“Not about this, Jager,” said Calliande.
Jager hesitated, fresh dread churning in his gut. Mara had refused to speak of her father, the dark elven prince of Nightmane Forest, but she had told him that the dark elves created their war beasts from both mortal and animal blood. Urvaalgs had once been normal wolves, and ursaars bears. The more powerful creatures, like the urshanes and the urdhracos, had once been mortals with dark elven blood, the offspring of dark elven lords and their enslaved mortal mistresses. That had always been Mara’s fear, that one day her dark blood would overwhelm her and twist her into a monster, a fear that Tarrabus Carhaine threatened to make real.
And had the urhaalgars once been halflings like Jager?
He remembered the horror he felt every time he had touched the dagger. Had his flesh and bone and blood known of the danger, even if he had not?
His hand moved away from the soulcatcher, even before he realized he had in fact made the decision.
“Thank you,” said Calliande gently. “Jager…that would have been very bad.”
“Give us the soulstone,” said Ridmark. There was no gentleness in his voice, but he was calm and confident. “And we can help you against whatever hold Tarrabus has over you.”
“No,” said Jager, his voice a hoarse croak “No. There are always promises…and they are always broken.” What would Ridmark do once he learned that Jager no longer had the soulstone? “I will rely on myself, and no one else.”
He dashed for the opening to the dwarven ruins.
“Jager!” said Ridmark, but Jager ignored the shout. If he could just get through the trapped hall, he could slip away from them. Of course, he did not know how they had tracked him down in the first place. Calliande’s magic, perhaps, or Morigna’s? Well, he could worry about that later. If he…
A low, wheezing laugh brushed his ears.
It was coming from one of the empty niches in the gallery wall.
Jager whirled, snatching his short sword from his belt.
An old man rose from one of the niches. He looked ancient, so old that his head was little more than a skull draped in loose skin, his ragged hair and beard hanging tangled around his skinny neck. He wore a crumbling black robe, dust and cobwebs clinging to the rough cloth, and his eyes…
His eyes shone with a pale orange light, making the skin of his face seem feverish and diseased.
“Where did he come from?” said Morigna, the purple light shifting as she turned to face the old man.
“That niche was empty,” said Kharlacht. “I am sure of it.”
Jager opened his mouth to speak, and the smell flooded his nostrils.
That horrible, wet smell filled his nose, that mixture of wet dirt and rotting meat. It made him think of a bloated corpse lying in the rain. He recognized it at once, and it made his skin crawl.
Perhaps neither Tarrabus nor Ridmark would get to kill him.
“That’s the Hunter,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice. “That’s the Hunter in the Dark.”
The old man’s head twitched back and forth, reminding Jager of an eyeball upon a tentacle, turning this way and that as it sought prey.
“A Hunter, am I?” croaked the old man, his voice a wheezing croon. “A Hunter, they call me? Then a Hunter I shall be!” He looked up at Calliande and grinned, the strange orange light of his eyes brightening. “And the most pleasant prey has come into my parlor! Come to me, Calliande of Tarlion!”
Chapter 19 - Tentacles
“You know me?” said Calliande to the strange old man Jager had called the Hunter. Was this the horror that had wiped out the dwarves of Thainkul Dural?
Jager scrambled backward, short sword in hand. He was more frightened of the old man than he was of Ridmark.
That was a bad sign.
The Hunter cackled. “You don’t know me, Calliande of Tarlion, but I know you. I can taste you, taste your aura upon the threshold. So much power! I shall feast upon you for centuries!”
“You know me,” said Calliande. “You’re an Eternalist, then?”
“An Eternalist?” said the Hunter with that cackling, dusty laugh. “The Eternalists? I knew them when they raised their castra above my nest. Sometimes they ventured into my domain, and I lured them into my shadows, and I feasted upon them inch by inch. They thought themselves eternal…but only I am eternal.”
“Then you are an urdmordar,” said Ridmark, stepping to Calliande’s side. Jager stopped a few paces away from him, giving him a wary glance, but Ridmark did not turn his gaze from the Hunter. “Lurking in the shadows, feasting upon victims that come your way? Clever.”
