Only the First seemed unfazed by his tirade. "Are you certain, Hunter?"
For his answer, the Hunter remained silent, his gaze level.
With a sigh, the First shook his head. "So be it. By the gods, how I wish you had accepted my offer. I know that you, too, will soon come to regret your hasty decision to turn me down." He gave his second-in-command a curt nod, and the man stepped from the room.
When the Second returned, four men accompanied him—thugs who could have been Brutus' bigger, uglier cousins. Two sported fresh bruises on their face, and a third had gaps in his mouth where teeth should have been.
These must be some of the thugs who captured me earlier, he thought, grinning. Glad to see I gave them plenty of trouble.
"Unchain him," the Second commanded, "and don't bother being gentle with the bastard."
The thugs strode around the Hunter, giving him a wide berth His chains rattled, and he heard the click of a heavy padlock being opened.
With the shackles no longer holding him in place, his arms fell to his sides. He screamed as the weight of the chains dragged on his dislocated shoulders. He fought to stand on weak knees, his legs shaking with the effort.
Rough hands seized him, and a none-too-gentle kick forced him to his knees. He fought to move, but the muscled thugs held him firmly in place. Two loud pops echoed through the room, and he screamed once more.
At least my shoulders are back in place, he thought, still struggling against his captors.
A knife's edge against his throat stopped him. The Second glared down at him. "Twitch again, Hunter," he said, his voice low and menacing, "and I'll bleed you like a pig." He pressed his blade harder for emphasis.
The Hunter ceased his struggles. He forced his face into a mask of calm, though his mind raced, searching for a way to break free.
The First stepped forward, bending low to stare into the Hunter's eyes. "And thus ends the legend of the Hunter," he said. His breath felt hot on the Hunter's face, and the cloying scent of too much perfume filled the Hunter's nostrils. "You will die, but not in some heroic, glorious manner. No, you will die languishing in a cell until the end of your natural life—-however long and miserable that may be."
The Hunter glared up at him, the anger burning in his chest matching the intensity of the First's gaze. "The story has not yet been written," he spat, baring his teeth in a feral grin. "Until you find a way to kill me for good, I will always haunt your dreams."
A pitiless smile spread across the First's face. "I think not, dear Hunter. Where you're going, even light will soon become foreign to you. You will never again know the sound of another human's voice, and not even rats will be your companions. It is a fate I would wish on few, but you are the one fortunate enough to receive it." He straightened, his voice rising with anger. "Thus to all who cross the Bloody Hand. You are fortunate that you have none to call friends, for their fate would be only marginally less horrifying than your own."
The Hunter paid the ravings of the First little heed, glad for the distraction. He gathered his last reserves of strength as the man spoke, waiting until the First had turned his back before making his move.
With a jerk of his arms, he ripped the chains from the grasp of the brutes holding them. Pain flashed through his healing shoulders, but the Hunter refused to allow it to slow him. He spun to the left, slamming his fist deep into a guard's stomach. The thug's breath whooshed from his lungs, and he doubled over, retching and gasping for air.
The Hunter's elbow connected with the nose of the guard holding the chain securing his right hand, and hot blood splashed his arm. His left hand swung around to strike the third guard in the windpipe. As the thug wheezed, the Hunter kicked out behind him. His foot struck the last guard under the chin, rocking the massive enforcer's head back. The chain holding the Hunter slipped from the thug's nerveless fingers.
The Hunter turned his glare on the First. Rage flooded his veins, and a rush of adrenaline supplanted the pain racking his healing body.
"You're next, you bastard," he snarled.
The First shrank back, but the Second stepped between the Hunter and his master, a dagger held at the ready. The Hunter whipped the heavy chain into the man's stomach. As the Second slumped to the floor, the Hunter pushed him aside to lunge for the First.
