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

  "Of course, Danther," she said. "I'm perfectly fine here in the Temple District; it's supposed to be the safest place in the city, you know."

  "Are you sure?" the Hunter asked, unconvinced.

  "Yes, silly," Farida said with a careless laugh, "I'll be fine. I walk these streets alone all the time. Besides, the temple is not far from here."

  "Very well. Next week I'll be making a robe for Lord Ardinos, and I'll need some rose petals. Will I find you by the fountains of Maiden's Field?"

  "I'll be there, Danther." The child wrapped her arms around the Hunter's waist and hugged him tightly.

  He hugged her back. "Be safe, child. And practice, as we agreed."

  "I will," she said, releasing him. "See you in a few days." With a final wave to him, she turned and skipped through the crowds of the Temple District.

  The Hunter watched the child go, but soon lost her among the throng. Concern for her wellbeing flashed through him, but Soulhunger's voice returned his thoughts to his mission.

  He cleared his mind, allowing the insistent chatter of the weapon to fill his senses. The dagger, hidden in a sheath below his padded belly, pulsed in time with the heartbeat of the man he sought.

  The disguise of Danther served more than just as a means of interacting with Farida. It allowed him to blend with the crowds milling through the Merchant's Quarter and Temple District, and it gave him a means of carrying the tools of his craft. Voramian law forbade any but the Heresiarchs from carrying steel on the streets, but the tailor's ample girth allowed him to conceal his weapons beneath heavy wool padding.

  Soulhunger reached out its senses, searching for the heart with which it had bonded. Its eagerness to feed pulsed in the Hunter's mind.

  It had found its quarry.

  He followed the dagger's directions, moving through the bustling crowd. Soulhunger pulled him toward Divinity Square, the massive plaza at the heart of the Temple District.

  There will be a crowd gathering around the Fountain of Piety, offering prayers to their gods, he thought.

  Too many people milling around could make finding his quarry difficult.

  Still, what choice do I have but to follow Soulhunger's lead?

  The Hunter cursed as a passerby jostled against him. His bulging midsection not only made pushing through the crowded streets difficult, but he had begun to sweat beneath the wood.

  Blasted Danther disguise.

  As the Hunter strode toward Divinity Square, the dagger pulled him away from the crowds filling the plaza. Instead, it led him toward the Temple of the Apprentice.

  The throbbing at his hip grew stronger, more forceful. The voice in his head whispered its desire to feed, and the unyielding pressure in his mind set his head aching.

  Where is he? He asked the blade.

  He stopped outside of the temple, eyes darting in every direction, searching for his prey.

  He is the one.

  His gaze fell upon a figure emerging from the Temple of the Apprentice, and the echo of Soulhunger's joy in his mind told him this was his target.

  The man had a plain face with unremarkable features. He looked like one of the many thousands of tradesmen in the city, and only the shabby grey robes on his back marked him as a priest. The scent of fresh-baked bread wafted from the cloth-covered wicker basket the priest carried on his hip.

  It seems the miserly Coin Counters in the Temple of the Apprentice find some generosity during the Season of Plenty.

  The priest hardly spared a glance for the paunchy tailor standing on the steps, but moved past the Hunter without showing any sign he’d noticed him. Soulhunger shouted in the Hunter's mind as he continued to watch the man from the corners of his eyes.

  This, then, is the one I am to kill, thought the Hunter. A priest of the Beggar God.

  His eyes tracked the man as he pushed his way through the crowded square. He guessed the priest was on a mission to collect donations from the other orders, judging by the basket beneath his arm. Beggar Priests were renowned for their piety and their efforts to help those in need.

  He stared up at the temple from which the man had just emerged. The priests within this magnificent structure worshipped Garridos, the Apprentice, god of ventures. Marble arches supported flying buttresses hundreds of paces above the streets, and the stark white stone of the temple's exterior screamed of the wealth that flowed through the Temple of the Apprentice. Merchants of Voramis made regular offerings to their god, hoping the deity would smile down on their enterprise.

