Darkblade Guardian

by Andy Peloquin

  “Somewhere,” the Hunter echoed.

  “Find her, Drayvin,” Taiana gripped his hands tightly. “Find her. For my sake, for yours, and, most of all, for hers.”

  “I will.” A lump swelled in the Hunter’s throat. “I promise.”

  Her face creased into a smile. “See you in five hundred years, handsome.”

  She paused for a moment, looking him in the eyes. “I’ll be waiting.”

  Her hands slipped from his as she disappeared, and the Hunter once again found himself alone in the void.

  “REMEMBER THIS, LITTLE MORTAL,” Kharna’s voice rumbled in his mind. “THE MORE POWER YOU FEED ME, THE MORE POWER I CAN SPARE TO AID IN HER RECOVERY. LIFE WILL SUSTAIN LIFE.”

  “I will do it,” the Hunter said without hesitation. “I swear.”

  “AS YOU SWORE ONCE, LONG AGO, WHEN THERE WERE MORE OF YOU TO CARRY THE BURDEN.”

  ”Then I will carry it alone,” the Hunter said. “As I have done for so many years.”

  “I, TOO, CARRY MY BURDEN ALONE.” A wistful tone—could a god feel loneliness?—echoed in the void. “I AM THE LAST OF MY KIND.”

  “What about the other Chambers?” the Hunter asked. “There were Serenii bodies—”

  “THEIR MINDS FADED INTO NOTHINGNESS LONG AGO, AND THERE IS NO POWER ON THIS WORLD THAT CAN BRING THAT BACK. THEIR BODIES ARE SUSTAINED BY THE POWER OF ENARIUM TO SERVE AS A CONDUIT, YET THEY ARE EMPTY VESSELS. OF THE TWELVE THAT REMAINED TO FACE THE DEVOURER, I ALONE SURVIVE TO FIGHT ON.”

  “I will do what I can to aid you in that fight. You will not battle the Destroyer alone!”

  “A BATTLE TOGETHER, WE THE LAST OF OUR RACES. IT IS ONLY LOGICAL.”

  “Until next time,” the Hunter said.

  The darkness faded around him and snapped back to reality with a gasp. Once again, he stood in the highest chamber of the Illumina. The red light of the Withering had faded, and the loud humming within the tower had returned to its low, throbbing thrum. The Keeps had returned to their usual dim glow. The world seemed normal once more.

  Yet the Hunter knew nothing would ever go back to anything close to “normal”. Everything he’d learned in the last few days—hells, in the last few hours—had changed his life irreversibly. He could never again be the Hunter, assassin of Voramis; or Hardwell, the nameless traveler roaming Einan in search of his forgotten past. He couldn’t even be Drayvin, the last of the living Bucelarii.

  He was something different. What that was, who he’d be, he still didn’t know. Only time would tell.

  He turned to find Hailen staring up at him. The Hunter picked the boy up. So small, so innocent, so trusting. Hailen’s clasped his neck and the boy buried his face in the Hunter’s chest.

  “Come, Hailen. It’s time for us to leave this place.”

  “Where are we going?” Hailen whispered.

  The Hunter squeezed the boy tighter. “To save your life one last time.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The Hunter paused only long enough to retrieve the Swordsman’s daggers, Soulhunger—and, after a moment of thought, the Sage’s sword—before leaving the towertop chamber. He refused to look at the two Bucelarii corpses lying there. He’d had no desire to kill them, two of the last of his kind still alive on Einan, but they’d left him no choice.

  He descended the staircase toward the bottom floor, but stopped before stepping onto the landing. Through the transparent gemstone walls, he could see the mob of human prisoners laying siege to the Illumina. In vain they attacked the tower with crude weapons and spikestaffs taken from the dead Elivasti. His stomach clenched as he saw the fury burning in their eyes, and he paused. No way could he fight through that horde. His only hope lay in convincing them he was on their side.

  Setting Hailen down, he stripped out of the bloodstained, dented, and damaged blue Elivasti armor. He gathered the boy into his arms and fixed him with a stern gaze. “Whatever you do, keep your eyes closed.”

  “Are you going to hurt people again?”

