He held one thought in the forefront of his mind: get the gold to pay the Illusionist Cleric. Again and again, he repeated it to himself, a bulwark to cling to in his desperation. Teeth gritted, fists clenched white against the tremble in his hands, he strode through the streets of the Beggar's Quarter and into the Temple District. The house of Master Bildar, a rich merchant noble who owned half the draft animals in Voramis, would provide the coin he needed.
He ducked into a side street to avoid a Heresiarch patrol. Heart pounding, he pressed himself into the shadows of a doorway, listening to the tromp tromp of their boots until it faded. With a quiet sigh, he slipped back into the street, continuing his journey toward…
Where? He stopped. Where was he headed? What was he doing out tonight? He ought to be home, curled up with Etta or reading little Lora a story.
No! He shook his head. Focus! Steal the gold and get to the Temple of Prosperity.
Frustration and anger set his stomach churning. He knew what was happening but could do nothing to stop it. Only the Illusionist Cleric could stop the decay of his mind. He had to hang on to every memory until the priest reversed the Rite.
* * *
Panic gripped Naylor's heart in a vise. He stood in the middle of an unfamiliar corridor, surrounded by furniture and paintings he'd never seen in his life. A velvet purse dangled from his fingers; its heft told him it held enough gold to live on for weeks.
But where was he? How had he gotten here? And where had the purse come from?
He scanned the room, desperate for answers. An open door behind him led into a darkened office. Someone had opened all the drawers of the enormous wooden desk, rifled through the cabinets, and scattered paper across the table.
Who had broken into his home? He shook his head, brow furrowing. No, that couldn't be right. His home was much smaller. So whose home was he in?
Light spilled into the room. A rotund man in velvet bedrobes strode around the corner, the lantern in his hand illuminating the hall. He stopped, mouth agape at the sight of Naylor.
Naylor opened his mouth; perhaps the man could explain.
"Thief!" The portly man's shout cut off his words.
Naylor froze. Thief? Where? The man's eyes snapped back to him and he realized the truth. He glanced at the purse dangling from his fingers. I'm the thief.
Instinct set his feet in motion. He darted down the corridor, away from the man's light and shouts. Without knowing why, he turned into a side room and leapt out the open window. His right hand closed around a drainpipe and he slid down to land hard on the muddy alleyway two floors below.
How in the hell had he known to do that? He searched his memories, found faint glimpses of himself sneaking through other homes. He was a thief.
The shouts from within the portly man's house grew louder, and lights brightened the windows. Naylor fled; he had to get away before the Heresiarchs arrived. The heavy purse jingled in his hand. Why had he taken the gold? And why in the Watcher's name were his hands on fire? The stabbing pain flared bright and hot. He nearly dropped the purse so violently his fingers twitched. He dared not cry out for fear of attracting attention. He ran, confusion setting his mind awhirl.
Where was he running to? Where could he go to find safety? He had no idea how to get home; no idea where home even was. He only knew he had to flee before the Heresiarchs caught him.
He rounded a corner and ran full into a man. They collapsed in a tangled heap of limbs. Naylor groaned and, with an apology to the bewildered laborer, raced away.
The streets flashed by as he ran. But why was he running? He slowed, his brow furrowing. The ache in his lungs and ribs forced him to pause and catch his breath. He racked his brain. Who was chasing him? And why?
He looked around. Everything seemed so foreign; he'd never been in this part of Voramis before, not in his memory. He strode toward the nearest building, a squat, sturdy construction with an enormous obelisk towering high. Beside it stood a small onyx altar, and beyond a dull brown building. A part of him knew they were temples, but try as he might, he couldn't remember the names of the gods.
He sat on the edge of the fountain in the middle of the enormous plaza. Why couldn't he remember? What was happening to him?
He stood, hesitated, then sat again. He had no idea why he had come here or where here even was. He could only sit and stare around him, hopeless, lost. Thoughts flowed through his mind, ever out of his reach. When he tried to cling to one, another trickled away. He drifted in the currents of memories that refused to coalesce before his eyes.
