Hunter of Legends (Fate of Legends Series Book 1)

by Clayton Wood

  Then, her face as expressionless as stone, she gazed up at High Seeker Zeno. He nodded approvingly, his lips curling into a smile.

  “Our initiates have chosen,” he declared, throwing his arms up in the air, his voice booming over the crowd. “Please welcome our newest apprentices to the Guild of Seekers!”

  The gathered Seekers burst into applause, and Master Thorius strode up to Sukri, removing the Seeker medallion from around her neck, then placing a new medallion there. This was made of a silver metal, and was remarkably heavy for its size. The medallion itself was shaped into a triangle, three symbols engraved into its surface near each of the three points: an eye with rays shooting out from it, a skull, and a human heart.

  “Well done,” Thorius murmured, giving her a smile. She nodded, unable to smile back. Thorius turned to Gammon, doing the same for him. That done, he stood before them, a proud look on his face. “You’re one of us now.”

  Sukri swallowed, glancing down at the body of the boy she’d murdered. Master Thorius was right, she knew. She was one of them now. A Seeker. And to become the thing she’d dreamed about for so long, she’d had to murder three souls. Udeln’s. This boy’s.

  And her own.

  * * *

  High Seeker Zeno walked down the hallway leading away from the second-story balcony overlooking the great hall, glancing at the man waiting for him a few meters away. It was Jarl, one of his active Seekers. A man far more suited to scouting than to combat or artifact retrieval, which was just as well. Every Seeker had a role to play in the guild, one appropriate to their strengths. Jarl bowed deeply as Zeno drew close, and Zeno gestured for the man to walk beside him. He felt a slight pang of anxiety, and realized that Jarl was nervous…disturbingly so.

  “You have bad news,” he observed, eyeing the man critically. Jarl hesitated, then nodded.

  “Unfortunately so, High Seeker.”

  Zeno waited, knowing the profound power of his silence.

  “I have news of the mission,” Jarl stated. “The one co-sponsored by Duke Dominus.” He hesitated. “There’s bad news,” he confessed. “And good news.”

  “Tell me the good news first,” Zeno commanded.

  “Vi is dead,” Jarl replied. “And Edgar retrieved the head of that Ironclad…the one that took Draven.”

  Zeno nodded. That was good news. Vi had been a thorn in his side ever since she’d left the guild, violating her oath and abandoning her family. A shame, considering what she’d accomplished. She’d nearly become the very thing the Guild of Seekers had struggled so long to create. The culmination of centuries of work…the realization of their sacred mission.

  “And the bad news?” he inquired. Jarl grimaced.

  “Seeker Traven is dead,” he answered. “Killed by the Original.”

  “The Original is still alive?” Zeno pressed. Jarl nodded. “Interesting,” Zeno murmured. The boy was an anomaly…one that he was as yet unsure how to handle. If Master Thorius was right about the Original, then he could represent an enormous threat to the guild…or an invaluable weapon.

  “Edgar retrieved the head,” Jarl continued, then hesitated again. “He was seen going toward Wexford a few days ago, but he managed to escape our scouts.” He swallowed visibly. “He hasn’t returned.”

  Zeno stopped walking, turning to stare at Jarl, his jawline rippling. He resisted the urge to snap at Jarl, knowing that the man could feel his anger radiating from him…and that that was enough. Indeed, Jarl paled.

  “Edgar was supposed to return here immediately,” Zeno stated, knowing that Jarl already knew this. “He was supposed to tell Dominus Vi failed to find it.”

  “I suspect the Duke bought Edgar out,” Jarl replied apologetically. “He must have promised him protection from us, as he did with Vi.”

  Zeno took a deep breath in, letting it out slowly. He forced himself to unclench his fists, forced himself to relax, to push away his emotions.

  Emotion is temporary. Action is forever.

  Calmness returned, that placid neutrality every Seeker strove to achieve. It came easily to Zeno, steeped as he was in the will of the Founder. Indeed, he suspected that he was Zeno in name only now; the Founder had all but taken over his soul.

