Darkblade Seeker: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Hero of Darkness Book 4) Read online

  Beneath the cloying incense, a faint odor of rot and decay hung in the air. The stench twisted the Hunter's stomach. And the demon reveals himself.

  Of course the Sage was an Abiarazi. Demons regarded humans as amusing playthings, to be used and discarded at will. Though they hid their true forms beneath the guise of mortality, they would never take orders from a "pitiful human". Only an Abiarazi could rule their own.

  The Hunter had come prepared to kill the creature; Soulhunger and the Swordsman's iron blades—wrapped in cloth and tucked into his pack—would put an end to an Abiarazi as surely as steel killed men. But right now, surrounded by armed men, exhausted from his climb, the Hunter doubted he would survive an assassination attempt. Even if he escaped and fled down the mountain, the Sage's minions would pursue. He couldn't risk it; a desperate flight from Kharan-cui would put Hailen in danger alongside him.

  Better to bide my time until I can find the right chance to strike. He had to play things just right.

  "You are the Sage?"

  The demon nodded. "I am." He twitched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and intelligence burned in the midnight void of his eyes. "I must admit, Hunter, you are the last person I expected to see. After what you did to stymie my plans—"

  The Hunter shrugged. "I killed the creature that sought to hurt me. I make no apologies for my actions."

  The Sage gave a jerky nod. "Nor should you. If anything, the fate of the Bloody Hand and the Dark Heresy attest to the fact that you are not a man to be taken lightly."

  The Hunter kept his face impassive. Demons responded to strength; in order to earn the Sage's acceptance—and eventually his trust—he had to prove himself as ruthless as any Abiarazi. "Do not forget it." He twisted his lip into a sneer. "But I am no man. You dishonor me with the name."

  "Not a man, you say?" The curiosity in the Sage's obsidian eyes glittered almost as bright as the oil that held his close-cropped hair plastered tightly to his head.

  The Hunter drew back his hood. "Do you not recognize one of your own?"

  "So it's true!" the Sage breathed. "You should all be dead, but—"

  "Here I stand," the Hunter said, his voice quiet. "The last of the Bucelarii."

  "After all these years." The Sage turned his back on the Hunter. "We've spent centuries searching for you and your kin. We'd never dared to hope…"

  The sudden emotion in the Sage's voice surprised the Hunter. He'd half-expected the man—no, the demon—to order his men to cut down the Hunter where he stood. But the Sage had reacted much as the other demons had: they welcomed him. The First had offered the Hunter a chance to rule Voramis by his side. Garanis and Apus, the demons in Malandria seemed eager to work with him. Queen Asalah had wanted to turn over command of her armies to him. They saw him as Bucelarii first; their offspring, a willing servant.

  The Hunter hid a smile. I can work with that. He had to make the Sage believe he came in peace. He would play the submissive Bucelarii, worm his way into the demon's confidence. Killing him will be much easier once he trusts me.

  He inclined his head. "Before he died, the First spoke your name with reverence." He dropped his eyes, pretending hesitation. "Anyone who could control the First of the Bloody Hand is a man worth my respect."

  A smile broadened the Sage's angular face. "You do me honor, Bucelarii. After all you have suffered at the hands of the accursed humans, you are a welcome sight. One could even forgive your appearance…" He waved at the Hunter's clothing.

  The Hunter studied his torn, bloodstained robes. "The climb proved more...difficult than I anticipated."

  "Indeed, though I find myself wondering why you didn't simply ascend the Torturer's Path."

  Those who sought to contract the Masters of Agony knew to enter a particular tavern in Kharan-cui. If their offering was accepted, they would be guided to the only viable route to the twin temples, known as the Torturer's Path. The Hunter had heard of the secret highway to the twin temples, but discarded it as a possible ascent. An assassin rarely walked through the front door, and he hadn't the coin to pay for the interview.

  "Alas, the First died before he could divulge the secrets of the journey to Kara-ket. It required extensive research to find my way here." The Hunter gestured to his escorts. "But if you knew I was coming, why set your lapdogs to welcome me? I'm certain you know how to extend invitations that aren't accompanied by a skirmish."

