Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1 Read online

  Blade of the Destroyer

  The Last Bucelarii: Book 1

  Andy Peloquin

  Edited by: J. Ellington Ashton Press Staff

  Cover Art by: Marie Story

  http://jellingtonashton.com/

  Copyright.

  Andy Peloquin

  ©2015, 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 Peter J. Story, who unknowingly inspired me to take up writing fiction once again, and without whom I would never have published my first book.

  To Vicki, Rosi, Sam, Marie, and E.J., my fearless friends who never hesitated to say it like it was, and without whom this book would have been a disaster.

  A man often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it --

  Jean de La Fontaine

  Chapter One

  Eyes the color of night watched Lord Damuria plunge to the forest floor. The wind seemed to hold the nobleman suspended in the air for a moment before slowly releasing him to the grasping clutches of gravity.

  The hard, dark face of the Hunter showed no sign of pity as the body landed with a loud thud at his feet.

  It is no more than he deserves, he thought.

  He had no idea why Lord Damuria deserved death, nor did he care. He'd been paid, and that was all that mattered.

  He felt no remorse as he watched the broken man fight for his last pitiful, agonizing breaths. Not given to mercy, the fear in Lord Damuria's eyes meant nothing.

  Soot and mud stained the nobleman's robes, and crimson contrasted sharply with the white blond of his hair. Three broad-headed crossbow bolts protruded from the nobleman's chest and stomach. Damuria struggled to speak, made difficult by the quarrel puncturing his lungs.

  The Hunter bent close to hear the whispered words.

  "Do…it…you…bastard." Lord Damuria's eyes closed as he awaited the inevitable.

  The Hunter moved with precision and speed, drawing the dagger from his belt and plunging it deep into the dying man's chest. The thrust snapped ribs and sliced through smooth heart muscle. Damuria's screams echoed in the silence of the forest, an eerie sound tinged with desperation and terror.

  The screams of his victims always remained with him long after their deaths. They played over and over in his mind, accompanied by the vision of their dying faces.

  Bright ruby light flared from the gem set in the hilt of the dagger, and power rushed through the blade. The Hunter gasped as the voice in his mind screamed its pleasure. A familiar pain flared along his back, but he was accustomed to it. This pain was the price he paid for the power.

  This, he thought, reveling in the sensations flooding through him, this is why I do it.

  A final shudder ran through the broken body before him, and the cries of agony faded into a gentle whisper. "Damn you…Hunter…" Damuria cursed with his dying breath.

  Silence reigned in the forest, broken only by the sound of the wind whistling through the trees. After the thrill of the chase, the stillness hung like a weight on the Hunter's mind. Calloused hands trembled as he gripped the worn hilt of the knife embedded in his latest kill, and his long, lean muscles bulged. The knife, caught on the dead man's ribs, required a surprising amount of effort to pull free, even with the Hunter's immense strength.

  Blood glistened on the blade, and the Hunter watched it soak into the steel. The bright red light leaking from the gem slowly dimmed, and the stone became translucent and colorless once more.

  The dagger has been sated. He no longer heard the insistent voice in his head urging him to kill. It will remain silent, for now.

  The Hunter sheathed his blade and stooped to kneel over the lifeless form of his prey. Placing one hand on the man's head and the other on his now-silent heart, he bowed.

  "May the Long Keeper take your body; your soul is forfeit," the Hunter intoned. His voice was rich and deep with a hint of gravel. A hard voice, reciting a final ritual for fallen prey. A ritual from a past he could no longer remember.

  He stared down at the broken body lying at his feet.

  This one was surprisingly difficult to track down.

  Green blood now oozed from the dead man's chest, staining the forest floor a sickly color. The scent of poisoned flesh hung in the air—the effects of the venomous argam with which he coated the bolts.

  A fit creature for the hunt. A sense of satisfaction flooded him. Another contract fulfilled.

