Darkblade Guardian

by Andy Peloquin

  The Hunter shook his head. "Just the boy. I'll fend for myself."

  "Fair enough." Madame Aioni pursed her lips as she tapped a lacquered fingernail against the elaborate brooch pinned above one ample breast. She looked him up and down, as if sizing him up—not for his prowess or desires the bedroom, but the heft of his purse. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she caught sight of the gemstone in Soulhunger’s pommel.

  "Ten imperials. Half up front." A sultry smile spread her red-painted lips. “As you can doubtless imagine, our rooms are worth far more by the hour. And only a few of my girls are capable of meeting such an unusual request.”

  The Hunter produced the required sum without hesitation. "I'll be back to collect him as soon as I'm done with my business in town."

  For an instant, Madame Aioni's mouth curled into a little frown, as if disappointed she hadn’t asked for more. She recovered her smile quickly. “We will be waiting. Perhaps when you have concluded your business—“

  “Thank you, Madame Aioni.” The Hunter gave her a curt nod. He’d tried to protect the boy as best he could, but since the very first night, he’d only brought Hailen more pain, suffering, and misery. Only the Mistress’ own luck had kept Hailen alive. The Hunter could only keep trying to find the best way to keep the boy safe—even if that meant dragging him up the mountain to Enarium alongside him. At least here in Divinity House, Hailen could have a few hours of comfort and rest before facing the Empty Mountains.

  “See to it the boy is cared for, and I will consider my coin well-spent.”

  “Certainly,” the woman said. "Usually men leave their children at home to bring their business here. Definitely one of the more unusual requests I've had."

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Can I trust your discretion, Madame? Or will that cost me extra?" He made no attempt to hide the acid in his tone.

  The madame gave a dismissive wave. "Your boy will be as safe here as if he were my own son." A hint of sadness passed behind her eyes.

  "Thank you." The Hunter bowed. "He's sitting out front with one of your girls."

  Madame Aioni nodded. "Sastia'll be good to him."

  The Hunter turned to leave, but hesitated as he felt Soulhunger's pulsing in the back of his mind. After a moment, he reached under his cloak and unbuckled the dagger from his belt. "See that he keeps this on him at all times."

  The woman's eyebrows rose at sight of the dagger. "What? Why?"

  The Hunter shook his head. "The why doesn't matter. All that matters is that he keeps this with him no matter where he is or what he does. Understood?"

  The madame's gaze went from the Hunter to the dagger back to the Hunter, and she narrowed her eyes. After a moment, she nodded. "I'll see it done."

  "Good." The Hunter found his fingers reluctant to release their grip on Soulhunger's hilt. It felt odd being parted from the dagger again. Yet he'd do it for the sake of Hailen's sanity. He doubted he'd need to fight for his life today, but Soulhunger would keep the Irrsinnon from consuming the boy.

  "Is there a back way out?" he asked the madame.

  "Aye." She pointed down a side corridor. "That'll take you into the alley behind the house, and you can cut through toward the Prime Bazaar.

  The Hunter held out a hand. "Thank you, Madame Aioni."

  She gripped his hand and smiled, and the expression held genuine warmth. "We'll keep your boy safe, Hardwell of Praamis."

  With a final worried glance toward the front of the house, the Hunter hurried down the side passage and out of Divinity House.

  Chapter Four

  The Hunter felt naked without Soulhunger as he navigated the thick crowds in Vothmot's Prime Bazaar. The thick current of people swirled around him, pressing against and jostling him. It took all his self-control not to growl at the men and women that moved too close. Without the disguise to conceal his face, he was exposed.

  The demon in his mind added its furious screeches to the chaos. “You would risk being caught unarmed and vulnerable? What will happen to your precious Hailen then?”

  Don't pretend you care, the Hunter retorted in his mind. All you care about is death. I don't need Soulhunger to kill. Not that he had any intention of killing anyone here. He just wanted to get what he needed and get out of Vothmot as quickly as possible. He had to reach Enarium to free Hailen from the Irrsinnon, stop the Sage from unleashing the Great Destroyer, and find Her.