  The Hunter returned his attention to his quarry once more, following at a discreet distance in order to avoid notice. He watched the priest move around the side of the huge temple. Peering around the corner, he found the priest distributing bread among the beggars filling the alley.

  Filth and refuse filled the muddy lane, along with makeshift hovels and shelters. Dozens of homeless men and women crowded around the priest, emptying the wicker basket within the space of a few minutes.

  It's a wonder the Heresiarchs or the temple guards don't drive them off, the Hunter thought.

  His basket empty, the priest made his apologies to the beggars and strode once more toward the mouth of the alley. The Hunter ducked out of sight, turning to study the elaborate carvings of the Temple of the Apprentice. He waited until the priest had passed him before following him once more.

  His quarry turned away from the Temple of the Apprentice, moving toward the Master's Temple.

  All in Voramis worshipped Kiro, the Master, god of virtue and nobility. The Master ruled above the other gods, but his temple had been built without the adornments and decorations dominating the other houses of worship. Free of statuary, carvings, and depictions of any sort, the squat building held a place of prominence in the Temple District. Everyone, from the King of Voramis to the poorest mendicant, came to the Master's Temple to pay homage to the Father of the gods.

  The priest disappeared into the temple, but the Hunter chose not to pursue him.

  If he's doing the collection rounds, he'll be back soon.

  Sure enough, the man emerged from the temple moments later, a small pouch clutched in his hands. A mass of beggars clustered around the Fountain of Piety, raising their voices in a noisy din and clamoring for alms. After tossing a few copper bits into the fountain as a tribute to the Master, the priest distributed the rest among the beggars.

  From the fountain, the priest turned toward the Temple of Deralana, Lady of Vengeance. This temple stood in stark contrast to the simplicity of the Master's Temple. Dozens of statues adorned the temple's entrance, each paying tribute to the greatest warriors of Voramian history. King Gavril the Conqueror—Voramis' founder and first ruler—watched the city from behind granite eyes.

  The priest rushed from the Temple of Derelana mere moments after he had entered. A man wearing the heavy armor and clerical robes of the Warrior Priests chased him, shouting angry words and threats. The priests of Derelana were renowned for their skill in battle, as well as their disdain for the followers of the Beggar God.

  Priestesses of the Maiden welcomed the Beggar Priest warmly, ushering him into the pristine white halls of their temple. They spoke in lilting, melodious voices, which marked them as worshippers of the Maiden, goddess of purity, devotion, and festivities. The sound of singing floated from within the hallowed Heart of the Maiden, the voices of the Choir of Purity rising into the air in perfect harmony with the bustling crowds outside. Serenity washed over him as he listened to the music. The gentle tune drowned out the impatient voice of Soulhunger in his mind.

  Farida will soon join the priestesses. Perhaps I will return another time to visit her.

  The Beggar Priest soon strode from the Heart of the Maiden, a peaceful smile on his face and a pile of used clothing in his arms. He distributed the garments to those sitting on the steps of the temple, basking in the warm glow of the sun and the soft singing of the choir. All were welcome at the Heart of the Maiden.

  The priest strode through
the front doors of the Temple of Prosperity, home to the Illusionist, god of coin, success, and madness. A jangling, dissonant song filled the air from myriad musical instruments within, grating on the Hunter's nerves. The temple's construction jarred the senses, and the elegant façade of the building—while beautiful from afar—strained his eyes and set his head spinning as he studied its patterns, a testament to the Illusionist's true nature.

  A handful of clerics emerged from the Temple of Prosperity, each walking, dancing, and leaping in strange, chaotic rhythms.

  Fools, he thought. Gods alone know what they're doing, much less why.

  The god delighted in spreading madness among his followers, and only a select few of the most insane were chosen to be Illusionist Clerics. They dedicated their lives to the study of the Theory of Illusion, a theological treatise on the science of the mind.

