Darkblade Protector: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Hero of Darkness Book 3)

by Andy Peloquin

  Over the last three weeks on the road, the Hunter had come to understand the truth of the demon's voice: it was simply one more part of his mind, as separate from him as Soulhunger's insistent demands. Though it required a supreme effort of concentration, he could conceal his thoughts and intentions in the part of his mind that belonged to him alone. It left him exhausted, but it was the only way to remain sane. If the demon knew his every thought, it would never give him peace. The creature within him lusted for blood and death at any cost; it would tear his mind to shreds if it knew what he intended to do.

  A passing procession caught the Hunter's eyes, and thoughts of Hailen faded from his mind. Women, dozens of them, dusky-skinned and gorgeous, draped in gauzy fabric that drew the eyes of the crowd. The bright colors of the veils contrasted sharply with their dark coloring. They seemed to mince delicately over the muddy lane, their movements elegant, enchanting, sensuous.

  The Hunter felt his body stirring in response, drowning out the wailing in his mind. He clenched his fists in an effort to regain control over his racing heart, the blood rushing in his loins. The desire for release followed hot on the heels of every kill. In Voramis, he'd had no end of options: courtesans, whores, even noblewomen like Lady Damuria shared his bed. He'd always felt disgusted with his natural reaction then, and he did so now.

  How long since he'd been with a woman? A real woman, not soft and weak like Lady Damuria, but strong and confident like Celicia, Fourth of the Bloody Hand. Too long. If he didn't find release soon, the carnal desires would overwhelm him.

  Catcalls, whistles, and shouts echoed from the crowd around him. Clearly, the men—and many of the women—of Azmaria enjoyed the spectacle as much as he.

  The aroma of lilies, jasmine, and alyssum blossoms teased his mind and tugged at his limbs. He found himself drawn toward the dancing women. Unable to restrain his natural reactions, the Hunter moved forward. Spellbound men and women reached out grimy hands to touch the nearly-naked forms, but somehow their fingers never seemed to make contact. The people around the Hunter moved as if in a stupor, their movements slow and dull, expressions of rapture on their faces. The women moved among the spellbound Azmarians with ethereal grace.

  But to the Hunter, the women felt very real. They encircled him, flashing their veils around him. The whirl of colors and scents set the Hunter's head spinning. His hands reached out of their own accord, trying to touch the twirling bodies.

  “No!” The demon's voice sounded faint in his mind. “Something isn't right.”

  The demon's warning went unheeded. Something snapped tight around his right wrist. He paid it no attention. He wanted to drown in the sea of colors surrounding him, to luxuriate in the heady aroma of these exotic dancers. Willingly he surrendered himself to their enchantment. Another silken cloth encircled his left arm and rendered it immobile. He didn't care. The dance pulled him deeper and deeper, and he allowed himself to be drawn in. A soft hand traced the line of his shoulders and around his neck. His eyelids drooped shut, filling his nostrils with the woman's heady scent.

  Fabric wrapped around his throat, then pulled suddenly tight, cutting off his breath. Panic released his mind from the grip of whatever had held him spellbound. The mixture of scents no longer tempted or pulled him into stupefaction, but the burning in his lungs sharpened his thoughts. Eyes snapping open, he tried to jerk his head forward to break free. His body refused to respond to his commands. He moved too slowly, as if through a muddy river. His lungs screamed as he struggled, but he could do nothing.

  Soulhunger! He tried to reach for the dagger at his belt, but fabric trapped his arms against his side. Something hard and bony dug into his spine, bending him backward. The crushing constriction around his neck cut off his breath and threatened to crush his throat.

  The pressure suddenly dissipated, and he gasped and drew in a greedy breath. As he inhaled deeply, one of the dusky figures blew something in his face. He coughed; whatever he'd sucked in set his lungs ablaze. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

  The mud of the village lane squelched beneath his knees, and he toppled face-first in the muck. Slowly, with the scent of flowers and wet earth filling his nostrils, darkness claimed him.

