Who are you? His face mocked him. Who is the Hunter?
His changing identity added another element of mystique to the legend. No one could see his true face and live, though few knew the real reason why. He preferred to keep his identity a secret—it would make it easier to hide should he ever have occasion to do so.
He craned his neck to peer over his shoulder at his latest scar. It joined the multitude etched into his back, chest, and shoulders like raw marks on a fleshy chalkboard.
One scar for every life Soulhunger takes. How many are there now? He had no desire to count them, to remember each soul his blade had consumed.
Casting a glance toward the dagger where it hung in his sword belt, he recalled the final moments of the hunt for Lord Damuria.
He nearly escaped, but in the end, the Hunter always gets his prey.
He couldn't remember where the name "the Hunter" originated. Truth be told, he didn't care. He only cared that mention of the name drove fear into the populace of Voramis.
'Where the Hunter goes,' they say, 'death follows in his footsteps.'
He smiled at the thought. I like that.
The Hunter encouraged the fear his reputation bred. The more the people of the city feared him, the more willing they were to pay the high price he demanded for his services.
A smile touched his lips as he recalled his brief encounter with the terrified noble earlier that night. He remembered the man's scent—the reek of fresh lace, perfume and pomposity drowned out by the stench of fear.
The foolish little lordling sent to meet the Hunter on behalf of his employer. His grin turned mocking. Pissed himself, that one did. Long on money, short on brains and courage. If only he knew how easy it would be to track him and his master down, thanks to that purse he gave me.
He threw himself into a plush armchair and reached for a pitcher of wine. Exhaustion overwhelmed his body, but his mind still ached for the thrill of the hunt.
As he drank, his thoughts meandered. The wine was good, but he barely tasted its fruity notes. He studied his room, taking in the soft bed, the plush carpets, and the luxurious pillows. The Hunter had simple tastes, but he loved comfort.
A collection of exotic weaponry hung on the wall, his one compromise to luxury. He had paid a small fortune for the pieces, many of which had belonged to ancient cultures long dead. The simple stone, bone, and wooden weapons looked primitive and odd, but he felt a sense of kinship with the artifacts. He was out of place in Voramis, just as these adornments were.
This is my palace, he thought. These are my treasures.
His thoughts turned melancholy, so he pushed them aside and forced himself to stand. He strode over to his sword belt hanging on its peg. The blade slipped free of its oiled sheath with a whisper.
She is beautiful. The Hunter couldn't help admiring the way the light glinted off the watered steel. She has served me well for so long.
He fell into a relaxed stance, extending the sword in a classic fencing pose. Tension drained from his body, and he moved slowly through a basic sword form he had learned…how long ago?
Ragged gaps in his memory left him uncertain of his age, where he had been, or even what he truly was.
He remembered nothing of his life before arriving in Voramis, as if a wall blocked him from recalling details of his past—his birth, childhood, his parents, anything. His earliest recollection was of walking through the city gates. Before that, nothing.
No human lives as long as I have. Voramis had been his home for at least three decades. Or is it four?
His missing past had stopped bothering him long ago, but occasionally he found himself wondering who he had been before arriving in Voramis. He had ignored the question for so long the answer no longer mattered.
Sweat broke out on the Hunter's lithe body as he moved faster and faster through the forms, his muscles rippling with each thrust and cut. His mind grew clear, and the aching in his chest diminished with every step. His movements blurred, his sword whistling as it sliced through the air.
The Hunter relished the way his mind detached itself from his body. Muscle memory kept his motions consistent and quick, and he allowed his thoughts to wander. It served as preparation for what was to come, helped him to block out the voices in his head. As his heart beat faster, the sound of his blood ringing in his ears would drown out Soulhunger's lust. For a few short minutes, he found peace in motion.
With a final cut and thrust, he completed the form. Panting, dripping with sweat, and flushed with exertion, he was ready for the ritual.
The sword slid home in its sheath, and the Hunter's hands closed around the hilt of the dagger.
Soulhunger, we have work to do.
Yes, the voice greeted him eagerly. We must kill!
The Hunter lowered himself to the ground, sitting in a comfortable cross-legged position. He let his mind drift, and, closing his eyes, focused on the sensation of blood rushing through his body. At one with the world around him, the Hunter commenced his ritual of seeking.
Soulhunger's razor edge sliced a shallow wound into his palm. The Hunter clenched his fist and squeezed a few crimson drops onto the knife's blade. The dagger's voice screamed in pleasure, setting his head pounding as it tasted blood.
He removed a whetstone from his pocket and stroked it along the blade. Soulhunger never needed sharpening, but the activity helped the Hunter clear his head in preparation for what came next.
Pulling out the handkerchief with the initials G.D. embroidered into it, the Hunter used it to wipe the blade clean. The contact of the cloth bonded it with the blade, and through the blade to him. The bond would remain until Soulhunger drank deeply of the man's lifeblood.
His subconscious mind sought out the man to whom the handkerchief would link him. He saw a picture of the cloth's owner in his mind's eye, inhaled the scent of the man. His senses surpassed those of a bloodhound once he had located his target.
