Darkblade Assassin: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Hero of Darkness Book 1)

by Andy Peloquin

  That blood of the priests seems to have done some good.

  Boxes and debris filled the alley behind The Angry Goblin, but what appeared to be a confused tangle of garbage was actually a neatly-stacked pathway to the neighboring rooftop. With a quick glance to ensure no one was watching, the Hunter quickly leapt up the precarious walkway.

  Chilly gusts of late night air whipped across the rooftops of Voramis, but the Hunter ignored the cold. The urge to run, to fly free, flooded him. He began a slow jog across the shingles of the crumbling building, placing each foot with care. He felt no pain as he ran, so he pushed his body to move faster, leaping from roof to roof with glee. He laughed aloud, a rumbling sound that carried through the stillness of the night. It felt good to run once more.

  The rooftops of the Beggar's Quarter flashed beneath him, and he left the foul scents of refuse and offal behind as he outpaced the wind. He leapt across a narrow alleyway, his body suspended in the air for the span of a heartbeat.

  For one long moment, peace filled his world.

  Then the scent hit him. A simple smell—roses, dirt, and temple incense.

  Farida's scent. His feet skidded on loose tiles as the Hunter ground to a stop.

  A primal, earthy scent filled the Hunter's nostrils: the smell of fear. It drowned out the clean, innocent scent of the child.

  She is somewhere nearby.

  His stomach twisted, worry flashing through his mind. He forced himself to close his eyes and draw in a deep breath, willing his sensitive nostrils to find her scent. He could almost taste it on his tongue, could almost feel it around him, though the smells of passing horses, vendors, and pedestrians threatened to drown it out. His eyes snapped open.

  I have to find her.

  His feet dug into the tiles beneath him as he hurtled through the air. He ignored the protests of his knees and feet as he landed hard, scrabbling for a purchase on the slanted roof. With all the speed he could muster, he raced through the night toward the scent he knew so well.

  The Hunter's heart pounded in time with his feet, adrenaline surging through his body. His powerful legs propelled him across the shingles, tiles, and thatched roofs of the Beggar's Quarter. One misstep could send him plummeting through a weakened section of roof, but Farida's safety was more important. He had to trust his instincts to guide him.

  I have to keep her safe.

  He saw the pale faces of Old Nan, Jak, Karrl, Filiana, and the others. They stared at him with empty, accusing eyes. Their deaths were on his head.

  I can't let that happen to her.

  Coming to a busy intersection, the Hunter crouched low in the darkness, breathing hard. Soulhunger pounded in his mind, filling his head with a dull ache. He tried to calm himself, to cast out his senses again, searching for any hint of the child.

  There! Coming from the other side of the Temple Market.

  Something about Farida's scent changed—the smell of roses and dirt drowned out by an acrid harshness. The animal within the Hunter roared to life as he recognized the scent of vomit mixed with the metallic tang of blood.

  Feed, Soulhunger begged.

  Fear flooded through him, drowning out the insistent voice in his head. His terror spurred him to move faster, and he sprinted through the night, heedless of his own safety. He raced across rooftops, leaping gaps he would never have dared attempt. Pigeons scattered in his wake, and clay tiles shattered beneath his feet. A pair of lovers screamed and hurled curses at his fleeing back.

  There's something wrong. He wasn't sure how or why he sensed it. He just knew. If I lose her now, I may never find her again.

  The Voramis skyline flew beneath his feet, and suddenly the Hunter found himself in the middle of the Temple Market. The overwhelming scents of spices and cooking food obscured Farida's scent, but he detected it once more—this time tinged with the foul odors of the Midden.

  The Hunter leapt to the street below, preferring the flat ground for speed. The impact jarred his knees, but he limped onward. His body would heal. He couldn't lose Farida's scent, couldn't let her disappear. He had almost found her, but something was horribly wrong.

  Please don't let me be too late.

  He ignored the protest in his legs and broke into a run once more. His lungs burned, but the gnawing fear in his chest and clenching in his stomach propelled him to greater speeds.

  She's close.

