The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen

by Andy Peloquin

  How is that possible? In a city this size, there should be thousands of beggars, homeless, and destitute. So where are they?

  He purchased a satchel from a vendor, and filled it with cheese, a bundle of carrots, dried meat, a handful of fresh plums, and a loaf of bread. The weight of the bag and the sound of coins jingling in his pocket comforted him.

  My thanks to the two gentlemen of the Forgotten Ward for their generosity.

  He had a momentary twinge of guilt. Then he remembered the face of the young boy; so content, finally at peace. The remorse passed quickly. They had deserved it.

  We will dine well tonight.

  The thought struck him as odd. "We", not "I". Without realizing, he had come to see Bardin's shelter as his home in Malandria. The thought of hoarding his newfound wealth hadn't crossed his mind.

  It's like Voramis all over again. But this time, the beggars are offering me shelter, instead of the other way around.

  He fished one of the purple plums from the satchel and sank his teeth into the rich yellow flesh. The plum's heady scent filled his nostrils.

  Something within his mind shifted and clicked into place. Memories slammed into him.

  Plum juice ran down his cheeks and stained his hands, but his eyes never left Her. She reclined in a chair beside him, Her robes rich and adorned with jewels. Reaching out a languid hand, She plucked a ripe green apple from a bowl. Her perfect white teeth showed as She took a bite.

  "Come now," he said, "don't tell me you're—"

  "Watch yourself, derro!" The harsh voice snapped in the Hunter's ear, and something knocked him aside. A heavy-shouldered man with a massive bundle on his back glared down at him. "Keep a sharp eye, boy, or you'll end up like the rest of your kind." He spat to one side.

  The Hunter's anger blazed hot. He stared up at the man, his face reddening with rage, fists clenching. He half-expected the voice in his mind to snarl its bloodlust, but only silence filled his thoughts.

  Swallowing, he forced his fingers to uncurl and climbed to his feet.

  "Sorry, sir," he mumbled.

  "Stay out of the way of proper folk, you cur!" The man stomped away, muttering under his breath.

  The Hunter wanted to snarl a curse at the man. His anger was not for the collision, but the interruption of his memories. The momentary glimpse into his forgotten past reminded him of all he had lost. He tried to summon the memory once more, but the vision refused to coalesce. He wanted to cry, to scream, to howl his rage aloud, but he just felt drained.

  I saw Her! Watcher take it! I saw Her face, heard Her speak!

  Sorrow washed over him, and he slumped against a nearby wall. His forgotten past had taunted him for decades, but, since his departure from Voramis, he had seen more glimpses into his memories. Try as he might to cling to them, they faded away before giving him more than a hint of truth.

  It seemed so real! It had to be.

  The Hunter flopped onto a pile of discarded boxes near the mouth of an alley. He pulled his focus inward, blocking out the world around him. He tugged at the ragged threads of his memories in a desperate search for any hint of his past.

  A voice, soft and weak, sounded from the shadows of the alleyway. Please! You must avenge us.

  The pitiful cry shattered the last vestiges of his concentration, and the memory slipped away like a leaf on the breeze.

  A figure materialized before him: a young girl, barely into her childbearing years, the first signs of flowering womanhood showing beneath her thin tunic. She bore a black eye, blood streaming down her face from a split lip, her head twisted at an unnatural angle.

  Her lips never moved, yet the Hunter heard her voice clearly. Avenge us. We are the innocent.

  The Hunter shook his head. I cannot. How can I avenge the deaths of so many?

  Delicate hands reached toward him. Bring us peace, Hunter.

  You are just one among a multitude of the dead. I can do nothing for you.

  Avenge us, Hunter. Our time will come.

  The Hunter's eye burned, and he blinked hard. He clenched his jaw to stifle his anger.

  Keeper take you all! Will the lament of the fallen never cease? I finally find peace from one voice, only to have more take its place.

  He climbed to his feet and hurried onward, retreating into the shadows of his hood. He ignored the people around him, colliding with more than a few. Their protests fell on deaf ears. The cries of the dead blended with those of the living, and he struggled in vain to separate the real from the imaginary.

