Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1

by Andy Peloquin

  The Hunter followed the chubby priest through the maze of corridors. Only the flickering torch in Brother Mendicatus' hand broke the darkness of the passages beneath the House of Need. The smoky, pitch-laden scent of the torch filled the tunnels, mixing with the smell of centuries-old dust.

  How odd that I find myself helping the people who have hunted my kind for millennia, the Hunter thought. It is a bizarre twist of fate that has led me here, yet here I am.

  He felt the temptation to simply walk away from his task, to leave Voramis forever.

  It would be so easy to leave everything behind. With all those I cared for now dead, there is nothing holding me here.

  A child's face flashed through his mind.

  Not everyone. There is still one person keeping me in Voramis.

  His decision was made for him. There was no question whether or not he would protect her.

  I will do what I have promised and hunt down these demons. For Farida's sake, if not for my own.

  The thought of atonement seemed oddly tempting to him. He'd never suffered guilt for bringing death to those he was paid to kill, and yet he felt a twinge of shame over Brother Securus.

  If I can atone for what I have done, it will be well. If not…

  If not, what? What would he do, knowing he had brought about the return of the demons to the world?

  If I cannot atone for my sins, at the very least I can avenge the deaths of those I swore to protect.

  It would have to be enough.

  The Hunter's attention returned to his surroundings, and as he followed Brother Mendicatus through the twisting corridors, he noticed strange symbols etched into the stone walls. The markings looked as ancient and arcane as the temple itself, written in a language the Hunter had never encountered before.

  "What do the walls say?" the Hunter asked.

  The priest reached out a chubby hand and ran thick fingers along the engravings in the stone. "Truth be told, no one knows what these marks mean. They date back to the days of the Serenii, during the War of Gods."

  "The Serenii?" The Hunter had heard Father Reverentus speak the name upstairs. "What in the twisted hell is a Serenii?"

  "Not a 'what', sir Hunter, but a 'who'. Little is known of the creatures, as there are few records that mention them. However, what we do know is that they were a race of demi-humans who populated Einan in the days when mankind was still young."

  The cleric failed to notice the Hunter's expression of dismay at his lecturing tone.

  Excitement filled Mendicatus's voice. "It is said the Serenii had technology far beyond the primitive tools used by humans. They wielded vast power, but kept to themselves within the massive walls of their cities."

  His voice echoed through the tunnels, rising in pitch as he warmed to the topic.

  "During the War of Gods, when the Destroyer unleashed the demons onto the planet, the Serenii simply disappeared. What happened to them, no one knows. But their cities were destroyed in the war, and only the foundations remain."

  He stopped, turned to face the Hunter, and gesticulated around him with sweeping motions. "Did you know," he asked the Hunter, "the city we now know as Voramis is built on the ruins of an ancient city of the Serenii? If you know where to look, you'll find passages beneath the city that run miles deep."

  "I've never heard of any passages beneath Voramis," the Hunter said, surprised.

  Mendicatus motioned for the Hunter to continue, but his voice never slowed as he walked on. "Few know of the existence of the underground ways of the Serenii, but some have undertaken the effort to chart the myriad paths and tunnels wending their way beneath Voramis."

  "And these passages," the Hunter asked, tucking the information in the back of his mind, "where can they be found? Is there a map?"

  The priest shrugged. "History was Brother Securus' area of expertise, but unfortunately he is not here to pass on the details of the Serenii catacombs."

  Anger filled the priest's voice. The Hunter fell silent, unsure of what to say, and the quiet stretched on for long moments.

  "Did he mention anything that could be of use?" he asked, attempting to break the tension.

  "Well," said Brother Mendicatus, his words clipped, "I do remember him saying something about the Hidden Circle."

  Another name the Hunter had never heard. "The Hidden Circle? Who are they?"

  "Alchemists," Mendicatus replied, "practicing their craft outside the strictures of the Secret Keepers." The clerics of the Mistress had learned the ways of alchemy centuries ago, and they protected their secrets with a fierce ruthlessness.

  "Why would alchemists know anything about secret passages built by a race long dead? The Secret Keepers deal in poisons, alchemical cures, and ridiculous love potions."

