The boy seemed not to notice. "Who are you? What did you do to Paeter? Why won't he get up?"
"I…" What could he say? How could he explain it to the boy?
"Was Father angry with me? Was it my fault?"
Tears filled the child's eyes, and his weak chin trembled.
"No! It's not…your fault. He is…sleeping."
A lump formed in the Hunter's throat. The child reminded him so much of Farida, but far more innocent and helpless than the little girl had ever been.
Hailen stared up at the Hunter, his face filled with trust. "What is your name?"
"H-" the Hunter started, then stopped. Could he tell the lad his real name? Even he didn't know it. He didn't want the boy to call him 'the Hunter'.
"Hardwell." It was as good a name as any.
"Hardwell," the boy repeated. "Is Hardwell going away?"
The Hunter nodded. "Yes. I must go."
He released the boy's hand, and climbed to his feet with a groan. Every muscle in his body ached. He stumbled toward his discarded satchel, slinging it over his shoulder. The weight of its contents satisfied him. It would be enough to get him where he needed to go. One man alone couldn't spend that fortune in a lifetime.
"Goodbye, Hardwell!"
The Hunter turned to see Hailen waving at him. Blood stained the hem of Hailen's robe and the knees of his britches, yet the lad seemed not to notice that he stood in the heart of an abattoir. He looked so innocent, so happy in the middle of such carnage.
How could a child like this survive in this world? The lad's guardian lay dead, and Hailen had no way to understand it. Could the Hunter turn his back on him, as he had on the little girl he had lost in Voramis?
He hefted the satchel on his shoulder, listening to the pleasant jingling of the coins inside.
I wonder how far this will last for two…
Epilogue
Hours, days, he knew not how long had passed. He had walked until his strength gave out. Then he crawled on his hands and knees. Refusing to give in, he dragged his weak body onward until darkness had overcome him.
He lay on hard, cold earth, dying.
'I have failed.'
A face hovered above him. Violet eyes stared down at him impassively. Another face appeared, then more.
They said nothing, only lifted him and carried him gently. Darkness.
Consciousness came and went. He felt his wounds being dressed. Food and drink were forced down his throat. Wet cloths cooled his fever. Never a word was spoken as they—whoever they were—brought him back from the brink of death.
When he awoke, they met his questions with silence. His demands for answers were ignored, until the day he finally found his feet to leave.
A bag of food, a cloak to keep out the night's chill, and a pair of boots were his parting gifts, along with a single word.
Elivasti.
* * *
The Hunter jerked upright. He hadn't intended to fall asleep, but the warmth of his cloak and the campfire before him had lulled him into slumber.
The fire blazed bright in the night chill, casting long, eerie shadows dancing through the trees. Taking a deep breath, the Hunter relished the clean, fresh scent of the forest, free of the taint of mankind. The smell of forest wildlife—predator and prey both—reached him. The gentle rustling of the leaves in the wind soothed and comforted him.
These three days of travel have been a welcome change from Malandria. The Hunter had been glad to leave the city far behind. He had seen too many horrors to ever feel comfortable there.
His horse grazed contentedly on the other side of the fire. A smile touched his lips. His flight from the House of Need had led him to the stables. He had recognized Elivast's brown coat, and the gelding had welcomed his presence.
From the House of Need, the Hunter had ridden in a straight line to the city's northern gate, stopping only long enough to purchase items of clothing, a new pair of boots, and enough provisions to last for two weeks. He hadn't spared Malandria a backward glance.
Only now, after days of riding and plenty of distance from the city, did he feel the filth of Malandria sloughing away. He knew it would be a long time before he could truly shed the memories of the suffering he had encountered—had been a part of—in the City of a Thousand Spires.
Soulhunger pulsed quietly in the back of his mind. The Hunter found he welcomed the blade's presence. In the House of Need, he had come to a realization: he needed the blade as much as it needed him. At least for now. If he was to survive in this world, he needed the power it offered.
