Darkblade Justice: An Epic Fantasy Murder Mystery (Hero of Darkness Book 7)

by Andy Peloquin

  “Go, now!” she shouted. “We are discovered!” She turned and raced off, disappearing from the Hunter’s view in seconds.

  Keeper’s teeth! The Hunter cursed as he spotted the dark-cloaked figures of Errik and his assassins—did Master Gold really call them Serpents?—breaking from their cover and racing toward the warehouse door.

  The Hunter hesitated a single instant. If they took down the Gatherers, it could alert the demon and send him into hiding. It could take the Hunter weeks or even months to track him down again. But if they charged in and the demon was inside, they’d end up dead. The idea held far less appeal than it had the previous day.

  With a growl, he leapt out of the window and dropped to the street one floor below. He threw himself into a forward roll as he landed, came to his feet, and set off after the two assassins charging toward the brick-and-wood building. He passed them up in three quick strides, then lowered his shoulder and barreled into the warehouse door.

  Wood splinters flew, iron hinges screamed, and the door flew from its frame as if torn off by a giant hand. The flying door crashed into the bald head of one robed figure and took the man down hard. He didn’t get back up.

  The Hunter grinned as he reached for his sword and Soulhunger. Shock and awe had always been his favorite tactic; a disoriented enemy proved far less effective in their efforts to kill him.

  He took in his surroundings in a heartbeat: wooden crates bearing the mark of Soaper’s Company stood in neat stacks all around the warehouse, and the stink of lye rose from the dusty white powder covering the floor. The two lanterns in the heart of the room barely pushed back the deep shadows of the vast expanse of the high-ceilinged building, but their light sufficed to cast a faint glow on the symbols scrawled onto the walls in blood.

  A table stood in the center of the open warehouse floor, and the Hunter’s gut tightened as he caught sight of a slim, childish figure strapped atop it. The captive’s head sat in some strange horseshoe-shaped metal dish with sides that rose in an upward curve.

  Ten men stood around the room, frozen in various stages of stunned surprise. The Hunter’s eyes flicked toward the southern end of the building, toward the staircase that led up toward the three upper floors. He caught a flash of movement as the young man, Kodyn, and the young woman Aisha charged from one of the fourth-floor rooms and raced along the balcony to the southeastern rooms. He was going for the girl, Briana.

  Ilanna and the other woman, Ria, engaged the first of the guards. One man flew through the air, launched by a strong kick from Ria, and crashed to the hard-packed earth floor with a sickening crunch. Ilanna’s sword knocked aside her opponent’s slim blade, and her throwing dagger took the Gatherer in the throat.

  The Hunter smiled. Not bad. They could handle themselves; he had more important matters to deal with.

  Even as the first Gatherer charged, the Hunter drew in a breath through his nostrils. The stink of demon clung to the man’s unique scent—the overpowering stink of lye, rotting gums, and turmeric—but it didn’t come from the man himself. He was as human as the victim strapped to his table. The Hunter brought his blade forward for a lightning fast thrust the Gatherer never saw. The man died without a sound, the tip of the Hunter’s long sword buried in his throat.

  Another Gatherer charged, a maniacal light in his eyes. He wielded a long sickle-shaped sword, known as a khopesh, favored among the Indomitables, Shalandra’s military troops. The Hunter batted aside the wild strike with his sword so hard it knocked the man off balance. As the Gatherer flailed his arms, the Hunter drove Soulhunger into the man’s side. Blood stained his brown robes—the same dull brown as the thread he’d found clutched in the Bluejacket’s hand, the Hunter realized—and the man’s high-pitched scream of terror echoed loud in the Hunter’s ears. Bright crimson light leaked from Soulhunger’s gemstone, pushing back the dim shadows within the room.

  Once, the Hunter had believed the dagger consumed his victims’ souls. In Enarium, he’d learned the truth: it consumed the energy that kept them alive and relayed it to Kharna. Soulhunger’s presence in his mind, interpreted as a voice demanding blood and death, had actually been a subconscious command implanted by an ancient Serenii. The Hunter killed to keep Kharna alive. So long as Kharna lived, the Devourer of Worlds could not break through to destroy Einan.

