Darkblade Assassin_An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Andy Peloquin

  What is this place? He wondered.

  "But, Father," spoke another, cutting into the Hunter's thoughts, "the ritual has not been done in hundreds—nay, thousands—of years. Are you willing to risk its success just to cater to the whims of that creature?"

  "The Hunter has agreed to help us, but only if we meet his conditions." Father Reverentus' stern glare cowed the priest who had spoken. "We all know what must be done."

  "To give that thing our blood," spat Brother Contritus, his eyes burning with hatred. "It is an abomination before the gods. As is he!"

  "He is a demon! A creature of the hells," cried another priest, this one rail-thin, with age spots dotting his skin. The other priests joined their voices in the protest, drowning out Father Reverentus' response.

  "Demon blood flows through his veins," shouted Reverentus, trying to make himself heard, "but there is the blood of man as well."

  At this, the priests fell quiet, though a few muttered sullen curses under their breaths.

  "His humanity dilutes the evil within him," Father Reverentus said, his voice solemn, "or else Brother Securus would have killed him long ago."

  "And Brother Securus lies dead at his hands!" shouted Contritus, the mention of their fallen comrade reigniting his outrage. "His soul sent to the hells to feed the Destroyer. He—"

  The Hunter stood suddenly, interrupting the priest's tirade. "Yes, I did. I did kill your priest, as I was paid to do." He stared at each one of them in turn. "No doubt you are all familiar with doing what needs to be done; carrying out the task you are given."

  None of the priests met his gaze.

  "You all carry regrets with you to this day," the Hunter continued, "because of your actions in the past. Mistakes are made by all—it is the way of life."

  "Brother Securus is dead," Father Reverentus said, his voice hard. "He has met a horrible fate I would not wish upon any."

  He is angry, the Hunter realized, hearing the fury in the old priest's tight, clipped tone, but he knows the stakes. He knows what must be done.

  The priests muttered among themselves, but Father Reverentus ignored them.

  "We all knew the risks we would face," he continued, "the day we spoke the oaths of the Cambionari." The old cleric's eyes drilled into the priests gathered in the room. "We knew the dangers, and yet we each took those oaths gladly."

  He waggled an admonishing finger at the priests. "Yet were Brother Securus here, he would want us to do whatever needed to be done to stop the demons from returning." Reverentus gestured toward the Hunter, who had slumped back on the bench, his energy drained. "Securus would be the first to offer his blood if it meant the Hunter could put an end to the demons he believed plague this city. We are too old, too frail to fight. This way, we can ensure the success of our endeavors."

  Father Reverentus stared at the others, his eyes piercing. "Will you do it—not for the Hunter, not for yourselves, not even because I am asking you—but because it must be done? If we do not, our lives will have been spent in vain.”

  The Beggar Priests remained silent, sullen reluctance painted on their faces. Heartbeats dragged by as the Hunter waited, nothing but the sound of water trickling down bare stone walls to break the tense stillness.

  "Aye," growled Brother Contritus, finding his voice at last, "we will do what must be done." He shot a glare at the Hunter. "But he had better hope the gods never allow our paths to cross again."

  The Hunter resisted the urge to smile. Tangible resentment radiated from the priests, but their threat rang hollow. They cursed him more from anger than genuine malice.

  "We are agreed," intoned Father Reverentus. "You have all followed my instructions to prepare for the ritual?"

  The old, white-haired heads nodded in confirmation.

  "Then let us commence," Father Reverentus said, "for we have no time to waste."

  As if on an unspoken command, the priests slowly shuffled into a loose circle surrounding the stone altar in the heart of the chamber.

  Father Reverentus' voice echoed from the stone walls. "We are gathered for the Ritual of Cleansing, as laid out in the Book of the Supplicant. There are twelve of us present, and, with the Hunter, we are thirteen. The number of the gods themselves."

  This shocked the Hunter. He had expected to be a spectator in the ritual, not a participant. He opened his mouth to voice his complaint, but Father Reverentus’ words drowned him out.

