The bald man's eyes widened, and he mumbled something through the mouthful of fabric.
The Hunter shook his head. "Better you don't speak. Nothing you say can change what's coming. Best you die with a bit of dignity. Watcher knows you had little enough while you lived."
Soulhunger, sensing blood, pounded louder in his mind, and the demon added its eager demands.
"I never understood men like you, knocking around your women." He squatted on his haunches. "Just doesn't make sense."
Rill tried in vain to shout through his gag.
The Hunter narrowed his eyes. "Did you know there is a special hell reserved for your kind? Those who take advantage of the helpless."
He slipped Soulhunger from its sheath, and held the glinting blade before Rill's eyes. "You may tell yourself she belongs to you, you can do whatever you want." He leaned forward, and his voice dropped to a low growl. "Just because you can, that doesn't mean you should."
Rill's eyebrows shot up, and his expression turned pleading.
The Hunter shook his head. "Save your excuses for the Long Keeper. You'll be with him soon enough."
With a vicious smile, he drove Soulhunger through the canvas and into the man's chest. The gag muffled Rill's scream, but the dagger's shriek echoed in his head with mind-numbing force. Soulhunger's gem flared, red light bright in the darkness. The Hunter grunted as a finger of fire etched a line in his chest. Power coursed through him, setting his muscles twitching, flooding him with life, and pushing back the voices in his mind.
Slowly, the brilliance leaking from the gemstone faded to nothing, and Rill's screams of agony and terror fell silent. The Hunter basked in the stillness of the night. A soothing breeze washed over him, the chill soothing the burning of his new scar. Glorious silence echoed in his head. The voices had been sated. He had peace, for a time.
He straightened and stared down at the bundled corpse. Perhaps the Long Keeper will have mercy on you.
An image flashed through his mind: a pitiful figure huddled at the entrance to Rill's tent, covered in filthy rags and reeking of blood and coitus. Rill's desire to punish Gwen had made it easier for the Hunter to slip in, knock the fat bastard out, wrap him in his own canvas, and slip out unnoticed. The man's absence wouldn't be discovered until morning. Few would care.
He took a deep breath, relishing the cool scents of the desert at night. He would wait a few minutes until he was certain Graden and Kellen had passed, then he would dispose of the body, bury the canvas, and slip back into camp. Without the voices shrieking and pleading in his mind, he might even be able to catch a few hours of undisturbed sleep before the morning breakfast bell.
Tonight would be a good night.
Chapter Nine
"Hardwell, have you seen Rill?"
The Hunter, mid-struggle with the stubborn canvas of his tent, shook his head. "Sorry. What's going on?"
The worried expression on Kellen's face spoke volumes. "Gwen hasn't seen him since last night. He was drunk, and…"
"Happen often?" The Hunter allowed disdain to trickle into his expression.
Kellen shrugged. "Sirkar Jeroen gave us an hour to find him before we ride on."
"He's probably sleeping it off under a bush somewhere," said Railley, another of the caravan's guard, a tow-haired man a few years older than Kellen. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Beside Kellen rode Graden, the hulk who served as one of caravan's two sergeants-at-arms. As usual, Graden only grunted and nodded his head.
Kellen scratched his sharp, hairless chin. "Bristan sent Ashurr and Rylin searching south. Siennen and Tairn took the east. Graden, you and Hardwell head north. Railley and I will search the west."
The Hunter nodded and hid a grin. Perfect.
With a grunt, Graden gestured for the Hunter to follow. The Hunter liked the dark-haired, clean-shaven man with the massive barrel chest and heavy arms. He appreciated Graden's reticent nature. Whatever thoughts brewed behind those dark eyes rarely passed his lips. He hadn't pestered the Hunter with questions as Kellen had, but kept his curiosity to himself. On those few occasions when he spoke, the others listened to the big man. Even his scent—an odd mixture reminiscent of scorched hair, molten metal, and sweat-stained leather—gave him an air of strength and depth.
The two men trudged to the picketed horses, mounted, and trotted toward the head of the column. They nodded respectfully as they passed the Sirkar, who sat on his cushioned wagon seat. Worry lines creased the caravan master's face. "Find him if you can, Graden," Sirkar Jeroen called after him. "But make it quick. We have a lot of ground to cover today."