  Overwhelmed by the tumult in his mind, the Hunter staggered into an alley, gasping, his stomach twisting. He tried to fight back the tears forming in his eyes, to push down the lump in his throat.

  His head felt as if it would burst. He clapped his hands to his ears, desperate to quell the voices. The dead would not leave him alone. They filled his mind with their entreaties. He huddled deeper into the hood, squeezing his eyes tight.

  Please, let it be enough. Give me peace.

  Something snapped, and the pressure in his head burst. The voices faded, and with their retreat, the chaos in his mind dimmed. Silence filled the street.

  The Hunter leaned against the wall, gasping, clenching his fists to still the trembling in his hands. The action steadied him, calmed his racing heart.

  After long heartbeats, the Hunter pushed himself upright. The afternoon light had begun to fade. He had to return to Bardin before dark. He had promised.

  From the corner of his eye, the Hunter registered a flash of movement on a nearby roof. Turning his head, he caught sight of something streaking toward him.

  Chapter Nine

  Instinct and training kicked in. Desperate, the Hunter jerked backward.

  Impact. The world spun around him. He lost consciousness, only to have it return a moment later with a pounding ache in his head. He lay on the hard cobblestone street, ribs and face aching from the impact. His tongue throbbed, and he tasted copper.

  With a groan, he reached up to touch the side of his head. The skin felt tender to the touch, but there was no blood.

  No blood?

  The Hunter swallowed to keep the contents of his stomach from coming up. He climbed to his feet, wobbled, and righted himself.

  The arrow lay a few paces away, in the shadow of an overturned cart. He stumbled over and picked it up. It had no point, just a wide, rounded head covered with thick cloth and wool padding.

  Twisted hell!

  The arrow was meant to stun, not kill. He knew from experience that the weight of the rounded tip and padding would affect its accuracy. Only a very skilled archer could have made that shot.

  His eye shot upwards, tracing the rooftops around him in search of his attacker. He grasped the hilt of the gutting knife. Pitiful weapon or not, he refused to face an opponent empty-handed.

  Nothing but empty skies.

  The bastard must have fled!

  How long had he lain unconscious? No more than a few seconds, if that.

  He studied the dull-tipped arrow again. Something about the shaft struck him as odd. A thin layer of clay ringed the wood beneath the head. That was new.

  He scratched at the clay with a dirty fingernail. It had yet to harden, and his efforts revealed the edge of a piece of paper. He ran his finger along the length of the shaft, searching for the ring of clay that marked the other end of the parchment.

  The Hunter snatched the oiled parchment before it fell. The sudden movement caused his head to swim, and he leaned against the wall for support. With one hand, he unrolled the paper, squinting to read the neat, elegant script.

  We know who you are, Hunter. We know WHAT you are. Leave Malandria now, or face our wrath.

  The message hit him like a blow to the gut. His mind raced, struggling to grasp its meaning.

  Someone claims to know the truth about me? Is it even possible? If so, how?

  A wave of dizziness washed over him, and the pounding in his head intensified. He sat hard, leaning his bac
k against the wall and closing his eyes until the nausea passed. His thoughts whirled in time with his spinning vision.

  Could it be someone he knew from Voramis? Not possible. Only a few people had ever seen his face, and he had sent them to the Long Keeper's embrace.

  Not everyone.

  The Beggar Priests. They gave me the Swordsman's blades, and they allowed me to leave.

  Had Father Reverentus sent word of him to Malandria? Had the old priest alerted the others of his order to the Hunter's existence?

  Impossible. The Beggar Priests thought me dead. Visibos himself said he had seen me die. Anyone arriving from Voramis would have discovered my fate from Sir Danna or Visibos.

  If not the Beggar Priests, who?

  Who could possibly know I was here? And so soon after my arrival?

  Bardin's terrified words flashed through his mind. "They command even the shadows."

  They. The Order of Midas. The mysterious enclave of wizards who held Malandria in thrall.