  With a roar, the Hunter tore Soulhunger free of the dying man’s side and raced toward the next Gatherer. The man wielded a crude Praamian-style short sword, pitted by rust and dented from use. The Hunter’s long sword, made with the best Voramian steel, shattered the blade and plowed devastation through the Gatherer’s arm and shoulder in the same blow. Even as the Hunter drove Soulhunger into the man’s chest, his eyes sought out his next target.

  His gut clenched as he caught sight of the assassin, Errik, locking blades with another hooded cultist. The Hunter could see Errik would slip past his opponent’s guard with his next blow. But that instant would keep him locked in combat and focused on the enemy ahead, while another Gatherer charged from behind.

  Time slowed as the brown-robed cultist raised a Praamian short sword to strike. The Hunter could actually visualize the trajectory of the blow. The crude, hacking chop would sever the assassin’s spine and likely end his life.

  Instinct took over and the Hunter’s right arm whipped up and forward, his fingers releasing their grip on his sword at the height of the arc. The long blade spun end over end as it crossed the distance in a second and buried to the hilt in the man’s back. The force of the blow knocked the dying Gatherer off his collision course with Errik. He crashed into a wooden chair and collapsed in a pile of splinters and woolen cushion fibers.

  Errik whipped around, bloodstained sword raised to block. His eyes went wide as he saw the dead man with the Hunter’s sword embedded in his back. His gaze darted to the Hunter, and he gave a tiny nod.

  The Hunter returned the nod, then ripped Soulhunger from the Gatherer’s body and raced deeper into the warehouse. He slipped through the stacks of crates, his feet flying across the powder-covered floor. He had to stop the Gatherers from killing their latest victim.

  The man that had been standing over the boy strapped to the table reached for a sword—either to finish off the boy or repel the intruders, the Hunter couldn’t be certain. He leapt into the air, arms outstretched, and tackled the man to the ground. He rolled as he fell, gaining the upper hand and winding up atop the stunned Gatherer. With a growl, he plunged Soulhunger into the man’s chest.

  Screams echoed loud from the dying man and crimson light streamed from Soulhunger’s gemstone. The Hunter didn’t wait until the cries of agony fell silent. His right hand seized the Gatherer’s sword and tore it free of his weakening grasp. The sickle-shaped blade had a strange, unfamiliar weight and balance, but he’d make do.

  A part of him ached to kill every damned one of the Gatherers—they deserved no less for what they’d done—but he knew he had to keep at least one of them alive long enough to talk. He needed to know where to find the demon.

  “Protect the Necroset!” came the cry from the far end of the soapmaker’s factory. “Protect Kytos!”

  The Hunter sniffed the air again. Still the stink of demon hung in the air, but not thick enough to indicate the demon’s presence—simply frequent contact with the Gatherers. That meant Kytos was as human as the rest of the Gatherers.

  Perfect. He’s the one I’ll keep alive.

  He raced on, hacking down a Gatherer foolish enough to get in his way. From the corner of his eye, he saw Errik bring down another, and another scream and crunch from the walkway told him Ilanna and her people were still in the fight. He’d run out of enemies to bring down far too soon.

  His eyes scanned the darkness for the men he sought, and his teeth bared as he caught sight of four men hustling a fifth toward a door at the northern end of the warehouse. Errik and his assassins were occupied behind the Hunter, and nothing but shadows stood between the Gatherers and the way out.

&n
bsp; You won’t escape me that easily!

  The Hunter roared his rage and poured more speed into his legs. The Gatherers made the mistake of looking over their shoulders, and their paces faltered for just a second.

  A second was all the Hunter needed to hurl his stolen sword at the nearest man. The Gatherer fell, hands clutching the sword embedded in his gut, blood spurting from the wound.

  Two of the Gatherers broke off from the cluster and turned to face him. The Hunter leapt into the air, Soulhunger slashing first right, then left. The Gatherers sagged, throats opened and gushing crimson. One managed to get off a lucky blow as he died, but the tip barely grazed the Hunter’s calf.