Reaching the front of the line, they headed into open desert, away from the edge of the plateau upon which the caravan camped.
The Hunter basked in the silence of the early morning. No wagons rumbled, no voices spoke in whispered conversations. Only the sound of the horses' hooves broke the stillness. Not even the voices in his mind disturbed his calm. He would have at least a day or two of peace before the insistent urging to kill returned.
A shout from the west drew their attention. The two men reined in their horses and listened.
The call came again. "We found him!"
Graden kicked his horse back toward the caravan, and the Hunter dug his heels into Elivast's flanks to hurry after the big guardsman.
Kellen, Railley, and Sirkar Jeroen stood by the edge of a cliff a few dozen paces from the western fringe of the circled wagons.
The Sirkar looked up as they approached. "Poor bastard." He shook his head and pointed downward.
The Hunter leaned out over the edge and stared down. There, at the bottom of the cliff far below, the bloodied, broken form of Rill lay splashed on the rocks.
"Is he…?"
Kellen nodded. "No way he could survive that fall. Keeper take him for…"
"Kellen!" Sirkar Jeroen's voice cracked like a whip. "Do not speak ill of the dead."
Kellen fell silent, his expression more smug and satisfied than repentant.
"Who was on guard last night?" Sirkar Jeroen asked.
"I was, sir," Railley said, stepping forward. "I had the north and east patrol, together with Siennen."
"Me, too," Kellen said. "I had the south and west." He stared over the cliff. "I swear, Sirkar, I didn't sleep a wink. Ask Graden."
Sirkar Jeroen looked to the hulking, dark-haired guardsman. Graden grunted and nodded his head.
"So, sometime in the night, while you two sat by the fire, Rill stumbled off the edge of the cliff?" The Sirkar looked skeptical.
"We didn't stop moving all night, Sirkar Jeroen." Kellen's voice held an edge of desperation. Graden said nothing, but he didn't look away when Sirkar Jeroen stared at him.
The caravan master's expression remained neutral for a long moment. "Fair enough," he said, reluctance in his voice. "I trust you are telling me the truth. I also trust none of you had any reason to kill him."
The caravan master studied each of the men in turn. The Hunter met his gaze steadily. Sirkar Jeroen had no reason to suspect him.
"Kellen, let Arealle handle it. My wife is far better at delivering this sort of news."
Bristan strode toward them. Gone was his rage from the previous day. Indeed, a hint of a smile tickled at his lips. His tattooed hand rested easily on the short sword on his belt, and his greatsword hung from his back. Another man strode toward them. He matched Graden in size, but where Graden's face was clean, the newcomer's cheeks bristled with a thick chestnut beard that matched the color of his face. Tattoos stained his sun-browned fingers and hands and twined up his arms. A huge, two-handed sword hung on his back, and the smaller sword on his belt clanked with every step.
"Bristan." Sirkar Jeroen nodded at the man.
Bristan peered over the edge of the cliff and snorted. "Drunken sot! Should have watched where he was going. Serves him right, though, the way he handled Gwen." He crossed his sun-browned arms and stared defiantly at the Sirkar. "No doubt you think I did it."
>
The Sirkar gave Bristan a sharp look. "Were I not with you last night, perhaps. Besides, your style is to chop a man in half from the front, not put a knife in his back." He rubbed his eyes and sighed. "What's done is done. Kellen, pass the word to Arealle and see to it that the wagons make ready. Graden, Bristan, give the marching orders. We leave within the quarter-hour."
The Hunter followed the two back to the caravan. Bristan sent him to the head of the column, but on his way the Hunter made a quick stop at the covered wagon. There he found a group of children, Hailen among them, sitting on bundles circled around Ayden. The healer read from a leather-bound book, and the children listened spell-bound to the tale of Balgrid the Giant, slayer of Angrd the Wargil.