  "The number thirteen holds much power. It is the power over life and death, and, if wrongly used, could break the world itself. However, with the sacred words written in the Book of the Supplicant, handed down to us by the first Beggar Priests, there is potential for great things. The Ritual of Cleansing will purify us; make us as clean as the gods themselves."

  From within their cloaks, the priests drew forth stilettos. The slim blades gleamed ominously in the torchlight, the bright metal at odds with the stark simplicity of the room.

  "Let blood be spilled in the names of the gods," said Father Reverentus. As one, razor sharp blades slashed into pale, parchment-thin skin. A trickle of crimson rolled down the priests' forearms from the shallow wound left by the knives.

  "Speak the names of the gods, and let your blood be the sacrifice that turns their face toward us this night." Father Reverentus' voice seemed distorted, somehow richer than would be expected coming from such a frail old man.

  "Garridos," said Brother Contritus.

  "Derelana," echoed another priest.

  "Kiro," a third intoned.

  The priests around the circle spilled a single drop of blood onto the stone altar, naming the gods in turn.

  "The Maiden."

  "The Illusionist."

  "The Watcher in the Dark."

  "Bright Lady."

  "The Long Keeper."

  "The Mistress."

  "Bloody Minstrel."

  "Fair Alzara."

  "The Beggar," said Father Reverentus, completing the circle. The twelve drops of blood atop the altar stood out in stark contrast to the white granite. The shrine had seemed so simple and plain moments ago, but now power throbbed in the back of the Hunter's mind.

  Turning slightly, Father Reverentus motioned for the Hunter to speak. The Hunter wanted to protest, but a force beyond his control pulled the words from within him.

  "The Swordsman."

  Something warm and wet dripped from his arm. Looking down, he saw one of his wounds had reopened. A single droplet of blood trickled from his limp hand to the dusty stone floor.

  For a moment, nothing happened. The priests remained motionless, their eyes closed as they gathered around the stone altar. Without realizing it, the Hunter held his breath, expecting…what?

  His eyes remained fixed on the bright red drop. It seemed to shudder, as if the floor beneath it shook.

  What in the Keeper's name?

  With agonizing slowness, the blood oozed across the dusty floor. The Hunter's mouth hung open as the droplet flowed of its own accord toward the stones set in the heart of the room. It crawled up the side of the altar, finally coming to rest atop the shrine.

  Thirteen drops of blood. The ring was complete.

  "The thirteen names have been spoken," the voice of Father Reverentus echoed loud and commanding in the room, "blood has been spilled. The gods turn their faces toward us; let us beseech them for their cleansing."

  "Sanctify us, purify us, make us clean," Brother Contritus intoned.

  "Sanctify us, purify us, make us clean," the priest next to him echoed.

  "Sanctify us, purify us, make us clean," a third priest took up the chant.

  One by one, the priests around the room spoke the words. Their voices joined in harmony, blending in a chorus that reverberated throughout the small room.

  The Hunter more than heard the words--he felt them. Something primal within his mind shouted profanities at the priest's chant. A shudder coursed through him—millions of tiny legs seemed to crawl across his skin. He felt hot and cold all at on
ce, and his heart pounded faster and faster in time with the chanting.

  "Sanctify us, purify us, make us clean." Father Reverentus added his voice to the chant.

  As the cleric spoke, pain ripped through the Hunter's mind. The voice within him cried out in terror, begging, pleading for him to make it stop. A pressure built in his ears, pounding in his head. The Hunter felt as if he would explode from the force of the power in the room. He clung to the stone bench for his very life, and stone cracked beneath the strength of his grip. Through bleeding eyes, the Hunter saw Father Reverentus open his mouth and speak.

  Words of power ripped into his ears, searing his eardrums. Blood poured from his nose, steaming and bubbling as it flowed down his chest. He fought in vain to stanch the bleeding. It was as if countless needles buried into his eyes, and he heard a faint cry through the pain. Some dark corner of his brain told him that the screams were his. He beat the back of his head against the wall in an attempt to relieve the mounting pressure.