  He resumed walking, and Jarl continued alongside him. That head – containing the skull of that most intriguing Ironclad – was potentially the single most important artifact the guild had ever come across. With it, they could finally achieve their mission with impunity. No more lurking in the shadows, secretly tainting artifacts to slowly and carefully corrupt the nobility, controlling their wills from afar. No more hoarding stolen, illegal artifacts in secret, fearing a surprise raid by the Acropolis.

  They could finally emerge, nearly invincible, able to heal from any wound. The Guild of Seekers would usher in a new era…the ascension of Man.

  “Thank you,” Zeno stated, nodding at Jarl. “You are dismissed.”

  Jarl bowed, leaving quickly, no doubt relieved to get away. Zeno sighed, continuing down the hallway, lost in thought.

  Dominus was in possession of the head, that much was certain. The old man was close to death, at least according to his doctor – a useful mole, that one. There was a chance that Dominus still wouldn’t survive, but there was no guarantee of that now.

  Ah, the law of unintended consequences, he mused.

  The campaign against Dominus had worked too well, it appeared. Corrupting Dominus’s son had been relatively easy, slowly introducing forbidden ideas into the boy’s head. Ideals cherished by the Seekers. With the boy’s will being slightly stronger than Dominus’s – admittedly the only quality the boy had possessed that had eclipsed his father’s – he’d then transferred these ideas to Dominus. And how effective that campaign had been! After all, Dominus, the very paragon of the kingdom’s misguided virtues, was now dabbling in illegal artifacts. And with this Ironclad’s head, he’d transitioned – in his desperation – to using wild artifacts.

  Unfortunately, Dominus had proven stronger than Zeno had hoped, retaining the vast majority of his will. The Duke still believed in the kingdom, in its ideals. He only resorted to forbidden methods to preserve them.

  Zeno sighed again, shaking his head. If Dominus survived, the longer the Duke spent with the Ironclad’s Ossae, the more difficult it would be to kill him. They needed to retrieve the head…and that would require dealing with Dominus once and for all. And then Zeno would gain power his predecessors could’ve only dreamed of.

  Zeno smiled to himself, touching the medallion resting on his breastbone.

  Centuries of planning…and it would all come to fruition soon.

  Chapter 39

  Hunter stood perfectly still, his eyes drawn upward to one of the many tree branches in the distance. A large bird with white feathers and a golden plume atop its head was perched there, facing away from him. He grabbed an arrow, slowing drawing it from his quiver, then nocking it on the bowstring. He drew the arrow back, feeling considerable resistance as he did so, the back of his shoulder burning with the effort.

  He took his time, ensuring that his feet were pointed perpendicular to his target, his shoulders square, just as Vi had taught him.

  He aimed then, taking a deep breath in, then letting it out slowly.

  And let the arrow fly.

  It flew toward the bird, slamming into its side precisely where he’d been aiming.

  He limped forward, watching the bird fall to the ground with a thump. It flapped its wings frantically, spinning in a circle, using the last of its life to rail against its death. He stopped a few feet from it, placing his bow on his back and watching as it struggled.

  Slowly, painfully, it died.

  He stared at it, at the soft white feathers, the golden plume, noting faint blue quills at the tips of its wings. He reached down, yanking the arrow out and putting it back in his quiver. Then he grabbed the bird, turning around and walking the other way. It wasn’t long before the forest ended in a sheer cliff, a huge cany
on opening up before him. He walked right up to the edge fearlessly, staring down at the lake hundreds of feet below. At the island in the center, a long wooden bridge connecting it to the shore along the edge of the canyon.

  He turned left, limping down the spiraling ledge hugging the wall of the canyon, following it as it curved rightward and downward. Eventually he reached the bottom, walking across the long wooden bridge toward the island. He saw Vi’s house in the distance, the front door smashed in. The storehouse nearby was a mess, holes smashed into its walls.

  Hunter reached the end of the bridge, walking up to a pile of sticks near the house. Leftovers from the campfire he’d made for them so many days ago, before the Ironclad had come for them.

