Darkblade Protector_An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Andy Peloquin

  A second pair of guards marched around the perimeter of the tents. The Hunter muttered a curse. The patrols passed at intervals of five minutes or less.

  I'll have to find another way in.

  He moved like a wraith, gliding from shadow to shadow, crossing the open space to the nearest black tent. An ear pressed to the tent wall, he listened for any signs of life. Heavy breathing sounded from within. One occupant, sleeping.

  Perfect.

  Soulhunger, sensing the nearby heartbeat, pounded in his mind. The demon screeched at him, begging him to kill. The Hunter grimaced at the shrieking in his mind. Be silent. He must die without a sound.

  The demon radiated anger, but it fell quiet. The Hunter had given it the death it craved. It would leave him alone, would give him peace. For now.

  He had no desire to uproot one of the iron stakes that held the tent securely in place. He'd have to cut an opening.

  Kneeling in the darkness beneath an awning, he drew Soulhunger. The dagger's razor edge sliced through the thick canvas like molten steel through snow, with little more than a whisper of parting threads. The shadows of the overhanging tent covering would hide the hole long enough for him to get in and out.

  He slipped through the tear and into the tent. Crouching, he held his breath and listened to the steady breathing. One man. One silent death. His soft-soled boots noiseless on the carpeted floor, he slithered toward the sleeping bandit, clapped a hand over his mouth, and seized his throat. Before the man opened his eyes, the Hunter wrenched. The bandit's neck gave a sickening crack.

  Good. Not a sound. He'd chosen this tent due to its small size—he'd guessed only one person lived within. No one would find the corpse and raise the alarm.

  He moved with slow, cautious steps toward the mouth of the tent. Pulling up his hood, he crouched at the tent opening. Outside, campfires dotted the heart of Il Seytani's camp, pushing back the evening gloom and chill. Robed figures sat around the fires, eating, laughing, and talking. The Hunter kept his eyes away from the firelight; he needed what little night vision he had.

  The demon whispered in his mind, goading him to action. It filled his mind with images of glorious death and destruction.

  No. They wield iron weapons, and there are far too many of them. Better to find Hailen and slip out unnoticed. He would fight only if forced to.

  He pictured the camp as he'd seen it on his first visit. At the far end of the ring of fires lay a wooden stockade. He would find Hailen there, along with the rest of the children taken from the caravan.

  But how will I get there? He could skirt the edge of the camp, but even the dullest watchman would find that behavior odd. No man skulked through his own home. The only way to avoid drawing attention would be to cross the open space. He would walk through the camp as if he belonged, and no one would notice anything amiss. He had to do something about his clothing, though. Still soaked with bandit blood, it would draw too much attention.

  He glanced around, and his eyes fell on a robe discarded in a heap on the floor. He wrestled the garment over his head; it was a bit snug, but he only needed it long enough to cross the ring of campfires without drawing attention. If he covered his face with the headcloth, he only had to worry about the small patch of light skin around his eyes.

  It seems Queen Asalah's lessons will come in handy.

  He studied the corpse, noting the man's sharp cheekbones, long, thick nose, and dark complexion. With a deep breath, he pushed his focus inward. Blessed silence echoed in his thoughts, but his shoulders knotted in nervous anticipation. He concentrated on that sensation: the twisting, tightening muscles, the slight tremor in his hands. He forced his mind deeper, searching for the thump, thump of his heart and the silent throbbing of his pulse.

  He imposed his will on his body. He commanded it to change, and it yielded to the strength of his resolve. Lightning crackled and sizzled, coursing through his veins and setting his nerves ablaze. A terrible pressure mounted behind his eyes as muscle and bone in his face shifted, the skin of his nose, eyes, and cheeks thickening. He gritted his teeth and willed the change to continue.

  With a gasp, he broke his concentration. The power surging through his veins faded. His face felt thick, heavy, and…wrong. His nose was thicker and longer, his cheekbones sharper. If he'd done it right, the color of his skin would match those of the bandits. He had to hope he'd done it right.

  Agony throbbed behind his eyes. Stooping to mask his height, his heart thundering, he thrust aside the tent opening and stepped into the clearing. No one took notice of him, or, if they did, saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  It…worked!

