"Keeper's taint!" He recoiled and thrust the cup away.
A slow smile spread on the Drashi's face. "Told you it was wolf piss. Strong enough to knock your boots off, but tastes awful. Stuff grows on you, though. Just don't ask where it comes from, and don't have more than a cup until you're used to it."
The Hunter sipped the alcohol and found its taste worse than the smell. Another sip, and the bite softened. A third sip, and he actually found himself enjoying it.
The barkeep placed a steaming bowl before the Drashi. Chunks of fatty meat floated in a thick, pungent stew. "Food's half-decent, too, though a bit rich for my tastes. Heavy on the spices."
The Hunter's mouth watered at the scent of fresh bread—a plate-sized flat loaf crusted with herbs and salt. Catching the barkeep’s eye, he pointed at the food, then at himself. Within a few minutes, a bowl sat before the Hunter.
The Hunter dipped the bread into the stew and wolfed it down. A bit heavy-handed with the spices, but better than anything the bandits had given him. How long had it been since his last real meal?
The Drashi turned from his own food. "You in Traitor's Square today?"
The Hunter grunted, his mouth full.
"Good riddance to the bastards, if I say so."
"Who were they?"
"Bandits. Il Seytani's men, so the rumors say."
The Hunter forced a neutral expression and spoke in a voice he hoped sounded innocent. "Il Seytani?"
"Some bandit chieftain, rides to the west of Mount Baradh someplace." The Drashi waved his hand in the general direction. "Terror of the caravan route, so they say. As for me, I've never seen him, and I've traveled all around these parts."
"So, how does the king know those men are Il Seytani's?"
The man shrugged. "Does it matter? They're bandits, so they deserve what they get."
"Executions in the south tend to be less…bloody."
The Drashi gave him a wolfish grin. "Death is messy. And the people of Al Hani like the show."
"Life in the Twelve Kingdoms is markedly different from things in the south."
"You have no idea." With a snort and a shake of his head, the Drashi returned to his meal and drink.
The Hunter cast an impatient glance at the tavern door before turning his attention to his own food.
Just a bit longer until sunset.
He'd have time to close his eyes for an hour or two before he attempted to enter the palace. Rest would do him well.
But first, one more drink…
* * *
The moment the Hunter descended the stairs to his small room, he detected the familiar scent of cloves, iron, and wood smoke.
"What are you doing here?"
Younis sat cross-legged on the pile of blankets that served as the Hunter's bed. "He was right there, you fool!" He glared at the Hunter. "You had the al-Malek within striking distance, and you hesitated! Why?"
The Hunter forced his expression to remain neutral, but his mind raced. He could see me. He was there!
Of course the bandit had followed him. He would've done the same were their roles reversed; how else could he ensure compliance? Younis' skin color, stature, and clothing blended into the crowd, and the Hunter would never spot him.
Something to remember when tailing him.
"Too many guards. Too many people." An easy lie, one Younis couldn't dispute. "What do you think the crowd would have done if I killed their beloved al-Malek right there?"
Younis opened his mouth to retort, but the Hunter held up a hand. "Tonight, I enter the palace, and learn the layout. If all goes well, the al-Malek will not live to see the sun rise."
"And if all does not go well?"
The Hunter shrugged. "To be done right, these things take time. Your Il Seytani knows this."
"Il Seytani instructed me to inform you that you have just four days to complete your task."
The Hunter growled. "Four days? Does he think—"
"Would you like it to be three? Or two?"
The Hunter narrowed his eyes.
"All I need do is send a message to my men in the Thalj, and they will ride back to camp and tell Il Seytani you have failed. Your boy's head will roll before the horses cool off."
The Hunter ground his teeth. "Four days is—"
"More than sufficient time. Or are you not as skilled an assassin as you led my master to believe?" Younis stared up at him, a mocking grin teasing the corner of his mouth.
"Damn you, Younis! Four days it will be."
Younis nodded and stood. "Good." He strode toward the stairs, but the Hunter barred his way.