  He abandoned his sanity to the merciful embrace of unconsciousness, welcoming the darkness washing over him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A gentle hand shook his shoulder, pulling him from the insensate world where no agony existed. Warmth spread over his forehead and something wet trickled down his cheeks and into his mouth. He swallowed the tepid water, welcoming anything to wash the dust and dried blood from his parched throat.

  "He lives."

  The Hunter heard relief in the shaky voice of an old man, though the voice echoed, as if from far away. Piercing blue eyes stared down at him with genuine concern as he struggled to keep his eyelids open.

  "Who…" he asked, disoriented and confused.

  "Give it a minute," said the man, pushing the Hunter back down on the cold stone floor with surprising strength. "The ritual seems to have affected you more profoundly than I had expected."

  Ritual? Fog still filled the Hunter's mind. He was so tired…he just wanted to sleep. What ritual? Where—?

  The old man's wrinkled face seemed familiar, and for a moment he couldn't place it. Then, with a rush, memories clicked into place.

  "F-Father? Wh-what happened?" The Hunter's tongue felt swollen, and his voice was thick and heavy.

  "You know where you are?" Father Reverentus asked.

  "In the House of Need."

  "Good," the old cleric said, nodding. He pushed off his knees with his hands and climbed to his feet with ponderous slowness.

  "What happened?" the Hunter asked again.

  "The ritual worked, it seems," Father Reverentus said. He offered a hand, but the Hunter brushed it aside to stand on his own. "Feeling better?"

  The Hunter flexed his arms and legs and found his weakness of earlier had gone. Only his head throbbed, but already the pain was receding. The voice in his mind, usually so insistent, had quieted to a whisper. He rolled his shoulders and tilted his head to the side, cracking his neck. "Much," he said with a smile.

  "Thank the gods," said the priest. "I can see now that letting you in the room while the ritual was taking place was folly. I believe the demon within you rejected the purifying of the gods, and it very nearly killed you. Had I known you would react so strongly, I would have insisted you remain outside."

  "Next time," the Hunter said, giving the priest a weary smile, "I'll be sure to steer well clear." Looking down, he saw the floor stained with bright red blood—his blood, far more than his body should hold.

  "It was a close thing," said the old cleric, "but we gave you our pure blood, all that we could spare."

  The Hunter followed the priest's gaze and saw the hollow, needle-tipped tube on the stone bench. Blood still leaked from the sharp points on both ends. For the first time the Hunter noticed how wan and pallid the cleric's aging skin looked. His eyes had sunken deeper, and his bony cheeks protruded at a sharp angle. Compared to the authoritative priest who had led the ritual earlier, the man in front of him seemed drained and hollow.

  "Will you be well?" Oddly enough, the old priest's wellbeing concerned him.

  "Aye," the cleric said with a tired nod, "the ritual took more out of us than we had imagined. The power of the gods is not something the human frame can handle easily, and it very nearly killed a few of us."

  He turned his gaze to one side of the room, where the rest of the Beggar Priests surrounded two of their brothers on the floor. One looked to be sleeping, but the second seemed more corpse than man. The priest's skin was a sickly ashen grey. He walked close to the Long Keeper's embrace.

  "He will be well," Father Reverentus said in a soft voice, "though he will not be moving around much for the next few weeks."

  Nodding, the Hunter turned to face the old cleric once again. "And my weapons?"

  "They are being brought here even now. Brother Mendicatus will deliver them to you, but first." Father Reverentus drew the twin daggers from beneath his cloak and held them out to the Hunter. "We must put the ritual to the test."

  A knot formed in the Hunter's stomach, but he ignored it. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the worn leather hilts of the twin blades. Fire raced along his fingers and palms where skin touched metal.

  "It…is…tolerable," he said, his jaw clenched through the pain.

  The Hunter tested the blades, moving them through a few simple sword forms in order to evaluate their weight, balance, and heft. Designed for stabbing and slashing, the weight of the blades rested near the hilt. They could block a sword, and the length of the daggers made them ideal for fighting up close, but he knew the iron would shatter beneath the blow of a steel weapon.

  As he moved, the pain faded to a dull ache, present but not enough to interfere with his ability to wield them. His hands felt stiff and awkward, and his fingers grew white as he forced them to grip the blades.

