Darkblade Guardian Page 10

  He opened his mouth to ask a question, but the Sage held up a hand. "There is much I wish to tell you of my plans for Einan, but not yet. Soon, you have my word."

  The Hunter wanted to push the issue. He needed to know more about not only the demons in Kara-ket, but the Abiarazi around Einan. But if he pressed, he could raise the Sage's suspicions. "Very well. Let us return to the story of the Elivasti. You say they pledged themselves to your service during the height of your power. Yet it seems they still serve you, despite your…reduced state."

  "And why wouldn't they?" The Sage smirked. "Every generation of Elivasti has honored the oath sworn by their ancestors. For millennia, I have gathered the Elivasti to my side, to serve as my eyes and ears throughout Einan. I cannot leave Kara-ket, but they can traverse the land and carry out my will."

  That has to be how he communicates with his agents. The Sage could only be in one place at a time, but with a veritable army of willing servants, he could control operations around Einan.

  "And all the Elivasti around Einan are yours?"

  The Sage nodded. "I have scoured this world for thousands of years. Every Elivasti has returned to my service. Though many believe they serve my lieutenants, with no knowledge that the commands they follow come from me." He fixed the Hunter with his unnerving stare.

  The Hunter's mind drifted him back to the Chasm of the Lost. Once again, he lay in an Elivasti bed, bleeding from dozens of wounds inflicted by a maddened bloodbear. He'd come far too close to the Long Keeper's embrace. The silent men and women with violet eyes had brought him back from the brink of death.

  The Sage had said he'd suspected the Hunter was Bucelarii. So if the Elivasti served the Sage, why hadn't they brought him to Kara-ket directly? Surely they would have delivered news of his leaving Voramis and traveling north. Something didn't add up. Perhaps the Sage's control over the Elivasti wasn't as complete as he believed. He tucked that nugget away for later contemplation.

  "So these Elivasti, are they like me? Did they inherit the strength of their forefathers?" And their weaknesses.

  "The first generation of Elivasti had a great deal in common with their ancestors, the Serenii. But over time, they proved themselves inferior to the Bucelarii. They lacked the sorcerous abilities of the Serenii—and the intelligence." The Sage's mouth twisted. "Now, generations later, the blood of the Serenii has been diluted. For all their long lifespan—two hundred years or so—they're little more than mere humans."

  Two hundred years! The memory of Master Eldor had come from his recent past. Yet the fragmented images he remembered only frustrated him more. Would his memory ever return in full, or had the Illusionist Clerics' arts condemned him to only remember bits and pieces?

  The Sage seemed not to notice his distraction. "They may have none of the power of their ancestors, but we have turned them into the finest warriors on Einan."

  "Their training with the Warmaster seems...brutal."

  "Perhaps," the Sage said, shrugging, "but effective nonetheless. You have faced them. Do you doubt their skill?"

  "I do not. With a hundred thousand such, you could conquer the world."

  "As you say." A smile played at the corner of the Sage's mouth. "Sadly, there are fewer than ten thousand."

  Ten thousand? The city below Kara-ket looked like it could hold perhaps a thousand at most. So where are the rest of them? He suppressed a shiver at the thought of ten thousand purple-eyed warriors hiding among the people of Einan, prepared to flood Einan at the Sage's command.

  "Truly a mighty host." The Hunter leaned forward. "Which begs the question: why wait? Einan could be yours."

  The Sage shook his head. "If only it were that easy. There are many factors at play, things you cannot see unless you are the one pulling the strings."

  The Hunter snorted inwardly. Of course there is. You just don't want to admit you are too afraid of the gods to act. The Abiarazi may have once been mighty warriors, but every one he'd encountered preferred to operate in the shadows.

  The Sage seemed eager to change topics. "Did you know the name 'Elivasti' means 'wanderer' in the ancient tongue of the Serenii? The Serenii disappeared from Einan long ago, and it is said the Elivasti roamed the world in search of their forefathers."

  The Hunter's eyebrows shot up. "Is that so?" His words came out strangled.

  Sir Danna, the Cambionari he'd encountered on the road to Malandria, had asked him his horse's name. The name “Elivast” had slipped from his tongue without thinking. Had it come from a memory buried deep in his mind?