But the day will come…
The dagger radiated quiet contentment. It had fed well in the House of Need. The Hunter relished the temporary peace. His inner demon, however, would not remain silent for long.
'Here you are once more, alone in the darkness, in the middle of nowhere. Behind you, another city filled with death and destruction.'
He tried to ignore the voice, but it persisted.
'You bring only suffering wherever you go, and chaos is left in your wake. Exactly what the Great Destroyer would want!' Smug satisfaction filled his thoughts.
Leave me alone! You got what you wanted.
'And still I hunger for more. You will have your peace when you give me death.'
His fingers traced the scars on his chest. Fifteen neat marks surrounded the scar over his heart—the one left by the demon of Voramis. Above them ran a long, jagged gash that felt feverish to the touch. A new burden weighed on his shoulders, one he thought he had left behind.
I have killed more than enough! I turned the House of Need into an abattoir.
The demon crowed in delight. 'And what a day that was! Oh, the joy of the kill. What glorious carnage we visited upon those fools.'
Never again! Never again will you control me thus.
Mocking laughter echoed in his thoughts. 'We both know that is a lie.'
He slammed his fist into the dirt. I will find a way to be rid of you once and for all.
'Never! You will never be free of me, for I am in you. I am you.'
You are a plague, nothing more.
'I am what makes you the Hunter. I am the merciless hand of death. Without me, you are nothing.'
The Hunter would not accept that. No!
'Then fight me! But know that it will only make me stronger. Every life you take, every man, woman, or child that you kill only gives me more power over you. You will always unleash me in the end. I am the unstoppable force of destruction within you. I am the power that makes you the immortal Hunter that you must be.'
The Hunter had tried to ignore his own urges to kill, had tried to blame the voices in his mind. But in the House of Need, he'd realized something: he needed death. The demon and Soulhunger did it to achieve their ends—to return the Destroyer to Einan—but he had his own purpose for killing. It was his only way to find peace from the voices. Until now.
Gentle sighing rose from the bundle of blankets a few paces away. A smile touched the Hunter's lips. Hailen slept soundly, his chest rising and falling in regular rhythm.
You did not win this time. He still lives, despite your insistence. He is the proof that I am the one in control, not you.
Impotent rage filled his mind. 'The boy is a mistake, nothing more. It is your weakness that led you to bring him with you, and your weakness will be your undoing.'
His smile broadened. Perhaps. But for the first time, I am not alone.
'For now. How long do you think the frail child will last? The world is a cold, cruel place.'
The Hunter shrugged. Then I shall protect him. I will keep him from harm, as I failed to do with Bardin, with Farida.
'How can you protect him? You are the whirlwind of death. He will be blown away by the destruction you bring.'
Perhaps the demon was right. He was a killer. Yet for this one boy, this helpless, innocent, trusting boy, the Hunter would be a protector.
The demon tried a new approach. 'Death comes to all i
n the end, Hunter. Save for you. You will outlive the boy by a thousand years. In the end, you will be alone once more.'
The day will come, but until then, he is under my protection. You will not have him. This is one soul you shall never claim.
He pushed the voices to the back of his mind; he had listened to their protests long enough.
He climbed to his feet, groaning at the aches in his back and neck.
Damned forest floor! Time to loosen up a bit.
He strolled to the pile of firewood he had built and threw another branch onto the flames.
"Hardwell?" Hailen mumbled in a voice heavy with sleep.
"Sleep, Hailen."
The boy muttered a reply and curled deeper into the blankets. Soon, the sound of his heavy breathing filled the night air once more.
The Hunter stood for a long moment, just watching the lad sleep. He had no idea why he had brought Hailen along. He told himself the boy would be useful. Hailen could help him to hunt down demons.
The boy's resemblance to Farida had played a part in his actions. Every time he looked at Hailen, he saw Fari's face. But instead of guilt, seeing the lad brought him a sense of peace. It was as if he had been given a second chance.