  Besides, he persisted, we can move more freely without it. He glanced at the massive temples towering over the Vothmot rooftops. Since leaving Malandria, he'd purposely avoided any large cities with temples to the Illusionist Clerics or the Beggar God. The Illusionist's servants sought to erase his memories while the Cambionari, the warriors Beggar Priests, would kill him on sight. They had been charged with hunting down the Bucelarii like him.

  If I have to go near the temples, I can't risk any Cambionari, if there are any in Vothmot, sensing the dagger's presence. This way, no one will know I'm here and I can be in and out.

  The demon had no coherent response, but its presence radiated irritation. Since leaving Kara-ket, it had grown worse, spending more time shrieking than filling his head with actual words. It wanted him to kill and wouldn't give him peace until he did.

  The scents of the Prime Bazaar threatened to overwhelm his sensitive nostrils. The stink of camels, sweat-stained leather, horse droppings, and dust hung thickest, but he caught hundreds of scents of the men, women, and children around him. Atop it all, the tangy odors of fragrant spices, herbs, and smoky incense filled the air.

  He slipped through the crowd, careful to keep his head bent and his hood pulled forward. It required too much effort to change the color of his eyes or the shape of his face—a trick he'd learned courtesy of the Sage in Kara-ket. Without featherglass lenses or his alchemical masks, he had to avoid being recognized.

  The chance of encountering someone he knew, while slim, existed. People flocked from all over Einan in search of the Lost City. In fact, Vothmot thrived on the industry of treasure-hunters and fortune-seekers traveling into the Empty Mountains.

  This section of the Prime Bazaar dealt not in foodstuffs, clothing, fabric, or trinkets. Instead, all around him, large, colorful signs adorned the walls, their bold letters displaying the offer of guided treks into the craggy mountain range.

  "Test your fate and find your fortune!" cried one guide in the loud voice of a street hawker. "The wealth of the Serenii awaits the man or woman bold enough to step up. You there!" He thrust a stubby finger toward the Hunter. "You are seeking the Lost City, yes?"

  The Hunter ignored the little dark-haired man and pushed on through the crowd.

  "The gods themselves guide me," shouted another, a bald-headed man with an ash-covered face and a robe of sackcloth. "They whisper in my ear and show me the way to Enarium, where the secrets of the universe can be yours. All for the price of ten golden imperials!"

  The Hunter shook his head. Charlatans and hustlers, all of them. These men preyed upon the foolish and wealthy, using clever gimmicks to convince gullible marks to hire them. Doubtless they'd wander around the mountains for a few days before finding an excuse to return to Vothmot, the Lost City undiscovered.

  People from every corner of the continent flowed through the Prime Bazaar. A group of young Praamian noblemen reined in their horses beside a train of camel drivers that wore the flowing robes of the Twelve Kingdoms. Malandrians, Nyslians, Drashi, even a few dark-skinned Ghandians and squat Odarians milled about, listening to the various offers.

  A serious-looking crew of well-equipped Voramians ignored the hawkers but instead moved toward the smaller, quieter streets beyond. They went into a small hut that stood apart from the rest. No loud-mouthed caller drew attention, but the men lounging around the front had the hard, lean bodies of mountaineers.

  One, a stony-faced man with threads of grey in his beard, stood as he approached. "You looking to climb the mountains?" Tall, broad-shouldered, but with an air of confidence, he looked the
sort of man who knew his profession. He smelled of citrus, leather oil, and horses—a strong scent, but not unpleasant.

  "Maybe," the Hunter said with a shrug.

  "You don't have the look of a treasure-hunter." The man narrowed his eyes. "I reckon you'll survive longer than most."

  The grim tone of the man's voice brought a smile to the Hunter's face. "Tired of the dandies and gawkers, eh?"

  The man shrugged. "Let the loud-mouths have 'em, says I." He thrust out a hand. "Darillon's the name."

  The Hunter shook it. "Hardwell. Is that a Malandrian accent I hear?"

  "Aye," Darillon said with a nod. "It's stuck with me even though I left more than twenty years back."

  "You can take the man out of Malandria, they say…"

  "But you can't get the Malandria out of the man." Darillon grinned. "You've heard that one, eh?"