  Taking care to avoid direct firelight, he wended his way around the clearing. He kept his eyes downcast, his shoulders hunched, and his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. He hardly dared to breathe. As long as no one spoke to him or looked into his eyes, he was safe.

  The relentless hammering of his heart made the short distance to the wooden stockade seem endless. Nervous fear twanged in his chest; he could be discovered at any moment. Only a fool felt no fear when surrounded by enemies. His pulse raced when a pair of figures rushed toward him, but they only nodded and hurried past, racing toward the edge of the inner camp.

  The tension drained from his shoulders, and he muttered a relieved oath. He'd gotten the bandit's features and dark skin tone right.

  Il Seytani's voice rang out in the darkness, and the Hunter's gut leapt to his throat. His eyes darted around the campfires, studying the shapeless figures, desperate to find the man who had held a blade to Hailen's neck.

  Il Seytani stood at the far end of the clearing, a wineskin in one hand and a naked sword in the other, surrounded by a crowd of drinking, laughing, and shouting bandits.

  The Hunter's hands flexed and relaxed of their own accord. He ached to wrap his fingers around the bandit's neck, to feel the gush of blood pouring from his throat. The demon flooded his head with images of the man's death. Il Seytani would beg for mercy but find none. Soulhunger would be fed.

  No! He pushed the voices away, gritting his teeth at the effort. Killing him now would put Hailen in danger.

  Il Seytani laughed, flung down the wineskin, and broke free of the crowd, moving toward the largest tent in the inner camp. Heart hammering, the Hunter forced himself to move away from the dark-skinned chieftain, to keep walking when all he wanted to do was draw his sword and cut every one of the bandits to ribbons. He had to reach the stockade on the far side of the fire.

  The wooden enclosure drew closer with every step. The Hunter scanned the shadows, searching for the huddled bodies of the caravan's abducted children. A weight of dread settled on his mind.

  Something's wrong. But what?

  It hit him. It's too quiet. He should hear sobbing or crying.

  Darkness and silence greeted him. The wooden stockade stood empty. Where are they?

  A numbing chill seeped through his veins, turning his limbs to lead. Had he come all this way for nothing? Had he failed, again? Farida's lifeless face flashed before him. Bardin appeared a moment later, his glazed eyes dull and unseeing. Hailen joined them, and the sound of childish laughter drifted in the night.

  He squeezed his eyes tight to block out the familiar faces. It can't be over! Not like this.

  The laughter came again. It sounded…real?

  Hailen? The Hunter forced his eyes to focus. He stood amidst a sea of campfires, surrounded by bandits.

  The sound came from behind him. But it was no laughter; a familiar cry rang out and quickly turned to screams.

  The Hunter whirled. Where is he?

  His gaze fell upon a half-dozen dark-skinned bandits amidst a smaller ring of tents, twenty paces from the main ring of fires. The clustered men poked and prodded with long sticks at a wooden cage no higher than their knees. Within lay a pitiful, sobbing figure.

  "Stop, please!" The familiar voice twisted the Hunter's stomach. "You're hurting m—"

  The words tur
ned to a cry of pain as one of the bandits thrust a sharpened stick through the cage bars. The man took a swig from his wineskin and shouted something. Whatever he said made his fellows laugh, and they all joined in the torment. The cage rattled beneath the impact of the bandits' sticks. The little figure in the cage wailed.

  Hailen!

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The clean, innocent smell he knew so well reached him, and a red haze tinged the edges of his vision. Bloody bastards! He stalked through the campfires with the single-minded focus of a predator. Rage burned away all vestiges of fatigue. You'll suffer for that!

  He slammed a fist into the back of the nearest bandit's head, and bone crunched beneath the force of the blow. The man lurched forward and fell onto the cage, his legs flopping useless. One of the bandits stood with a stick poised to thrust at Hailen. The Hunter drove his dagger into the base of his skull. The man's mocking laughter choked off in a spray of blood, Soulhunger's tip protruding from his mouth.

  The remaining bandits stood frozen in shock and surprise. The Hunter closed his hands around one's throat and snapped the man's neck with an audible crack. Soulhunger laid open the throat of another poised to cry out an alarm.

