The entrance to Upper Voramis lay half a league away from his current position at the southwest corner of the wealthier neighborhood. His steps led farther west, toward a steep drop-off. The wealthier neighborhood of Voramis sat atop a cliff, giving it an unrivalled view of the city below. As the Hunter slithered through the shadows toward the edge of the cliff, he couldn't help marveling at the beauty of Lower Voramis. Thousands of lights twinkled in the darkness; the city never truly slept. The wind brought the scents of the Merchant's Quarter that stretched out below him. The salty tang of sea air drifted up from the Port of Voramis. He just had to get down there, and he'd be safe!
His heart leapt as his eyes found what he sought: the hidden rope he'd anchored years ago against such an eventuality. A back way out of Upper Voramis.
Seizing the rope in his good right hand, he lowered himself over the edge. He bit down on a bark of pain as agony flared up and down his ribs, rippled through his leg muscles. His left arm had gone fully numb. His body could heal, but it needed time to repair each injury. The multiple wounds overtaxed his abilities.
He slid down the rope at a terrifying speed, his back scraping rocks. His leather armor absorbed most of the abuse, but his feet and legs groaned in protest. He couldn't slow. His grip on the rope grew weaker as more blood pumped from his leg wound.
For a moment, he hovered between two worlds: sliding down a cliff side and watching the woman fall to her death. The image of the dead infant, its tiny form so still and silent, sent pangs stabbing into his heart that had nothing to do with the crossbow bolt in his chest.
His grip loosened and he plummeted to the hard ground far below.
* * *
The Hunter jerked awake. Pain lanced through his leg, his side, and his shoulder. A cold numbness seeped into every limb. He struggled to open eyes heavy with fatigue.
He lay in an alleyway that cut between homes built at the foot of the cliff. Refuse lay piled high around him, a miasma of human waste hanging like a thick cloud. Yet atop it all, a thick blanket of snow carpeted everything. His heavy cloak and the snow had preserved his body heat, kept him alive as his flesh and bone healed.
Groaning, he sat up and studied his wounds. He ripped the bolt from his shoulder, his side, and leg, biting down hard on his leather glove to stifle his cries. Every attempt to reach the quarrel in the back of his shoulder failed. He could get to it later. His body had healed enough that he need not fear exsanguination as he stumbled to his home in the Beggars Quarter.
As he made to stand, something tugged on his cloak. He glanced down and recoiled at the sight of the cold, pale face peering up at him. A woman's face, lips blue with cold, wide eyes staring sightlessly into the sky. Her cheekbones, collarbone, ribs, and hips poked against skin that seemed little more than stretched hide. She, like so many of the poorest of Lower Voramis, had starved to death. Or frozen. The scraps of rags hanging from her emaciated frame offered little protection against the piercing, chill wind that whistled through the city. A second corpse--a man--lay a short distance away.
The Hunter rolled away from the dead body, but the movement dislodged something wrapped in his cloak. A bundle covered in rags and cloths that could only have come from the woman's clothing fell to the snow-covered ground beside the silent corpse.
The Hunter had no desire to touch the bundle, to look inside. He knew what lay within; it would be the second such he'd see tonight. The mother had no doubt wrapped the child in his cloak to keep it warm. She had died saving her baby.
A voice deep within him screamed at the sight. The same unfamiliar sensation washed over him: a tightening in his chest, a lump in his throat, and an emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Sorrow mixed with something else…could it be guilt?
He had no reason to feel guilty for this death. For the poor of Lower Voramis, death was forever waiting around the corner. The Long Keeper gathered hundreds of men, women, and children into his embrace every winter. The icy chill sweeping in from the ocean dropped the temperature well below freezing. Snow could pile as high as a man's knee, made worse by frigid winds that pierced even the heaviest of clothing.
Yet the guilt remained. His actions had led to the death of an infant. He had never taken the life of a child. Something within him, some innate instinct to protect the innocent, stopped him from even considering it. He would kill men and women, priest and killer, merchant and nobleman alike. But he would never cross the line to take a child's life.
In a way, he had taken a child's life tonight. Indirectly, yet the burden of guilt remained.
Pain raced through him as he climbed to his feet but he welcomed it. He deserved a bit of pain.
He backed away from the pair of corpses and stumbled toward the mouth of the alley. He had to get away from this place and the memories of death. Soulhunger had been sated—he would have peace from its incessant demands for a few days. He needed rest, if only to avoid seeing the faces of his victims floating before his mind.
Something stopped him a few paces away. Was his mind deceiving him, or did he hear a faint cry? He turned. The bundle remained unmoving and silent.
His eyes narrowed. There's no way—
It came again: a whimper so quiet even his acute hearing barely detected it. But he had heard it.
He stumbled toward the woman's body. The bundle moved now, the infant inside wriggling as it snuffled and whined. The Hunter knelt beside the infant and pulled open the wrappings.
The child lives.
The child was a girl, beautiful, with plump cheeks and dark hair that curled around her round face. She opened her eyes and stared up at him.
The Hunter's mind raced. What in the frozen hell was he supposed to do now? He couldn't care for the child. So why had he picked her up? What had prompted him to open the bundle and peer at the perfect face inside?
It didn't matter. He couldn't leave her here.
So what do I do?
Save her, that's what. Wrapping her in his cloak, he pulled up his hood and stumbled toward the mouth of the alley, out into Merchant's Quarter. If he hurried, he could drop her outside the House of Need before daybreak. Many orphaned and wayward children found their way to the temple of the Beggar God. The priests gave them a home in their decrepit temple. The girl in his arms would have a difficult existence—the Beggared children worked hard for meager earnings—but she would live. It had to be enough.
His actions had caused the death of one child this night; he wouldn't let his inaction cause another.
Want to find out more about the Hunter of Voramis?
Follow his adventures in The Last Bucelarii:
A faceless, nameless assassin. A forgotten past. The Hunter of Voramis--a killer devoid of morals, or something else altogether? (The Last Bucelarii--dark fantasy with a look at the underside of human nature)
Blade of the Destroyer (Book 1)
Lament of the Fallen (Book 2)
Gateway to the Past (Book 3)
For a broader glimpse at the world of Einan, read Queen of Thieves:
Criminals are made, not born. Child of the Night Guild—an insight into the transformation from innocent child to thief and killer.
Child of the Night Guild (Book 1)
About the Author:
I am, first and foremost, a storyteller and an artist--words are my palette. Fantasy is my genre of choice, and I love to explore the darker side of human nature through the filter of fantasy heroes, villains, and everything in between. I'm also a freelance writer, a book lover, and a guy who just loves to meet new people and spend hours talking about my fascination for the worlds I encounter in the pages of fantasy novels.
Fantasy provides us with an escape, a way to forget about our mundane problems and step into worlds where anything is possible. It transcends age, gender, religion, race, or lifestyle--it is our way of believing what cannot be, delving into the unknowable, and discovering hidden truths about ourselves and our world in a brand new way. Fiction at its very best!
> Visit my website: http://www.andypeloquin.com
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Life for a Life Page 3