Fire raced through his fingers. He plunged his hands into the water to cool them, to no avail.
"Please!" he cried—to whom, he didn't know. Someone, anyone. "Please, help me."
Only the sound of the bubbling fountain echoed in the enormous plaza. He was alone.
He slid to the hard cobblestones, tears streaming down his face. He sat there, lost, confused, and helpless. He couldn't even remember his name. In desperation, he fumbled in his pockets to find anything to bring back memories, to give him an idea of who he was.
A purse hung in one pocket; his eyes widened as golden coins spilled onto his palm. His other pocket contained a few useless-looking slivers of metal, a pair of silver coins, and a strip of red cloth.
He ran his fingers over the fabric. Why would he have this? Hesitant, he sniffed it. The scent—roses with a hint of citrus—seemed somehow…familiar.
Something snapped in his mind. Images washed over him.
He sat before a simple headstone, his fingers tracing words he could not read etched into the stone. A child lay in bed, pale, shivering, covered in a pile of blankets. A curly-haired girl laughed and reached for him. "Gramps," she cried.
Grace. The child's smile, her round face with the little button nose, the mischief in her dark eyes. He knew them. They belonged to Grace, his granddaughter.
"Grace." He repeated the name over and over. He had to remember it, no matter what.
The Illusionist Cleric! Naylor sat upright. His eyes sought out the Temple of Prosperity with the mind-boggling patterns painted onto its façade. A priest there had done something to his mind, his memories. Could he fix it? Could the Illusionist Cleric reverse whatever had happened?
He fumbled for the purse. He had money—a lot of it. He could afford to pay. Surely the God of Madness would take pity on him.
Stumbling to his feet, he staggered across the empty, darkened plaza toward the Illusionist's temple. The priests could heal him, perhaps even restore what he'd lost.
Up the stairs he went, his feet filled with lead and pain surging through his fingers.
He pounded on the temple door until his hands ached but no one answered. Tears streaming, he sagged against the wall.
"Please," he begged, this time to the Illusionist himself. "Please, let me remember her."
He clutched the cloth to his chest and rocked. He had to remember the child: her smile, the way her eyes lit up when she saw him.
Grace. His Grace. He fixed her face in his mind and held it firm.
He wouldn't forget. She was all he had left.
Bonus Stories:
These stories don't deal with disorders in the same way the four above do, but I wanted to include them in this collection for two purposes:
1) They give a greater look at Voramis as a whole.
2) They tie indirectly with The Last Bucelarii series and the Hunter specifically.
Enjoy!
A Life for a Life
The Hunter clamped a hand over the servant's mouth and pressed the tip of his dagger against her spine. "Make a sound and you're dead."
The woman went rigid but swallowed her reflexive scream.
"Good." The assassin known only as the Hunter of Voramis spoke in a growl barely above a whisper. "If you want to live, do precisely as I say."
She gave a jerky nod.
"Keep silent, and only speak when spoken to. Got it?"
The woman nodded ag
ain. The stink of fear rolled off her in waves, mixing with her unique scent: cloves, sweat, and something deeper, unfamiliar.
The Hunter slowly removed his hand from her mouth and stepped back. "Eyes forward, on the door. Don't turn around."
A tense silence hung in the room—Lord Eddarus' bedchamber, judging by the massive four-poster canopied bed with its silken sheets and eiderdown pillows, soft carpets, oaken armoire and mirrored vanity table, and the lavish bathing chamber through which the Hunter had entered. He'd expected to find the nobleman asleep. The servant girl had simply had the rotten luck to be in the empty, darkened room. The Hunter had had to act, to stop her from raising the alarm, but he had no reason to kill her. He'd come to deliver a message to Lord Eddarus—the slaughter of a hapless servant seemed pointless.
"Where is your master?"
"I-In his study." Fear echoed in the woman's voice. "P-Please, sir, don't hurt me! I've just—"
"Silence. I've only come for your master." He tightened his grip on his dagger. Soulhunger's voice echoed in the back of his mind, pounding, pulsing, begging for blood. It would feed well tonight. "Take me to him."
