The additional weight gave him more power with each blow, particularly downward strokes. He had to commit to the blows, rather than dancing in and out as he would with his lighter blade. A strike swung with full force would shatter a light blade or overpower a weaker opponent.
With a bit of practice, I could get used to this.
He moved through a basic sword form, focusing on maintaining his balance and moving in time with the sword. While the simple double-edged long sword lacked the craftsmanship of his preferred blade—a single-edged, watered steel masterpiece—it would not attract attention. If he was to play the part of a soldier of fortune, he would need a weapon to match.
He fought as a soldier or guardsman would, with the solid steps, the short, sharp movements, and the powerful strikes. It would be a challenge to alter his style of fighting with this new sword, but he could adapt.
By the time he reached the last stroke of his sword form, he had found the trick to the heavier sword: fewer strikes, more power.
Unless I encounter a highly-skilled opponent, I should have no problem.
He glanced at the blanket bundled next to the saddle. Wrapped within lay his watered steel sword, and alongside it, the Swordsman's twin iron blades and a heavy purse containing a small fortune. He had grabbed coins, trinkets, and whatever small, transportable valuables he had found in his safe house, more than enough to make his travels comfortable. His pack held only the bare essentials.
He led his horse downhill in search of water. Nestled between an outcropping of rocks a few dozen paces from the clearing, a rivulet bubbled up from a spring that emptied into a small pool. The water was clean and free of sediment.
Splashing cold water on his face helped to clear away the last remnants of sleep. The walk to and from the creek worked the last kinks from his muscles. Traces of the languor that had plagued him since Voramis remained, but it had faded to a dull, constant ache, no longer threatening to overwhelm him.
Only white ash remained of his campfire. He kicked the coals to dust, and used a handful of leaves to cover the fire pit. It was poor bushcraft—city living had not prepared him to be alone in the wild—but it would do.
Time to get riding.
The Hunter draped the blanket over the horse's back and swung the saddle up with effort. On his first morning alone, he had forgotten how horses liked to fill their lungs with air as their saddle girths were tightened. When he had mounted, the saddle slipped, spilling him to the floor.
He elbowed the horse in the ribs. "I'll not fall for that trick again, you bastard!"
After tightening the traces, he lashed his gear behind the cantle. Only one thing left to load.
With a reluctance that surprised him, the Hunter stared at the simple, unadorned wooden chest. In his hurry to flee Voramis, he'd thrown his belongings into the first trunk he found. The box looked ordinary, yet its contents were anything but.
Soulhunger—Thanal Eth' Athaur—lay within, wrapped in cloth to prevent the steel from coming in contact with the iron lining. The dagger was thousands of years old, created by his ancestors, the Abiarazi. His birthright, proof of his heritage as a Bucelarii—as a descendant of demons.
Bucelarii. Half human, half horror.
'Heir to power. We are meant to rule this world!'
The Hunter hated that voice. He wanted it out of his head, yet the cost was too high. Trapped beneath the Serenii tunnels, buried by a mountain of debris, he had faced death. Given the chance to kill the demon once and for all, he had chosen to save himself. He had lived, and the creature within had lived as well.
How many more will suffer because of my choice?
The demon in him hungered for death, begged him to kill. With every life he took, he fed the monster the power it craved. How much more horror and anguish would plague the world because he had survived?
He ran his fingers across the lid. He'd made a fortunate discovery his first day out of Voramis: the iron blocked the dagger's voice. The insistent pleading had quietened, though he felt it in the back of his mind whenever his inner demon fell silent.
Five days without killing. Five days since Soulhunger has fed.
Soulhunger would fall silent after taking a life, but the inexorable demand for blood always returned. He could find no peace until exhaustion claimed him. Yet even sleep provided no escape. His dreams were filled with scenes of those final moments in Voramis. The death of his friends. Farida. The Serenii tunnels. Horror piled upon horror.
