Darkblade Slayer

by Andy Peloquin

  The Hunter and Hailen sat in silence for long moments, mesmerized by the beauty, content to watch the last rays of sun disappear in the darkness. The air beneath the shade of the towering palm trees was cool and fresh, a welcome relief from the blistering heat of the Whispering Waste.

  The Hunter pressed another chunk of bread into the boy's hand. "Eat. You had a long day riding Ash."

  Hailen looked up at him, curiosity filling his odd purple eyes. "Are you going to eat, Hardwell?"

  "I already did," the Hunter said, rubbing his belly for emphasis. "I'm so full it feels like I ate an entire camel!"

  Hailen's nose wrinkled. "Ew! Camels are stinky and noisy." He frowned. "They probably taste bad, too."

  The Hunter chuckled. "I don't doubt it. All tough and stringy."

  The camel a few paces away seemed to take offense, for it grunted and let out a long rumbling hiss. The sound covered the growling of the Hunter's stomach. Right now, he'd choke down a camel haunch or even a bit of boiled hoof. He hadn't eaten more than a few bites in the last two days. Their meager supplies would run out before they reached Saltfall. Hailen needed to eat more than he.

  He'd tried to trade with the small group of merchants they'd encountered at the Glowing Spring, the only oasis in the middle of the Whispering Waste, but the traders refused. They'd need every scrap of food to get across the salt flats.

  Thankfully, water was plentiful at the Glowing Spring. A deep stone basin surrounded the small pool, preventing the salt from leeching through the earth and into the water. A crude shelter of stone with a decaying thatched roof provided meager shelter from the wind and sun. Though the wind kicked up white crystals, the natural rock formations and a wall of sun-baked clay bricks laid by careful hands protected the pool. The water had only a hint of salinity—fresh enough for horses and men alike to drink. There'd even been enough to wet the horses to cool them down at the end of the long, hot day.

  He’d obtained a map to the oasis from Whiteridge, but his desperate flight from the storm had blown him off course. He and Hailen had only stumbled onto the Glowing Spring by the Mistress’ own luck. He'd spotted the camel train across the flat wastelands, and it had taken the better part of the afternoon to reach their campsite.

  The four men of the caravan eyed them with the passing interest of fellow travelers. They'd accepted his well-rehearsed tale of a pilgrimage to Vothmot without question. They seemed more concerned with getting their camels ready for the overnight trek—preferring the evening chill over the blinding white sands during the day—than getting to know their new companions.

  Their lack of interest did little to diminish his wariness. After what had happened with Marin during the crossing of the Advanat Desert, the Hunter maintained a reserved distance from the travelers. Even though they looked ordinary enough, even the mildest demeanor could hide any number of depravities.

  "How far to Saltfall?" he asked as the caravan leader mounted his camel.

  The man stroked his long, neatly-trimmed beard with a frown. "As long as you keep due east by northeast, you ought to reach it by noon on the day after tomorrow." He reeked of the perfumed oils in his beard, along with the stink of camels and the sandalwood he transported.

  "And from there to Vothmot?" The Hunter had a general sense of the direction he needed to go, but it would be easier to ask these traders, who apparently had just come from the city.

  "Another five, six days, depending on your pace." The man eyed Hailen. "A bit of free advice for you: keep a close eye on that boy of yours in Vothmot. It's always the young'uns that tend to go missing."

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Missing?"

  The merchant's brow furrowed. "Haven't you heard any of the stories?"

  The Hunter shook his head.

  "Well, since as far back as anyone could remember, there've been tales of children vanishing from the streets." The man stroked his chin. "Nephew of mine swore his wife's sister's son disappeared, never to be seen again. Now, I'm not for believing the tales of purple-eyed spirits, but you wouldn't be the first pilgrim to find Vothmot's grandeur hides a darker side."

  The Hunter's spine stiffened. Purple eyes?

  "That close to the Empty Mountains," the man said, frowning, "there's always one monster tale or another floating around. I don't give 'em much credence, but all the same, keep a sharp eye on the lad."

  "Thank you," the Hunter said, nodding. "Any more advice?"

