Darkblade Assassin_An Epic Fantasy Adventure Page 16

  The Hunter, struggling to breathe, held his tongue.

  "You may be harder to kill than I expected," the First continued, "but I dare say there is one weapon that could kill you." His eyes fell on Soulhunger, and desire filled his eyes. As his fingers fondled the blade's handle, he inhaled sharply—the sound was almost orgasmic. For a moment, the man's features seemed to shift, but the Hunter dismissed it as a trick of the flickering torchlight.

  The First stared at the blade for a long moment, his attention rapt. Then, as if awaking from a dream, his face cleared and he regained his composure.

  "Such a beautiful weapon," he breathed, his eyes never leaving the dagger. "Do you know of its origins, Hunter?"

  Still the Hunter held his tongue.

  The First's expression turned wistful. "I wish I knew from whence this blade came, for it must have many fascinating stories to tell." He pulled his gaze away from the weapon with effort. "Tell me, Hunter, is it true that only your hand can wield it?"

  "Try it and find out," the Hunter replied, grinning through his pain.

  "Perhaps I will," the First said. His hand reached toward the blade, but hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering over the hilt. "Or perhaps not." His hand withdrew.

  He turned to the Second. "Do you wish to try your hand at wielding the fabled blade of the Hunter?" he asked, gesturing at the dagger. When the Second remained silent, he turned to the thugs. "Any of you?" None moved. "I thought not."

  At a gesture from his master, the Second hurried to cover Soulhunger and the swordbreaker—still stained with the Hunter's blood.

  "What to do, what to do?" said the First, his gaze falling on the Hunter once more. He tapped his lips as if deep in thought. "I warn you, Hunter, I cannot allow you to continue operating freely in Voramis. The city is mine, and mine it shall stay."

  His eyes glazed for a moment, as if lost in thought. "I shall give you this one chance to walk away."

  "Oh?" the Hunter asked.

  "Yes," the First said with a calculating look, "I will allow you to walk away, and your past indiscretions will be forgotten. All you need to do is swear your service to me, and you will leave here a free man."

  "A free man, yet in service to the Bloody Hand?" The Hunter arched a bloodstained eyebrow.

  "Yes." The First inclined his head. "I do see how the wording can be a tad confusing. Let me explain it thusly: you will be permitted to operate as usual, and I will even ensure the most lucrative contracts are sent your way. All you need do is make yourself available if and when I should require your services."

  "That's it?"

  "That is all." The First rewarded him with a gracious smile.

  The Hunter pretended to weigh the offer for a moment, stalling to give his broken body time to heal.

  "I must say," he said slowly, "your offer sounds good."

  A smile broke out on the First's face. "So you accept?"

  "No," retorted the Hunter. "Your offer sounds good. Which, of course, means it must be too good to be true."

  The First's smile disappeared, and anger flashed in his eyes. "Look around you, Hunter," he said, his voice tight and controlled. "Look where you are." He accentuated his words by gesturing to the men filling the room. "There is no one to save you here. You will never walk out of here a free man unless you accept my offer. Consider your answer carefully."

  The Hunter shook his head. "Then I must remain a prisoner, for I would rather die than submit to you." Anger filled his voice for the first time. "I am the Hunter, you coward. I am no man's slave, no man's errand boy." Rage flashed in his dark eyes, and those in the room flinched at the intensity filling his voice. "I will have no masters, especially not an arrogant pissant with a ridiculous name like the First of the Bloody Hand."

  Only the First seemed unfazed by his tirade. "Are you certain, Hunter?"

  For his answer, the Hunter remained silent, his gaze level.

  With a sigh, the First shook his head. "So be it. By the gods, how I wish you had accepted my offer. I know that you, too, will soon come to regret your hasty decision to turn me down." He gave his second-in-command a curt nod, and the man stepped from the room.

  When the Second returned, four men accompanied him—thugs who could have been Brutus' bigger, uglier cousins. Two sported fresh bruises on their faces, and a third had gaps in his mouth where teeth should have been.

