Darkblade Protector_An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Andy Peloquin

  Soulhunger pulsed in his hands, lusted for blood.

  Haven't you taken enough lives today? These two creatures died…

  “Beasts! Insensate animals! We demand the blood of humans!” The demon's snarls set his head pounding with such ferocity that he nearly cried out.

  No. The Hunter clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. Not this man.

  “Why not? What is he…”

  Because I say so. He fought to push the voices back. You will have your prey, soon enough. But not him.

  "You hurt?" Graden's deep voice rumbled like thunder.

  The Hunter swallowed hard and pushed the voices away. "I-I'm fine," he stammered. His throat begged for water. The wounds on his chest, shoulders, and face ached, but already he could feel the flesh knitting together. "I just need a moment to rest."

  "Don't wait too long." The huge man struggled to a sitting position, then climbed to his feet with the ponderous movement of shifting stones. "No telling if there are more of them in camp. Go make sure your boy's safe."

  "He's with Marin. He'll be…"

  Graden's eyes widened in horror, his jaw dropping. "What? You left him with the nonce?"

  "Aye." The Hunter nodded. "What of it? And what's a nonce?" He'd never heard the word.

  Graden studied him askance, incredulity and suspicion mixed on his face. "You've heard what the priests of the Master do, yeah?"

  The Hunter's heart stopped. He felt as if a horse had kicked him in the gut. He saw an image in his mind: a leering, pale-faced man in the mottled blue and green robes of the Master ran a long-fingered hand over the exposed thigh of a boy no older than ten. The Arms of Heaven in Voramis catered to all tastes. It was whispered in low places that none could match the unusual appetites of the priests in service to Kiro, the Master.

  "You mean...?"

  Graden nodded.

  Bloody, twisted hell! Acid burned the back of the Hunter's throat. And I trusted him with…

  "Go!" Graden's shout snapped the Hunter from his stunned horror. "Find him!"

  Without waiting for a reply, the huge man turned and sprinted into the darkness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Hunter couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think of anything except the priest in the Arms of Heaven. In his mind's eye, Hailen's face replaced that of the young boy.

  What have I done?

  He forced his leaden feet to move; first one, then the other. Slow, stumbling steps lengthened into a sure stride. Faster he ran, demanding greater speed from his body. Gone was the pain of the lacerations on his face, chest, and shoulder. Wind buffeted his hair and face. His cloak flapped in the wind until he ripped the clasp free. Unhindered by the heavy garment, he raced through the camp, heedless of anything around him. Leaping over tent ropes, ducking under poles, and whirling around makeshift shelters. His heart thundered in his chest, and his world narrowed to a single point of focus: Hailen.

  The acrid taste of fear filled his mouth and reminded him of a Voramian night not unlike this. Once again, he raced through the darkness, trying to suppress that same heart-stopping panic that had seized him the night he found Farida's body discarded by the edge of the Midden. Now he fought to do what he'd failed to do for her: he raced to save a child.

  His eyes focused on the camp around him. A jungle of tents and shelters stood between him and Hailen.

  “You won't make it,” the demon mocked. “You'll be too late again.”

  A howl of rage tore from his throat. Terrified faces turned toward him, but he barreled past them. Soulhunger seemed to move of its own accord, slicing through ropes and canvas, opening a path for him. He narrowly avoided collisions a half-dozen times in as many heartbeats, yet on he raced. He cared nothing for his own safety. He didn't care if the entire caravan discovered the truth about who he was—what he was. All that mattered was Hailen.

  The Hunter's eyes latched on to the flickering light burning within Marin's tent. It seemed an eternity away. An endless expanse stood between him and the boy. No matter how fast he ran, he knew he wouldn't arrive in time.

  “You failed Farida,” the demon said. “Why waste time on the boy when there are so many others who would make such delicious victims?”

  His arms windmilled wildly and his legs pumped. He poured every ounce of strength and fury into his legs, willing them to greater speed. Yet he couldn't outrun the sickening chill of dread. The voice in his mind had to be wrong. He couldn't be too late. He wouldn't survive if he faced the voices alone.

  He ripped aside the tent flap and thrust his way into the shelter. The dim candlelight within revealed a sight that turned his blood to ice.