  The man pondered for a moment, then his face split into a grin. "Steer clear of The Painted House if you want to keep free of disease." He winked at the Hunter. "The pickings at Divinity House are always better, anyway. Pleasures that will make you see paradise, and I'm not just talking about the kaffe. Not that a pilgrim like yourself would be interested in such things, of course."

  The Hunter nodded. "Devotion to the Master can only be obtained by understanding the temptations of the flesh then seeking to eradicate them." He'd heard the doctrine of the Lecterns, priests of Kiro the Master, spouted many times in Divinity Square in Voramis.

  "Right you are." The man grinned. "Apprentice guard you on your path." With a nod, he flicked his cane against the camel's neck. The beast groaned and set off on its plodding path away from the oasis.

  The Hunter watched the four men and their beasts go. The noise of their passage reached him for a full hour after they left. In the barren silence of the Whispering Waste, the winds carried the sound across the flat plain.

  He found the man's warning curious. Children disappearing? Purple-eyed spirits? It had the makings of a legend, but he'd discovered that many of the things he had once considered myth had a root in truth. Chief among them the existence of demons and their offspring, the Bucelarii. Him.

  He'd long ago come to terms with his heritage. He had always known he was different: his inhuman abilities, his body's rapid healing, and his vulnerability to iron. In many ways, the revelation that he was descended from demons had answered questions about himself.

  But there were many more truths to uncover.

  He glanced at Hailen. The boy had fallen asleep leaning on their packs. The mystery of Hailen's past was of far less concern than his future. The purple-eyed Elivasti in Kara-ket had used opia, the "fruit of the gods", in a ritual to drive out their inherited madness. But the Hunter had been forced to flee before he could obtain the fruit for Hailen. If he didn't reach Enarium soon, the Irrsinnon would claim the boy.

  Already, the signs of madness had become more evident. Even with Soulhunger by his side, Hailen had a tendency to get lost in his own mind. He would stare off into space for hours, his eyes blank and ears deaf to the world around. It wasn't as bad as the madness the Hunter had encountered in his past—with Master Eldor's son, no less—but he couldn't let the boy suffer the same terrible fate.

  The Hunter settled into a comfortable position against his own pack. The last glimmers of daylight had just begun to fade, with the first evening stars appearing in the sky.

  With nightfall came the winds. Quiet at first, barely more than a breeze that ruffled his cloak and caressed his face with chill fingers. It grew stronger, louder, shrieking in his ears and setting his head aching. Carried on the winds were the whispers that gave the flatlands their name.

  He could not understand the words, but they seeped into his senses and pierced his mind with sharp claws. The wailing grew louder, screaming across the empty expanse of salt flats, carrying with it the stinging crystals of white.

  The ache in the Hunter's head grew until he could stand it no longer. He threw himself to his feet and, tucking his cloak around Hailen's sleeping form, retrieved Soulhunger and his long sword. The feel of solid steel and the weight of his weapons felt oddly comforting. In brazen defiance of the wailing winds, the Hunter strode out of the bowl and onto the salt flats.

  The shrieking intensified ten-fold as the voice in the Hunter's head returned. Hailen's presence kept the voice at bay, but he could never truly be free of it. It drove him to kill with
a relentlessness that not even Soulhunger's bloodlust could match. The voice of his inner demon would never be content until the world drowned in a sea of blood and death.

  At the moment, the voice had little coherence, instead filling his mind with a screeching that added to the cacophony of the winds around him. The Hunter gritted his teeth and swallowed the acid burning in his throat. He had to face the demon, if only to prove that he was in control.

  He settled into a guard position, sword and dagger held low. Closing his eyes, he imagined himself building a wall in his mind—not a physical one, but a manifestation of his will. Brick by brick it grew, trapping the presence in his mind and pushing it out of his consciousness. The demon within fought back, and the Hunter struggled to maintain his grip on the voice. The presence hurled itself against the rising wall. The Hunter gritted his teeth and made the mental barrier thicker, stronger, taller. The shrieking, screeching voice grew fainter until the last brick fell in place and the Hunter stood alone with the wailing winds.

