A glazed window behind the bartender cast his reflection back at him. The face he wore tonight bore heavy, dull features—nothing like the handsome face he called his own.
He stared at the reflection of the face he wore—an unfamiliar one—peering back at him over a large tankard of ale, and for a moment, he wondered who the man really was.
What is this big brute's story? Does he have a family, a wife, someone to care for him?
The men who filled the bar had companions to share their tables, or people waiting at home for them, but even in the middle of this bustle and commotion, he was alone.
Better that way, he told himself. It is easier than having to worry about being stabbed in the back, or being betrayed by a “friend”.
Someone slid onto the stool to his right, jostling him gently. He ignored the newcomer, preferring to drink his ale and listen to the conversation in the tavern.
"Slumming it, milord?" a silky voice purred beside him, breaking into his stream of thoughts mid-flow. Uncertain if the voice addressed him, the Hunter ignored the question.
A hand touched his arm gently, which got his attention. He turned to see a diminutive woman sitting on the stool next to him. Dark eyes stared back at him, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of full lips. Her features hinted at something hidden beneath the rough exterior.
It's those silky locks that really make her stand out.
Raven hair fell to her shoulders in gentle waves, and the Hunter caught the scent of a delightful blend of oils and herbs.
She wore simple clothing, which fought to hide her curves. Trying to avoid attracting too much attention. The Hunter sized her up. She looks as if she can hold her own in a fight and between the sheets.
"What's that you say, miss?" he asked, confused.
"I said, 'Slumming it, my lord?'" She emphasized the last two words.
Her question surprised him. He wore rough clothing and an even rougher disguise, meant to blend in at The Iron Arms.
"Do I look like a lord, lass?"
"Not at all," she replied with a smile. "Your clothing certainly does give you the appearance of nothing more than a simple dockhand."
"But?" the Hunter asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Look around you." She motioned to the crowd filling the tavern. "We are surrounded by rough, hard men burned by the sun, their hands callused. They stink of a full day's work." Her gaze returned to him. "That is the sign of a true laborer, not just some rough clothing. Plus, you smell like old leather rather than old sweat, and you sit with a straight back while everyone else slouches over their drink."
"And this makes me a lord?" he asked.
She graced him with another smile.
"I've been watching you for a while. You addressed the serving girl with respect, and only your eyes wandered—your hands stayed on your tankard. I've not seen you shout once at a passing patron, even though you've been bumped a handful of times."
She is good, the Hunter thought, at a loss for words.
"Don't bother to deny it, my lord," she cut him off before he could protest. "I know it has become a popular pastime among the lesser nobility of the city to dress in lower class clothing and experience ‘life on the underside', as they say. Hence my original question, 'Slumming it, my lord?'"
"Quite the eye for details," the Hunter said, shrugging by way of acceptance. "What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't," she responded with a sly smile. "Buy me a drink first, and we'll see if I feel like giving it to you."
For reasons he couldn't explain, the Hunter found himself intrigued by this woman. Something about her pulled him from his solitude, and he felt the desire to know more about her.
He signaled for the pub landlord, who deposited two fresh tankards of ale in front of them before bustling away to attend to his other customers. The voice within him whispered lustful thoughts, which he ignored.
"So," said the Hunter, "I guess you can say I'm guilty of 'slumming it', as you say." He adopted the role of a noble lord in disguise with ease. "It is good to get away from the perfumes, the too-sweet wines, the annoyingly slow waltzes—"
"The lavish banquets," she cut him off, "the comfortable carriages, the luxurious homes."
The Hunter shrugged. "It's not all bad, truth be told. Life isn't all suffering," he said with a grin.
She glared, clearly finding no humor in his words. "What makes it awful is that you treat our lives like a novel experience, something to be enjoyed. It's just another thrill for you, but this is how we have to live every day. Lower Voramis is a rough place, especially for those of us without a fancy mansion to return home to once we've had enough cheap ale and sluts."
Her anger surprised him. "I apologize if my lifestyle offends you, lady, but—"
She cut him off with an angry glare. "I'm no lady! Just as you're no dockhand."
What a woman! He thought. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, though he tried to be unobtrusive about his interest.
She downed the contents of her tankard and gestured for the bartender to bring her another. The Hunter motioned for a refill as well.
When the tavern keeper finally replaced the Hunter's pewter mug with a fresh, full one, it was accompanied by an almost imperceptible nod. The Hunter's fingers closed around the small piece of parchment folded beneath the cup, and he slipped it surreptitiously into his pocket.
I have what I came for, he thought.
Turning to face the woman once again, he slipped back into character. "Well, miss, I've got to get back to the ship. Shame I'm sleepin’ on board," he said with a wink filled with veiled meaning.
