The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen

by Andy Peloquin

Bardin seized the Hunter's arm, his expression growing somber. "Whatever your errands, young Rell, do not be caught out after dark. The demons are set free to roam once the sun has set. Promise me you will return before nightfall "

  "Aye, I will." The Hunter nodded, hoping it would calm the terrified beggar.

  It worked. The fear in Bardin's eyes faded, and his hand retreated from his pendant. The bald man accepted the Hunter's hand and climbed to his feet.

  The Hunter caught a flash of tarnished metal in the shape of a teardrop, free of engraving or markings. Noticing the Hunter's scrutiny, Bardin stuffed the pendant inside his shirt.

  "Well, young Rell, I must be off if I am to complete my work before the day is done."

  He continued speaking, now to himself. "I will need fresh supplies if I am to finish the manuscript before…" His words trailed off and he eyed the Hunter through narrowed eyes. "You're not here to spy, are you? Lord Pietrus hasn't sent you to—?"

  "No, Bardin. I'm not here to spy on you."

  Bardin rubbed his cheeks, his mouth pulling into a tight line. "Hmmm. Perhaps not, but we will see. Now off with you!"

  The bald man sounded so imperious, a stark contrast to his shabby appearance. The Hunter shrugged it off as another of the man's oddities.

  "I'll return before the sun sets." He patted Bardin's arm.

  Bardin jerked back from the touch and drew himself to his full height. "See that you do, young man, or I'll have you flogged!" His expression revealed no trace of humor, only haughty superiority.

  With a sniff of contempt, Bardin turned his back on the Hunter and strutted away, head held high, back straight as an arrow, with all the poise of a noble.

  The Hunter chuckled. Sweet Mistress! I'd hate to see what goes on in that head of his.

  He breathed deep, inhaling the myriad scents of the city. The sun shone down bright and warm from an azure sky dotted with puffs of white. For the briefest of moments, the Hunter felt almost…happy.

  The ache returned, settling behind his left eye, dragging his mood back into the gutter. The demon radiated impatience.

  Enough! You'll get what you demand soon enough.

  The voice in his mind crowed in triumph. The Hunter pushed it away with the force of his anger.

  Remember your promise, demon!

  He would have peace from the creature's whispers, no matter what it forced him to do.

  Chapter Seven

  The Hunter shivered despite the heat of the day. Unconsciously, he pulled the cloak tighter around his shoulders. His skin crawled as if a million eyes watched him, but he saw no one in the dark, silent houses.

  The Forgotten Ward lived up to its name. A yawning pothole filled with stagnant water dominated the center of the littered street. A breeze kicked up debris, carrying foul scents that turned the Hunter's stomach. The sweet stench of rotting flesh hung heavy in the air. With every step, his boots squelched in mire.

  When he lowered himself onto the wobbling stoop of a decrepit building, his foot brushed against the rotted remains of something ancient, and it crumbled away to dust.

  A perfect example of the Ward itself.

  Weather-beaten walls struggled to prop up row after row of unsteady roofing, sagging beneath the weight of shattered tiles. Black and green mold sprouted from decaying bricks, making mockery of the pitiful whitewash that had long since peeled away.

  Hundreds of empty windows and doors gaped at him, like dark mouths filled with jagged teeth of shattered glass and wood. The sounds of creaking boards and slamming shutters echoed through the hollowed buildings. Nothing but carcasses, husks of a life that had once existed.

  Above it all stood the Black Manor, a squat, brooding guardian keeping watch over the Forgotten Ward. Obsidian walls hundreds of paces high cast deep shadows on the buildings below. Midnight spires thrust into the sky, looking like a dark, jagged cloud blocking out the bright morning sun. That must have been a truly horrible place.

  The Hunter could almost feel the malevolence radiating from the structure. Images of torment and madness danced through his mind, turning his thoughts dark. In every vision, his was the hand that wielded the implements of torture.

  The demon's silence surprised him. He half-expected it to scream for death. It had no need to prod him; it knew why he had come.

  You will have your death, but I choose who dies. I kill those who deserve it.

  The choice to give in to the demon's demands weighed heavy on him, but what could he do? The incessant voice would drive him mad if he didn't give it what it wanted. He was only doing it to survive, but that didn't make it easier to live with.