'You failed them', the voice mocked.
He couldn't deny it. When the First of the Bloody Hand—a demon wearing human flesh—had ordered their deaths, the Hunter had arrived too late to save his friends. All had died, save for Ellinor and her child.
Yet in his efforts to save them, he had revealed his true self: the vicious, ruthless killer—the Hunter. He still remembered Ellinor's wide eyes, bloodless cheeks, and wordless scream as she stared at him. She had fled into the night, terrified for her life.
'After all you did for her', the demon whispered, 'that is how she reacts? Could you expect any less from such weak, pathetic creatures?'
Enough!
His inner demon refused to be silent. He had shut out Soulhunger's whispers, only to open his mind to a much more insidious voice—one he could not easily lock away.
He wanted to insist that he would never kill again with the blade, but he knew better.
'We are the Hunter,' the demon whispered. 'Together. The three of us. Alone, as individuals, we are nothing.'
Was that true? He was a killer, that much he could accept. The blade needed him. The demon in his mind needed him, if only to satiate its lust for blood. But without the blade, what was he? The blade felt a part of him, his only link to his past. But did he really need the blade?
He toyed with the wooden box. It would be so easy to leave it here. He could bury it where no one would find it. The blade would never harm anyone else, never feed another soul to the Great Destroyer. He had been tempted to leave it on the roof of the Palace of Justice, alongside the First's accursed sword. Yet something had stopped his hand. Something within him knew he needed Soulhunger, but why?
Shoving the thought to the back of his mind, he picked up the wooden box and lashed it to the saddle—out of sight, yet within easy reach should he need it.
The Hunter swung into his seat and kicked the horse into motion. "Let's see how much road we can travel today."
He followed the small path from the clearing, riding through the thick forest at an easy pace before turning onto the main road. He glanced south, and a lump rose in his throat. He had called Voramis home for nearly five decades. But he turned his horse north. Voramis held nothing for him.
The uncertainty of his future filled him; with it, came fear of what lay ahead. He had no desire to travel. He had only left Voramis to escape the horrors he had faced. He could not live with the reminder of his loss around every corner. Numb with grief, he had fled the city without delay. He had no plan, no destination.
Yet as the numbness of the previous days gave way, he felt an urgency within. He had left to escape the pain, but he also fled toward something.
I have to know more about who I am.
His need for answers about his past drove him. The Beggar Priests—who had saved his life, even after he killed one of their number—had given him a few answers, but he had to know more. The ragged gaps in his memory haunted him more than ever. He had no idea where he had come from, what he had done, or why. He could not remember anything of his life before Voramis—nothing save for a face.
Her face.
He saw Her, as clear and crisp as if She stood before him. Golden hair framed a face with a soft nose, high cheekbones, and full lips. Only Her eyes remained hidden in the shadows of his forgotten past.
Jasmine and honey, cinnamon and berries. Her scent filled his mind, drowning out the odors around him. He could never forget that smell.
Her memory evoked a visceral reaction: pai
n, an ache in his heart that set his chest afire and constricted his lungs. For a moment it seemed his head would explode.
Slowly, memory of the woman retreated, and with it, the pain.
I have to find out who She is.
He had to know why this woman—one he could never fully remember—was so important. Something called him northward, filling him with a sense of imminence he couldn't ignore, beckoning for him to find Her. Who was She to him?
Everything about himself was a mystery. He had a burning desire to find answers.
He gave the horse its head, allowing the animal to set the pace. The rolling gait was awkward. His legs protested at the effort of trying to match the jolting and bouncing of the jog trot.
His gaze wandered to his surroundings. Towering trees and stubby scrub bushes lined the track. Fallen leaves and twigs covered the road in a thick carpet. The horse's hooves kicked up debris and dirt, though thankfully the morning dew tamped down most of the dust. With no wagons or carts to carve deep ruts into the dirt, the way was smooth and even.
