“Er, ah, right.” Acaria, visibly off-balance, cleared her throat. “Tyman…er, Master Scorpion, sends word that we’ve found the one responsible. He said you’ll know what that means.”
“Thank you.” Ilanna’s heart leapt, excitement draining the last of the fatigue from her body. She turned toward the tunnels that led to House Scorpion, but when Acaria made to follow her, she held up a hand. “I can find my own way, Journeyman. I’m certain Darreth would enjoy the company far more than I.”
Darreth’s face went red all the way up to the roots of his dark hair and he stammered something unintelligible—a rarity from the long-winded man.
Ilanna grinned as she strode down the hard-packed earth tunnels. Good for Darreth. He deserves a bit of happiness. Gods knew there hadn’t been a lot of that in her life.
Five minutes later, she pushed open the doors and strode into House Scorpion with the full confidence of her authority. “Where is Master Scorpion?” she demanded of the first Journeyman she saw.
The Scorpion bowed, then thrust a finger toward one of the rear tunnels. “With Journeyman Rilmine.”
Ilanna thanked him with a nod and hurried toward the foul-smelling chamber of death.
Four Scorpions occupied the room: Journeyman Rilmine, Master Tyman, and two Ilanna recognized as Keltor and Checqk.
Journeyman Rilmine leaned against one of his examination tables, which still held the opened corpse of one of the murder victims. Master Tyman sat in a chair in front of a fifth seated, bound, and hooded figure.
All eyes turned to her as she stepped into the room. Keltor, a slim, fussy-looking fellow, bowed at her entrance, but had to quickly catch his spectacles before they fell off the tip of his nose. Checqk had features as bland and dull as a bowl of watery porridge, but Ilanna knew his mind rivaled the cleverest in House Scorpion.
She fixed Tyman with a stern glare. “This is he?”
Keltor stepped forward. “I’m certain of it, Master Gold.” His voice held a note of familiarity—he’d been one of the Journeymen chosen to accompany her to Voramis to hunt down Lord Torath, the Bloody Hand-owned nobleman responsible for trafficking Aisha and the other girls into Praamis. “Daytin here tried to deny it, but a thorough search of his apothecary turned up a surprisingly large supply of Flaming Tansy.”
“And the Night Petal?” Ilanna cocked an eyebrow.
Keltor shook his head. “None.”
Ilanna frowned. One rare poison, but not the other?
Master Scorpion seemed to read her thoughts. “I have more Scorpions searching the other establishments in Praamis for Night Petal.”
“Good.” Ilanna studied the man bound in the chair in front of Tyman. A dirty cloth sack covered Daytin’s face, but he wore clothes far neater and better-tailored than she’d expect of an apothecary. It seemed dealing in exotic poisons was a more lucrative trade than she’d imagined.
Ilanna motioned to Keltor and Checqk. “Put him onto the table beside the boy’s body.”
The two exchanged curious glances. “Guild Master?”
“Do it,” Ilanna snapped. “On his side, hands bound behind his back, but keep his hood on.”
Keltor spoke first. “Yes, Master Gold.” He elbowed Checqk, and together the two men unbound Daytin, hauled him to his feet, and dragged him over to Journeyman Rilmine’s examination table.
“Massster Gold, I mussst protessst—” Rilmine began.
“No, you mustn’t.” Ilanna cut him off with a slash of her hand. “Your body will not be disturbed. I simply wish for this man to see the results of his handiwork up close.”
Half of Rilmine’s face creased into a frown, but he made way for Keltor and Checqk to lift the man onto the table. The man squirmed and struggled, muffled moans and grunts coming from beneath his mask, but the two Scorpions held him fast and bound his hands behind his back with deft movements.
Ilanna strode to the head of the examination table, seized the man’s hood, and ripped it free. Daytin blinked in the sudden light, tears streaming down his face—a face caked in blood from a busted lip and broken nose. The Bloodbears hadn’t been gentle.
It took Daytin’s eyes a few seconds to adjust to the brightness, but when he could finally focused, he recoiled from the silent, pale corpse lying a hand’s breath from his face. The gag in his mouth failed to fully muffle his piercing, terrified shriek.
