The Hunter smiled down at the boy. "I had dinner. Let's leave Eileen to her meal. Looks as if she hasn't eaten much."
Natania gave her daughter a mock stern look. "Yes, Eileen needs to finish her dinner before she can play."
Hailen frowned. "Can't I play a few minutes longer? I don't want to sleep yet."
"Sorry, lad." The Hunter shook his head. "It's been a long day."
Hailen crossed his arms and stared up at the Hunter, stubborn defiance in his expression.
"Hailen." Natania spoke in a gentle voice. "You'll have all day tomorrow to play with Eileen. Besides, you need a good night's rest if you're to continue your lessons."
The smile returned to Hailen's face and he nodded eagerly.
The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Lessons?"
"She's teaching Hailen to read," Ayden said, smiling. "Turns out he knows a lot more of his letters than most lads his age."
Hailen leapt to his feet. "I'll see you tomorrow!" He reached for the Hunter's hand but stopped short, staring up at the Hunter with a worried expression.
The Hunter gave Hailen's head a quick, awkward pat. "Come on."
Darkness slowly settled on around them as the sun disappeared behind the clouds. The Hunter strode through the camp, Hailen trotting alongside him. The boy chattered on about his day, the games he had played with Eileen, and more, until his voice faded into the low din of the caravan.
The Hunter held open the tent flap for the boy to step inside first. The tent's low roof forced him to stoop. For a moment, the small, cramped shelter reminded him of the shelter he'd shared with Bardin in Malandria. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. Pain still accompanied memories of the bald man weeks after his death.
"What do you think, Hardwell?" Hailen's piping voice pierced the Hunter's distracted thoughts.
The Hunter stared down at him, confused.
"Were you even listening?" The little boy crossed his arms and thrust out his bottom lip.
"No, I wasn’t. What do you want?" He winced. The words came out too harsh.
"I said Miss Natania invited me to sleep in their wagon tomorrow night. It's Eileen's nameday, and they are having a celebration." His voice turned pleading. "Can I go? All of the other kids are!"
The Hunter felt torn. He wanted to make Hailen happy, but he hated being apart from the boy for longer than necessary. Too many sleepless nights had found him tossing and turning, trying to block out the haunting faces of the dead and thoughts of confusion, solitude, and regret. He slept more easily with the boy close at hand. Hailen's presence kept the voices and images at bay.
"I will give it some thought, lad." The Hunter sat on his blankets and tugged at his boots.
Hailen slumped to his own bedroll. "But Hardwell…" he began in a wheedling tone.
"I said I will think about it!" The Hunter's voice cracked like a whip. He regretted it immediately.
Hailen's eyes grew wide and his mouth opened. He stared for a moment, then, slowly, lay on his bed and rolled over onto his side, back to the Hunter. The reek of anger radiated from the boy in waves, sullying his fresh, clean scent.
"Hailen, I…" He wanted to say something to Hailen, to apologize. He wanted to reach out and comfort the boy, but didn't know how. All his years of experience as an assassin left him woefully unprepared to deal with a child—especially one like Hailen.
Pressure mounted behind his eyes and set his head throbbing. His chest threatened to explode. He had no way to release the tension, no outlet for the sorrow and remorse coursing through him. Slipping Soulhunger beneath the bundle that served as his pillow, he stretched out on his bedroll and stared up at the roof of the tent.
Hailen's snores soon filled the darkness of the tent, broken occasionally by a whimper or mumbled words. But the Hunter lay there, unmoving, exhausted yet wide awake, uncertain how to make things right with the boy.
Fatigue stole over him, tugging at his eyelids and draining the remorseful thoughts from his mind. He tried to push back the languor, but a day of hard riding had taken its toll. His hand crept toward Bardin's pendant, and the familiar worn metal comforted him. The warmth of Hailen's body and the silence in his mind added to his uneasy calm. Slowly, he slipped into a restless sleep.
* * *
She lay beside him. The smile on Her face matched what he saw in Her eyes. She smelled of jasmine and honey mixed with the tart, rich scent of berries and cinnamon.
She kissed him. Her lips—soft as silk—tasted sweet on his.