  One man managed to drop his wineskin and fumbled for the dagger at his belt, but the knife caught on the cloth folds of his robe. Even as he drew it, the Hunter seized his wrist and drove the man's own dagger deep in his belly. He moved before the body hit the ground. His boot snapped up to strike the last bandit behind the ear, and the man sagged to the soft sand.

  Too late, he realized the folly of his actions. Had anyone heard or seen what he'd done, they would raise the alarm. He whirled, ready for an attack.

  No war cries rang in the night. No bandits rushed him with naked blades and shouts of alarm. A tent stood between him and the ring of campfires, and most of the men were night-blind from staring at the flames. Hope surged within him. No one had seen them!

  Hailen whimpered and sobbed as Soulhunger sliced the leather bands holding the cage closed. The Hunter ripped the door open and, reaching inside, seized the boy's robes and dragged him free of the cage.

  Bewilderment mixed with terror on Hailen's face. The Hunter clapped a hand over his mouth and dragged the boy into the shadows of a nearby tent. Sheathing Soulhunger, he held a finger to his lips.

  Hailen nodded, and the Hunter removed his hand. Hailen stared up at him, lip quivering. "Who are you?"

  The words struck the Hunter like a physical blow, and he fell to his knees. All the pain he'd felt at Farida's death slammed into him, and his chest tightened. He'd protected Hailen in memory of her, as a way to atone for his failure to save her. To hear the words—her last—coming from Hailen…a wave of overwhelming sorrow washed over him.

  "Hailen…" He stretched out his hands toward the boy, but Hailen shrank back.

  He saw his hands: dusky brown skin a match to the rest of the bandits. He remembered. He'd changed his eyes and skin. Hailen saw only a stranger.

  Turning away, he drew his attention inward. He sought blood rushing through his face, forcing the flowing currents to bend and shift to his will. Lightning raced through him, scorching every nerve, but he ignored the pain as he compelled his features to return to their normal shape.

  Gasping, he turned back to the boy. "It's me, Hailen."

  "Hardwell?" Relief filled Hailen's face and he leapt into the Hunter's arms. "You came back!"

  The Hunter crushed the boy to his chest. The pressure in his head retreated, and the blistering heat of his rage faded to a slow, deep simmering in the back of his mind. He wanted to scream, to cry, to laugh with relief. He hadn't lost the boy, as he feared. He'd kept his promise. He'd made it in time!

  But now wasn't the time for sentiment. Scores of armed bandits stood between him and freedom. With Hailen in tow, he'd be hard-pressed to escape unnoticed.

  I need a distraction. The ring of campfires drew his attention. Perfect!

  He pulled Hailen's arms free and spoke in a harsh whisper. "Stay here, Hailen!"

  Fear flashed across the boy's face. "What? Why? Where are you...?"

  "Hailen!" The Hunter hissed with the force of a slap. "Stay here. Wait for me."

  Tears streamed down the boy's face, but he nodded. He laid a hand on the Hunter's arm. "I thought I would never see you again."

  The Hunter felt as if a house had collapsed atop him. Hailen hadn't feared for his own life, nor for the horrors he’d faced. He'd suffered at the hands of his captors, yet the only thought in the boy's mind had been a desire to see the Hunter again.

  "I'm so sorry, Hailen. I'm so, so sorry." He swallowed the lump in his throat and brushed away a tear. "I will return in a minute. When I do, we'll be gone from this place forever."

  Turning away, the Hunter willed his features to change shape once more. Though it felt as if sparks crackled through every muscle and nerve, he forced his face to take the desired form. He'd rescued Hailen; now he just had to find a way out of the camp.

  A few dozen paces away, two men sat talking and laughing at a small campfire. The Hunter cut a strip of cloth from a dead bandit's tunic and bound the fabric around one of the fallen sticks. Hunching to hide his height, he strode toward the fire, improvised torch in hand. His face burned and throbbed, but he had to hope he had shifted his features correctly again. Taking a seat opposite the bandits, the Hunter thrust his makeshift torch into the flames. His heart thundered as he watched the fire licking the cloth wrapping.