Good, thought Ilanna with a savage nod. Daytin had sold the poison that killed this child. He needs to be scared for what comes next.
She lowered her face until it was mere inches from the apothecary’s. “Hello, Daytin. Welcome to the Night Guild.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Hunter’s eyes adjusted to the light in seconds, and he found himself staring at a group of six men.
Five men, he corrected, and one barely more than a lad.
The youth wore ragged, dull-colored clothing that hung large on his thin frame and shabby boots with large holes through which his toes poked. One of the men wore similarly patched, shredded, and re-patched clothing, his body lean with muscle and not enough to eat. Two more wore slightly nicer breeches and tunics, with boots that actually fit and kept out the muck. The fifth dressed in the rough clothes of a sailor or dock worker, with the strong hands, broad shoulders, and thick neck to match.
It was the sixth, however, that drew the Hunter’s attention most. The man’s clothes were no more ostentatious than his comrades’, yet of a finer cut and cloth, tailored to fit his lithe form. The sword at his hip had the worn leather grip of a well-used blade, and the Hunter caught the outlines and telltale bulges of at least four daggers hidden around his person—a sharp contrast to the big brute’s metal-studded club and the assorted short swords and knives of the others.
The Hunter recognized the man for what he was at once. An assassin. Just like the man I faced on the rooftop. His gut clenched. Which means he, and all his friends, belong to the Night Guild.
The Hunter had no reason to fear the Night Guild—he’d single-handedly destroyed the Bloody Hand, a far more ruthless enterprise commanded by two demons. Yet he had no reason to wish them dead, and certainly no reason to wage war on them.
Unless they’re the ones doing the killing.
His mind raced as he put the pieces together. He’d followed someone into the sewers and found himself facing not a single killer, but ten of them. He had thought his prey evaded him by ducking into a hidden door—a door he now saw clearly in the red and blue light of the little glass globe lamps two of the men carried—but that could have simply been a ruse to throw him off his guard.
So where are the other four? The question nagged at him. Had they gone for help? Or, had they actually gone through the door and were even now working their way around behind him? Whatever the case, there’s no way I’m letting these bastards escape justice.
All of this flashed through his mind in mere seconds, long enough for the Night Guild men to get a good look at his clothing and his sword.
“Who are you?” The Night Guild assassin spoke in a calm voice, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. As the Hunter had, he must have recognized the killer he faced. “What are you doing down here?”
“Hunting you bastards!” the Hunter growled. “You fill your city with crime and vice, but you have crossed a line.”
“D’ you know who we are?” The scruffy man in ragged clothing stepped forward, his knife leveled at the Hunter. “We’re the bleedin’ Night Guild, we are. This is our city, and—”
“I care not.” The Hunter shook his head. “Your reign of terror has come to an end. As I did to the Bloody Hand, so I will do to you.”
He slipped Soulhunger from its sheath and held it in his left hand. The dagger’s voice no longer echoed in his mind—a blessed side effect of the truths he’d learned during his time in Enarium—but he could still feel its eagerness to feed, to drain the blood from his victims. Once, the dagger had been the force that drove him. He’d killed to silence its incessant demands.
Now, Soulhunger served as a means to an end.
With every life he took, he fed power to Kharna, the Serenii that fought to keep the Devourer of Worlds from destroying Einan. That thought once held him back from killing—after all, he’d believed he was hastening the end of the world. Now, his attitude had changed. Any who deserved death would die on Soulhunger’s blade—a way to balance the scales for all of the villainy and wickedness that permeated the world.
And if anyone deserves this death, it’s the Night Guild!
He leapt forward before his opponents had time to do more than recoil in surprise. His sword flicked out toward the brute, a slash that would open the huge thug’s throat, while his dagger drove toward the assassin’s gut. Once he took care of those two, the others would fall easily.
The assassin, the only one not caught off-guard, moved a heartbeat after the Hunter did. He drew his sword in his left hand and slapped aside the Hunter’s thrust even as he slipped out of the path of Soulhunger’s eager blade. His right hand dipped into his coat and came out holding steel a moment later. His underhanded throw buried the dagger into the Hunter’s gut.
