In the time it took Rifter to swallow his terror, the Hunter's sword cut him to shreds. Blood flowed from gashes in the big man's neck, chest, and gut, and he fell to his knees with a gurgle.
"I warned you," the Hunter snarled, his voice quiet, "but you refused to heed. You are not my prey this night, yet you made the mistake of seeing my true face."
He held up the wicked-looking dagger. "Your life is forfeit, but I leave your soul to the Long Keeper's embrace."
The Hunter slid the blade smoothly into its sheath and gripped his sword with both hands. Moonlight glinted off the flashing steel as the Hunter struck. Rifter's blocky head fell from its place on the man's sloped shoulders, landing in the muck alongside Emon's bleeding body. His huge, decapitated torso slumped to the ground next to the convulsing figure of Eld, who somehow still lived, fighting for each breath.
The Hunter surveyed his handiwork without remorse. He stooped over the dying man, keeping well away from the iron dagger gripped uselessly in Rifter's hand.
"May the Long Keeper have mercy on your soul, friend," the Hunter whispered in the man's ears.
Eld's eyes closed, and his struggles weakened. The dying man voiced no protest as the Hunter wiped his long blade on his clothes.
Shaking his head in disgust at the foolishness of these men who had thought to accost him, the Hunter stooped, recovered his cloak, and donned the disguise of the old man once more.
With slow, measured steps, he shambled away, leaving death in the street behind him.
* * *
The Hunter tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep. The musty scent of unwashed bed linens hung thick in the air, ignored. His blankets suffocated him, but chills shook his body when he kicked them off. He had no idea how much time had passed since he had climbed into bed. It could have been hours or days, but he cared little.
While he hunted, the thrill of the kill sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. He could stalk his quarry for days on end without sleep or food, as the inner voice urged him on.
Disgusting mortals, it would whisper in his thoughts. So weak, so easy to kill.
But once his prey lay dead at his feet, the absence of the voice echoed like a void in his head. The death of Lord Damuria had silenced the insistent chatter, filling his head with a numb, dull ache that pressed inward and muddled his thoughts.
The end of the hunt brought on a weariness that days of sleep could not ease. He would lie in bed, staring up into the darkness or idly watching the movement of the sun through his windows. He could sleep for days and wake up exhausted, or he wouldn't sleep at all. He had no appetite; the power of the kill fed his body, yet it felt as if every death ate away another piece of his soul.
He tried to ignore the gnawing in his chest. His blade, Soulhunger, remained silent. The kill had temporarily sated its bloodlust. He hated the silence more than anything in the world. In these moments, his mind would replay memories of the hunt. The faces of his victims would float before him, their empty eyes accusing.
He absentmindedly watched dust motes float in the rays of sun filtering through his window, all the while reliving the gruesome deaths at his hands.
As their lifeless faces danced through his head, he drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, his thoughts filled with hate. He could discern irrationality from logic, but at times like this, he didn't care. He despised every single one of the humans around him, and the voice in his head echoed his ire. He could ignore the voice and its hatred of humanity when he surrounded himself with others, but when alone, the hate bubbled within him like a cauldron of vitriol.
Hours passed, time moving at a snail's pace yet flashing by in the space of a few heartbeats.
The light filtering through his window weakened, doing little to illuminate his bedroom. Peering outside, he saw the sun had begun its plunge into the Endless Sea. The ache in his head subsided, replaced by the voice whispering its renewed bloodlust.
Feed me, it said. Fighting the profound weariness tempting him to remain in bed, he forced himself to climb to his feet. He shook his head to clear the languor, to push back the gloom filling his mind.
It is enough. Time to get up.
His clothes lay piled on the floor, and he sorted through them in search of an unsoiled garment.
Let's see what new victims await me in this new day, what sport I can find to distract myself from this aching.
* * *
A chill hung in the night air, and sweat dripped down the nameless nobleman's back, soaking his thick tunic. He clenched his fists to still his shaking hands. His nondescript clothing blended with the rough crowd of the Blackfall District, and yet he felt eyes upon him, following his every step.
He cast anxious glances around the alleyway, searching for a sign of…what?
By Derelana, why do I fear so?
Perhaps it was the terror of a moonless night, or the instinctive fear dredged up at the thought of meeting the legendary Hunter of Voramis.
He chided himself. Bugger me for a jumpy little princess!
He would rather be somewhere else, anywhere else, but here. He had no desire to face the creature the mothers of Voramis used to threaten their children into behaving. His mother had used those legends to frighten him, and he had developed a healthy fear.
Focus. You have a job to do. Get in, get it done, and get the fiery hell out of there!
The doors to the dilapidated tavern swung shut behind him, but none of the handful of patrons at the tables paid him any heed. He slipped a pair of copper bits into the bartender's hand.
"Top of the stairs, door at the end of the hall," the portly pub landlord drawled as he made the coins disappear.