  "They will suffice," he told the priest, handing him the twin weapons. He grunted as his burning hands released their death grip on the leather-wrapped hilts. The fire died, and his fingers tingled as fresh blood repaired the injury.

  "It will have to be enough, for it is all we can do." Father Reverentus said. "You will live up to your end of the agreement, Hunter?"

  Doubt and worry filled the priest's eyes. With the iron purged from the Hunter's blood and his wounds healed, the priest no longer held any power over him, and thus no way to ensure he would do as he had promised.

  "It will be done, Father," the Hunter replied in a solemn voice. "You have my word."

  Skepticism flashed across the old cleric's face for a moment, but he stifled it. "Good."

  He opened his mouth to speak, but a cough sounded from behind the Hunter. He turned to see Brother Contritus.

  "Yes, Brother?" Father Reverentus asked.

  "We'll be off, Father," Contritus said. The priest fixed his eyes on Reverentus, making a point to ignore the Hunter.

  "Very well," nodded Reverentus. "Do be quick about it, though, Brother, and hurry back. The evening prayers will be held in a few hours."

  "Yes, Father."

  With a bow to the old priest and a poorly concealed glare for the Hunter, Brother Contritus scurried away. As he left the room, the other clergymen followed him until only the two unconscious figures on the floor remained.

  The Hunter raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Where are they going?"

  "To sin," Father Reverentus said.

  Shock coursed through the Hunter. "I thought you priests were supposed to be holy."

  "That, dear Hunter, is a misconception," the old cleric gave the Hunter an enigmatic smile. "Priests are meant to pass on the word of the gods, minister to the poor, and provide the services offered by their temples. No one said anything about being holy. Not even the gods are truly holy."

  The Hunter found this new information hard to digest. In his mind, he had always believed priests held one goal: to emulate their gods. If that meant living a life of starvation, deprivation, and suffering, they would do it. And yet…

  Disbelief filled his voice. "So they're jus
t going to go and sin because they can?"

  "Not because they can," replied Reverentus, his grin wide, "but because they must."

  "What? Explain, Priest."

  "The ritual we have carried out this night purifies the priest's blood. That purified blood holds an immense amount of power, but should it fall into the wrong hands, it could be used to bring death and destruction."

  Realization dawned. "You mean," the Hunter asked, incredulous, "they sin to pollute the pure blood in their bodies?"

  "Yes," Father Reverentus replied, "the stain of sin taints them, and the power is banished. It is the one time the gods smile on committing unholy acts."

  An image flashed through the Hunter's mind: a fat priest, wearing the rust-colored robes of a Minstrel Cleric, lounged among the women at the Arms of Heaven. Wine rolled down florid, laughing cheeks as the cleric pawed at a bawdy woman wearing little in the way of clothing.

  The rest of the time, he thought, they sin just because it brings them pleasure.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment, another priest entered the room. This one looked to be on the far side of middle years, with a balding head, a thick nose, red cheeks, and a paunchy waist that stood in sharp contrast to the slim form of the ancient Reverentus. He smelled of oil, wax, and wood.

  "Ahh, Brother Mendicatus," Father Reverentus said, nodding at the cleric.

  "The weapons you requested, Father," the pudgy priest proclaimed. Fat fingers clutched the Hunter's sword belt, along with a small bulging satchel. Brother Mendicatus turned to the Hunter, making no effort to hide his disdain. "Here," he said, holding out the bag.

  "Thank you," the Hunter replied with a nod.

  Mendicatus handed him the weapons, and the Hunter reached for them eagerly. Father Reverentus had insisted Soulhunger remain in the room where the Hunter had convalesced, but having the familiar weight of steel in his hand comforted him. The blade throbbed at his side, its voice pounding in his mind—though without its former overwhelming intensity.

  "Here," said Brother Mendicatus, "these belong to the Swordsman's blades." In his hands, he held two simple wooden sheaths, bound with plain leather. The Hunter buckled the scabbards onto the back of his belt and slid the twin blades home. He tested their draw, satisfied to find the daggers slipped free of the sheaths with ease.