Natania nodded at the Hunter, and the Hunter returned her greeting. He had to force his eyes to remain fixed on her face, when they wanted to roam elsewhere. His body always responded this way after a kill. In Voramis, he'd satisfied the urge with a visit to Lady Damuria, The Arms of Heaven, or some other reputable establishment. It proved more difficult in the middle of the desert without female companionship. Definitely have to remedy that, and soon.
The Hunter dropped his voice. "How's he doing?"
"Fine." Natania whispered. "He asks about you, you know. Always wondering where you are and if you're well."
"I'm riding lead today. I hope it'll be no trouble to keep an eye on him?" How odd. The boy concerned for him?
"Of course not, Hardwell. Eileen loves having a friend to play with."
"Thank you. I'll collect him at the end of the day."
The healer's wife smiled at him. "Go. He will be well with us."
With a nod for Natania and a final glance at Hailen, the Hunter slipped away quietly as he could so as not to disturb the listeners.
Bristan and Kellen awaited him at the head of the column.
"Took you long enough," Bristan growled.
Kellen smiled at the Hunter. "Pay him no attention, Hardwell." He reached out and smacked Bristan's back good-naturedly. "He's actually in a fine mood, now that his only obstacle to Gwen is out of the way."
Bristan scowled but held his tongue. Behind them, the first creaks and groans of the wagons sounded. Horses snorted, oxen lowed, and men cursed as they tried to cajole stubborn mules into motion. Slowly, laboriously, the caravan began the arduous descent from the plateau heights to the sandy Advanat below.
The sun shone down bright and hot on the three men riding lead, and the lackluster breeze did little to diminish the heat.
At least I'm not stuck in the back of the caravan. Better the heat of the road than the dust kicked up by the wagons.
Kellen saturated the silence with inane conversation, everything from the cities he'd visited to the exotic food and women he'd encountered. The Hunter ignored the young man, and Bristan looked to be doing the same.
Kellen's behavior puzzled the Hunter. Even after a week of travel, the Hunter couldn't understand what prompted the young man to be so friendly with him, a man he had just met. Surely, he wasn't doing anything to encourage Kellen's camaraderie.
"What do you think, Hardwell?" Kellen stared at him expectantly.
"About what?"
"Rill's death." Kellen raised an eyebrow. "Weren't you listening at all?"
Bristan snorted quietly beside the Hunter.
"Sorry," the Hunter said, shrugging. "Busy watching the road."
Kellen rolled his eyes. "What do you think? Was it really an accident?"
"It's what Sirkar Jeroen said."
"Too easy, I think," Kellen said. A queer expression touched his face. "I think it was something else that did him in. Someone else."
The Hunter's back stiffened.
"Il Seytani," Kellen whispered in a conspiratorial tone.
The Hunter relaxed. As long as they didn't suspect him…
Bristan snorted. "Ah, Kellen, you never fail to entertain!"
Kellen reddened. "You know as well as I do that…"
"That what?" Bristan cut him off with a bark of derisive laughter. "You see Il Seytani in every shadow and behind every rock. If a mule kicks, it was the work of Il Seytani. If some drunken pissant stumbles out of camp and fails to see where he places his feet, by the Apprentice's goiters, it must be Il Seytani."
Kellen bristled at Bristan's sarcasm. "Mock if you want, Bristan, but we both know he's real."
"Il Seytani?" the Hunter asked, puzzled. The name meant nothing to him.
Kellen turned to the Hunter, a shocked expression on his face. "Never heard of him?"
The Hunter shook his head.
"Of course he hasn't, Kellen." Bristan turned to the Hunter. "Forgive him, Hardwell. He sometimes forgets that not everyone is as fond of tall tales as he is."
"Tall tales?" Kellen's face purpled. "You know full well that…"
"Yes, yes." Bristan raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Il Seytani is real."
This appeased Kellen, who turned to the Hunter with an excited expression on his face. "Il Seytani," he said in a slow voice, "is the legendary bandit who roams the deserts of the Twelve Kingdoms. It is said that no one sees his face and lives. Only a Mistress-blessed handful has survived the raids of Il Seytani and his Whirlwind Horde, his Mhareb."
The Hunter remembered his own legends. He had little doubt that tales of this "Il Seytani" were as exaggerated as the stories of "the Hunter of Voramis".
