No! It is not my fight.
His inner demon howled. 'What do you care? It is a chance to kill! You couldn't ask for a better opportunity.'
The demon spoke truth. The Hunter watched the scene, torn by indecision.
'There are no innocents. All men deserve to die.'
I did not live this long by fighting battles not my own.
The demon tried a different approach. 'If you will not give me blood, do not deny me the pleasure of watching them die. Let me hear their screams!'
It couldn't hurt, could it? If it would silence the demon's demands, he would do it.
He turned to the horse. "Stay!"
The beast snorted and pawed at the ground, prancing forward a few steps. It seemed eager…either to fight or to run.
"Keeper take you!" The Hunter yanked the reins, stopping the horse in its tracks. He wound the lead line over a nearby branch and pulled it tight. "Stay, you flea-bitten bastard!"
Drawing his sword, he slipped closer to the melee, careful to make no noise. The mounted warriors held their own against their unarmored foes. Their height and longer blades allowed them to keep the surrounding men at bay.
One of the unarmored men slipped behind one of the armored men—the larger of the two—and raised a rusted halberd.
"Watch out!"
The word burst from the Hunter's lips before he realized. One of the unarmored men below turned toward him. The Hunter ducked behind a tree, hoping the man hadn't spotted him.
Fool demon! What in the twisted hell was that for?
The demon radiated smug satisfaction. 'I did it for you, Bucelarii. Now you are part of this fight.'
He waited in breathless silence, unmoving, hoping his cloak would hide him from the eyes below.
"There's someone in the trees!"
A second voice echoed the call. "Where? I don't see anything."
"The horse, idiot!" The first voice again. "Up there, on the hill."
Keeper take me! He had forgotten the beast, its reins hitched to the tree.
Gleeful laughter echoed in his mind. 'Now, you have no choice but to kill!'
Chapter Four
The Hunter pushed the voice to the back of his mind, where it settled to a pounding headache behind his eyes. Thankfully, Soulhunger remained in its box, lashed to the horse's saddle. Ignoring the voice of his inner demon proved challenge enough.
He waited, ears attuned to the crackling of twigs. The men made no attempt to hide their approach.
"He has to be nearby," said the voice of the first man. "He's probably off hiding. Good thing he left his loot strapped to the horse."
An angry snort reached the Hunter's ears, accompanied by the thud of hooves on the soft forest floor.
"Whoa! Easy boy. He's an angry one, isn't he?"
"Sure is. But these saddlebags look nice and heavy. Wonder what's in 'em…"
A grimy fellow with hair and beard the color of his rust-eaten sword reached for the horse's reins. His companion—a dark-haired brute with a thick nose and hooded eyes—clutched a short blade.
The Hunter's hand dropped to his sword. He couldn't allow them to steal his fortune.
The two men stared at the onrushing Hunter in stunned silence. The dark-haired one recovered from his shock a heartbeat before his companion. He slashed at the Hunter with his short sword, but the blow whistled harmlessly through the air.
The demon in the Hunter's mind urged for death. It took every ounce of control for the Hunter to turn his heavy sword, slamming the flat of the blade into the man's unprotected temple.
The red-haired man stumbled over the sagging form of his friend. The Hunter batted aside his weak strikes with disdain and punched him hard in the mouth—twice, three times. Blood spattered the Hunter's knuckles, and his foe crumpled.
The demon in his mind raged. 'Why will you not kill? They are not innocents!'
The Hunter's lip curled upward in a sneer. They're not worth killing!
The Hunter turned his attention to the melee on the road. One of the armored warriors remained in the saddle. An unarmored man knelt atop the prone, unmoving figure of the second warrior, fumbling at the straps that held his heavy helm in place.
Damn it!
The Hunter reached for one of the knives in his belt and launched it at the unarmored man. With a cry, the bandit dropped his dagger and clapped a hand to his bleeding cheek.
A scream of pain echoed to the Hunter's left. An unarmored figure fell to the ground, clutching a wound in his shoulder. Only two men remained standing, and they hesitated to approach the mounted warrior. One glance at their short swords and the armored figure astride the towering warhorse, and they took to their heels.