He half-expected her to take offense at his forthrightness, but his mysterious companion simply ignored him. Shrugging, he said, "Goodnight, miss."
"Goodnight," she responded, her voice icy with disdain.
The Hunter stood and pushed his stool back from the bar. A spluttering sound came from behind him, and he turned to find a huge man staring down at him.
Sloped shoulders and a square jaw were the man's best features. An oversized nose, cauliflower ears, and far too few teeth gave him a bestial look. Beer dripped down the man's beard and shirt, and anger filled his dull eyes.
"Watch it, idiot," the big men yelled at him, grabbing the Hunter's arm in huge hands.
"Excuse me. My mistake," apologized the Hunter. He made to move away, but the large hands remained firmly wrapped around his bicep.
"I think you should buy me a drink," the big man said. "S'only fair." He gestured to his beer-soaked tunic.
The man's face was far too close for comfort, and the Hunter struggled to keep down the contents of his stomach as the man's noxious breath filled his nostrils.
Heat rushed to his face, and the urge to break this man with his hands nearly overwhelmed him. He took a deep breath, determined to swallow the anger flooding him.
With a nod, the Hunter signaled the bartender to bring the big man another drink. He tried once again to leave, but the man's massive hand continued to hold him in place.
"Maybe," said the big man, "you should also buy my friends here a drink."
"Come on, Garlin," said one of the men sitting at the table, "he already paid for your drink."
Garlin's friend clearly had better sense, or was at least less inebriated than his hulking companion.
Spittle accompanied Garlin's words. "I said, my friends need a drink." The big man stared into the Hunter's face, his eyes daring him to argue.
The Hunter stared back for a tense moment, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. He was tempted to listen to the voice telling him to drive his dagger deep into the man's eye.
Let me feed, the dagger begged. It took every shred of his rapidly diminishing self-control to ignore the voice.
At a nod from the Hunter, the pub landlord filled tankards for Garlin's three drinking companions. The Hunter tossed a silver drake to the tavern keeper, who caught it in deft fingers. The coin would cover the cost of th
e Hunter's drinks, as well as the ale consumed by the mysterious woman at the bar, the massive Garlin, and Garlin's friends.
"Now might be a good time to take your hand off me," said the Hunter in an even tone.
Garlin studied him through ale-soaked eyes for a moment, smiled, and unclenched his sausage fingers. "Aye, you've paid off your debts, boyo, so you can scurry away now."
The big man stepped around the Hunter, moving toward the woman sitting at the bar. He draped a muscled arm around her shoulder, and spoke without taking his eyes off her.
"Now that you're leaving, let's see if this little lady doesn't fancy the company of a real man, eh?"
Whatever Garlin whispered into the woman's ear made her shudder in revulsion. Her face twisted with disgust.
"Forget it," she spat, "not even if your shriveled cock was made of pure gold."
The big man's eyes narrowed, his face flushing with anger.
"I wasn't asking, girly." His voice turned ugly, with more than a hint of menace. "Time for you to play nice and come upstairs with me. If you need a bit of encouragement, I can always bring me mates along."
Before he realized what he was doing, the Hunter stepped toward Garlin.
"I believe the lady said something about wanting to leave the alehouse without a drunken gorilla clinging to her arm." A dangerous light glittered in the Hunter's eyes. "Might want to get back to that ale, friend."
He gripped Garlin's arm, and the drunken man found himself being steered away from the bar.
"Bugger off, you little pissant," Garlin hissed at the Hunter, wrenching his arm free from the vice grip. "The little lady and me are gonna have some fun, aren't we, my sweet tickle-tail?" Spittle flew as he leered at the woman. She glared back at him, wiping her face in obvious disgust.
The Hunter’s patience with the drunk had run out. "I said enough."
He accompanied his words with a short, sharp punch to the man's solar plexus. The force of the blow knocked the wind from the big man's lungs with a loud whoosh. Garlin's legs buckled, and the Hunter brought his knee up hard. It connected with the man's jaw, rocking his head back. His huge frame slumped unconscious toward the floor, crashing through a bar table and a pair of stools before finally hitting the sawdust with a loud thump.
A tankard slammed down on the table next to him, and the Hunter turned to see Garlin's enraged friends charging him. He kicked high, and his heel caught a man in the temple. The assailant dropped to the floor without a sound.
A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. The Hunter lashed out with his elbow, and he heard a satisfying crunch from the man's nose. Hot blood spattered his arm.
Adrenaline surged through the Hunter's veins, an eager smile crossing his face. Soulhunger, hidden in its sheath beneath his clothes, sensed blood and the voice pounded in his head, begging to be fed.
