"And this makes me a lord?" he asked.
She graced him with another smile.
"I've been watching you for a while. You addressed the serving girl with respect, and only your eyes wandered—your hands stayed on your tankard. I've not seen you shout once at a passing patron, even though you've been bumped a handful of times."
She is good, the Hunter thought, at a loss for words.
"Don't bother to deny it, my lord," she cut him off before he could protest. "I know it has become a popular pastime among the lesser nobility of the city to dress in lower class clothing and experience ‘life on the underside', as they say. Hence my original question, 'Slumming it, my lord?'"
"Quite the eye for details," the Hunter said, shrugging by way of acceptance. "What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't," she responded with a sly smile. "Buy me a drink first, and we'll see if I feel like giving it to you."
For reasons he couldn't explain, the Hunter found himself intrigued by this woman. Something about her pulled him from his solitude, and he felt the desire to know more about her.
He signaled for the pub landlord, who deposited two fresh tankards of ale in front of them before bustling away to attend to his other customers. The voice within him whispered lustful thoughts, which he ignored.
"So," said the Hunter, "I guess you can say I'm guilty of 'slumming it', as you say." He adopted the role of a noble lord in disguise with ease. "It is good to get away from the perfumes, the too-sweet wines, the annoyingly slow waltzes—"
"The lavish banquets," she cut him off, "the comfortable carriages, the luxurious homes."
The Hunter shrugged. "It's not all bad, truth be told. Life isn't all suffering," he said with a grin.
She glared, clearly finding no humor in his words. "What makes it awful is that you treat our lives like a novel experience, something to be enjoyed. It's just another thrill for you, but this is how we have to live every day. Lower Voramis is a rough place, especially for those of us without a fancy mansion to return home to once we've had enough cheap ale and sluts."
Her anger surprised him. "I apologize if my lifestyle offends you, lady, but—"
She cut him off with an angry glare. "I'm no lady! Just as you're no dockhand."
What a woman! He thought. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, though he tried to be unobtrusive about his interest.
She downed the contents of her tankard and gestured for the bartender to bring her another. The Hunter motioned for a refill as well.
When the tavern keeper finally replaced the Hunter's pewter mug with a fresh, full one, it was accompanied by an almost imperceptible nod. The Hunter's fingers closed around the small piece of parchment folded beneath the cup, and he slipped it surreptitiously into his pocket.
I have what I came for, he thought.
Turning to face the woman once again, he slipped back into character. "Well, miss, I've got to get back to the ship. Shame I'm sleepin’ on board," he said with a wink filled with veiled meaning.
He half-expected her to take offense at his forthrightness, but his mysterious companion simply ignored him. Shrugging, he said, "Goodnight, miss…?"
"Goodnight," she responded, her voice icy with disdain.
The Hunter stood and pushed his stool back from the bar. A spluttering sound came from behind him, and he turned to find a huge man staring down at him.
Sloped shoulders and a square jaw were the man's best features. An oversized nose, cauliflower ears, and far too few teeth gave him a bestial look. Beer dripped down the man's beard and shirt, and anger filled his dull eyes.
"Watch it, idiot," the big men yelled at him, grabbing the Hunter's arm in huge hands.
"Excuse me. My mistake," apologized the Hunter. He made to move away, but the large hands remained firmly wrapped around his bicep.
"I think you should buy me a drink," the big man said. "S'only fair." He gestured to his beer-soaked tunic.
The man's face was far too close for comfort, and the Hunter struggled to keep down the contents of his stomach as the man's noxious breath filled his nostrils.
Blood rushed to his face, and the urge to break this man with his hands nearly overwhelmed him. He took a deep breath, determined to swallow the anger flooding him.
With a nod, the Hunter signaled the bartender to bring the big man another drink. He tried once again to leave, but the man's massive hand continued to hold him in place.
"Maybe," said the big man, "you should also buy my friends here a drink."
"Come on, Garlin," said one of the men sitting at the table, "he already paid for your drink."
