nasnaz the Great lay on the queen's office table. My sword.

  He drew the blade with reverence. The giltwork on the hilt sparkled in the candlelight, and the leather wrappings felt just right in his hands. A part of him wanted to take it. Like Soulhunger, the sword was a connection to his past, a memory of who he had once been.

  I was Nasnaz the Great. This belonged to me.

  Yet another part rebelled at the thought of wielding the sword. The blade had carved a kingdom in the heart of the desert, at the cost of thousands of lives. He needed Soulhunger, but he could live without the ornate sword. Too much blood had stained its blade.

  If Nasnaz the Great truly was as the demon claimed, it is a part of my past better left forgotten.

  He sheathed the sword with a ring of steel on leather. Replacing the ornamental scabbard on the table, he seized the plain hilt of the Royal Guard's blade. It would suffice.

  With one final look at the beautiful sword, he hurried from the queen's chambers. Instinct took over in the near-identical corridors, and he allowed muscle memory to guide him through the labyrinthine halls of the palace. He'd only come this way once, but years spent hunting prey had taught him well. His internal compass would lead him unerringly.

  His heart leapt at the sight of the tapestry that hid the secret corridor. A company of guards clattered toward him, forcing him to duck out of view. Pulse racing, he waited. Had they seen him?

  The armored figures clanked past, shouting in the language of Al Hani. His fingers traced the outline of the al-Malek's ring, hidden in a secret pocket in his robes. He had only one mission: escape with his prize.

  He waited a dozen heartbeats and peered around the pillar. No sign of life. Perfect!

  He felt along the wall behind the tapestry. Captain Al-Zahar had done something and…

  Aha!

  His sensitive fingertips detected a slight depression in the wall. A push, and stone rumbled to one side to reveal a gaping mouth into darkness.

  He cast a glance over his shoulder. Across the palace courtyard, a pillar of fire towered from the al-Malek's chambers. Smoke billowed into the heavens, blotting out the stars. Shouts and cries added to the din of the alarm bells that tolled around the palace.

  Lifting a lantern from the wall, he rushed into the darkened passage. Stone ground against stone, and the hidden passage swung shut.

  He was free.

  * * *

  Adrenaline coursed through the Hunter, lending wings to his feet. He pulled his dark cloak tighter. If anyone spotted the blood staining his clothing, they would raise an alarm. The Shouting Sword seemed an endless distance away. He forced himself to move at a fast walk. No sense attracting attention, not with the city at full alert.

  Few people traveled the streets at this time of night. Those he encountered ran in the direction of the palace. Alarm bells pealed throughout the city. The palace burned, and the people of Al Hani wanted to see the spectacle.

  One problem out of the way, now to deal with the next. Somehow, he had to track down Younis without being spotted. He had no idea where to start. If I can discover how he's communicating with his men, I may be able to buy myself some time. At least enough to find a way to eliminate them.

  He had no doubt Il Seytani's men had orders to kill him once they had the al-Malek's ring. Il Seytani might claim to be a man of business, but the Hunter had seen how ruthless he could be. His fist clenched at memory of the blood pouring from Hailen's neck. He wouldn't trust Hailen's fate in the hands of the bandit leader. He'd have to free the boy himself.

  That meant killing Younis and all his companions. The bandits wielded iron weapons, and they outnumbered him. Then he'd have to reach Il Seytani's camp before the bandit leader grew suspicious. Without his escort to vouch for him, his only hope lay in sneaking into the camp and getting Hailen out unseen. Alone, he had no doubt he could do it. The boy complicated things.

  He refused to think of what would happen after. Elivast was fleet and strong, but would be carrying two riders. Il Seytani's horses were bred to roam the desert. He had no doubt the bandits would catch him before he could travel more than a day or two, no matter the head start.

  How long would Hailen survive a flight across the desert, much less a desperate last stand against bandits armed with iron?

  Il Seytani had to die, though it rankled him to think that the bandit's death could play into the plans of the Sage, whoever the man was. The Hunter ground his teeth. Every time he tried to go against a demon, someone ended up suffering as a result. What would happen to Aghzaret now?

  Enough! One problem at a time. He'd figure out his plans after rescuing the boy.

  “Why go back for him at all?” The demon's voice echoed in his thoughts. “Why risk yourself?”

  The Hunter tried to ignore the voice. “You go to do the impossible. You go to your death.”

  The demon wasn't wrong
. The Hunter had little chance of success, even without the boy to slow him down.

  Enough. I do what I must.

