He advanced on the Hunter, blade glinting in the torchlight, menace written on his face. He placed the tip of the dagger beneath the Hunter's right eyeball and applied gentle pressure. The Hunter's face twitched with the pain, but he remained silent. The point loomed dangerously close to his eye.
"I believe," said a voice from the door, "we are to wait until the First has decided what to do with him."
The Second, startled, whirled around, the edge of his blade scoring the Hunter's cheek. Blood slid down the Hunter's face from the cut, but he ignored the pain.
He studied the man who had entered the room unnoticed. The man had arms thinner than the Hunter's wrists, a slight hunch in his shoulders, eyes sunken from years of malnourishment, and he moved with a limp. He stood no taller than the Second's shoulder. Twin knife belts crisscrossed his chest, holding nearly two dozen small throwing blades. A silver ring bearing the mark of the Hand sat on his little finger.
The Fifth shows his face, he thought, inhaling the man's scent. Hinge grease. Cheap wine. Brass.
"It is not you who commands here, thief." Venom dripped from the Second’s words, and he stared down at the little man with a glare of mixed contempt and anger. "Have you forgotten your place?"
"I forget nothing," replied the Fifth, unperturbed by the vitriol in the Second's voice. "I am simply relaying a message to you." He reached into one of the myriad pouches hanging from his belt. "The master has spoken."
The Second's eyes widened upon seeing the gold ring clutched in the Fifth's bony fingers "The master sends word, does he?" He studied the ring, taking in the etching of the Bloody Hand. "Very well. We shall while away the time with a bit of entertainment, then." Turning to face the Hunter, he raised an eyebrow. "Brutus?"
Confusion flickered across the Hunter's face for a moment before a massive fist slammed into his kidney. The force of the blow bent him backward, and his legs sagged. Only the chains held him upright. A groan escaped his lips.
The Second's face split into a wide grin. "Well done, Brutus!"
"Thank you, Master," came the reply.
The Hunter caught movement out of the corner of his eye, but had no time to react as a blow rocked his head. A flash of pain ran up the side of his neck. The Hunter saw the man for the first time when the thug moved to stand in front of him.
If ever there is a man worthy of the name Brutus, he thought, it is him.
Brutus towered over him by a full head, and the diminutive Fifth barely came to the level of his chest. Impressive cords of muscle banded Brutus' arms, and his bald head shone bright in the torchlight. A thick nose sat beneath a sloping forehead, and dumb eyes stared at the Hunter.
His musculature would be impressive even on a statue of Balrid the Giant, thought the Hunter.
The scents of rancid meat and sweat-stained leather filled the Hunter's nostrils, accompanied by the smell of the wax giving Brutus' hairless pate its bright sheen.
"Hunter, meet Brutus," the Second spoke. "Brutus, I believe the Hunter needs some administering to. He seems to have survived his capture without sufficient damage."
The behemoth's fist crashed into his stomach with enough force to shatter a brick wall. He tensed in expectation of the blow, but it did little to dull the pain. Every breath hurt. His lungs refused to fill with air. He saw stars as he doubled over, heaving the contents of his stomach onto the floor.
"You are an impressive specimen, I must say, Hunter," the Second said. "Brutus has broken men's backs with that punch, and yet you still live." He paced in front of his captive, waving the dagger as he spoke. "Most men would have died from the wounds that knocked you unconscious. You know, it took nearly a dozen of my best men to take you down, even after the big brute here clubbed you over the head. They may have been a bit zealous, but you can understand why."
The Hunter had no reply for his captor. He still struggled to stand upright, though he no longer fought for breath.
"There will be three weeping widows tonight," said the Second, turning to glare at him, "thanks to you and your tools." The man strode to a table in one corner of the small room and whipped back the cloth covering it, revealing Soulhunger, the swordbreaker, and the daggers the Hunter had secreted beneath his clothing.
