The Last Bucelarii
Book 3: Gateway to the Past
Andy Peloquin
Edited by: J. Ellington Ashton Press Staff
Cover Art by: Marie Story
http://jellingtonashton.com
Copyright.
Andy Peloquin
©2017, Andy Peloquin
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book, including the cover and photos, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. All rights reserved.
Any resemblance to persons, places living or dead is purely coincidental.
This is a work of fiction.
Acknowledgements
To Patricia, the voice of encouragement when I feel dissatisfied and inadequate.
To James, who will never truly understand the value of his words of support.
“The most sublime act is to set another before you.” ― William Blake
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 condemned 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 for 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 Hunter stared into the man's eyes. What choice do I have? It's a necessary sacrifice to save Hailen. He tried to rationalize it to himself. He's a heartbeat away from the Long Keeper's embrace!
"I-I'm sorry, Bristan."
Weakened by the iron's poison, he struggled to raise Soulhunger above the dying man's head. He had no strength, but the weight of his arm drove the dagger between Bristan's ribs. With a scream muffled by pain and blood loss, Bristan shuddered and lay still.
Soulhunger shrieked in delight as it consumed the man's life force. Crimson light leaked from the gem set in the dagger's pommel. The blade, still embedded in Bristan's chest, fed on the man's soul and sent waves of power washing through the Hunter.
"May the Watcher have mercy on you."
The Hunter spoke the ritual words every time he took a life with Soulhunger, but Bristan was not like the others. He hadn't been paid to kill the man, hadn't even wanted to. He'd had no other choice.
I'm sorry.
The momentary stab of sorrow was drowned beneath a torrent of power. Soulhunger drank deeply, suffusing him with energy and life. He reveled in the sensation, but in the back of his mind, he felt disgust at his weakness. He had given in. Again.
The demon crowed in triumph. 'In the end, you always give in, Bucelarii!'
Why had he fought it for so long? The power coursing through him was as addictive as any opiate. Without hesitation, he seized the arrow embedded in his chest and yanked it free, uncaring that it tore flesh and muscle. Vigor pushed back the poison of the iron in his veins. Strength returned to his right hand, then the arm, then his shoulder and chest, and down his torso, to his legs. Blood pumped into his limbs as his body tried to heal the wound.
The wagon had pulverized both legs and cut off all sensation, but now he could feel the searing pain of his crushed bones. He screamed and though each twitch of his limbs brought a fresh wave of torment, struggled against the weight atop him. He had to get out from under the wagon, n
ow.
His cries of suffering added to the chaotic din around him. Gritting his teeth, he repeated the agonizing process with the remaining two iron-tipped arrows and hurled them away. A few moments longer, and they would have killed him. Blood gushed from the wound in the Hunter's leg, but he paid it no heed. With the iron cleansed from his body and Soulhunger's power, he would heal quickly. Only the raw, jagged scars across his chest would remain—a reminder of every life Soulhunger claimed. Tonight, a new scar joined the others marring his flesh.
He studied the wagon atop his legs, trying to find a way to lift it. At least enough to squirm out from beneath.
"Hardwell?" The Sirkar's voice reached his ears. "Where are you, Hardwell?"
Relief flooded him. "Here! I'm trapped beneath the wagon!"
"Over here, lads! Kellen, Graden, help me." The sound of pounding feet drew nearer.
The Hunter froze. Soulhunger! His numb fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger, still buried in Bristan's neck. Ripping it free of flesh, he slipped it into its sheath. Not a moment too soon. No one could know what he'd done.
"Help me, lads." The caravan master's strong, confident voice sounded shaken. His sun-darkened face looked pale in the flickering firelight. Blood leaked from a slash across his forehead and a jagged cut down his forearm. The hand he touched to Bristan's neck showed bloody stumps where his pinky and ring finger had been.
Kellen, limping from a wicked gash in his left leg, and Graden, appearing unharmed, came into view. Together with the Sirkar, the three heaved on the wagon. The Hunter felt the pressure on his legs easing, and, ignoring the agony of the shattered bones, dragged himself free in the heartbeat before the wagon slipped from Kellen's grasp and crashed to the ground.
"How bad is it, Hardwell?" Sirkar Jeroen stared down at him, genuine concern in his eyes.
"I'll be fine, Sirkar." The pain of his healing body threatened to overwhelm him, but he gritted his teeth against the fire coursing through his legs. He had no time for weakness. Hailen needed him.
From amidst the smoke and chaos came a woman's scream.
"Arealle!" Sirkar Jeroen cried. He glanced down at the Hunter.
"Go!" The Hunter waved them away. "Help your wife! Give me a moment, and I'll join you."
Sirkar Jeroen stared at him skeptically. His eyes flicked to the Hunter's legs, to the blood-stained holes in his tunic. The cry came again. Without hesitation, the caravan master sprinted away, Kellen and Graden following. The Hunter was alone. Alone, save for the still, silent corpse beside him.
He stared down at Bristan's unseeing eyes, slack features, bloodstained hands and fingers, skin pale in death. Remorse would come later. Right now, he could only think of one thing. He stumbled toward the tents, his legs protesting with every agonizing step. He had to find the boy, had to make sure he was unharmed.
