Hailen!
Chapter Eighteen
Rage burned in the Hunter’s chest and set his blood boiling. A red haze swam before his eyes.
If they have touched a hair on his head, I'll rip out their throats with my bare hands. He swallowed hard and balled his fists with such force that his arms shook.
“How dare they harm the lad? Kill them all!” The demon cared nothing for Hailen, but sought to fan the flames of his anger, to goad him into giving it the death it craved.
“You cannot wait until tonight,” the demon purred. “What could happen to him by then?”
The demon manipulated him, but he was past caring. The fury burning within him—amplified by every crack of the whip, every child's cry of pain—demanded action.
He shuffled toward the nearest pair of guards, muttering incoherent words under his breath. Head down, shoulders hunched, he imitated the myriad drunks that had lurched through the back alleys of Lower Voramis after a night in the tavern.
One of the guards stepped forward and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. The Hunter stumbled and fell against the guard, hands clutching at the man's belt as if leaning on him for support. The guard spoke in a language the Hunter didn't recognize, but the tone of anger and warning was unmistakable.
With one smooth motion, the Hunter slipped the man's curved dagger from its sheath on his belt. A dim part of his mind recognized the steel blade as Praamian-crafted. He drew the razor edge across the other guard's throat. At the same time, he plunged Soulhunger into the first guard's heart.
A surge of power flooded him, burning away his fatigue, thirst, and hunger, drowning out the guard's cry. Ice coursed through his veins and collided with the fire of his anger. Instead of dousing his rage, the power added to his all-consuming need to kill. His lips creased into a snarl as the bandit gasped, gurgled, and slumped to the ground at his feet. The blood-soaked body of the second guard joined the first a moment later.
He had little doubt the guard's scream had alerted others. He had perhaps moments before more bandits discovered his presence, nowhere near enough time to draw his sword from within the voluminous robes. Without hesitation, he seized the long, iron-tipped spear leaning against the wooden post behind him. Spear in his right hand and Soulhunger gripped in his left, he charged through the ring of black tents toward the heart of the camp.
A bandit rushed him, steel scimitar raised high, mouth open to raise the alarm. The Hunter thrust the tip of the spear into his mouth. The iron blade burst through the back of his skull, spraying the sand behind the slumping corpse with dark blood and brain matter.
Two guards came around the corner of a nearby tent. One wielded an axe nearly as broad as his barrel chest, the other a steel-headed Voramian war lance almost twice his height. The Hunter had no time to pull the spear free. He ducked beneath the decapitating, horizontal stroke of the iron axe, and lashed out with Soulhunger. The dagger bit deep into the guard's thigh. The bandit cried out, and blood fountained from the gaping wound. As the first dropped, the Hunter slammed his shoulder into the second guard's gut and hurled him to the ground. Soulhunger's razor edge opened the man's throat with one vicious slash.
Two down, how many more? He'd need the long spear to fend off the iron weapons. Ripping the lance free of the corpse, the Hunter continued his sprint toward the heart of the camp. He burst through the ring of tents, and the sight that met his eyes stopped him cold.
An ebony-skinned giant towered over a group of children. His whip—a cruel, barbed thing easily a half-dozen paces long—cracked above their heads. Blood trickled from the pale backs of four children, and the rest cowered in abject terror of the massive man in the bright, voluminous bandit robes.
The Hunter reacted without thinking. The war lance in his right hand, meant to be wielded on horseback, weighed twice as much as a normal spear. His superhuman muscles, fueled by the power of his rage and the rush of death, hurled the weapon like a javelin. The spear carved a deadly arc through the air and plowed through the huge man's side with the sound of a butcher's knife carving meat. Blood exploded from his mouth as the lance knocked him from his feet, pinning his corpse to the ground like a grisly trophy mounted for display.
Bandits sprinted toward the Hunter from all directions. He fumbled for the sword, finally pulling it free—just in time to chop through the arm of an axe-wielding warrior. Even as he hacked his way through two swordsmen, a dozen more joined the fray.
Damn it! Too many of the bastards.
He cast his eyes about wildly, searching the faces of the children for Hailen. He had to get the lad and get out now.