  "Most of them, yes," Brother Mendicatus replied with a nod, "but a few of the Hidden Circle deal in information rather than elixirs. Many people would pay good coin for information, making it a trade far more lucrative than philter-mongering."

  The Hunter knew this to be true. In his work, he had come across all manner of private information his targets would rather have kept hidden from the public eye. He had stolen and sold a few secrets himself, and there was a great deal of profit, if you could find the right buyer.

  "Should you locate a member of this Hidden Circle," the pudgy clergyman said, breaking into his thoughts, "you may be able to find what you're looking for."

  Smiling at the priest, the Hunter nodded. "I believe I may know just the person to talk to." Someone to whom he had sold information in the past.

  They rounded a corner in the passageway, and at the end of the corridor stood a heavy wooden door. Brother Mendicatus drew a large brass key from within his robe, inserted it into the lock, and strained to twist it. After a moment of effort, the ancient lock clicked with the sound of heavy mechanisms. The priest swung one thick door open, revealing the last fading rays of daylight beyond.

  "Go with the Beggar God, Hunter," Brother Mendicatus said, his voice abrupt.

  "Priest," the Hunter replied with a curt nod. He turned away, but Brother Mendicatus' sausage fingers gripped his forearm.

  "A favor, Hunter," the priest said.

  The Hunter saw worry etched into the lines of the cleric's thick cheeks. "I make no promise," he replied, "but you may ask."

  "It's about Farida."

  "What about her?" the Hunter snapped, his voice harsher than intended.

  "I have not seen her since morning vespers, though she should have returned after the noon bell. It is not the first time she has arrived late, but still I worry for her. Perhaps you could keep a watch out for her in your travels?" His hopeful expression showed genuine concern for the child.

  The Hunter tried to keep his face calm, but fear stabbed through him.

  Farida? Missing?

  His mind raced through horrifying scenarios, worry nagging at his mind.

  No, he tried to tell himself, she is fine. Someone has taken pity on her and offered her a decent meal. While not common, he knew it did happen on occasion. Yes, he insisted, that's it. Still, I had best search for her before the night is through. After what happened with the others…

  "I will find her, brother," the Hunter replied. "You have my word that I will bring her back safe."

  "My thanks, Hunter." Brother Mendicatus released his hold on the Hunter's arm. "Be blessed in your endeavors."

  Nodding, surprised to hear genuine compassion in the chubby priest's voice, the Hunter turned his back on Mendicatus and hurried away.

  The temple gate clanged shut behind him with an ominous ring of finality. He had felt an odd sense of safety while in the House of Need, but now it fled, and the night pressed in around him. The growing darkness seemed empty, hollow once more. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, shivering though no chill hung in the air.

  The sensation of being alone overwhelmed him. Even the voice in his head remained barely a whisper. He felt the dull ache of loneliness, but pushed it to
the back of his mind. He had much to accomplish before the dawn's light greeted Voramis.

  It was going to be a busy night.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Night descended upon Voramis as the sun sank beneath the ocean. Evening brought with it a chill wind that blew away the smells permeating the city, until only the scent of imminent rain hung in the air. Citizens of Voramis hustled through the streets, coats clutched around their bodies to ward off the cold and gloom.

  In a small shop in a forgotten corner of Lower Voramis, near the Beggar's Quarter, a balding figure sat hunched over a desk. His hairless pate glistened in the candlelight, and an eager sweat dripped from his cheeks as he squinted at the illegible handwriting filling the pages of the book beneath his plump fingers. The only sound in the room was his heavy breathing and the accompanying scritch, scritch of a feather pen scribbling on cheap parchment.

  Next to the man's arm sat a bowl of food, long forgotten in his fascination with the tome's contents. A small lamp lit the cramped room, the flame within the glass bulb flickering from some hidden draft. Rickety shelves lined the room, stretching from floor to ceiling. Wood creaked beneath the ponderous weight of hundreds of books, scrolls, and parchments.