"He'll kill me!" The servant's words turned plaintive.
"You will need fear no reprisals from Lord Eddarus."
"But his guards—"
"There must be a way around them." The Hunter hovered over her shoulder. "No one else needs die tonight."
A shudder rippled down the woman's spine at his breath on her ear. Her protests died unspoken; fear proved a powerful motivator.
"Show me the way, and you will come to no harm." The Hunter placed the blade's razor edge against the side of her neck. "But cry out or raise an alarm, and everyone in this house will face the Long Keeper this night. Starting with you."
At the touch of steel, a whimper escaped the woman's throat, but she nodded. "I-I understand."
The Hunter removed the dagger from her neck. "Good." He placed the tip against her spine again. "Now move."
The servant woman shuffled forward on slippered feet. The smell of her—a strong, feminine scent even through the sweat of terror—filled his nostrils, set his pulse racing. He pushed back against the demanding voice in his mind. His dagger, Soulhunger, ached to feed on the woman's lifeblood.
Lord Eddarus will satiate your cravings soon enough. The pounding faded to a dull ache in the back of his head.
The servant opened the door and peered out. Dim lamplight glimmered in the hall beyond, but silence met the Hunter's keen ears. After a moment, the woman slipped out into the corridor, the Hunter a step behind.
Night lanterns seated in silver wall sconces illuminated the opulence of the nobleman's mansion. Portraits of stern men frowned down from gilded frames, with marble plaques beneath displaying the names and histories of Lord Eddarus' ancestors. Praamian frescoes decorated the ceiling of the corridor; a master artist had painted scenes of the War of Gods in bold, vivid colors that made the scenes of death and destruction seem oddly realistic.
The Hunter snorted. Only a fool believes in such legends. Everyone knew demons never truly invaded Einan, and the stories of the gods battling in the heavens were just that: stories.
His soft-soled boots moved noiselessly on the plush rugs of royal purple, but the shuffle of the servant woman's slippers sounded too loud. He listened for any sign of another servant approaching. A clink reminiscent of dinnerware on a heavy-laden tray echoed around a corner. Seizing the woman, he dragged her into the shadows behind a fluted marble column.
"Silence!" he hissed. She trembled, and her tears streamed over the hand he pressed over her mouth.
Footsteps echoed at the end of the corridor, growing louder with every heartbeat. The Hunter tensed and tightened his grip on the hilt of the utilitarian dagger sheathed beside the ornate, curved blade with its gemstone pommel—he only used Soulhunger to send a message. He had no reason to kill the servant, but wouldn't hesitate if discovered. Nothing would stop him from reaching Lord Eddarus.
The woman gasped for air, her body shaking like parchment flapping in a hurricane. The Hunter clenched his teeth and cursed his foolish impetuousness. Instead of spending his usual days or weeks studying his targets and their homes, his anger over Lord Eddarus' betrayal had made him impulsive, careless. He'd broken into the nobleman's house with no preparation, which was how he found himself holding this terrified woman captive.
The Hunter grinned as the clinking diminished and slowly faded in the distance. The Mistress' luck hasn't entirely abandoned me, it seems.
After a moment, he prodded the servant back into the hallway. She trembled as she led him through one silent, dimly lit corridor after another. The tension in her shoulders grew with every step deeper into the heart of the mansion.
An unmistakable sound came from around the next corner: the jingle of chainmail, and the shuffling of booted feet. The Hunter's grip on the servant's arm tightened and pulled her to a stop. He placed his mouth against her ear and spoke in a low voice. "There?"
The servant shivered, swallowed, then nodded.
The Hunter pulled her down the passage, away from the guards. "Another way in? Around the guards?"
She shook her head, fear making her movements jerky.
The Hunter sighed. He'd hoped to get in and out without leaving too many corpses. I guess Lord Eddarus' men will pay for his mistake.
"Please!" the woman whispered, her voice shaky with panic. "Please, let me go. I won't—"
The cry of an infant sounded from somewhere in the house. The woman's head snapped toward it, every muscle going rigid.