'Hunt them down! Don't let them escape!'
They would be so easy to kill. He wouldn’t even break a sweat.
No.
The demon struggled for control of his body. His legs and hands trembled, and his vision blurred. Red mist floated before his eyes. He fought back the voice in his mind, the voice that urged him to kill. He would not give in.
Enough!
The Hunter gasped and tightened his grip on his sword. Slowly, the throbbing in his head receded.
"Thank you." The mounted warrior had a deep, rich voice. "I owe you a debt of gratitude, stranger, for your timely assistance."
The man held his huge broadsword with no sign of fatigue. Cleaning the blade with a cloth, he slid the sword home in its sheath and swung down from his enormous war horse.
Without a word, the Hunter took in the heavy plate armor, thick chain mail coat, and visored great-helm. He had no idea how anyone could move in such a heavy suit of armor, yet there was confidence in the warrior's steps. Kneeling, the warrior removed his gauntlet and fumbled at the cinch of his fallen companion's helm.
"Are you hurt?" It took a moment for the Hunter to realize the armored man spoke to him.
"No." The Hunter spoke in a lilting accent of a Praamian.
"Good." The knight removed his companion's helmet. The sweat-soaked leather cap beneath came away, revealing a head populated by thinning black hair plastered to an angular skull. A nasty lump showed on the man's head, but no blood. The wound was not fatal; the fall had knocked him unconscious.
"Is it bad?"
"I don't think so. He’ll have a terrible headache when he wakes, but I don't believe there will be any permanent damage to the brain." The helmet turned to regard him. "For a man like Visibos, a sharp mind is far more valuable than skill at arms."
"He seemed to hold his own." The words poured from the Hunter's lips before he could stop them. After days of solitude on the road, having someone to speak to felt decidedly…pleasant.
"Aye, that he did."
The warrior returned his attention to the fallen man, and the silence stretched out. Uncomfortable and uncertain of what to do, the Hunter strode away to retrieve his horse.
One of the unarmored men lay sprawled at an unnatural angle, a hoof-shaped patch of mud on his chest. Another clutched at a bleeding forearm, writhing on the ground in pain. The last three bodies strewn around the road were corpses.
His two opponents remained unconscious where he had left them, near his horse. The beast cropped grass, unconcerned by the unmoving forms a few paces away.
"Not a care in the world, eh?"
The horse snorted and nudged the Hunter's hand, as if expecting a treat.
"Enough of you." The Hunter pushed the wet nose away. "We've got to be on our way."
Retrieving the reins, the Hunter led the horse down the hill. The beast sniffed at the unconscious men before stepping over their prone forms.
By the time the Hunter reached the road, the fallen warrior had regained consciousness. The man stared around with dazed eyes, leaning on an elbow. At the Hunter's approach, he tried to climb to his feet.
His companion pushed him back down. "Easy, Visibos. You've taken a nasty hit to the head. If you stand up now, you'll lose your breakfast."
"B-but," the man protested, "I—"
"Will do as you are commanded." His tone brooked no argument.
The balding man slumped back down to the floor. "Yes, Sir Danna."
"Help me get him out of the muck," Sir Danna said. When the Hunter made no move, the helmeted head turned toward him. "Well?"
"Oh, of-of course."
Before he realized what he was doing, the Hunter dropped the reins and rushed over to seize the groaning Visibos by the shoulder. He and the armored figure helped Visibos stumble to a nearby tree, where he sank down, closing his eyes and leaning against the thick trunk.
"World spinning, Visibos?"
"Aye, Sir Danna."
"It'll pass."
"Yes, sir."
The helmet turned to the Hunter. The knight stared the Hunter up and down, as if taking his measure.
For some reason, the scrutiny embarrassed the Hunter. Even in the shadow of his hood, he felt naked without his alchemical masks to hide his face. The last time someone had seen his true features…well, that man lay buried in the Serenii tunnels. Now, in full daylight and with nothing to conceal his true identity, he felt exposed.
