Darkblade Slayer

by Andy Peloquin

  "Do you know when it is?"

  Father Reverentus' expression grew thoughtful. "Like I said, it occurs once every five centuries, but I could not give you the precise dates. That is the realm of the Lecterns or the Secret Keepers. There are enough of them around that you could simply ask one, though I doubt they'd prove helpful."

  The Hunter sighed. So much for that being helpful. The Sage's men had mentioned the demon’s hurry to reach Enarium before the Withering. If it truly was a gathering of power, it could have something to do with the ancient city of the Serenii. Given the Sage's timeline, he had just over a week before the Withering occurred.

  "If that is all," Father Reverentus said, "there are pressing matters that require my attention."

  "This Enclave really is the highlight of the decade isn't it?" the Hunter asked in a mocking tone.

  The priest looked surprised. "You know of the Enclave?"

  The Hunter shrugged. "It's the only explanation for all these priests, isn't it?" He had no more information than that, but perhaps he could trick Father Reverentus into revealing more. There had to be an important reason why so many of the highest-ranking clerics from around the continent had come to the same place at the same time.

  "It is necessary, much as it pains me." The priest's eyes filled with remorse. "It is the only way to keep the peace."

  The Hunter forced himself not to reveal his surprise. Was the man actually ashamed of what he was doing here?

  "Is that what you tell yourself?" It was a stab in the dark, targeting Father Reverentus' visible guilt. "Does that make it any easier to live with?"

  Father Reverentus drew in a deep breath, then sighed. "No, it doesn't." He shook his head. "But when we lost all the original texts from the War of Gods, we had no choice. We could not let the gods be forgotten, for without religion and belief, the world would have descended into chaos. The burden still weighs heavily on my shoulders, even after all these years, but we do what must be done."

  The Hunter tried to decipher the meaning of the priest's words. The Lectern in the Vault of Stars had mentioned the destruction of Prophet Mehmet's eyewitness account of the War of Gods. Eshendun had written the account based on stories passed down from the Prophet's followers and passed it off as established history.

  Did that mean the rest of the religious texts were also equally falsified? The thought sent horror writhing like worms in his gut. Priests and clerics preached from holy scriptures they claimed to have come straight from the gods themselves. Yet, if all the original texts were lost, where had these scriptures come from?

  "How much of it is true?" he asked, a vague question intended to keep the priest talking.

  Father Reverentus hung his head. "Does it matter? The truth is rarely sufficient to ensure true belief. And, in the end, is it not belief that matters most?" He sounded like he was trying to convince himself of the lie. "Even if it is not based on truth, all men need something to believe in. In the end, faith is what makes things true. Faith is what brings peace and acceptance that there is something worth living for, worth dying for."

  Disgust roiled within the Hunter as he stared at the priest. He'd believed Father Reverentus to be a good man, even if he disagreed with the fundamentals of his belief. But now it seemed the beliefs were all a lie. Worse, a lie perpetrated and encouraged by the priest himself. He, and all the other priests in Vothmot, sold the people of Einan falsehoods masquerading as the word of the gods.

  "When we first met, do you remember what you told me about the gods?" The Hunter spoke in a harsh voice. "You told me the gods were real, even if I do not believe in them."

  "I remember." The priest nodded. "And you were not far wrong when you said the gods were the creations of humans."

  "You truly did create the gods we know now," the Hunter snarled. "And you passed it off to the world as the truth."

  "For the world, the gods are real." Father Reverentus met his eyes without hesitation. "They are as real as the sun, the wind, and the night. They are intangibles, things that most people do not understand. It is enough that they exist."

  "But do they?" The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "If, as you said, it was all invented by the Enclave, can you offer proof of their existence?"

  "Just because the written records are lost to us, that doesn't mean the gods are not real," the priest retorted.

  The Hunter folded his arms. "Nor does it mean they are."

  "Even if the writings are gone, the truths inherent there remain." Father Reverentus narrowed his eyes. "That Ritual of Cleansing we carried out beneath the temple, do you doubt that it was real?"