  “No.” The Hunter shook his head. “But the people we’re going to see are angry at people with purple eyes.”

  “Like mine?” Hailen’s eyes went wide.

  The Hunter nodded. “Like yours. So you need to keep your eyes closed real tight, no matter what, so they don’t think you’re one of the bad men.”

  “Okay.” Hailen screwed up his face and pressed his eyes tightly closed. “Like this?”

  The Hunter smiled. “Perfect.” He adjusted his weapons—Soulhunger, the slim fencing sword, and the two iron blades—and strode toward the nearest doorway.

  He pressed Soulhunger to the gemstone locking mechanism beside the door, and it slid open without a sound. A dozen furious men and women spilled through the opening before he could take a step. They charged toward him, hefting the weapons they’d taken from the dead Elivasti, but paused when they saw Hailen in his arms.

  “I am not the enemy you seek,” the Hunter shouted. “The Elivasti and their master lie dead at my hand.”

  “Who are you, then?” asked one man, a short fellow with a scruffy beard drooping down to his waist.

  “I am the one who opened the gate and set you free.”

  The freed prisoners turned to each other, surprise etched into their expressions. After a moment, the same bearded man spoke again.

  “Prove it.”

  The Hunter pondered a moment, then a grin spread his face. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  He turned his focus inward to the flesh, bone, and muscles of his face and exerted his will on his features. His nose thickened, his eyes drew closer together, and his jaw and mouth took on a heavy, brutish shape as he formed the face of Setin—a face they would all recognize.

  The men and women before him gasped and fell back, though a few prepared to attack. A moment later, the Hunter shifted his features to those of Ryken, the Blood Sentinel Detrarch he’d killed on the streets.

  “So it’s true!” The scruffy-looking man’s eyes were wide, shock mingling with his disbelief. “The Ghost-Faced Man isn’t just a legend.”

  The Hunter shook his head. “As real as you are.”

  “You say you killed the Elivasti and their master?” the man asked.

  The Hunter nodded. “The Blood Sentinels’ bodies decorate the staircase even now.” He didn’t bother explaining why they wouldn’t find the Sage’s corpse. He doubted they would believe the demon had been ripped to shreds by the Devourer—fiery hell, until a few hours ago, he wouldn’t have believed it either. “Where is Ryat?”

  The men and women exchanged puzzled glances. “Who?”

  The Hunter opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. This was no organized army with an established chain of command. He faced a rabble with no leader, no coherence, driven only by the single-minded desire to eliminate their enemy.

  “I need to get to Hellsgate,” he said instead. “I need to find my friend. The woman that was brought to the Pit a couple of days ago.” He had sent Kiara to protect the Elivasti Rothia had brought to the rooftop garden. He had to ensure she had survived—and that the opia had survived as well.

  The men and women parted to make way. Forty or fifty of them had already rushed up the stairs, doubtless to verify the Hunter’s claim that their enemy was dead, and more raced down to the lower floors. The Hunter had no idea what they’d find—the Illumina, the heart of Enarium, had to contain all manner of fascinating secrets—but right now none of that mattered. Hailen and Kiara were his only concerns at the moment.

  “I’ll come with,” said the scruffy-bearded man. He glanced at the Hunter’s weapons. “You look like you can handle yourself, but—”

  The Hunter nodded. “I’d welcome the escort.” With this man by his side, there was a much lower risk of being attacked by the mob still roaming Enarium.

  “The strangest things have been happening out here.” The man spoke in a conversational tone. “You catch any of it?”

  “What do you mean by strange thi
ngs…?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Name’s Athid.”

  “Some call me Hardwell.”

  “Hardwell.” Athid nodded. “Easier than saying Ghost-Faced Man.”

  The Hunter kept his pace brisk as he strode through Enarium toward Hellsgate. He pushed the anxiety from his mind—Kiara could take care of herself, even against an angry mob of humans.

  “Anyway, as I said, strange things have been happening all around the city. That red light filling the sky, and the pillar of red dust over there.”

  The Hunter glanced at the crimson cloud, which now hung to the east of the sun.