  When the two men called out to him, he shrugged and mumbled something incoherent. One eyed him with a curious expression, but the other said something that elicited a burst of raucous laughter and drew away his friend's attention.

  The furnace of rage in his gut dwarfed the pitiful campfire. The men across from him had tormented Hailen, had sold the caravan's children into slavery. He would ensure the boy never had to suffer anything like that again. To do that, he'd burn down this entire camp and everyone in it.

  They deserve no less.

  Standing, he seized the torch and strode away. The two bandits shouted something, but he ignored them and kept his pace steady as he moved out of the ring of firelight and slipped behind the tent.

  The dancing firelight of his torch fell on Hailen's face, revealing red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks. Yet the boy's fear melted away at the sight of the Hunter. He held out his hand, and the Hunter gripped it.

  "Come on, Hailen! Get ready to run."

  Hailen stared up with trusting eyes. "What about the others?"

  "The others?"

  "Eileen. Darril. Harlen. The other children that came with me."

  The Hunter's heart ached, but he shook his head. "We can't take them all, Hailen. We have to get out of here."

  Hailen thrust out his lower lip. "But if we leave them here, they're going to be sad. They all miss their parents, and they don't like it here."

  "I know, Hailen, but I can't get them yet."

  Hailen's eyes widened and his lip quivered. "But you have to, Hardwell! You have to get them all out."

  The Hunter knelt before Hailen, taking the boy's small hands in his. "I can't. Not until you're away from here."

  "Please, Hardwell!" Tears brimmed in Hailen's eyes. "They're my friends."

  The lump returned to the Hunter's throat. "I'll make you a deal. First we get out safely, and I'll come back for the others."

  "You promise?"

  The Hunter nodded. "I promise, Hailen."

  He hated lying to the boy, but what choice did he have? Hailen was his priority. He had no idea where the other children were, nor the time to search for them. Il Seytani had spoken of selling them as slaves. Had he done so already? Il Seytani would have kept Hailen to ensure the Hunter honored their bargain, but had no reason to keep the rest of the children. The Hunter wouldn't risk Hailen's life on the off chance he could save the others.

  "Now, come! Let's go."

  The Hunter touched the torch to the nearest tent. The flames lick
ed at the animal hides, catching quickly and spreading. He ran between the shelters, Hailen in tow, lighting as many as he could. Behind him, the dancing flicker of burning tents brightened the night sky.

  Shouts of alarm sounded from the ring of campfires. Perfect! He had his distraction.

  He hurried away from the conflagration and ducked into the shadows of a tent canopy, pulling Hailen into the darkness with him. Crouching, he waited as shouting bandits rushed past to battle the flames. He risked a glance toward the burning tents. More and more bandits rushed toward the heart of the camp, carrying buckets of sand to throw on the flames. Men and women wailed amidst smoking homes.

  The warmth of Hailen's hand in his kept him focused. He couldn’t allow anything to slow him down. He had to get Hailen out of here, even if that meant Il Seytani lived.

  A glance away from the fire revealed the perimeter of the camp unguarded.

  Now's our chance.

  He rose and, placing a warning finger to his lips, dragged Hailen toward freedom. The boy stumbled and fell, and he cried out as his hand slipped from the Hunter's. A few of the bandits turned toward the source of the sound, scanning the darkness. Biting back a curse, the Hunter scooped the boy into his arms and sprinted away from the fire.

  A figure loomed out of the darkness. The bandit called out and held up his torch. His eyes widened at the sight of the charging Hunter, and his hand flashed to the hilt of his sword. The Hunter reached him before he could draw. He thrust Soulhunger at the man's neck, and a spurt of blood steamed in the cool night air. The Hunter didn't wait for the dying man to collapse before racing on.

  A shout of alarm echoed behind him. Keeper take it!

  He darted between the tents of the outer camp, hoping none of Il Seytani's guards had gotten this far out. Pale moonlight shone down on the sand dune rising into the night. An endless ocean of shelters stood between him and freedom. On he ran, heedless of the chaos around him, a grim smile on lips. The image of Sirkar Jeroen's blazing caravan danced in his mind. This is justice.