"You have something that belongs to me." He held out an expectant hand.
"Of course. How could I forget?" Mockery painted his face as he reached beneath his heavy cloak and produced a cloth-wrapped bundle. "Your tools, qattala."
The Hunter snatched the bundle from Younis and, placing it on the bed, unwrapped the cloth. Soulhunger throbbed eagerly in his mind, and the Hunter ran a hand over the hilt of the blade.
Soulhunger, you have been missed.
The well-balanced, sturdy sword he'd taken from a dead caravan guard lay beneath Soulhunger. Not the weapon he favored, but it would do.
He turned to Younis. "And how will I—?"
The room stood empty.
He cursed himself for a fool. He could have followed the man back through the streets of Aghzaret to discover his hiding place. Younis had mentioned sending a message to his men in the Thalj Pass. He had to have some way to communicate, some way to alert them should the Hunter try to escape before he completed the mission. And what of the guard at the gate? No doubt he would alert Younis if the Hunter fled.
No, if he wanted to return for Hailen without killing the al-Malek, he'd have to figure out how Younis stayed in contact with his men. Once he knew, it would be much easier to plan his escape. But he wouldn't risk anything happening to the boy. If it meant playing along and keeping up the pretense of killing the al-Malek, so be it. He could do both at the same time.
Tomorrow, I hunt the bastard down and find out his secrets once and for all! But tonight, I have a palace to break into.
Chapter Twenty-Six
By the Watcher, how I've missed this!
The Hunter slipped through the night, a blur of darkness among the shadows of Aghzaret. He sucked in a deep breath. The temperature in Aghzaret had plummeted with the setting of the sun. The crisp, cool air reminded the Hunter of Voramis; a part of him instinctively sought the sweet scent of the Snowblossom trees. But only the spicy, exotic odors of the city reached him. It reminded him how truly foreign the land was.
He moved in near-absolute silence, eyes scanning the gloom, ears alert for the slightest sound. Cloth wrapped both the hilt of his sword and Soulhunger's sheath. Only the low creak of his leather armor and soft-soled boots marked his presence, but the night sounds of Aghzaret—barking dogs, crying children, laughter ringing from brightly lit taverns, the clip clop of horses, and the clatter of carriage wheels—drowned them out.
A few hundred paces ahead, an enormous wall rose into the night. He'd avoided the gates and main entrances into the palace complex—far too many soldiers on guard, with torches and bright alchemical lamps to push back the darkness. No, it would be better to find another way into the palace. His years of experience had taught him high walls made for overconfident guards.
The perfect way in.
He studied the wall surrounding the palace. It had to be at least fifty paces high. Not an easy feat, but not the most difficult obstacle he'd encountered.
Best of all, not a sentry in sight!
No guards moved atop the battlements, and no torches or lamps flickered, not that he could see anyway. He ached to be about his mission, but knew better than to rush in. First, he had to be certain he could scale the wall.
He ran a hand over the masonry, and a slow smile spread on his lips. Buildings—no matter the size or grandiosity—were the same the world over. One could alway
s find a weakness if they had patience. Cracks in the masonry would serve as his way up.
A challenging climb, to be sure. Nothing like scaling the Palace of Justice after a heavy rain, though.
Voices reached him, accompanied by the sound of clanking weapons and tramping boots. He darted away from the wall and ducked into the shadows of a nearby building. His dark cloak hid him from sight, but his heart still pounded as he watched the torch-bearing guards march past.
And now we wait.
A part of him wanted the wait to be over; it would mean he could begin his ascent of the palace wall and get on with his mission of killing the al-Malek. The minutes seemed to drag by at a snail's pace, his impatience growing with every heartbeat. He breathed a sigh of relief when the patrol returned.
Half an hour, perhaps. Should be more than enough.
Once the light of the torches and the sound of booted feet faded into the night, the Hunter slipped toward the wall. His fingers searched the surface for a solid handhold and slipped into a large seam between two stones. The seam widened into a crack that ran up the wall, higher than he could reach.