  Visibos, the apprentice Cambionari, had reacted strangely when he spoke the name. If the Beggar Priests knew the truth of the Bucelarii, did they know about the Elivasti as well?

  "If you would like to explore the city of the Elivasti," the Sage was saying, "I would be pleased to send someone to escort you tomorrow."

  The Hunter stiffened. "And here I thought you were starting to trust me."

  The Sage waved him off. "You misunderstand my intentions, Bucelarii. I am sending you a guide to show you around. Unless you would prefer to get lost in the camp of the Elivasti?"

  The Hunter scowled. "Very well."

  "I promise you it is for your benefit alone. You have free rein of my temple, unwatched, unescorted." He held out a hand. "As befits an ally."

  The Hunter hesitated a moment, then clasped the demon's hand. The Sage's grip belied his slight frame. "Then you have my thanks. And I will take you up on your offer to explore Kara-ket. The works of the Serenii are truly wondrous."

  The Sage locked gazes with him. "More than you could possibly imagine."

  The Hunter held back a shudder. For a moment, the Sage unsettled him more than any Abiarazi he'd encountered. Something about the ferocity of his unblinking stare made him feel as if the demon sought to pierce to the core of his being. Those dark, empty eyes that met his held only glittering ice.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Sage's intensity disappeared and his confident grin returned. "What say you to a game of Nizaa?" He snapped his fingers and held up his goblet. "Do you play?"

  The Hunter wanted to refuse and excuse himself. I didn't come here to play games. He needed time to explore the temple, learn his way around, if he was to be ready when the moment came to eliminate the Warmaster and the Sage. He had no problem with the Sage thinking him rude, but he had a reason to stay. The more the demon talked, the greater the chance he unwittingly revealed something important.

  He inclined his head. "After such a generous feast, I can hardly decline the request."

  The Sage chuckled. "I had hoped you'd say that."

  One of the Sage's silent servants entered and set a Nizaa board atop the table between them. The board was made of solid bloodwood enameled with a diamond finish that sparkled in the soft light. Gold and silver shone from the individual squares. Delicate threads of platinum, entwined in complex patterns, glittered around the edge.

  The demon produced a pair of boxes and held one out to the Hunter.

  The Hunter hesitated before taking the box. "Some, though it has been some time since last I sat before a Nizaa board. And certainly none this magnificent." He ran a finger over the metallic figures. Though they showed wear from frequent use, the intricate features remained visible.

  The Sage grinned. "You prove yourself a man—forgive me, a Bucelarii—of many talents." He opened his box, revealing pieces painstakingly cast from red and white gold. "Did you know that Nizaa is descended from a game played by the Serenii? Though the version of the game we know only a few centuries old, it originated among the ancient people. Indeed, the very name, 'Nizaa', means 'defeat' in the tongue of the Serenii."

  The Hunter couldn't mask his surprise. He'd known Nizaa was old, but dating back to the Serenii?

  "I find the game a fascinating one." The Sage stroked his pieces as he arrayed them on his side of the board. "On the face of it, it is a simple game of matching wits and tactics. But I find that it reveals a measure of one's
character." With that unnerving smile, he leaned forward and spoke in a voice of hushed reverence. "It is a dance, a gamble, a battle, all rolled into one. I can learn a great deal about my opponent by the way he plays."

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

  The Sage's thin lips stretched into an amused smile. "Come. Your armies will not position themselves."

  The Hunter drew his own pieces from the box. First, twelve larger, ornate figures depicting the gods of Einan—all except the Long Keeper. Each had a unique range of movement and served a different function. Next came eight small pieces, the Serfs.

  The board, eight squares wide and fourteen long, contained silver spaces for the "valley" running down the center, and gold for the "mountain" and "stronghold" on the right and left of each player's hemisphere. He began to place his pieces—the twelve gods on the two closest rows, and the eight serfs occupying the next two rows.