Soulhunger! The dagger's voice remained silent, but the Hunter felt its presence in the back of his mind. If I can get my hands on one of those blades…
A hungry look must have filled the Hunter's eyes, for the Second gave his prisoner a cruel, mocking smile and shook his head. "Not going to happen, Hunter. Those chains will hold even you. We can't have you getting free and hunting us down, though, I dare say, that's unlikely to happen, given your current state."
The Hunter turned his head to examine the chains holding him bound, ignoring the twinge in his neck. His manacles were nearly as thick as Brutus' arms.
The Hand is certainly not taking any chances here.
Footsteps echoed in the passageway outside the cell, drawing the Hunter's attention toward the door.
"Ahh," said the Second, obviously hearing the sound as well, "the master has arrived."
A motley assortment of men of the muscle-bound variety filled the room, but it was the last man to enter that immediately arrested the Hunter's attention. He had an aristocratic face, with an aquiline nose, thin lips, sharp cheekbones, an angled chin, and eyes that stared at the Hunter with haughty disdain. He wore the latest fashion in garments, a gold-handled sword hanging at his hip. His scent held traces of steel, an overwhelming amount of perfume, but a hint of something rancid beneath it all.
I've seen him somewhere, thought the Hunter. A memory of an evening of dancing and festivity flashed in his mind. At Lord Dannaros' party. A minor noble, a Lord of something or another.
The way everyone in the room looked to the man for command spoke volumes. He carried himself with utter confidence, and his mere presence electrified the air about him.
There is something terrifying about him, though what, I cannot say.
"Thank you," the man said in clipped tones, taking his gold ring from the Second's hand. He slipped it onto his finger, and the Hunter knew for a certainty that he stared at none other than the First of the Bloody Hand, chief of the Five Fingers. This was the man in near-absolute control of Voramis' criminal underground, and through it, the entire city.
"So the Hunter has become the prey," said the First. The smile that spread on his lips failed to reach his eyes. "It is a distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance, though I have an uncanny feeling we may have met elsewhere."
The First stepped forward, stopping within easy reach of the Hunter's chained arms.
"The great Hunter of Voramis," he mused. "The man in the shadows. The legendary killer. The creature who single-handedly has every noble, merchant, and criminal in Voramis soiling their breeches at the mention of his name." He gave the Hunter a wry smile. "That, my new friend, is a form of power for which I envy you."
"Your name is spoken with much less reverence, I assume?"
"He speaks!" The First clapped his hands in an exaggerated gesture of delight. "Not only do I have the Hunter at my disposal, but he is even inclined to have a chat. This is proving to be a singularly wonderful evening."
His face grew serious. "However, a bit of respect could go a long way in your current situation." Without turning to look at the hulking man, the First gestured. "Brutus."
The Hunter didn't see the blow coming, didn't have time to register the force of the impact. His head snapped to one side, his vision blurred, and his jaw popped out of its socket with a rush of pain. He fought to remain standing on sagging knees, the world around him spinning.
"That bruise will be there for quite a while, Hunter," the First said, stepping close and poking his injured face with an indelicate finger. "It will serve as a reminder that the odds are not in your favor, at the moment."
He stared at the Hunter as if expecting him to speak, but the Hunter's jaw refused to move.
"Now, do you
realize just how deep in it you have sunk?" the First crowed, his voice mocking. He wagged an admonishing finger at his captive. “You've been a naughty, naughty killer. Operating in Voramis without the sanction of the Bloody Hand. That's not something we can allow without repercussions."
The First paced around the room, arms clasped behind his back. "After all, if you were allowed to continue your work unchecked, we might find all sorts of freelancers cropping up around the city. Before you know it, Voramis would slip from the control we have worked so hard to achieve." He stepped close to the Hunter again, giving him a wicked smile. "I, for one, quite enjoy having the city's balls in my vise-grip." The First clenched his fist in front of the Hunter's face.