After an uncomfortable silence, the armored figure nodded and removed his helmet. The Hunter's eyes widened. There was nothing masculine about the face beneath the helm, or the flowing red hair framing it. Sir Danna was a woman.
The Hunter channeled every shred of self-control into keeping his expression neutral.
"Your apprentice named you Sir Danna?"
Surprise flitted across the knight's face, as if she had expected him to say something else. The tension of her features relaxed, and she nodded.
"Sir Danna Esgrimon, Knight of the Order of Piety."
Pride filled her voice. She held out a gloved hand to the Hunter, who shook it.
He studied the woman before him. The top of her head failed to reach his shoulder, but, dressed in the heavy mail, she looked far larger and more imposing. Her posture was erect, confident. Scuffs and notches pitted the burnished steel armor, yet the armor shone. She moved with ease, as if the mail and broadsword weighed no more than the Hunter's leather armor.
Her ability with a sword came as no surprise—why should it? Some of the greatest heroes of history were, in fact, heroines—Erriana the Red, Sir Mildred Couradin, and Agarre the Giantslayer, among others. The Hunter preferred to cross blades with men—women were far craftier, without brute strength to rely on.
Yet knighthood, complete with titles and an apprentice of her own? He had never heard of the Order of Piety, but it was rare to find a woman adopting the militaristic disciplines of a knight. Much less a full knighthood. Women rarely received such high honors in the male-dominated profession.
"A pleasure, Sir Knight. I am Hardwell of Praamis." He had crafted this story years ago, and he assumed the role with ease.
"Well met. I have never had the good fortune to visit Praamis," the knight replied, "but perhaps one day my service will take me there."
At that moment Visibos groaned and retched. Sir Danna turned and knelt by her companion, placing a hand on his shoulder and speaking in a voice too low for the Hunter to hear. The acrid tang of vomit reached the Hunter.
The Hunter's horse snorted behind him, but the Hunter ignored it. Another scent filled the Hunter's nostrils.
Smoked meat. Mud. Wagon grease.
The Hunter gasped at the bite of a dagger punching into his side.
Chapter Five
Warm blood gushed from the wound, the chill of cold steel a shock. Pain flared to life a heartbeat later.
The Hunter spun and lashed out with his elbow. A jolt ran up his arm, followed by a satisfying crunch. His twisting motion jerked the blade from his side.
The Hunter pivoted right and stepped back, gritting his teeth against the pain. His sword leapt from its sheath, the razor edge halting just short of slicing muscle.
It was the red-haired man he had knocked unconscious.
Fool! He had been so focused on the knight that he had failed to notice the man creeping up behind him.
The man stared at him with wide eyes, blood still leaking from his shattered nose and mouth. Only jagged stumps remained of his front teeth, and his lips had swollen twice their size. Dust and leaves matted the man's hair, and mud stained the front of his ragged clothing. Crimson trickled down the front of the man's clothing. A dark, wet stain dribbled down his leg, and the Hunter smelled the tang of urine. The dagger, still stained with the Hunter's blood, fell from shaking hands.
The Hunter's side throbbed, but he held the heavy sword firm, unwilling to show weakness.
His inner demon bayed for blood. The Hunter felt tempted to give in to the demon's demands. He longed for peace from that eager, incessant pounding in his head, that lust for death.
No, he told the voice, I will not.
'You ignored me once, and look what happened!'
The Hunter clenched his fist to drown out the pain in his side. Yes, but it is not the first time I have been stabbed. It won't be the last.
'So you let him walk away?' The demon's anger filled the Hunter's thoughts. 'After what he did to you?'
I will, if only to spite you. Learn this now, demon: you do NOT control me!
The Hunter bared his teeth in a vicious, predatory smile. "Your name."
The man before him stood tall, staring at the Hunter with unflinching gaze. "Arric."
"Do you see my face, Arric?" The man nodded. "Get out of my sight now, and pray to your gods you never again lay eyes on me."
Arric's eyes widened. "You mean—?"
"Aye, I let you live."