With a cry of fear, the First tried to retreat, but the Hunter's long, powerful fingers wrapped around his throat before the man could cry out. The stench of fear, mixed with the scent of his perfume, rolled off the First in waves. He pounded his fists against the Hunter's arms, to no avail. The Hunter's depthless eyes held the First's gaze as he choked the life from him.
A hard punch to his spine made his legs wobble, and his death grip on the First loosened. Hands seized him from behind, dragging him off the wheezing First. The thugs wrestled him to the floor, fighting to regain their hold on the spiked chains. Breathing hard, the Hunter allowed himself to be restrained before the thugs were forced to break anything.
He stared up defiantly at the First. The man's face had turned an angry shade of red, and he gasped for air. The Second still fought for breath, clutching at his stomach and groaning. Through it all, Celicia had stood, unmoving, by the door, eyes wide.
"You bastard!" the First roared at the Hunter, his voice rasping. He straightened his once-elegant clothing, now torn and covered in blood. Striding to the Second's cart of torment, he seized four slim daggers and drove them deep into the Hunter's shoulders, slicing nerves. The Hunter's arms flopped by his side, numb and lifeless.
The First backhanded the Hunter, knocking him back. He followed up the blow with a vicious kick to his captive's groin. The Hunter doubled over in pain, but the thugs holding his arms wrenched him upright.
The First's face hovered a hand's width from his own. "You have earned what is coming next, you canker on the asshole of a leprous dog." Spittle flew from the man's lips, and the Hunter winced at the warm wetness on his face. "I would shove you up a dead horse's ass and have you drowned in the bay, but that would be a waste of a dead horse."
The Hunter's head rang—the First had struck him with surprising force—but he glared at his captors with an impassive stare.
"The fate you will suffer will be more horrible than you could imagine," the First thundered. "You will rot in a dark hole for as long as it takes your flesh to fall from your bones. You will be fed, but not enough to stave off starvation and thirst. You will die a slow death as your body feeds on itself, and when you are dead, your bones will be cast into the Midden, where they will rot in the deepest, darkest hells for all eternity."
"Then I shall prepare a place for you," the Hunter spat.
The First ignored his retort, instead nodding at the guards holding him in place. "Take him away. You know what to do."
Without a backward glance at the Hunter, he strode from the room. The Second gave the Hunter a sneer before following in his master's wake. A moment later, Celicia did likewise. He thought he had seen a flash of pity in her eyes, but he couldn't be certain.
The guards holding his arms dragged him to his feet, while the others used their fists to beat the Hunter into compliance. By the time they hauled him from the room, every bone in his upper body felt bruised and cracked. Blood streamed from his broken nose and myriad cuts on his face. Both of his eyes had swollen shut.
Through the pain, he clung to one small triumph: in his fingers, he clutched a fragment of cloth torn from the First's robe.
Chapter Seventeen
The Hunter caught glimpses of torchlight through the burlap sack covering his head. He was dragged through the streets for what felt like an eternity. That last beating hadn't done his already wounded, tortured body any favors.
Unable to see where he stepped, he found himself at the mercy of his captors. Manacles still shackled his wrists and ankles, and he knew any attempt to flee would meet a quick end. Sensation had yet to return to his arms. He stumbled and would have fallen but for the strong hands holding him.<
br />
I wonder what fresh hell awaits me at the end of this journey, he thought.
His one consolation lay in the fact that one of the guards hauling him along struggled for each breath. The Hunter’s sharp ears detected a wet gurgle in the man's inhalations, and he knew he had cracked a couple of ribs in the scuffle.
Better to bide my time, if I don't die from this gods-awful stench first.
The reek of dog feces filled his nostrils, causing him to gag. He had watched the Second fill the sack with offal before pulling it over his head. His lungs burned from breathing in the foul air, and it took all of his discipline to keep the meager contents of his stomach down.
He had no idea how long the journey lasted, but exhaustion gripped his muscles by the time his captors hurled him to the ground. His face slammed into the pavement, sending a fresh wave of pain through his body. The world around him whirled.