  The Sage tapped his side of the board. "Notice the difference between your configuration and mine. You set your stronger pieces—the Watcher, the Mistress, the Swordsman, and the Lady of Vengeance—at the forefront of your battle lines. You place the more strategic pieces—the Bright Lady, the Illusionist, and the Maiden—to guard your flanks, with the weakest ones—the Master, Beggar, and Lonely Goddess—at the heart of your defense, protected from my attacks. You play an offensive game, but with a solid defense—proving yourself adept."

  The Hunter shrugged. Graeme, the alchemist from Voramis, had introduced him to the game. By either innate skill or beginner's luck, he'd defeated his fat friend every time. This setup of the pieces seemed…right, though why, he couldn't say.

  "But now examine my side." The Sage spun the board to give the Hunter a closer look. "Instead of keeping the Beggar and Lonely Goddess in close proximity to each other, I have separated them, where they are more powerful. The Maiden and the Apprentice lead the serfs into battle, with the Swordsman and the Bloody Minstrel for support. The Lady of Vengeance and the Illusionist guard the flanks. Instead of the direct game of strength, I prefer the route of cunning and strategy."

  The Hunter found himself drawn into the Sage's explanation. He'd only ever played Nizaa to pass the time, but the demon had clearly invested time into learning the game's intricacies.

  The Sage inclined his head. "Challenger opens."

  The Hunter moved his first piece, the Swordsman. Its range of movement spanned the entire board, making it the most versatile—and thus, most useful—piece in the game.

  "Interesting." Without hesitation, the Sage moved one of his serfs forward. Serfs, the weakest pieces in the game, could move only a single space.

  The Hunter countered by moving a serf toward the squares marking the mouth of the "valley" that ran through the center of the board. This would provide the Hunter an advantage. Nizaa could be won in one of two ways: eliminate the Master from the board, or defeat all of the opposing player's serfs. In the valley, the serfs would be safe from the more powerful pieces belonging to the gods. To defeat him, the Sage would have to attack the valley with his own serfs.

  "Clever," the Sage said, rubbing his hands together. "Always search for the position that provides an advantage." He advanced another serf, this time toward the "stronghold" on his side of the board.

  The "valley" prevented the gods from crossing from one side of the board to the other. Short of circumventing the valley, the only way of moving the gods' pieces across hemispheres was to use the "stronghold" or "mountain". But if a serf held one of the two squares of either high ground, it could eliminate a god piece. Holding a mountain or stronghold offered a unique advantage, one both players sought to exploit early in the opening. These prime positions could mean the difference between a win and a loss in the mid- and end-game.

  The Hunter tapped his lips. What now? He imitated the Sage's play and moved his serf to seize the vantage point.

  "Adaptable, I see." The Sage leaned on the table, steepling his fingers as he eyed the Hunter.

  Keeping his expression blank, the Hunter waited for the Sage to make his move. You have no idea how right you truly are. He met the burning, unblinking gaze, and resisted the urge to cringe. For a heartbeat, it was as if the demon knew what he was thinking.

  The moment passed, and a grin tickled the corner of the Sage's lips as he advanced his Watcher. "Now, let's see what happens when faced with a real threat."

  The Hunter studied the board, searching for a move.

  "Tell me of yourself, Hunter." The Sage fixed him with that unblinking stare. "I would hear your story."

  "Not much to tell," the Hunter said as he pushed a serf forward.

  The Sage's answering move came without hesitation. "A man in your line of work must be careful what they reveal and to whom. But surely after all I have told you of the Abiarazi, Kara-ket, the Serenii, and the Elivasti, there is trust enough for you to share a few details of your life. Thus far, all you have told me is of your suffering at the hands of the First."

  The Hunter pondered his words carefully. He had a very fine line to walk. In an attempt to buy himself time, he tapped a piece as if considering a move.

  "Well," he said in a slow voice, "what would you have me tell you?" Better to let him reveal what truly interests him. If he's anything like the others, he'll want to know about Soulhunger. Every Abiarazi he'd encountered had lusted after his blade, Thanal Eth’ Athaur, the emblem of his Bucelarii heritage. They all craved the power it offered—the power to feed Kharna, the Great Destroyer, the souls of men and return him to life.