"And so, my new friend," the First's mocking tirade continued, "you will serve as an object lesson to any in the city who would think about operating outside the purview of the Bloody Hand. It will not be a pretty lesson, I must say." He stared at the Hunter, measuring him for some unknown horrors. "By the time we're done with you, no one will think to soil his own bed without first paying us handsomely for the privilege."
The Hunter struggled to speak, but his dislocated jaw prevented it. The First seemed to notice for the first time.
"Where are my manners?" he asked, gesturing for the giant by his side. "Brutus, please restore the Hunter's ability to speak."
Brutus' fist plowed into the other side of the Hunter's face, leaving a matching purple bruise. The blow set the Hunter's head ringing and the stars spinning, but he found he could move his jaw again—albeit with significant discomfort.
"And what," he asked the First, slurring his words through bloody teeth, "do you have in mind?"
The First's smile returned. "Just a bit of fun testing out the Hunter's legendary immortality. I have heard you are damned difficult to kill. Oh, you hurt easily enough,"—as if to prove his point, he waved Brutus forward—"but killing you is proving nigh impossible."
Brutus plowed a massive fist into the Hunter's side. Through the pain, the Hunter heard one of his ribs crack.
"So," he coughed, a defiant glare on his face, "you're going to test out that theory, then?"
"Aye, that I will. But before I do, I believe Brutus would like a bit of exercise, isn't that right, you big, dumb brute?"
The eagerness with which Brutus pounded the Hunter served as proof of the total control the First had over his men. Blood covered the bald giant's knuckles by the time his blows ceased, and he panted for breath. The big man looked at the First like an oversized puppy hoping for his master's eager nod of approval.
"Well done," the First said, giving Brutus a gracious smile. "Your reward awaits you at The Arms of Heaven. Tell the Mistress that Bichon is to be your treat for tonight, as gratitude for all of your work in apprehending the Hunter."
A dumb grin split the big man's face, and he bowed in gratefulness before hurrying from the room. His features showed his eagerness to receive the prize awaiting him at the brothel.
The Second sidled up to the First and whispered into his ear. At a nod from his leader, the Second followed the big man from the room. The assorted muscle trooped out as well, emptying the room of all save the First and a figure standing by the door.
He had not seen the woman enter, but his breath caught in his chest as he saw her for the first time.
Celicia?
Dark hair, dark eyes, full lips with a hint of mischief. Her clothing was far richer than the garments she had worn in The Iron Arms.
The First saw the Hunter's eyes fall on the woman, and he smiled grandly. "And of course you must remember my Fourth. Celicia, I believe she said her name was?"
A silver ring bearing the mark of the Bloody Hand sat on the fourth finger of the woman's right hand.
In the Five Fingers? The Hunter stared at the woman in disbelief.
A stab of pain ran through him, but it had nothing to do with the torment inflicted by the giant Brutus. Even though he had only met the woman once, for some inexplicable reason, he felt betrayed.
The First must have read his thoughts, for he broke out in a gleeful cackle. "Oh yes, she certainly can be a charmer, our Fourth." He moved to stand by the woman, caressing her face with long, graceful fingers. His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. "They say she can bring men to pleasure with nothing but a touch."
He turned his attention to the woman beneath his hands, giving her a lewd smile. "It is why she is the capable hand behind Voramis' houses of rapture. Perhaps you would like a sampling of what she can do, eh, Hunter?" He raised a mocking eyebrow at his captive.
The woman said nothing. Unmoving, her arms crossed and head held high, she met the Hunter's gaze, her eyes steely and unflinching.
"Another time, perhaps," the First said, releasing the woman and returning his attention to his captive. "Well, only if you live beyond this night—which I very much doubt."
At that moment, the door opened and the Second entered, pushing a wheeled cart before him. Upon the cart lay all manner of instruments of torture; knives, whips, garrotes, flaying tools, screws, pincers, and dozens more the Hunter had never seen. Torchlight glinted from the polished edges of the wicked steel implements.
"I believe my Second has a few treats for you." The First's pitiless eyes filled with lust, and he licked his lips in anticipation.
