With a vicious grin, the bandit dug his heels into the horse's flanks and the beast—a stocky, dun-colored animal, barely taller than the Hunter—leapt forward, moving with the fluid grace that marked its breed.
The Hunter's heart sank. Even as he pushed his body to greater speeds, the gulf between him and the fleeing rider widened. The nimble desert horse moved fleet-footed and sure across the dunes, while his feet sank into the yielding sand with every step. By the time he crested the rise, the bandit had already ascended the next dune.
Panting, his legs aching and his lungs afire, the Hunter slumped to his knees.
"Hardwell!"
The faint cry drifted toward him, carried on an errant breeze. The fleeing figure of the bandit was just a smudge of black on the pale dunes. Not even the sound of the horse’s hooves reached his ears.
He shouted into the darkness. "I'm coming for you, Hailen!"
Cursing, he slipped and stumbled his way down toward the camp. Grit seeped his boots and dug into his feet, but the discomfort paled in comparison with the weight settling on his shoulders. He had to go after Hailen. He couldn't fail, not again.
Sirkar Jeroen leaned on an overturned wagon, favoring his left leg. The blood staining his forehead had dried, but a fresh wound in his side seeped crimson. Rylin stood beside him, and the Hunter caught the tail end of the guard's words.
"…made off with half the Nyslian swords in the last wagon, plus a quarter of the food and supplies. What they didn't burn, that is."
"Bastards!" The caravan master spat. "Apprentice pluck out their savage eyes and feed them to the vultures!" He turned at the Hunter's approach. "You hurt?"
"No, but they took Hailen!"
Sirkar Jeroen slammed a fist into the charred wagon. "That makes over a dozen of our children!" His face darkened. "We cannot let this stand. We can't let them sell the little ones to…"
Graden and Kellen stumbled from the smoke, the younger man barely standing.
The caravan master straightened. "How bad?"
Graden grunted and pointed to a laceration in his forearm.
With a groan, Kellen slumped to the ground. Sirkar Jeroen knelt over the young man and fumbled at the gaping wound in his chest. "Hold on, Kellen! Ayden will be here any moment."
The Hunter didn't have the heart to tell the caravan master that Ayden wouldn't be dressing anyone's wounds tonight. Judging by the dark blood pouring down his chest and the pale cast to his face, Kellen would soon follow the healer to the Long Keeper's embrace.
None of that mattered. The Hunter only cared about rescuing Hailen. He turned away, but a firm hand on his arm stopped him.
Graden's dark eyes searched the Hunter's face. "Going after him?"
The Hunter nodded. "Have to."
With a nod, Graden released the Hunter's arm. "Swordsman keep you."
The words sounded odd coming from the strong, silent man. They felt strangely…companionable. "And you."
The Hunter sprinted through the smoke and fire toward the picket lines. Most of the horses had bolted in terror, and the few remaining beasts looked ready to snap their ropes at any moment. Elivast was among those still tethered to the picket, and he reared and plunged, the whites of his eyes visible, his ears laid back and nostrils flared, one panicked heartbeat from breaking free and running.
"Whoa, boy! Whoa, Elivast!"
The horse, sensing his presence, stopped its frantic thrashing. The Hunter placed a soothing hand on Elivast's neck, and the beast trembled beneath his hand.
"Easy." The Hunter spoke in a soft murmur. He placed a hand on Elivast's forehead and rubbed gently. Slowly, the horse calmed beneath his touch and the sound of his voice. "There you go."
The Hunter sliced the rope securing Elivast to the picket line and led the beast away from the flames. He checked his saddle, still lashed to Elivast's back. It had escaped the fire and the bandits. Most of his gear lay in the smoking ruins of his tent, but not all. Experience had taught him to be ready to ride at a moment's notice. Along with the saddle, he found bit, bridle, reins, a saddlebag with a few items of clothing, and the spare blanket he always kept tied to the back of the horse. Within the folds of the blanket lay the Swordsman's iron blades and a fortune in precious stones. Everything he needed.
Except Hailen.