  The Sage had taught him the trick—one more tool used to manipulate the Hunter into carrying out his bidding. The Hunter used it to keep the voice at bay, something that had proven far more challenging since leaving Kara-ket. He had to reach Enarium; not just for Hailen's sake, but for his own. He had to find a way to get the voices out of his head.

  For now, he settled on the thing that had always worked: physical exertion. He moved through the basic sword forms, his movements lithe and graceful, his muscles pouring power into each strike. Faster and faster he went, losing himself in the rhythm of block, parry, counter-strike, and thrust. For a few minutes, he had only the whipping, stinging wind and the pounding of his pulse for company.

  Sweat soaked his tunic by the time he finished. Salt crystals formed on his body, drying out his skin and lips. Returning to the little stone basin, he washed his face in the water.

  An older, harder face stared up at him from the little pool. The eyes, a shade darker than black, and the hard, handsome features were his, but new lines appeared. The burden of loss weighed heavy on him. No matter how hard he tried, he could not outrun it.

  The most recent death stung most of all. Master Eldor, the Elivasti that trained him in the martial arts, had been like a father to him in a life long ago. He’d cared for the Hunter in a way no one else in his memory had. He'd brought him into his home and treated him like a son, along with his own son. And, when the time had come, the old blademaster had sacrificed himself so the Hunter could save Hailen.

  The Sage had forced the Hunter's hand. He'd used the oath sworn by the Elivasti to manipulate Master Eldor into a position where he had to kill the Hunter. Master Eldor had kept his word, and in doing so, given the Hunter a chance to live. The Hunter would make the Sage suffer for Master Eldor's sake. The demon would die slowly, painfully.

  His hand went to the scars on his chest. Once, they had numbered in the hundreds, a reminder of each life ended by Soulhunger's blade. Now, only five remained. One for each of the demons he'd killed in Voramis, Malandria, Al Hani, and Kara-ket. The rest had disappeared. How, he had no idea.

  Just one more question he needed answered.

  He settled back against his pack and stared up at the stars. The lights glimmering high overhead brought back the memory that had plagued him since leaving Malandria.

  She lay in bed beside him, smiling down at him with love in Her eyes. The scent of jasmine and honey, cinnamon and berries.

  She leaned in to kiss him. Her skin warm on his, Her lips rich and sweet.

  "My love," She said. His heart leapt at the sound of Her voice, so silky and beautiful. "This must be goodbye."

  "But why?" he asked.

  "Because it will mean death for the both of us if ever we are to meet," She said. "It is not to be."

  "We have braved death before," he told Her. "There is nothing to fear."

  "I am sorry," She told him. "You have brought this upon yourself."

  "What—?"

  Steel glinted in the light of the candles. Her face contorted into a mask of rage, and the dagger plunged toward his heart.

  Beyond the hunt for the Sage, beyond his need to protect Hailen, the mystery of this nameless, faceless woman drove him to search for Enarium.

  His wife. Mother of his son—Rivan, we called him. His returning memories had shown him that much.

  Yet they'd also shown Her betraying him to the demon-hunting Cambionari, turning him over to the Illusionist Clerics to have his memories erased. He needed to know why. She had insisted that he leave Her and their unborn son. He needed to know why. Deep in his heart, an unknown longing beckoned him toward Her. He could sense Her presence far to the north.

  In Enarium.

  She'd mentioned the Serenii city, the same place where the Sage intended to enact his plan to free Kharna, where he would find the secrets to freeing Hailen from the curse of his blood.

  All roads lead to Enarium.

  It wasn't called the “Lost City” for nothing. No one knew where to find it. He had only the Sage's heartbeat thumping in the back of his mind to guide him. He would follow it until—

  He frowned and sat up. Something was wrong. He delved deep into his mind, seeking out the presence. It had been growing fainter all day, but surely it should be…

  He gasped. The Sage's heartbeat was gone!

  He fumbled in his pack for the strip of cloth he'd taken from the demon in Kara-ket. Slicing his palm with Soulhunger, he dripped blood onto the blade and repeated the ritual of seeking. His keen senses hunted the demon's presence just as he always had sought out his victims in the past. Yet the harder he tried to concentrate, the more his panic grew.