"My love." Her velvety voice made his heart skip a beat. "This must be goodbye."
"Why?" He tugged at a strand of Her golden hair.
"It will mean death for both of us if ever we meet. It cannot be."
"We have faced death before." He smiled up at Her. "Not even the fires of Khar'nath could pull us apart, Az'nii."
Lines of worry creased Her forehead. "But the Beggar's servants will find us!"
He stroked Her face with a gentle hand. "Let them come. We will be gone long before they arrive."
Sorrow filled Her eyes. "I cannot leave this place. It is my home. You must leave, alone."
Shock and surprise coursed through him. "You would have me flee? Is your fear so great that you would put an end to what we share? What we have created?" He ran his hand across the soft curve of her belly.
"I'm sorry, Hai'atim. You have brought this upon yourself."
Steel glinted in the candlelight. Her face contorted into a mask of sorrow as the dagger plunged toward his heart.
Agony. Darkness. Silence.
Her voice came to him as if from a great distance, heavy with sorrow and regret. "Take him away. He can never return."
"Yes, Mistress," a man said, his tone reverent.
"Goodbye, my love." Her soft lips felt warm against his forehead. He tried to move, tried to cry out, but he could not speak, could not move a muscle.
Cool night air washed over him, and he felt himself being carried.
"As promised, High Cleric Arrogus." The man's voice again.
"Return to Enarium. Tell your Mistress she has made the right choice."
"As you wish, your reverence."
His eyes opened, and he stared into a wrinkled face.
"I am sorry, Bucelarii. I do what must be done."
Silver flashed in the dim light of torches. Light glinted off its surface and pulled him in. He couldn't look away, couldn't resist.
"Az'nii!" The scream tore from his throat as he jerked upright. He stared wildly about, his lungs burning and his heart racing. The dim starlight that filtered through the canvas looked so much like the dancing silver from his dream.
But as consciousness returned, the vivid images faded into the night. He felt the dream—no, the memory—slipping between his fingers like grains of sand. Try as he might, he could cling to no more than fragments of what he had seen.
She was his reason for traveling north. He'd left Voramis to find Her, traveled clear across the face of Einan to discover if She could fill in pieces of his missing past. He'd only ever had a memory of her face and her scent to keep him going, but now She had a name.
Az'nii.
* * *
"Hardwell, wake up!"
Hailen's warbling voice penetrated the thick fog of slumber. "What is it?" He cracked an eyelid heavy with sleep.
"The breakfast bell is ringing. If we don't hurry, we'll miss it!"
With a groan, the Hunter pushed himself up. Hailen stared at him, impatience written in his expression.
"Go," the Hunter told him. "Find Miss Natania and get yourself some breakfast. I'll be along shortly."
Hailen dashed from the tent before he could say another word.
The Hunter's brain struggled to form coherent thoughts. After awakening in the middle of the night, he'd spent the remaining hours of darkness in fitful sleep. His head felt stuffed with wool, his eyelids drooped, and every muscle in his body protested. He dressed slowly, in no hurry.
Flash
es of his dream haunted him. Her face and scent remained imprinted on his mind, but he remembered little else. The glint of steel. The gleam of silver. Her name.
Az'nii.
He'd repeated it a thousand times last night, refusing to let it fade with the rest of the dream.
What did she call me? The name teased at the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't remember.
Frustration mounted as his memories refused to coalesce. Lost in thought, he stumbled on an obtruding tent peg and unleashed a string of curses. A passing carter stared at him open-mouthed. The Hunter glared with such ferocity that the man ducked his head and turned away.
The Hunter's mood remained dour and pensive as he joined the line in front of the steaming pot of morning oatmeal. He spared a nod for Wrenna, the ancient crone who tended the gruel. She greeted him with a lascivious wink.
"Can't get enough of me, eh?" She plopped a scoop of the thick gruel in his bowl and pushed back one of the uncontrollable white curls that framed her face. "Now you're visiting me every day."
Despite himself, the Hunter couldn't help smiling. "What can I say, Wrenna? Your beauty is almost a match for your oatmeal."
Her face fell in mock outrage. "Now that's a terrible thing to say! Comparing me to this cow's dung you're forced to eat." She waved her wooden spoon, flinging oatmeal. "Off with you before I give you a drubbing."