  He had killed all manner of men. Big men, little men, strong men, weak men. Cowards, and brave fools. Heroes, villains, rich men, beggars.

  He was the Hunter. All men were his prey.

  Rising, the Hunter turned his back on the corpse and strode toward the cliff. He climbed the craggy face with ease, taking care to avoid the blood-soaked rocks that marked Lord Damuria's fatal path. His powerful muscles made the ascent easy, and he soon stood at the top.

  The Hunter stared at the city sprawling across the plain and along the ocean's edge.

  Voramis. My city.

  Thick walls towered high, the massive city gates open to allow the traffic to flow at a steady pace. Temple spires reached for the clouds, while the blocky Palace of Justice watched over the metropolis in its shadow. Upper Voramis, jewel of the city, straddled the hilltop, looking down protectively over Lower Voramis. To the west, the cloudy blue waters of the Endless Sea stretched farther than the eye could see.

  The Hunter studied the position of the sun—already well into its descent toward the horizon. Night would have fallen by the time he reached Voramis. It was always easier to move through the streets then; he wouldn't attract undue attention—either from the Heresiarchs guarding the city gate, or from the gangs of thugs roaming the Merchant's Quarter.

  With a sigh for his road-weary feet, the Hunter began the long walk back to the city.

  * * *

  The streets of Lower Voramis came alive after dark. Light spilled from the numerous brothels, taverns, and gambling houses along Reveler's Lane, illuminating Voramis' busiest and least-reputable thoroughfare. The Blackfall District served as the hub for every vice and crime created by men and women with more money than good sense.

  Burly men clad in the uniform of hired muscle guarded the doors to their establishments with fierce pride, their watchful eyes never straying from the drunken revelers stumbling between alehouses and whorehouses in various stages of inebriation.

  The working men and women who inhabited the run-down districts spent their meager coin on drink, gambling, and cheap whores. Unwary visitors to the district often woke up with an aching head and an empty purse, not to mention a host of persistent diseases on body parts better kept free of infection.

  The Hunter hated the Blackfall District, but his home in the Beggar's Quarter lay on the far side of the city, leaving him no choice but to traverse it.

  He groaned at his untimely ill-fortune as three drunken men stumbled from The Cock and Bull—an inn known for cheap beer and cheaper women—belting out a bawdy tune. Two of the sots clung to each other for support, barely managing to keep their feet as they wended their un
steady way down Reveler's Lane.

  The third, a man with a forehead like a rock and a nose flattened by too many beatings, crushed his pewter tankard in his massive hands. His arms looked hewn from rock—a very hairy, very tattooed rock.

  "And then me love, a lovely lass," sang the two drunkards, their voices rising above the din of revelry around them, "she kissed me face, I poked her-"

  "Won't you two shut the frozen hell up?" their companion muttered. "Drunken idiots, ya can't even get the song right!"

  "You're jush jealoush becaush ya don't have me fine singin’ voice, Rifter," one slurred at him.

  "Oh, get stuffed, Emon," Rifter said with a glare. "If ya weren't so Minstrel-damned drunk, you'd know that ya sound worse than a pair of ruttin’ cats in a laundry press."

  "And that'sh why yer jealoush, Rifter," said the second drunk. "Your shingin’ shoundsh like it's coming from the Watcher'sh own arsehole."

  "Which is why, Eld," Rifter snarled, "I know to keep me mouth shut instead of singin’ at the top of me lungs when I've had too much ale."

  Something about the tension in Rifter's shoulders, coupled with the flattened nose, shouted of the man's desire to fight. In an effort to avoid a confrontation, the Hunter slipped down a side street and into an alley.

  The Bloody Hand kept discipline in the Blackfall District, but they failed to maintain even a moderate standard of cleanliness. Just one street away from Reveler's Lane, the stench of waste was unbearable. The Hunter had to cover his face lest he add the contents of his stomach to the filth. Men and women lay scattered in varying states of drunkenness and drug-induced stupor, many of them wallowing in their own filth. Debris and litter clogged the gutters, and refuse spilled out into the street.