  Hailen stood in his undertunic, trusting eyes staring up at Marin. The old man's emaciated body looked eerie and pale in the candlelight. The Hunter noted the shrunken chest, the sagging abdomen, and the grey patch of hair above his shriveled sex. His long fingers rested on Hailen's shoulders in a gesture of familial reassurance.

  But it was the man's expression that drove the knife deeper into the Hunter's gut. The Hunter had seen the look in Marin's eyes before; the men in The Arms of Heaven had stared at the young girls and boys with the same desire. The old man's mouth hung slightly agape and his tongue flicked out to moisten his lips as his gaze roamed over Hailen's exposed flesh.

  "Hailen!"

  Both Marin and the boy jumped. Hailen turned to the Hunter, and a smile touched his lips. "Hardwell!"

  Marin's gaze dropped to Soulhunger in the Hunter's hands, and his eyes flew wide. He flinched and backed away, hands raised, mouth struggling to form words as he scrambled for his clothes.

  Without taking his eyes from Marin, the Hunter knelt and wrapped his left arm around the boy's shoulders. He reached for Hailen's tunic on the floor and pulled it over the lad's head.

  "Are you hurt, Hailen?"

  "Hurt?" Confusion twisted Hailen's face. "We just finished dinner and were preparing to sleep. Marin was teaching me a new game…"

  The Hunter crushed Hailen to his chest. He knew the boy's fingernails had to be red and dripping blood, but he didn’t care. He didn't want to let Hailen out of his sight. Not after this.

  “Kill him!” The demon screamed in his thoughts, and for once, the Hunter had no desire to disagree.

  He climbed to his feet and stepped toward Marin. Hailen can't be here for this. The thought gave him pause. Could he let the boy out of his sight, even for one moment?

  "Hailen," the Hunter said in a soft voice, never taking his eyes from Marin. "Go to our tent and get your bag. Can you do that? I'll be right behind you."

  "What are you going to do?" Confusion and fear echoed in Hailen's voice.

  "Marin and I are going to…talk."

  Tears filled the old man's eyes. He shook like a leaf, panic and dread etched into the lines of his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but the Hunter cut him off.

  "Not in front of the boy." Without looking down, he pushed Hailen gently toward the tent flap. "Go, Hailen. I'll be there in a moment."

  Casting a puzzled, worried glance at the Hunter and Marin, Hailen scampered from the tent.

  The Hunter stalked toward the old man.

  "Please, Master Hardwell." Marin dropped his clothing and fell to his knees, hands extended in supplication. "I would never harm the boy. He is precious…"

  The Hunter struck Marin hard across the face. The old man collapsed, crying out. The ammoniacal stench of urine rose from the puddle that spread beneath him.

  "He trusted you, Marin." The Hunter spoke in a low growl, his voice icy as the wind that blew up from the Frozen Sea. "You took advantage of that trust."

  "Please!" The old man's broken jaw mangled his words.

  The Hunter stared down, not a shred of pity in his heart. "There is nothing you can say, Marin. You preyed upon an innocent, helpless child, one who had no way to understand what you were doing, or why it was wrong." He ran his fingers over Soulhunger's razor edge. The blade, as if reading his inte
ntions, whispered eagerly, and the demon goaded him onward. "For what you intended to do this night, not even the gods will have mercy upon your soul."

  Marin's eyes widened as Soulhunger opened his throat. Blood gushed from the wound and splashed over his pale chest. He clutched his neck, desperate to slow the bleeding. The Hunter rammed Soulhunger deep into the man's groin, slicing through soft flesh, skittering along bone, and carving through soft organs.

  Marin tried to cry out, but his breath whistled through the gash in his neck. The Hunter ripped Soulhunger free, and the putrid stench of ordure permeated the tent. Tears streamed down Marin's face. He coughed blood, his mouth opening and closing without a sound. His eyes followed Soulhunger, growing wide in terror.

  "May the Long Keeper turn you away from his embrace, and your soul rot forever."

  With a wordless snarl, the Hunter drove the dagger into Marin's chest. A cry of triumph reverberated in the Hunter's mind; Soulhunger and the demon roared in delight. Marin screamed, a raw, bloody sound garbled by his torn throat, as the dagger consumed his soul.

