The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen

by Andy Peloquin

  Both men studied the lines in silence, searching for the corresponding letters.

  "VYYHFVBA!" Bardin announced, triumph in his voice. Then, as if realizing what he had just said, his face fell.

  "Flouncing fornicating deity, Bardin, what a discovery!" The Hunter couldn't stop himself from mocking. "A study of this book will now reveal all the terrible and wonderful secrets of the mysterious VYYHFVBA!"

  He felt disappointed. Bardin's excitement at finding the cipher had raised his hopes, only to have them dashed by the discovery that the lines were little more than rubbish.

  "But…" Bardin gaped. "I…"

  He studied the parchment through narrowed eyes, his lips moving silently. Then, a slow smile spread on his face.

  "Of course! The sly bastard!" With a triumphant grin for the Hunter, he bent and scribbled on the parchment.

  "What am I missing?" the Hunter asked.

  Bardin made no reply, but continued writing furiously. After a minute, he thrust the paper at the Hunter. "It's pure genius! A cipher within a cipher."

  Beneath "VYYHFVBA", Bardin had written the word "ILLUSION".

  The Hunter shook his head. The man truly IS mad!

  Bardin stared at the Hunter, not a hint of madness in his eyes.

  "How in the hells did you get 'illusion' from 'VYYHFVBA'?" the Hunter asked. "That seems a bit of a stretch, even for you, Bardin."

  The bald man smiled at the Hunter. "It's simple, really. The second cipher is called—and rightly so, I might add—the Taivoran shift."

  He scribbled the letter 'V' on the parchment, and, beneath it, the letter 'I'.

  "See, you simply shift the letters of your word a certain number of characters. In this case, the shift is thirteen characters—no doubt for the thirteen gods. Once the characters are shifted, a perfectly normal word is transformed into gibberish, or vice versa. As you see, you now have your message!"

  His triumphant smile returned, and he stared at the Hunter expectantly.

  The Hunter's mind whirled. "So, we know the word 'illusion' is there." He took the book from Bardin's hand and flipped through the pages. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

  Bardin nodded vigorously. "Yes! Every one of these 'scribbles' at the top of these pages is a hidden code!"

  "In a novel about the romance of the gods? A bit of a stretch, don't you think?"

  This in no way dimmed Bardin's enthusiasm. "Look!" He pointed to the spine and the name etched there. "The book was written by Karannos Taivoro, yes?"

  The Hunter shrugged "So it seems. But how does a cipher of this complexity end up in the works of the mad playwright?"

  Bardin eyed him for a long moment. When he spoke, his words were barely above a whisper. "It is there because Taivoro was the master of ciphers."

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "The mad playwright? The scribe who penned dozens of collections of erotic fiction? The same man who wrote 'The One Hundred and Thirteen Nights of Coition'?"

  Bardin grinned. "Aye, the same."

  "Watcher's taint, Bardin! How in the fiery hell do you expect me to believe that—?"

  "Have you never heard the legends of Taivoro?" Bardin asked.

  The Hunter snorted. "That he was a drunken fool who drank and copulated himself to death? Sure, we've all heard those tales!"

  Anger flared in Bardin's eyes. "Those rumors have no truth," he snapped. "We were taught the truth."

  His intensity surprised the Hunter. "Who is 'we'? And what do you mean by 'the truth'?"

  Once again, Bardin hesitated. The silence stretched on longer this time.

  "What?" the Hunter snapped after nearly a full minute had passed. Bardin's scrutiny made him uncomfortable. "Spit it out already!"

  "The 'truth', Rell, is that Karannos Taivoro was the first Illusionist Cleric to walk Einan."

  The Hunter's jaw dropped. "What?"

  "He studied under the Illusionist himself. Our god taught him the ways of the mind, illusions, even things we would today consider to be 'magic'. The writings of Taivoro are canon in the Temple of Prosperity."

  The Hunter's thoughts swirled in a furious maelstrom. Our god…canon in the Temple of Prosperity…taught by the Illusionist himself?

  "Y-you mean," he stammered, stunned. "You're an Illusionist Cleric?"