The stairs creaked dangerously as the noble climbed, but he forced himself to place one foot in front of the other. The smell of mold filled his nostrils and threatened to make him sneeze. Swallowing hard, he stared at the door at the end of the shadowed hall. It looked like something out of his nightmares, and it made his blood run cold.
"Hello?" he called in a weak voice as he entered the room.
He saw no one in the gloomy darkness, and breathed a sigh of relief as he closed the door behind him. Believing himself alone, the noble took deep, calming breaths.
"What brings you to the underbelly of Voramis, little man?" The voice sounded far too close for the nobleman's liking.
He leapt backward, an effeminate squeak bursting from his mouth. His back slammed against the door, knocking the breath from his lungs.
Bloody Hunter!
The nobleman struggled to regain his composure, trying to ignore the thick drops of sweat rolling down his face and coating his palms.
"I-I-I h-have a c-c-commission for you, er, Hunter, sir," he managed to stutter.
"Tell me more," the Hunter said in a rough voice. He stepped forward, pulling back his hood.
Scars crisscrossed the dark face, twisting his upper lip into a perpetual sneer. Heavy brows hooded his dark eyes, and his crooked nose had been broken and badly set. A scarlet ribbon bound his midnight black hair, which hung in long, greasy strands.
Bloody twisted hell, no wonder he hides himself. I would too if I looked like that!
The nobleman realized his mouth hung open, and snapped it shut. He belatedly tried to hide his revulsion at seeing the Hunter's grim visage, but knew it had shown through.
The dark figure with the horrible face waited in silence, clearly unaffected by the nobleman's disdain.
"My, er, master," stuttered the shaken man, gulping as he spoke, "requests your services in a matter of a, er, delicate nature."
The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Your master understands that delicate situations cost more?"
"Of course, sir, er, Hunter. I have more than enough to c-cover any extras beyond your usual fees." The nobleman removed a leather purse from his cloak. His hand trembled as he passed it to the Hunter, who balanced it in a burn-scarred hand.
"Good. It will suffice." The purse disappeared into the Hunter's cloa
k with a movement that made the nobleman jump. His cheeks burned with shame, and he saw mockery in the Hunter's cold eyes. "You have the other item?" the Hunter demanded.
"Of-of course," the noble stammered. He fished around in his robes for a moment before producing a handkerchief. His fingers brushed dangerously close to the Hunter's hand as the assassin took the kerchief, and his skin crawled.
"I-I hope it is enough," the noble whispered, the fear in his voice audible. "It was all my master could procure."
The Hunter's rough fingers traced the initials embroidered in one corner of the delicate cloth. G.D.
"It will do," the Hunter rasped.
"So you will take the job? You'll make the coward pay for his affront to my master? The swine—"
The Hunter cut him off. "I care little for your master's reasons why. As long as I deem it worthy and the coin is good, the job will be done." He pulled the hood up, obscuring all but his mouth from the nobleman's view. "Does your master have any special requests?"
"No," the noble replied. "He wishes for the job to be done before the Feast of the Mistress, and would prefer the target die in his own home. It is to send a message, you see, to all the nobles of Voramis that—"
"No details, fool," the Hunter growled, interrupting him. "They matter not."
The nobleman stiffened, offended at the Hunter's interruption. The muscles in his back went rigid, and he somehow summoned up the courage to glare at the Hunter. One look into the dark hood, however, and his pride deflated.
"Good." The Hunter's mouth twisted into a horrifying semblance of a grin. "I will contact you when the job is complete."
Shuffling nervously from foot to foot, the noble called upon all of his limited courage and limitless self-importance to stand tall, when he wanted nothing more than to flee. He thought he detected a smile twitch the corner of the Hunter's lips.
"Have the rest of the sum at hand," the Hunter grated. "I will expect it once I have carried out the contract."
"Of-of course," the noble said, "I will…"
He trailed off as he found himself talking to an empty room. The Hunter had disappeared, startling him and leaving him feeling like a fool.
Long moments passed before the noble regained his shattered composure. The darkness of the room haunted him, and his eyes darted around as if he expected to see the Hunter standing there once more. His breath came in ragged gasps, and every muscle in his body tensed in fear.
With a muttered curse, he wiped sweaty palms on his robes, and his hands trembled as he reached for the doorknob. His fear diminished with each shaky step toward the dim light of the stairwell, his relief growing as he stepped into the smoky alehouse taproom. Ignoring the few patrons sitting and drinking, he stumbled into the cool Voramis night.
He breathed deep, filling his lungs with the foul-smelling air and letting the chill calm his nerves.
"Watcher-damned Hunter!" The curse helped to restore some of his shaken confidence.
His sweat-sodden robes clung to his body, causing him to shudder and pull his cloak tighter. The heavy garment offered some protection from the cold, but the noble knew it would be hours before he would be able to sit without feeling a stab of panic.
