Pain racked the Hunter's body as the blade in his hand drank deep of Lord Dannaros' soul. Fire flared beneath the Hunter's skin, and his chest burned as a new scar was forever etched into his body.
And still the dagger fed, pulling more and more of Dannaros' being into itself. The weapon didn't simply kill: it gathered the essence of its victims and transferred it to the Hunter. Power flooded his body from another life stolen by Soulhunger's blade.
Ruby light flared from the gem set in Soulhunger's hilt, illuminating the dark office. The Hunter stared at the long blade of the dagger, watching the steel absorb the blood. He thrilled at the sensation coursing through him.
This is better than any drug, he thought. Closing his eyes, the Hunter savored the moment. Raw power surged in his veins. He no longer needed food or drink; all he wanted was the life flooding his body. The intoxication of the hunt warred with the pleasure of Soulhunger's feeding. The coppery smell of fresh blood filled his senses.
The light in the room slowly diminished, and the Hunter opened his eyes as Soulhunger's gem faded to a dull, clear stone once more. He still clutched the dagger tightly, his forearms aching from the strain. Slowly, he unclenched his fingers.
The Hunter took deep, calming breaths, reveling in the rush that followed the kill. He slipped Soulhunger into its sheath. The blade had fallen silent. Crimson pooled at his feet and soaked into the plush carpet.
He stared down at the lifeless body of Lord Dannaros, a man he had befriended while in the disguise of Lord Anglion. He studied the man's corpse, looking at the still, slack features that were so familiar. He knew he should feel anguish at the man's death, but he felt nothing. No sorrow, no remorse.
Lord Dannaros was always just another tool to be used.
The Hunter placed one hand on Dannaros' head, the other over his heart. "May the Long Keeper take your body," he intoned. "Your soul is forfeit."
It was a simple ritual, but one that served as a final kindness to those who would never know the bliss of the Long Keeper's final embrace.
Death is nothing to Soulhunger's victims. It is simply the first step in the endless torture they face in the hells to which all the soulless dead are sent.
The stillness felt eerie after the furious struggle. The absence of Soulhunger's cries in his head amplified the unnerving quiet. His eyes took in the details of Lord Dannaros' office.
For the first time, the Hunter noticed the seal that had fallen from the noble's hand and rolled beneath the desk. He stooped to retrieve it and held it up to the firelight to make out the details. What he saw chilled him to the bone.
"Damn it!"
He stared at the etching on the seal: a five-fingered hand tipped with sharp, bestial claws. He knew what it was.
The symbol of the Bloody Hand.
"By the Watcher," he cursed aloud.
What in the twisted hell was Lord Dannaros doing in bed with the Bloody Hand? How deeply involved was he? Could he be one of the Five?
The Bloody Hand—or the Hand, as most people called it—ruled Voramis with near-absolute power. Only the king wielded more authority than the Hand, and some whispered that even the king answered to the vile criminal organization. They had a hand in every murder, kidnapping, and strong-arm operation in the city, and dealt in every form of illegal trade. If a coin could be made, the Bloody Hand had already found a way to get their hands on it.
And now it appears Lord Dannaros is involved in the Hand's business. They are an enemy I can ill-afford, but it is too late for that now.
He imagined scores of Hand thugs storming his home and safe houses in vengeance for Lord Dannaros' death.
Let them come, he thought with a smile. We will see whose hands are bloodier.
For a moment, he forgot that he still stood in Lord Dannaros' study, that the dead noble's body lay just a few paces away. His mind filled with visions of Soulhunger carving through the ranks of the Hand, flooding him with the power the blade—and he, truth be told—so desperately craved.
The sound of booted feet clattering down the hall ripped the Hunter's attention back to the present.
Someone actually heard Lord Dannaros' cries. They brought help far too late to save the poor bastard.
Shouts sounded outside the door, followed by the thud of something heavy slamming against the thick wood.