  Then he saw her, and his knees sagged beneath him.

  A little body lay on the lip of the Midden, broken and bleeding. Dark blood dripped down the walls of the Midden, Farida's life slowly trickling away. It was as if the child had been discarded, like refuse to be thrown into the gaping chasm.

  The Hunter stumbled toward her, weaving like a drunk. He fell to his knees, heedless of the filth staining his clothes. With frantic efforts, he scrambled to pull the limp figure away from the edge of the void. His fingers searched for a pulse, but found only a weak flutter.

  His eyes widened in horror as he stared down at the little body in his arms. She had been tortured first; the flesh of her chest and stomach sliced to ribbons, deep incisions carved into her body. The cuts had jagged edges—the mark of a dull blade wielded by a strong hand.

  Feed, the voice in his head begged. Let me feed.

  "No!" He shook the small figure.

  He nearly gagged at the horror on her neck. Burned into the delicate white skin, the claw-tipped insignia of the Bloody Hand glared up at him. The Hunter saw an image in his mind's eye: the First heating his ring over a torch, pressing it into her skin to brand her. A deliberate act of cruelty, one that twisted his stomach in revulsion and rage.

  He pressed a hand to the massive hole in her chest, fighting in vain to stanch the flow of blood. Her pulse felt weak beneath his fingers. The pale cast of her skin told him she was not far from the Long Keeper's embrace. Worst of all, he could do nothing to stop it.

  Farida's eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at him. She struggled to move her head, but lacked the strength.

  "H…" she fought to speak.

  "No, Farida," he whispered, his voice cracking. "You can't..."

  An icy pit opened in his stomach. He felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness, as if his heart had just been ripped out. His stomach roiled, and his breath quickened in his throat. He shivered, a cold sweat breaking out on his body.

  Her eyes focused on his face. "Wh…" she whispered.

  The Hunter bent low, struggling to hear the weak words from her lips.

  "Who…are…you?"

  It was as if a knife had been plunged into his chest. He sat in stunned silence, holding the little figure close. He could do nothing but watch, powerless, as the light in the child's eyes dimmed. Slowly, silently, with only a small gasp of pain, her life slipped away.

  "No!" he raged. "Don't leave me alone!"

  He refused to accept that she was gone. She was just sleeping, he told himself, attempting vainly to shake her awake. He pounded her chest, trying in desperation to force her heart to beat once more. Even as he did, he knew it was useless.

  Farida remained silent, motionless in his arms.

  As the Hunter watched the only thing he had left in life being torn from him, something within him snapped. A roar ripped from his throat, the primal, animalistic sound of an enraged monster. His agonized howl rose into the night. Dogs joined their voices in chorus. He screamed his anger into the lonely darkness around him, filling the world with his anguish.

  Then his voice broke, and for the first time in his memory, the Hunter wept. He clutched the bloodied, mangled body in his arms, squeezing the limp form to his chest. His tears splashed hot on Farida's cold, clammy skin. They fell until his cries grew hoarse. Sobs racked his body, shaking his shoulders in sorrow.

  It seemed the moment stretched on for an eternity as the assassin cradled the lifeless form in his arms, weeping like a child clutching a broken doll.

  But soon the tears dried up, and sorrow gave way to anger.

  W
hy did she have to die? She had no part in this. She is—was—innocent. The Bloody Hand thinks this will stop me. They've made a horrible mistake.

  Cold rage surged within him, churning within his thoughts like a furnace. He stood, gathering Farida's body in his arms. Mind numb with fury and grief, he placed one foot in front of the other, uncaring of where he went. A red haze swam before his eyes, and his thoughts grew dark.

  Every one of those bastards will pay.

  It seemed a lifetime passed in an agonized heartbeat, and his feet moved of their own accord. He walked and walked, carrying the lifeless body in his arms.

  His unthinking steps led him to the House of Need. It seemed an odd choice, but fitting.

  He laid the child's body on the front steps of the temple. Farida looked as if she were sleeping, but her bloodstained clothes belied the peace on her face. He stared into her lifeless eyes, hoping to see a flicker of light. He hoped in vain. She lay as silent and unmoving as she had when he had found her, lying upon the edge of the Midden.

