"Well done, men," he said, nodding to Frollin, Paytr, and Derrin. "We'll do the rounds again at the sound of the fourth bell."
The three men swore under their breaths, but not loud enough for their corporal to hear. They wanted nothing more than to spend their nights in the warm guardhouse, and the thought of trudging the streets of Voramis held little appeal—particularly on a night like this.
Derrin's huge hand pushed the door open so hard that it crashed against the wall.
Every damned time, Anders thought. That man is too strong for his own good, and dumber than a hitching post.
"By the Swordsman, Derrin," he cursed aloud. "Watch what you're doing!"
"Sorry, Corporal," the huge man mumbled.
"Every time, Derrin," Paytr snickered at the big man. Derrin's opposite in every way, he stood no taller than the man's shoulder. "One day you'll pull the door right off its hinges."
The fire within the guardhouse had burned low, casting deep shadows in the room. For a moment, Corporal Anders thought he saw something move in the darkness, but shrugged it off as a trick of his imagination.
He strode to the fireplace, and stabbed at the last burning log with the iron poker.
"Hand me another log, will you, Derrin?" Anders held out a hand without turning his head.
An odd sound fell on his ears. It sounded almost like a sword being…
"What the—?" Alarm and fear filled Paytr's shout.
A meaty “thunk” sounded behind Anders, followed by a horrifying gurgling sound. He whirled around in time to see Paytr clutching his throat, red bubbling between his fingers and splashing from his mouth. Derrin slumped to the floor next, his screams loud and horrifying. The big Heresiarch clutched at the stump where his right hand had once been.
Frollin was the last man through the door, and he now stood alone against the Hunter. He stared wide-eyed at the Hunter, struggling to draw his blade. The assassin moved with unnatural speed, and Anders watched in helpless horror as the Hunter's blade sliced through the bone, gristle, and flesh of Frollin's neck. Frollin's head flew through the air, rolling to a stop between Anders' feet. When the corporal looked up from the grisly trophy on the floor, the Hunter's baleful glare greeted him.
"And then there was one," the Hunter said, his voice a menacing growl.
"Back, I warn you," Corporal Anders said, waving the poker in front of him.
"Lord Jahel," the Hunter said, his eyes fixed on the iron implement in Anders' hand, "tell me everything about him. I warn you, though, you don't need your hands to talk."
The dark eyes flicked to Anders' face, and the Dark Heresiarch saw the pitiless depths. They looked insane with bloodlust. A quiet fury burned in his merciless eyes. He knew he wasn't going to leave here alive.
"Never!" the corporal yelled, dropping the poker and drawing his sword.
The Hunter's face creased into a wicked smile, which never reached his eyes. "That was a mistake you won't live long enough to regret."
Corporal Anders raised his sword, but the Hunter was a blur in the shadows as he moved toward the Dark Heresiarch. The corporal's slashing cut went wide, and he staggered. Looking down, he watched his fingers fall to the floor, his Heresiarchal blade clattering beside it.
Anders screamed and wept, staring in wide-eyed horror at his ruined right hand. The Hunter kicked the sword to the other side of the room. What the corporal saw in the midnight eyes terrified him.
"About Lord Jahel," the Hunter snarled, placing his face dangerously close, "there are a few things I'd like to know."
Chapter Thirty-One
"No, please!" cried the merchant struggling in the vice grip of Alden and Erlick, two of the Third's favorite strong-arms. "I already paid for protection this month."
"Well, looks like you di'n't quite pay enough," Grom, the Third's second-in-command, spat back at him. "If you had’ve, there'd be someone here protectin' you from the likes of us, wouldn't there?"
He buried his meaty fist into the merchant's stomach, the force of the blow folding the man in half. Grom watched the pathetic creature heave his dinner onto the cobblestones, and nodded to the two thugs holding the merchant's arms.
Alden and Erlick heaved the man through the front window of his shop in the heart of the Merchant's Quarter. Glass shattered, and Grom heard the sound of wooden furniture crunching.