The Second's hand hovered over the cart, as if weighing his options. He selected a small knife, and, testing its edge, smiled as it opened a shallow cut in his finger.
The Hunter's heart thundered as if trying to beat its way free of his chest, and a flash of fear raced through him. He stared in open horror at the tools on the tray.
"Let us begin the test of the Hunter's vaunted immortality." A wanton smiled touched the First's lips.
The Second's blades sliced into the Hunter's skin with agonizing efficiency. The Hunter tried to remain silent, but pain caused a cry to escape his lips.
"Yes," the First laughed, a vicious sound that seemed to harmonize with the Hunter's suffering, "what fun we shall have tonight!"
The Hunter's screams grew louder as the Second grew more creative. The sounds of torment echoed in the quiet cell and filled the corridor beyond. As the pain intensified, one thing stood out in the Hunter's benumbed mind: Celicia—or whatever her name was—flinched with each fresh horror inflicted.
* * *
Silence filled the small underground cell, broken only by the insistent sound of water and the blood dripping from the Hunter's body.
He hung limp in his chains. The manacle spikes dug into flesh long since numb from torment. Agony had filled his world for what felt like an eternity, though he guessed that only a few hours had passed.
The Second had taken a knife to his face, disfiguring his harsh features with artistic strokes. His shoulders, dislocated from repeated blows, throbbed painfully. The flesh of his chest and stomach burned, scorched by acid the Second had dabbed onto the exposed skin with careful precision. The smell of charred meat, hot steel, and blood—both fresh and dried—filled the room.
Pain stabbed into him with each breath. The Second had broken at least four of his ribs. The muscles of his arms and legs hung limp, the tendons carved by a razor stiletto. His knees had been shattered hours ago, but they had healed enough to allow him to stand.
"It seems," said the First, eyes glittering with delight, "you are as immortal as your legends proclaim, Hunter." He cast an angry glare at the Second, displeased at the man's inability to break the stubborn captive.
The Second seemed surprised that his ministrations had failed to have the desired effect. Blood covered his hands and clothing, and bright red streaked his face. Crimson stained every instrument on his tray of horrors, a testament to the torment the Hunter had endured.
"I must say," mused the First, "most men would have died hours ago under the Second's special attentions. In fact, most men have died at his hands, but you seem to be the exception. How curious."
"The legends must be true, then," t
he Hunter rasped in a voice hoarse from hours of screaming.
"Indeed," said the First, pensively.
He moved to the table upon which lay the Hunter's weapons, and his fingers closed around the swordbreaker's grip. He caressed its edge as he strode toward the Hunter once more.
"But I wonder," he said, "how immortal are you really? Could you withstand, say, a knife to the heart?"
Fear flashed through the Hunter as the First lifted the notched blade high. The swordbreaker drove deep into his chest. He flopped weakly, numbness spreading through his limbs, warmth spilling down his torso. His vision blurred, his consciousness slipped away.
Celicia's wide eyes were the last thing he saw before the world faded to a cold, empty black.
Chapter Sixteen
The Hunter floated in a silent void. Here, in the peaceful, empty darkness, he felt no pain, no fear. All was still.
With a jolt, life filled his lungs. Ice-cold water splashed across his face, and he spluttered and coughed.
We cannot die, the voice in his head whispered. We must live to kill another day. There are so many more who deserve to taste the suffering of Soulhunger's blade.
Spikes of pain pierced every part of his body, and his muscles struggled to support him. His stubbornness warred with weakness. Opening his eyes took every shred of willpower he possessed, but he forced himself to stand.
"He awakens," the Second said, dropping an empty bucket.
Water dripped from the Hunter's naked chest. Looking down, he found that the cold water had washed away most of the blood. Only deep wounds and purpling bruises remained, but he could feel his body slowly knitting itself back together.
"So," the First spoke, a hint of wonder in his voice, "the mighty Hunter can survive a blade to the heart. You truly are as great as your legend describes. I suspected the rumors of your prowess were vastly exaggerated."
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