  Bardin shook his head. "No." Anger flashed across his features. "I dreamed of serving the almighty Illusionist. The High Illusionist Cleric himself wanted to train me. He brought me to the Temple of Prosperity to study, said I had a mind perfect for the task."

  It made sense, albeit in a convoluted manner.

  They say that all Illusionist Clerics are touched by the Illusionist himself. He certainly bears the mark of the god of madness. Could he really be…?

  "So what happened?" the Hunter asked. "Why didn't you become an Illusionist Cleric?"

  "Because of the thrice-accursed Order of Midas!" Bardin shouted.

  He clapped a hand over his mouth, his other hand creeping toward the pendant at his throat. His eyes darted around the shelter fearfully, as if expecting a wizard to appear and strike him down for his blasphemy.

  The Hunter stifled a derisive snort at the bald man's fear. "How did the wizards"—he whispered the word—"prevent you from becoming a cleric?"

  "They took control of the city, that's how!" Bardin's face flushed, his anger audible despite his hushed voice. "When they seized power from the nobility, they expelled all of the lords and nobles who refused to bow to their power. Killed them all in a dark ritual at the high moon, it's said."

  The bald man shuddered, and his eyes took on a distant look. "The wizards ousted every one of the temples. They claimed the religious orders were a threat to their power."

  "The temples?" The Hunter couldn't conceive of an organization powerful enough to pose a threat to the temples, so firmly were the people of Einan held in the grip of religion. "How did they manage that?"

  "They killed all the priests," Bardin whispered, his voice filled with sorrow, "down to the apprentices and novices. Every priest of every order was slain, save for the priests at the House of Need."

  "But here you are. How did you manage to escape?"

  "I was not yet inducted as a priest in the Temple of Prosperity."

  "You escaped because you were not yet a priest? If you were not inducted, how did you learn their ways?" The Illusionists guarded their secrets fiercely—he knew only too well, after being hired by the Temple of Prosperity to track down and kill a Voramian thief who had stolen the wrong book from the wrong library.

  "The High Illusionist Cleric wanted me to succeed him after his death, so he oversaw my education personally. I mastered the basic teachings quickly, but the wizards killed him before I could learn more." A tear slipped down Bardin's wrinkled cheek.

  "How old were you?"

  "Barely past the age of manhood." Bardin's voice cracked. "My…talents…were concealed by my parents when I was a child, but when they died, my relatives discovered the truth. They had no use for another hungry mouth to feed, and they told me I'd be better off serving at the temple. When the temple was destroyed…"

  "You chose to live on the streets."

  "Chose? What choice did I have? Those of us without traditional homes, we are forced to live here." The anger filling Bardin's voice matched the rage in his expression.

  Now the Hunter understood how the Order of Midas kept the city streets clean and well-maintained. The wizards confined the poor and destitute within this alley.

  "But your family—"

  "Hated me because they couldn't understand me. And by the time I had learned what I know of the Illusionists' ways, my mind had already been too…broken." With a rueful grin, he tapped his forehead. "The teachings of the Illusionist are not kind."

  "But why not go somewhere else? Why stay here in Malandria? Why live like this?" The Hunter gestured to the shelter around him.

  Bardin gave him a sad smile. "Malandria is my home. It is all I have ever known. Giv
en my…condition, what chance would I have of surviving a long journey, making a home in a new city? No, I tell you this, young Rell, wizards or not, Malandria is the only place I will ever live."

  The smile brightened. "Besides, though it may not look like much, this is a place I can call my own." He stared at the shelter with a look of contentment. "Life in the Temple of Prosperity was never easy for an uninitiated apprentice. Here, I have what I need—my friends and my work."

  "What is that work? You spend every spare moment on it, but you have yet to tell me anything about it."

  Bardin retreated, wrapping his arms around his knees. "It is a secret, entrusted to me by the High Illusionist Cleric the day before the wizards murdered him. It was his life's work, and now it is mine. I am to tell no one about it until it is complete."

  The Hunter wanted to press for more detail. But, judging by the man's guarded expression and the hunch of his shoulders, he knew Bardin would only clam up if he persisted.