  The Hunter didn’t slow, but barreled into the two remaining Gatherers at full speed. He angled his body toward the man on the left—Kytos the Necroset, judging by the black stole around his neck, which bore the strange symbol embroidered with gold thread—and brought Soulhunger spinning up and across to the right. The tip of the blade punched through cloth and muscle, snapped bone, and pierced the Gatherer’s heart. The Hunter slammed into Kytos with the force of a charging warhorse, and the priest flew through the air to crash against the door through which he’d intended escape. The Necroset collapsed into a limp heap, unconscious.

  The Hunter waited until Soulhunger had finished off the Gatherer, but his eyes scanned the shadows for any more opponents. Errik held one at sword point, while Ilanna and Ria dangled another over the third-floor railing. At Ilanna’s snarl, they dropped the robed man and he plummeted to the floor without a sound save for the thump of impact and the loud snap of his neck and spine.

  When the light from Soulhunger’s gemstone dimmed, the Hunter pulled the dagger free. He stared down at the Gatherer and was surprised to find a man with skin a deep mahogany, oval-shaped face, and nose far too long and straight to be Praamian. Every one of them, even Kytos, had similar features.

  “Tell me one of you kept one alive!” Ilanna called out.

  “I’ve got one,” Errik responded. The Gatherer in his grasp gibbered in fear, but a quick blow of Errik’s pommel silenced him.

  “I’ve got the Necroset,” the Hunter put in.

  The Hunter strode over to the unconscious Kytos, seized his collar, and dragged him to the center of the room.

  “Sid!”

  The Hunter looked up to see Kodyn racing down the stairs, eyes fixed on the young man strapped to the table. Behind him, Aisha helped another young woman stumble down the stairs. The freed captive had the same oval face, sloping forehead, arrow-straight nose, and skin the same mahogany of the Gatherers, though a shade lighter.

  “K-Kodyn?” The boy on the table spoke in a weak voice tinged with pain.

  “I’m here, Sid!” Kodyn slashed through the boy’s bonds with his sword.

  “I knew…you’d come…for me,” Sid gasped. His chest was a bloody mess, the symbol etched into his flesh, and vomit stained his lips. The Hunter smelled the reek of poison on him—he didn’t know if the boy would survive.

  “Get one of Tyman’s healers here, now!” Ilanna snapped.

  The female assassin, Kalla, nodded and raced out of the warehouse.

  The Hunter waited until Kodyn had helped the young Sid down to lie on the floor, then lifted Necroset Kytos in a one-handed grip and dumped him onto the table.

  “Tie him down,” he instructed the one remaining assassin. “Can’t have him escaping.”

  The man Sys shot a glance at Errik, who nodded. As Sys set about binding the priest’s hands and feet, Errik strode toward the Hunter. Without a word, he pulled the Hunter’s sword from his belt and held it out.

  The Hunter took it in mute silence—that was as close as he’d get to thanks from the assassin.

  “Is this Kytos?” Ilanna asked as she, Ria, Aisha, and the girl Briana joined them beside the table, a solid wooden thing with ropes secured to the four legs. Blood and other foul bodily fluids stained the surface, and someone had carved dozens of depictions of that strange Serenii symbol into the wood.

  The Hunter nodded and grinned. “He tried to run. Didn’t work out as he’d hoped.” He gestured to the priest on the table, then to the other bodies littering the room. “None of them are Praamian.”

  “I noticed.” Ilanna pursed her lips. “I’d wager they’re all Shalandrans, but the fact that they’re occupying this building and operating freely in our city means they have local help.”

  The Hunter inclined his head. “None of your people, I assume.”

  “Never,” Ria growled.

  “Then we’ve still got a problem,” the Hunter said. “Kytos might be the head of these Gatherers, but not the demon I’m hunting.” He pointed to the man on the table. “Yet he reeks of demon. He’s had contact with the creature in the last few hours.”

  “Then it’s time we ask him a few questions,” Ilanna snarled. “And I’ve no intention of being gentle about it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Before Ilanna could move, the Hunter stepped up and slapped the unconscious Necroset. Kytos jerked up, sputtering, but the ropes binding his arms and feet held him fast.

  The Hunter seized the priest’s robes in an iron fist and twisted until the hem cut off his air. Kytos stared up at the Hunter, defiance burning in his eyes, as his face slowly turned from an angry red to a deep, choking purple.

  Ilanna was about to say something when the Hunter released Kytos, hard enough to slam his head against the table.

