Sullen fury radiated from the presence in his mind. 'This is not over, Hunter. I give you a moment of peace, but I leave you with one final warning: remember the Cambionari. You let them live, and what was the result?'
The question hung in his thoughts, but thankfully the demon's voice fell silent. The calm quiet of the darkened streets washed over him. Peace, if only for a moment.
Agony shattered his calm. Blood trickled from dozens of wounds on his arms, neck, face, legs, and torso. His clothes were a blood-stained mess of shredded fabric. Even his thick cloak bore long gashes where Kalia's blade had carved lines in his back. Every movement hurt, and when he stooped to retrieve his satchel where he had dropped it, the world spun around him.
Reeling, he gasped and caught himself on a wooden support. He leaned hard, taking deep breaths, trying to swallow the pain. His legs wobbled and nearly buckled. Only a sheer effort of will kept him on his feet.
Yet one thought filled his mind. I spared their lives. I took control, and I made the choice.
It was an odd feeling. It felt…good. A smile teased at the corner of his lips.
Time to get home to Bardin and see what answers he has uncovered. The clay bottle of wine remained unbroken. Relief flooded him. Wine would drown out his agony and silence the voice in his head.
He pulled his hood forward, ignoring the fire racing up his arm and shoulder. The satchel jostled the wounds in his back with every step. But his excitement drowned out the pain, and he forced his legs to carry him faster.
* * *
Visions of the fallen dogged the Hunter through the empty, darkened streets. Faces materialized before him, stretching out hands in wordless pleas. Their cries fell on deaf ears.
I cannot help you, he told the dead.
Empty eyes stared at him, watching with a hungry intensity. He retreated deeper into his hood, keeping his gaze fixed on the street.
He cursed inwardly. Keeper take the Cambionari and their thrice-accursed poison!
Fatigue crept over him, filling his feet with lead and setting his legs trembling. He had to find something to stanch the bleeding, but he had no bandages. Blood had already soaked through his tunic, breeches, and tattered cloak.
A nearby alley gave him an idea. He searched the darkness, catching sight of silver reflected in the moonlight. The spider's web filled the empty mouth of a shattered window.
He stripped off his cloak and shirt and dropped the bloodstained garments to the street. Gathering the sticky silken strands, he draped them over his wounds.
If Graeme spoke the truth, that should do it.
He grimaced at the memory of the alchemist's underground spider habitat. The fat man had encouraged the creatures to build their webs in the cellar of The Angry Goblin Bookstore, turning a pretty profit by selling them to the physickers of Voramis. When the Hunter had inadvertently damaged one of the webs, Graeme had gone into conniptions. "Ruining the merchandise," the man had complained.
Dressing quickly, the Hunter hurried on his way. He encountered not a single soul in his trek through the darkened streets.
Odd. Lower Voramis would be packed with night workers and merchants preparing to open their shops. But it seems Malandria only comes out with the rising of the sun. The Order of Midas truly does hold the city in a thrall of fear.
But not him. He had bested the Order's assassins and sent them a message they couldn't ignore. He was certain the wizards would leave him alone, at least long enough to retrieve his possessions and leave the city.
He hurried on, the sound of his boots echoing in the darkness. He filled his lungs with the crisp, fresh night air. His ribs ached with every breath, but the pain helped to block out the faces of the dead floating around him.
The sight of familiar streets caused him to pick up the pace. The entrance to the Wretch Hole lay just around the next corner. Soon, he would find solace in the bottle of wine.
He knew something was wrong the moment saw the alleyway. Animal instinct screamed in his mind, raising his hackles. Even his inner demon sensed it. Danger lurked nearby.
A chorus of howling dogs startled him. His hand darted to the gutting knife, but he saw no one. The sky above drew his eye, the world growing eerily bright, and he gasped at the sight.
What in the twisted hell?