The Hunter stumbled backward, blood seeping down the front of his tunic and staining his breeches. Pain radiated through his stomach as he reached for the dagger. He tore it free, and his nostrils flared at the stink of guayoc poison—a weaker, less effective form of the argam he’d once used on his crossbow bolts.
“Graaah!” A roar of rage tore from the Hunter’s lips as he hurled the blade back at its owner. Quick as a serpent, the assassin slithered aside and flicked out his sword to deflect the thrown dagger. His eyes fixed on the Hunter, expectant.
Black dots swam in the Hunter’s eyes as the poison did its vicious work. He could feel the numbness seeping into his arms, his legs, his throat, his face, even slowing the beating of his heart. The world blurred in and out of focus. His breath caught in his lungs and he felt himself beginning to fall. Only a supreme will of effort kept him upright.
The assassin’s lips pressed into a disbelieving line when the Hunter didn’t fall. He reached into his cloak and produced another throwing dagger. The Hunter knew he couldn’t block the throw, not in his current state, so he did the only thing he could—he waited until the last second and dropped to his knees in the muck. The dagger sailed a hand’s breadth over his head.
The assassin nodded, satisfied, and lowered his sword. “Go.” He tore his eyes from the Hunter long enough to look at the youth. “Tell Master Gold we have found our murderer, and he will kill no more.”
“You…speak…too soon.” The Hunter’s voice was raspy, each breath burning. Yet he climbed to unsteady feet and stood upright. “I do not…fall so easily…as so many other…killers and monsters have learned in the past.”
Even as he spoke, he pushed his focus inward and felt for the poison coursing through his veins, the wound in his gut. His body’s natural healing abilities would repair the damage in minutes, but he commanded his flesh to repair faster. He’d learned the secret, another gift of his Bucelarii heritage, from the Sage, the demon that had come within a heartbeat of destroying all of Einan. The Hunter’s pursuit of the Sage had led him to discover much: the secret of Hailen’s bloodline, the purple-eyed descendants of the Serenii known as the Elivasti, the city of Enarium, his wife, and finally the god Kharna.
This nugget of truth, however, had proven the most effective in his line of work. He could heal from wounds, poisons, and burns that would put even the strongest men into the grave. He had one weakness, iron, and the assassin had made the same mistake so many others had in the past: they’d faced him with bared steel.
The scruffy, knife-wielding man’s eyes flew wide. “What the hell?”
“Impossible.” The man’s jaw set as he stared at the Hunter. “That was enough Black Malice to kill an ox. You should be dead.”
The Hunter snorted. “If I had a copper bit for every time I’ve heard that, I’d have a fortune larger than that of Aegeos.”
The assassin stepped forward, interposing himself between the Hunter and the rest of his comrades. “Go, Orleth!” he shouted. “Tell Master Gold it’s the Hunter of fucking Voramis.” His face grew solemn, his expression grim. “Tell her to send all of House Serpent. We will hold him here as long as we can.”
The youth whirled around and raced off down the tunnel, disappearing from sight a few seconds later.
“Perhaps your legends are true.” The assassin spoke in a quiet voice. “But none of those legends speak of the Hunter of Voramis as being a child-killer. Or have you simply grown tired of killing men and women?”
The Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “You accuse me of killing children? After all these years of snatching them off the streets and forcing them to become murderers, thugs, and thieves like you?” He spat. “The Bloody Hand learned all too well what happens to those who kill the innocent, the helpless.”
“And now you’ve come for us?” The assassin raised an eyebrow. “You are not content to rule Voramis, so you seek to do what they did not and claim this city for your own?”
The question took the Hunter by surprise. Voramis had been rife with gossip during the Bloody Hand’s heyday, but it had never included any attempt—successful or otherwise—to invade Praamis. One look at the assassin’s face made it clear the man believed his words.