  His rough hand gently closed her eyes, his other hand resting on her heart. "May the Long Keeper take your soul," he said, his voice cracking. Swallowing hard, he continued his simple prayer for the departed. "May you feel the loving embrace of the gods." His voice hardened. "And may the bastards who did this to you rot in the darkest corners of the hells."

  He pounded on the heavy doors of the temple with the pommel of his dagger, but slipped away before anyone emerged.

  They'll find the body, he thought. She'll be buried with the rest of the Beggared.

  He turned his steps toward the Beggar’s Quarter. The familiar embrace of the shadows welcomed him, and he slipped into the night. He had a mission of his own: to hunt down the ones who had done this.

  The Bloody Hand. The Dark Heresy. They will pay for what they have done.

  The priest's mission would have to wait. Tonight, the Hunter sought vengeance for the deaths of the innocent.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Hunter had never felt so alone as he did now, walking through the empty building he called home. His ears kept searching for sounds of life—the sounds of Jak, Ellinor, Old Nan, Karrl, and all the others—but none came. He had grown accustomed to the noise, and now the silence was oppressive. Only his footsteps echoed in the darkness, an eerie sound that mocked him with every step.

  Rounding the corner, his gaze fell upon the corpses that had once been his friends. Empty eyes stared back at him, and their slack, wan faces reminded him of his failure once again.

  At least they won't suffer in the winter's chill, some dim corner of his mind told him.

  Tears blurred his vision, and the Hunter turned away before the sorrow overwhelmed him. He had dreaded seeing the bodies lying lifeless and discarded on the floor, as abandoned as he now felt. Loneliness washed over him. He would never see them again. Shame flooded him; shame at his inability to protect his friends, to protect Farida. He felt as hollow as the building around him.

  His fingers moved across the mechanisms of his door lock by rote. He hurried into his rooms, desperate to escape the horrors behind him. He slammed the door shut, leaning against it as if to stop the ghosts of his dead friends from entering.

  Phantom faces floated before his eyes. He saw those he had killed, the victims who had died by his hands. The faces of his friends were also there, and Farida's lifeless features flashed before his eyes once again. Pain roiled in his breast and he sagged to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees.

  I'm sorry, my friends, he thought, sorrow welling up within him. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.

  Her weak voice asked the question that had ripped his heart to pieces. "Who…are…you?" Tears streamed down his scarred cheeks.

  She never knew the real me, only the lie. Lies he had told himself so many times that they had become a part of his reality. The death of the child reminded him of who he really was: faceless, nameless, nothing.

  There is no one to know the Hunter, not even the child I thought I cared for. In the end, I am once again alone. The bastard offspring of some hellspawn. I deserve to be alone, for I am nothing more than a killer.

  Misery threatened to overwhelm him, but he refused to wallow in his grief. He had to find a way to distract himself. He knew one thing sure to take his mind off his sorrow.

  Lord Jahel took my friends from me, and the First took Farida away. By all the gods of Voramis, they will pay for what they have done.

  Climbing to his feet, the Hunter fumbled in the darkness, searching for a match. The flickering candle cast eerie shadows around the room, but the light would suffice for the Hunter's ritual. The first rays of false dawn showed above the rooftops of Voramis. Day would break before long.

  He fumbled within his clothing for the two small pieces of cloth he had hidden. One belonged to the First, the small fragment ripped from the man's robes as the Hunter's hands grasped his neck. He had managed to hang onto it during his torture and imprisonment in the Hole. The other had come from the Hole—the cloth Lord Jahel had used to wipe the Hunter's arm after drawing his blood.

  He placed the cloths on the floor and lowered himself to sit in front of the candle. The dancing light beckoned him, pulling him toward it with an enchanting solemnity. He stared into its fiery depths, mesmerized by its movements. He poured every shred of rage and fury into the flame. His anger flowed out of him—replaced by a cold, furious calm. He was ready.

