"And you're certain this Hardwell was one of the foul creatures?"
"Aye, Brother." Visibos spoke with self-assured confidence. "The ferrospike venom paralyzed him, just as it was meant to. He bled to death on the tip of Sir Danna's blade, and, for good measure, we threw his accursed corpse into the Chasm of the Lost."
The Hunter's fingernails dug into his palm. It didn't work, you bastard! I'm still here.
"It is dead," Visibos said, "I am certain. But that knowledge fills me with little comfort. I tell you, Supplicatus, where there's one, there's bound to be more. It seems our eternal vigilance has proven necessary."
"You can't possibly believe—"
"Of course I believe, Brother! The threat is very real."
The dim light of the lantern played with the man's features. For a moment, Visibos's rage-twisted face reminded the Hunter of the demon of Voramis.
Visibos's voice rose to a shout. "There was a Watcher-damned Bucelarii wandering the roads of Einan! He looked and spoke exactly as a human would."
Supplicatus opened his mouth to speak, but Visibos barreled on.
"It is only by the grace of the Beggar that I saw his accursed blade when he drew it from that iron box. Had he not, he would have never been discovered, and he would still be alive today. Imagine that, Brother!"
The Hunter's cheeks grew hot, and his pulse pounded in his ears. He had thought Visibos unconscious after the fight on the mountain trail. Somehow, the bastard had seen Soulhunger. The Hunter had fought and bled to save the two priests—the Cambionari—and they repaid him by trying to kill him. He ached to wrap his hands around Visibos's neck and twist.
The demon railed at the Hunter, demanding death. The priest deserved it!
Swallowing, he forced his fists to unclench. Their time will come. Once I have what I need from him, by Derelana, he will pay!
Visibos's voice echoed in the high-vaulted library. "I would look up the history of the demonspawn if I could, if not for the foolishness of Father Pietus."
"Guard your tongue! You may be a Knight Apprentice of the Cambionari, but you still owe respect to the Holy Father."
"Of course, of course." Visibos sounded unrepentant. "Still, you must admit, selling those histories to Lord Apus was a foolish thing to do. They contain the only recorded passages with mention of the demonspawn, yet he sells them to some rich merchant lord! Apus won't even grant me access to the books—volumes that once sat within these very walls."
"But Father Pietus said we needed the money, and Lord Apus showed great interest in the ancient records."
Visibos snorted. "Aye, Father Pietus said we needed the money, but look around you, Supplicatus! What could we possibly need it for? The hallways are lined with countless valuables, and our vault is filled with the wealth of centuries. No, parting with those books was a mistake. Even more so, now that we know the Bucelarii are not truly gone."
The priests strode past his hiding place, and the Hunter flattened himself against the bookshelf. Fire burned in his chest. Visibos's scent—ink, parchment, and dried herbs—filled his nostrils. It reminded him of the moment when the man had thrown him into the Chasm of the Lost.
Yet it was another scent that drew his attention. A much subtler odor, one he had not encountered since Voramis.
A demon! Here?
He inhaled again. The reek of decay remained, but only as an undertone, too faint to belong to either man. But there was no mistaking that smell.
They have come in contact with a demon. But in the House of Need? How is that possible?
The Cambionari had dedicated their lives to hunting demons.
"Perhaps, you are right, Visibos. But who are we to question the Holy Father?"
The Hunter's mind barely registered the words.
"His actions have seemed odd of late, or am I alone in noticing?" Visibos' voice held a note of derision.
"His actions are his own to interpret, apprentice. He is the Holy Father, and as such, he…"
The voices trailed off as the two men moved farther into the library. The Hunter made no move to follow them. He had heard enough.
A demon in the House of Need. This changes things.
He couldn't face a demon in his current condition. Injured and weak, he would stand little chance of survival—much less victory. No, he needed to find Soulhunger—and the Swordsman's blades—first.
But if I try to retrieve Soulhunger now, there is no guarantee I can do so unseen. After all, I am an assassin, not a thief.