  “Then them bloody towers glowed, and it felt like an earthquake nearly shook the city to its foundations.” Athid shook his head. “A few of the smaller buildings collapsed, but…”

  The Hunter stopped listening as Athid continued recounting all the strange things that had occurred. He marveled at how resilient at least this one human was. Years, perhaps even decades, trapped in the Pit, hadn’t shattered his mind. These people would need time, but he had to hope they one day would recover from a lifetime spent in Khar’nath. If not them, their children or children’s children.

  The beauty of a short life, he thought with a wry grin, and even shorter memories.

  The world had nearly come to an end this day because humans long ago forgot the pledge they made to Kharna to aid him in his battle against the Devourer of Worlds. Perhaps it would happen again as time passed and the men, women, and children that had witnessed today’s events died. It could take generations for this to be truly forgotten, yet one day, there would be a time when the descendants of Athid and the other humans in Enarium would no longer remember the suffering their forefathers had endured. The slate would be cleansed and they could live free of the burden.

  He could not say the same for himself. He would do everything in his power to remember today’s events, no matter what. Somehow, he would ensure that the bargain he’d made with Kharna existed—not only in his mind, but with others.

  The thoughts faded from his mind as Hellsgate came into view below him. The blue glow emanating from the Eastern Keep had returned to normal, but there was nothing normal about the thousands of people milling around in front of the massive grey and red fortress. Palpable anger hung in the air—the men and women there were like caged hounds waiting for the command from their master to attack. Yet they had no master, no foe. A hint of their listlessness had returned in the absence of threat or purpose.

  With Athid by his side, the Hunter had no problem pushing through the throng of filthy, emaciated bodies toward Hellsgate. Questioning glances followed him, accompanied by whispers of “the Ghost-Faced Man” encouraged by Athid’s words.

  The press of people was thick as he forced his way into Hellsgate. Blood slicked the stone floor of the corridor within, and hundreds of corpses littered the mess hall amidst piles of shattered tables and chairs. Dozens more bodies—human and Elivasti alike—lay broken and bloodied beside the now-empty racks that once held spikestaffs.

  Emaciated men, women, and children in ragged clothing surged through Hellsgate, and the fortress echoed with shouts and screams. The Hunter had heard tales of armies pillaging villages and laying waste to cities, but this was far worse than he could ever have imagined.

  The Hunter turned toward the stairs and climbed as quickly as he could. Freed prisoners rushed past him, dragging screaming Elivasti or breaking down doors to get at the valuables stored within the chambers. This was madness, chaos, and death at its most terrible. And he had been the one to set them loose.

  His heart leapt into his throat as he reached the fourth floor. Angry shouts echoed from above, accompanied by a rhythmic thud, thud of something heavy striking wood.

  He shoved his way through the crowd, reached the fifth level—the level where the Sage and his Blood Sentinels had quartered—then up toward the sixth. Hundreds of people crowded into the staircase, and their cries of “Kill them all!” echoed from the stone walls in time with the thud, thud.

  “Stop this!” the Hunter shouted at the top of his lungs. “The time for bloodshed is over!”

  People turned toward him, their faces twisted by hate and rage. Some actually moved to attack him, but Athid stepped in their way. “This is the Ghost-Faced Man!” he cried, waving his hands to hold them back.

  Sanity filtered through the fire of fury burning in the eyes of the men and women in front of him. Whispers of “Ghost-Faced Man” rippled through the crowd, up toward the ones wielding the improvised battering ram—two wooden benches from the mess hall bound together by strips of cloth. The thud, thud fell quiet, and a thunderous silence gripped the people on the staircase. A hundred pairs of eyes fixed on the Hunter.

  He climbed the staircase, an island of calm in the midst of the chaos and bloodlust. He glared at the men and women he passed, his expression as hard as the stone walls. At the top of the stairs, a thick steel-banded wooden gate barred his way to the Terrace of the Sun and Moon. He could see the cracks in the wood and dents in the steel left by the ram. The people would have gotten through in a matter of minutes.

  He paused at the doors and turned to face the people below him. “No one else needs to die this day.”

  “The Elivasti—”

  “Have paid the price for their actions,” the Hunter snapped. He glared at the men and women filling the staircase. “The ones that held you prisoner lie dead—at my hands and at yours.”