  He would find a way. Hailen had suffered enough for a lifetime. He'd watched the Hunter kill the Beggar Priests that were his only family. He'd traveled halfway across Einan with the man who had murdered the man who'd cared for him. He'd been taken by bandits, and caged and tortured like an animal.

  No more, the Hunter resolved. No more suffering. Hailen would live the life of a normal boy. No more following the Hunter on his quest to rid Einan of the demons. If it means I have to deliver the boy to the nearest House of Need, so be it.

  A twinge of fear coursed through him. The voices had fallen silent, but they would return. They always returned. How would he survive without Hailen's presence to push back the demon's shrieking, and Soulhunger's demanding insistence? It didn't matter. He would make do without the boy. He would find more victims to feed to the endless bloodlust raging in his mind. He would do it, for Hailen.

  He stroked Bardin's silver pendant. His friend had done the same when fear or anxiety threatened to overwhelm him. The Hunter found the gesture oddly comforting.

  Something drifted across his field of vision. A piece of sheer fabric drifted lazily on the evening breeze. His gaze followed the cloth—the sight so out of place in the chaos of the panicked city. A heartbeat later, the scent reached him. Lilies. Jasmines. Alyssum blossoms.

  Instinct kicked in, and he threw himself to the side as something sliced the air where he'd stood. His shoulder slammed into the packed earth of the street, but he rolled to his feet and drew Soulhunger in a smooth motion.

  "Well, well," came the familiar voice. "If it isn't the elusive Bucelarii." A woman stepped from the shadows up the street, a smile on her face. In the darkness, her skin looked barely a shade lighter than midnight. The taut lines of her arms and shoulders rippled like a beast of prey. Even had she worn more than the sheer fabric that clung to her svelte form, he would have recognized the large lips, thick nose, and tightly coiled hair.

  "Jemdara." His heart sank. "I don't have time for this. I have to—"

  "You have to what?" Jemdara's teeth gleamed in the darkness. "Murder innocents and drink their blood, Demon? It is the way of your kind, is it not?"

  The Hunter snorted. "My kind?"

  "Yes, you Bucelarii," Jemdara spat. "My sisters and I have heard the tales, passed down from our ancestors. For centuries, we have served the Illusionist Clerics, hunting down the monsters that plague this world. Your time has come to join your kin in whatever nameless hell spawned you."

  The Hunter scanned the shadows. How many hid in the darkness, waiting for him to turn his back? How many had the Illusionist Cleric sent to capture him?

  "Please, don't do this. Not now. An innocent child's life is at risk. Would you have that on your conscience?"

  Jemdara snorted. "Do you believe I am foolish enough to believe you, creature? There is nothing you can say that will sway me from my purpose."

  The Hunter shook his head. "That is what I feared." He passed Soulhunger to his right hand. "Forgive me for what I must do."

  He darted forward, and Soulhunger carved deadly arcs in the air. He thrust and cut with lightning speed, hoping to get her out of the fight before her sisters closed in. She wielded the cloth like a shield, blocking his blows. Baring her teeth in a wordless growl, she lashed out with the strip of fabric whenever an opening presented itself. Time and again, the blade sewn into the cloth snapped against his skin, and where it touched, blood flowed. In the space of a dozen heartbeats, the Hunter bled from twice as many tiny wounds.

  He tried to throw her off balance with a succession of quick blows and kicks, but she knocked them aside without hesitation. The cloth whipped and darted like a striking snake, gouging the flesh of his neck and laying open a cut above his eye.

  "I don't...have time…for this!" Each attack punctuated, but not a single strike landed.

  Too late, he heard the whisper of fabric on his left. Sandaled feet slapped on the road as Jemdara's sisters surrounded him. A cloth snaked around his forearm and pulled tight against his wrist. He yanked hard, freeing his hand. Another coil constricted around his right elbow. Two more looped about his legs, and before he could react, they pulled taut. His legs flew out from beneath him. Arms restrained, his face slammed into the hard-packed earth of the street. Jemdara leapt astride him in an instant. The strip of fabric entwined about his throat, and she dug her knee into his back,

  Gasping for air, the Hunter struggled to move as cloths pulled tight around his wrists and ankles, dragging his arms and legs to their full extension. He thrashed in the dirt, helpless as a hobbled horse. His lungs cried out as the fabric around his throat cut off air, but the more he struggled, the tighter the cloths drew.

  "Thank whatever god you demons worship that we are not here to kill you," Jemdara whispered, her breath hot in his ear. "Were our orders not to bring you alive…"

  His vision clouded, and he fought to choke out a protest. Jemdara pulled his head back and dug her knee harder into his spine. Slowly, agonizingly, the world around him faded to true black.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Pain crushed the Hunter's neck, throat, and lungs. Every breath burned. He tried to turn his head, but something held it fast. He lay on his back, arms pulled to their full length. Something strong and thick held his limbs bound. The terror and panic of his inner demon echoed against his skull.