The differences, while subtle, lay in the necessary skills. He could find and kill his targets better than any man alive, but to find hidden vaults or break into locked storerooms? With no idea where to find the dagger, he could spend a lifetime searching the enormous temple complex. The risk of discovery increased with every minute he remained in the temple. Could he take the chance? If the Cambionari recognized him, they would hunt him to the ends of Einan.
He ran his fingers over his face, feeling the eye patch and his thick, matted beard.
No, for the moment I am safe in my anonymity. The priests believe me dead, so dead I shall stay. Soulhunger will remain in the priests' vaults until I am ready to retrieve it.
A thought struck him; something stood out from the conversation he had overheard.
Visibos said there are recorded histories with mention of Bucelarii. If I can find those books, I can find answers.
His forgotten past haunted him. His need to know more eclipsed his desire to recover Soulhunger. For now.
The blade's throbbing grew strident, protesting as he retreated through the library.
I will be back for you.
First, he owed a certain lord a visit.
Let us see what we can find in those books of history.
Chapter Six
The creature slept, awoke to bright sunlight streaming into its cave, and slept again. Dreamless sleep, punctuated only by pain.
Its wounds were deep, its body shattered.
It remembered falling—an endless plunge from an immense height.
No thoughts swirled in the creature's mind. Only the instinct to live, to survive.
It sensed the approach of its rust-colored companion. The bear's scent filled the creature's nostrils before the animal cast its shadow over the entrance of the cave. The smell of fresh prey accompanied the deep odor of predator.
Blood dripped on the creature's face. The bear dropped a fresh carcass to the floor beside it. Ravenous, the broken thing tore into the animal's still-warm flesh without hesitation.
Strength returned with food. Its limbs moved, albeit with great pain. The bear stared at the two-legged creature, its scent welcoming and glad. 'Man', the beast seemed to say.
'Man.' Conscious thought returned with strength. 'I am man.'
His head hurt. Agony flooded him as he pushed up from the ground on shaky forepaws. No, on shaky hands. Warm, coppery blood dripped down his neck. With trembling hands and numb fingers, the man felt the jagged stone buried deep in his head.
The fall.
He ripped it loose, and agony flared in the creature's—the man's—head. Blood flowed anew. Darkness floated through his vision.
A cold, wet nose nuzzled the man's face.
Opening his eyes, the man stared up into the dark liquid eyes of his shaggy companion.
A growl echoed through the cave. The man's body demanded more food. Naught but bone remained of the carcass brought by the bear.
The bear growled and nudged the man. 'Hunt'.
The man fought to stand. Dizziness washed over him. Fresh blood trickled from his head.
He collapsed.
* * *
The Hunter clawed his way to consciousness, suffocated by the remembered agony. A scream died stillborn on his lips as the pain drained slowly away.
He blinked, his uninjured eye heavy with sleep. The left side of his face throbbed, a persistent, nagging ache. The dim light filtering through the canvas did little to illuminate his
surroundings.
The demon seized his moment of disorientation to assault his mind with insistent demands for death. The Hunter rolled over and buried his head in his hands. The pressure mounted until he could not block it out. The assorted odors of unwashed humans, mud, and rot filled his senses. With the smells came memories. Memories of those he had lost in Voramis. Those he had failed.
Scrambling to his knees, the Hunter staggered from the tent. Stomach churning, breath coming in ragged gasps, he stumbled away from the shelter. He had to get out of there, had to find a way to escape the chaos in his mind.
The demon would not relent. It sensed the presence of warm, beating hearts around him, and it wanted blood.
'Kill them all, and let their deaths feed you power. Take back what is rightfully yours!'
The demon had wanted him to kill the beggars in Voramis, but he had refused. He would not kill these, either.
His fingers traced the raised flesh on his chest. They do not deserve it.
'What does it matter? Deserving or not? We are the Bucelarii, bringers of death!'
His mind felt as if it would shatter from the struggle. Why did he fight this urge to kill? Why did he deny his nature?