Perfect! With a smile, he began the long, arduous climb.
* * *
The Hunter sat on the roof, his arms and legs aching, his lungs burning. The climb had taken the better part of an hour, leaving him exhausted. It had been worth it just for this moment; the view from the palace was spectacular.
Behind and below him, the city of Aghzaret spread out for leagues in every direction. Flickering lights dotted the city, mirroring the stars twinkling high overhead. Braziers burned on myriad minarets, looking down over Aghzaret like solemn beacons. Though he had no idea what purpose the spires served, the Hunter couldn't help admiring their beauty.
The city of Aghzaret looked dull and dreary in comparison to the palace of the al-Malek. The main entrance to the palace opened onto a massive pool, where water plants and flowers filled the courtyard with color and life. Perfectly manicured trees bordered the pool. Marble walkways lined with torches, lamps, and braziers cut through swaths of pristine grass and elaborate gardens.
Immense blocks of granite had been used in the construction of the palace itself. The primary wings rose dozens of spans, nearly at a height with the sandstone wall surrounding it. Elaborately tiled walkways and balconies ran around the upper stories, affording perfect views of the gardens below. Elegant arches opened into the palace. At the points of the compass stood four massive minarets, guardians to keep a watchful eye over the enormous palace complex below.
A pristine white marble dome sat at the heart of the palace. Taller than every building in the city, it thrust a pointed spire out of sight into the dark night. Not even the lamps and torches ringing the base of the dome could illuminate its tip. The daunting feat of architecture surpassed even the Black Spire of Praamis, the Palace of Justice in Voramis, and the House of Need in Malandria. He'd never seen anything built on such an impressive scale. For a long moment, he was content to sit and stare out over Aghzaret. It reminded him of the city of Voramis and the familiar longing for home returned.
A crisp, cool wind ruffled his hair, biting through his thick cloak. After the heat of the Advanat, he welcomed the chill. He breathed in deep, tasting the scents of the city below. Up here, it gave him a new appreciation for the city in which he now found himself.
His experienced eye wandered the gardens below, watching the guards strolling the enormous complex in ever-changing patterns. Even if he'd managed to slip past the guards at the main gate, the torches, braziers, and lanterns illuminating the gardens would have made it impossible for him to enter unnoticed. High on the palace roof, there was little chance of discovery.
A set of balconies two floors below him drew his attention. They looked more elegant and better-furnished than the others. His vantage point didn't allow him to see into the apartments, but experience told him they had to belong to the king. Or queen.
His shoulders tightened. Can't afford to run into her, not now.
Leaning out over the roof, he studied the inner wall. Rough-hewn stones and bricks would provide him with handholds. A few paces below, decorative stone carvings of hellish creatures clung to the wall like parasites.
That will make it easier to get down.
A single flickering torch provided scant illumination for the open-air walkway that bridged the gap between the tower upon which he sat and the main wing of the palace. He saw no sign of movement. If he could reach the walkway, he should be able to find an entrance.
He lowered himself over the lip of the roof and started the descent. Clinging to the wall, he moved at a steady pace, his grip sure, his movements slow. He hung from his fingertips, shifting from handhold to handhold, and his forearms burned by the time he dropped noiselessly to the tiled floor of the bridge.
Now to find the king! If he could somehow get the ring without killing the al-Malek, it would suffice to deceive Younis. They'd be out of Al Hani long before the bandit discovered the truth. The Hunter would have time to dispose of the men waiting for him in the Thalj Pass and return for Hailen. But he had to get the ring first.
Soulhunger pulsed in his mind, and the demon's incoherent shrieks set his head pounding.
Soon enough, your time will come, he told the voices. He smiled at the image of plunging Soulhunger into Younis' chest. That will wipe the smug grin off his face!
Drawing his dark cloak tight around himself, he slipped toward a door at the far end of the walkway. It stood unlocked and opened without a sound. A spiral staircase descended into darkness, and he crept downward with silent, cautious steps, his hand hovering near Soulhunger's hilt.