He struggled to stand, but was kicked mercilessly back down to his knees. Through the thin fabric of the canvas sack, he heard a murmured conversation in the distance. He strained in vain to hear what was being said.
After a long silence, rough hands gripped his arms and hauled him to his feet.
"Enjoy your new life, Hunter," a dull voice grated in his ear.
Someone shoved him forward, and he stumbled, falling to the cobblestones once more. A boot slammed into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.
"Enough!" came another voice, this one edged with command. "You have received your payment. Now off with you before I remember what you really are, street scum."
"Any time, Captain," responded the first voice, a Hand thug. "You know where to find me. Come on lads, let's go spend the King's coin in style."
"Bloody Hunter," spat another voice.
The Hunter heard coarse laughter and the voices of men discussing how they would squander their newfound wealth. The voices trailed off, leaving the Hunter in the company of his new captors.
Firm hands gripped his arm, and he struggled to rise to his knees. The sack was ripped from his head, but the scent of animal feces remained.
"Watcher's balls," cursed one of the figures standing over him. "He reeks!"
"Rutting Hand cunts," the commanding voice spoke.
The Hunter blinked in the torchlight, his eyes fighting to adjust to the brightness. He lifted his bound hands to his face in an effort to wipe away some of the stench, to no avail.
In the dim light of the street, he saw a pair of practical, worn boots in front of him. His eyes traveled upward, taking in the details of his captor: bright crimson robes, a well-muscled body beneath worn steel armor, and a bearded face looking down at him sternly.
Heresiarchs.
"By the order of King Gavian of Voramis, and by writ of the Judiciars, I, Captain Erellos of the Heresiarchs, hereby place you under arrest."
The chains on his wrists rattled as one of the red-clad guards pulled the Hunter to his feet. The Heresiarch captain stared up at him, not a shred of pity in his dark eyes.
"I am ordered to transport you to the Hole," said the captain in a solemn voice, "where you will be incarcerated for the rest of your natural life. May the Watcher have mercy on you."
Chapter Eighteen
Darkness surrounded the Hunter, not a flicker of light in any direction. It seemed like an eternity since the Heresiarchs had thrown him in here. They had placed heavy manacles on his wrists and ankles—but not before brutally ripping the First's daggers from his shoulders.
His body warred with fatigue and pain. He desperately wanted to sit, to lie down, to sleep, but the shackles were too short. He could only stand, forcing his exhausted legs to hold him upright. His head lolled on his shoulders. His mouth begged for water. Pain flashed through him at even the slightest movement, but he felt his body slowly knitting together. He managed to find a somewhat comfortable position with his back against the cold stone wall. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes from sheer exhaustion.
This is almost a worse form of torture. Alone in the dark, hungry, and parched. Nothing but the beating of my heart for company.
The darkness taunted him, holding out sleep before him yet ever pulling it away when he was on the verge of dozing. The pain in his arms, legs, chest, and head kept him from rest. He drifted in and out of a numb, unseeing haze, his world filled with nothing.
* * *
"Wake up, Hunter!"
Water splashed across his face and chest, shocking him with its chill. A hard slap snapped him into full consciousness. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. Torches flickered around him, casting dim light around the room.
He guessed he must have fallen asleep, though he felt as if he had been awake for weeks. His head throbbed, his eyes felt heavy, and every muscle body ached. The air in the cell was dusty, pressing in on him.
What in the frozen hell…?
Jerking his arms, he found himself once again restrained by thick chains. His eyes traced their length to the ring set into the stone wall.
I’m no longer in the Hole. But this place feels all too familiar, he thought.
"We meet at last, Hunter."
Blinking away tears, the Hunter forced his eyes to focus on the source of the voice. The man before him stood below average height, with a slim physique and hands that had never seen a hard day's work. His nasal voice grated on the Hunter's ears. His slicked-back hair shone with enough wax to fill a candle mold. A hooked nose protruded above thin lips, and his eyes stared at the Hunter with a fierce, burning intelligence.