He faced two choices: fight or flee. He chose the latter. He had been paid to kill only Lord Dannaros. There was no point wasting the lives of guards merely doing their jobs.
The Hunter turned on his heel and sprinted from the room, into the private chambers adjoining the study, where a window stood open—the window through which he had gained access to Lord Dannaros' office. He raced towards it and leapt, his powerful legs propelling him through the air.
His hands closed around a sturdy branch, and he swung himself toward the trunk of the tree. The foliage hid him from the sight of those below, but it was not so thick that it impeded his descent.
His eyes scanned the darkness, searching for the bag he had hidden earlier. A smile touched his lips as he saw it nestled in the crook of a branch. He pulled the strap over his head, feeling its comforting weight.
Time to disappear.
The Hunter swung from branch to branch with the dexterity of an acrobat.
I only have a minute or two before—
"There he is!" A shout rang out above his head. "Don't let him escape!"
He cast a glance over his shoulder, and a quiet curse burst from his lips. A guard stood at the open window, pointing a crossbow at him.
Watcher be damned!
The Hunter leapt to a lower branch, desperate to evade the hurtling bolt. With a loud thunk, the projectile buried itself in the trunk of the tree, less than a hand's breadth from his head.
"He went out the window," the guard at the window shouted. "Get some guards into the garden, now!"
Desperation filled the Hunter. He grasped his bag tightly and launched himself into the air. Branches snapped and cracked as he collided with a nearby tree. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs.
"Gods…damn," he gasped, fighting for breath.
The Hunter slid down the barren trunk and landed hard on the soft grass below. His powerful legs absorbed most of the shock, but he felt muscle fibers straining. Ignoring his protesting leg muscles, he sprinted through the garden. His body would heal from any minor injuries long before his pursuers caught up.
Crossbow bolts flew through the air, but the Hunter knew the archers fired blind. His dark grey robes blended with the shadows, just one more patch of darkness in the night. Still, he made it a point to weave between the trees. He couldn't risk one crossbowman getting off a lucky—
"Argh!"
A crossbow bolt slammed into his shoulder, sending him stumbling. He barely managed to keep his feet.
Gotta find cover.
A massive oak tree towered in the darkness ahead, and he rushed toward it. Pain raced through his upper body with each step, but he gritted his teeth and pushed on. He threw himself behind the tree just as the air filled with more humming bolts.
At least I have a minute or so before the bastards reload.
He growled in rage and ripped the bolt from his shoulder. He knew it would heal in a matter of minutes, but that didn't make it hurt any less.
I bloody hate crossbows!
Breathing deep, he struggled to take his mind off the agony. His body mended, and slowly the pain receded. He risked a glance towards the mansion and cursed as he saw Lord Dannaros' guards racing in his direction.
Four crossbows among them, he thought. The pain in his shoulder made him wince. Need a bit longer to heal.
He drew two handheld crossbows from his bag. The weapons' arms snapped out from within their compartments in the stock of the bow, and the string pulled taut with a twang. Designed with an intricate system of springs that self-loaded the weapons, each crossbow could release two bolts in quick succession.
Let's see how you l
ike this, you bastards.
He leapt from behind the tree and whirled to face the onrushing guards. Gritting his teeth against the ache in his shoulder, he raised his arms and squeezed the triggers.
Four bolts sped into the night, and three screams echoed through the gardens. Got you!
The Hunter thumbed a mechanism on the stock of the crossbows. This released the arms, allowing him to fold them up once more. He slid the weapons into the bag and retrieved a brace of throwing daggers.
He moved his right arm, testing his wounded shoulder once more. His healing muscles still protested, but he could move without too much pain.
By the time I reach the outer wall, it should be healed. With their crossbows out of commission for the moment, I have a minute to—
"Release the hounds," came the shout.
Damn it! As if things aren't bad enough, now they have to bring the dogs into it.