There!
Tears streaked Hailen's dust-stained face and red rimmed his eyes. When he saw the Hunter, he burst into a fresh wave of tears. "Hardwell!"
"I'm coming, Hailen!" Fury set every muscle in his body afire.
He twisted from the path of a thrusting sword and returned with a blow that laid open his attacker's forehead to the bone. A trio of spear-wielding bandits forced him back, and a half-dozen more behind cut off his escape. Desperate, he rushed forward in an attempt to break through the lines, but a wall of bristling swords, axes, and spears barred his way. A handful of steel weapons glinted in the sunlight, but he saw mostly the dull sheen of iron. He cast about, dread setting his heart racing. At any moment, one of the men would attack, and their iron weapons would…
"Hold!" A commanding voice rang out above the clash of weapons, shouting men, and scuffling feet. "Who dares to attack the stronghold of Il Seytani, sovereign of the Sah'raa Advanat?"
The ring of glittering metal parted, and a man strode toward the Hunter. Strong, dusky-skinned hands rested comfortably on a bright red sash. A steel scimitar hung at his side, the hilt well-worn with use. Colorful fabric covered him from head to toe, but the man's eyes—nearly as dark as the Hunter's own—studied him with a piercing gaze. This was no ordinary bandit; everything about him spoke of intelligence and cunning.
"Il Seytani," the Hunter said.
"You have heard of me, then." Il Seytani spoke Einari with a thick accent. "But who are you, ytaq?" He spat the last word as an insult, but his tone held a trace of awe and surprise.
"I am no one of import." The Hunter dropped his sword and raised his hands high. He hid a wince every time the tip of an iron sword or spear came too close. "Give me what I came for, and I will depart in peace."
Il Seytani's face creased into a smile that showed a mixture of bemusement and respect. "And what, pray tell, has brought you to the heart of the Sah'raa?"
The Hunter stabbed a finger toward the captive children. "One of those belongs to me. Release him, and no more of you need die this day."
"Brave words for a man surrounded by sharp weapons and strong arms." Il Seytani's eyes bored into him. The man raised an ebony-skinned hand and snapped his fingers. At his growled order, a pair of bandits hurried toward Hailen.
Rage burned in the Hunter's chest. He stepped forward, but a half-dozen sword and spear points stopped him.
"You live at my command, ytaq. I find myself curious as to what manner of man can carve his way through a dozen of my best warriors."
With surprising speed and grace, the man whipped out his scimitar and thrust it at him, stopping the tip a finger's breadth from his chest. The Hunter made no move, but his skin crawled at the presence of iron. He could sense it even through the thick layers of fabric.
"Do not think for a moment that I will hesitate to kill you." Il Seytani's eyes held no anger, only confidence. "You would not be the first to die in a futile effort to rescue one stolen away by my Mhareb." Through the reek of sweat and fear surrounding him, the Hunter detected the man's scent: sandalwood, the musty odor of horses, iron.
Without taking his eyes from the Hunter, Il Seytani shouted a command in his own language. Three men sidled forward, their expressions wary, hands resting on their daggers. One plucked Soulhunger from the Hunter's grasp while the other two wrestled his arms around behind
his back. The Hunter remained still and silent. He couldn't risk anything, not while a ring of iron surrounded him. He would bide his time and make his move when opportunity presented itself.
But when he saw one of the dark-skinned bandits dragging Hailen toward Il Seytani, dark hand gripping the boy's throat, his rage boiled over again. He lurched forward, heedless of the iron blade at his throat and the arms holding him back. A primitive bellow of rage burst from his throat. It took three more guards to restrain him, and still he struggled.
The bandit brought Hailen to stand before Il Seytani. The boy looked small and helpless amidst the sea of dark faces and glittering weapons. He stared up at the dusky-skinned bandit without fear in his red-rimmed eyes. Though tears left tracks in the dust on his face, he managed a faint smile. "H-Hello."
"What is your name, boy?
"I'm Hailen. Who are you, and what are you doing to my friend Hardwell?"
The Hunter's heart leapt to his throat. Even when surrounded by enemies, he has no idea what danger he faces.