The man's scent filled the Hunter's nostrils.
Parchment, ink, and mold, with a hint of something else… He couldn't quite identify the scent, though it was familiar.
"I have heard much about you," the man said, his voice calm and polite, "but I scarcely dared hope we would meet—at least not without you coming after my head."
"I… am…at a disadvantage," said the Hunter, his tongue thick with thirst. "I…don't…know you." After what seemed like an eternity in his silent world, his voice sounded odd, and his dried-up mouth made speaking difficult.
"My, you must be parched," the man said, seeing the Hunter attempting to lick his dry lips. "If you will allow me." He strode over to a small table on the side of the room, upon which lay a covered tray, a loaf of bread, and a pitcher and cup. Filling the cup, he brought it to the Hunter.
"Here you are," the slim man said, tipping it forward.
The Hunter gasped at the sensation of the fresh, clean liquid trickling down his throat.
"Much better," the man smiled up at him. "Would you like some food?"
At the Hunter's eager nod, the man ripped a chunk from the loaf.
"Good," said the man, smiling as he watched the Hunter devour the morsel. "Now, where are my manners? My name is Lord Jahel, though most in the city know me as Chief Justiciar." He bowed with a flourish.
The Right Hand of the Watcher. A sinking feeling rose in the pit of the Hunter's stomach.
The Voramis underworld whispered the name of Lord Jahel with fearful voices. As Chief Justiciar, he maintained law and order in the city—by whatever means necessary. He was commander of the Heresiarchs, and his word was law in the courts of the Justiciars. Criminals endeavored to escape the notice of the peacekeepers; those who attracted the attention of Lord Jahel and his minions simply disappeared.
This is one of the most feared men in the city? The Hunter stared at the slight figure. Not much to look at. Hard to believe he is the one responsible for the Dark Heresy.
It was said the Dark Heresy—the secretive shadow arm of the Heresiarchs—served as spies, intelligence gatherers, and torturers, and they answered to one man only.
"The Demon of Voramis," the Hunter said.
Lord Jahel's face creased into a pleased smile. "Yes, that is one of the names I have been given, and to tell you the truth, I quite like it. It has a certain…gravity to it, don't you think?" When the Hunter said nothing, the man shrugged. "Fair enough. Yo
u may call me by whatever name you wish, but Lord Jahel will suffice for our conversation tonight."
"Conversation?" The Hunter raised an eyebrow.
"Oh yes, Hunter," the man replied. "While you are in my keeping, I would learn more about you. You have always interested me."
His eyes roamed the Hunter's muscled body, his long, dark hair, his now-healed and unblemished face, and dark, empty eyes. A slender finger traced the scars marking the Hunter's back and chest, sending a shudder of revulsion through the Hunter.
"I must say," Lord Jahel continued after a moment of silence, "you are a fascinating creature. The man who inspires almost as much terror as the Bloody Hand itself—or, to be immodest for a moment, the Demon of Voramis—is one to study. And study you I shall."
"So," the Hunter said, skepticism filling his voice, "you only wish to speak to me?"
"Of course not," the Chief Justiciar said, giving the Hunter a wry smile. "There will be much more involved. After all, I will need some answers from you before I throw you back into the Hole."
"You may not extract the information you seek as easily as you expect."
"Ah," Lord Jahel said with a knowing smile, "you must have experienced the tender…ministrations of the Second firsthand. Pardon the pun." He giggled at his own joke.
The Hunter stared at Lord Jahel, unsure of what to make of the man. What an odd creature, he thought.
Lord Jahel's face grew somber. "I assure you, Hunter, the worst is yet to come. The Second may be something of an expert in the art of pain, but I have at my disposal men who would make him look like a child with a hammer." He spoke in a conspiratorial voice. "I myself studied under the Masters of Agony, and one of the Grand Masters has taken up residence here in the city upon my request. He can perform on the human body with the skill of a virtuoso. The things he can do…"
Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1 Page 16