Dancing lights floated like witching fire above the entire city. Horrible faces writhed in the darkness, eyes and mouths towering infernos of flame. The Hunter's stomach twisted, his heart leaping to his throat. The faces in the night resembled the demon in the Serenii tunnels beneath Voramis.
Seemingly from out of nowhere, a thick, foul-smelling fog crept along the ground, moving toward the Wretch Hole. The vapor filled his nostrils with a noxious odor and set his lungs on fire. He covered his mouth and nose with his cloak, trying to block out the stench.
That smell! Why is it so familiar?
The Hunter's stomach lurched at the whisper in his mind. They come.
The face floating beside him belonged to an old man with a wispy beard and stringy hair hanging to his shoulders. Boils covered his skin, and blood dripped from a gaping wound in his neck.
The wizards have claimed their prey, and they will complete their foul ritual this night.
Somehow, the Hunter knew.
Bardin!
He dropped the satchel and raced toward the shelter. With every step, his heart sank.
Silence and darkness greeted him. He tore the flap aside and pushed into the shelter, desperate to find any sign of his friend despite the heavy smoke that set his head swimming.
It felt as if he had been punched in the gut. Could the wizards have taken him? If so, why? The fog filling his head made it difficult to think clearly.
With trembling hands, he reached for the small box of fire-strikers Bardin hoarded. The quavering light of the candle revealed Bardin's papers in their typical state of disarray. The Taivoro lay hidden beneath the man's ragged blankets. There was no sign of struggle.
I must find him! I need him.
'You need no one,' the demon whispered. 'You are the Hunter. You walk alone.'
Shut up! I need his help to find answers.
It was more than that. He felt an instinctive sense of loyalty for Bardin, who had sheltered him when he'd had nothing.
'So you will challenge the might of fearsome wizards to recover him?'
If I must.
Mocking laughter filled his mind. 'There was a time when you needed no man. Yet here you are, weak and afraid.'
He balled his hands into fists. I am not afraid!
'You fear for the life of the man you call "friend". Thus, you are afraid.'
He tried to block out the mocking laughter as he rummaged through Bardin's scattered papers. Most were covered with illegible handwriting, but one scrap of parchment held a single word etched in clear letters.
Khar'nath.
The word lodged in the Hunter's mind. I've heard that before. But where?
He eyed the scrap of paper, but couldn't begin to decipher the rest of the scribbled notes. Watcher's bones!
An angry roar ripped from his throat and he threw down the papers in frustration. Seizing the candle, he stumbled from the tent. The pitiful flame flickered in the wind, casting eerie shadows in the fog. Mud squelched beneath his feet. It gave him an idea. He bent low, holding the candle close to the ground.
Boot prints.
Quality boots, too. Not the sort you'd find in a place like this.
It had to be the wizards, or their lackeys. They had come for Bardin.
The bald man's terrified words echoed in his mind. " Every night, someone goes missing, never to be seen again."
Bardin was right.
Boot prints showed clearly in the mud of the alley. He followed them to the main street, where they faded within a few steps. He searched the cobblestones for any sign of Bardin's passage, but saw nothing.
Keeper's teeth!
They've taken him. A quavering voice filled h
is thoughts. The apparition before him looked older than the stone buildings, with hands twisted into misshapen claws. Blood soaked the front of the man's tunic from a gaping hole in his chest.
I know they've taken him, damn it!
The ancient phantasm's eyes burned with an inner fire. Find him. Or, failing that, avenge him.
Hope surged within the Hunter. How? I have no idea where the wizards have taken him!
The fallen will guide you. They will take you where you need to go.
Why? Why would you care?
Because you will bring justice to the deserving, those who killed us for their own twisted purposes. You will avenge the fallen.
The Hunter had pushed the voices of the dead aside for so long, yet now he needed their help. What choice did he have? If it helped him find Bardin…
So be it, he told the apparition. Bring me to my friend, and I will avenge your deaths.
The phantom beckoned with a gnarled, mangled finger. Come. Heed the lament of the fallen.