  “Easy,” Ilanna said. “He won’t be able to talk if you splatter his brains across the floor.”

  The Hunter scowled, but Ilanna ignored him. Instead, she turned to Errik. “Bring me that plaster.” She gestured to the wooden bucket on the floor beside the table.

  Errik shot her a curious glance but obeyed without hesitation, righting the fallen bucket and setting it on the table beside the coughing, gasping priest.

  “You and your people came to my city, killed my people,” she snarled down at the man.

  “I came to save your people,” the Necroset responded.

  “Save them?” Ilanna arched an eyebrow. “You’ll have to explain the logic on that one, Priest.”

  “You would not believe me if I told you.” Kytos’ expression grew sullen, the defiance returning. “Heathens like you could never understand what is to come.”

  Ilanna bent over the man. “Try me,” she growled.

  Kytos snapped his mouth shut and set his jaw, his expression stubborn.

  Ilanna sighed. “Open his mouth,” she instructed Errik.

  Errik stepped up to the table, gripped the man’s jaw, and forced his lips apart. Ilanna dipped the trowel into the bucket and dropped a small scoop of the runny plaster into the prisoner’s mouth. Kytos gagged and choked, struggling to breathe around the fast-hardening liquid. At Ilanna’s nod, Errik released the man’s head, and Kytos spat out as much of the plaster as he could manage.

  “Shall we try that again?” Ilanna asked, a sweet smile on her face as she reached for another scoop of plaster. “Or do you want to take a stab at explaining the truth to a heathen?”

  “Your threats mean nothing compared to the end to come!” The setting plaster garbled Kytos’ words but could not conceal the fanatical edge to his tone. “When Hallar’s prophesied destruction comes, this world will be washed away in a torrent of blood and scoured by fire.”

  Ilanna pursed her lips. “Sounds painful. Still doesn’t explain what brings you lot to my city.”

  “We have come to gather the people to the only place where they will be safe, to the life beyond this one.” A wild zeal burned in Kytos’ eyes. “One by one, the men, women, and children of this world will be sent to safety once they are purified by the Keeper’s Kiss and blessed by his mark.”

  Ilanna narrowed her eyes. “Let me get this straight. You’re killing people to stop them from being killed by whatever horror is to come?” She shook her head. “You see the irony in that, don’t you?”

  “The death of the body is
far better than the death of the soul.” Kytos’ voice took on the same preaching tone that echoed in every temple in the Ward of Refuge. “It is our sacred duty to purify the body, mark it with the Long Keeper’s seal, and conceal their human imperfections. Only those who bear the Long Keeper’s mark will be given entrance to the Sleepless Lands. Sanctification comes with suffering, but is it not worth mortal pain in exchange for immortal bliss?”

  Ilanna’s mind raced. Journeyman Rilmine had spoken of the effects of Night Petal, how the poison flushed everything from the body. If that’s the Gatherers’ idea of purification, the seven burns would be the mark of the Long Keeper. And that symbol is to guarantee entrance to the Sleepless Lands.

  “So this?” She lifted another scoop of plaster and held it over his face. “This is what you want?” She dumped the liquid right into his eyes. “This is how you conceal your human imperfections and make yourself sanctified to the Long Keeper?”

  “Yes!” Kytos’ voice rose to a shout as he shook his head in an effort to clear the plaster from his face. He only succeeded in banging his head against the high steel walls of the horseshoe-shaped dish—which, Ilanna realized with a sickening sensation, had been used to hold the victims’ heads as they were encased in plaster. “We have come to bring mercy to your people. And you, in your short-sighted ignorance, have condemned all of your people to the prophesied doom.”

  “How do you know this doom is coming?” Ilanna asked in mocking tone. “I don’t know many people who can predict the end of the world with such confidence.” She added another layer of plaster to Kytos’ face, this time around his nostrils.

  “The Prophecy of Hallar foretells it!” Kytos gasped. Bubbles formed in the runny plaster as it slithered into his nostrils. “As the Keeper’s faithful, it is our duty to speak the truth, to warn the masses. But our people are as foolish and blinded as you, unable to see beyond what lies in front of their faces. If only they would open their eyes to the Long Keeper’s mercy, they could put an end to suffering and know peace and bliss forever more.”