  These must be some of the thugs who captured me earlier, he thought, grinning. Glad to see I gave them plenty of trouble.

  "Unchain him," the Second commanded, "and don't bother being gentle with the bastard."

  The thugs strode around the Hunter, giving him a wide berth His chains rattled, and he heard the click of a heavy padlock being opened.

  With the shackles no longer holding him in place, his arms fell to his sides. He screamed as the weight of the chains dragged on his dislocated shoulders. He fought to stand on weak knees, his legs shaking with the effort.

  Rough hands seized him, and a none-too-gentle kick forced him to his knees. He fought to move, but the muscled thugs held him firmly in place. Two loud pops echoed through the room, and he screamed once more.

  At least my shoulders are back in place, he thought, still struggling against his captors.

  A knife's edge against his throat stopped him. The Second glared down at him. "Twitch again, Hunter," he said, his voice low and menacing, "and I'll bleed you like a pig." He pressed his blade harder for emphasis.

  The Hunter ceased his struggles. He forced his face into a mask of calm, though his mind raced, searching for a way to break free.

  The First stepped forward, bending low to stare into the Hunter's eyes. "And thus ends the legend of the Hunter," he said. His breath felt hot on the Hunter's face, and the cloying scent of too much perfume filled the Hunter's nostrils. "You will die, but not in some heroic, glorious manner. No, you will die languishing in a cell until the end of your natural life—-however long and miserable that may be."

  The Hunter glared up at him, the anger burning in his chest matching the intensity of the First's gaze. "The story has not yet been written," he spat, baring his teeth in a feral grin. "Until you find a way to kill me for good, I will always haunt your dreams."

  A pitiless smile spread across the First's face. "I think not, dear Hunter. Where you're going, even light will soon become foreign to you. You will never again know the sound of another human's voice, and not even rats will be your companions. It is a fate I would wish on few, but you are the one fortunate enough to receive it." He straightened, his voice rising with anger. "Thus to all who cross the Bloody Hand. You are fortunate that you have none to call friends, for their fates would be only marginally less horrifying than your own."

  The Hunter paid the ravings of the First little heed, glad for the distraction. He gathered his last reserves of strength as the man spoke, waiting until the First had turned his back before making his move.

  With a jerk of his arms, he ripped the chains from the grasp of the brutes holding them. Pain flashed through his healing shoulders, but the Hunter refused to allow it to slow him. He spun to the left, slamming his fist deep into a guard's stomach. The thug's breath whooshed from his lungs, and he doubled over, retching and gasping for air.

  The Hunter's elbow connected with the nose of the guard holding the chain securing his right hand. His left hand swung around to strike the third guard in the windpipe. As the thug wheezed, the Hunter kicked out behind him. His foot struck the last guard under the chin, rocking the massive enforcer's head back. The chain holding the Hunter slipped from the thug's nerveless fingers.

  The Hunter turned his glare on the First. Rage flooded his veins, and a rush of adrenaline supplanted the pain racking his healing body.

  "You're next, you bastard," he snarled.

  The First shrank back, but the Second stepped between the Hunter and his master, a dagger held at the ready. The Hunter whipped the heavy chain into the man's stomach. As the Second slumped to the floor, the
Hunter pushed him aside to lunge for the First.

  With a cry of fear, the First tried to retreat, but the Hunter's long, powerful fingers wrapped around his throat before the man could cry out. The stench of fear, mixed with the scent of his perfume, rolled off the First in waves. He pounded his fists against the Hunter's arms, to no avail. The Hunter's depthless eyes held the First's gaze as he choked the life from him.

  A hard punch to his spine made his legs wobble, and his death grip on the First loosened. Hands seized him from behind, dragging him off the wheezing First. The thugs wrestled him to the floor, fighting to regain their hold on the spiked chains. Breathing hard, the Hunter allowed himself to be restrained before the thugs were forced to break anything.

  He stared up defiantly at the First. The man's face had turned an angry shade of red, and he gasped for air. The Second still fought for breath, clutching at his stomach and groaning. Through it all, Celicia had stood, unmoving, by the door, eyes wide.