But it was more than that. In the House of Need, Hailen's presence had stopped the numbness from taking over. The boy had pushed away the languor by giving the Hunter something more than himself to think about. In the days since he had left Malandria, the voices in his mind had fallen silent when he was near the lad.
Hailen will serve as a reminder of my humanity. No matter how far I must go in my attempts to cleanse the world of Kharna and his foul demons, he will be there to bring me back from the brink. He will be my sanity.
Thoughts of demons brought back memories of Garanis and Father Pietus. The Beggar Priest had been under the control of the demon for…how long? The Order of Midas had answered to an Abiarazi as well.
Toramin had spoken of 'the Warmaster', and both demons had mentioned 'the Sage'. Whoever—or whatever—they were, if they sought to return the Destroyer, they posed a threat to him. To everyone.
It seems the demons will always rise to power wherever they are, planting their seeds of evil in the minds and hearts of those around them.
A sinking feeling twisted his stomach.
Even the Beggar God has been tainted by Kharna's evil. Who knows how far this disease has spread?
He balled his hands into fists.
If I have to, I'll hunt down every last one of the demons. Yet, even that cannot be enough.
Somehow, he knew what he had to do. He had to find a way to cut the essence of Kharna from the mind of the Beggar God. Once free of the Beggar God, perhaps the shard of the Destroyer's soul would return to his body. Would that prevent his return to the world? It might be enough to cleanse the world of his taint.
But how? He had no idea how to accomplish such a feat.
No matter. It was not a problem he needed to resolve tonight.
'But why? Why does it fall to you?'
If I truly am the last Bucelarii on Einan, then it falls to me to atone for the sins of my kind.
'The Cambionari—'
He cut off the demon's protests. Are mere humans, and they lack the power to kill the demons hiding amongst them. I am the only one who can do what must be done.
The voice in his head mocked him. 'The Hunter, savior of the world. Carrying the weight of Einan on his shoulders, a burden he must bear alone.'
No. His gaze fell on Hailen's sleeping form once more. No longer alone.
He closed his eyes, filling his lungs with the fresh forest air. His body ached from the day of riding, but it was a good, honest ache. Tomorrow, he would take it slower.
Keeper knows Hailen isn't built to handle the strain, and I could use a break.
Sleep beckoned to him, tugging at his eyelids. He ran his thumb over the smooth silver pendant hanging around his neck. Bardin's pendant, his last reminder of the man that had become his friend. Fatigue drowned out the voices in his head. He wrapped himself in his blanket and returned to his seat against the tree. It was as comfortable a spot as he could find on the hard ground.
The flames of the campfire danced in his vision, the flickering, twisting movements strangely hypnotic. He felt an odd sense of peace. For the first time in a long while, he had a direction, a purpose. He had found answers. They pulled him north, so north he would go. That had to be enough for now.
Just a few hours of sleep, and I'll be up before the sun rises. Maybe I can find some breakfast…
His thoughts trailed off as his mind drifted toward slumber.
But just before his dreams overtook him, a memory from his past flashed before his eyes.
She lay in bed beside him, smiling down at him with love in Her eyes. The scent of jasmine and honey, cinnamon and berries.
She leaned in to kiss him. Her skin warm on his, Her lips rich and sweet.
"My love," She said. His heart leapt at the sound of Her voice, so silky and beautiful. "This must be goodbye."
"But why?" he asked.
"Because it will mean death for the both of us if ever we are to meet," She said. "It is not to be."
"We have braved death before," he told Her. "There is nothing to fear."
"I am sorry," She told him. "You have brought this upon yourself."
"What—?"
Steel glinted in the light of the candles. Her face contorted into a mask of rage, and the dagger plunged toward his heart.
The Hunter's Journey
The Hunter's journey continues…
Chapter One
Fire and agony filled the Hunter's world.
So this is what it means to be helpless. He was dying, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.
