Darkblade Assassin: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Hero of Darkness Book 1) Page 11

  Lord Cyrannius' voice dropped to a harsh whisper, one filled with hatred and loathing.

  "Neither of them deserved the fate they suffered at the hands of this monster. I want you to mete out a punishment far worse than death to the man who took them away from me."

  The man's vehemence surprised the Hunter. "Do you know what you are asking, Lord Cyrannius?"

  "Of course I do, Hunter," the old lord scoffed. "I make it my business to gather information, and I know as much about you as anyone else in Voramis—or on the face of Einan itself, for that matter."

  Lord Cyrannius stared at the dagger hanging on the Hunter's belt, and the Hunter saw a curious expression cross the man's face

  Is that desire I see in the old man's eyes?

  Soulhunger throbbed in his mind, and the Hunter fought to keep the weapon's urges from overwhelming his thoughts.

  "Oh, yes, Hunter," Lord Cyrannius said, giving him a knowing smile. "I know all about that blade and what it can do. They say it brings a fate worse than death, that it steals the soul of its victims from the Long Keeper's grasp and sends them straight to the darkest depths of the forgotten hell."

  "I see you have indeed done your research, my lord."

  The old man's knowledge of the weapon's ability surprised the Hunter.

  It's no secret what Soulhunger can do, he thought, but neither is the truth commonly known. Who is this Lord Cyrannius?

  "Of course I have." The old man's voice turned patronizing. "Which is why I know full well what I am paying you to do. I also know that your services are worth every gold imperial." Cyrannius' eyes blazed with an inner fire. "It is the fate that man deserves, and you are the only one who can fulfill an old man's request."

  The Hunter remained silent for a moment, pondering.

  Is it worth it to take the contract, even though I know nothing about this mysterious man? The ferocity in the old nobleman's eyes convinced him. The man that brought such suffering deserved to die.

  "I will accept your contract, Lord Cyrannius."

  The old nobleman beamed, clapping his frail hands together in delight. "Good, good!"

  For a moment, the Hunter thought the firelight played tricks with the old lord's twisted features. The face staring at him contorted, looking like a horrible creature preparing to feast on its victim. He dismissed it as nothing more than the room's dim lighting.

  "You know what I require?"

  "Of course, Hunter. I have had it readied in the hope that you would accept my offer. Tane," he spoke to the huge man holding his wheeled chair, "would you bring the case from the next room?"

  With a grunt and a nod, Tane released the handles of the old lord's chair and stalked through the open door behind him.

  The Hunter couldn't help admiring the huge man's grace and fluidity. Tane walked on the balls of his feet, stepping with the unconscious grace of a predator.

  He walks like a Yathi Dancer, but those arms look as if they belong in a Hradari beast pit. He'd put the fear of the gods into me, if such a thing were possible.

  The huge bodyguard disappeared into the room beyond. A moment later, he returned carrying a small black box.

  Bloodwood, the Hunter thought, noticing the unique whorls of the wood fiber. That box alone could cover the cost of the contract.

  Tane opened the lid with a huge hand. Within, a simple white cloth lay folded beside a bulging purse.

  "As you can see, Hunter," the old man said, "the case contains the item you require, along with the payment for your services." Lord Cyrannius' voice grew feeble now that his fit of rage had passed, but fire still blazed behind his dark eyes.

  Without a word, the Hunter slipped the white square of cloth into the pocket of his dark grey robes.

  "I can't say I quite understand why you requested that cloth, Hunter," Lord Cyrannius said, his voice probing.

  It is a safeguard, thought the Hunter. It allows me to track you down should you try to double-cross me. He kept his expression impassive as he stared at the aging man and his hulking attendant.

  One greedy client, Lord Eddarus, had tried to cheat him out of a payment nearly a decade ago. When the fat noble's body had been discovered, only his signet ring had allowed the Justiciars to identify the mangled, broken corpse[1]. Since that day, those hiring the Hunter made certain to pay in full and with alacrity.

  When the Hunter said nothing, the old man shrugged his frail shoulders. "No matter. I trust everything is in order?"