  A torrent of power overwhelmed the Hunter, and he slumped to the floor. Still clutching the dagger, he writhed beside the old man, Soulhunger's exhilaration resonating in his mind. Fire flared in his chest as the invisible hand carved a fresh scar into his flesh.

  But as the voices of Soulhunger and his inner demon faded, a new clamor reached the Hunter's ears. Cries of terror and suffering, distant at first, but growing more prominent with every passing second. Vicious crackling, accompanied by the sharp, bitter scent of smoke.

  What in the twisted hell? Climbing to his feet, he stepped from the tent into a world aflame. Shelters smoldered and smoked, flames reaching orange fingers high into the night sky. Screams and shouts mixed with the clash of steel on steel.

  Two sword-wielding figures struggled in the shadows of a nearby tent. The shorter of the two chopped the legs out from beneath his opponent and buried his blade in the man's neck. Raising his voice in a ululating war cry that pierced the chaotic din, he sprinted off in search of new victims.

  Bandits! The Hunter's blood turned to ice, and his fear returned in full force. And I just sent Hailen to our tent.

  He rushed from the shelter, but not before knocking the candle onto a pile of parchment and blankets. Even as he raced through the camp, he heard the snap and pop of Marin's tent catching alight behind him. The old man's home was just one amidst a blazing inferno of their camp.

  "Hailen!" he called out. The cries around him and the crackling fire drowned out his voice. Men and women rushed past, shouting, calling out names he didn't recognize, and wailing in terror.

  Dark figures stalked the camp, some feline, some running on two feet. A midnight-skinned greatcat leapt onto the back of a fleeing woman the Hunter recognized as the wife of Allon the chef. Its fangs crunched through her spine, and she flopped limply beneath the beast.

  Two men with faces wrapped in dark veils leapt toward him, short swords gleaming dull in the firelight. The Hunter smelled the tang of iron through the smoke. He ducked low under a slash and twisted out of the way of a blow aimed for his head. Soulhunger struck out twice and the two men fell to the floor—one clutched at the blood gushing from his inner thigh, the other clapping a hand over a ruined eye.

  The Hunter raced on, heedless of those around him. He made no move to aid Sirkar Jeroen and Kellen, who stood back to back in the midst of a half-dozen armed bandits. He had no time to protect Ayden when a mounted warrior charged, spared only a moment of pity as the long iron lance spitted the healer's chest and crushed his ribs.

  The orange glow of burning canvas, wood, and flesh brightened the night sky. Smoke thickened the air around him, setting his eyes and lungs burning. One arm covering his mouth, he raced on, desperate to reach his tent and find Hailen alive.

  Panic and horror swelled within him. He'd rescued the boy from one nightmare, only to send him to another.

  A wagon burst through the smoke and carnage, clattering directly toward him. The whites of the beasts' eyes showed clearly, and the horses screamed in panic. He dove out of the way of the careening wagon.

  Something dark whizzed past him in the night, accompanied by a buzzing, whirring sound. A moment later, something slammed into his chest and threw him backward, directly into the path of the charging horses. Pain seared into his gut and shoulder. He looked down, stunned. Three black-fletched arrows protruded from his body. He smelled the stench of iron, watched the poison darken his veins.

  He slumped as fire burned through every cell in his body, rendering him immobile and helpless. He watched through a dim haze as a handful of arrows sprouted from the necks, withers, and torsos of the horses. He could do nothing but lie there, unable to move, as the beasts reared and toppled. The impact of the carriage collapsing atop him failed to register through the torment of the iron spreading through his body.

  He had minutes left to live.

  I failed you, Hailen. The lad's face flashed before his eyes, replaced a moment later by the face of the little girl he had tried and failed to save in Voramis. I'm so sorry.

  "Hardwell!" A man's deep voice cut through the fog. Bristan's bearded face hovered above him.

  The Hunter tried to open his mouth to cry out a warning, but no sound came out. He watched, helpless, as a bandit buried the head of a massive iron axe in Bristan's stomach. Bristan's eyes widened in shock and horror even as he wrapped his huge hands around the man's throat and squeezed. Despite the din of battle and the murk in his mind, the Hunter heard the crack of the bandit's neck.