There was an odd whistling sound, followed by two “thunks” in quick succession. Grom turned, and his mouth hung open as Erlick fell to his knees. The steel tip of a crossbow bolt protruded from the front of his comrade's throat, spilling blood onto the cobbled stones of the street. Another bolt buried itself deep in his spine, and the big thug flopped to the floor like a fish, crimson pooling beneath him.
A figure leapt from the darkness toward Grom and Alden. The cloaked figure held no weapons, but he moved with a confidence that shook Grom to the core.
"Get him," he shouted.
Alden rushed toward the dark form, lowering his head and preparing to ram the smaller man in the stomach. The figure in the hood sprang to the side with an agility Alden couldn't match, and the big thug sprawled to the floor. The dark figure crunched a heavy boot down on the back of Alden's head before he could recover. From where he stood, Grom heard the loud “crack” of Alden's neck.
The hooded man turned to face Grom. "I'm going to ask you a few questions about the Third," he said in a voice heavy with fury, "but I'll keep them simple so your tiny brain can understand them."
With a loud roar of rage, Grom charged his assailant. Yet something made him stop a few paces away. The dark figure radiated menace, and a voice in the back of Grom's mind shrieked a warning to flee.
The figure pulled back his hood, revealing a handsome face and glittering eyes the color of night.
The Hunter, Grom thought, a twinge of fear running through his dull mind. I get to kill the Watcher-damned Hunter!
The Hunter removed his cloak, dropping it to the street behind him. He rolled his shoulders and neck as if to loosen up, and, with a mocking grin, beckoned the big man to attack.
Grom led with powerful swings of his meaty fists. The force of his blows had shattered doors and windows, but he found it much harder to break something that never stopped moving. The Hunter ducked, dodged, and sidestepped each of Grom's wild strikes. The assassin's punches landed in Grom's ribs, elbows, and throat, with far more force than the big man anticipated. He fell beneath a flurry of blows to his solar plexus, gagging and retching.
Strong hands closed around Grom's wrists. Pain ripped through his shoulders as the Hunter wrenched his arms from their sockets. He fell to the street, his face splashing into the sickeningly warm pool of his own vomit.
A knee dug into his spine, but it was the Hunter's soft growl in his ear that terrified Grom to his core. When the big thug finally spoke, his words flowed freely, and he told the Hunter everything he wanted to know.
* * *
Opium smoke hung thick in the gambling house, floating from the mouths of the men puffing on arguilah waterpipes. No pictures hung on the walls, no feminine décor adorned the shelves around the edge of the room. Women never stepped foot within the hallowed halls of this all-male establishment, a place where wealthy men could smoke and gamble in peace.
A heavy table dominated the center of the room, laden with an ever-growing pile of papers, wooden chits, and assorted valuables. Six men sat around the table, the highest-ranked members of the Bloody Hand outside of the Five Fingers. The men gambled not with money, but with deeds for mansions, chits representing controlled territories, and stolen jewelry.
"Handel, if you want to stay in the game," grated one man, a stocky thug with the scarred knuckles of a bruiser, "you're at least going to have to match Arris’ bet."
"Shut up and let me think, Kelnon." Handel glared at Kelnon with open distaste. Far smaller than his opponent, Handel's slight build and agile fingers made him an adept thief, second only to the Fifth in skill. His larger companions often
pushed him around—verbally and physically—leaving him with a foul temper and a quick blade hand.
The thief inspected his cards, struggling to make up his mind. He studied his companions as if trying to read their thoughts.
He shrugged. "I will wager the region between Borthwick Street and the Palisade." He pushed wooden chits into the growing pile in the center of the table.
Kelnon's face creased into a wide grin. "Ooh, gambling big are we? You think you have a winning hand?"
"Kelnon seems pretty confident, Handel," a third, Arris, spoke up. He held a perfumed handkerchief to his nose in an attempt to block out the intoxicating smoke hanging in the air. "You sure you want to do that?"
"Aye," the little thief growled at the dandified Arris. "Now shut up and show your cards."
Arris turned over his cards, revealing two suns and a jester. "The Fool's Run," he said with a smile. "What do you have, Kelnon?"
"Two swords and a sun," the stocky man said, grinning as Arris' face fell. "You, Handel?"