  But perhaps he could use the man to help him find answers into his own past. "About these codes, Bardin." He held up the book. "You're telling me you can decipher what they say?"

  His question seemed to draw the bald man from the shell into which he had retreated. "Aye, though it will take some time. There are hundreds of pages to decode, and no doubt more ciphers have been hidden throughout the rest of the book." He smiled at the Hunter. "It was ever the way of the great Taivoro."

  "What do you think you will find?"

  Bardin shrugged. "The writings of Taivoro always contain hidden secrets of great value. You can be certain that we will learn much, though I make no promises that it will be precisely what you are looking for."

  It had to be good enough.

  "Well, then?" the Hunter asked. "What are we waiting for? Let's get started with—"

  Bardin held up a finger. "There is no 'we', Rell. I work better alone."

  The Hunter opened his mouth to protest, but Bardin cut him off.

  "Besides, I need you to bring me a few things."

  "What things?" The Hunter all but leapt to his feet in excitement. "Tell me, and I will bring them now."

  Bardin thought for a moment, running grimy fingers through his matted beard. "Candles, for one. If I am to work in the dark, I'll need light to see by."

  "Got it! What else?"

  Bardin studied the stubby stylus atop the pile of parchments. "A quill pen, if you can find it. Makes it much easier to write with. With the nibs, mind you! That, and a fresh jar of ink."

  "Anything else?"

  A wide smile creased Bardin's face. "Last but certainly not least, I'll need more wine."

  "Wine?" The Hunter eyed the man with suspicion. "Are you sure—"

  "My mind works better when I've had something to drink. The wine shuts out the voices. It is the only way I can finally find clarity of thought. Sadly, of late it has been hard to scrounge enough coin for even a cheap skin."

  "Leave that to me, Bardin. Decipher what is hidden in those pages, and I'll bring you the best damned wine in all of Malandria." He ducked under the flap of the tent, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He turned to look into Bardin's worried eyes

  "You're going out now? The wizards are—"

  The Hunter patted Bardin's arm, trying to placate him. "Sleeping, no doubt. Even practitioners of the arcane arts must rest."

  His words seemed to work. Bardin nodded and bent his attention to the Hunter's book. The Hunter pushed into the Malandrian darkness, eager to find the supplies Bardin had requested. Finally, he would get some answers.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Hunter hurried up the deserted street, anxious to see Bardin's progress. The heavy bag slung over his shoulder carried the items Bardin had requested, along with a few more provisions: fruit no sane man would call fresh, withered vegetables, cheese that had seen better days, and a loaf of bread drier than the cobblestone streets.

  The night market is never a good place to shop, but where else can I find what I need at this hour? If one knew where to look, there was always a market open in the city—albeit an illegal one, with provisions of pitiful quality.

  A clay bottle of wine sloshed beside the foodstuffs in the pack. The wine, now that was something to look forward to. The wax seal marked it as an above-par vintage. Bardin would be excited.

  The air was refreshing, with only a hint of chill. The Hunter breathed deep, filling his nostrils with the scent of Malandria at night. A crisp, clean smell, with none of the filth that plagued Voramis. Stars twinkled in the night sky, and the heavens showed no sign of growing lighter.

  Bardin could get in a few hours of work before the sun rises. Perhaps by morning, he will have the answers I seek.

  He moved quickly, eager to read what Bardin had deciphered. Would the man find anything in the book? Would it be what the Hunter was looking for?

  How can it be? He has no idea what I want to know.

  Perhaps he should tell Bardin the truth.

  'Never!'

  Silence, demon! This is not your choice to make.

  What would Bardin do if he knew the truth of the Hunter's true identity?

  It might help him know what to search for. He will be able to find the answers I want.

  He resolved to tell the man, come what may.

  'Fool! Are you forgetting Ellinor so soon?'

  Never. The Hunter would never forget the look of terror in Ellinor's eyes the night he had saved her. But that doesn't mean Bardin will react the same.

  Bardin would understand. He had to!

  Bucelarii.