  The Hunter shrugged. Voramians had no love for Malandrians; they'd muttered those words more than once, always in disdainful tones.

  "Mind if I ask what brings you on the wild pheasant chase for the Lost City?" Darillon asked.

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow.

  The man laughed. "Last thing you'd expect to hear from a man who makes his living on it, eh?"

  "To say the least."

  Darillon shrugged. "I've been out in those mountains dozens of times a year every year since I was in my twenties and had a full head of hair." He ran his hand over his bald scalp and patted his midsection. "A stone or two lighter, too. I've been on every trail, around every bend, up every cliff face I could climb. There's few men in Vothmot who know these mountains as well as I do, yet no sign of Enarium. Almost enough to make you question if it's even real."

  The Hunter nodded. "I get that."

  "Still, a man's gotta earn a living somehow, and there's worse ways to do it than exploring the Empty Mountains." He swept an arm toward the north, where the craggy mountain peaks rose. "They're a savage lot, but there's a rugged beauty that'll make any man fall in love."

  "What's your rate?" the Hunter asked.

  The bald man scratched his smooth-shaven cheeks, his mouth pressed into a tight line. "For supplies, horses—"

  "I've my own mounts," the Hunter said.

  "Fair enough." Darillon inclined his head. "How many of you will it be?"

  "Just me and one more."

  "Nice small party." He looked the Hunter up and down. "You look like you've done your share of climbing. Means I won't have to be hauling you up the mountain." He shook his head. "You wouldn't believe how many fat bastards think they've got what it takes to survive out there."

  The Hunter nodded. Two of the Praamian youths in the crowd behind had the soft, rotund bodies of men who spent more time in carriages and soft beds than on horseback or their feet.

  "Thirty imperials a head," Darillon pronounced after a moment of thought. "That'll cover enough supplies and gear for two weeks."

  Two weeks? The Hunter stifled a growl. He doubted the Sage would wait that long to enact whatever world-shattering plan he had. Hailen's madness worsened every day.

  Darillon continued. "And, before we head out, you need to understand what you're getting into. Rough, steep trails, cold nights, brutal winds, hard ground for sleeping."

  "You certainly know how to paint an attractive picture, don't you?"

  Darillon shrugged. "No sense getting your hopes up. We go out, we do our best to find the city, and we return back here in one piece. I'll keep you alive and get you home. That's the only guarantee I can offer." He thrust out a hand. "What say you?"

  “Ten imperials,” the Hunter said.

  “No.” Darillon frowned. “If you’re a bargaining man, you’re better off with one of those fools in the Prime Bazaar. I’ve quoted my price, and—“

  “Fifteen.” The Hunter raised an eyebrow. “As I said, I have my own mounts and supplies, and I can handle myself.”

  “Twenty-five,” Darillon growled. “I can always find another customer willing to pay that price.”

  “Sure, but they’ll be one of those dandies or treasure-hunters.” The Hunter grinned. “I’d say eighteen imperials is more than worth it for a break from those effete pricks.”

  Darillon threw up his hands. “Twenty’s the lowest I go, and that’s with the ‘persistent arsehole’ discount.”

  The Hunter grinned. He couldn't help liking the man's no-nonsense approach. "Done." He shook the man's hand. "How soon can you be ready to leave?"

  "From the moment your coins cross my palm, I'll need two hours."

  The Hunter frowned. He'd need more time if he was to get his hands on the Taivoro book the Sage had mentioned.

  "I won't leave any sooner," Darillon said, crossing his arms. "You may be in a hurry, but I won't risk—"

  "No," the Hunter cut him off with a shake of his head. "I've got some things to deal with here in Vothmot before I can leave."

  "Ahh, of course." Darillon raised his eyebrows. "That business wouldn't have anything to do with our famous kaffehouses, would it?"

  The Hunter stiffened. He thought he'd taken precautions to avoid notice as he slipped from the Divinity House.

  Darillon chuckled. "People come to Vothmot for three reasons." He jerked a thumb at the mountains behind him. "That's the first reason, and those bloody great temples are the second. The third's the kaffe. Nowhere else on Einan will you find it as delicious. Seems people enjoy the serving ladies as well."