"Oh, just a pair of Queen's Courtiers and a Spectacle." The little thief laughed as Kelnon's face purpled with rage. "And you thought I had nothing!" He reached forward to pull the pile in the center of the table toward him, but Kelnon's meaty hand stopped him.
"You sodding ass-licker, Handel," Kelnon growled, dangerously close to the thief's face. "How in the Keeper's name could you possibly have that hand twice in a row?"
A fourth player rested a restraining hand on Kelnon's massive forearm. "You're just angry because you've lost every hand tonight, Kelnon."
"And how is that possible, Balddin?" Kelnon asked, turning his fierce glare on the man. Balddin jerked his hand back as if burned. "There's no possible way I can lose every hand. You ever read Modan's Principles of Probability? It says that everything averages out, meaning I have to win at least once in a while."
Prios, the fifth player at the table, shook his head, "Where the in twisted hell do you find time to read dusty old schoolbooks, Kelnon?" While not as heavyset as Kelnon, he outweighed the other five.
"What else am I supposed to do while sitting and listening to you cunts prattle on about your takings on Sunrise Row?" Kelnon shot a glare toward Prios. Prios seemed unperturbed by Kelnon's anger, and he simply smiled back at the bigger man.
Kelnon sought a new target for his anger. "And you," he growled, rounding on the little thief, "I could swear you're cheating, but I just can't figure out how."
"Why you…!" Handel exclaimed, struggling to stand. Finding he could not break Kelnon's grip, his free hand reached for his belt knife. Before he could draw it, however, a hand far larger than Kelnon's clamped down on his shoulder.
"Careful, Handel," said the man to whom the hand belonged. "You know the Third's rules: no steel in the gambling house. You want to fight, you take it outside."
The giant stood a full head taller than Kelnon, and came close to twice as wide, with heavy muscle covering his huge body. The massive hand on Handel's shoulder didn't squeeze, but the thief knew there was enough force in Kad's grip to shatter bone.
"Sorry, Kad," Handel said, swallowing hard. He released his hold on the knife and quickly sat back down.
Kad turned his glare on Kelnon, who quickly let go of Handel's forearm. The little thief snatched back his arm, nursing his wrist as he pulled the pile of chits and markers toward his corner of the table.
"Hand's up, lads," Arris said, throwing the cards across the table. "Get 'em while they're hot."
The six figures sat in silence, each studying their cards—save for Kelnon and Handel, who exchanged angry glares over the tops of their cards. The opium smoke seemed to press in on them, the gloom narrowing their world to nothing but the table around which they sat.
Arris coughed, covering his mouth with his handkerchief. "Is it just me, or is the smoke thicker than usual?"
Kelnon opened his mouth to retort, but the heavy smoke filled his lungs. He turned to shout at the guard. "Damn it, Kad, why doesn't someone open a—"
His words cut off as Kad slumped to the floor, his huge face reddening as he struggled to breathe. Horrified, Kelnon watched as the giant's face turned purple, then blue. Blood vessels burst in Kad's eyes.
Kelnon gasped. "Poison!" Coughing fits gripped the others in the room, and his lungs burned with every breath.
He managed to find his feet, though he had to support himself on the table just to stay upright. His comrades had slumped forward or fallen to the floor, their faces twisted in horrible grimaces as the thick smoke smothered them.
The door seemed miles away as Kelnon fought to put one foot in front of the other. Nightmarish hallucinations—caused by both the opiate and whatever poison floated through the room—swam in his vision. The handkerchief covering his mouth felt far too heavy for his arms, which suddenly seemed made of lead.
He fell forward, but by pure chance, his hand landed on the latch. With his remaining strength, he pushed, and the door swung silently open. Cool night air wafted past him, but already his vision had begun to dim. The last thing he saw was the sign nailed to the door of the gambling house.
The Hunter will have his due.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sweat dripped from Fraid's bald head, mingling with the soot staining his face. The heavy door shuddered beneath the onslaught of his meaty, scarred fists.
"Open the door, quickly," he panted. Even as he beat at the door, his eyes flashed in all directions, fear filling his face. His legs burned from his desperate sprint through the Blackfall District, and he rested his hands on his knees to take in huge gulps of air.