Blood and soot stained his face, hands, and tunic. His lungs burned from the thick, dark smoke that billowed into the night sky and blotted out the stars. Horses screamed in the near distance, the terror in their voices echoed by the cries of the men, women, and children around him. The clash of steel rang out above the roaring blaze that consumed the camp.
"Bring them down, lads!" A strong voice cut through the chaos of the night. Sirkar Jeroen, rallying what few men remained. The half-dozen caravan guards would be outnumbered by the bandits, but that didn't stop the caravan master from fighting back. He had to protect his retinue at all costs.
A gust of wind carried the smell of burning flesh, hair, and cloth. The Hunter groaned as a fresh wave of pain washed through his torso. He could no longer feel his legs. Not even the crushing weight of the wagon atop him registered through the agony. Immortality or no, he would succumb to the effects of the iron-tipped arrows in his chest, shoulder, and leg. The metal was poisonous to his kind; it would kill him in minutes.
I…I can't!
The twinkling stars above danced in time with the flames engulfing the nearby tents.
The tents!
Hailen had been in his tent. He'd sent him there after the events of the evening, unwilling to let the lad see him kill. But had he consigned the boy to a fiery death?
It can't be. I won't believe it.
'Look around you, Bucelarii. Trapped, dying, nothing to save you but that which you reject.' The Hunter hated the voice that whispered in his head. It belonged to his inner demon, the thing that drove him to kill. The creature within him demanded death, heedless of who suffered at his hands.
A gentle throbbing filled his mind. Soulhunger, hanging at his hip, begged to feed. The dagger ached for blood; it would not give him peace until it had been satiated.
'To break free, Bucelarii, you must kill.'
As much as the Hunter hated it, the demon was right. He'd spent months fighting to keep the blade's voice at bay, struggling to take only those few lives he had been forced to. But now he needed Soulhunger's aid, needed the power it would provide when it consumed a soul. To save Hailen, he had no choice. He would do what he must to protect the boy he'd cared fo
r since that night in Malandria. The Hunter had shattered the boy's life when he killed the Cambionari, Father Reverentus, and the demon Garanis. He wouldn't let Hailen share their fate.
The arrow in his right shoulder sent waves of icy fire radiating down his arm, and a scream tore from his lips as he reached for Soulhunger. His fingers, numb from the iron's poison, fumbled at the dagger's hilt. Pulling the blade free required his last reserves of strength. The pain was a small price to pay to save the boy.
"Hardwell," a weak, gurgling voice called out.
Beside him, Bristan slumped against the overturned wagon, just out of arm's reach. Faint traces of the man's scent--the lard in his hair, the hemp of his clothes, and the musky odor of a working man--penetrated the smoke. "Hardwell…are you…alive?"
"Y-Yes, Bristan," the Hunter said. His tongue was thick, as if he had emptied a barrel of mead.
Bristan's legs, splayed out on the ground, refused to move. He stared at them stupidly, with dull, unfeeling surprise written on his face. His tattooed hands clutched the loops of intestine spilling from the gaping slash across his belly, and suffering contorted his fierce, bearded face. The reek of ordure and blood hung thick in the air.
"C…Come here, Bristan." The Hunter swallowed. His throat was parched, his lungs burning with the reek of smoke.
Bristan tried to move. "Can't," he mumbled. "Gotta hold on until Ayden gets here."
The Hunter tried to speak, but nothing came out. Slim, pale Ayden had been one of the first to fall beneath the onslaught. An iron lance had caved in his bony chest and pierced his heart. The healer would never arrive.
He swallowed again. The numbness spread through him, far too quickly. He needed to move before the iron did its vicious work. He had to live, no matter what.
"Come here, Bristan. Let me take a look at it for you." His words came out slurred, but the wounded Bristan was in no condition to care. The bearded man tried to move again, his gaze unfocused, features slackening. Exhausted from the loss of blood, he slumped. Within reach of Soulhunger.
The Last Bucelarii Book 2: Lament of the Fallen Page 36