  Bristan's knees sagged and the big man collapsed to the ground, back against the wagon, tattooed fingers clutching at the ragged wound in his belly.

  Fire and agony filled the Hunter's world.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Now…

  Hailen!

  The body was just about the right size. Consuming fire had burned away hair, flesh, and features. His shoulders slumped in defeat, the torment of a thousand knives piercing his heart.

  "Hailen," he mumbled. His voice cracked. "I'm so sorry, lad. I…"

  "Hardwell!"

  Nearly drowned out by the clash of steel, shouting voices, and crackling fire, the voice sounded faint, distant. But he would recognize it anywhere.

  "Hailen!" Panic, desperation, relief, anger, and joy raced through him all at once. He leapt to his feet. "Where are you, Hailen?"

  His eyes darted around wildly, but he could not pierce the thick smoke. Coughing, gritting his teeth at the biting pain in his burned knees, he sprinted in the direction from which he thought the voice had come.

  "Hardwell!"

  A figure charged him with a savage cry, war axe raised to strike. The Hunter dove forward and seized the midnight-skinned arms holding the weapon. With a strength borne of his fury, he hurled the man backward, knocking him from his feet. He threw himself onto the falling man, slipped Soulhunger from its sheath, and drove it into the bandit's neck. The bandit's scream cut off in a wet gurgle, and he coughed, spraying blood in the Hunter's face. Beneath the tattoos—which stood stark and white against the man's dusky skin—an expression of terror disfigured his features. The Hunter growled his rage into the dying bandit's face.

  "Hardwell!"

  He levered himself to his feet and ran on. The demon cried its ecstasy as power washed over him. His legs no longer ached. The wounds left by the arrows had mostly healed. With the iron cleansed from his veins, his limbs responded to his commands to move faster.

  Horses screamed, and thudding hooves echoed around him, accompanied a moment later by the rush of stampeding beasts. The Hunter threw himself to the side to avoid being trampled.

  Another tattooed bandit materialized from the night, whirling a staff longer than the Hunter was tall. The Hunter didn't even bother to block the blows. He grunted beneath the impact of blows to his upper arm, shoulder, and thigh, but barreled onward, driving Soulhunger between the bandit's ribs. The eager blade slice
d through muscle like crepe paper, trumpeting its delight as it drank deep.

  A gust of wind parted the smoke for the briefest of moments, and between heartbeats, the Hunter saw Hailen draped across the withers of one of the stocky desert horses. A white-robed, dark-skinned bandit sat on the horse's back, pressing a dagger into Hailen's back.

  "Hailen!"

  He charged through the debris and carnage. He barely noticed an onrushing figure, paused only long enough to lay the bandit's throat open. Another bandit barred his way, and the Hunter leapt over the low sweep of the iron sword. His knee slammed into the man's ebony forehead, knocking him backward. He dimly heard a wet crunch as he landed on the man, and blood soaked into his breeches.

  One of the figures on horseback stabbed a finger at him and shouted in a language he could not understand. A trio of bandits charged, waving crude scimitars.

  The tang of iron filled his nostrils. Keeper take it!

  He threw himself backward to avoid the slashing scimitars. The bandits chased him with wild swings of the iron blades, and he retreated, not willing to face them with only Soulhunger. He wished desperately for his sword, but it lay in the tent along with most of his belongings.

  A dark figure barreled from the smoke, shouting an unintelligible war cry. The man slammed into the bandit on the Hunter's right, knocking him to the floor. Two more shadows emerged from the night, short swords gripped in soot-stained hands. Kellen and Graden charged the two remaining bandits with a wordless roar.

  "Hardwell!" Hailen's cry came again.

  The Hunter's eyes searched the night for the small figure. Hailen's captor had turned his horse's head toward the desert.

  "No!"

  He leapt over the struggling form of Sirkar Jeroen and raced toward the mounted bandit. His feet fairly flew over the hard-packed earth of the road. He had to get to Hailen before…

  With a vicious grin, the bandit dug his heels into the horse's flanks and the beast—a stocky, dun-colored animal, barely taller than the Hunter—leapt forward, moving with the fluid grace that marked its breed.