The vision drifted down the street, and the Hunter followed. He had no choice but to trust that they would lead him aright. He could only hope they brought him to his friend before it was too late.
Through the twisting streets of Malandria he strode, only the whispers in his head to serve as guide. At every new street corner, a new vision appeared to point the way. They beckoned and prodded, pushing him ever onward.
He soon outpaced the noxious fog creeping along behind him. He took no notice of his surroundings—he simply followed the dead.
Then, all at once, the voices fell silent. Only the pounding of his heart and the rushing of blood in his ears filled the darkness around him. He stood alone in a dark alleyway. He could see nothing, hear nothing. Silence, peace, and calm. An eerie, unnatural calm.
Where are you?
"Bardin?" No response. He tried again, louder this time. "Bardin?"
The demon's mocking laughter filled his mind. 'The dead deceive, and the living are ever foolish.'
No! I will not believe that!
'You are following phantasms and apparitions, yet you are surprised when they lead you astray? Foolish, foolish Bucelarii.'
The foul stench of the fog flooded his nostrils. Gasping, he struggled to breathe. The world whirled around him. He tried to fill his lungs, but only managed a pitiful gasp of tainted air.
'The dead deceive!'
The Hunter's knees gave way, and he slumped to the floor. He felt nothing save the agony of slowly suffocating in the mist.
Whispers floated on the air. The dead cried in his thoughts.
Avenge us, Hunter!
Darkness.
Part Three
Interlude
The man regained strength. Venom raced through his veins, deterring healing.
Each day, his companion returned with food. Each day, the man ate his fill. Vigor returned slowly.
Standing, he hobbled into the light of day. The pain no longer bothered him, but his instinct to hunt drove him on. Voices whispered through the pounding in his head. Drove him to kill.
The man moved slowly, trying to keep up with the bear's shambling gait. Down to the river the pair went. Cool, refreshing water flowed around the man's knees. He drank deep for the first time in…how long?
Silver flashed in the water. A giant paw slapped a wriggling fish onto the bank. The man's attempts failed.
Devouring the fish raw felt good. Man and bear ate side by side, sharing the silence of predators.
'Hunt,' he thought.
The bear lumbered beside him, the two searching for prey.
In the distance, stones formed a ring, reaching high into the sky. The scent of decay filled the man's nostrils, and the bear snuffed in revulsion.
'Death,' the bear's low growl told him. 'Stay away.' He could smell the creature's fear.
It shambled off, the man content to follow.
* * *
Awakening. Confusion. Fatigue.
The man lay on the ground, too weak to move. The bear growled far off, calling for its companion to follow.
'Can't.'
Darkness washing over him in waves, coming and going with every agonized heartbeat.
Warm blood from a fresh kill. The scent of meat reaches the man's nostrils, pulling him from his weakness. He ripped through raw flesh with teeth accustomed to delicate fare. Beasts of prey shared a meal.
Food brought strength. The man ate his fill and climbed to his feet. Still weak, but too stubborn to lie down and die.
Thick bone showed white between scraps of red flesh. A voice whispered in his mind. 'Weapon.'
Weakness. Struggle. Collapse. Renewed effort. Triumph. A leg bone gripped in filthy hands.
With the patient determination of a hunter, he ground bone against stone. Day faded into night, and brightened to day again. Laborious effort yielded a sharp point.
Heavy, comforting, it was primitive, but it was a weapon. One befitting a man, not an animal.
* * *
The man awoke. Blood stained his face, his hands, his body.
What had he done?
Fresh four-legged corpses strewn around him. His stomach ached. He had feasted well. Too well.
He vomited, blood and meat spewing onto the ground. Mocking laughter echoed in his mind. The irritating voice in his thoughts crowed in triumph.
It had wanted him to kill. He had given in.
The scent of fresh blood called scavengers to the feast. Birds and jackals stayed well away for fear of the creatures eating their fill.