The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Not his own. Marin's blood. Something resembling remorse nagged at the back of his mind. The old man had been nothing but kind to him and Hailen. Until tonight. Until the Hunter had plunged his blade into Marin's chest.
A fist squeezed his heart as he approached the section of canvas where his tent had once stood. Nothing but a towering inferno and smoldering ashes remained. The blaze had carved a fiery swath through the hastily-erected shelters, leaving death and ruin in its wake.
Something smoldered at his feet. The scent of charred meat assaulted his nostrils, setting the world spinning around him. He fell to his knees. The pain of the embers singeing his flesh paled in comparison to the sorrow that twisted a knife in his heart.
A child-sized corpse filled his vision.
Chapter Two
Three weeks ago…
"Watch where you're going!"
The Hunter snarled a wordless curse at the retreating carter and pulled his cloak tighter about himself. He thumbed the silver pendant hanging around his neck. He hated the press of bodies around him; felt trapped in the sea of moving people. His years as the legendary assassin of Voramis had left him at ease in the dark, but he hadn't quite adjusted to moving freely in daylight. Not without a disguise.
He missed the alchemical masks he'd worn in Voramis. They allowed him to travel without fear of being recognized—an invaluable asset in his line of work. Since leaving Voramis, he had nothing to hide his true features. Though there was little chance of seeing a familiar face here in the dust-covered village of Azmaria, his skin crawled every time someone bumped into him.
Damned Spring Festival! He cursed his ill-fated timing. He and Hailen had ridden into town two days ago, only to discover preparations for the celebration well underway. He could do little to escape the crowds. The throng trampling the village streets to mud numbered in the thousands. Had there not been the promise of a caravan passing through the city today, he would have put the dusty village behind him the same day he entered.
The townsfolk danced, swirled, and stumbled around him, smiles joyful and drunken affixed on faces far dirtier than any in the Beggar's Quarter in Lower Voramis. They frolicked beneath the bright noon sun, celebrating the return of spring. Dirt and mud spattered men, women, and children, but they seemed not to notice.
The Hunter snorted and immediately regretted it as the stench of vomit filled his nostrils. He leapt sideways to avoid stepping in a large puddle of a suspicious color. A passing celebrant rebounded off the Hunter and staggered on his drunken way, singing at the top of his lungs.
I'll be only too happy to find this caravan and get away from here.
A caravan would make it easier to cross the Advanat, the expanse of desert standing between him and the north of Einan. Beyond the desert lay answers into his past. There, somewhere, he would find Her, whoever She was. He'd seen Her face more and more in his dreams since the events of Malandria. His desire to find Her grew with every passing league. In his visions—no, his memories—he'd called Her "my love". Those few fragments he remembered only added to his pain of longing. He had to find Her; She was the only link to his lost past.
A laughing, shouting child pushed past him, chased a moment later by a pack of yipping dogs that barreled through the crowd. The pack nearly tripped up a handful of burly tradesmen who clung to each other for support. The red of their cheeks and the reek of their breath matched the ochre dust and the horse manure stench permeating the street. The Hunter gave them a wide berth—as much to avoid vomit stains as a confrontation.
Colorful garlands and streamers hung from the thatched-roof houses lining the muddy lane the Azmarians called a "street". Heavyset farm-matrons carried platters heaped high with fresh baked bread, great wheels of cheese, and fruit only partially eaten by bugs. Burly men in the humble garb of farmers hauled wooden casks of tart wine, weak beer, and liquor potent enough to wake the dead. The scent of grilling lamb and goat reached the Hunter's nostrils. He hadn't eaten since leaving Hailen at the inn this morning.
Hailen.
After the Hunter had been forced to kill Father Pietus, the boy's guardian and head of the Beggar Priests, he'd brought the lad along—for his protection, he'd told himself. The first night out of Malandria, he'd been certain of his actions. But with every passing day, he grew less and less sure. The boy was…difficult. Every time he saw sadness or anger lurking in the boy's eyes, it added to his uncertainty.
Why had he taken Hailen from Malandria? To help him hunt demons, a mission he'd taken upon himself after seeing the horrors brought about by Toramin and Garanis, the demons of Malandria? He'd told himself as much, but he knew it was a hollow answer.
No, his motives were purely selfish. Since leaving Malandria, the dagger had grown more insistent. The demon's voice alternated between incessant demands, cruel mockery, and incoherent screeching that set his head throbbing. Hailen's presence silenced the inner voices. The boy accompanied him because the Hunter needed him to retain a grip on sanity.
But could he find someplace he knew for certain the boy would be safe? Hailen's trusting nature made him vuln
erable. The boy was naïve to the extreme, unaware of the danger around him. The Hunter had to protect him, keep him alive in a world far too perilous for one so innocent. The demon had grown louder and more insistent since Malandria. When not demanding death, it filled his head with incoherent screams and cries. Without the boy to keep back the voices, the Hunter would have to face them alone—and he doubted he could survive the constant assault on his mind. The voices would steal his sanity and turn him into the mindless, bloodthirsty beast he'd been in the Chasm of the Lost.
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 face. The women moved among the spellbound Azmarians with ethereal grace.
The Last Bucelarii Book 3: Gateway to the Past Page 1