The stairs opened onto another walkway. Torchlight flickered beyond the opening, and the sound of voices reached him. Stifling a growl of frustration, he peered through the archway. A trio of men in the simple robes of servants strode the halls. Two carried covered silver trays, while the third held aloft a lantern.
He leapt up the stairs and ducked out of sight of the open archway. Only once the sound of the servants' voices faded did he slip out into the hall. The hall opened onto a balcony, giving him full view of the gardens below. A pillar provided him a place to hide from the patrolling sentries.
Clinging to the wall, he hurried the few dozen paces toward the arched opening at the end of the hall. He knew where he had to go, but with no knowledge of the palace's layout, he could do little more than guess how to reach his destination.
The smell of incense drifted toward him on the evening breeze. Censers stood at intervals along the hall, blazing embers releasing a thick smoke that set his head pounding. His stomach recoiled from the sickly sweet aroma priests used to mask the odors of the diseased and dying.
Almost too thick.
Too late, he detected the scents beneath the incense. Leather. Steel. Spices. The smell of men.
The demon screeched in his mind. “Kill them all!”
He whipped out his sword as a dozen guards rushed into the room. Spears and swords at the ready, eyes hard and wary, the leather-clad soldiers surrounded him. Soulhunger slipped from its sheath with a whisper of steel on leather. Heart hammering, the Hunter studied the men, trying to find the weakness in their ranks.
"Qattala."
The Hunter whirled and raised his weapons in anticipation of an attack, but the man that stepped forward raised his empty hands in a gesture of peace.
"Hold your weapons." He spoke in a rich voice deepened with the confidence of years giving orders, and only a hint of an accent. "Queen Asalah would have words with you."
The Hunter tried to hide his surprise. "And if I have no desire to speak to your queen?"
The dark-skinned man gestured to the guards surrounding the Hunter and shrugged.
Calm and confident. I like this man, whoever he is.
With a smile, the Hunter lowered his weapons. "Perhaps I will hear what your queen has to say."
The man nodded and barked an order in his own languag
e. The guards surrounded the Hunter, but made no move to disarm him.
The commander beckoned. "Follow me."
Heart sinking, the Hunter fell into step between the guards. I guess I won't be able to avoid the demon after all. But what does she want with me?
He would find out soon enough.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Curiosity burned in the Hunter's mind as he followed the guards through the palace of the al-Malek. He had no idea what to expect from the queen.
Clearly, she recognized me in Traitor's Square, but how could she know I was coming here?
The guards hustled him through the tortuous corridors of the palace. They encountered few servants, and those few whose paths they crossed bowed their heads and averted their eyes.
Content to follow his escort, he studied the palace around him. Elegant tiles with complex patterns of interweaving shapes and colors covered the walls and floor. High-vaulted domes gave the palace interior a grandiose feel, complemented by the luxurious rugs and tapestries. Marble statues stood guard throughout the palace, no doubt the great heroes and kings of Al Hani.
The guards led him through an enormous hall. Stained glass windows bordered the outer walls of the chamber. Tiles of lapis lazuli and jade sparkled down from the interior of the massive dome, dozens of paces overhead. Two thrones stood at the far end of the room, with plush cushions covering a solid bloodwood frame. The wood alone had to be worth more than the gold and silver covering the thrones, more than the bright gemstones encrusted into the metalwork.
One of the tapestries along the wall caught his attention—more accurately, one of the figures depicted in the tapestry. The image had dark hair, black eyes, and strong features not too unlike his own. The blade depicted there drew his eyes: a curved dagger the length of the figure's forearm, complete with a bright red gemstone set into the weapon's hilt.
Looks like Soulhunger.
The voice of the demon echoed oddly in his thoughts, the incoherent screeching filled with a note of joy. Something about the tapestry and the scene depicted thereupon seemed somehow familiar—if not to him, then to the demon in his mind.
Darkblade Protector: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Hero of Darkness Book 3) Page 18