  * * *

  The Hunter awoke with a jerk and a gasp. His lungs burned, his head pounded with the force of a thousand stampeding bulls, and his throat felt as if it had been crushed.

  But he was alive.

  Wh-?

  His mind, slowly returning to consciousness, registered what little he could see. A candle sat on an uneven wooden table, its flickering flame the only light in the darkened room. He saw no door, window, shutters, or curtains. Solid earthen walls surrounded him.

  He found himself sitting upright. Strain as he might, his arms and legs refused to move. Looking down, he saw delicate fabric holding him tight. His efforts to turn his head proved equally fruitless.

  A man's voice sounded behind him. "Someone should tell him there's no use struggling. Even the Bucelarii are affected by the paralytic." The man laughed, a sound tinged with insanity. "Truly, oh mighty Illusionist, you are a god of wonders!"

  The Hunter stiffened. His dry mouth refused to form words. "Wh—" He swallowed and immediately regretted it. His throat ached from the crushing force of whatever had been used to restrain him.

  A figure hopped into the Hunter's view, looking for all the world like a dancing scarecrow. Though the candlelight cast the man's features in silhouette, the Hunter could make out long white hair, a wispy beard, sunken cheeks, and a sharp chin. The man smelled of tallow, beeswax, and juniper.

  Amusement sparkled in his eyes. "Welcome back, Bucelarii." His words held no trace of malice, and his smile showed no fear of the Hunter.

  The Hunter gaped. No one outside Voramis would recognize his face without the many disguises he'd worn. His eyes—a deep, empty void of midnight black—were his only distinguishing feature. Few would know that they marked him the descendant of demons, yet they were hidden behind featherglass lenses. In Voramis, he'd learned to wear the lenses with every disguise he adopted, every time he went in public, only removing them when alone in his apartment. Though he'd lost the lenses in the Chasm of the Lost, he had replaced them in Drash. So how did this madman know so much about him?

  "Who are you?" the Hunter rasped.

  The man studied him with a curious expression. "Who am I? Who am I?" He dissolved into a fit of giggling, and his eyes took on a faraway look. "He doesn't know who I am? But how could he, after what we did to him last time?" He spoke into thin air, as if carrying on an invisible conversation.

  The Hunter stared wide-eyed. What in the twisted hell is happening?

  The man's giggles faded away, and his eyes focused on the Hunter. "No, you wouldn't remember me. That's the point after all, isn't it?" Once more, he dissolved into laughter.

  The Hunter's mind raced. Definitely touched by the Illusionist! This madman reminded him of Bardin, the beggar he'd befriended in Malandria. His friend had experienced rare moments of lucidity among his delusions and Garanis, the demon masquerading as an Illusionist Cleric in the House of Need, had also acted strangely.

  "Why in the Keeper's name are you doing this?" Rage lent the Hunter strength. He strained against the bonds, his muscles cording and heaving. The fabric holding him fast stretched but refused to rip.

  The man's eyes seemed not to see the Hunter at all. He cocked his head to one side, as if listening to words only he could hear.

  "Get on with it, you say? As you wish, mighty one!" He waved a long, thin hand. "Come, Jemdara!”

  The soft scent of alyssum wafted toward the Hunter, mixed with the oil of mint and another smell he did not recognize. It could only be a woman's scent. One of those who took me captive. He cursed himself for being a damned fool. How could I allow myself to get distracted so easily? Has it really been that long that I lose my wits over beautiful women?

  He returned his attention to the man before him.

 
; The man scratched at something invisible, then licked his finger. "Featherglass, I presume?"

  The question caught the Hunter by surprise. "What?"

  The man leapt onto his lap, his face a finger's breadth from the Hunter's. "Your eyes! You hide the color, yes? Clever, clever, clever." The man tapped the Hunter's nose with a filthy finger. "Makes you harder to find. If not for the power of my god…" With a giggle, he climbed off the Hunter's lap. "He's still surprised by all I know, isn't he?" He spoke to no one the Hunter could see. "So how do you think he'll take it when he finds out that I know they call him the Hunter of Voramis?" He whirled, a sly grin on his face.