Garlin's friend clearly had better sense, or was at least less inebriated than his hulking companion.
Spittle accompanied Garlin's words. "I said, my friends need a drink." The big man stared into the Hunter's face, his eyes daring him to argue.
The Hunter stared back for a tense moment, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. He was tempted to listen to the voice telling him to drive his dagger deep into the man's eye.
Let me feed, the dagger begged. It took every shred of his rapidly diminishing self-control to ignore the voice.
At a nod from the Hunter, the pub landlord filled tankards for Garlin's three drinking companions. The Hunter tossed a silver drake to the tavern keeper, who caught it in deft fingers. The coin would cover the cost of the Hunter's drinks, as well as the ale consumed by the mysterious woman at the bar, the massive Garlin, and Garlin's friends.
"Now might be a good time to take your hand off me," said the Hunter in an even tone.
Garlin studied him through ale-soaked eyes for a moment, smiled, and unclenched his sausage fingers. "Aye, you've paid off your debts, boyo, so you can scurry away now."
The big man stepped around the Hunter, moving toward the woman sitting at the bar. He draped a muscled arm around her shoulder, and spoke without taking his eyes off her.
"Now that you're leaving, let's see if this little lady doesn't fancy the company of a real man, eh?"
Whatever Garlin whispered into the woman's ear made her shudder in revulsion. Her face twisted with disgust.
"Forget it," she spat, "not even if your shriveled cock was made of pure gold."
The big man's eyes narrowed, his face flushing with anger.
"I wasn't askin’, girly." His voice turned ugly, with more than a hint of menace. "Time for you to play nice and come upstairs with me. If you need a bit of…encouragement, I can always bring me mates along."
Before he realized what he was doing, the Hunter stepped toward Garlin.
"I believe the lady said something about wanting to leave the alehouse without a drunken gorilla clinging to her arm." A dangerous light glittered in the Hunter's eyes. "Might want to get back to that ale, friend."
He gripped Garlin's arm, and the drunken man found himself being steered away from the bar.
"Bugger off, you little pissant," Garlin hissed at the Hunter, wrenching his arm free from the vice grip. "The little lady and me are gonna have some fun, aren't we, my sweet tickle-tail?" Spittle flew as he leered at the woman. She glared back at him, wiping her face in obvious disgust.
The Hunter’s patience with the drunk had run out. "I said enough."
He accompanied his words with a short, sharp punch to the man's solar plexus. The force of the blow knocked the wind from the big man's lungs with a loud whoosh. Garlin's legs buckled, and the Hunter brought his knee up hard. It connected with the man's jaw, rocking his head back. His huge frame slumped unconscious toward the floor, crashing through a bar table and a pair of stools before finally hitting the sawdust with a loud thump.
A tankard slammed down on the table next to him, and the Hunter turned to see Garlin's enraged friends charging him. He kicked high, and his heel caught a man in the temple. The assailant dropped to the floor without a sound.
A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. The Hunter lashed out with his elbow, and he heard a satisfying crunc
h from the man's nose. Hot blood spattered his arm.
Adrenaline surged through the Hunter's veins, an eager smile crossing his face. Soulhunger, hidden in its sheath beneath his clothes, sensed blood and the voice pounded in his head, begging to be fed.
Another of Garlin's friends swung a meaty fist toward him. The Hunter caught it in mid-air. A quick twist of the man's hand sent the assailant to his knees, and the Hunter delivered a sharp blow to the man's thick wrist with the edge of his hand.
The sound of cracking bones echoed in the bar, a sound soon replaced by the man's agonized screams.
"Oh gods, me wrist! He broke me bleedin’ wrist!"
His blood pounding, his heart racing, the Hunter reveled in the thrill of the fight.
There should be one more. He might—
He heard a heavy thunk behind him, followed by a groan of pain. The sound caused him to spin around, preparing for another assault.