  "Your courier mentioned double the usual fee due to the special nature of this contract?" The Hunter hefted the purse in his hands, hearing the satisfying clink of coins.

  "It's all there. Count it, if you wish." The old man gave him a sly smile.

  "No need, Lord Cyrannius." The Hunter tucked the purse into the folds of his robe. "Expect me to find you and discuss the matter, should there be any missing."

  The Hunter's voice held no threat, but the old man's smile wavered for a moment as he locked gazes with the assassin.

  Surprise flashed through the Hunter as he stared at Lord Cyrannius.

  Something within those eyes is somehow…familiar.

  The huge bodyguard bristled, his hands flexing with dangerous strength. The wooden handles of the wheeled chair creaked in his grip, but the old lord held up a weak hand to forestall any aggression.

  "Peace, Tane," Lord Cyrannius said without taking his gaze from the Hunter. "Never fear, Hunter, it is there."

  "Good," the Hunter grunted. "If that is all—"

  "I would request," the old lord interrupted, "that you carry out the task quickly. You have a reputation for being thorough, but I would prefer that it be completed with haste. Should you fulfill the contract before the end of the Season of Plenty, I will be willing to pay you triple your fee."

  Three days, mused the Hunter in silence. That's cutting it a bit close. But for triple?

  "I know it is a lot to ask, but I trust my coin will more than cover the inconvenience." Lord Cyrannius leaned forward, fury burning in eyes. "My attempts to locate and deal with the man have been unsuccessful to date, but I trust that you will do the subject justice."

  "You will receive your coin's worth, Lord Cyrannius," the Hunter replied, his deep voice edged with steel.

  "Make him suffer," the old lord said in a harsh whisper. "By the all-seeing eyes of the Long Keeper, make the bastard scream."

  The Hunter nodded.

  Three days to complete the task, he thought. Should be more than enough.

  With a wary glance at Tane, the Hunter turned and strode from the room. He glanced over his shoulder as he walked through the door, and for the span of a heartbeat, he could have sworn the firelight once more cast sinister shadows across the twisted, scarred face of the old Lord Cyrannius.

  Chapter Twelve

  The first signs of dawn had crept over the rooftops of Voramis by the time the Hunter slipped through the doors of his home. His body felt the call of his bed, but he forced all thoughts of sleep from his mind.

  No time for rest, he thought, rubbing his tired eyes.

  He slipped from the dark grey clothing he’d worn that night, stripping down to a simple pair of breeches. Shirtless, he strode to the nearby window and opened it. He closed his eyes and basked in the fresh morning breeze, ignoring the wafting decay from the ocean to the west. For a long moment he simply stood, allowing his body to feel its fatigue.

  His calm was broken by the throbbing voice of Soulhunger whispering in his mind. A dull ache spread through his head as the blade again demanded death.

  More than anything else, the Hunter hated how Soulhunger's voice would grow insistent when too much time elapsed between kills. The weapon's desire would nearly overwhelm him, urging him on until he finally gave in. Killing was the only way to silence the voice.

  I may need to kill, but I only bring death to those who deserve it, he told himself. No matter who they are, they have earned their fate. They are all filthy, disgusting creatures hiding behind
the mask of civility. When you open them up and see their true selves, you see what repulsive beasts they are.

  But what does that say about you? A small voice inside him questioned. You hide behind a mask of your own. How are you any better than they are?

  Enough, he thought, snapping his eyes open. Time to get to work.

  Fighting back his languor, he strode to his sword belt. His fingers closed around the worn leather hilt of his long sword, and the blade pulled free of its sheath with a hiss of steel.

  A smile spread across his face at the familiar weight. It felt good in his hands, as if it belonged.

  It may be no match for the quality of Soulhunger's artisanship, but it is a worthy weapon in its own right.

  Made of bright watered steel, the single edge of the blade held its razor sharpness. It tapered with a gentle curve to a slim point, perfect for punching through armor. The hilt curved slightly, long enough to grip with one or both hands. Its pommel held a sharp spike, perfecting the beautiful sword's balance.