The road twisted out of sight less than a league in the distance. A part of him wondered where the path led, the same part that questioned his reasons for leaving Voramis. He had never traveled north—indeed, he could only recall leaving Voramis a handful of times, and always east to Praamis or farther south to the Frozen Sea.
That first day fleeing the city, the Hunter had ridden to near-collapse. He'd put as much distance between himself and his home as he could. If he hadn't, his desire for the relative comfort of familiar surroundings would've dragged him back.
He couldn't go back, couldn't face the pain. He couldn't bear not knowing about himself. About Her.
She was somewhere in the north, that much he knew. He sensed Her presence in the back of his mind. Her pull on his thoughts grew stronger with every league he covered. Every day led him closer to finding Her—whoever She was.
Chapter Three
The hours of riding wore on in silence, with only the jingling of the horse's tack and the clanking of his gear to break the monotony. The sun shone down with a heat that belied the approaching winter. After a chilly night in the forest, he reveled in the comforting sensation of the warmth. He allowed the hood to fall back, and turned his face up to the sun. The wind whipped at his hair and pulled it free of its leather ties.
Sweat soaked the Hunter's tunic long before the sun reached its zenith. He wanted to remove his cloak, but felt naked without it. It was as if he could hide his true self within the heavy garment.
He had always felt uncomfortable during the day. In Voramis, he had spent his days sleeping. Most of his work had been at night. Now, in the morning light, the color and life around him almost made him feel…happy. It was an odd sensation.
Thick trees bordered both sides of the road. Towering spruces reached needled branches to the heavens, while the boughs of conical firs drooped toward the ground. Mighty oaks had shed the first of their golden leaves for the winter. The smell of pine resin hung thick in the air. A blue carpet of juniper berries littered the ground.
He sought a hint of pink among the greens, reds, and oranges of the forest.
If there is one thing I will miss of Voramis, it is the Snowblossoms.
He had spent countless hours sitting in Maiden's Fields, the sprawling gardens of Upper Voramis. It was his favorite place in the city. There, Snowblossom trees filled the air with their delicate fragrance. They added brightness to the world, carpeting the ground with soft pastel colors.
A part of him hoped to one day return to see the trees in full bloom. But it was not to be. He had left the city behind forever.
With the memory of all he had lost, a cloud of gloom settled over him. He retreated into his hood and cloak, sullen and brooding. His fingers toyed with the thick knot of scar tissue on his chest. The myriad phantom aches and pains of his battle with the demon returned.
The forest around him thinned, transforming into rolling hills. The world around him filled with greens in a multitude of hues, with nary a tree or bush in sight. Highlands stretched as far as the eye could see. The hint of a mist-covered mountain peaks loomed far in the distance.
The Hunter rode in dour silence, ignoring all but the dusty, colorless road ahead. He stopped to rest as his body demanded. A quick glance at the sun told the Hunter it was an hour or so past midday.
The streets of Lower Voramis and the Temple District would be packed at this time of day.
His ears instinctively listened for the sound of the Lady's Bells. He heard nothing but the wind, the occasional chirp of a bird, and the grass rustling in the breeze. The absence of sound felt eerie.
A solitary tree stood a few dozen paces off the road, providing the Hunter with shade and a place to rest. He choked down a meal of hardtack and salted pork. The flavorless biscuit highlighted the excessive saltiness of the dried meat. The tepid water in his skin didn't improve the meal.
His horse cropped grass beside him, content to relax in the shade of the tree. With its reins looped around a branch, the beast could only wander a few paces in any direction, and the Hunter had no fear of it running off.
He leaned against the trunk, watching the absence of life and movement around him. He'd had few quiet moments in Voramis. He'd occupied most of his waking hours expanding his network of contacts, stalking his prey, or keeping up with his various disguises. It had been a busy life, filled with bustle and flow, and yet here he sat. Alone, in the middle of nowhere, with no idea where he was headed.
Talk about a futile endeavor.