  With effort, the Hunter forced his eyes away from the cavorting clerics and turned his attention to the figure of the priest emerging from the mind-boggling temple. The Beggar Priest removed the cloth from his basket, revealing an assortment of mechanical and wire puzzles, trick boxes, and other maddening toys. He called out to the children of the beggars crowding around the Fountain of Piety, placing the small knickknacks into the grubby hands of those brave enough to leave their parents' sides.

  The Sanctuary stood next to the Temple of Prosperity. Home to the Bright Lady, goddess of healing, the temple provided healing to all in need. The injured, lame, and leprous crowded its steps. The Hunter shuddered at the sight of dozens with open sores, wounds weeping pus, and withered limbs in obvious need of amputation. The nauseating stench of festering rot, disease, and decay filled his nostrils and twisted his stomach.

  White-robed priestesses moved among them, offering what healing they could, along with a kind word and a gentle touch.

  No wonder Voramis worships the Bright Lady so, thought the Hunter.

  The Beggar Priest emerged a quarter of an hour after entering. Flecks of blood spattered his grey robe, but his basket was laden with salves, bandages, and other supplies the Beggar Priests would need when ministering to those turned away from The Sanctuary.

  Priests of the Swordsman—god of war, heroism, and metal-smithing—worshipped in the Temple of Heroes. An obelisk thrust into the sky, standing taller than any other building in the city—save for the Palace of Justice. It was said the bones of the Swordsman, hero of the War of Gods, lay within the obelisk.

  When the Beggar Priest exited the Temple of Heroes, children from around the plaza raced toward him, clamoring to receive one of the wooden swords and shields stacked in his arms. Rumor held that any child who received both sword and shield as a gift from the Temple of Heroes would one day join the ranks of the Legion of Heroes, Voramis' standing army.

  The priest made a warding gesture as he passed the shrine to the Long Keeper, god of death. The doleful deity had no priesthood, received no offerings. His only presence in the city was this small onyx altar, barely as high as a man's waist and an arm's length across. The superstitious Voramians preferred to avoid attracting the attention of the sleepless god. Where the Long Keeper walked, he left only death in his wake.

  The Secret Keepers said not a word as the Beggar Priest entered the Temple of Whispers, home to the Mistress, goddess of trysts and whispered truths. It was common belief that Secret Keepers had their tongues ripped out upon joining the order. The silent, somber robes of the priests matched the dull brown of the vault-like temple.

  Ribbons and garlands of blue and purple filled the Beggar Priest's arms, the gift of the Mistress. The Hunter's quarry handed his load to another Beggar Priest before continuing his rounds.

  With that armload of ribbons, thought the Hunter, the priests could earn more than enough to keep Farida and the other Beggared off the street for a few weeks at least.

  Wealthier citizens of Voramis would purchase these ribbons from the Beggared children. The garlands were hung on Snowblossom trees during the Inamorata, the debauchery-filled festival of lovers.

  The Beggar Priest hesitated a moment before entering The Hall of the Cruori, home to the Bloody Minstrel, god of sickness, plague, and horrible music. Dark red bloodstone covered the temple façade, and to the Hunter it seemed the wall dripped blood. He knew it was just the appearance of the stone, but it made his skin crawl nonetheless.

  The man exited the temple carrying dozens of bloodstone amulets for his fellow priests to distribute among the poor of Lower Voramis. Priests of the Bloody Minstrel insisted that the amulets prevented the spread of plague. Voramis had not seen plagues in the Hunter's memory, which lent credence to the priests' belief in the power of the stone.

  The Watcher in the Dark held sway over the night, but he also served as the god of justice. The Palace of Justice provided his worshippers—the law-keeping Judiciars and their enforcers, the crimson-robed Heresiarchs—with a place to pay homage to their god. A monument to the Watcher stood in the Temple District, but time and the elements had faded the stone to a smooth, faceless lump.

  Justice has no face, thought the Hunter, but it is timeless and undying.

  The Fountain of Piety dominated the heart of Divinity Square. Superstitious worshippers dropped coins into its watery depths, hoping to attract the favor of their particular god.