“I and the rest of House Serpent have trained in preparation for this day.” The assassin drew a forearm-length steel stiletto from a hidden sheath. “We always knew you would come for us, either out of desire to do your bloody work in Praamis unhindered or because another master pulled your strings. Yet never did I imagine you would stoop to murdering random citizens in an effort to turn the Crown against us. The legends always spoke of your ruthlessness, yet hinted at an innate sense of honor, nobility even. To find you little better than the Bloody Hand, that is a disappointment, indeed.”
Again, the Hunter found himself at a loss for words. He wasn’t surprised to find this House Serpent, whatever the hell that was, had trained to face him—after all, every assassin knew the danger of their profession. There was always someone better, faster, smarter, more cunning.
But that last part, about murdering random citizens, that struck him as odd. Since arriving in Praamis, he’d only killed one person, the assassin that had confronted him on the rooftops.
So why in the bloody hell does it sound like he’s accusing me of killing those children I discovered?
Before the Hunter could speak, the assassin raised his sword in salute. “The legend of the Hunter ends here.” With a flourish of his blade, he charged.
Chapter Fifteen
Daytin’s face went a shade of pale to match the corpse in front of him. “N-Night…Guild?” Terror echoed in his hoarse whisper. “Oh, sweet Mistress!”
Ilanna straightened and folded her arms. “The gods can’t save you in here. Down here, you are at my mercy.”
The apothecary began to shake, his eyes darting between Ilanna and the body on the table. “W-What do you want from me?” he stammered.
“An answer.” Ilanna gave him a sweet smile. “One, little tiny answer. Certainly that couldn’t be too difficult.”
“Yes!” Daytin half-shouted. “Ask, and I will tell you anything!”
“Excellent.” Ilanna leaned forward. “Tell me who bought the Flaming Tansy from you.”
Daytin’s eyes flew wide.
Ilanna held up a warning finger. “Before you think of lying to me, let me paint a picture for you. You are deep, deep underground, where no one can hear you scream. Surrounding you are the cleverest minds of House Scorpion, men responsible for brewing poisons that could burn through your skin, char your organs, yet keep you alive for decades of agony. You find yourself in this precious position because I know beyond a shadow of doubt that you are the one who sold the Flaming Tansy that was used to murder a child.” She indicated the child on the table in front of him. “This child.”
The man’s face turned a sicke
ned grey.
Ilanna’s too-sweet grin returned. “Now that your circumstances are abundantly clear, I await your answer eagerly, apothecary.”
Daytin swallowed, his eyes once again flicking from Ilanna to the opened corpse and back. Droplets of sweat sprang from his forehead.
“Oh, gods!” he wailed. “I knew it was a mistake, I knew it! But he offered me so much gold for it.” Words poured from his mouth in a jumbled mess. “A man’s got to feed his family, and times have been hard of late. When I saw the gold, I knew…I knew I couldn’t afford to turn it down. And it was so old, it had to be useless, I couldn’t imagine—”
Ilanna slapped him, hard. “Speak plain, Daytin. Your next words could be your last.”
Daytin swallowed again, twice, and shook his head to clear the tears streaming down his cheek. “That bottle of Flaming Tansy was old when my father was running the store. It sat on a shelf in the basement collecting dust. With you lot controlling all the poisons in the city, no one came to us for such things anymore. For thirty years, I’ve been scraping together a living from selling love potions and healing draughts.”
Master Scorpion snorted from his chair. “A decoction of whiskey and anis to fortify a man’s courage, and fermented juniper berry to speed up healing?” He shook his head. “Perhaps you might supplement your stores with snake oil. I hear it’s marvelous for returning the dead to life.”
“Mock as you will.” Daytin shook his head. “But how else am I to feed my family?”
“The poison,” Ilanna snapped. She gripped his jaw and turned his face toward the child’s body. “How did the poison in your store end up killing this child?”
“I don’t know!” wailed the apothecary. “Th-The one who bought it from me, he was an older man, showing his age, you know?”
“What did he look like?” Ilanna demanded.
“I never saw his face.” Daytin tried in vain to shake his head, still locked in Ilanna’s vise grip. “He wore a hood—”
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