  What interest could they have in me? And how could they have learned the truth about me so quickly?

  He swallowed a surge of panic. For a moment, he tasted the fear he had seen written on Bardin's face. A group of all-seeing, all-powerful beings had taken interest in him. It was a prospect he didn't relish.

  The wizards couldn't be real. Yet, the message in his hand proved their existence. Not only had they discovered the truth of his identity, but they had come close enough to put an arrow into him.

  He could not take this threat lightly. He would not underestimate them, whoever they were. He had made that mistake in Voramis, and it had cost him dearly.

  I will heed their warning and be on my way as soon as I can.

  Two things kept him in Malandria: the search for Soulhunger and the Swordsman's blades, and a desire to find answers. The House of Need held the former, and Lord Apus could lead him to the latter. He would be on his way in no time.

  But while I am here, I will give them a wide berth.

  He cocked his arm to cast away the arrow, but hesitated. The shaft felt solid, and had a good heft.

  Better keep the damned thing. Never know when a weapon will come in handy.

  He tucked it into the pocket where he had stored Orrin's gutting knife. Pitiful weapons perhaps, but better than nothing. They could spell the difference between life and death.

  He bent to retrieve his satchel, checking to ensure its precious contents remained intact. Only a few of the fruits had been bruised.

  A dizzy spell seized him. His head ached, a dull, throbbing pain that refused to dissipate. He clung to the wall for support, leaning on his knees and trying to keep down his lunch. The fight had taken more out of him than he cared to admit. The wounds from his fight with Orrin and Grinder still stung, and his body was tender from the pummeling.

  Keeper take it!

  How could he be so weak? It was a new sensation, one he relished not at all.

  The world spun to a halt around him. Opening his eye, the Hunter took deep breaths to settle his stomach. The air carried a tang of offal and rotten fruit, but the sunlight filtering into the alley had a rich, golden-red tint to it. Sunset was not far off.

  I promised Bardin I would be back before dark. Better hurry!

  His muscles protested with every step. Beaten, cut, and shot all in one day. His anger only intensified the aches and pains racking his body. He touched the eye patch, wincing at the contact with the tender flesh. A reminder of his mortality.

  My body should have repaired itself, but it refuses to do more than keep me alive. Could it be the ferrospike poison still?

  Weeks had passed since the Cambionari poisoned and left him for dead, yet he hadn't healed. Pain raced through him at every step. Fatigue forced him to stop and catch his breath after just a few minutes of walking.

  Is my humanity finally catching up to me? Am I destined to spend the rest of my days in such a pitiful state?

  He eyed the men and women walking past. Would he become as mortal as them? Would he one day die? There was a sort of comfort in the thought of death. An end to it all, a sense of finality to a life that had dragged on for so long.

  No, he would not die. Animal instinct and a will to survive refused to let go. He just needed time to heal. He needed Soulhunger, and he would be whole once more.

  Gritting his teeth, he stumbled toward the place he called "home" for the short time he remained in Malandria. The pain was just one more obstacle to overcome.

  I am the Hunter! I always triumph in the end.

  The sun had dropped below the rooftops around him; the moon already hung high in the sky. Night would be upon him in less than an hour. He had to hurry to reach the shelter before dark.

  His anxiety grew with each passing minute. He told himself he hurried not out of fear of the Order of Midas, but out of a desire to keep his promise to Bardin.

  Bardin stood waiting at the mouth of the alley, his hand at his neck. Wrinkles creased the man's forehead, and his eyes darted around nervously.

  "I'm here, Bardin!"

  The bald man jumped at the sound of his name, but when he saw the Hunter, the worry drained from his face.

  "Rell, my boy, what could possess you to stay out so late?" He pointed at the sky. "I told you to be back by sundown, told you. The wizards, lad…"

  The Hunter clapped Bardin's shoulder. "Sorry to worry you. I was a bit…delayed."

  Bardin regarded the Hunter's face and his forehead wrinkled again. "Aye, so I see. That looks nasty."

