Darkblade Guardian

by Andy Peloquin

  The mountaineer had no clue how true his words were. The Hunter had lost count of the people he'd killed as the legendary assassin of Voramis. In the last months alone, the number of deaths on his head numbered more than a hundred.

  "Fair enough," Rassek whispered. "But ye’ve seen him with the boy. A man like that just isn't bein’ capable of murderin’ a man in cold blood."

  Once, the Hunter would have argued. He'd killed many, many people for no other reason than that he'd been paid to. Now, he wasn't so certain. The death of Farida and the others had begun a change in him, and Hailen's presence had continued the change. He still killed, yet he could no longer say he did it without compunction. His interaction with the Sage and the Warmaster had shown him at least one way he truly was different than his Abiarazi ancestors. They killed without remorse or reason.

  He emerged from the tent and strode over toward the two men. Darillon's hand flew to the sword at his belt, and even Rassek reached for a dagger.

  The Hunter spoke in a low voice. "Let me tell you the truth of who I really am. I am a man on a mission." He thrust a finger toward his tent. "My mission is to get that child to Enarium. You saw what happened at the lake, and the effect it had on him."

  Rassek nodded. "Aye." The word came out tight, with an edge of anxiety. Darillon's hand gripped the hilt of his sword, and he seemed a heartbeat from drawing it.

  "The child is unlike any other on Einan," the Hunter continued. "He is special, and it is my duty to see that he arrives safely in Enarium."

  Darillon's face hardened. "And we're just supposed to believe you? After you lied to us—"

  "I did not lie." The Hunter shook his head. "You never bothered to ask." Not that he would have told them the truth. They would think his story of hunting demons and preventing the return of Kharna the ravings of a madman. Bloody hell, a few months ago he had called Father Reverentus mad for speaking of such things.

  "You concealed the truth from us," Darillon growled.

  "So tell me your deep, dark secrets." The Hunter folded his arms. "Surely there is something you have been concealing from me."

  Rassek's tense expression relaxed, and a little grin split his lips. "He's got ye there, Darillon."

  The older mountaineer scowled. "You know what I mean. If you knew you had the bloody Warrior Priests after you, you ought to have told us."

  "Perhaps." The Hunter shrugged. "Or perhaps I made the right choice by not revealing that fact. After all, we never would have come this far had you known the truth." He dropped his voice. "You would not be riding up the road to the Lost City of Enarium at this moment."

  "We'd probably be haulin’ some lard-ass nobleman ‘round the finer trails to the east." Rassek's grin grew to a smile. "I'd take this any day of the week, says I."

  The Hunter met Darillon's gaze without flinching. "You can trust that I will not betray you. You can trust that I will not attack you, nor will I seek to harm you." His eyes narrowed. "But you can also trust that I will let nothing stand in my way of bringing that boy to safety. The fact that I have killed is precisely why I am the one best-suited to being his protector."

  It wasn't entirely a lie. The Hunter truly did believe himself the one best-suited to care for Hailen, at least until he found a way to break the Elivasti's curse and free him from the Irrsinnon.

  Father Reverentus' words echoed in his mind. "The Melechha’s blood is the only thing powerful enough to seal Kharna in his prison forever. If he truly is a Melechha, that boy is the weapon to defeat the Destroyer once and for all."

  The old Beggar Priest had been the one to set him on this quest all those months ago. Father Reverentus had sought him out, had recruited him to slay the demons in Voramis. That act had led him down the path to Malandria, Al Hani, Shana Laal, and finally here. Ever since meeting the boy in Malandria, he had known Hailen was special. Every new discovery—from his power in the Dolmenrath to his Elivasti heritage to the fact that he was Melechha—had led to the ultimate truth: Hailen had to get to Enarium.

  If Father Reverentus was right, Hailen could be the key to putting an end to Kharna once and for all. The Hunter might kill the Sage and put an end to the demon's plans, but only Hailen's blood would defeat the Destroyer himself.