  A smile played at the corners of the Sage's thin-lipped mouth. "Ah, you take umbrage at my little test." He shrugged. "News of the stranger asking for information on Kara-ket aroused my curiosity. When my men informed me you were taking a less…conventional route, I was intrigued."

  The Hunter kept his expression impassive, but a worm of worry writhed in his gut. If the Sage had known of his presence in Kharan-cui, could he know of Hailen? He'd taken precautions to keep the boy's existence a secret—arriving in the dead of night, sneaking in and out of his rooms after dark, and never being seen in public in Hailen's company. He had to hope he'd done enough.

  "So you sent your men after me—"

  "Because I had to know if you truly were the Hunter of Voramis," the Sage said, "as I suspected. Few men on Einan could face four of my Elivasti."

  The word sent a jolt coursing down his spine. When the violet-eyed people had rescued him from the Chasm of the Lost, it was the single word they had spoken as he departed. He hadn't known its meaning, until now. “Elivasti” was their name.

  He bowed to his surprise. "I trust your curiosity is satisfied."

  "To say the least." The Sage strode forward, within arm's reach.

  The Hunter felt more than heard the men beside him tense, but the demon showed no fear.

  "It is good to know one of our offspring still lives." He placed a hand on the Hunter's shoulder. "Better still to see him standing before me."

  The Hunter met the demon's midnight eyes. "I have traveled a long way to find you, Sage. To find the one who can command Abiarazi across the face of Einan." He stepped back. Appearing too eager would raise the Sage's suspicions. "I came because I was told you could offer me answers."

  "What manner of answers?"

  "About my past. About the Bucelarii, and the Abiarazi."

  "I am certain I can provide the answers you seek." The Sage held his gaze without blinking. "But after what you did in Voramis, you will understand my hesitance to embrace you with open arms."

  "Of course." The Hunter suppressed a grin. He doesn't know about Malandria or Al Hani. Tales of his destruction of the Bloody Hand had spread across Einan like wildfire, but no one knew he had departed Voramis. Anyone who'd known of his presence in Malandria or Aghzaret was dead or too afraid of his wrath to speak.

  Perhaps he's not as well-informed as I believed. But how long until he learned the truth? Surely his minions and agents around Einan would bring him the news. He couldn't wait to find out.

  "Only a fool would bring a stranger into his confidences, kin or no. My experiences with our kind have left me equally reticent." He crossed his arms. "But I can offer you something that would make a partnership worth your while."

  "Indeed?" Curiosity shone in the Sage's expression. "And what, pray tell, is that?"

  "Me." The Hunter held out his hands. "You know who I am, what I do. I am unmatched on Einan. After the demise of the Bloody Hand, the very mention of my name carries a certain…potency. I am a weapon, to be wielded against your enemies."

  The Sage's depthless eyes bored into the Hunter. "Why would you allow yourself to be used? To my knowledge, your kind were ever a willful lot."

  "I do not argue that." The Hunter gave a dismissive wave. "I do not come as a servant in search of a master. I come as a warrior seeking an equal. I call no one master, but if you can prove yourself a worthy partner, my skills and my blade"—he drew Soulhunger—"are yours."

  The four guards stiffened, but the Sage's slim hand flashed up. His predatory grin held all the warmth of a snake. His eyes fixed on the dagger, and a sud
den desire filled his expression.

  The Hunter sheathed the blade and folded his arms once more.

  Disappointment crawled across the Sage's face, and his fingers twitched. "Very well. Iriador!" As one, the white and black-clad guards snapped to attention. "Show the Hunter to a room. One befitting his status as my guest of honor."

  The man named bowed. "As you say, Great Master."

  The Sage turned to the Hunter. "Rest, and I will come to you in the morning. There is a great deal you can learn from me, if you are willing."

  The Hunter nodded. "Until the morrow."

  With that, he turned and strode from the room, surrounded by his silent escorts and their iron-tipped weapons.