Yet he had to leave it all behind. He had to outrun the memories; memories of the friends he had failed, those he had been unable to protect when they needed him most. If he stayed in Voramis, he would see their faces—Old Nan, Arlo, Jak, Karrl, Farida—in every person he met.
No, he had to flee Voramis, for only by leaving could he escape the pain. Without familiar surroundings to remind him of what he had lost, he stood a chance of making a new life—one without anyone he could lose. He would never have to feel that agony again.
Breathing deep, he smelled the fresh, clean air of the silent countryside. The scent of small creatures blended with the rich aroma of grass, earth, and the tree overhead. His eyelids drooped, and he allowed himself a brief moment of total stillness. For a heartbeat, his mind was clear of thoughts, his soul unburdened, and his spirit free.
The demon chose that moment to return. 'Give me blood. Give me death!'
The Hunter's heart sank. He would find no peace, not while the voice remained in his head. He tried to push it away, but the morning of riding had taken its toll on his mind as well as his body.
Soulhunger echoed the demon's cry. Feed me!
The dagger's voice sounded weak in his thoughts. The iron box helped to block it, but his bond with the blade prevented him from truly shutting it out. Try as he might to escape the torments of Voramis, he could not outrun the tormentors in his mind.
With a weary sigh, the Hunter climbed to his feet and mounted once more. The chestnut gelding protested at being pulled away from its meal, but the Hunter ignored its gentle snort. Tugging at the reins, he directed the beast toward the main road.
The sun beat down with a fierce intensity, and the Hunter pulled his hood over his head. He ignored the heat within the hood, focusing on matching the movements of his body to the horse's jog trot.
By the Watcher, I will never grow accustomed to this!
The Hunter rode in silence, brooding, reliving painful memories of his past. It helped to block out the demon's voice, but it did little to ease his inner turmoil.
The scream of a bird of prey snapped the Hunter from his thoughts. The rolling hills had transformed to forest once more. Thick hedges pressed in around him, causing the path to narrow to less than the width of a carriage. Dense spruce and pine foliage made it impossible to see more than a few paces into the woods. The road curved sharply to the east a few dozen paces ahead, disappearing around a blind
bend.
His eyes darted around, scanning the trees for any signs of life. He saw nothing beyond the motionless trunks of towering trees, heard nothing save for the song of birds and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. His sensitive nostrils searched for any fresh scents.
The smell of trees, dead leaves…and blood.
The odor hit him, followed a moment later by a faint yet unmistakable sound: clashing steel.
The Hunter warred with the decision of what to do. Instinct told him to stay hidden. It would be easier to avoid contact with anyone. He had no reason to fight, and no desire to kill. If he avoided the conflict, he could deny Soulhunger and his inner demon the death they craved.
The demon sensed blood. Its voice pounded in his mind, and Soulhunger added to the strain. The Hunter couldn't resist the demands. Dismounting, he sought the source of the noise, his feet moving of their own accord.
Wait! No need to rush in. Better to be cautious and bide my time.
The pressure in his head relented, fading to a dull, persistent throbbing behind his eyes.
The Hunter led the horse from the road and slipped through the trees bordering the path. A carpet of grass and dead leaves muffled the sound of the beast's hooves, and the Hunter's soft boots made little noise.
His heart pounded—though from apprehension or anticipation, he couldn't decide. He gripped the hilt of his sword, but didn't draw it.
Through the thinning trees ahead, the Hunter found the source of the noise. A half-dozen men on foot surrounded two mounted men, waving short swords. One of the armored figures sat astride a magnificent warhorse, while the other rode a smaller horse burdened with provisions. Both mounted warriors wielded heavy swords. A single blow of those long blades could sever a limb or remove an unprotected head.
The demon's voice returned in full strength. Soulhunger begged to feed. Together, they dragged him toward the melee and set his blood boiling with a lust for battle.
The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen Page 2