Another of Garlin's friends swung a meaty fist toward him. The Hunter caught it in mid-air. A quick twist of the man's hand sent the assailant to his knees, and the Hunter delivered a sharp blow to the man's thick wrist with the edge of his hand.
The sound of cracking bones echoed in the bar, a sound soon replaced by the man's agonized screams.
"Oh gods, me wrist! He broke me bleedin’ wrist!"
The Hunter's heart pounded as he reveled in the thrill of the fight.
There should be one more. He might—
He heard a heavy thunk behind him, followed by a groan of pain. The sound caused him to spin around, preparing for another assault.
The last member of Garlin's party had crept around behind the Hunter, a pewter tankard raised high overhead. Before he could bring it crashing down on the Hunter's head, the drunken man found himself caught in an arm-lock by the diminutive woman. His nose bled freely into the shattered pewter mug embedded in his face, and the pressure she applied to his fingers had him begging for mercy.
The tavern had fallen silent, though the encounter had lasted for little more than a minute. The Hunter saw the heavy-set bouncers wending their way through the crowd, and knew he had outlasted his welcome.
No matter. I got what I came for.
The Hunter flipped a gold imperial to the bartender. "For the mess."
The portly pub landlord nodded and motioned for the crowd to resume drinking. When the bouncers laid rough hands on the Hunter, he waved the thugs away. "He's leavin’." He shot an ominous glare at the Hunter.
Silent stares followed the Hunter as he strode to the door. The din of conversation only resumed after he had stepped out of the doors of The Iron Arms.
He breathed deeply, enjoying the cool night after the cloying heat of the bar. A miasma of scents hung in the air, but he found them much more enjoyable than the smell of old sweat, crusted vomit, and cheap beer.
It smells the way a city should.
His steps quickened, and the noise of the tavern faded as he strode down the cobbled street.
"Hey!" a voice rang out behind him, calling after him. "Hey, you!"
The Hunter turned and found the woman from the bar chasing him down the street. She glared at him, her face flushed with anger.
"Why in the frozen hell did you do that?" she raged. "I had the situation in hand."
This took the Hunter by surprise. "I did nothing any other man of class wouldn't do. I saw a lady in an untenable situation, and I thought—"
"You thought wrong! I'm no delicate lady. I can take care of myself."
"I can see that," the Hunter responded with a grin.
"Good, and remember it, stranger." Her eyes glittered with anger, but she no longer shouted. "I'm not some painting to be hung on a wall and protected; I'm more than capable of handling anything and anyone."
"Consider it a lesson learned," the Hunter said with all the grace expected of a lordling, bowing to complete the façade. He turned and strode off into the night, but he had only walked a few steps when her voice called out to him once more.
"It's Celicia, by the way."
The Hunter turned to reply, but the woman had disappeared.
Who is this mysterious woman? Intrigued, the Hunter let his imagination wander.
She saw through my disguise easily enough, though she mistook me for a lord rather than realizing who I really am. Perhaps…
He refused to voice the thought, but deep in his mind, he continued to ponder the question.
Soulhunger's voice throbbed in his head, returning him to the present. With an effort, he shook the image of Celicia away.
Enough. I have a mission to accomplish.
Closing his eyes, he cast out his senses. Soulhunger, attuned to the unique scent of its quarry, sought the life force of the man—or woman—he had been hired to kill.
There you are.
He sensed the direction in which he would find his target. A slow smile of anticipation spread across his face.
Let's find out what brings you to the port so late.
Get it now!
The best assassin in the world doesn’t come cheap.
Crossing him costs even more.
The Hunter: a name feared and revered by all in Voramis. The perfect assassin. Ruthless, unrelenting, immortal. He is an outcast, driven by a cursed dagger that feeds him power with every kill, yet he struggles against its unquenchable demands for blood and death.
The Hunter: a name feared and revered by all in Voramis. He is an outcast, driven by a cursed dagger that feeds him power with every kill, yet he struggles against its unquenchable demands for blood and death.
He follows one simple code: he only kills those he believes deserve to die.
Until today.
Deceived by his shadowy employer, the Hunter has killed an innocent man. A good man.
His enemies, the most powerful criminal organization in the city, will not stop until he is dead. When they make the mistake of harming the people under his protection, not even an army of thieves, thugs, and killers will thwart his vengeance.
If you love anti-heroes like the Punisher or
Dexter in a breathtaking fantasy realm, then immerse yourself in Hero of Darkness today!
Andy Peloquin delivers an epic tale of one man’s struggle to survive in a world of magic, blood, and death.
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Darkblade Assassin Page 4