  The Hunter relaxed. "You've got me there." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Between you and me, I was never too fond of kaffe."

  Darillon laughed, a rich, hearty sound. "Fair enough," he said, throwing up his hands.

  The Hunter's tension drained away. The less people knew of his business, the better. He was happy to let the man think he'd come to enjoy the pleasures of Vothmot.

  He drew ten golden imperials from his purse and set them in the man's hands. "Half now, half tomorrow morning when we leave."

  Darillon stuffed the coins into a pocket. "If you want to cover ground, we'd best be leaving by dawn."

  "Dawn it is." The Hunter nodded.

  "Meet me outside the north gate before first light, you and your companion. We'll be off while the rest of these pleasure-hunters are still snoozing in their beds."

  "I'll be there."

  The Hunter had to hope he had enough time to find the Taivoro book before then. The cost of delaying their trip another day didn't bother him, but the Sage's lead on him grew with every passing minute.

  He turned to walk away, then stopped.

  "If a man was looking for a book," he asked Darillon, "where would he go?"

  The bald man's eyebrows rose. "A book? Anything in particular?"

  The Hunter inclined his head. "Something old and obscure." The guide didn't need to know more than that.

  "Got it." Darillon's lips twitched into a pensive frown. "I'd say the Royal Libraries just south of the palace. If there's a book you're looking for, they'll either have it or know where to get it."

  With a nod, the Hunter turned and strode in the direction of the palace.

  Well, that's the easy part out of the way. Darillon seemed a capable enough guide, and he liked the man’s pragmatic attitude and calm confidence.

  Now comes the real challenge. He had only the vaguest idea of what he was looking for, and a limited time in which to find it. Life just can't be easy, can it? Everything he tried to do spiraled out of control. Just for once, he'd like something to be simple and straightforward, the way his life had been before he ever learned about demons or Kharna. He just wanted to go back to being an assassin for hire.

  It was a silly wish. He'd learned too much, seen too much. He couldn't hide in a bubble of willful ignorance. He knew the real threat threatened the people around him and all of Einan. Much as he hated it, he couldn't turn his back on it.

  Chapter Five

  "How might I help you…" The bespectacled scribe behind the desk gave the Hunter a long, appraising look. "
…sir?" he finished with only a hint of distaste on his face.

  The Hunter ignored the disdain. He knew he didn't look like much, still covered in road dust and wearing his plain, dark grey cloak and simple clothing.

  "I was hoping you could tell me where to find a certain book a friend mentioned to me."

  The scribe inclined his head. "I will certainly strive to do my best." He adjusted his spectacles and peered down his bulbous nose at the Hunter. "What is the name of the volume you seek?"

  "Well, that's the problem. I don't know the name of the book itself, just the author."

  "And that would be?" the man asked, his lips pinching into a prim frown.

  The Hunter hesitated. "Karannos Taivoro," he said after a long moment.

  The scribe's expression went flat. "Is this a joke?" he asked in a voice that made no attempt at masking his displeasure. "You come to the Royal Library, the largest collection of books in the north of Einan, and ask for the erotic works of that mad playwright?" He shook his head and made a little shooing motion with his pudgy hands. "Begone, sir. I have no time for your nonsense."

  The Hunter stifled a snort. The scribe had been dozing when he entered the library, and fewer than ten people milled about the enormous hall. By all appearances, people in Vothmot held reading and literature in as low a regard as Voramians.

  "Look, I need to get my hands on a specific Taivoro tome." The Hunter produced a silver half-drake from his pouch. "Simply point me in the direction of the section with his works, and I will leave you to return to your work."

  Avarice sparkled in the scribe's eyes as he took the gleaming coin and made it disappear into his voluminous robes. "In the southeast corner of the library, in the section marked 'Fictitious Works and Theater Plays'." His expression grew stern. "I warn you that there are very serious penalties for any untoward acts in the library."

  The Hunter shook his head. "You have my word your books will be treated with the utmost respect."

  Rolling his eyes, the scribe turned his attention to the book that lay open on the desk and gave the Hunter a dismissive wave. The Hunter was glad to be rid of the man's acrid stink: dried sweat, ink, and yellowed parchment.