  Soulhunger throbbed in his mind, crying out in eager anticipation as he drew the enchanted dagger. He held the bright steel up to the candlelight, watching the flicker of light on the blade. It captured his thoughts, grounding him and giving his mind a focal point.

  Without conscious thought, his hand strayed to the fabric he had retrieved from Lord Jahel's torture table. A quick slash of the knife and the Hunter's blood dripped onto the material. His fingers ran the cloth gently over the blade, and he closed his eyes.

  Soulhunger pounded in his mind. It searched for its target, its throbbing rising in intensity. He cast out his senses, seeking the man to whom the cloth belonged: Lord Jahel, commander of the Dark Heresiarchs.

  Nothing happened. Soulhunger's pounding quieted, but no heartbeat echoed in his mind. No scent filled his nostrils.

  Something is not right, whispered the voice in his head. There is no scent.

  How is this possible?

  The Hunter repeated the ritual, struggling to focus. Once again, his efforts proved futile. He sensed little more than a vague hint of Lord Jahel's existence.

  This has never happened before.

  Frustration mounting, the Hunter went through the rite's motions again. Only the memory of the man echoed in his head.

  It's as if Lord Jahel has found a way to hide from my senses.

  The Hunter tried with the cloth he had torn from the First's robe, again closing his eyes and casting out his mind.

  Nothing but the lifeless face of Farida filled his eyes. The vision of the child's pale cheeks, unseeing eyes, and bloodied chest swam before him, breaking his concentration.

  "Gods damn it!"

  He hurled the cloth aside, but it only fluttered a few feet away, which only served to enrage him further. His anger returned in full force, building within him until it threatened to burst from his chest in a wave of destruction.

  I need something to kill, or else I'm going to go mad.

  Never in his memory had he experienced the emotions running through him—sorrow, emptiness, fury. The feelings melded with the voice in his head, goading him into an enraged bloodlust.

  He stared at the antique weaponry hanging on the wall, the plush furniture, the elegance of his apartments. The wealth he had accumulated over the years had served him well, and he had lived well. He had even had enough to give to the poor wretches who lived outside his front doors, though never directly. Whenever the beggars discovered mysterious bundles of food and clothing, it had been the Hunter's money spent.

  Now, he want
ed nothing more than to leave it all behind. It all seemed so empty, useless. The things he had gathered in his desire for luxury and comfort felt like cheap trinkets now that he had no one with whom to share them. Voramis had felt like home for so long, but now he realized it had little to do with the city.

  They were my home. Farida, Old Nan, Ellinor, Jak, and the others. They were my home, and now they're gone. The ones responsible must pay.

  Climbing to his feet, the Hunter strode to the cabinet at the far end of the room. He threw open the heavy wooden doors, and a smile touched his face as the candlelight revealed the assortment of weapons.

  "You may be able to hide from my ritual," the Hunter growled, his voice low as he spoke into the darkness, "but let's see if you can escape me."

  He drew the maps from within his tunic, spreading the large one out over the table once more. He had all day to commit it to memory.

  It is as Brother Mendicatus said. I should have no trouble traversing Voramis unseen.

  Soulhunger whispered in his thoughts, begging to be fed. He stared at his sword hanging on its wooden peg, his fingers itching. When darkness fell, he would go hunting the old-fashioned way.

  The voice in his mind crowed its delight, adding its echoing cries to his thoughts. A grim smile touched his lips.

  Today, I am the Hand of the Watcher. I will bring justice for the forgotten.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The wind whistled through the empty streets of the Merchant's Quarter, an eerie sound that set nerves on edge and caused grown men to jump at sounds in the darkness. No moon hung in the sky this night. The scant light of the twinkling stars did little to dispel the shadows.

  "Keeper's taint," muttered Fillip, "I hate nights like this."

  "Shut it," his companion, Reder, retorted, "and keep your eyes on the street."

  The two men lounged outside a building that looked like any other in Lower Voramis, with walls made of brick and mortar, a sloping roof set with flimsy tiles, and a sagging foundation that made the building tilt precariously.