The Hunter cackled. “An urdmordar? They are clever, too clever. They crave domination and control. Utter fools. Control fades and domination crumbles. All that matters is the hunger, the feasting upon screaming flesh.”
“Then what are you?” said Ridmark.
“The Hunter of the Dark,” growled Azakhun, raising his axe, “who slew our kindred all those millennia ago.”
“The dwarves,” crooned the Hunter, “who clothed themselves in shells of steel. Their steel availed them not. I cracked open their shells and feasted upon the sweet meat within, all while they screamed and screamed. Just as I shall feast upon you, little stoneling, little dwarf.”
Calliande summoned magic, working a quick spell to sense the presence of arcane forces. At once she felt the hard power of Morigna’s earth magic, and the mighty vortex of dark magic around Jager’s soulcatcher, dark power that had already started to sink into him. But the power radiating from the Hunter overwhelmed everything else. It was strange, chaotic magic, as twisted and alien as the urdmordar.
And old, strong and old beyond belief.
Sudden recognition filled Calliande. She had encountered a creature like this before, sometime in her past life…and with the recognition came terrible fear.
They were in deadly danger.
“I know what you are,” said Calliande.
“Oh, she does?” said the Hunter, his head rotating toward her, the rest of his body following a few heartbeats later. It was like watching a macabre puppet controlled by a creature that only vaguely understood how humans moved. “Then what am I?”
“Your kind does not have a name,” said Calliande, “but the high elves and the dark elves both called you a malophage.”
The Hunter tittered. “So kind, so flattering.”
“What is a malophage?” said Morigna. “I’ve never heard the word.”
“Nor have I,” said Ridmark.
“I thought they were mythical,” said Caius. He looked shaken. “Tales told by the explorers of the lower Deeps of monsters lurking in the shadows.”
“They are not,” said Calliande, watching the Hunter for any sign of attack “The dark elves summoned other kindreds to this world, the orcs and dwarves and halflings and manetaurs and the others, to act as their slaves and soldiers. It didn’t always work. The dwarves broke away at once and founded their own kingdoms, and the urdmordar destroyed the dark elves.”
The Hunter laughed again. “You should have heard them scream.”
“The malophages were…something else, creatures from an alien world,” said Calliande. “They feast upon pain and torment in equal measure, and care nothing for kingdoms or laws or morals, only their endless hunger. The dark elves could not control them, so they unleashed the malophages upon the high elves. In time the high elves destroyed almost all of them, save for a few who hid themselves away in the Deeps…”
“Such as,” said Jager, his voice hoarse, “within dwarven ruins.”
“So clever, Calliande of Tarlion,” said the Hunter. “So clever, and so bright. And she doesn’t know who she is! Little child, I see power shining around you! You were wrong. Fear and flesh are delicious, yes, but I also feed upon magic…and there is great magic within you. Strong and fell, and not even of this world.”
“What?” said Calliande. “What do you mean, not of this world?”
Th
e Hunter’s wheezing, cackling laughter redoubled. “Little child, I know myself. But you do not! You do not even know who you are. Or what you are. The inheritor of alien magic, a mantle of power not of this world.” He grinned. “Perhaps I shall tell you before you die, so that you might know the profundity of your failure as I feast upon your despair…”
“Oh, do shut up,” said Morigna. “If you have something useful to say, do so. Otherwise kindly keep the mysterious prophecies and mystical gibberish to yourself. One suspects you know nothing at all, and are merely running your mouth for your own amusement. I might claim to be the High Queen of Andomhaim, and that does not make it so. And you are nothing but a deranged old man lurking in a sewer.”
“Catacombs,” said Jager. “We’re in the catacombs.”
Morigna sighed. “That is not the point.”
“Dark child,” croaked the Hunter. “I can see Calliande of Tarlion’s future…but can you see yours? No? Perhaps that is for the best. She carries a mantle of power that she knows not, but you shall inherit another.”