  Chapter Five

  The four white and black-clad guards led him down a single flight of stairs, then into a narrow corridor. His soft-soled climbing boots whispered across the stone floor. His escorts took him through a series of winding passages, as if trying to confuse him. He had no doubt they would keep a guard stationed on his door. Judging by the tension in their eyes and stiffness of their shoulders, they'd have stationed one to hold a dagger at his throat had their master not made it clear he was an honored guest.

  The Hunter hid a smile. That was a lot easier than I expected. Almost too easy. He'd played the Sage to perfection. He'd learned that those who believed themselves great were ever eager to prove themselves deserving of honor. If the Sage believed he could be turned into not only a useful weapon, but perhaps an ally—or, better still, a vassal—he'd offer the Hunter a great deal.

  Now, he'd bought himself a few days to search Kara-ket before he had to kill the Sage. He had to find information on the Sage's organization around Einan. He'd also need to find a way to eliminate the Sage without alerting his minions. All that and answers about his heritage and his past. He had busy days ahead.

  Anticipation quickened his pulse. He strode the halls of the Serenii; what manner of secrets would he uncover about his past, about the Abiarazi?

  As he rounded a corner in the corridor, he came face to face with an enormous statue. His heart lurched at the sight of the monster of luminous jade that towered almost thrice his height.

  Long, razor-sharp fangs protruded from its mouth and twisted its lips into a snarl. Many-jointed arms hung to its knees, ending in too-long fingers tipped with razor claws, and a serpentine tail curled around the thing's back.

  Keeper's teeth!

  A spike of instinctive terror stabbed into his chest. He'd encountered such a creature in the Serenii tunnels beneath Voramis: an Abiarazi, summoned from the fiery hell. Even after all this time, the demon's true form brought back the memory of uncontrollable fear and panic.

  Clenching his fists, he swallowed the acid in his throat and forced himself to look away from the statue. He could only hope his escorts hadn't seen his reaction. They showed no sign of discomfiture at the sculpture. He forced himself to match their steady pace, and soon the monstrous creature disappeared around a bend in the corridor.

  The Hunter resisted the urge to cast one last glance over his shoulder. How are they so at ease with that…thing?

  One of the guards—the Sage called him Iriador—pushed open a door and motioned for the Hunter to enter. The Hunter slipped past his silent escorts and into the room.

  Warmth suffused the room, yet he saw no torches or lanterns. Instead, the glow seemed to emanate from the very walls themselves. A simple bed occupied one side of the chamber, and a wash-basin and bathtub stood in the opposite alcove.

  But the Hunter's attention was drawn to the far end of the room. Instead of solid stone walls, empty air met his gaze. The entire west-facing wall was an enormous window of glass so fine as to be nearly invisible. The frosted and stained-glass windows of Voramis and Praamis were clouded and dull. This was something different. Through it, he could see the stars twinkling in the night sky and the moon casting pale shadows over the jagged mountaintops as clear as if he stood outside. The low-hanging clouds had parted, giving him a glimpse of the endless Hrandari Plains stretching toward the horizon. He almost reached out a hand to touch the night itself.

  "All your needs will be provided for, by the Sage's command." Iriador spoke in a monotone, not moving from his place just within the doorway.

  The Hunter deposited his pack on the bed. "Food. A bath. That is all I require."

  Iriador nodded. "Food will be brought."

  The Hunter locked gazes with Iriador, and a jolt ran through his body. Purple eyes?

  Iriador turned and strode from the room, his companions following suit. The door swung shut, leaving the Hunter alone with his racing thoughts.

  No scent. Purple eyes. What the hell are these people?

  In all his years living in Voramis, he hadn't once encountered violet-eyed men or women in his journeys across the south of Einan. Yet since bringing down the Bloody Hand and fleeing Voramis, he'd run into them twice in a few months. Was it all a coincidence? No, there had to be more to these mysterious people.

  But it could wait until the morrow. Tonight, he had only one thing on his mind: a warm bath. He'd washed in a few inns along the road north, but a man could never spend too much time soaking in a tub. He cast aside his ripped, stained clothing and strode into the bathing alcove. A long, boat-shaped porcelain tub ran the length of the room. When the Hunter gave an experimental tug on the hanging chain, steaming water gushed from the metal spigot.