  The rotted steps creaked under his weight as he shifted to a more comfortable position. His solitary eye roamed the empty streets, his features hidden in the shadows of his hood.

  The demon mocked him. Why would he strive to cling to a conscience? He had none.

  Conscience or not, the decision is mine.

  Hero or fool? It mattered not. He was a killer, plain and simple.

  An eerie silence filled on the Forgotten Ward, broken only by the moaning breeze and the rustle of debris.

  I do this because I must.

  The words rang hollow. He felt no better, no matter how many times he repeated it over in his mind.

  Time dragged, but the Hunter had no hurry. A thrill coursed through him, the same exhilaration he supposed an artisan felt upon seeing a masterpiece. No matter how he tried to protest, he could not deny the elation that filled him at the prospect of death.

  They come.

  The Hunter's head snapped up at the whisper in his ear. His heart sank at the vision materializing before him.

  Not again! The dead refused to leave him in peace.

  Justice for the fallen.

  The voice belonged to a boy too young to shave, and too frail to stand against a stiff breeze. The lad's withered arms sprouted from a filthy jerkin, and he wobbled on twisted legs. Bruises discolored the boy's face. Dark blood stained the side of his head.

  The apparition pointed down a side street. They come.

  Two men rounded the corner, their raucous laughter and coarse voices shattering the silence of the street.

  Justice.

  The Hunter understood. So be it.

  The Hunter sank deeper into his cloak, hunching over his knees and feigning sleep. The tromp, tromp of heavy booted feet drew nearer.

  "Look at this! A filthy beggar, sleeping on our street." The man had a thin, nasal voice that grated on the Hunter's ears.

  "The poor bastard must be tired. A long day of sucking diseased cock in the Wretch Hole can leave any man exhausted."

  Speaking from experience?

  The first snorted. "Disgusting creature! It's a pity no one told him he owes us rent, eh, Grinder?"

  "Aye, Orrin, that it is. He's stinking up property that belongs to us, so I think a small fee is in order."

  A hand seized the Hunter's hair and roughly yanked his head up.

  "Oi, let's see the color of your coins!"

  The Hunter stared into the dull eyes nearly obscured by bushy eyebrows. A dark, scraggly beard almost hid a mess of pox scars, but the pustules covering the man's blotchy forehead matched his pitted red nose. Alcohol-soaked breath wafted from a mouth with far too few teeth.

  "Well? Go on then, show us what you've got." A nasty smile spread on the man's face. "If you've got nothing, my friend Orrin here might have to take it out of your hide."

  Orrin, a rangy fellow with greasy locks and a pitiful smattering of stray hairs where a beard should have been, drew a slim gutting knife.

  "Please say you've got nothing to give us. I haven't bloodied my blade in what…a few days now, Grinder?" A wicked grin widened his angular face, pulling back lips twisted by a cleft.

  The Hunter stared back, silent, unflinching.

  "Did you hear me?" Spittle flew from Grinder's mouth. "Are you deaf as well as ugly, you cunt?"

  "I think he might be, Grinder. I think we
should stab him a few times, just to get the message across."

  Grinder nodded. "Good thinking, mate. We'd better show him what happens to people who don't pay rent." Grinder cocked his fist to strike.

  Instinctively, the Hunter shot out a hand to catch the blow, but he failed to account for his injured eye. Instead of closing his fingers around Grinder's wrist, his palm slapped the man's elbow.

  Grinder's blow rocked his head to the side. Reeling, shocked, it took the Hunter’s mind a second to realize the man had struck him. Impossible!

  Before he could react, Grinder slammed a fist into his stomach. The Hunter doubled over, and a blow to the back of his neck knocked him to the street.

  Muck splattered on his face and filled his mouth, the foul-tasting stuff adding to his desire to vomit. Blow after blow landed on his ribs, legs, and face. He grunted with each impact, unable to see or defend himself. His mouth filled with the coppery taste of the blood—his own. His head rang, and his one good eye refused to focus. Each punch and kick mocked his weakness, reminded him of his pitiful condition.

  Mocking laughter filled his head. 'Foolish, foolish Bucelarii. This is what happens when you ignore me!'