  Shocked, the Hunter had no reply. Who is this man? How does he know about me?

  With a cackle, the man patted him on the arm. "Well, Hunter, no time like the present, I always say. Let's get this over with and get you on your way, yes?" He turned his back on the Hunter and strode to the table. He weaved from foot to foot with jarring, awkward movements. Yet he had a spry gait that belied his age, and his back was straight, without the stoop that came with the passage of decades.

  A boulder settled in the pit the Hunter's stomach. "Get what over with?"

  The man ignored his question. He retrieved the candle from the table and moved it close to the Hunter's face. With his free hand, he reached within the neck of his tunic and drew forth a bright silver pendant.

  The pendant immediately caught the Hunter's eyes. He'd seen its like in the vaults beneath the House of Need in Malandria. It had belonged to one Arrogus, a High Illusionist Cleric. An identical pendant hung around his own neck. He'd taken that one from the lifeless body of Bardin, the man who had taken pity on him in his hour of need and sheltered him. The man who had died at the hand of the demon Toramin when the Hunter failed to protect him.

  An Illusionist Cleric.

  His heart sank. He experienced an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. This place, this situation. It seemed oddly familiar. He knew only too well what the pendant meant.

  A memory flashed through his mind.

  His arms and legs were bound, his head strapped tight in place. A thin, bearded face hovered between him and the flickering light of a lamp. Silver sparkled in the dim light, casting a reflection in his eyes. It swung slowly back and forth, drawing his eyes to it until…

  With the memory came the words Visibos, Knight Apprentice in service of the Beggar God in Malandria, had read to him from The Numeniad.

  "But the Beggar God visited the Bucelarii in secret, saying, 'The time will come when I have need of you. Until that day, I will spread you throughout the face of Einan, and your memories shall be forever expunged.'

  Then the god of illusions spoke to his clerics, saying, 'Power over the mind of man and beast I give you, and with that power, you shall ensure that the spawn of the hells remain apart. Their strength is greater than that of man, so this power I give you to balance the scales.' So it was, and so it shall be forever more."

  Realization dawned. He's going to erase my memories! This man was the reason the Hunter had no recollection of his past.

  Chapter Three

  The Hunter tried to fight free of his bonds, but even his inhuman strength failed to do more than stretch the gauzy fabric. The moment his struggles ceased, the restraints tightened once more.

  Twisted hell!

  He sat helpless, bound and unable to move, as the man raised the silver ornament and held it before his eyes.

  "Look into the pendant, Bucelarii." The Illusionist Cleric's madness had waned, replaced by a gentle, soothing calm. "Look well, and this will be over before you know it."

  The Hunter could only stare at the flashing pendant swaying gently in the darkness. It caught the candlelight and set the reflections dancing. Slowly, steadily, the Hunter felt himself being pulled into the silvery depths. The demon's screams faded into blessed silence.

  A soft murmur filled the Hunter's ears; a distant corner of his mind recognized the Illusionist Cleric's voice speaking words he could not understand. He'd heard the language pouring from the mouth of Garanis, the demon in the House of Need in Malandria, and the First of the Bloody Hand. The words held terrible power—they'd summoned a demon in the Serenii tunnels beneath Voramis, unleashed an invisible power in the temple of the Beggar Priests.

  Memories flashed before his eyes, and he relived each of those moments, traveling backward in time.

  Walking through the muddy streets of Azmaria, determined to find the caravan traveling north; departing The Brazen Fox Inn after leaving Hailen in the care of Mistress Arna; riding into Azmaria for the first time; huddling before a fire, dreading another cold night spent on hard ground; fleeing the city of Malandria, Hailen in tow—he remembered it all.

  Hailen.

  Thoughts of the lad brought clarity to the Hunter's mind and snapped him from the memories. In that heartbeat, he was once again in a dark, empty room, tied to a chair, watching a pendant dance in the candlelight. The soothing voice of the Illusionist Cleric beckoned him to the realm of memory once more, but the trance had been broken.