  For him.

  He tossed the bird on the ground, plucking the feathers and then making an incision with the tip of his sword, opening its belly, being careful not to puncture the intestines. He removed the intestines, pinching them at the top and pulling downward, then took out the rest of the organs. That done, he plucked the rest of the feathers, packing the abdominal cavity with clumps of grass to soak up the blood.

  He set it aside, getting to work building a fire, which only took a minute or two. Once that was done, he got to work extracting the meat from the bird, then puncturing each piece with a sharp stick and roasting them. He smiled then, remembering how Vi had made fun of him for being useless. Learn to hunt or starve, she’d said…and she’d meant it. He almost had starved after she’d refused to hunt for him again, before he’d managed to kill his first prey. Hunger had been a very effective motivator.

  He bit into a piece of meat, closing his eyes. An image of Traven’s hammer coming down at him, of Vi’s lifeless body, came to him. He opened his eyes, staring into the fire. Now he was hungry for something else entirely.

  Revenge.

  He finished his meal, then stood, walking up to Vi’s house and stopping before the shattered front door. Despite everything, it felt wrong to even consider stepping inside. This had been Vi’s, a shrine to her personhood. Only she had slept here, among the things she’d collected in her lifetime. Now that she was dead, her home was her…where her will lived on.

  Hunter hesitated, then stepped through the doorway into the room beyond.

  He stared at the bed in the corner, covered with stuffed animals and dolls. At the bookcase on one wall, knick-knacks set atop it. He walked up to the bed, picking up one of the dolls, feeling a sense of peace and comfort as he did. A memory of a woman smiling down at him flashed in his mind’s eye.

  Vi’s memory.

  He set the doll back on the bed, taking a deep breath in, then letting it out. Looking up, he spotted a few weapons mounted on one wall. He walked toward them, putting a hand on the handle of a mace. He could feel Vi there, somewhere inside of it…and something else. He closed his eyes, a vision of a huge fortress coming to him…tall spires of black stone rising from a forest, vines crawling up their walls.

  He opened his eyes, staring at the mace for a long while. Then he grabbed it from the wall, holding it in his hands. It was heavy – far heavier than his longsword – but it felt right somehow. He held on to it, gazing at Vi’s room, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

  She’s here, he thought with a smile. She’ll always be here.

  He turned then, walking out of the house and gazing across the canyon, at the many waterfalls cascading down its sides. It reminded him of the waterfall in that cavern, falling all around him as his mother had gazed up at him lovingly, smiling as she’d recognized him. He felt an all-too familiar depression come over him, so awful he wanted to lie on the ground and curl up in a ball.

  Instead, he stood there, taking a deep breath in, then letting it out. Vi’s words came to him then.

  Emotion is temporary, action is forever. Don’t let your temper control you, or you’ll regret it.

  He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him.

  If only I’d listened.

  Hunter sighed, rubbing his face with his hands, tears threatening to well up in his eyes. He grit his teeth, refusing to give in to them again. He’d cried enough. The time for mourning was over.

  Emotion is temporary, he thought. Except when it isn’t. Then you should act on it.

  He pictured Traven, smirking up at him right before he’d killed the man. He’d knelt over Traven’s corpse afterward, putting a hand on the man’s forehead. Just as with Vi, images had appeared in his mind’s eye…memories flooding into him. Traven’s memories. Within seconds, Hunter had known that Dominus had ordered Vi killed. That the Seekers had wanted Vi dead ever since she’d left the guild. And that the Guild of Seekers were hiding a dark secret…a secret they had killed so many to protect.

  A secret that could destroy them.

  Hunter pictured Master Thorius, his supposed mentor, the very man who’d sent him to be killed, letting Kris be torn apart. Imagined an old man sitting atop his throne in the castle Wexford, a place he had never heard of yet somehow knew about. The Duke of Wexford, the man who’d been behind it all, sending Vi to her death, and nearly killing Hunter.

  Hunter gripped the mace in his hands so hard his knuckles turned white, then secured it to his belt opposite his longsword. No, not his longsword.