  The dagger couldn't find the heartbeat.

  Cold dread seeped into the Hunter's bones. He'd crossed the Whispering Waste using the Sage's presence to guide him. After all, the Sage would certainly go straight to Enarium—he knew the way.

  Something the Sage had told him echoed through his mind. "To enter Enarium, I must become human."

  He'd learned of the curse that kept the Abiarazi from returning to the Lost City. The curse twisted them into mindless monsters. But humans could enter without suffering ill-effect, or so the legend held.

  That was the only explanation that made sense. The Sage had sacrificed the last of his power to become human. That meant he had already reached the Empty Mountains and would arrive in Enarium long before the Hunter.

  Damn it! The Hunter ground his teeth. What could he do now?

  The one time he'd brought it up to the Sage, the demon had spoken of an ancient work of the playwright Taivoro. Bardin, the former Illusionist Cleric in Malandria, had said Taivoro was the founder of the order of priests serving the Illusionist. If the demon had uncovered the secrets in that work, that meant the Hunter could find them as well.

  He'd need someone to guide him through the Empty Mountains, and he'd need to get his hands on that book. And he had to do it quickly. With every day wasted in search of answers, the Sage would come one step closer to carrying out his plan.

  If the Hunter failed, the Great Destroyer would be freed to unleash death and suffering on the world.

  Chapter Three

  Dust covered the Hunter from head to toe as he and Hailen rode toward the city of Vothmot. The last leg of their journey across the Whispering Waste had gotten progressively worse. The flatlands lived up to their names, the voices carried on the wind growing louder as the voices in his mind did. It had become nearly impossible to keep out their screeching, wailing, and insistent demands for death. If Hailen hadn't been there to keep them at bay, the Hunter would have gone mad.

  He cast a worried glance at Hailen. The boy sat slumped in his saddle, exhausted from half a day of riding. His eyes had the faraway look the Hunter had come to dread. He was lost in his thoughts, withdrawing deeper into himself with every passing day. The Irrsinnon dragged him farther into its clutches.

  The tightness in the Hunter's shoulders increased with eve
ry passing league. He had to get Hailen to Enarium soon, or the boy would be lost to him forever. He needed to find a guide to lead him through the Empty Mountains, as well as the book that would guide him to the Lost City of the Serenii. He'd find both of those, he hoped, in the city before him.

  Vothmot was a city as weathered and rugged as the nearby mountains. A solid wall of stone—the same grey as the jagged peaks in the distance—rose forty paces high, and all the traffic into the city funneled through the two city gates to the south and east. The guards on duty at the gates wore a form of plate armor made of round metal mirrors atop coats of chain mail, with flowing white cloaks that marked them as Wardens of the Peak, the lawkeepers of Vothmot. They waved the Hunter and Hailen through with little more than passing interest. The city saw all manner of traffic—wagons laden with goods to sell, whole companies of guards surrounding wealthy noblemen, commoners on aging mounts or making the journey to the city afoot. A man and his boy would draw little attention.

  The first thing the Hunter noticed as he rode through the gate was the enormous temple rising in the distance. People flocked to Vothmot on pilgrimage to pay homage at the Master's Temple, the largest on Einan. The building stood nearly twice the height of the city wall, with a dazzling blue glass central dome surrounded by seven towering minarets. The voices of the Lecterns, priests of Kiro the Master, echoed across Vothmot as they called out the midday prayer.

  The rest of the city lacked the splendor of the temples. Stone and brick buildings bordered the broad paved stone avenues, with decorative flourishes of smaller semi-domes and horseshoe-shaped arches supported by ornately-carved stone columns. It reminded the Hunter of the city of Aghzaret, but where the people of Al Hani decorated with bright hues of blue and green, Vothmot preferred various shades of white and red. Even through the layer of dust that covered everything, the city seemed to sparkle with a fiery intensity that only added to the feel of permanence, agelessness. The very buildings seemed as old as the mountains in the distance.