  His eyes slid around, never quite meeting the Hunter's, and his fingers toyed with his pendant.

  "It's nothing. I just had the rotten luck to end up in the middle of a street brawl."

  Why did he lie to the man? He had nothing to fear from Bardin. Or did he? What would the man do if he knew the truth of the Hunter?

  He thrust the satchel toward Bardin. "Look!"

  The bald man's eyes went wide. "Watcher's bearded toes, a fortune of gold!"

  "No, even better. Food!"

  Bardin smiled. "For me?"

  "For us! I can think of no better man to share it with."

  "Then come, lad, let's get inside before someone sees our newfound wealth." Casting a nervous glance at the sky, Bardin wrapped an arm around the Hunter's shoulders and propelled him toward the alley.

  The Hunter allowed himself to be pulled through the mess of shelters. "Yes, of course, the wizards. Can't be caught on the streets after dark!"

  Bardin shivered. "Not with the wizards' pets coming out to play."

  "Pets?" The Hunter's ears pricked up.

  But Bardin had retreated into his own mind. Muttering, with one hand clutching the pendant around his neck, the bald man picked his way quickly toward his home.

  "They'll be watching out for us tonight…have to know we're here…can't have them ruining our plans…great indeed…the bastards ate our cheese…give them hell to pay…"

  Crazy bastard, indeed!

  Yet after the message he had received, could he be certain Bardin really was crazy?

  Chapter Ten

  The Hunter reclined against the pile of crates that served as the shelter's "wall", draining the last drops of wine from the jug.

  Bardin narrowed his eyes. "You going to share that, or keep it all to yourself?"

  The Hunter grinned and produced a wineskin from the satchel. "Here, have some of this."

  Bardin removed the stopper and emptied half the contents. "Ahh!" He smacked and wiped his lips. "Wine, my old companion, how I have missed thee!"

  "Don't get much these days, eh?"

  Bardin grinned. "The House of Need is generous with its bread and water, but their goodwill rarely extends to spirits."

  A pleasant warmth spread through the Hunter. The world whirled around him in a curious fashion, and Bardin's face swam in and out of focus.

  So this is what it's like to be drunk.

  He had never suffered the temptation of spirits. When he did
drink, the effects were mild at best. He reveled in the feeling. He knew he should be anxious about something, but what? He couldn't remember. Gone were the worries and cares, along with the voice in his head. He had nothing to do but lie here and bask in the sensations.

  "Tell me, Bardin, do you believe in the gods?" His tongue felt thick and clumsy, and the words tumbled from his mouth beyond his control.

  "Of course." Bardin tipped up the wineskin to drain the last drops. "Don't you?"

  "I…don't know. There are things in this world I can't explain, but does that mean the gods exist? I can't be sure."

  "I've never had cause to doubt." Bardin sounded strangely lucid, and he met the Hunter's unfocused gaze without wavering.

  "What about divine gifts? Do you think the gods can really imbue their followers and priests with special abilities?"

  Bardin nodded. "Absolutely!"

  The Hunter sat up, the world spinning. "Are you sure? I'd bet I can prove you wrong!"

  Bardin eyed him with a curious expression. "Go on."

  "I'll tell you, but first I need more wine."

  He fished a wineskin from within the satchel and emptied half the contents before passing it to Bardin.

  "Now, let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a man. This man left behind everything he knew to escape pain and loss, and he traveled the open road in search of answers."

  The Hunter slumped back against the crates, too unsteady to remain upright.

  "This man encountered two knights in service to the Beggar God. After he saved them from bandits, he made the foolish decision to travel with them. He knew they could be a danger, but he didn't care."

  "Why would the knights be dangerous to this man?"

  "Don't interrupt the story!" The Hunter wagged a numb finger at Bardin. He stared at his hands for a moment, flexing them. He felt nothing. The wine had dulled the pains and aches of his body, and he floated in an insensate haze.

  "Rell, the story?"

  The Hunter's head jerked, his eyes snapping open. "Of course! Where was I?"