Il Seytani crouched to place his face on level with the boy's. "Tell me, Hailen, how old are you?" The bandit's tone almost sounded kind, but the Hunter heard a trace of something sinister in his words.
"I'm almost seven." Hailen's smile brightened. "Father Pietus said I was born beneath the first star of summer, and that…"
"And this Hardwell," Il Seytani interrupted, his voice cracking like a whip. "He is your father?"
Hailen's brow furrowed, as if uncertain why this man would shout at him. "No. I never met my real father. Though Father Pietus was like…"
"Enough!" Il Seytani snapped.
Hailen's eyes widened. The Hunter's chest tightened at the sight of the boy's fear. The lad had looked at him with that same expression the morning before. Instinctively, he reached out to Hailen. Something slammed into his side, and he slumped to the floor, coughing.
He glared up at the man who'd struck him. "I hope you can wipe and hold a sword in the same hand. Touch me again, and you'll lose both of them—and something more."
The bandit seemed not to understand his words, but the Hunter's tone left little doubt as to his meaning. The dark-skinned man smiled and struck the Hunter across the face.
The Hunter spat blood and shook his head. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
"If you are through threatening my men," Il Seytani said, "I have an offer I believe might interest you."
The Hunter raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Il Seytani pulled down the headcloth, revealing a swarthy face with a thick nose, heavy eyebrows, and a beard of coarse hair as dark as his eyes.
"You have no doubt heard the stories about me. They say that I ride the whirlwind and destroy all in my path. It is said that none have seen my face and lived to tell the tale. Some even say I am a demon of the Sah'raa."
The Hunter smiled. I'd know if you were a demon, you bastard. The man's scent held no stench of rot and decay, nothing to mark him as Abiarazi.
Il Seytani took the Hunter's smile as one of good humor, and his expression turned shrewd. "I may be all these things, but above all else, I am a man of business."
The Hunter spat. "Business? What a noble profession you have chosen!"
Il Seytani shrugged, clearly unfazed by the Hunter's anger. "Selling goods and people is good business, is it not? What matter where they come from, or how they were obtained?"
"The Apprentice himself would be proud."
Il Seytani shook his head. "Your Thirteen have no place in the Sah'raa, ytaq. In the Advanat, there is only one God, the One Above All."
The Hunter shrugged. "Thirteen, one, a million—I haven't come to debate gods with you, Il Seytani. Give me what is rightfully mine, and I will depart."
"Of course." Il Seytani smiled and opened his arms in a gesture of acceptance. "And once I have returned what is yours, perhaps I should find every person from whom I have taken and give back to them."
Il Seytani snapped something in his own tongue, and the men around him burst into raucous laughter. The bandits howled and jeered in their language. The Hunter had no need of a translator to hear the mockery in their voices.
Il Seytani's eyes darkened and his face turned hard and cold. "Listen to me, ytaq." He pressed the tip of his scimitar into the Hunter's neck. "You do not give the orders here. One word from me, and my men will tear you apart. The only reason you are alive is because there is a chance I will find use for a man of your skills. But make no mistake, the minute you stop being useful, that is when you will cease to breathe."
The Hunter jerked away from the iron scimitar, trying to hide his pain. His skin burned where the blade had touched him.
Il Seytani's lips spread into a vicious smile. "I see you understand the predicament in which you find yourself."
The Hunter eyed the scimitar dangerously close to his flesh and gave a slight nod of his head.
"Good." Il Seytani sheathed his blade and turned his back on the Hunter. "Then all that is left is for me to illustrate my point."
The dark-skinned man strode toward Hailen. The boy stared up at Il Seytani, no trace of fear in his eyes.
The Hunter's heart leapt to his throat. "Harm one hair on his head, and you will live to regret…"
Il Seytani snapped something in his own tongue, his voice cracking like a whip. Something slammed into the back of the Hunter's head. His vision swam and he slumped to his knees. He fought the men that gripped him, to no avail. Too many hands held him captive. Surrounded by iron weapons, he had little hope of reaching Hailen.
Through hazy eyes, the Hunter looked up. Il Seytani's dark hand rested on Hailen's shoulder. The lad stared up at the bandit leader, eyes wide not with fear, but curiosity.