The Hunter's jaw tightened. "Yours?"
The woman nodded. "Haven't fed him since this afternoon." Her expression grew pleading. "I swear, I won't tell a soul."
"Damned right you won't," the Hunter growled. He turned her roughly to face him. The woman's breath caught in her throat as she stared up at him—no doubt a reaction to his eyes. They were a black darker than the shadows around him, and unnerved even the bravest men. "You will go to your child's room, and stay there, no matter what you hear. Say anything to anyone, raise an alarm, and I will come for him. I will make you watch."
Terror contorted the woman's face: a pretty face, with high cheekbones and full lips. She fled the moment he released her arm, her feet shuffling over the carpet as she sped toward her wailing child.
The Hunter squared his shoulders. The threat should silence her tongue long enough for him to be done with Lord Eddarus, but he had no intention of following through. He'd killed his share of men and women—gender made no difference to him; he killed whoever he was paid to—but never a child. Even he, the Hunter of Voramis, had lines he would not cross.
He took a deep breath and he checked his weapons a final time. The sword slid from its scabbard with a whisper of steel on leather, and his throwing daggers hung within reach in the folds of his dark grey cloak. Soulhunger's voice urged him onward. He had come for blood, and the dagger would not fall silent until it fed.
He slid through the shadows without a sound and peered around the corner. As he expected, two guards in mail shirts stood at attention before the door to Lord Eddarus' study. Their weapons, harness, and armor were in excellent condition, but their eyelids hung heavy, their shoulders slumped.
Instead of drawing his sword or daggers, he reached for one of his twin handheld crossbows. The weapon's arms snapped out from within their compartments in the stock of the bow and the string pulled taut with a twang. Reloading proved a laborious task thanks to the intricate spring system that allowed the weapon to fire two bolts in quick succession, but he doubted he'd need more quarrels to handle these hapless fools.
He raised the crossbow and squeezed twice, sending projectiles hurtling toward the guards. One bolt took the nearest guard in the eye, the impact slamming him against the wall. He slid to the ground, leaving a smear of crimson on the pristine marble. The other guard gurgled and fumbled instinctively for his sword, but the broad tip of the quarrel had s
evered his spine. He flopped and lay still, blood pumping from the wound in his neck.
The Hunter moved with the speed and silence of falling night, gliding toward the door and gently turning the handle. The door made no sound as he pushed it open, slipped inside, and pressed it shut behind him.
Even in the dim light leaking from the fireplace, Lord Eddarus' study radiated opulence—albeit in poor taste. Ivory tusks thrust out from the wall, mounted beside the skulls of exotic beasts of prey. A glass showcase displayed the most prized of the nobleman's collection of gemstones. Shelves of bound books and scrolls dominated the entire western half of the study. The colorful carpet spreading from the enormous bloodwood desk to the stuffed armchairs beside the fireplace could have only come from the kingdoms of the far north and would be worth a fortune. The oaken wall panels and Praamian ceramic tiles added to the garish luxury of the room. Whatever the reason Lord Eddarus had cheated him, it wasn't for lack of coin.
The man himself sat in one of the lavish armchairs, a crystal snifter held in a careless grip. He swirled the amber liquid—even from across the room, the Hunter could smell the aroma of the Nyslian brandy—and took a sip. A smile tickled at his lips as he met the Hunter's eyes. "I must admit my disappointment, Hunter. I expected you sooner."
Expecting me? The Hunter hid his surprise behind a stony expression.
"You hired me to carry out a contract, Lord Eddarus. Count Irainan lies at the bottom of the Port of Voramis."
"I take it you've come for payment." Lord Eddarus was a ruddy-faced man with thick lips, heavy cheeks, and a prominent brow that seemed oddly large beneath his retreating hairline. The breadth of his shoulders and heavy chest contrasted with his bulging midsection. He wore no weapons beyond a belt dagger, yet no trace of fear shone in his brown eyes as he flicked a coin at the Hunter.
The Hunter caught it and narrowed his eyes at the copper bit. "The agreed upon price was—"
Different, Not Damaged Page 9