Rumor had it Lord Dannaros had brought his dogs from beyond the Great Dividing Sea. They were called bear hounds, a name given not because of their ability to hunt, but due to their sheer size. The beasts stood nearly as tall as a man, and moved far faster. They guarded his sprawling estate with a fierce loyalty.
The Hunter had heard tales of intruders ripped limb from limb by the powerful jaws of the massive canines. He had no desire to see their work firsthand.
Guards shouted in fear as the sound of howling filled the air, rumbling from huge lungs in heavy chests. Massive dark shapes pounded towards him, with eyes glowing red and teeth shining white in the darkness of the gardens. With paws the size of a man's head and fangs nearly as long as the Hunter's knives, they were a fearsome sight.
The Hunter cast around in desperation. He drew a dagger from his brace, careful not to touch the thick black tar coating the blade. A forked tree provided him with the closest thing to cover he would find, and he slipped behind it.
Let's see how you beasts handle a bit of argam.
He ignored the pain in his arm long enough to release the first of the daggers. Steel flashed through the air, and the weapon buried itself to the hilt in the dog's massive shoulder. The creature yelped in pain, but its momentum didn't slow.
With a curse, he drew another dagger and launched it even as he scrambled for a third. The weapon found its mark in canine flesh, and two more knives flew in quick succession.
The first dog staggered and slowed. Dark green blood leaked down its forelegs. It dropped to its belly, whimpering and writhing as the argam flooded its body. By the time the first bear hound stopped convulsing, the other three lay twitching on the grass beside their dead companion. The scent of poison wafted to him, a sickening stench heavy with rot and decay.
Good riddance.
The Hunter resumed his sprint, hoping he would find the wall surrounding the Dannaros property soon. Heavy footfalls sounded behind him, but the Hunter knew he could outrun the guards coming from the mansion.
If I can just get to that wall…
From the garden ahead stepped four guards. They spread out quickly, cutting off his escape. He ground to a halt.
Swordsman damn them!
The men wore leather armor and moved with the relaxed familiarity of trained professionals. Their heavy military swords looked well-used, yet kept in excellent condition. The scent of their terror filled the Hunter's nostrils, accompanied by the odor of stale wine and sweat. Their faces showed no fear, however, only rage. With determined expressions, they closed in around him, preparing to attack.
Can't risk breaking my own sword. Better help myself to one of these fellows' blades.
He lunged forward, and his sudden charge caught the guard in front of him unprepared. Before the man could react, the Hunter's fist collided with his throat. The guard dropped to the ground, gasping and struggling for breath. He dropped the sword to clutch at his throat, and the Hunter scooped up the blade before it hit the grass.
With a smile, the Hunter turned to face the remaining three guards. He gripped the stolen sword in his right hand and drew a long, notched blade with his left. The guards eyed the weapon with nervous respect. They knew the swordbreaker could punch through leather armor like parchment.
"No use trying to talk you lads out of this, is there?"
His jovial tone did little to dissuade the three men in front of him from attacking. Two of the guards charged him together. One thrust for the Hunter's stomach while the other aimed a slashing blow at his head.
The Hunter twisted out of the way of the thrust and caught the high cut with his sword. He continued moving, dancing to his left. The movement placed one guard between him and his companion, buying precious seconds. The Hunter's stolen sword disemboweled the first guard before the other two could react.
The third guard joined the fight, slashing at the Hunter's knees. The Hunter simply stepped back, moving toward the second guard. He chopped his sword in an overhand blow, and the guard blocked high as expected. The swordbreaker in the Hunter's left hand found the man's exposed neck.
He left the notched blade embedded in the guard's throat, unable to wrench it free before the remaining guard attacked. The man rained heavy blows on him, as if to use his superior strength and size to overpower the Hunter.
The guard made the fatal mistake of putting too much force into one of his strokes, and his heavy sword whistled through empty air as the Hunter dodged.
That was all the opening the Hunter needed. His stolen sword lashed out before the guard could react and the guard's skull gave a wet crunch as steel sliced into his temple. Brain matter leaked from the wound, and the guard died with a wordless scream.