  The fate of the world literally rested on Hailen's shoulders. A child no more than seven years old, touched by the Illusionist, cursed by his Serenii ancestors, and too innocent and naïve to understand the dangers that surrounded him. Who better than a killer to protect something of such importance?

  Rassek's expression grew solemn. "That’s bein’ enough fer me, says I." He turned to Darillon. "Can ye say ye would do any different in his situation?"

  Darillon's face hardened. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, he gave a little shrug of his shoulders, stood, and went into his tent.

  For long moments, silence fell on the camp. Rassek's eyes remained fixed on their shelter, his expression unreadable. Finally, he looked back at the Hunter with a wry grin. "Ye've nothin’ to be fearin’ from us, Hardwell."

  "And you have nothing to fear from me," the Hunter said.

  "That's as much as a man can be askin’ fer." Nodding, Rassek stood and followed his partner into the tent.

  The Hunter took a seat and leaned back against the wall of the canyon. He closed his eyes, letting out his breath silently, and the tension drained from his shoulders.

  Why did he care what these men thought of him? Why did it matter that they trusted him? The Hunter of Voramis, legendary assassin, hadn't given two shites about what anyone said about him. Bloody hell, the more they feared him, the better.

  So why was the Hunter who sat on the rocky slopes of the Empty Mountains any different?

  He'd changed. The deaths of the beggars in Voramis had shown him how much he hated the thought of being alone. Bardin had proven that people could be more than just a tool to use or blood to feed Soulhunger. Hailen made him believe that there truly was a shred of hope for a better future.

  Thoughts of the future sent his mind racing ahead toward Enarium. He felt Her presence tugging in his mind, faint beneath the shrieking of the demon. He couldn't help feeling nervous as he drew closer to the city. To Her.

  What would She be like? After all this time, would She remember him? Had She found someone else? That thought sent a spike of panic into his mind. All this time, he'd never given any thought to what had happened to Her in the thousands of years they'd spent apart. What had happened to their son? What manner of man had he turned into?

  These and many more questions whirled in his mind, a hurricane of doubt, anxiety, and trepidation. Much as he wanted to reach Enarium, he also dreaded what he'd find.

  "Hardwell?"

  Evren's voice pierced the maelstrom of his thoughts. It took him a moment to focus on the boy's face.

  "Hardwell, come take a look at this." Excitement shone in Evren's eyes. "I-I think I've found somethin’."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Evren held out the book. "Read this passage here."

  The Hunter took the volume and scanned the section Evren indicated. It came from a scene a page or two after the part that had revealed the way through the cliffs.

  “Facing them bravely I stood

  My red velvet length

  Soft flesh member

  Thick purple veins

  Triumphant and proud

  Defiant against guardians beyond number.”

  “Ugh,” the Hunter said with a grimace and closed the book. "I could have lived forever without knowing those details about the bard's prick."

  He tried in vain to scrub the image of Enmor fighting off King Draqua’s guards with his erect penis. The chapter continued with the Journeyman bard barely fleeing Ghandia with his head—and other body parts—still attached.

  Evren nodded, and his face reflected the Hunter's disgust. "Agreed. But that ain’t what stood out to me. Funny thing is, it's the only part of the book that gets into such…graphic detail." He gave a litt
le shudder. "Back in the Master's Temple, we always knew to skip that bit."

  The Hunter's brow furrowed. "But you think those details are somehow important?"

  Evren hesitated. "I ain’t all sure." He thrust a finger at the book. "Might be he included it on purpose so it stood out from the rest of the story."

  "So, what?" the Hunter asked. "We're supposed to look for a mountain that looks like red velvet flesh with thick purple veins?"

  "Maybe that's where we need to go to be safe from the Stone Guardians. Or where we go to get rid of them."

  "If that bit about ‘my love’s most treasured secret parts’ is talking about Enarium, it could mean those guards are the Stone Guardians." The Hunter tugged at the stubble that had sprouted on his face. The last weeks of traveling from Kara-ket hadn't included many opportunities for a shave. "I guess we need to be on the lookout for something phallic, then. Like a tall, manhood-shaped mountain or stone pillar."