  Picking up his pace, the Hunter hurried through the streets, keeping his breaths shallow to avoid filling his lungs with the noxious air.

  "Evenin’, gents." A woman's voice drifted from around the next corner. "Can I offer either of ye a good time? Only four bits, and I promise I'll be gentle with ye."

  "What'sh a pretty lady like you," a male voice hiccupped in her direction, "doin’ in a place like this?"

  The Hunter's heart sank as he recognized the voice of one of the three drunks he had tried to avoid. He was faced with a choice: backtrack and go around the men to avoid a fight, or walk past them and hope his ragged cloak would deflect their attention. With a shrug of resignation, he hunched his shoulders, bent his back, and shuffled forward, mimicking the slow gait of a tired old beggar.

  The drunken attempts of the two lushes to accept the painted doxy’s invitation seemed to have the opposite of the desired effect.

  The whore stared at them for a moment, as if weighing up her options, before waving them away dismissively. "The pair of ye's looks too drunk to handle me. As for you, big boy," she said, staring up at Rifter, "I reckon ye'll split me right in half. And that's with me on top, eh?" She patted his arm provocatively, but he pulled it away.

  "I'm not much in the mood for company tonight, back-bedder," Rifter spat.

  Her face contorted, showing clear distaste at his words. "Well, I've no mind to bed any of ye," she protested. "I'm sure it won’t be hard to find men of a far better stock than you sorry lot, anyways."

  Rifter's expression darkened as she minced away. He clenched his fists, his massive arms flexing in anger.

  His gaze fell on the Hunter shambling toward him and a malicious gleam flashed in the man’s eyes. The other two men saw the Hunter as well, and a grin creased the face of the one called Emon.

  "Let's see if we can't have a bit of fun, eh, Rifter?" He chuckled and pointed down the alley in the direction of the Hunter.

  Eld released his hold on Emon, and stumbled towards the harmless- looking beggar.

  "I say there, friend," he said, struggling to imitate a member of the upper class, "it's time for you to move out of the street and make way for your betters." Emon clapped his hands on the Hunter's shoulders and shoved hard.

  The Hunter had no intention of allowing himself to be pushed into the filth of the gutter. From it rose the strong, repulsive odor of human refuse mixed with the gods-knew-what else. The nauseating cocktail produced the type of stench that seeped into the pores of a man’s skin and reeked even after weeks of regular washing. He stood firm, and the drunken man sprawled into the muck.

  Emon gagged as his mouth filled with the slime, and he retched—adding his vomit to the ordure staining his face. His companion, no less drunk, stared down at his friend for a long moment before reacting.

  "Say there," Eld protested, "that's down…down…right rude of you, friend, to knock Emon over."

  The Hunter attempted to step around Emon's fallen form, but Eld moved to block his way. Opting for retreat, the Hunter found the hulking form of Rifter cutting off his escape.

  "My friend speaks the truth, wretch," Rifter growled, his breath heavy with alcohol and anger. "You owe him an apology, and an imperial for his clothing."

  Emon's clothing was clearly worth far less than an imperial—an entire year's wages for a day laborer—but the Hunter could see Rifter was spoiling for a fight.

  "Apologies, good sirs." The Hunter adopted the quavering voice of an old man. "It was clumsy of me not to see where you were walking. Alas, I have naught to give you."

  "Nothing, beggar?" Rifter's voice had a hard edge.

  "No, good masters. A poor man like myself can barely scrounge together two bits, much less a whole imperial. Please, I beg you to let me pass, and the gods will bless you for your generosity."

  The Hunter attempted to move once more, but Rifter's hand on his arm was firm, holding him in place. "If you don't have an imperial to spare, beggar," the big brute said, "we'll just have to take what you have and be content."

  Rifter reached out to pull back the hood, but the Hunter twisted away, catching the hulking off guard. Rifter's sausage fingers closed around the Hunter's robe, ripping it from his shoulders.