Chuckling, the Hunter strode off to find a seat. But not even Wrenna's charms could keep his gloom at bay. With every bite of the tasteless porridge, his spirits sank and his frustration mounted. As he ate, his eyes roamed the crowd in search of Hailen. The boy was nowhere in sight, and he saw no sign of the healer, his wife, or their daughter. He leapt to his feet, worry pinging in his thoughts.
"Looking for this one, Master Hardwell?"
The Hunter whirled to see an old man leading Hailen by the hand. "Yes! Thank you, Marin!"
A smile wrinkled the sun-tanned leather of Marin's face, and he ran his free hand through his thinning hair. "I found him like this."
Tears streamed down Hailen's dirty cheeks, and the boy's lip quivered.
"What's wrong, Hailen? What happened?" Anger surged hot in the Hunter's chest. He searched for any sign of injury.
"It's Eileen!" Hailen broke into sobs. "She's sick!" The boy reached out for him.
The Hunter stepped back. He knew he ought to do something to comfort Hailen, but what? He couldn’t risk touching the lad. Not here, not where everyone could see what happened.
With a curious glance at the Hunter, Marin placed a gnarled hand on the boy's shoulder. Hailen threw his arms around the old man and sobbed into his chest.
"Natania, too," Marin said. He stroked the boy's hair, and sorrow filled his rheumy grey eyes. "Ayden says it's bad. He's keeping them isolated from the rest of the caravan. Wants to avoid an outbreak."
"I'm so sorry, Hailen. They'll be better soon, you'll see." The words rang hollow in the Hunter's mind. He hated his inability to comfort the boy, to ease his misery.
"Hardwell!" Bristan's barking voice floated through the mess of people sitting around the cookwagon. "The Sirkar wants you ready to ride now!"
The Hunter hesitated, torn between the desire to comfort Hailen and his duty. He couldn't disobey a direct order from Sirkar Jeroen.
"Go, Master Hardwell." Marin gave the Hunter a reassuring nod. "I'll keep an eye on him today. A child as…special as he deserves to be well-cared for."
The Hunter pondered the offer. He had no reason to distrust the man. Indeed, from what he'd seen, Marin seemed the ideal choice to care for Hailen. The grey-haired man always had a whittled toy or a small gift for the children that clustered around Ayden's covered wagon. He listened patiently to their stories and freely shared tales of his own.
"Thank you, Marin." He nodded at the old man. "I will fetch him as soon as I can."
"Have no fear, Master Hardwell." Marin's smile crinkled the corners of his lips and eyes. "Hailen and I shall have a wondrous day, indeed! Come on, lad."
Hailen wiped the tears from his face, and, with a wave for the Hunter, followed Marin willingly.
He'll be fine with Marin, he told himself. After what happened last night, perhaps it's best for me to give him a bit of space.
Yet as the Hunter mounted Elivast and took his place beside Bristan at the head of the column, he felt more alone than ever. Not even the voices in his mind kept him company. He had only his memories of Her to comfort him on the dusty road.
Chapter Eleven
One week earlier…
The Hunter tossed and turned, desperately clutching at the fading threads of slumber, aching for rest and peace, finding none.
The dream had come again. Every night. He'd clung to Her name, Az'nii, had repeated it a thousand times throughout the long daylight hours. But the moment he opened his eyes, the memory faded until only wisps remained. He remembered Her face, the love in Her eyes, and the glint of steel as she drove the dagger into his chest. The more he struggled—and failed—to dredge up his lost memories, the more vexed he grew.
Which only added to his ever-mounting list of frustrations. Worries about the Illusionist Cleric who even now had to be hunting him. Concern for Hailen's well-being during the day, and resentment at his failure to understand the boy. Hatred of the voices that grew louder and more demanding the longer he delayed his kill.
While Hailen slept beside him, the demon and dagger fell silent. Yet his own whirling thoughts refused to grant him respite. He needed peace, from himself, the voices, everything.