“What foolishness is this?” said Morigna. “I have my own magic. That is quite sufficient.”
“Is it?” said the Hunter.
Despite the peril of their situation, Calliande saw a glint in Morigna’s black eyes. The woman did not believe in God, or love, or the High King’s laws, or even in honor, though she had her own version of it. She only believed in power, and if the Hunter offered her power…
Would she betray them for it?
Morigna’s laughter dripped scorn. “If you think to offer me power in exchange for cooperation, I suggest you find another plan. Preferably one not informed by utter idiocy. If experience has taught me anything, it is to disregard the promises of sorcerous old men.”
Gavin burst out laughing.
“Wisely spoken,” said Caius.
“Her mantle of power is of another world,” said the Hunter, his orange-glowing eyes turning toward Calliande. Then his burning gaze rotated back to Morigna, seeming to brighten as it did. “The one you shall inherit, dark child, is of this world. And it is much more potent than hers. Oh, but if you could see the shadows of your future, how dark and black they are! Such crimes you shall commit!” A shiver of something like pleasure went through the black-robed frame. “And I shall feast upon them.”
“Enough,” said Ridmark, his voice like iron. “Do you have a purpose other to weary our ears with riddling talk?”
“Would you like to know your future?” said the Hunter. “Gray Knight, branded knight, broken knight. Ah, if you could but see the shadows entangling your future…how you would weep! Which fate shall be yours? Will you free the great darkness from its prison, and set a thousand worlds to burn? Will you be betrayed, and watch this world turn to ice? Or will the shadows at last consume your mind, and laugh as you fall upon your sword in despair?”
“At the moment,” said Ridmark, “I am only interested in a future where you leave us in peace…or perish upon our blades.”
The Hunter laughed. “Threats? You cannot threaten me. You cannot kill me. You cannot even harm me!”
“Then why,” said Morigna, “this little game?”
“Why, to make you afraid, of course,” said the Hunter. “Don’t you understand?” Orange light and black shadow swirled around him. “Meat tastes ever so much better once it has been spiced in fear, after you mortals have stewed in your own juices.”
Calliande felt a surge of power from the creature.
“Ridmark!” she said, and the Hunter changed into its true form.
###
“God have mercy,” said Jager, his voice stunned.
Morigna found she had no words to describe the horror at the bottom of the stairs.
A dozen long, whip-like tentacles, each as thick as one of Kharlacht’s legs, swirled and danced over the malophage. The creature’s horse-sized body looked like a ghastly fusion of a slug, a jellyfish, and a toad, its hide translucent, revealing a dozen misshapen organs floating in thick slime. Orange light blazed here and there from nodules upon its flesh, and Morigna realized the nodules were eyes, allowing the malophage to see in all directions at once. A dozen gaping mouths lined with needle-sharp teeth opened and closed at random on its misshapen body.
The nightmare Coriolus had transformed into during their final battle had been hideous, too, yet portions of his transformed flesh had still been recognizably human. There was nothing human, nothing mortal, in the misshapen thing at the bottom of the stairs. It was utterly alien, and the mere sight of it filled Morigna with loathing. Her every instinct screamed for her to attack, to unleash the full wrath of her magic upon it. She recognized that it was an instinctual reaction, the way some people reacted with fear and horror at the sight of an insect.
Of course, the fact that the malophage wanted to eat her made the reaction entirely rational.
“Flesh!” shrieked the Hunter, its voice hideous and twisted. “Flesh!”
“Kill it!” shouted Ridmark. “Strike for the organs in its core! It…”
The Hunter moved with fearsome speed, its tentacles lashing against the wall to pull its heaving body up the gallery stairs. A tentacle darted out, coiled around Gavin’s legs, and yanked him from his feet. He yelled and slashed with his sword, missing the tentacle. It lifted him upside down, the tip of his sword scraping against the stone steps. Kharlacht bellowed a malediction and swept his greatsword in a blow that could have felled a tree. It struck the tentacle’s rubbery hide and rebounded as if the limb had been made of solid steel.