"What is it?" came a dull voice matching the thickness of the ironbound door.
"Open the damn door, Oden," Fraid bellowed.
The man on the other side of the door seemed in no hurry. A small panel slid back, revealing a single red-rimmed eyeball. "What's the password?" Oden drawled.
"Damn you and the password, Oden. I have to speak to the Second, now!" Urgency filled Fraid's voice, a tone lost on the thug within.
"Password," Oden replied, "or sod off."
"Fine!" Fraid gasped in frustration. "'Abruxil's hairy balls'. Happy now?" He swallowed an insult; Oden tended to be tetchy, and the last thing he wanted was to offend the only man who would open the door for him.
I have to see the Second, he thought, his mind filling with panic.
Locks, latches, deadbolts, and chains rattled, then, with agonizing lethargy, the ponderous door swung open.
"Damn you, Oden," he cursed at the guard opening the heavy door. "Don't you know what's going on out there tonight?"
"What?" asked Oden, his voice dull and heavy with sleep. "What's going on? What happened to you?"
But Fraid had already pushed past, knocking Oden aside in his hurry. He sprinted toward the lighted room at the end of the long hall. Within the room, four men lounged on comfortable chairs. One sat sharpening a dagger. Two more muttered over a pack of playing cards, and snores rose from the man dozing in the corner.
"Where is he?" Fraid demanded as he entered the room.
The one sharpening his dagger looked up, taking in Fraid's dirty appearance. He seemed not to care, but simply jerked his head in the direction of the door at the far side of the room.
"In the back," the man said, not pausing in his task. "I wouldn't go in, if I were you. He's…busy."
Fraid ignored the warning. "He's going to want to hear this."
He pushed the door open and burst into the room beyond. His eyes noticed the candles around the room a fraction of a second before his ears registered the moans of pleasure. A woman lay naked on the Second's desk, the man himself standing between her legs. The Second's hands gripped her arms, pulling her toward him as he pushed deeper into her. Her breasts sagged to either side of her sweaty chest, and her stomach wobbled with each thrust of the Second's hips.
For a moment, the two failed to notice the thug standing by the closed door. When the Second finally did see Fraid, rage fille
d his face.
"What in the name of the Long Keeper's shriveled gonads do you want, Fraid?" he snarled, not pausing in his thrusting. The whore on the table continued her moans of pleasure—though, to Fraid's ears, they sounded contrived.
"Uh," he stammered, unsure of how to respond in this delicate situation. Everyone knew the Second had a mean temper. He had killed men for less.
"Speak up, you dullard son of a pox-ridden donkey," the Second repeated. "Why in the bloody hell are you disturbing me? And why isn't that door locked?"
"Sorry, sir," muttered Fraid, ducking his head as he turned to lock the door. The deadbolt shot home with a “thunk”, and he turned to face the outraged Second once more. "It's the Hunter, sir, he's-"
Something cut him off mid-sentence. Pain blossomed in his throat, and his breath bubbled in his lungs. He felt nothing as his knees hit the hard wooden floor, nothing but the warmth rushing down the front of his tunic.
* * *
The Hunter watched the thug slump to the floor. Life fled from the dying man's eyes. The haft of his throwing dagger protruded from the man's neck—a perfect cast, even by his standards.
Satisfied that he'd neutralized the secondary threat, the Hunter snapped his gaze to the figures on the table. The Second, already shaken by the surprising entry of the thug, now lay frozen in place atop the squirming whore.
The woman tried to wriggle out from beneath him but, finding his hands held her firmly in place, gave up trying to break free. Instead, she screamed, a sound that echoed through the small room.
The Hunter covered the distance to the table with a single leap, his sword singing through the air. The Second somehow found his senses in time to throw himself backward, pulling out of the woman. He stumbled, his ankles catching in his breeches, and he fell hard. The fall saved his life, but not his face. The Hunter's sword carved a chunk out of his cheek, eliciting a yelp of pain.
Darkblade Assassin: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Hero of Darkness Book 1) Page 28