Hyenas howled and cackled, rushing toward the man and the meal. The beasts tore into flesh, both dead and alive.
The man screamed. Pain and anger mixed. Blood gushed from bites and slashes left by the teeth of those animals bold enough to attack him.
No fear. Only the need to kill.
The spotted bodies of predators joined the corpses of prey. Snarling, cackling, yelping, they died around him. He killed every one of them, and loved it. Triumphant laughter filled his head.
His stomach lurched. Filth stained his soul. Numbing darkness pressed in on him.
* * *
The two predators lumbered in the direction of home, bellies filled with a fresh kill. The need for sleep was strong.
A sweet scent filled the man's nostrils. Bright blue flowers tempted his senses, beckoning.
Fear filled the bear's scent. 'Danger,' its grunts seemed to say. It lumbered away quickly.
Trusting his companion, he turned from the spot of color brightening the muddy riverbank. Tired eyes drooped with fatigue and the contentment of having fed.
Waves of heat shimmered from the rocks, twisting the features of the canyon.
A face appeared in the waves of heat, its features as familiar as its accompanying scent. A reminder of his humanity.
Her.
'Mate.'
* * *
A bright, merciless sun beat down on the man. Lying on warm stone, his eyes felt heavy.
Silver flashed in crystal water, and the man's hand flicked beneath the cool surface. A heartbeat later, dinner wriggled on the sun-baked rocks.
He couldn't remember his name—his head healed slowly—but he didn't care. He had a quiet existence at the bottom of this jagged canyon. Its towering walls no longer oppressed him, but they gave him a sense of isolation from the world above. A simple peace down here.
Gentle winds tossed his hair, carrying with it a scent both unfamiliar and discomforting. A roar filled the canyon, increasing in volume as it echoed off hard stone.
'Companion.'
He approached the dark hole in the blood-colored stone of the canyon wall. The smell slammed into him with overwhelming force.
Lust. Desire. The need to find a mate.
Instinct screamed. 'Danger!'
His rust-colored companion emerged from the den, transformed into a slavering, snarling thing of nightmare. Dark eyes locked onto the man, the bear's paw slapped into the hard ground. Mouth
open, fangs bared, its pink mouth contrasted with blood-red fur.
A fresh roar nearly knocked the man over with its fury.
'Companion?'
Instinct saved the man from being gored by a huge paw.
'Friend!'
The bear's scent mixed lust and rage, overpowering the man. Claws and fangs backed by prodigious strength sought his flesh.
Trembling fingers gripped a makeshift weapon. Human eyes locked onto beast's. Intelligence no longer burned in the bear's eyes; only maddening need remained.
Fear flashed through the man. The brute towered over him, weighed four times as much, with strength enough to tear limb from limb.
Animal instinct fought for survival. 'Flee!'
Racing thoughts filled with panic, he sprinted across rocky terrain. 'Must find safety.'
He fled the death hunting him, running toward death of a different sort.
* * *
The bear lay dead. The man would soon join the beast.
Gore dripped from gaping wounds in his chest and stomach. His arms curled around guts leaking onto rust-colored stone. Crimson stained the petals of bright blue flowers.
Sorrow filled the man. 'Companion.'
Peaceful coexistence forgotten in a single moment of animal desire.
Pain flooded the man's face, his left eye torn out by rending claws. He smelled putrescence. The poison of the blossoms soaked into deep lacerations.
'Dying.'
Realization came, acceptance followed. His one remaining eye closed. The man prepared to greet the Long Keeper.
* * *
Life remained.
Through the sweet scent of death around him, another fragrance filled the man's nostrils and pierced the agony numbing his mind.
'Mate.'
The scent, so long forgotten, pulled his eyes open.
'Mate. Find mate.'
The man clawed his way to his feet. Blood gushed from his stomach and chest. Staggering, leaning against hard stone, he dragged himself forward, leaving behind the corpse of his companion.
The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen Page 23