  The Beggar Priest turned away from the fountain and Divinity Square, his steps leading toward a small street. The Hunter followed at a distance, guessing his quarry moved toward the two small temples built away from the main thoroughfares of the Temple District.

  Farther away, there will be fewer people. He smiled. He's making this too easy.

  Flagstones paved the streets of Divinity Square, but all who approached the House of Tears walked through mud. Home to The Lonely Goddess, goddess of orphans and broken hearts, the temple was small, simple. The dark stone of the building gave off the appearance of perpetual gloom, and the temple walls wept water.

  They say the water is poisonous. The Hunter took care to avoid stepping in the murky puddles.

  It was said the Lonely Goddess wept for her lover, lost in the War of Gods. Those with sorrows frequented the House of Tears, where they could join the Weeping Sisters in perpetual mourning. The keening chant rising from the temple set the Hunter's nerves on edge, reminding him of a Praamian funeral procession.

  The building adjacent to the House of Tears appeared to be one strong gust of wind away from collapsing. The House of Need, home to the priests of the Beggar God, rarely received visitors. In fact, few Voramians even knew that a thirteenth god existed. Most considered the Beggar God unworthy of being a deity.

  Only by the limited generosity of the other temples did the House of Need still stand, as well as the fact that they produced the best singers and musicians in Voramis. The other temples gave aid in an attempt to secure a child prodigy for their choirs, and any of the Beggared children who showed an aptitude for music had a chance for a better life in one of the other orders.

  Together, the Beggar Priests and Weeping Sisters cared for the abandoned and orphaned children of Voramis, as well as those turned away by the healers at the Sanctuary.

  Theirs is a miserable existence, the Hunter thought, watching the Beggar Priest enter the House of Need, but the fools actually seem happy to help others.

  Soulhunger protested at the disappearance of its target, but the Hunter silenced the voice in his mind.

  I can't go into that temple looking like this. My tailor's outfit is more suited for prayer at the Temple of the Apprentice, but I will stand out among the wretched creatures in there.

  A procession of beggars, lepers, and assorted vagabonds streamed in and out of the temple, a neverending flow of human refuse. Their scents mixed with the detritus piled high around the empty houses surrounding the temple.

  The Hunter took up position in a doorway. A pile of refuse hid him from casual glances, yet he could see all passersby entering the House of Need. His muscles protested as he sat, but he ignored
them. He hugged his knees to his chest, settling in for a long wait.

  He allowed his mind to roam, mulling over his assignment. The thought of killing a Beggar Priest felt strange.

  It is a bit odd to find a violator among the priests, he thought. Though considering the practices of some of the orders, I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. Besides, I have been paid, so the contract must be carried out.

  He shrugged off the thought and focused his attention on watching the streets.

  Strains of beautiful music wafted from the decaying temple, filling his head with tranquility and blocking out Soulhunger's voice. The singing soothed him, relaxing his tired muscles, and he found himself struggling to stay awake.

  No, he told himself, you cannot sleep now.

  But his attempts to fight the lulling effect of the music failed. He drifted along with the gorgeous melody, the heat of the day and a night without rest taking its toll on his body.

  His eyelids grew heavy and slowly closed of their own accord as the music carried him into the realm of peaceful sleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wake up!

  The voice shouting in the Hunter's thoughts sent a spike of pain through his head. He jerked upright, his eyes snapping open. His mind, still heavy with sleep, struggled to recognize his unfamiliar surroundings.

  Where in the twisted hell am I?

  He took in the details around him: the stinking pile of refuse, a painfully uncomfortable doorway, beggars, lepers, and vagabonds wandering around. When he saw the House of Need in the distance, everything clicked into place.

  Of course! The Beggar Priest. I followed him here.

  He scrubbed at his tired eyes, stifling an errant yawn.

  I can't believe I fell asleep.

  Beautiful strains of singing and instruments still wafted from the nearby temple of the Beggar God, hanging in the afternoon air and soothing him.