  This is your fault, demon!

  'No. The blame lies with you.'

  He curled into a ball, protecting his body from further blows. A boot struck his back, sending pain racing along his spine.

  'The Beggar Priests. You refused to heed. Now look at you.'

  The Hunter lashed out with his foot, striking blind. He felt the kick connect, heard a grunt of pain. He tried again, meeting only empty air.

  'None of this would be happening if you had listened.'

  It was true. The demon had warned him, and he had ignored it. Now, he couldn't even fight off street scum.

  Something hard connected with the tender spot between his legs, and his world exploded. He doubled over, retching and gasping in agony.

  The blows stopped. Every muscle in the Hunter's body ached from the pounding. A hand gripped his hair and yanked his head back. He blinked to clear away the muck in his eyes.

  Grinder's foul breath filled the Hunter's nostrils. "Had enough, you rat-sucking cunt? Ready to pay the toll?"

  "Yes." The Hunter gasped and spat through blood-stained teeth.

  "Good!" Grinder hauled him to his feet.

  The Hunter wobbled for a moment.

  'You truly are worthless, as your forefathers believed.'

  Enough!

  A maniacal laugh ripped from the Hunter's throat. "I will pay the toll, but it will be in your blood."

  He struck out, the full force of his body behind the blow. His fist slammed into Grinder's throat, crushing cartilage. His knuckles crunched, but the pain only fueled his anger.

  Grinder gaped, eyes wide. He tried to breathe, but only a horrible wheezing sound emerged. His face purpled and his tongue lolled from his mouth. He toppled to the side, gurgling frantically. He took slow, gasping breaths…his last.

  Elation filled the Hunter's mind. 'Beautiful!'

  He flexed his fingers, relishing the thrill coursing through him. One death was not enough.

  Orrin gaped at Grinder, eyes wide in disbelief. "What the…? You…you…you killed Grinder!" His face turned ashen.

  The Hunter grinned, a horrible, predatory smile. "He is in the Long Keeper's embrace, a place far too good for a man like him."

  "You'll join him next!" Orrin lunged, slashing at the Hunter's throat.

  The Hunter dodged the blow, but his eye betrayed him. Stinging pain flared along the side of his neck where the gutting blade sliced flesh. The shock froze him. How could that happen? Before he recovered, Orrin carved half a dozen shallow cuts into his face and neck.

  "Die, you bastard!" Orrin screamed, his face red with rage.

  Blood trickled from a gash in the Hunter's forehead, stinging his one good eye. He blinked and stumbled backward, out of reach of Orrin's frenzied attacks.

  The bite of his wounds was nothing compared to humiliation burning within him. How could he be so weak, so frail as to allow this man to strike him?

  The demon begged him to kill. The Hunter wanted to deny it, but there was no denying the elation coursing through him. He, not the thing in his mind, wanted more. He needed more.

  Orrin lashed out at the Hunter's blind left side. The Hunter stepped inside the thin man's guard and pumped his fists into the man's solar plexus, three quick blows. Orrin doubled over, and the Hunter's knee shot up. The man's head snapped backward. Warm blood splattered the Hunter's face.

  Orrin tried to regain his balance, but the Hunter danced around behind the man, slipping his right arm around his neck. Orrin beat at the Hunter's arm with his fists, gasping, but the Hunter's encircling arm silenced his voice. His attempts to break free grew more frantic. He lashed out with the knife, carving deep gouges in the Hunter's forearm. The Hunter hissed at the pain, but he only tightened his hold.

  The world collapsed in on the Hunter. Blood rushed in his ears, setting his veins on fire. He felt nothing but the thrill of the hunt. Everything around him fell silent, save for the scuffling of Orrin's feet and his pitiful gasps. Every muscle in his upper body tensed and, with a wild cry of elation, the Hunter twisted. Orrin's neck cracked with a loud snap.

  Laughter bubbled from within him, a maniacal, horrible thing mixed with sobs and gasps.

  Triumph filled his thoughts. 'This, this is why we live! This is why we are the Hunter!'

  The Hunter threw the lifeless body atop Grinder's corpse. He stared down at his trembling hands, still stained with blood.