The last member of Garlin's party had crept around behind the Hunter, a pewter tankard raised high overhead. Before he could bring it crashing down on the Hunter's head, the drunken man found himself caught in an arm-lock by the diminutive woman. His nose bled freely into the shattered pewter mug embedded in his face, and the pressure she applied to his fingers had him begging for mercy.
The tavern had fallen silent, though the encounter had lasted for little more than a minute. The Hunter saw the heavy-set bouncers wending their way through the crowd, and knew he had outlasted his welcome.
No matter. I got what I came for.
The Hunter flipped a gold imperial to the bartender. "For the mess."
The portly pub landlord nodded and motioned for the crowd to resume drinking. When the bouncers laid rough hands on the Hunter, he waved the thugs away. "He's leavin’." He shot an ominous glare at the Hunter.
Silent stares followed the Hunter as he strode to the door. The din of conversation only resumed after he had stepped out of the doors of The Iron Arms.
He breathed deeply, enjoying the cool night after the cloying heat of the bar. A miasma of scents hung in the air, but he found them much more enjoyable than the smell of old sweat, crusted vomit, and cheap beer.
It smells the way a city should.
His steps quickened, and the noise of the tavern faded as he strode down the cobbled street.
"Hey!" A voice rang out behind him, calling after him. "Hey, you!"
The Hunter turned and found the woman from the bar chasing him down the street. She glared at him, her face flushed with anger.
"Why in the empty hell did you do that?" she raged. "I had the situation in hand."
This took the Hunter by surprise. "I did nothing any other man of class wouldn't do. I saw a lady in an untenable situation, and I thought—"
"You thought wrong! I'm no delicate lady. I can take care of myself."
"I can see that," the Hunter responded with a grin.
"Good, and remember it, stranger." Her eyes glittered with anger, but she no longer yelled at him. "I'm not some painting to be hung on a wall and protected; I'm more than capable of handling anything and anyone."
"Consider it a lesson learned," the Hunter said with all the grace expected of a lordling, bowing to complete the façade. He turned and strode off into the night, but he had only walked a few steps when her voice called out to him once more.
"It's Celicia, by the way."
The Hunter turned to reply, but the woman had disappeared.
Who is this mysterious woman? Intrigued, the Hunter let his imagination wander.
She saw through my disguise easily enough, though she mistook me for a lord rather than realizing who I really am. Perhaps…
He refused to voice the thought, but deep in his mind, he continued to ponder the question.
Soulhunger's voice throbbed in his head, returning him to the present. With an effort, he shook the image of Celicia away.
Enough. I have a mission to accomplish.
Closing his eyes, he cast out his senses. Soulhunger, attuned to the unique scent of its quarry, sought the life force of the man—or woman—he had been hired to kill.
There you are.
He sensed the direction in which he would find his target. A slow smile of anticipation spread across his face.
Let's find out what brings you to the port so late.
Chapter Four
"Watcher's balls, it's cold!"
Two men stood in the near-darkness of the Port of Voramis, the pitiful flame of a single torch struggling to ward off the night. The flickering light did little to keep out the cold, and both men shivered and pulled their ragged cloaks tighter around their blocky frames.
"Aye, that it is," echoed the second man. "And just to make matters worse, it looks like rain."
A chill wind swept through the darkened port, setting chains rattling and canvas billowing with an ominous echo. The sound of creaking timbers accentuated the emptiness of the port at night, and the noise of scurrying feet heralded the passage of rodents. The stench of rotted fish permeated the air as it rose to the heavens.
"The gods mock us tonight, Sor," the first man whined. "Why'd you have to go and lose that wager to Harkin? We could’ve been back in Blackfall with the rest of the lads, drinking at The Cock and Bull. Instead, we're stuck out here in the middle of the bloody port, freezin’ our cullions and waitin’ for some pompous lord."
He glared at his friend, but the expression was lost on Sor, who stared out into the empty night.
"Well," began Sor, "I knew I had a—" His words were cut off as his friend smacked him on the back of his head. "Ow! What in the flooded hell was that for, Yim?"