If he stood a chance of catching up to the fleeing bandits, he had to leave now. Wresting a sword from the lifeless fingers of one of the caravan's defenders, he swung up into the saddle and dug his heels into Elivast's flanks. He circled the burning tents, keeping Elivast at a trot. The horse would have plenty of time to stretch its legs tonight.
Sirkar Jeroen still knelt over Kellen, but the caravan master's tear-streaked face spoke clearly of Kellen's fate. Graden's rough hand rested on Jeroen's shoulder, anger burning in his eyes. The caravan master looked up as the Hunter rode toward them.
"I'd send someone with you, but…" He motioned at the chaos.
"Guard your own, Sirkar."
"Find them," the caravan master rasped, his voice thick with smoke and sorrow. "For Ashurr, Siennen, Railley, and all the others. Find the bastards and kill every Watcher-damned one of them."
A figure rushed toward the Hunter. The soot-stained face of Natania, Ayden's wife, stared up at him, eyes red-rimmed with tears. "Please, Hardwell! Find my Eileen." She coughed, and her hand came away covered in blood.
The Hunter wanted to ride away, but the healer's wife clutched Elivast's bridle. He ground his teeth in frustration. He had to get after the bandits while the scent of iron remained fresh.
Another figure pushed up beside Elivast, grasping the Hunter's cloak. Loriel, keeper of the chests. The man nursed a broken arm and blood streamed down his chest from a vicious wound in his side. "They took my Darril!"
More voices joined the pleading. Men and women pressed in around him, shouting the names of their children taken captive by the bandits. Elivast, already nervous from the fire, danced beneath him, discomforted by the press of people.
"Please," the Hunter shouted, "I will do what I can. But let me go!"
"Give him room!" The thundering voice of Sirkar Jeroen boomed above the dim of clamoring parents. "Let him ride. He will do what he can. Is that not so, Hardwell?" The caravan master's gaze pierced the Hunter.
The Hunter raised his voice so all could hear. "I make no promises to any of you. But I will hunt the bastards down, and I will do what I can." He would say whatever he had to just to get free of the press of bodies. Every moment wasted cost him dearly.
Sirkar Jeroen nodded. "May the Apprentice guide your path, Hardwell. We will do our best to reach Nysl with what stores we have left. If you have not joined us in one week, we will know you have failed."
"So be it."
The crowd backed away from Elivast, and he was free. Turning the horse toward the dunes, he dug his heels into Elivast's ribs, and the horse charged across the road and up the sand dune without hesitation. Though the beast's hooves sank into the soft sand, they moved far more quickly than the Hunter had afoot. In the space of a few heartbeats, they stood at the crest of the dune.
Sirkar Jeroen's strong voice called after him. "Apprentice speed your journey, Hardwell!"
Without a backward glance, the Hunter spurred his horse down the other side of the sandy rise and into the night.
* * *
How long had he been riding? An hour, two? Elivast showed signs of flagging, but the Hunter pushed on—alternating between a jog, trot, canter, and gallop as necessary. He hoped he could coax a few more minutes of speed from the beast before it needed rest. Before he needed rest. The more ground he covered now, the closer he came to finding Hailen.
Why? The question burned in his mind. Why did I push the lad away? He asked for so little, so why could I not give it to him? Why did I have to make the same mistake I made with Farida?
The pounding of Elivast's hooves filled his world. An eerie silence fell over the desert at night, broken only by the whisper of the wind across the dune
s and the occasional barks and growls of predators. The smell of smoke lay far behind him, and beneath the metallic tang of the blood staining his clothes, he detected the faint odor of iron. The marauders' weapons. He followed that scent unerringly; it would lead him to the bandits—and Hailen.
Clouds obscured the sky to the south, but above his head, only empty blackness and the twinkling of myriad stars met his eyes. The moon—only two days past full—cast its pale light on the writhing, serpentine dunes around him.
The scent of fresh blood stopped him in his tracks. He squinted around, and his eyes fell upon a small mound a few paces away. It looked like a stone, but up close, he smelled the stench of sickness. The same putrescent odor that had wafted from Ayden's wagon.
Eileen.