  "You say your memory has holes, correct?" The Hunter nodded. "Then tell me what you do remember. Start from the beginning. Tell me how you became the Hunter of Voramis. No doubt that is a fascinating story."

  The Sage's interest caught him off guard. No one had ever asked him that question before.

  The Hunter hunched his shoulders, as if reliving a painful memory. "How does anyone fall into that line of work? Necessity, I suppose."

  The Sage ate and drank in silence, his burning gaze fixed on the Hunter's face.

  "When I first arrived in Voramis…fifty or so years ago…I found myself without a copper bit to my name, Soulhunger my only possession." This much of his story was true; now came the lies. "As I walked through the city, I was set upon by thieves. They made the mistake of trying to take Soulhunger from me." He flexed his hands. "They didn't expect my…resistance."

  The Sage's face remained expressionless, but he leaned forward. "It is the way of the world. Kill or be killed." His slim fingers toyed with the stem of his crystal goblet.

  "Indeed." The Hunter took a deep breath. "But as Soulhunger drank, I was overwhelmed by the rush of power. Like a tidal wave dragging me on its surges. Oh, such power…" He trailed off, letting a grin tug at his lips.

  "I have felt it," the Sage breathed, his dark eyes filled with longing. "A sensation unlike any other."

  "And the voice in my head, the voice of Thanal Eth’ Athaur, its screams joined the cries of the men whose souls it consumed. Their deaths sated its demands, and it fell silent."

  Careful, he told himself. Make sure he only sees the side of you he wants to see. The amount of truth in his story surprised him. He had felt the urge to kill, had become an assassin as a means of earning a living. Yet he hadn't been attacked, but acted to save another's life. The demon would want to see his ruthless, bloodthirsty side. He would play on that.

  "Days later, when it returned, it begged for more. Try as I might, I could not resist the dagger's pleas, or the allure of power. It only made sense to profit as I satisfied my urges."

  The Sage gave a crisp nod. "A gift like that should never go to waste."

  "As you say." The Hunter's lips twitched. He's buying it. He drew in a deep breath. "It took a few years to make my mark on the city of Voramis. Once I eliminated my competition—a handful of amateurs operating outside the Bloody Hand—it was simply a matter of building a network of people who would refer clients to me. After a few
high-profile killings and a great deal of rumor, the Hunter of Voramis was born."

  "And the name 'the Hunter'? Where did it come from?"

  The Hunter shrugged. "To be honest, I cannot say. In the beginning, I had no name. I killed without caring what people called me. But after I tracked down a particularly difficult target who had escaped across the Frozen Sea, my client spread rumors of a 'ruthless hunter'. From there, the name 'the Hunter' stuck."

  "Fascinating." The Sage emptied his cup and held it out to the servant.

  "Eventually, I gained a reputation as the only assassin bold enough to take on the nobles of Voramis and Praamis—something not even the Bloody Hand dared."

  The Sage shook his head. "My orders to the First were clear: rule from the shadows, but avoid direct confrontation with the king and the Heresiarchs." His lips twisted into a wry smile. "Who knew he would be clever enough to place himself as head of both the Bloody Hand and the Dark Heresy? He may have been a terrible lieutenant, but Urn-krh-zil was never a fool."

  The Hunter forced his fists to remain unclenched. The demon masquerading as Lord Jahel and the First had slaughtered the only people in Voramis that had mattered to him. He could summon only vitriol for the memory of the creature he'd slain in the Serenii tunnels.

  "Until, of course, he made the mistake of harming those under your protection."

  The Hunter tilted his head. "I did not start the war with the Bloody Hand."

  "You certainly finished it." The Sage's expression grew sharp. "Tell me." Those empty eyes pierced the Hunter to the core. "What happened? Who did you lose?"

  The Hunter's jaw tightened. "People who trusted me to protect them." He ignored the blood trickling from his lacerated fingers. He'd phrased his answer with a purpose. Abiarazi could never comprehend love; they saw sentiment as weakness. But even a demon would understand and respect loyalty to one's vassals or dependents. "People who didn't deserve what was done to them."

  Easy, he told himself as heat surged in his veins. This is all a farce. He had to get his very real emotions in check. He could not show the Sage any weakness to exploit.