  "Let's see what this has to…" Rifter's words trailed off in disbelief.

  The Hunter straightened, his eyes now level with his enemy. Rifter frowned as he took in the features of the handsome face of the Hunter; the sculpted nose, high cheekbones, and strong chin were not the features of a penniless beggar. His dark hair, near-black in the lightless alley, was pulled back into a tight tail. His unadorned leather armor, clearly worn and well-used, revealed a lean, lithe form.

  The Hunter's eyes, a color somehow darker than the starless night above, held no fear. He glared at Rifter with quiet calm, taking in the huge man's features, and his expression showed nothing but contempt and resignation.

  Rifter's eyes dropped to the sword at the Hunter's waist, and the Hunter knew the man's dull mind was struggling to keep up. Only Heresiarchs were permitted to carry swords, but the Hunter cared little for the laws of the city.

  "Hey," shouted Emon from the ground, spitting foul muck and wiping black slime from his mouth, "he's not old! What's going on here?"

  "Last chance," the Hunter said in a voice filled with menace. "Walk away."

  In their befuddled state, Emon and Eld tried to comprehend the gravity of their situation. The Hunter saw the momentary flash of good sense in Rifter's eyes, as his brain screamed for him to run away, but the anger in the big man caused it to go unheeded.

  "Sorry, boyo," Rifter said, lapsing back into his usual brogue. He bared his teeth in an evil grin and balled his enormous fists. "You've insulted me mates, and now it turns out you've got somethin’ valuable beneath that ratty cloak of yours."

  "You've been warned," replied the Hunter, "and now you've seen my face."

  He stepped back as the foul-smelling Emon struggled to his feet. His hand dropped to the sword hanging from his belt, and he stared down into the drunk's bleary eyes.

  "That's mine now!" Emon stumbled forward and reached for the sword.

  The Hunter's blade seemed to appear in his hand. It took Emon's drink-addled brain a few seconds to register the
fact that his hands were no longer attached to his arms. He didn't even scream as he fell to his knees, blood spurting from the stumps of his forearms.

  "Emon!" Eld lashed out with a wild swing at the Hunter, who took a single contemptuous step back to avoid the drunken blow.

  Eld stumbled off balance, and before he could recover, the Hunter slammed the hard edge of his calloused hand into the soft tissue of Eld's throat. Eld fell to the floor, clutching at his ruined windpipe.

  Rifter had not moved in the seconds it had taken the Hunter to dispatch his friends. He remained rooted to the spot, eyes wide. A flicker of fear flashed through his inebriated mind.

  "Two down, friend," the Hunter rasped, his depthless eyes burning as he stared at Rifter.

  The harsh voice wrenched the big man from his stupor, and rage twisted his face. "You shite-eating bastard," Rifter growled at the dark figure. "You'll pay for that!"

  He carried no sword, but the long dagger he drew from his coat was razor sharp. His huge fists dwarfed the blade, and he wielded it with familiar ease.

  Iron.

  The Hunter's eyes flicked to the dagger in Rifter's hands for a second, and something akin to hesitance flashed across his dark, handsome face.

  "Now let's see how you fare, you dim-witted git," Rifter said, his voice low and filled with rage.

  The Hunter’s burning black eyes stared back at Rifter. Fear flitted across the big man's face. He saw his death written in the Hunter's expression.

  Rifter stepped forward, slashing with short, quick strokes meant to slice open the Hunter's intestines. His attacks lacked sophistication, yet there was brute force behind the blade's cruel edge.

  The Hunter didn't even bother to block the blows. A dagger appeared in his free hand. Longer than Rifter's weapon, the blade had a single razor edge and a slight curve—perfect for both stabbing and slicing. A small, transparent gem was set into its hilt, and the stone caught the light of the moon in its facets. Something about it made Rifter hesitate for a moment, but that was more than enough.