  The voice startled him. His hand darted into his cloak for the gutting knife, his stomach in knots. He recoiled at the apparition forming in the darkness before him.

  The thing appeared barely human. Grimy, covered in weeping sores, the man stared at the Hunter. He extended gnarled hands in supplication, malformed joints twisting his limbs.

  Bucelarii. The voice sounded in the Hunter's thoughts. You must avenge us.

  The sight sent a shiver down his spine. I cannot. I haven't the time to find your killer.

  You are the Hunter. Hunt them down.

  The Hunter shook his head. I have my own concerns to occupy me. I will not waste my time in a fruitless search.

  We will bring you to them, and you will mete out the justice they deserve.

  Leave me alone!

  The Hunter broke into a run, pulling the hood over his head to hide the vision. But as he rounded the corner, another figure appeared before him.

  You must avenge us. This voice belonged to a woman with her face disfigured horribly by a shattered skull. They brought death to Malandria. We are but victims in their game. You must bring them to justice, as you did in Voramis.

  What I did in Voramis was not justice, but revenge! He tried to hurry past, but the phantasm followed.

  Seek out those who did this to us, and let us have our revenge.

  I will not repeat the mistakes I made in Voramis. Malandria is—

  Your home? The woman's voice mocked him. You have no home, Bucelarii. You are destined to roam this world. But bring us justice, and we will give you peace.

  Peace. The one thing that continued to elude him. That, and his memories of the past.

  Something slammed into his chest, knocking him to the floor and driving the breath from his lungs.

  "Well, well, well." A harsh voice broke the silence of the night. "If it isn't the legendary Hunter of Voramis."

  Gasping, struggling to breathe, the Hunter stared up at the man towering over him. Taller than the Hunter by a hand's breadth and nearly twice as wide, the brute carried no weapons. He wore only heavy gloves, with steel-studded knuckles. He stood silent as a statue, as if waiting for a cue.

  The voice hadn't come from the hulking brute; it had been a feminine voice. The Hunter glanced to his right.

  A woman—one of the most beautiful he had seen—leaned against the wooden post of an empty stand. Her dark red hair, pulled back
into a tight braid, framed a heart-shaped face. Full lips twisted in a mocking grin beneath a perfect nose. Her dark, glittering eyes returned the Hunter's gaze calmly. Scars contrasted with the shape of her long, delicate fingers, which played with the grip of a bladed polearm.

  The woman's eyes peered beyond the Hunter. "Not much to say, this one."

  "Aye," came a second voice from behind the Hunter, "though that could be owing to Gratius' punch."

  The Hunter whirled. A third figure stood a few paces away. Taller than the hulk Gratius but not nearly as wide, this man resembled a masculine version of the woman. Though his fiery hair had been cropped close around his ears, he had the same nose, the same angular chin, and the same slim fingers. He carried a fencing blade rather than a polearm.

  Studying the brute standing silent before him, the Hunter saw similarities in the man's features, though perhaps less pronounced than the other two.

  The woman tapped her perfect lips. "I wonder why he didn't heed our message the first time."

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Message? What message?"

  The tall, thin man laughed. "You'd think a crossbow bolt to the head would leave a more…lasting impression on a man, sister dear."

  "Aye, some might say the impact would communicate clearly." The woman gave the Hunter a sardonic smile, clearly pleased at her choice of words. "Though perhaps the legendary Hunter of Voramis is not so easily frightened."

  The Hunter's mind raced. How could they know? Unless…

  The woman's smile twisted into a sneer. "Our masters know who you are, Hunter." She spat the last word. "They hired us to send you a message, yet you disregarded it. Now, we have been commanded to carry out their threat."

  "If you know who I am, you also must know I do not take kindly to being given orders."

  "You're an assassin for hire, as are we." The tall man shrugged. "Taking orders is what we do." He edged to one side, widening the distance between himself and the other two.

  "You may take orders from whoever has the coin to spare, but not I." The Hunter maneuvered to keep all three in his line of sight, but a shuttered stall stopped his retreat. "I choose whether or not I will accept a contract. Those in Voramis knew better than to press the issue."