  "You bastard!" the First roared at the Hunter, his voice rasping. He straightened his once-elegant clothing, now torn and covered in blood. Striding to the Second's cart of torment, he seized four slim daggers and drove them deep into the Hunter's shoulders, slicing nerves. The Hunter's arms flopped by his side, numb and lifeless.

  The First backhanded the Hunter, knocking him back. He followed up the blow with a vicious kick to his captive's groin. The Hunter doubled over in pain, but the thugs holding his arms wrenched him upright.

  The First's face hovered a hand's width from his own. "You have earned what is coming next, you canker on the asshole of a leprous dog." Spittle flew from the man's lips, and the Hunter winced at the warm wetness on his face. "I would shove you up a dead horse's ass and have you drowned in the bay, but that would be a waste of a dead horse."

  The Hunter's head rang—the First had struck him with surprising force—but he glared at his captors with an impassive stare.

  "The fate you will suffer will be more horrible than you could imagine," the First thundered. "You will rot in a dark hole for as long as it takes your flesh to fall from your bones. You will be fed, but not enough to stave off starvation and thirst. You will die a slow death as your body feeds on itself, and when you are dead, your bones will be cast into the Midden, where they will rot in the deepest, darkest hells for all eternity."

  "Then I shall prepare a place for you," the Hunter spat.

  The First ignored his retort, instead nodding at the guards holding him in place. "Take him away. You know what to do."

  Without a backward glance at the Hunter, he strode from the room. The Second gave the Hunter a sneer before following in his master's wake. A moment later, Celicia did likewise. He thought he had seen a flash of pity in her eyes, but he couldn't be certain.

  The guards holding his arms dragged him to his feet, while the others used their fists to beat the Hunter into compliance. By the time they hauled him from the room, every bone in his upper body felt bruised and cracked. Blood streamed from his broken nose and cuts on his face. Both of his eyes had swollen shut.

  Through the pain, he clung to one small triumph: in his fingers, he clutched a fragment of cloth torn from the First's robe.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Hunter caught glimpses of torchlight through the burlap sack covering his head. He was dragged through the streets for what felt like an eternity. That last beating hadn't done his already wounded, tortured body any favors.

  Unable to see where he stepped, he found himself at the mercy of his captors. Manacles still shackled his wrists and ankles, and he knew any attempt to flee would meet a quick end. Sensation had yet to return to his arms. He stumbled and would have fallen but for the strong hands holding him.

  I wonder what fresh hell awaits me at the end of this journey, he thought.

  His one consolation lay in the fact that one of the guards hauling him along struggled for each breath. The Hunter’s sharp ears detected a wet gurgle in the man's inhalations, and he knew he had cracked a couple of ribs in the scuffle.

  Better to bide my time, if I don't die from this gods-awful stench first.

  The reek of dog feces filled his nostrils, causing him to gag. He had watched the Second fill the sack with offal before pulling it over his head. His lungs burned from breathing in the foul air, and it took all of his discipline to keep the meager contents of his stomach down.

  He had no idea how long the journey lasted, but exhaustion gripped his muscles by the time his captors hurled him to the ground. His face slammed into the pavement, sending a fresh wave of pain through his body. The world around him whirled.

  He struggled to stand, but was kicked mercilessly back down to his knees. Through the thin fabric of the canvas sack, he heard a murmured conversation in the distance. He strained in vain to hear what was being said.

  After a long silence, rough hands gripped his arms and hauled him to his feet.

  "Enjoy your new life, Hunter," a dull voice grated in his ear.

  Someone shoved him forward, and he stumbled, falling to the cobblestones once more. A boot slammed into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.

  "Enough!" came another voice, this one edged with command. "You have received your payment. Now off with you before I remember what you really are, street scum."

  "Any time, Captain," responded the first voice, a Hand thug. "You know where to find me. Come on lads, let's go spend the king’s coin in style."

  "Bloody Hunter," spat another voice.