Parchment, ink, and steel.
He had the scent, and it would lead him to his prey. Soulhunger served as his divining rod, searching out his targets and leading him to them. The weapon amplified his own unique abilities, and without him, the weapon would be just another dagger sitting lifeless in a jeweler's case. The bond between man and weapon made it possible for the Hunter to do what he did.
Long moments passed in silence, the Hunter breathing in a steady rhythm. His mind cast about the city of Voramis for his target, searching for the essence found in the handkerchief.
There! A heartbeat echoed in his mind. I've found you now!
We will feed, the voice of the dagger whispered.
The Hunter knew Soulhunger would be drawn ever closer to that heartbeat until it finally sated itself. His target's heart would act as a beacon, and the Hunter would simply have to locate the man.
Together, we are the Hunter.
Truthfully, he had no idea how it worked. He didn't know if his abilities were sorcerous or pure animal instinct. But he didn't care. All that mattered was that it worked.
With care, the Hunter replaced Soulhunger in its sheath. Even with the weapon encased in leather and steel, he could hear it beckoning for him, aching to find its target and drink its heart's blood.
Kill! The voice shouted. Feed!
He pushed the insistent voice to the back of his mind.
For now, I need rest. I will deal with the matter of hunting down my target later.
He slept through most days, preferring to do his work under the cover of darkness. In the shadows, the risk of anyone seeing through his disguises diminished.
Faceless, nameless, and yet with countless names and faces, the Hunter walks among the people. A grim pleasure filled him.
Opening his wardrobe, he rummaged through its contents in search of a suitable disguise. His evening plans included a visit to a rougher part of Voramis, and he required a face that would allow him to blend in.
He held up a mask of alchemical flesh—complete with false hair—and smi
led.
This will be perfect for tonight's activities.
Chapter Three
Business was brisk at The Iron Arms tonight, though most nights found the tavern well patronized. Thanks to its proximity to the docks, the alehouse saw a steady stream of day laborers, roughnecks, and roustabouts eager to quench their thirst at the end of a long day.
Drunken tradesmen and merchants filled the tables. Tired dockhands sat at the bar, nursing tankards overflowing with frothy ale. The smell of sawdust, peanut shells, and stale sweat permeated the tavern, and the sounds of clinking glasses, shouting patrons, and loud conversations filled the air.
Barmaids wended their way through the crowd, delivering drinks with a hearty laugh and hard slaps to roving hands. Their tight bodices often looked in danger of spilling their luscious contents, a possibility that kept the men they served entertained and eager to buy more ale. Indeed, the wenches found themselves fending off advances from all sides, though occasionally one would hustle up the creaking stairs with a customer willing and able to pay for 'additional services'.
The man who entered The Iron Arms looked just like any other day laborer scattered around the bar, though he carried himself with more confidence than the slouching roustabouts. His heavy features gave him a vicious look, his huge arms banded with thick muscle. Those sitting at the bar gave him a wide berth as he sat down.
The Hunter had donned the disguise of a rough working man for tonight’s activities, and he played the part well.
"Well, aren't you a big lad?" teased one of the barmaids flitting past. Her garment left little to the Hunter's imagination, her ample charms visible and evocative.
"Tankard of ale," he grunted.
"Aye," the wench smiled at him, "I'll have it right up for ye. You sure ye don't want to finish it upstairs? I know a good place beneath the roof where we can explore the things we have in common, and"—she threw him a lascivious wink—"the things we don't."
He studied the woman appreciatively, allowing his eyes to follow the curvature of her body. He couldn't deny that she was attractive, though her eyes were tired and hard. Desire filled him, the voice in his head whispering of carnal desire, lusting for passion, begging for death. It took considerable effort to ignore it.
I'm not here for that, he thought. He might have allowed himself the luxury of a distraction, but he had a purpose here this night.
"Sorry, darlin’, I'm fresh out of coin or I'd take you up on that." He gave her bottom a pinch, which evoked a delighted squeal from her. "I don't get paid ‘til the ship leaves tomorrow, and I'll be sailin’ out with it. Next time I'm in Voramis, though…" he trailed off, a suggestive look on his face.
The wench, though disappointed, gave him a small smile, and promised to make herself available next time he was in port.
"And ye'd better have a full purse," she reminded him. With a saucy look over her shoulder, she walked away, the exaggerated roll of her hips intended to show him what he was missing.
The Hunter had spent his fair share of time in the company of whores and courtesans, but he always left their company feeling repulsed—not by them, but by himself and his desires.
The weakness of the flesh. The urge grew irrepressible immediately following a kill. It would remain in the back of his mind until he satisfied it.
He eyed the woman as she minced away, swaying through the crowd. The men of the tavern called out for her, their language rough.
Animals. He felt disgust at their crude nature—a nature he saw reflected in his own lustful desires.
Soulhunger throbbed in his mind, agreeing with his disdain for the men around him. The weapon—hidden beneath his clothing—radiated its loathing for the noisy, sweaty, drunken crowd.
The bartender placed a giant mug of frothy ale before the Hunter, who drained it quickly in an effort to distract himself. He gestured for another, turning his attention to the people around him. His ears strained to pick out the various threads of conversation woven into the hubbub of the bar.