  The weight rested near the crossguard, allowing for quick, easy strikes. The crossguard sported a short blade running parallel to the sword's long edge. This not only provided the Hunter with a trap in which to catch an opponent's sword, but also an additional weapon.

  The feel of steel sent a thrill of anticipation coursing through his body. He held the hilt in a loose grip and, with slow precision, began to move through his sword forms.

  These forms allowed him to sharpen his reflexes and hone his muscles, but they were so much more. The world around him disappeared in a blur of steel and sweat. While his body moved, his mind was at peace.

  He pushed himself to greater speeds, the blade singing with every step. One misstep or wrong move could prove fatal, yet each thrust, cut, and slash of the sword fell with the accuracy of a blademaster. For a moment, everything in the world ceased to be, and only he and the beautifully crafted weapon in his hands existed.

  With sudden speed, he executed the final motion of the final form—arm extended, blade buried in the eye of an imaginary enemy. Sweat dripped down his body and his breath burned in his lungs, but the Hunter felt no fatigue, no anxiety…nothing. Mind devoid of thoughts, blood rushing through his veins, he simply was.

  It was time for the ritual.

  His mind calm and clear, the Hunter sheathed the sword with a ring of steel. He gripped Soulhunger in sweaty hands, the dagger's insistence throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Its voice filled his mind with a lust for death.

  Find your victim, he told the blade.

  I will feed, it whispered.

  The Hunter sat, closed his eyes, and cast his mind adrift. The dagger's edge bit into the palm of his hand, but he felt no pain. Blood dripped onto the whetstone as it grated across the blade's edge, and the familiar sensation of stone grinding on metal filled his senses. The ritual calmed him, allowing him to attune his mind to Soulhunger's voice.

  The small square of white cloth given him by Lord Cyrannius lay on the floor, and he reached for it. The rough material absorbed the blood falling from the Hunter's wound, which had already begun to heal.

  In the back of his mind, the Hunter felt oddly unnerved by his meeting with the old man. He had thought to find answers, but he had only more questions. His instincts told him the mystery of Lord Cyrannius had yet to be resolved.

  He pushed thoughts of the mysterious old man from his mind and inhaled deeply, letting his senses roam the city. The beat of his heart grew slow and steady, but blood still pounded in his ears. He sought the man who had condemned an innocent young woman to die.

  Where are you? You cannot hide from me.

  A new rhythm filled his mind—the beating of his quarry's heart. His nostrils filled with the man's unique scent.

  Moldy cloth. Damp stone. Iron.

  We have found him, the voice told him.

  All I need do now is follow you until you lead me to our victim, the Hunter thought. The hunt awaits.

  The Hunter's eyes felt heavy as he opened them, but he smiled at the sight of his rooms filled with the golden rays of the morning's light. Dust danced in the air, and the scent of fresh-baked bread wafted in from the nearby Confectioner's Lane. His stomach growled at the delicious aromas. He hadn't eaten since the previous morning.

  But first, some food.

  Soulhunger slipped into its sheath with a final pulse, and the Hunter turned to the closet in which hung his disguises.

  Something nagged at the back of his mind as he applied the adhesive clay to his face. He had caught the barest hint of a familiar scent on the wind as he left the Villa Camoralia. It had been too faint for him to make out clearly, but it had reminded him of the woman at The Iron Arms.

  He lost himself in pleasant reminiscence for a moment, allowing his mind to recall every detail of their encounter.

  Celicia, she said her name was.

  He remembered her stubborn insistence that she could take care of herself, her fierce pride. The woman exhibited a strength of will that refused to be dominated.

  There is something about her; something the soft, feminine charms of Lady Damuria cannot offer.

  His hands applied the alchemical clay without direction from his mind, and when he finally focused on his face in the mirror, he saw it bore a fiery red beard contrasting with dark black hair. One eye had been colored green, the other a deep blue.

  Damn it, he thought. I cannot allow these thoughts to distract me.

  The alchemical clay sloughed off his skin, revealing his true face beneath. He studied the features in the mirror.