  The man paused his writing to remove his fogged spectacles and wipe them with the dirty hem of his robe. He studied them and, satisfied that they were as clean as they would ever be, replaced them on the bridge of his nose before reassuming his uncomfortable position—his face far too close to the book.

  "Good evening, Graeme," came a harsh voice from the darkness behind him.

  The bespectacled man let out a screech of fright, his feather quill falling from his hand. He leapt from the hard wooden stool, sending it clattering as his thigh slammed into the underside of the table. Graeme's chubby hand snatched at the tilting inkwell just in time to stop it falling. The heavyset man breathed hard at the exertion, and turned a baleful glare on the Hunter in the shadows.

  "Illusionist confound it!" Graeme cursed, groaning at the pain in his leg. "You know how I hate it when you do that!"

  "And yet," the Hunter said, his face spreading into a wide smile, "seeing you like this is just so damn enjoyable, Graeme." The smell of ink, dried sweat, and the stench of chemical mixtures—Graeme's unique scent—pained the Hunter's sensitive nostrils.

  "Go suck goat balls, Hunter," Graeme snarled. The man turned back to his work, and a moan of dismay escaped his lips at sight of the large ink stain spreading from the nib of the pen. He attempted to prevent the ink stain spreading by dabbing it at with old paper, but his face fell as he saw his parchment was ruined.

  "Look what you've done," he railed, rounding on the Hunter. "All of my work copying Taivoro's plays gone, thanks to you! What in the name of torment do you want?"

  "Is that any way to talk to your best customer, Graeme?" the Hunter asked, his smile growing.

  The fat man snorted in derision. "I would hardly call you my best customer. Yes," he said, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture as he turned to the messy worktable, "you do pay handsomely for the argam, but you buy quantities large enough to get me hanged in any city on Einan."

  For a moment, Graeme's search for a fresh parchment absorbed his attention. When he finally located an unsoiled sheet among the mess, he held it up to the light, examining it. With a grin of triumph, he slapped the paper down in front of the book.

  He glared at the Hunter. "Don't tell me you've already run out of the stuff! You can't possibly have used it all up this quickly."

  "No," the Hunter replied, "I still have more than enough."

  "And your alchemical masks?"

  "Intact."

  "Bandages and poultices for the lad?"

  A twinge of sorrow raced through the Hunter at mention of Arlo, but he swallowed the lump in his throat and shook his head.

  "So, you've come for another reason?" the fat man asked. At the Hunter's nod, he threw up his hands and scowled. "Oh, gods, this can't possibly be good."

  "Not a very positive attitude," the Hunter pointed out, the twisted smile on his scarred face growing even larger. "Especially not when I give you more than enough to cover any…incidentals that could arise as a result of this favor."

  Graeme's eyes widened in mock horror. "So it's a favor now? Gods be good! The Hunter is going to ask for a favor. What has this world come to?" He stooped to right the stool, sitting heavily and turning his back on the figure in the shadows.

  "Graeme," the Hunter said, anger flaring across his face, "I will have you know that my patience will wear thin soon enough. You may be the best argam-maker in Voramis, but you're not the only one."

  He stepped forward, and the light of the room fell on his harsh features as he pulled back his hood. Thick bands of scars crossed his face, twisting his nose and lips into a wicked grimace. Eyes so brown they looked near black stared down at Graeme, but the alchemist didn't bother to face him. The Hunter's glare failed to instill proper terror in the fat man.

  "Please, Hunter," the man said with a derisive snort. "This isn't the first time you've threatened me."

  "Don't make it the last," the Hunter snapped.

  Graeme finally turned to face him, a look of long-suffering patience stamped on his face. "Well, this has been a pleasant chat, Hunter," the fat man beamed up at the Hunter. "Now, either tell me what you want, or leave me alone with my Taivoro." He held up the book in pudgy fingers, showing it to the Hunter. "It's the real deal, you know." His voice dropped to a whisper. "All of his best plays, which were believed to be lost."

  "And I'm sure the erotic works of the mad playwright are guaranteed to thrill on a night like this," the Hunter mocked, "but it's going to have to wait."

  "Fine," he said, with a sigh. The alchemist ran his fingers lovingly over the moldering leather cover of the book one final time before dropping it on the table. "Come with me into the back."