"Why else do you think Sirkar Jeroen hired you?" Kellen asked.
The Hunter shrugged.
"There are bandits out in the desert, Kellen," Bristan interjected, "but do you think Il Seytani is real? After all, his legends date back hundreds of years."
These words sent a jolt through the Hunter. Hundreds of years?
His own legend had grown over time, but they only went back decades. If this Il Seytani has been around for that long, could he be…?
He didn't even want to think the word. The voice in his mind whispered excitedly. It wanted to meet the legendary bandit. Perhaps it would find kin…a fellow Abiarazi.
Is it possible?
A knot of nervous tension formed in the Hunter's neck and he gripped his sword hilt. He had no desire to face a demon here, among so many men and women. Not where the truth of his identity would be exposed. Not without a safe place to keep Hailen from harm.
"If it is Il Seytani," Kellen was saying in an eager voice, "I'd give anything to cross paths with him." The young man drew his sword with a flourish. The blade glinted in the sunlight as Kellen whirled it around his head.
Bristan ducked beneath an over-exuberant strike at the empty air. "Watch it, you goat-sucking cretin! Put that damned thing away before you kill yourself. Or, worse still, kill me."
Kellen reddened and hurried to sheathe his sword. He mumbled an apology.
"Some warrior you are!" The bigger man glowered. "Nearly lopped my head off with that fool blade of yours."
The three rode in silence, broken only by the curses Bristan muttered at Kellen.
"So," the Hunter said, trying to break the tension, "do you think we'll encounter Il Seytani?"
Kellen sulked and said nothing.
Bristan shrugged. "If the Apprentice smiles on us, we'll reach Drash without incident." He reached up and touched the hilt of his greatsword. "If not, Swordsman grant us the strength to fight the bastards off."
Chapter Ten
The day wore on in a blur of heat, sun, and sweat. The rumbling wagons dictated the caravan's pace, but the Hunter had no complaints. His legs and back ached from the previous day's efforts. Flashes of pain radiated from the knotted muscles in his neck at Elivast's every step.
He found himself casting occasional glances over his shoulder. A nagging worry echoed in the back of his mind. Had he outrun Imperius and his scarf dancers? The Illusionist Cleric pursued him on orders from his deity, intending to erase his memory. In his desperate flight, he hadn't thought to ask why. Regardless of the reason for the man's actions, he had no desire to encounter hi
m again. He clung to the few memories he had as a drowning man clutched an outstretched hand. He could only hope to stay well ahead of the madman.
When Sirkar Jeroen finally signaled for the evening halt, the Hunter stifled a sigh of relief. After eight hours of travel with hardly a rest, even stolid Bristan looked drained. The three men trotted back to the caravan, glad to finally be out of the sun and heat.
The Hunter handed Elivast's reins to Daedren, the caravan's horsemaster. Elivast nickered at the balding, bearded man, clearly eager for his evening rubdown, meal, and crunchy apple. With a smile and a pat on the horse's rump, the Hunter heaved the saddle free of Elivast's back. One of the camp women directed him to the space set aside for his tent. After a few minutes of wrestling with the bulky canvas, he had erected the shelter and stowed his belongings within.
As he made his way to the cookwagon, he caught a glimpse of Gwen. The swelling around her right eye had diminished enough for her to see through it, but the bruises on her arms and face still showed clearly.
Anger brought a flush of heat to the Hunter's face. At least the bastard who did that got what he deserved.
Soulhunger throbbed in the back of his mind, quiet and contented. The dagger had fed well, and his demon remained silent; they would not return for a day or two. The Hunter welcomed the peace from the screaming, wailing, muttering, mocking voices.
He wolfed down the meal without tasting it, swallowing a few mouthfuls of tart wine to wash down the trail biscuits. Searching the crowd, he spotted Hailen sitting next to the healer and his wife. He stood and picked his way through the seated mess of men and women.
A beatific smile wreathed Hailen's face at the sight of the Hunter. The Hunter felt his heart stop in that moment. No one had ever looked at him like that. Not since Farida…
"Hardwell!" Hailen waved at him. "You're just in time for dinner."
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