  He tried to form words with lips that refused to work, but could only groan. With effort, he tore his gaze from the dancing pendant and locked onto the face of the Illusionist Cleric. The man's eyes widened in surprise, and he stumbled over his words—only for the briefest of moments, yet it was enough.

  The Hunter heaved against his bonds, bending every shred of strength and will to the effort. The fabric restraining his left hand gave ever so slightly and with a heave, he ripped a chair arm free. He struck out, and his fist caught the cleric's angular chin. The man's head snapped to the side, his knees sagged, and he collapsed.

  Something wrapped around the Hunter's throat. He grunted as it cut off his breath, but he refused to succumb to panic. He reached back, trying to seize his assailant, and grasped only empty air. A distant cry of "Help me down here!" echoed behind him.

  Darkness pressed in on him. The fingers of his left hand—quickly growing numb and clumsy—struggled to loosen the restraint holding his right arm in place. When it finally gave way, both hands went to his neck. His muscles rippled as he heaved forward on the fabric cutting off his air. Desperation aided his efforts. It loosened for a single moment, just long enough to draw in an agonized gasp before the crushing pressure returned.

  One breath. It was enough.

  Leaning forward, he threw himself against the back of the chair. The impact toppled him backward, the woman cried out in surprise and pain as the chair collapsed atop her. He kicked out with both legs and heard the satisfying crunch of snapping wood. The chair, once-sturdy lumber warped from years of hard use, buckled beneath his weight.

  He leapt to his feet and whirled, drawing Soulhunger. Fools! His captors hadn't found the blade in its hidden sheath beneath his cloak. A feral smile touched his lips. That was a mistake they may not live long enough to regret.

  Even as he turned, soft yellow light from alchemical lanterns spilled into the room from above. The wooden stairs creaked beneath the weight of the three women barreling downward. The trio stopped as they saw the Hunter standing upright, dagger in hand.

  Feed me! Soulhunger hadn't fed for days, not since the last town they'd passed through. The demon added its demands—it, too, lusted for death. The ferocity of their combined voices set his head pounding. He could not push them back for long.

  A woman climbed out from beneath the wreckage of the chair. She rubbed at her neck and studied him with wary eyes. "It doesn't have to be like this, Bucelarii. Make it easy on yourself and surrender now. We won't hurt you." Her gaze darted to the unconscious cleric, and her lips twisted into a sneer. "Much."

  The Hunter studied the four women. His eyes traced the contours of their taut shoulders and arms, pert breasts, wide hips, and lean, long legs. Not a trace of fat out of place, yet they were curved and rounded in all the right places. Their light-colored eyes, all soft blues and greens, contrasted sharply with their dusky skin, large lips and noses,
strong jaw lines. Their hair fell in tight coils around their faces and down their shoulders. They shared many of the same facial features—but each had characteristics setting them apart from the others.

  The four women held no weapons. Indeed, they remained naked save for the flowing veils encircling their bodies. Yet they moved with the grace of Yathi dancers—the supple, bloodthirsty courtesans that entertained in the courts of kings beyond the Frozen Sea—and showed no sign of fear at the sight of Soulhunger. Only wary respect for an opponent. They didn't rush in, but studied him, searching for any weakness to exploit.

  The mark of skilled warriors.

  "Let…me…go," the Hunter croaked. It hurt to speak, swallow, even breathe. He had little hope they would heed his words, but he had to try.

  The woman shrugged. "My sisters and I…"she gestured to the women flanking her, "…are charged with keeping you until Imperius has finished with you. We cannot allow you to leave."

  As if on cue, the women spread out. Two moved to the Hunter's right, one to his left, and the fourth, the woman who had spoken, stalked toward him head-on. The veils twirled in the air, but the graceful movements held a subtle menace. The colorful cloth danced like coiled snakes ready to strike.

  One flicked a veil toward him, and it struck his flesh with an audible crack, leaving a trickle of blood running down his arm. He danced back to avoid the next attack, but the woman on his left was waiting. Only a quick jerk of his head stopped the lashing fabric from lacerating his eye.