  Vi’s.

  He touched the hilt of her sword, feeling her presence there…and a hint of something else. Someone else…someone both alien and all-too-familiar. He closed his eyes, seeing his mother lying before him, a smile on her lips. Hideous and beautiful at the same time, a monster yet still a woman.

  Then he opened his eyes, turning back to Vi’s house, his mouth set in a grim line. He’d thought he had nothing left to live for, right before he’d tried to kill himself with his own sword, before the Ironclad had torn it from his hands.

  I’m not going to leave you, Vi had said. I’m not your mother.

  And yet that’s exactly what she’d done.

  He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in, then letting it out. Another wave of despair came over him, grief so powerful it nearly brought him to his knees.

  I can’t do this.

  He had the sudden urge to go back inside of Vi’s house, to surround herself with her things. To wait for her powerful will to start changing him, making him into someone else so he wouldn’t have to feel this way again. Maybe his will wouldn’t be powerful enough to resist her. Maybe he could become her, so he wouldn’t have to be himself anymore.

  He opened his eyes, staring at her home.

  Don’t give up on yourself, she’d said.

  But how was he supposed to live with himself, after everything he’d done? What did he even have to live for anymore?

  He sighed, turning away from the house to gaze across the lake. The water glimmered in the sunlight, as if countless jewels were floating on its surface. Then he turned to the campfire, at the carcass of the bird he’d killed. Feathers of white, gold, and blue…like the kingdom of Tykus set against the endless sea. He pictured Duke Dominus, some old man living in the Acropolis. The man who’d been behind it all.

  Hunter grit his teeth, clenching his hands into fists.

  He did have something to live for. To become powerful enough to take on the Guild of Seekers. Powerful enough even to take on the Duke himself…the man who’d driven his mother out of Tykus, who’d brutally ended the war she’d started. Who’d ordered Vi’s death, and Hunter’s…and had gotten Kris killed.

  Yes, he thought, turning to gaze upward, at the top of the canyon walls hundreds of feet above. He would become a Seeker, like Vi…the greatest Seeker alive. Absorbing the skills from Vi’s weapons would only be the beginning. He needed more…to hunt down the artifacts and bones of the most powerful men and women who’d ever lived. He would become the world’s greatest hunter.

  A hunter of Legends.

  Epilogue

  Xerxes stepped out of the mouth of the cave, bright starlight shining down on the grassy field before him. He took a deep breath in, savoring the sweetness of th
e air, so fresh compared to the musk of the tunnels. It was all the sweeter to his newly regenerated nostrils, which were still incredibly sensitive. Each sensation was familiar, yet new somehow.

  He glanced up at the sky, squinting at the three crescent moons high above, their light almost blinding after hours spent underground. He sighed, lowering his gaze to the tree line beyond the field. Footsteps approached from behind, and he felt a hand on his left shoulder, long, black fingers resting there.

  Xerxes grunted, then turned left, pulling away from that touch and walking close to the short rock wall. His bare feet thumped rhythmically on the grass, not even feeling the twigs and small pebbles underfoot through his armored soles. He heard the footsteps behind him, following him as he went. Several minutes passed, until he saw a stream ahead, its waters glittering silver in the light of the three moons. He strode toward it, taking his time. He was still weak, after all. Regenerating so much tissue had sapped a great deal of his strength, robbing his limbs of their muscle.

  At last he reached the grassy shore before the stream, glancing to the left. The mouth of another cave opened up at the base of a cliff there, water streaming from its mouth, falling in a short waterfall. He raised one hand, flashing rapid hand signals.

  “They came through there,” he signed.

  He turned away from the cave, spotting something lying on the ground a couple of meters from the shore. A body covered in faintly glowing blue gel. He grimaced, striding up to it. It was the woman. She lay there motionlessly, a small dent barely visible in her forehead, her left arm ending at the wrist.

  Xerxes stopped, staring down at her, an all-too-familiar anger rising within him. He felt a hand on his shoulder again.