  'Glorious, wondrous carnage! We are the bringer of death! We will rule this world, for none can stop us! We—'

  The Hunter's elation faded and died. He felt empty, drained. He wanted to lie down and sleep for days.

  Go away.

  The demon would not relent. It wanted more, begged for more. It could never get enough.

  You promised me peace if I killed for you. You gave your word. Now leave me alone.

  Anger flooded his mind and set his head aching. Then, slowly, the voice faded. He drew in a shaky breath, then another. His hands ceased trembling, and the pressure in his head retreated.

  He would have peace. For a time.

  A face materialized before him. The boy's wan, bruised features relaxed, and a faint smile touched his lips. A single whispered word reached the Hunter's ears as the apparition faded.

  Justice.

  Blood dripped from the Hunter's face and head, staining the pale faces of his victims. The smell of copper hung heavy in the air. The tension in his muscles drained away, and his vision cleared. He saw nothing but the empty street and the blue skies above. No sound reached his ears. No voices filled his thoughts. He wanted to cry out in relief.

  Peace, at last.

  Chapter Eight

  Ripping the hem of Orrin's robe, the Hunter wrapped it around the gash in his arm. He felt foolish tending to such a minor wound. Not long ago, it would have healed in minutes. Now, he was forced to treat the injury like any normal man.

  The gutting knife caught his eye. Crimson stained its edge—his blood. He wrestled it from Orrin's lifeless grip and studied the notched, dented edges.

  Pitiful, but any weapon is better than nothing.

  The knife slipped into a pocket hidden in the robes. The Hunter regarded the corpses at his feet, eyeing the bulging purses hanging from their belts. He took the purses anyway. Better live as a thief than die of starvation and honor.

  Time to escape before these bodies are discovered.

  Would anyone care? Judging by the state of the Forgotten Ward, not likely.

  Retreating into the comforting shadows of his hood, the Hunter slipped down the street. He hurried from the Forgotten Ward, but though he left the bodies far behind, the faces of his victims remained fixed in his mind. Orrin's face red and contorted with anger. Grinder's wide-eyed, terrified gasps for breath.

  The price of peace. The only way t
o silence the voice in his mind.

  A price I will pay, if I must.

  The streets of the Forgotten Ward flashed by in a blur, and he emerged onto the main avenue. He slowed to a stroll, breathing easy, the tension draining from his body. He pulled back his hood and basked in the midday warmth. Everything looked brighter, the colors more vivid.

  A sweaty street vendor cried his wares. The smell of grilling meat hung in the air—lamb, most likely. The Hunter's stomach rumbled. An exchange of coins, and he tore into the hunk of sizzling meat wrapped in thick flatbread and topped with a creamy herb sauce.

  The Hunter couldn't remember the last time he'd tasted something so delicious. The heat scalded his tongue, but he barely noticed. He licked the last traces of grease from his fingers and patted his stomach. For the first time in weeks, he was free of gnawing hunger.

  Wine came next. Weeks of drinking nothing but water had him thirsting for something stronger. Though the first jug of wine tasted like vinegar, he finished it in a few long draughts.

  Hunger and thirst sated, the Hunter strolled down the Impedimenta. He studied the stalls and shops lining the fourth tier of Malandria, content to take his time. He hadn't traveled city streets in open daylight in years, not without a disguise to hide his face. Here, with little risk of being recognized, he could walk without fear.

  People, animals, and carriages filled the air with noise. Vendors hawked their wares, crying out to passersby.

  "Fresh meat, hot off the grill!"

  "Buy a bird, a marvelous companion!"

  "Jewelry, for your woman."

  "Charms to hide you from the wizards, friend?"

  The avenue had none of the signs of poverty that had marked Lower Voramis. Shops and stalls were laid out in neat, precise rows. The streets were auspiciously free of debris and litter. Even after walking half the city, he saw not a single beggar. No filthy street urchins raced among the pedestrians and vehicles on the Impedimenta. There were no lame, crippled, or diseased pleading for alms.

  The alleyway where Bardin lived had been filled with makeshift shelters, but he guessed no more than a few dozen people lived there. The enclosure at the House of Need held fewer than a hundred, and he had seen only a handful of people in the Forgotten Ward.