"I heard his body was found at the bottom of Dead Man's Cliff," said a rough voice a few seats along the bar to his right.
"Some say it was the Hunter's work," whispered a man at a table behind him. "His hands were sliced clean off, oozing blood the color of vomit."
Word of Lord Damuria's demise has spread quickly.
A feeling of elation ran through him as he relived Damuria's final moments. Even now, he could feel Soulhunger plunging into the noble's chest, the blood warm on his hands, the power coursing through his body.
A fleeting smile touched his lips, hidden by the tankard of ale he held in front of his face.
"I've heard tell," said the man to the Hunter's left, "that one look in the bastard's eyes and you drop dead from fear. He's a demon, is what he is!"
"He's no demon," shouted the man's companion, "but a ghost of the Swordsman come back to punish the wicked."
"Idiot," cursed the man next to the Hunter. "You can't believe everything you hear. No one knows who he is," he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "or what he is."
What am I, indeed? The Hunter found the question ringing in his mind. How many times have I asked myself that question, yet found no answer?
We are death, a quiet voice whispered in his mind.
At times like this, with liquor coursing through his veins, he would sift through the few memories that remained to him.
His memory stretched back to the time immediately before he arrived in Voramis. He could remember traveling from a nearby city—Horranz, I think it was called—but prior to that, nothing but ragged gaps and empty voids filled his mind.
But the memories of death will always remain.
The faces of every man and woman who had died at the end of Soulhunger's wicked blade were etched into his memory.
Those faces never leave.
We fed well, his inner voice crowed.
The dagger's bloodlust rose within him and begged for death. He needed a distraction, and quickly.
At a gesture, the pub landlord brought him another tankard, and he set to work draining his third mug of ale.
Focus on the conversations around you, he told himself.
"Found three bodies near Reveler's Lane a few nights ago, they did." This voice belonged to a drunken man stumbling towards the door, hanging on to his marginally less inebriated friend for support. "Deader'n my Aunt Ilfred."
"But," protested his friend, "it can't be the work of the Hunter. He's only s'posed to kill when he's paid to."
It seems my exploits are the talk of the tavern. It's always good to know one's handiwork is appreciated.
One conversation in particular interested him.
"I heard copper's the thing to kill the Hunter," insisted one man in a loud, drunken voice. "They say it turns his blood to solid metal."
"No, no, you fool," retorted his friend, "you're thinkin’ of silver. It's why I always carry me lucky half-drake with me."
A steady stream of patrons moved through the taproom. The volume within the bar increased as the night wore on and the tavern filled. Conversations ebbed and flowed around the Hunter, but he was content to simply sit and listen.
After all, listening is always the best source of information.
Their conversations were so mundane, so blissfully unaware of reality.
Fools! The voice in his mind echoed his contempt. So content in their ignorance. If only they knew who sat among them this night.
A glazed window behind the bartender cast his reflection back at him. The face he wore tonight bore heavy, dull features— nothing like the handsome face he called his own.
He stared at the reflection of the face he wore—an unfamiliar one—peering back at him over a large tankard of ale, and for a moment, he wondered who the man really was.
What is this big brute's story? Does he have a family, a wife, someone to care for him?
The men who filled the bar had companions to share their tables, or people w
aiting at home for them, but even in the middle of this bustle and commotion, he was alone.
Better that way, he told himself. It is easier than having to worry about being stabbed in the back, or being betrayed by a 'friend'.
Someone slid onto the stool to his right, jostling him gently. He ignored the newcomer, preferring to drink his ale and listen to the conversation in the tavern.
"Slumming it, milord?" A silky voice purred beside him, breaking into his stream of thoughts mid-flow. Uncertain if the voice addressed him, the Hunter ignored the question.
A hand touched his arm gently, which got his attention. He turned to see a diminutive woman sitting on the stool next to him. Dark eyes stared back at him, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of full lips. Her features hinted at something hidden beneath the rough exterior.
It's those silky locks that really make her stand out.
Raven hair fell to her shoulders in gentle waves, and the Hunter caught the scent of a delightful blend of oils and herbs.
She wore simple clothing, which fought to hide her curves. Trying to avoid attracting too much attention. The Hunter sized her up. She looks as if she can hold her own in a fight and between the sheets.
"What's that you say, miss?" he asked, confused.
"I said, 'Slumming it, my lord?'" She emphasized the last two words.
Her question surprised him. He wore rough clothing and an even rougher disguise, meant to blend in at The Iron Arms.
"Do I look like a lord, lass?"
"Not at all," she replied with a smile. "Your clothing certainly does give you the appearance of nothing more than a simple dockhand."
"But…?" the Hunter asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Look around you." She motioned to the crowd filling the tavern. "We are surrounded by rough, hard men burned by the sun, their hands calloused. They stink of a full day's work." Her gaze returned to him. "That is the sign of a true laborer, not just some rough clothing. Plus, you smell like old leather rather than old sweat, and you sit with a straight back while everyone else slouches over their drink."
Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1 Page 3