The little girl lay face down in the sand, her body wasted by the influenza. He turned her over, and grimaced at the sight of the blood around her mouth and nose. He could find no wound or injury. They had ripped her from her home, even in her weakened condition. When the sickness had finally conquered her, the bandits had discarded her like refuse.
He clenched his fists, rage burning in his chest. The bastards will suffer for this!
He turned his back on the body, unable to endure the sight, and studied the desert around him. Still and barren, the endless sea of sand filled the Hunter with a sense of utter isolation. He was on his own. He alone would have to find Hailen and bring him back alive.
The demon whispered in his thoughts. “You're not truly alone. You still have us.”
Soulhunger murmured quietly in his mind. The blade was content; it had fed well tonight.
Help me find him, the Hunter told the voices.
“Yes. You need us. Only together are we the Hunter.”
The demon was right. Now, more than ever, the Hunter needed them. Without them, he would stand no chance of rescuing the boy.
Find him!
The tang of iron drifted toward him on the wind. Mounting, he turned Elivast toward the scent. He had his prey, and would follow them to the ends of Einan if he had to.
Chapter Seventeen
The Hunter crouched just beneath the peak of the dune, studying the dull brown sea of shelters and structures that covered the desert below. Smoke rose from a hundred cookfires, a smudge rising into the blue midday sky. The voices of the dusky-skinned men, women, and children moving among the shelters below blended with the bleating and lowing of their herds.
Where in that expanse of tents and makeshift shelters would he find Hailen?
He slipped and stumbled down the dune toward Elivast, who stood placid and content, nose buried in a feedbag. The horse had earned its meal. He'd pushed Elivast hard through the night and day in pursuit of the bandits, following the scent of iron through the wind-swept sands and rolling dunes of the Advanat.
He patted the horse's neck and spoke soothing words to the beast. "Stay here. This part is up to me."
Elivast nickered and nudged the Hunter with his nose. With a grim smile, the Hunter slipped his sword belt from the horn of the saddle and drew the blade to check its edge. Sharp, free of nicks, and well-oiled. The Hunter nodded, slipped the sword back into its sheath, and buckled the belt around his waist. The weapon had belonged to Ashurr, one of the men riding guard alongside Kellen. The guard had no need of it now—what use had a charred and mangled corpse for a blade?
Good man. May the Watcher have mercy on you.
He hadn't known the man, hadn't exchanged more than a few dozen words in the last weeks. It didn't matter. Ashurr had joined the caravan's dead, many of whom had left behind friends and relatives. Someone was certain to miss him.
Marin's face flashed in his thoughts, and the image fanned the flames of the Hunter's anger. Some men deserve a fate far worse than death.
Satisfaction radiated from the demon. “And those men below? Will you do the same to them?”
The Hunter shrugged and ascended the dune. If they get in my way. You're loving this, aren't you?
“Of course.” The voice sounded smug.
The soft sand made the climb difficult. The Hunter stumbled more than once and nearly slipped back down the high dune. His legs soon protested the effort, but he ignored the fire in his muscles. He saw the faces of little Eileen, Darril, and the other children stolen from weeping mothers and dead fathers. He would rescue them all, if he could. No matter what, he wouldn't leave without Hailen.
He crouched at the crest of the dune. His eyes roamed the sea of hides below, searching for anything to indicate where the bandits would be holding the boy. In the heart of the ocean of hide, a ring of black stood out against the muddy brown surrounding it. Bright yellow sand marked a clearing at the center of the ring, and a stockade stood at the far side of the open space. He would commence his search there.
A trio of horsemen trotted around the edge of the camp. The Hunter ducked behind the dune, counting heartbeats. When he reached a hundred, he peered over the sandy ridge. A plume of dust and sand marked the retreating horsemen.
“They carry weapons of iron. You know what they can do to you.”
The Hunter ignored the worry niggling at the back of his mind. Iron weapons or no, they have Hailen. If I have to kill every Watcher-damned one of them, so be it. But they will not stop me.
“Why are you doing this? Why are you risking everything for one lad? The truth awaits you far to the north, not here.” Disdain filled his thoughts.
I do what I must.