"That's for wagerin’ our duties on a pair of rods, and forgettin’ Harkin had been sittin’ on triple spires all night long," Yim muttered.
"It's not my fault you forgot the code to tell me what he was holdin’, Yim. Next time—"
Yim cut him off sharply. "There won't be a next time, Sor. Watcher knows, I've made the mistake of playin’ cards with you one time too many. Wherever you go, hell's own luck is sure to follow. If I want to go home with more than a pair of bits to spend on a cheap cunny, I'll be sure to always gamble against you."
Sor protested. "Yim, you know full well that I always win in the—"
His words died, and his eyes went wide with terror as he stared into the night.
"Did you see that?" He pointed into the darkness.
"There's nothing to see, Sor," Yim said in exasperation. "Every time we get stuck workin’ after dark, you get jumpier than a one-legged man in a foot race."
"I swear it, Yim," Sor insisted, "I saw somethin’. Movin’ in the darkness."
"And there's no chance your eyes are playin’ tricks on you?" Yim was tired of putting up with Sor and his eternal paranoia. "Don't tell me you're scared of the dark, Sor."
"Not of the dark, Yim, but of what's out there at night." The man's voice filled with terror. "They say the Hunter can move through the night like a serpent, strike, and disappear before you see him."
"Aye, and I've heard tell that he shites scorpions and pisses venom. We've all heard the tales," Yim sighed, "and they're nothin’ more than that."
"But—" Sor began, but he cut off again, spinning around and pointing into the night. "There! There he goes!"
Yim felt a very real moment of fear as he saw the shape moving through the darkness towards them. His heart rose to his throat, and he gripped the cudgel at his belt with whitening fingers.
"Halt!" he called to the figure. "Who goes?"
"It's me, you fools." The voice from the darkness held a tone of disdain. "You're expecting me, I believe?"
Relief flooded the brutish Yim as the approaching figure pulled back the hood of his cloak.
"Ah, Lord Dann—"
The nobleman cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"No names, you fool. And lower your voice. You don't want every drunken sot on the docks to hear us, do you? Mistress knows what eyes and ears lurk in the dark.
" The aristocrat's expression showed his distaste at having to do business with these two louts.
"Of course, sir," Sor touched his forehead in a sign of respect. "We're both just a tad jumpy tonight, what with stories of Lord Damuria's grisly end floating about the city."
"You're fools to believe the rumors. The Hunter is nothing for you to fear. After all, your masters have this city firmly under their control, do they not?"
His look of utter confidence rallied the men's limited courage, and they nodded.
"Very good," the noble said, his voice haughty and imperious. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to inspect the merchandise."
"Of course, m'lord."
Sor turned to the crate they had been guarding. He fumbled at his belt for a moment, his fingers numb from the cold.
"Aha!" He produced the key. "The merchandise, sir."
With a loud clang, the padlock snapped open. Sor moved to unlatch the chain, and pulled the door open with a grunt.
The nobleman stepped forward, rubbing his hands together in eagerness. "Let us discover what the good ship Aeremor has brought us this evening."
Moonlight shone on the pale faces of the women huddled in the container. A horrifying stench of fecal matter and too many bodies cramped into too small a space wafted from the wooden box, and both of the thugs had to stifle a gag. The nobleman appeared unaffected, peering into the darkness.
"The torch?" he demanded impatiently, holding out his hand to Sor.
"Of course, m'lord."
Sor handed the aristocrat the torch, and the nobleman held it aloft. More than a score of young women—girls younger than thirteen or fourteen, if I don't miss my guess, thought Sor—sat in the container, a listless expression on their grimy faces. They shielded their eyes with their hands as the torch cast its meager light on their filthy, rotting rags.
The noble stared at the contents of the container for a long moment, then, with a nod of satisfaction, gestured for the two men to close the doors. A gentle murmur of protest ran through the women, but the lack of food and water left them too feeble to do more. As Yim chained and locked the wooden doors, the nobleman barked terse orders.
Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1 Page 4