  The Hunter shook his head. He'd felt the power manifesting in the bare stone room.

  "That ritual was passed down to us in the Book of the Supplicant, written by the founder of our order after the War of Gods. Even after the book was lost, the ritual was not. Everything, from the blood spilled on the altar to the words of the ritual, has been shared on the lips of the Cambionari from the first Enclave to this one." The priest fixed him with a hard gaze. "Belief, Hunter. Belief is what matters."

  The Hunter drew in a deep breath, but his desire to argue with the priest had fled. He simply shook his head and, without a word, strode from the small room, leaving the speechless Reverentus behind.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A lie. The thought ran through the Hunter's mind over and over as he strode through the streets of Vothmot. It was all a lie.

  He had ditched the Lectern's robes in the first abandoned alley he found after leaving the Master's Temple. Now, he looked like any of the thousands of people walking through the Prime Bazaar. Until someone looked into his eyes, he knew. His midnight black eyes would reflect the storm in his thoughts.

  For as long as he could remember, he hadn't bothered with religion. He cared little for belief and had no use for the gods. They had simply been a fixture in the background of Voramian culture, something he exploited when necessary and ignored otherwise.

  But finding out it was a fabrication still felt wrong. Not even the discovery of his half-demon heritage had affected him this deeply. He had always known he was different than the men and women around him in more ways than just the color of his eyes. Yet this revelation seemed too hard to digest.

  The entire culture of Voramis, the only home he'd known for forty-some years, revolved around the gods of Einan. From weekly visits to their temple of choice to donations to the House of Need to even swearing in the gods' names, Voramians had built their society upon the foundation of worshipping the Thirteen.

  The gods were also intrinsically bound up in everything he'd learned over the last months. He wielded iron daggers supposedly made from the Swordsman's own blade. The Beggar God had saved the Bucelarii from destruction. Kharna had summoned the demons, his forefathers, to the world of Einan. No matter how much he tried to ignore them, he could not escape the gods' hand in his lives.

  But it was all a lie. Or if not all, how much? How much of what he had learned to be “the truth” was the fabrication of men seeking to control Einan through religion and faith?

  Anger surged hot within him. All those months ago, Father Reverentus had told him the gods had chosen him to fight the demons. He hadn't taken up the crusade to destroy the Abiarazi in service to any deity, but the knowledge that he was doing “the right thing” carried a certain vindication.

  Now what did he have? Father Reverentus had deceived him with a story of gods and demons that could be as fictional as the Taivoro in his pocket. What remained for him to believe?

  He bumped into someone, and the man fell hard to the dusty street. The Hunter barely heard the indignant shouts behind him.

  He could believe in his own strength. He didn't need the gods to push him forward. He had the skill of his sword, the power in his muscles, and the will to succeed to drive him onward.

  The absence of the gods did not lessen the threat posed by the Sage. If the god Kharna truly didn't exist, that wouldn't prevent the Sage from carr
ying out his plans—plans that undoubtedly threatened all mankind. The fact that the Thirteen were a lie didn't mean Hailen was any safer from the Irrsinnon. If the Hunter didn't find a cure, no god—real or false—would prevent Hailen from descending into madness.

  And the lies told by long-dead priests didn't diminish his desire to find the woman from his dreams—his memories. If anything, this new revelation only strengthened that desire. In a world where he could believe nothing, he needed something to cling to. She was real. He could feel Her presence calling him northward, tugging at his heart. Even if he never had proof in any gods' existence, he knew for a fact that She was real.

  Satisfaction flooded him as he felt the heavy book in his cloak's inner pocket. He had succeeded in the first part of his mission. With the help of Darillon and the secrets hidden in Taivoro's book, he would find the way to Enarium.

  But first, he had to get out of Vothmot. Doubtless Father Reverentus had already summoned the Cambionari to the Master's Temple, and soon the streets would be flooded by demon-hunting Beggar Priests searching for him. They could not find him, but their gift—supposedly from their Beggar God, but who knew where it had come from—would lead them to Soulhunger. They could sense the presence of the stone set in Soulhunger's hilt, the stone that gave the dagger sentience—the stone that held the soul of a demon.