  Evren shrugged. "Maybe. Like I said, I ain’t sure."

  The Hunter read over the passage again, but instead started at the top of the page. Now that he had gotten in the mind frame of looking for oddities, he found another section that stood out to him.

  “The regal moon’s flow

  Like crimson tides of life

  Blood on the air

  Summons and beckons

  A beacon calling out

  To the guardians of my love fair.”

  He cringed at mention of the women’s cycle, but mulled over its significance. "Did you catch this bit about the blood?" he asked Evren.

  The young thief nodded. "A lot of focus on blood, even when he ain’t never mentioned it in the rest of the book. Even when Enmor’s goin’ up against the guardians."

  "That's what I thought." The Hunter pondered the passage. He had an idea, but it seemed a stretch. "What if this is referring to the thing that attracts the Stone Guardians?"

  Evren's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

  The Hunter scratched his beard. “What if blood is what attracts the Stone Guardians?"

  The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The massive creatures had only appeared after Sir Danna and her Warrior Priests attacked. His own keen sense of smell could pick up the coppery tang of fresh-spilled blood from hundreds of paces away. If the Stone Guardians were drawn to the odor, it could explain how they'd known where to find him and the others in the middle of the Empty Mountains. And why they hadn't attacked Darillon, Rassek, Evren, Hailen, or the horses.

  The Hunter stared down at the book. How many more secrets lay hidden in its pages? How much more could he learn from the strange story of the Journeyman bard?

  No, how much more could we learn?

  He held the book out to Evren. "I want you to keep this for me."

  The thief's eyebrows shot up. "What? Why?"

  "Because we need to find out everything we can from it, and because I can't afford to spend every spare moment with my nose buried in a book."

  Suspicion flashed in Evren's eyes. "I ain’t so useless I can’t do anyth—"

  The Hunter cut him off with a shake of his head. "You're the one who has the greatest chance of actually finding something we can use. I've got to keep an eye on the boy, watch our backs, and try to find a way to keep us alive long enough to reach Enarium. But if there are more clues to get us safely there, anything hidden that will help us fight off the Stone Guardians, we need to know. And you proved you're clever enough to figure it out already."

  For a moment, the suspicion on the thief's eyes softened, replaced by genuine surprise and something more. Warmth? Pride?

  "I'll do it." Evren took the book from the Hunter. "I'll try to find what I can."

  "You've more than earned your way on the trip, Evren." The Hunter met the young man's gaze firmly. "You saved our lives at least once, and I'm counting on you to do so again. For the boy's sake, if not for the rest of us."

  Evren swallowed, and gave a little nod. He tucked the book into his cloak, stood, and strode toward his bedroll. He climbed into his blankets, but stopped before lying down.

  "Your scars," he asked in a quiet voice, "who did that to you?"

  The question surprised the Hunter. He instinctively prepared to use the lie he'd told Lady Damuria back in Voramis, saying they were a Praamian ritual. But something stopped the words from coming out.

  "It's a long story," he said at last. He couldn't tell the young man the truth—who'd believe such a thing?—but for some reason, he didn't want to deceive him any more than necessary.

  Evren nodded. "Got it." He hesitated, then rolled up his long sleeve to reveal white scar tissue crisscrossing his upper arm from elbow to shoulder. "We've all got long stories of our own."

  The Hunter said nothing. He could only imagine what horrors had befallen the young man to leave him so scarred, mentally as well as physically. Evren had grown hard out of necessity, yet in that moment, the Hunter caught a glimpse of the boy Evren must have been long ago. Before the Lecterns ruined him.

  "Did you at least get even with the one who did that?" Evren asked. The edge had returned to his voice, his eyes gone flat.

  The Hunter shrugged. "In a sense." His scars served as a reminder of the cost of his actions. Every death left a new mark etched into his flesh, a reminder of just how much he took from others.

  "Good." Evren rolled up his sleeve. "When it gets to be too much, you just have to act, you know?" He searched the Hunter's face. "Even if it means you have to spend your life runnin’, sometimes it's better to run than keep lettin’ people hurt you."