  The Hunter heard coarse laughter and the voices of men discussing how they would squander their newfound wealth. The voices trailed off, leaving the Hunter in the company of his new captors.

  Firm hands gripped his arm, and he struggled to rise to his knees. The sack was ripped from his head, but the scent of animal feces remained.

  "Watcher's balls," cursed one of the figures standing over him. "He reeks!"

  "Rutting Hand cunts," the commanding voice spoke.

  The Hunter blinked in the torchlight, his eyes fighting to adjust to the brightness. He lifted his bound hands to his face in an effort to wipe away some of the stench, to no avail.

  In the dim light of the street, he saw a pair of practical, worn boots in front of him. His eyes traveled upward, taking in the details of his captor: bright crimson robes, a well-muscled body beneath worn steel armor, and a bearded face looking down at him sternly.

  Heresiarchs.

  "By the order of King Gavian of Voramis, and by writ of the Judiciars, I, Captain Erellos of the Heresiarchs, hereby place you under arrest."

  The chains on his wrists rattled as one of the red-clad guards pulled the Hunter to his feet. The Heresiarch captain stared up at him, not a shred of pity in his dark eyes.

  "I am ordered to transport you to the Hole," said the captain in a solemn voice, "where you will be incarcerated for the rest of your natural life. May the Watcher have mercy on you."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Darkness surrounded the Hunter, not a flicker of light in any direction. It seemed like an eternity since the Heresiarchs had thrown him in here. They had placed heavy manacles on his wrists and ankles—but not before brutally ripping the First's daggers from his shoulders.

  His body warred with fatigue and pain. He desperately wanted to sit, to lie down, to sleep, but the shackles were too short. He could only stand, forcing his exhausted legs to hold him upright. His head lolled on his shoulders. His mouth begged for water. Pain flashed through him at even the slightest movement, but he felt his body slowly knitting together. He managed to find a somewhat comfortable position with his back against the cold stone wall. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes from sheer exhaustion.

  This is almost a worse form of torture. Alone in the dark, hungry, and parched. Nothing but the beating of my heart for company.

  The darkness taunted him, holding out sleep before him yet ever pulling it away when he was on the verge of dozing. The pain in his arms, legs, chest, and head kept h
im from rest. He drifted in and out of a numb, unseeing haze, his world filled with nothing.

  * * *

  "Wake up, Hunter!"

  Water splashed across his face and chest, shocking him with its chill. A hard slap snapped him into full consciousness. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. Torches flickered around him, casting dim light around the room.

  He guessed he must have fallen asleep, though he felt as if he had been awake for weeks. His head throbbed, his eyes felt heavy, and every muscle in his body ached. The air in the cell was dusty, pressing in on him.

  What in the frozen hell?

  Jerking his arms, he found himself once again restrained by thick chains. His eyes traced their length to the ring set into the stone wall.

  I’m no longer in the Hole. But this place feels all too familiar, he thought.

  "We meet at last, Hunter."

  Blinking away tears, the Hunter forced his eyes to focus on the source of the voice. The man before him stood below average height, with a slim physique and hands that had never seen a hard day's work. His nasal voice grated on the Hunter's ears. His slicked-back hair shone with enough wax to fill a candle mold. A hooked nose protruded above thin lips, and his eyes stared at the Hunter with a fierce, burning intelligence.

  The man's scent filled the Hunter's nostrils.

  Parchment, ink, and mold, with a hint of something else. He couldn't quite identify the scent, though it was familiar.

  "I have heard much about you," the man said, his voice calm and polite, "but I scarcely dared hope we would meet—at least not without you coming after my head."

  "I…am…at a disadvantage," said the Hunter, his tongue thick with thirst. "I…don't…know you." After what seemed like an eternity in his silent world, his voice sounded odd, and his dried-up mouth made speaking difficult.

  "My, you must be parched," the man said, seeing the Hunter attempting to lick his dry lips. "If you will allow me." He strode over to a small table on the side of the room, upon which lay a covered tray, a loaf of bread, and a pitcher and cup. Filling the cup, he brought it to the Hunter.