  The Cambionari would find Soulhunger and Hailen with it. The Hunter had to retrieve the boy and get them both out of the city immediately. He wouldn't risk losing the boy to the Beggar Priests. Father Reverentus meant well, but he could not protect the boy from the Elivasti curse. Hailen's only hope lay in reaching Enarium.

  He quickened his pace as he reached the Ward of Bliss. Divinity House stood just three streets down. He could collect Hailen, saddle their horses, and be off within half an hour.

  Icy feet danced down his spine as he saw the mounted riders trotting down the road. They wore the shining splinted mail and bore the ornate facial tattoos marketing them as Warrior Priests of Derelana. Their path led them in the direction of Divinity House. He didn't need the voice in his head to tell him something was very wrong.

  He resisted the urge to run. No sense drawing attention to himself. The odds that they were looking for him were almost infinitesimally small. As far as he knew, he hadn't done anything to anger the Warrior Priests of Derelana. Unless someone had specifically contracted them to hunt him down, they wouldn't—

  His heart stopped as he rounded the corner and caught sight of the woman standing in front of the Divinity House.

  She was shorter than the average Voramian, but her heavy plate mail armor made her seem more imposing. The steel, once burnished to a bright finish, showed the dents, nicks, and scratches of hard wear. The burnished brass anvil in the center of her chest plate, her symbol of honor, no longer shone with the same brilliance. It had the look of cheap, tarnished metal.

  He’d recognize that insignia anywhere. It belonged to Sir Danna Esgrimon, Knight of the Order of Piety.

  Blood turned to ice in his veins. What in the frozen hell is she doing here?

  The last time he'd seen the red-haired knight, she had hurled him into the Chasm of the Lost and left him for dead. That was in Malandria, half a world to the south. Yet here she was, dismounting in front of Divinity House.

  The light of the torch in her hand illuminated the new tension in her posture, a hard edge to her features that hadn't been there when they first met. A familiar greatsword hung from her back--Lord Knight Moradiss' blade had come dangerously close to killing him in Malandria.

  "Demonspawn!" she shouted in a voice of barely restrained fury. "I know you're in there. Surrender yourself and spare the lives of those within. If I must storm by force and drag you out, you put everyone inside at peril."

  The Hunter's heart thundered against his ribs. Nearly twenty Warrior Priests surrounded Sir Danna. He’d faced the priests of Derelana only once before and had a great deal of respect for their skill at arms. There was no way he could fight his way through twenty of them, and definitely not with Sir Danna beside them.

  But he couldn't stand by and do nothing. Sir Danna could sense the presence of Soulhunger's gemstone. He had no idea how she'd tracked it across Einan, but she had. If she stormed the kaffehouse, she would find Hailen and the dagger. There was no way he could free the boy from her clutches before Father Reverentus sent the Cambionari after him. He had to move quickly.

  He studied the group of torch-carrying warriors arrayed on the street in front of Divinity House. The Warrior Priests were tense in expectation of a battle, their stances wary, ready to storm the building.

  The Hunter turned and raced toward the nearby alley, which led behind the row of kaffehouses. His dark grey cloak blended with the shadows of the darkening evening, concealing his movements as he raced down the narrow back street. He had a matter of minutes to get Hailen out of Divinity House before Sir Danna broke down the kaffehouse door.

  Relief filled his chest as he saw only empty streets all the way to Divinity House. He hammered on the rear door of the kaffehouse until a heavy-necked guard pulled it open. He shoved his way in without waiting for the thug to move aside.

  Scantily-clad women regarded him with a curiosity that failed to hide the fear shining in their eyes. They had no idea why an angry knight stood outside their door, but Sir Danna had made her intentions plain. She would be storming in at any minute, and they would all be in danger. The kaffehouse’s guards, little more than club-wielding brawlers, exchanged nervous glances. Doubtless they were seriously evaluating their chances of survival in a direct confrontation. The outcome was grim.