  The fat man strode to the nearby bookshelf and reached for a thick book.

  "A Treatise on the History of Fungal Development in the Emperor's Concubines," the Hunter read the title aloud as Graeme's fat fingers closed around it. "Must be a stirring read, that one."

  Graeme said nothing, but cast a skewering glare over his shoulder. He pulled on the book, and a hidden mechanism tripped with an audible click. The bookcase swung back to reveal an opening.

  The Hunter followed Graeme into the ample back room, marveling at the tidiness of the workspace. In their years of acquaintance, the Hunter had never seen the room so immaculate.

  "Forgive the order," the man said, "but the new assistant has a nasty habit of putting things back where they belong. Makes it damn difficult to find anything."

  "I see business at The Angry Goblin Bookstore is flourishing, Graeme," the Hunter noted. The clutter filling the room had an expensive look to it. Instead of the usual collection of withered skulls, dried bones, and pouches of herbs and spices hanging on the walls, jars filled with all manner of exotic miscellany sat on the new shelves lining the room. "I'm surprised people still buy books from you."

  "Yes, because that's my main stock and trade," Graeme rolled his eyes and snorted. "Books! As if people were educated enough. Did you know," he turned to the Hunter, raising his voice in anger, "that less than one in a thousand Voramians have ever learned to read? And that's counting the nobility! What is the world coming to? Such ignorance!"

  With a shake of his head, Graeme turned to rummage among a stack of books. "So what do you need now?"

  "First, I'll take a few of those blue bottles you know I love." The Hunter held up a warning finger. "The good ones, mind you, not the ones filled with that gods-awful liquid you sell as 'love potion'."

  Graeme, a heavy book clutched in his pudgy fingers, turned back to the Hunter with a grin. "Ah, yes," he chortled, "the 'love potions'. They certainly do work, though not quite in the way most customers expect. I do so love those adorable little heart-shaped scars—a nasty side effect."

  "Plus," the Hunter added
with a nasty grin, "the accursed potions tend to make people forget where they bought the damn things. Makes it easier than having to deal with a stampede of irate customers with scarred faces."

  "Anyone who needs to use a love potion has no business in love, I always say." Graeme grinned at his own witticism, but the Hunter just rolled his eyes.

  "Says the man who sits alone in a gloomy, dusty room reading Taivoro."

  "Get mounted by a horse," the fat man replied with a scowl. He hated to be reminded of the fact he had yet to meet the woman—any woman, really, he wasn't choosy—to fill the position of Missus Graeme. "Now, tell me what you want so I can give it to you and you can leave me alone." He eyed the Hunter, expectant.

  "The Serenii catacombs."

  The fat man's face turned a fascinating color—a combination of sickly green, bloodless pale, and terrified white the Hunter had never seen outside a tavern cesspool. "Wh-wh-what do you want with the catacombs?"

  The Hunter gave the man a nasty smile, "So you've heard of them, I see. Don't even think of shaking your head, Graeme," he warned the man, who had opened his mouth to protest. "I can see by that look on your face that you know exactly what I'm talking about, so there's no use lying to me."

  "But- but…" Graeme's mouth hung open. For long moments, nothing but unintelligible sounds came out. The alchemist gaped, trying hard to form words but with little success. Finally, it seemed his wits returned, and he managed to utter a curse. "Bugger me with a thornbush," he breathed. The alchemist seemed to deflate, slumping onto the canvas stool behind him.

  The Hunter winced as the cloth stool creaked beneath Graeme's bulk. He expected the flimsy-looking seat to collapse, but the wooden frame held.

  "The catacombs, Graeme," he urged.

  Graeme stared up at the Hunter, fear filling his eyes. "I'm sorry, but you don't know what you're asking me, Hunter. You don't know what it would mean for me if I gave you what you wanted."

  "Oh?" the Hunter asked, raising an eyebrow. His pitiless eyes bored into the fat man.

  "You must understand," Graeme pleaded, cringing beneath the Hunter's stern gaze, "the Serenii catacombs are a secret that we have guarded for nearly a thousand years."