  "I understand," the Hunter said. He truly did. He'd done far worse than killing a priest, for gold instead of survival or sanity. "It takes a toll on your soul, but there are times it's a price worth paying."

  With a little nod, Evren lay down in his ragged bedroll and pulled up his blankets.

  The Hunter sat in silence, staring at the glowing coals before him. He'd seen many young men turn out like Evren. Life in Lower Voramis had been hard. When money was scarce—which it always was—many had no choice but to turn to disreputable means of scraping together enough coin to survive. The brothels of the Blackfall District had always been filled with young men and women, barely more than children, who had found a way to make a living, no matter the pain or disgrace.

  Yet unlike many of them, Evren hadn't been given a choice. He hadn't chosen to fall victim to the priests. The horrors had been inflicted upon him by priests, men that ought to have protected and cared for him. They had taken his trust in them and twisted it into a vile power that enabled them to abuse him. Him, and doubtless many others around Einan.

  But that was ever the case with mankind. He'd seen the worst of human nature, in many cases as evil and depraved as the Abiarazi he hunted. Frozen hell, he'd witnessed things that would make even a demon cringe, men and women inflicting horrors, cruelties, and injustices upon each other. They made him almost want to accept the demons' offer to join them and eradicate humanity to make a world for the Abiarazi and Bucelarii.

  Almost.

  Over the last few months, he'd come to see that humanity had more to offer than just villainy, treachery, and malice. Darkness always overshadowed the light, but those few spots of light—people like Farida, Bardin, Hailen, and Evren—shone so much brighter for the darkness around them. Even Rassek, Darillon, Graden, Kellen, Visibos, and, yes, Father Reverentus proved that humanity had just enough to be worth saving. The scales tipped heavily toward evil, but he could see enough good to make it clear what he had to do.

  In Enarium, he would confront the Sage, destroy Kharna, and free the world from the grip of the Abiarazi and the god of destruction. He was no hero—an assassin could never truly be called such—but perhaps he was precisely what Einan needed. Someone who could bear the burden of killing, as death was necessary to bring life.

  As long as the Abiarazi lived, Einan was in danger. As long as Kharna remained to affect the world, there remained a chance of h
is return. Only a killer could put an end to both.

  The shrieking in his head rose to a painful intensity. The Hunter gritted his teeth against the ache in his skull. The demon spoke no words, simply screeched incoherence, filling his mind with its desires for death. Unlike Soulhunger, which craved blood regardless of its provenance, his inner demon hated the fact that he killed the Abiarazi. It ached for him to return to his roots as the Bucelarii, the obedient soldiers that fought beside the demonic hordes to eradicate humanity. The demon saw every Abiarazi death at his hands as a betrayal of his heritage.

  So be it. He could betray at least that half of himself. He would cling to the shred of humanity within—the part of himself that had prevented Father Reverentus from ordering his death. The part of him that had driven him this far. The only thing keeping him going when he wanted to collapse beneath the burden of guilt.

  The throbbing in his head grew so excruciating it brought tears to his eyes. The curse of the Empty Mountains amplified the voice, far louder than the Warmaster's temple in Kara-ket. The demon's presence filled his head with its fury, shrieking, railing, demanding, and begging.

  The Hunter pounded at his head in a vain attempt to silence the voice. His vision blurred, and his breath came in ragged gasps. It felt like the presence in his mind tried to kill him. If he would not yield, it would drive him insane.

  He knew what it wanted. He had fought to avoid giving in to its demands. Yet at that moment, he knew he could fight no longer. He couldn't run from it, couldn't hide or erect a wall in his mind to block it out, not with the curse of the Empty Mountains amplifying its intensity. It didn’t matter that he’d killed just hours earlier; the voice refused to fall silent. He had only one choice.

  He stood quickly and raised the hood of his dark cloak. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he checked his sword in its sheath, then strode down the trail, back the way they'd come earlier. He would give the voice what it wanted.