"I told you, Hardwell. I am the one who commands here." The bandit spoke without taking his eyes from the boy before him. "Everything has a price."
Il Seytani's free hand dipped toward his belt and pulled the dagger free of its sheath. The Hunter struggled against his captors, but could not break free. Cold fingers of dread clutched his heart, setting his head spinning. He could do nothing to protect the boy.
"Pay attention, Hardwell. Here is the cost of your insolence."
The Hunter watched helpless as the blade flashed against the pale flesh of Hailen's throat.
Chapter Nineteen
"No!" The Hunter jerked against his captors, but he could do nothing about the wall of iron that hemmed him in and rendered him helpless.
Crimson flowed down the side of Hailen's neck, stark against his pale skin. The boy cried out in surprise and pain. Wailing, he fought in vain against the men holding him, and fresh blood spilled from the wound every time he struggled.
"Hailen! Stop, now!"
At the sound of the Hunter's voice, Hailen ceased fighting. Tears streamed down his face and he stared at the Hunter, eyes filled with confusion.
The Hunter spoke in a soothing voice. "Don't be afraid, Hailen. I'm right here."
Knives of acid burned in the Hunter's stomach and set his chest afire. Not again! I can't lose another one.
"Enough!" The Hunter's eyes sought Il Seytani's. "There is no need to do this! Your meaning is plain."
A cruel smile split Il Seytani's lips. The bandit leader barked in his tongue, and one of the men holding Hailen pressed a cloth to the boy's neck. Hailen wailed louder, but the Hunter fell still. The boy would live.
"Tell me what you want." He spoke in a soft, dangerous voice.
Il Seytani's eyes mirrored the cruelty in his tone. "The ytaq learns quickly. I feared I might have to do something more…drastic." He fingered the dagger at his belt.
"That won't be necessary. I offer my skill in exchange for the boy's life."
The bandit leader grinned. "Ahh, you wish to bargain. I am always willing to do business. But tell me, Hardwell, what skills do you possess that might be worth the life of a slave?" He traced Hailen's angular chin with his finger. "One such as this will fetch a good price once he has been sufficiently�
��trained. Why should I not sell him along with the others?"
"You have seen what I can do." The Hunter pointed toward the corpse pinioned to the ground by the huge lance. "I have little doubt you can find use for me."
Il Seytani stroked his chin pensively. "Perhaps. Truth be told, that is the only reason I have spared your life thus far." He flicked his wrist toward the body. "I have no doubt you are more than a match for most of the warriors in my camp."
A few of the men around Il Seytani bristled, but they held their peace. Their gazes wandered toward the lance and its grisly trophy.
"There is little doubt of your skills, but I have no need of more warriors." The bandit fidgeted with his thick beard. "What I need is a qattala—an assassin!"
The Hunter smiled, a slow, confident grin. "From your mouth to the gods' own…"—he corrected hastily—"…to God's own ears."
The bandit leader studied him. "It seems our meeting is fortuitous. Perhaps the One Above All led me to your caravan for a reason."
"Or simply pure rotten luck."
Il Seytani chuckled. "A sense of humor, even in the face of death. An admirable trait or a foolish one."
The Hunter kept the smile plastered on his lips. I know how you will face death. Screaming, crying out for mercy.
"Then let me tell you of our…bargain," Il Seytani said. At his command, the hands holding the Hunter loosened.
The Hunter turned a baleful glare on the men behind him. They met his eyes with hate-filled expressions, but more than one hardened warrior flinched beneath his gaze.
Hiding a smile, he turned back to Il Seytani. "So tell me, who is it you want me to kill?"
The bandit leader smiled. "Directly to business. A man after my own heart. Tell me, Hardwell, man of the south, how much of our Twelve Kingdoms have you seen?"
"None."
"None?" Il Seytani raised an eyebrow. "So this is your first visit to our fair land?"
The Hunter nodded.
"Even better!" Il Seytani's smile looked genuine. "So you will have no objection to killing the al-Malek of Al Hani?"
Darkblade Protector_An Epic Fantasy Adventure Page 13