Gavin drew closer to one of the yawning mouths in the Hunter’s main body, and Morigna cast a spell. Earth magic flooded into her, and she gestured with her free hand. A column of mist appeared in front of the malophage, and Morigna’s will forced the mist into a tight ball.
Which went into the malophage’s yawning mouth.
Its hide might be impervious to steel, but she suspected its mouth and innards would be more sensitive.
A sizzling noise reached her ears, and the Hunter’s remaining mouths howled in fury. Calliande cast a spell of her own, white light flaring in the gallery, and the weapons began to glow with a white radiance. Kharlacht glanced at his sword, raised the heavy blade, and swung it again.
This time the blade sheared through the tentacle, and Gavin fell with a clatter to the stairs. He rolled his feet, slashing with his sword as another tentacle reached for him. His glowing sword left a smoking gash in the creature’s rubbery hide, and again the Hunter screamed in fury.
“Now!” shouted Ridmark. He had discarded his staff, and gripped his orcish war axe in both hands. “Strike!”
He dashed at the Hunter’s core, his axe a white blur, and the others followed.
###
Jager hesitated, and then ran after Ridmark and others, his short sword glowing with the light of Calliande’s magic.
He was not entirely sure why.
It would have made more sense to run while the Hunter distracted Ridmark and his friends. But that would have been foolish. The Hunter lurked in the shadows, preferred to remain unseen. It had only shown itself because it wanted to devour Calliande’s magic, and was confident it could kill them all. If Jager ran, as soon as Ridmark and the others fell the malophage would take him.
And Ridmark had been willing to talk, rather than simply killing Jager. If Jager had surrendered the soulstone, Ridmark would have let him go. Not that Jager would have done so. Also Jager did not technically have the soulstone any longer, which would have made surrendering it difficult.
But Ridmark had been willing to let him go. Tarrabus had not.
If Jager was to die here, better to do it fighting valiantly. Perhaps it would obviate some of his crimes when he stood before the Dominus Christus, assuming the Dominus Christus actually gave a damn about halflings.
Perhaps Jager’s father would think better of him if he died well.
So he yelled and followed the others in the mad rush at the Hunter’s
ghastly core.
A tentacle whipped at him, and Jager jumped over it, the dark mass blurring below him. Another swung at him, but he ducked under it with ease. Sometimes his lack of height was an advantage! A third shot across in a blur, but Kharlacht severed it with a single massive blow of his sword. Jager kept running, lashing at a tentacle that drew too near. Hopefully that would distract the Hunter long enough for Ridmark or Kharlacht or Azakhun to land a killing blow with their heavy weapons.
But the malophage regenerated damage as quickly as Jager could deal it, and already he saw the severed tentacles repairing themselves. Could the thing even be killed? They had Calliande’s magic, but it took a Soulblade to dispatch creatures of dark power, and Ridmark Arban was no longer a Swordbearer.
Jager ducked under another tentacle, jumped over a second, and landed a stinging hit upon the glistening flesh. Just a little further, and he would be close enough to bury his sword into the Hunter’s misshapen body.
Then three of the glowing eyes fixed upon him.
Jager tried to duck, but the tentacle moved too fast. It slammed into his chest with the force of a club, and he felt himself hurled into the air. For a strange, tantalizing instant, it felt as if he was flying.
Then he struck the wall. He heard bones snap from the impact, felt something hot and metallic in his mouth which he realized was blood. Suddenly his back and left arm no longer hurt so much, mostly because his entire body exploded with pain when he struck the floor.
He tried to stand and realized he could not.
Mara. He had failed Mara.
Everything went black.
###
Ridmark ducked under a lashing tentacle as Jager bounced off the wall. He spun, gray cloak billowing behind him, and swung his orcish war axe with both hands. Again he sliced off one of the thick tentacles, the thing falling to the floor with a meaty thud. It dissolved into reeking black smoke, while glistening slime spurted from the ugly stump on the Hunter’s misshapen body.
Frostborn: The Master Thief Page 24