Acid surged up from his stomach. He fell to his hands and knees, and his vomit mixed with the filth and mire of the alleyway. He tried to climb to his feet, but a fresh wave of nausea gripped him. He pressed a filthy hand to his aching head.
"Hey!" A shrill voice cut into the pounding. "That's my front door you just sicked up on!"
A rustling sounded from within the makeshift shelter, and a grimy hand pushed aside the canvas. A woman older than time stared down at the Hunter, her pale, age-spotted face twisted in a mixture of anger and concern.
"Why, I oughta—!" Her words cut off in a cough, a horrendous hacking that reminded him of…
"Nan?" The word tore from his mouth before he could stop himself. He reached out, as if to touch the face he remembered so well.
The crone flinched back. "Hey now! What d'you think you're doing?"
She looks so much like her!
Thin, frail shoulders, ragged clothing, wrinkled, sun-burned skin, eyes red-rimmed and rheumy, limbs gnarled with age. But her face was different—there were no acid scars to twist her smile into a perpetual grimace. No, Old Nan had died beneath the blades of the Dark Heresiarchs, by order of the Demon of Voramis.
"You dying, boy? Not the consumption, is it?" A touch of pity mixed with the harsh edge of the old woman's voice.
"N-no," the Hunter choked out. Wiping his mouth, he climbed to his feet. "No, I'm fine, thank you."
"Oh, so good to know you're fine, but what about my front door? You've got it all covered with spew, so you have."
It would be so easy, the demon whispered. No one would miss her. Or any of the others. They were the refuse of humanity.
The Hunter tried to block the voice. His head pounded and his fingers twitched, as if aching to wrap around the old woman's throat.
"S-sorry."
He stumbled away, the crone's shrill protests drowned out by the demon's screams for blood. His feet moved of their own accord, pounding through the muck of the alley, racing toward the main avenue.
Leave me alone!
'You know what you must do, Bucelarii. Only with death will you find peace.'
He broke free of the alley and emerged onto the main avenue. The broader, diluted scents of city life filled his nostrils. After months of fresh, clean air and open roads, he welcomed the myriad odors. They were familiar, almost…comforting.
Closing his eyes, he leaned on a hitching post and took deep, heaving breaths, trying to suppress the cavorting of his stomach. He massaged his temples to calm the throbbing in his head.
Would he ever find freedom from the voice that drove him like a cruel taskmaster, unrelenting until he did its bidding? It would not leave him be, not until he gave in. Even then, the cessation of his suffering was only temporary. He needed more; he needed lasting peace.
"You all right, lad?" Bardin called from behind. "Did you also see the monster in your boots?"
The bald man hurried up behind the Hunter, panting.
His forehead wrinkled as he eyed the busy street. "It's an awfully bright evening. An odd season for such occurrences, isn't it, Rell?"
The Hunter's hands shook, but the pounding in his head diminished. "It's morning, Bardin."
This surprised Bardin. "Why, so it is, lad! You're awfully sharp for a man with one eye. Perhaps, it's time for us to find a bit of dinner."
"Breakfast."
"Yes, of course, breakfast. The House of Need will open its doors soon, and they're always good for a crust of bread. Though they may not take you in looking like that." He studied the Hunter's dark clothing, apparently failing to notice they weren't the same shabby garments from the day before.
The Hunter clenched his fists to stop the trembling in his hands. His stomach churned, acid burning the back of his throat. The ache in his head refused to leave.
'You know what I want. What I need.'
A chill spread through the Hunter's limbs, turning them leaden and numb. Fog filled his mind and clouded his thoughts. He would not kill the beggars, no matter what the demon did.
'If not them, someone else. Anyone. In the end, death is all the same.'
His knees wobbled, and he felt suddenly weak. The demon would not stop until he gave in.
You win!
The Hunter had no choice. He needed peace; he would do what he must. He would take a hundred lives if it would free him from the insistent voice.
I will give you what you ask. But it will be on my terms. You do not command me, demon!