  The Hunter slipped into the tub, groaning in delight. By the Watcher, that's good! Another tug on the chain shut off the flow of water. Closing his eyes, he leaned back and let out a long, relaxed sigh. I could get used to this.

  He relished the sensation of the dirt, grime, and blood sloughing off his body and the way the heat prickled his skin. The silence of the room stretched out into a blissful eternity.

  Bloody hell! The Hunter jerked upright, splashing water from the tub. Something had felt off since he entered the temple, but he only now realized what. The voices. They're gone!

  For weeks, the demon's presence had grown more insistent. Only Hailen's presence had kept the shrieking, mocking, pleading voice at bay. Soulhunger's presence throbbed weakly in the back of his head, but the shrieks and screeches that had been his constant companion for months had fallen silent.

  How is this possible? His mind raced. The creature in his thoughts only left him alone once he took a life, but he hadn't killed in days. It should have returned to plague him with its incessant demands. Yet it was simply…gone. It hadn't even spoken to him when he encountered the Sage. Something about Kara-ket suppressed the creature. Within the temple, he had peace.

  Relief scoured away his weariness as he basked in the silence. He allowed his mind to drift. As it often did, his thoughts filled with concern for Hailen.

  He's better off in Kharan-cui, he told himself. On the morning he'd left, Hailen had cried and clung to his robes. The sorrow and fear in the boy's eyes twisted his stomach. But he'd had no choice. Hailen would never survive the climb. And I can't let the Sage use him as leverage.

  The Hunter had no illusions as to the demon's true nature. He didn’t buy the Sage's friendly, welcoming exterior, not for a single moment. His encounters with the Abiarazi in Voramis, Malandria, and Al Hani had taught him to be wary.

  Unconsciously, his fingers traced the scars etched into his chest. He no longer counted, not after what had happened in the Advanat. Three stood out from the rest—one for each demon he had killed since leaving Voramis. They'd all shown their true colors in the end. What they couldn't manipulate or dominate, they destroyed. The Sage, he suspected, favored the subtler approach.

  So be it. He would allow himself to be used. He could fake deference, all the while exploiting the demon for his own purposes. Once the Sage's value ended…well, Soulhunger's thirst for blood never ceased.

  The water seemed suddenly cold, sending a shiver down his spine. Climbing to his feet, he stepped from the tub and padded on wet feet toward the window. The moon hung at
its zenith, casting weak light on the craggy peaks around Kara-ket. For what seemed an eternity, he stood staring out across the Hrandari Plains, basking in the silence, toying with the silver pendant at his throat.

  A yawn broke his peaceful reverie, and a wave of exhaustion crashed into him. The bath had washed away the dirt, but his fatigue from the day's exertions remained. The bed beckoned to him with an allure no soft-skinned companion could match. He heeded the temptation.

  The simple straw-tick mattress felt like luxury after days of sleeping on hard earth and stone. Woolen blankets covered sheets made of soft linen, and his head sank into the feather bolster. The light leaking from the walls had dimmed to a gentle golden glow that pulled him deeper into slumber. For the first time in memory, he drifted in a soothing haze of warmth, silence, and comfort. The glow slowly faded and died, and his eyelids drooped shut.

  * * *

  Daylight pounded at his closed eyes, dragging him from slumber. He wrestled with the desire to continue sleeping. He hadn't rested this well in a long time…ever, perhaps. For one delicious moment, he allowed himself to remain at peace.

  Then the memories from the previous day swept over him, and he leapt from bed. Fool! He muttered a silent curse. The soothing calm of the temple had filled him with a languor, dulling his resistance to its subtle enchantments. He would not be lulled again.

  His eyes fell upon a platter of food on the floor beside the door, and a stab of fear raced through him.

  Someone came in the night, and I didn't hear him! The Sage could have had me killed while I slept.

  But he hadn't. His belongings remained undisturbed. Soulhunger and his long sword lay amidst the clothing heaped on the floor. The cloth wrapping around the Swordsman's iron daggers looked untouched. The silver platter was the only thing to indicate anyone had entered while he slept.