With his attention consumed by his desire to leave the stinking alehouse and the horrific memory of the Hunter's scarred visage behind, the terrified man failed to notice the dark figure sitting on the inn rooftop. Midnight black eyes followed the noble's steps, and a scarlet ribbon fluttered in the breeze.
Chapter Two
The Hunter slipped into the abandoned building in which he lived. The massive structure looked on the verge of collapse, but the façade only ran skin deep. He had shored up the timbers of the building, ensuring it would continue to stand, even through the tremors that occasionally shook the city.
He had taken great pains to ensure the construction remained as unattractive and unwelcoming as possible on the outside, even allowing beggars and lepers to occupy sections of the structure. After all, he reasoned, no one would look for anything more than the refuse of humanity in a place like this. The smells of offal and filth alone would dissuade even the most curious potential visitors.
But the beggars were there for more than just disguise.
On the rare days when they found somewhere else to spend the night, the emptiness of the building haunted him. He had begun to leave bundles of food and clothing out in the hope of attracting even a few looking for shelter from the night air. Something about having companionship—even that of filthy beggars and lepers—made him feel less alone when he lay in the silent darkness. They made him feel needed, and he had come to see himself as their protector.
He strode past the forms of men and women huddled under their blankets, nodding to the ones he recognized. Jak the Thumb and Twelve-Fingers Karrl sat playing with a deck of ancient, frayed cards, gambling for scraps of who knew what. Jak stole a look at Karrl's cards as Twelve-Fingers waved at the Hunter.
Passing Old Nan's tent, he scanned the mound of tattered cloth that marked her shelter.
"You'll need more blankets soon," he said, crouching in front of the old woman. "Winter's not far off."
"Aye," she wheezed, "don't I know it? These old bones feel the chill comin’ on." She coughed, a horrendous, wet thing that set her frail shoulders shaking. Hacking up a foul green gob of phlegm, she shivered and pulled her ratty bundle of assorted cloths tighter.
She's not long for this world, the Hunter thought, studying the old woman's face—twisted and hideous from some unknown acid—and her liver-spotted skin, gnarled fingers, and stringy hair. She was almost too thin to be alive, and yet fire burned in her eyes. A stubborn determination to live kept Old Nan from the Keeper's embrace, but the Hunter knew she couldn't escape for much longer.
The winter will be harsh on her.
Sorrow flashed through him at the thought. He resolved to leave blankets and one of Graeme's healing potions the next time he returned.
He felt oddly protective of the beggars who lived just beyond his door. They were outcasts from society, just as he was. He would not call them his friends, but it was as close to friendship as he came. It felt…good to do something for someone else, even poor, miserable wretches like Old Nan.
With a gentle pat on the old woman's shoulder, he picked his way toward the door of his apartment.
A toddler wobbled past on unsteady legs, interrupting his progress. The child, losing his balance, grasped the hem of the Hunter's cloak for support. The boy's pursuing mother shot an apologetic glance at the Hunter.
"Arlo's walking quickly, I see."
"That he is," replied Ellinor, a girl the Hunter guessed to be barely into her adolescence. Dark circles framed her bright green eyes, and she looked exhausted.
The Hunter studied the sores and blisters covering the boy's arms, legs, and face. Graeme had told him they were the result of the lad's body burning him from the inside out. The slightest friction would cause the lad's skin to slough off, causing pain and festering wounds. It hurt to see Arlo, yet the lad always appeared happy despite the constant suffering.
Ellinor had no money for bandages or poultices to manage the lad's sickness, so the Hunter left them in her small makeshift shelter whenever she was out. Even in her poverty, she fought to retain her dignity.
"You'll want to keep a closer eye on him," the Hunter told her. "You never know where he'll disappear to the minute you turn your back."
Arlo tugged on the Hunter's dark robe, and a smile played at the corner of the Hunter's mouth. The smile disappeared when the lad wiped a long trail of snot from his nose on a corner of the Hunter's cloak.
"Back to your mother, lad," said the Hunter, giving Arlo a gentle nudge with his boot. The toddler waddled away, and Ellinor followed in the boy's wake without a backward glance at the Hunter.
A bit of food for the growing lad wouldn't go amiss. He made a mental note to visit Graeme for bandages before the week's end.
The voice in hi
s head begged for blood as he slipped past the beggars, but he ignored its pleading.
Not here. Not them. Once I've found my target, then you will be fed.
Soulhunger's insistence remained a pounding headache in the back of his mind. It craved death, and he could only stave off its urges for so long.
At the heart of the building, past the unpleasant odors emanating from the unwashed mass of bodies, lay his private rooms. A door constructed of bloodwood—one of the densest trees found on the face of Einan—guarded his room, with locks so complex they could only have been designed by an Illusionist Cleric.
The mechanisms worked like a puzzle that required precise placement of each piece of the lock. With dozens of moving parts, thousands of possible combinations existed.
Darkblade Assassin Page 2