He pushed back his blankets and pulled on his boots and cloak, buckling on Soulhunger and his sword almost as an afterthought. If sleep would evade him, he would find a way to clear his head. A walk in the cool night might help. If not, he knew a place where he could practice his sword forms unobserved. Exertion always brought freedom from the chaos in his mind.
As he stepped from the tent, the demon's shrieking returned in full force. An ache settled behind his eyes, and his head pulsed with Soulhunger's intensity. They ached for blood, demanded it. He had to kill, soon, or they would drive him mad. He'd come to accept the need for death as a part of who he was, yet he refused to kill indiscriminately as the demon wanted. He would find prey he believed deserved the death he brought; he had to grasp whatever shred of humanity he could in the unending war raging in his mind.
His knuckles whitened around his sword hilt as the voices grew louder and more demanding. Gritting his teeth, he hurried through the darkness of the mass of tents. A nearby dune would provide him a place to practice away from curious eyes, away from the beating hearts Soulhunger begged to silence.
In his haste, he only smelled blood a heartbeat before he stumbled over a lump on the ground. His stomach curdled as another odor wafted up from the dark heap: oatmeal.
The Hunter's hands closed around a bony shoulder. He turned the body over, and empty eyes stared up at him from an old, wrinkled face framed by wispy white hair.
Wrenna.
Blood had dried beneath her nose, and her head lay twisted at an unnatural angle. Fear and revulsion contorted her slack features in a terrible death mask.
The Hunter's fingernails dug into his palms, and blood rushed in his ears. Who in the bloody hell did this? He glanced around. The camp was silent and still, with not a soul in sight. No sign of Wrenna's attacker.
The murderer wouldn't escape him. He drew in a deep breath through his nose. Myriad scents hung on the night air, chief among them the smell of oatmeal, mint, and the exotic, bright yellow spice Wrenna had loved to sprinkle into her food. The aromas of people, animals, and shelters filled his nostrils, but beneath them all hung another odor, this one strong and revolting: agor.
Allon's spiced rum was the drink of choice for the caravan, and he only knew one man who reeked of agor.
Udell.
He inhaled again, focused on the scent of the bitter home-made swill. The reek of vomit, horse dung, and dried urine joined together in a clear procl
amation. Udell had been here. Even if he hadn't killed Wrenna, perhaps he'd know who had.
The Hunter rose and drew in a deep breath. Udell's scent drew him east, toward the edge of camp and beyond. The demon shrieked in his head, and his heart beat like a stampede of wildebeests. His anger and the need to kill drove him forward. Up a dune he went, following the staggering, stumbling footprints visible in the light of the waning moon. The reek of agor and vomit grew stronger with every step.
Cresting the rise, he stared down at the figure huddled at the base of the sandy hill. The sound of weeping, mumbling, and a sloshing bottle drifted up to him. He slipped down the dune, Soulhunger held in a death-grip.
"She didn't get up." Too much bitter agor slurred Udell's words. "But it's not my fault."
The Hunter slipped up behind the man, quiet as the night wind. Faint traces of oatmeal and turmeric filled his nostrils. Anger flared in his chest.
His boot connected with the back of Udell's head, and the man collapsed into a heap. The Hunter rolled Udell onto his back, ripped a piece of cloth from the man's vomit-stained robe, and stuffed it into his open mouth. Sitting astride Udell's chest, he slapped the man hard.
Udell's eyes rolled around, and he groaned as he stared drunkenly up at the Hunter. "Wh…?"
The Hunter pressed the dagger's tip into Udell's temple. "What did you do?"
Soulhunger pricked flesh, and Udell's muffled screams rose through the gag as the dagger consumed his blood and tugged at his soul. The Hunter held the blade for only a moment. For Udell, he knew it felt as if a lifetime of agony passed in that heartbeat.
Udell gasped as the Hunter lifted Soulhunger. The gag muffled his words.
The Hunter held a finger to his lips. "Be silent." He pressed Soulhunger's edge into the man's throat. "Cry out, and the sands will taste your blood."
Udell swallowed and nodded. His terror seemed to struggle to push back the muddling effects of the agor.
The Hunter removed the gag, but kept Soulhunger pressed into Udell's neck. "Wrenna."
Darkblade Protector_An Epic Fantasy Adventure Page 8