Not a pleasant way to kick it.
The grooved swordbreaker resisted his efforts to rip it from the fallen guard's neck, the blade's notches catching on the gristle of the man's throat. He pulled it free with effort, and cleaned it on the man's cloak before sheathing it.
The Hunter's eyes darted around, searching for a new foe. No more guards rushed out at him, but he could see flickering torchlight coming from the manor. He resumed his easy lope through the garden. Though the wall towered high above his head, his powerful fingers dug into the fissures and cracks between the heavy stones. He reached the top within seconds.
The sounds of pursuit echoed in the gardens below, the guards shouting in confusion.
"Where is he?"
"I heard something over there!"
"Keeper take you fools! Don't let him get away, you c—"
The darkness of Upper Voramis swallowed the Hunter as he leapt from the wall and into the shadows beyond.
Chapter Nine
Count Eilenn sat alone in his office, writing by the flickering light of the logs blazing in the fireplace. The room held a plush couch, but the count favored his heavy wooden desk when working.
He loved this time of night. No one else moved around the Palace of Justice, and he had the place to himself. He did his best work in this little room—my kingdom, he thought—and he found comfort in every small luxury added to his otherwise sparse office.
It is peaceful, calm. He dotted an i with a flourish.
Count Eilenn took great pride in his work—both his official duties and the tasks he carried out for Lord Jahel.
The early morning hours offer the perfect silence and privacy to write out orders for—
"The hour grows late and still the messenger scribbles into the night."
The harsh voice from Eilenn's nightmare sounded from within the shadows at the far end of the room. A figure stood just out of reach of the firelight, a hood pulled far forward to hide his features.
"Frozen hell!" yelped the terrified noble. His heart raced and he cowered behind the massive wooden desk, afraid of the man in the hood.
That voice, thought Count Eilenn with a shudder, it's him!
"My-my lord, er, s-sir Hunter," he stammered, unsure of how to address the assassin. "You, er, startled me."
Count Eilenn thought the shadowed face split into a grin, but he could not b
e certain.
"Tell your master the contract is completed," the Hunter said. "He will be pleased to know Lord Dannaros will trouble him no longer."
To Count Eilenn, the Hunter's deep voice seemed to echo in the dead silence of the Palace of Justice. He had felt so safe in the privacy of his office a moment ago, and yet now the room felt more like the interior of a coffin.
"But…" He tried to conjure a coherent sentence, but his tongue refused to form words. His heart raced, beating with such force that he worried it might rip free from his chest.
He's going to kill me. The thought repeated itself in his head as he stared at the unmoving figure in shadow.
"You have the rest of the payment?" The Hunter extended a hand. Eilenn noted the calluses, the strong fingers, the thick wrist, the absence of jewelry. The hands of a killer.
Payment, his mind repeated the last word the Hunter had said. With the stiffness of a clockwork toy, Count Eilenn opened the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a heavy leather purse.
"Here," he croaked, all but flinging it at the man.
The Hunter caught the purse with a deft movement, and it disappeared into the folds of his robe.
"My thanks, Count Eilenn," came the grating voice again. The Hunter took a step forward, and the light of the fire reflected off the impossibly dark eyes beneath his hood.
Count Eilenn flinched at the movement. He opened his mouth to speak, but, again, no words came forth. Something warm and wet trickled down his leg.
"Your end of the contract is fulfilled, Count Eilenn."
Hearing his name terrified Eilenn even more. He knows who I am.
"Should your master have need of my services, he knows how to contact me." The Hunter's eyes held Eilenn's for a long minute, and the count's heart seemed to stop.
A sound from the hallway caused the count to look away for a moment. When he turned back, the Hunter had disappeared.
The silence filling the room was deafening, almost sinister. Count Eilenn's eyes scanned the shadows, as if expecting the Hunter to leap out at him once more. For a long minute, Count Eilenn struggled to control his breathing and the rapid beating of his heart.
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