  How much time did I lose? How long was I unconscious? He scanned the darkness, looking for any ray of light to tell him if the sun or moon rode high in the sky. The only light in the room flickered outside his field of vision.

  I have to get out of here! I have to find Younis.

  "Welcome back, Bucelarii." The familiar maddening giggle of the Illusionist Cleric sounded beside the Hunter, and the man himself stepped into view. His face seemed to have grown new lines in the weeks since Azmaria. Only the barest hint of a bruise remained on his jaw.

  "You have to let me go." The Hunter's words came out in a rasp. His parched throat begged for water.

  "Hee hee, he says we have to let him go." The Illusionist Cleric—Imperius, Jemdara called him in Azmaria—spoke to no one in particular. He stared into the darkness, his eyes unfocused. "If only the little Bucelarii knew how much effort went into hunting him down after he fled Azmaria. Only with your power, oh mighty Illusionist, were we able to find him."

  The Hunter's heart sank. The cleric was as insane as the rest of his kind. He actually thinks he's talking to the Illusionist.

  "You don't understand. I—"

  Imperius patted the Hunter's arm and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You'd be amazed by what we can do, little demonspawn." He burst into a maddening giggle and waggled a finger at the Hunter. "Had we been given the command to kill you all those millennia ago, your kind would have been eradicated long ago. But the foolish brothers of the Beggar fail at their jobs time and again." His eyes flashed, and his face darkened into a deranged frown. "Idiots! They are the only ones with the tools to do what is necessary, but they are useless!"

  Twisted hell! He'd thought Bardin unpredictable, but his Malandrian friend seemed sane in comparison to this volatile Illusionist Cleric. Even Garanis had hidden his insanity better than Imperius.

  "Release me." The Hunter struggled against his bonds. "I have to get out of here."

  The cleric's anger turned to confusion. "He wants to leave? Why would he not want to stay and let us help him, mighty Spellbinder?" His eyes lost focus again, and he cocked an ear. "How can he not see we are doing him a favor?"

  This puzzled the Hunter. "What are you talking about? How are you helping me?"

  Imperius' eyes converged on the Hunter's face. "I keep you from the path of your fathers, little one."

  What in the frozen hell is he talking about?

  The priest spoke, and his voice had deepened, his eyes lost all trace of madness. "The blood of humankind ru
ns through his veins, diluting the pollution of the Abiarazi. To the Bucelarii is given a choice: human or demon, which forefather will they choose to follow?"

  "Wait!" The Hunter's mind raced. "But why erase our memories? How does that serve?"

  As if something snapped, Imperius' gaze fixed on something invisible and the maddening giggle returned. "Your life is long, Bucelarii, far longer than it should be. The mistakes of humans rarely outlive them." He tapped the Hunter in the chest with a bony finger. "Your mistakes, your choices, live for thousands of years. With your memories erased, you are reborn. We offer you a clean slate, a chance to make of yourself a new, better creature."

  The Hunter shook his head. "But what if you remove the wrong memories? You say we have the chance to choose our own path, yet your actions remove all choice from the matter."

  Imperius’ face grew solemn, but a trace of madness danced behind his eyes. "It is our most holy task." He threw himself to his knees, hands extended in supplication. "We do not question your truths, mighty Illusionist!" Bending double, face to the floor, the Illusionist Cleric babbled nonsense.

  "Imperius." A woman's voice pierced the muttering. Jemdara strode from behind him and placed a hand on the Illusionist Cleric's shoulder. "Remember what you must do."

  Imperius whirled on the woman, eyes flashing, teeth bared. At the sight of Jemdara, his rage turned to delight in a heartbeat. "What's that, my beauty?"

  Jemdara ground her teeth. "The ritual, Priest."

  Confusion stained Imperius' features. His gaze remained unfocused, locked onto something over Jemdara's head. The woman helped him to his feet and tugged the pendant from beneath his shirt. "Get it over with." She pressed the necklace into his hand.

  The puzzlement fled from the Illusionist Cleric's face at the sight of the silver pendant, and sanity peeked through his smile. "Yes, of course. Thank you."

  Straightening his stained and ripped robes, he hefted the pendant and set it swinging in the candlelight. The Hunter locked eyes with the man. The madness had gone, replaced by utter confidence and calm. Almost as if the ritual gave his scattered mind focus, just as Bardin's "work" had.