  Now, who shall I be today?

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Danther? Is that you?" The childish voice rang out in the busy streets of the Merchant's Quarter.

  A bearded man in the dull clothes of a tailor turned and smiled at sight of the little girl charging towards him. She wrapped her arms around his generous waist.

  "Farida, child!" he exclaimed, returning her fierce hug. "How wonderful to see you! It has been a while, hasn't it?"

  "Of course not, silly." She gave him a look of childish exasperation. "You stopped by just a few weeks ago, don't you remember?"

  The tailor shrugged his shoulders. "I guess my memory is slipping again, Fari dear." He looked sad for a moment, but a sly grin crept across his face. "But you don't think I'd forget about your nameday, do you?"

  He produced a small toy from within his robes and held it up for the child to see.

  The little girl's eyes went wide. "Oh, Danther! A doll? For me?"

  "Aye, child. I had the missus put it together from a few of the scraps lying around the house." Danther handed the ragged cloth doll to the girl, who clutched it to her chest with a fierce protectiveness. "I know your nameday is next week, but I will be busy. I just knew I had to give you your gift now."

  "Oh, thank you, Danther." The girl's eyes sparkled with delight and she clasped him in a hug once more.

  "My, child," he exclaimed, pushing her out to arm's length and studying her, "you have grown since I last saw you."

  "Yes," she said, excitement in her voice, "Father Penitence says I'm growing like a weed. He says I'll soon be able to sing in the choir with the others, once I'm old enough."

  "Did he? And have you been practicing?"

  "Yes," Farida replied with a nod. "Every day, like you told me."

  "Wonderful. I promise I will be sitting in the front row on your first day in the choir."

  "Oh, yes, please," the child begged. "I would love that!"

  Danther smiled down at the girl, noticing her thin cheeks and pallid skin. "Are you hungry, Fari?" he asked. At her nod, he searched the market for one of the many stalls selling foodstuffs.

  Within a few moments, the bearded man had procured four sticky buns--two apiece--and he sat beside the little girl sat on the edge of a small fountain. Farida bit into the hot, sweet pastry with delight.

  "How are things in the Temple District, Fari?" He took a small bite of the bun, en
joying its soft freshness. "Are the brothers treating you well?"

  "Yes, Danther," Farida said, speaking through a mouth filled with sticky bun. "Father Penitence makes me write out my verses every day." She swallowed, wiping her mouth with the back of a dirty hand. A cloud passed over her face as she took another bite. "Brother Mendicatus has been teaching me to play the lyre, but my fingers are too small for the strings. See?" She held out her delicate child hands, covered with sugary syrup and grime from the city's streets.

  "Don't worry, child," Danther replied. "Your hands will grow in time, and you'll have no trouble playing the lyre." He stuffed the rest of his bun into his mouth to silence his growling stomach.

  "But Brother Mendicatus says I'll have to practice three hours a day," she complained.

  "Well, at least you won't have to be out here peddling flowers," Danther said. The little girl eyed the uneaten sticky bun in his hand, and he passed it to her—his stomach protesting.

  "I know," said Farida, biting off a large chunk before continuing, "but it's not so bad out here. I don't like the Merchant's Quarter much, but I love being near Maiden's Fields. The gardens and the fountains are so beautiful, and I can always see my friends—like you." She gave him a smile with bulging cheeks and syrup-covered lips.

  "But—"

  "Wait a minute, Danther."

  A small crowd had gathered around her cart, and the girl hurried to swallow the last of her bun. She scampered off to attend to them, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

  The Hunter leaned on his knees. He wore the disguise of the bearded Danther, a face that was familiar to Farida. She liked the rotund tailor, as he always left her gifts and bought her treats.

  I hate seeing the child on the streets like this, thought the Hunter. Thankfully, I won't have to watch over her much longer.

  The priestesses of the Maiden took in those few Beggared children fortunate enough to show musical talent. Once she entered the Heart of the Maiden, he knew he would not see her for many years—until she emerged a full priestess. He hated to admit it, but he would miss the little girl and her bright, cheery smile.