  “And what of their children?” one woman shouted. “They deserve to suffer for the sins of their parents!”

  “That will not happen.” The Hunter planted his feet and shot a stern gaze at the faces before him. “I will not permit it.”

  “Then we’ll cut you down with them!” roared a pale-faced, balding fellow with a hollowed chest and ribs poking from his ratty shirt. “You join them—”

  “Do you know who this is?” Athid shouted as he shoved his way through the crowd. “This is Ghost-Faced Man. He is the one who released us.”

  “I set you free so you could have a chance at a new life. A life free of the torments inflicted upon you by those who held you captive.” The Hunter’s jaw clenched. “But if you seek to do to them what they did to you, you are simply continuing the cycle of violence and evil.”

  “They deserve it!”

  “Of course they do.” The Hunter nodded. “But now is when you prove that you are better than they are, that you can show mercy even to those who do not deserve it.”

  “Mercy!” snarled one man, a fellow with a massive burn scar down the side of his face. “Do you think the one who did this deserves mercy?”

  “No.” The Hunter shook his head. “Were he here, I would be the first one to cut him down.”

  Mutters of approval ran through the crowd.

  “But the ones you seek to kill here are not those men!” the Hunter snarled.

  An idea flashed through the Hunter’s mind. “Would you kill this boy?” he asked, gesturing to Hailen. “Could you cut him down right here, right now?”

  A few angry shouts echoed in the stairway, but most of those he faced were shaking their heads.

  “Look at him. Innocent, helpless, weak. A child. How many of you have sons and daughters the same age?”

  Men and women exchanged hesitant glances.

  He knelt and set Hailen on the floor. “Open your eyes, Hailen,” he whispered.

  “You told me not to.” Hailen’s answer was equally quiet. “You didn’t want them to think I was one of the bad men.” The boy refused to release his lock on the Hunter’s neck.

  “I know.” The Hunter tilted the boy’s face up to his. “But now I need you to. Doing it will save a lot of lives.”

  “Really?” Hailen’s eyes popped open and flew wide.

  The Hunter nodded. “You’re going to be a hero, Hailen.”

  Please let this work. He drew in a deep breath, then turned Hailen to face the angry mob.

  Gasps echoed through the st
airway, and faces darkened as they caught sight of the unmistakable violet of Hailen’s eyes.

  The Hunter tensed, one hand hovering near Soulhunger’s hilt. He would cut down anyone who laid a hand on Hailen, but that would only spark more violence. Right now, he had to hope logic and reason could appease the bloodthirst of those in front of him.

  Help came in the form of Athid. “He’s the same age as my Itar,” the scruffy-looking man said in a quiet voice. He turned to the mob and pointed a finger at a woman with lanky hair and a long scar across her forehead. “And your Lilyn.”

  The woman nodded.

  “Ryncha, your Delis is a year or so older.” Athid indicated more of the people in the crowd. “And Burina, Lusel, Atia, Vessan, and so many others.”

  “He is a child,” the Hunter said. “Innocent of the crimes of his people. Look into his face and see the truth in your hearts.”

  The Hunter had to cling to hope. Mobs could turn ravenous and violent at the drop of a hat, but cooler heads could pull it back from the brink of chaos. If his words had convinced enough of them to see reason—

  “He’s right, and you know it.” A new voice, this one familiar, echoed from below. The people parted for a tall, blue-armored figure to get through.

  Relief filled the Hunter’s chest at the sight of Ryat. He had been the one to galvanize the people in the Pit to action—he’d be the closest thing to a leader this rabble would have.

  The Hunter held his breath as Ryat came to stand before Hailen, but the tall man simply knelt before the boy. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Hailen,” he replied in his bright, cheerful voice. True to his nature, he continued chattering happily, as if forgetting he faced a mob intent on butchering anyone who looked like him. “And this is Hardwell. He’s my friend, and we’ve been traveling together across a desert, through mountains—”

  “Hailen,” Ryat said in a loud voice, then turned and faced the crowd. “His name is Hailen. He is a child, just like your children. It doesn’t matter what blood runs through his veins—he does not deserve to suffer any more than yours do.”