  "Sastia, where is she?" he demanded.

  One of the women, a blonde-haired Praamian with pale skin and lips painted a deep shade of turquoise, pointed up the stairs. "Third door on the left. But she's—"

  He didn't hear the rest of the sentence as raced up the stairs and sprinted toward the room indicated, his boots pounding on the wooden floor. He tested the knob and found it locked. With a growl, he lifted his foot and slammed his heel into the door, just beside the locking mechanism.

  Sastia screamed as he entered, but he held up a hand to calm her. "Be quiet!" he hissed. "Unless you want those warriors storming the building right now."

  Her eyes were wide in fear, but her scream was cut off. "What's going on?" she demanded in a whisper. "Why are they—"

  The Hunter knelt before the boy, who sat on the ground playing with a collection of colorful blocks of wood. "Hailen. We need to go."

  Soulhunger, hanging on Hailen's belt, filled his mind with its delight at his return. The dagger sensed the urgency in his thoughts and welcomed it. Urgency meant danger, and danger meant the Hunter would be forced to use it to kill. Soulhunger's joy echoed in this thoughts; the blade thrilled at the anticipation that it would soon be fed.

  Hailen looked up. "Hello, Hardwell," he said with a smile. It wasn't the instant, bright smile he remembered from his first meeting with the boy. Instead, it was slow, hesitant, as if the boy's mind took time to comprehend that the person before him was familiar.

  "Where are your things?" The Hunter forced himself to speak in a gentle tone to avoid startling the boy. Enough fear filled the kaffehouse already.

  "The bed," Hailen said, not looking up from the blocks.

  The Hunter leapt toward the bed and scooped up Hailen's pack, which lay beside his own. The straps remained closed, and he found nothing missing when he checked them. He slung them over his back, stooped, and scooped Hailen into his arms.

  The boy gave a little cry of protest. "My blocks!"

  "Here." Sastia held out a block painted purple. "It's a match for your pretty eyes."

  Hailen smiled and clutched the block to his chest. "Thank you," he said in a slow voice.

  The Hunter inclined his head to the woman. "Truly, thank you."

  Sastia gave a little nod. "I'm glad I had a chance to spend time with him. A remarkable lad, he is."

  M
ore than you know, the Hunter thought as he left the room and carried Hailen down the stairs.

  Madame Aioni met him on the bottom floor. “Leaving so soon?” Her face twisted down into a theatrical frown, and she shook her head. “A shame. We could have offered you so much mo—“

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” the Hunter said, “but I’m certain you’d rather I depart before those men outside storm your home.”

  Her congenial affect disappeared in a moment, replaced by a hard light that set her eyes ablaze. "Friends of yours?"

  The Hunter shook his head. "Old enemies I thought I left far behind me."

  The madame scowled. "You just had to bring them to my home, eh?"

  "I had no idea they were in town, I swear. Had I known…" He would never have left Hailen here.

  "No way to unbreak this egg, I suppose." She folded her arms over her ample bosom. "You'll be wanting your horses, I take it?"

  The Hunter nodded. "We'll take the back way out, use the alleys to lose them."

  "Where do you want me to have my boy meet you with your mounts?"

  "Just inside the north gate," the Hunter said. "It'll take us most of the night to shake them and get over there. But I'll need the mounts and these bags there no later than the second hour before dawn."

  The madame held out a hand. "I'll see it done."

  The Hunter set the saddlebags on the ground and reached into a pocket for a golden imperial. At the hard look in the woman's eyes, he set four more in her palm.

  She nodded and pocketed the coins. "I don't know what you did to anger the knight, but I'll wish you the Mistress' luck on getting yourself clear."

  "Thank you. The Apprentice smile on your establishment." The blessing rang hollow in his ears, but he said it not for himself. She couldn't know that the gods she believed in were all a fabrication.

  One of the brothel guards peered out the doorway. "Two to the left," he whispered. "Head right, then take the first alley to the left. It's a maze back there."