The mounting pressure popped, and the languor dissipated. The demon's smug contentment filled his mind.
Bardin stared at him, expectant. "So, Rell? What say we go find that dinner the Prince of Pessitas promised us? Once we have finished dining, we will watch the dancing bears and—"
"Bardin." The bald man's thoughts tended to wander, and the Hunter had no desire to listen to his rambling at the moment. "I have something I must do before I meet you at the House of Need."
"House of Need?" Bardin seemed puzzled by this for a moment. "Ahh, yes, dinner!"
"Yes, dinner. Later, though."
The bald man waved him away. "Of course, of course. Busy noble like you always has important matters pending, Lord Rell." He leaned close and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "But I'll see if I can't slip a crust of bread away for you."
"My thanks, Bardin." The Hunter hid his grimace. He had no desire to eat anything carried in Bardin's filthy rags.
Bardin slapped him on the back. "Now, off with you, young Rell. You’ve got to visit the library and the chandler's before returning to his lordship's manor."
The Hunter marveled at Bardin's ability to slip in and out of lucidity. He would be at home among the Illusionist Clerics of Voramis!
He gave Bardin a weary smile. "Yes, of course. But before I go, I have a question for you. Being newly arrived in Malandria, I would hate to find myself in trouble. Are there certain regions of the city I should avoid?"
Bardin nodded. "You'd do well to avoid the Fishmonger's Market. The fish whisper the most terrible things, and the place reeks!"
"Avoid the fish. Got it."
Bardin wrinkled his nose in disgust. "And stay away from the Forgotten Ward, in the north of the city."
"Oh?" That sounded promising.
"It is home to the Black Manor." Bardin shuddered and clutched the thing around his neck—a filthy pendant hanging from an even filthier chain. "A dark, forbidding place of unspeakable terror. Once a prison, but so many of the condemned died horrible, mysterious deaths that it was said to be haunted. It is whispered that their ghosts still wander the halls."
Ghosts? The Hunter saw far too many already.
"No civilized person would be found within the shadows of the Black Manor. Only the vilest sort make their home in the Forgotten
Ward. Even the City Watch is smart enough to stay away. Avoid it at all costs, lad."
Perfect.
A thought struck him. "What about these 'wizards'? Tell me more about them, where to find them…or where to avoid them."
Bardin shivered despite the heat of the day. "No one knows where they are. They remain hidden, only emerging from their dens at night to claim their prey." He stroked the pendant so fiercely the Hunter feared he would snap the chain.
"And Order of Midas—"
Bardin clapped a grimy hand over the Hunter's mouth. "Don’t say their name, or they'll hear you! They command even the shadows." Panic flitted across his features, and the acrid stench of fear rolled off him in waves.
The Hunter shoved Bardin's hand away and scrubbed the filth from his lips. "I will not speak their name, but for the Watcher's sake—and your own—never do that again!"
Bardin withered beneath the Hunter's rage, collapsing into a heap on the floor, his eyes glazing over. Sobs wracked his frame and a torrent of gibberish poured from his mouth. The Hunter caught the occasional word.
"…foul rituals…horrible curses…creatures of nightmare…"
Could it be? He had smelled a demon in the House of Need. Could the wizards be demons in disguise?
The Hunter shook the bald man. "Bardin! You said 'creatures of nightmare' just there. Do you mean demons?"
Bardin turned his terrified expression on the Hunter. Eyes wide, sniffling, he nodded.
"You've seen demons? You're certain they were demons?"
Bardin shuddered, his lip quivering. "Aye. Horrible creatures prowling the city at night. Like wolves, but larger and far more terrifying."
Wolves?
A vision flashed through the Hunter's mind. He saw them again, the creatures he had seen in the Serenii tunnels beneath Voramis. These monsters towered twice the height of humans, walking, crawling, and slithering along earth drenched in the blood of their prey. None had resembled wolves.
He shook it off. It had to be a creation of Bardin's insanity. Monsters perhaps, but not demons.
The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen Page 14