With a flick of his wrist, the Hunter carved a bloody furrow in Arric's cheek. The man flinched, crying out in surprise.
"Let that mark remind you of your good fortune this day. But know that I will kill you if I see your face again."
Arric stumbled over himself in his haste to retreat. He raced toward his dark-haired companion, slung him over his shoulder, and limped into the forest without a backward glance.
'Mark me,' whispered the voice in his head, 'you will regret your attempts to defy me. I will have my way.'
Not if I have any say.
The Hunter lowered his sword and pressed his hand to his side to stanch a fresh spurt of blood. After the numbness of the past days, he welcomed the pain.
"Are you hurt?" Sir Danna's face showed her concern.
"Not gravely," the Hunter lied. "The blade grazed me, and it is but a scratch." He couldn't let her examine the wound. He had no idea how to explain why it had all but healed. She wouldn't understand...couldn't understand.
Sir Danna had climbed to her feet, and she approached him, concern written in her expression.
"Allow me to examine it." She stared at the blood leaking down his side. "It is the least I could do after your aid."
"It is nothing." The Hunter waved the knight away. "Wounds always look worse than they really are."
Sir Danna studied him with a curious expression. "I have bandages. At least let me wrap it—to prevent it from festering, of course."
"I have my own supplies. No need to trouble yourself on my account."
Sir Danna nodded, her expression never changing. "Fair enough. Nonetheless, I am grateful for your assistance." She extended her hand once more.
The Hunter gripped the proffered hand and used the opportunity to study the woman: her long red hair, the hard face, the scar running along her right cheek and down her square jaw. Fine wrinkle lines showed at the corners of her mouth and eyes.
A pleasant woman, it seems, though not one most would consider beautiful.
Yet something about the knight unsettled him. Perhaps it was the way she held his gaze without hesitation or fear.
The voice in his mind protested. It, too, sensed something off about her.
"You going to keep holding that thing, Hardwell?" Sir Danna's eyes flicked to the Hunter's naked blade. She gripped his free hand, her expression wary. Ten
sion showed in her stance—body turned away, left hand hovering close to her belt.
The Hunter considered how to respond. The few knights he had encountered in Voramis had been far from friendly. He sensed no threat in Sir Danna, but an innate wariness warned him to remain cautious.
He narrowed his eyes. "You call yourself Sir Danna, Knight of the Order of Piety, but how can I be certain you are truly a knight? You seem too young."
Her expression hardened. "Are you saying I am not worthy?"
"I don't know. I have little experience with knights. Are you?"
"Sir Danna proved herself worthy of knighthood in the Tournament of the Bright Lady, held in Malandria not three winters ago." Visibos spoke in a shaky voice. The apprentice had climbed to his feet, and he now leaned against the tree, hand pressed to the back of his head. "Lord Knight Moradiss himself venerated her, gifting her the anvil as her insignia."
"The anvil?" Seems a fairly useless insignia.
"It is the symbol of honor," Sir Danna said, her voice tight, "one I bear with pride."
An anvil of burnished brass was depicted in the center of her chest plate, polished until it shone like gold. Twin anvils decorated the back of her gauntlets, with a coat of arms on her shield to match.
"Then well met, sir knight." The Hunter gave the woman a smile he hoped looked genuine.
Sir Danna's expression softened. The tension drained from her shoulders and her posture relaxed. With a nod, she released the Hunter's hand.
She turned to her apprentice. "How fare you, Visibos?"
"I am well, Sir Danna." Visibos forced a smile, which turned into a grimace when he tried to step away from the tree.
"Your head will ache for hours yet, apprentice. I would stop and rest, but we have much ground to cover e'er the sun sets."
Visibos' expression fell. "I will be well, my lady." The confidence in his voice sounded forced.
"We will keep the pace slow," Sir Danna said. "That way, we can avoid scrambling your brains any more than necessary." A sly smile touched her lips, eliciting a weak grin from Visibos.
The knight turned to the Hunter once more. "You have my thanks, good Hardwell, for your intervention."
The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen Page 3