Mocking laughter set his head pounding. “You go to your death, Bucelarii. To our death. All for a little boy who rejected you in favor of a pervert?”
Steel fingers squeezed the Hunter's heart and constricted his throat. As much as he ached to deny it, the demon's words held a grain of truth.
Rejection or not, I will not leave him here. The fate he would suffer at the hands of those bandits...
The voice radiated anger. “Then you will be the death of us. I cannot let you…”
I don't need your permission! The Hunter clenched his fists. The hilt of Ashurr's sword felt solid and comforting in his hand. But if you are so concerned for your own wellbeing, why not aid me in my effort?
The demon fell silent, as if pondering the Hunter's words.
Help me rescue the lad, and I will kill for you.
This had the desired effect. “Very well,” the voice purred. “But you are bound by your word, Bucelarii.”
I am.
The Hunter slipped Soulhunger from its sheath. The blade throbbed gently in the back his mind, its appetite sated by Bristan's death the previous night.
Come, Abiarazi! Let us do what must be done. Let us become the Hunter of legend once more.
* * *
How in the scorched hell do these people wear clothing like this?
The long, sleeveless cloak he'd filched from an empty tent felt thick and stifling. He doubted he could fight in the heavy clothing; he could hardly move his arms. Its only saving grace lay in the fact that it concealed his sword belt and the voluminous, billowing sleeves hid Soulhunger, gripped tight against his forearm.
The headcloth served his purposes perfectly. The colorful garment, held on his head by a circlet of dark rope, covered his face and obscured everything but his eyes. He could almost pass as one of the inhabitants of the camp.
With the robes to cover his skin, only his height marked him as out of the ordinary. He stood head and shoulders above the men and women he passed, forcing him to walk in a slouching shuffle to appear shorter. He moved at a leisurely pace, neither hurrying nor dawdling. None of those he encountered paid him any attention.
The bandit's camp reeked of sweat-stained fabric, but here and there he detected faint traces of the unique scents of those around him. The aroma of spices, herbs, stewing meat, and fresh bread floated through the air. His rumbling stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten in nearly a day.
Head bowed and shoulders slumped, he watched the world around him with hooded eyes.
Perh
aps the life of a bandit is not so different from ordinary existence.
He found himself strangely drawn to the simplicity of life in the camp. Swarthy, sun-browned men and women moved about their tasks at a leisurely pace. Shouting, laughing children ran past him, kicking at a ball made of animal hides. Goats, sheep, and cattle sat contentedly in pens. An easterly breeze brought the scent of fresh water—an oasis, perhaps.
The closer he came to the heart of the camp, the fewer the casual passersby. The men and women he encountered cast apprehensive glances at the swathed, hooded figures standing in pairs at intervals around the ring of tents. The bandit guards wore thick swords, heavy war axes, and long-bladed spears on their backs. Midnight-skinned hands rested on the sashes around their waists, within easy reach of their curved daggers, and their dark eyes studied the passing men and women. The Hunter, feeling their scrutiny on him, hunched lower to hide his height and the swath of pale skin visible through the headcloth.
“Take them down!” The demon always demanded the direct approach—usually the less sensible option; more so in this case. The guards and their weapons reeked of iron.
Patience. We need to be smart about this. There are too many of them to simply charge in.
He drew in a deep breath, taking in the scents of the camp. He ignored the tang of iron, the reek of sweat, and the miasma of odors permeating the camp, instead seeking the fresh, clean scent that marked Hailen's presence.
There! It was faint, but his sensitive nostrils detected the smell he knew so well. I'm coming for you, Hailen.
First, he had to get past the guards. He shuffled around the ring of black tents, looking for a clear path toward the heart of the camp. Armed guards stood at every avenue, iron weapons bristling like a fence to keep out all but those permitted to enter.
The Hunter's heart sank. He could find no easy way through the guards.
I'll have to come back. Perhaps once the sun has set it will be easier to slip through…
A sharp crack echoed above the low din of the camp around him, and a childish voice wailed a horrid cry of agony. The Hunter recognized the voice immediately.
Darkblade Protector: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Hero of Darkness Book 3) Page 12
