Darkblade Protector_An Epic Fantasy Adventure Read online

  A hand reached out from within the covered wagon and tugged at Hailen's sleeve. Without a backward glance for the Hunter, the boy disappeared from sight.

  Keeper's teats! How the lad loves to talk.

  Hailen was touched by the Illusionist, no doubt about it. He had traipsed through a pool of Cambionari blood, watched the priest who'd tutored and cared for him die at the Hunter's hands, and witnessed the death of a demon. Yet, in the weeks since leaving Malandria, it was as if his mind sloughed off the memories of the traumatic events. In fact, he was happier and more carefree than the other children they'd encountered on their travels.

  Just one more sign he's not quite right. Even he, whose interaction with children had been limited to the time he spent with Farida, knew Hailen was abnormal.

  The boy's interest in others bordered on the unnatural, and naïve innocence counted among the symptoms of whatever malady or madness plagued him. It was as if he was incapable of comprehending that someone would want to harm him. The Illusionist's touch on the boy's mind placed him in perpetual danger from threats he would never understand or expect.

  The Hunter fell into place beside the wagon, and his hand instinctively dropped to the sword at his belt. A plain, utilitarian blade, it lacked the craftsmanship of the sword he had lost to the Beggar Priests in Malandria, but the simplicity of the steel befitted a traveling sword-for-hire. He'd spent long hours in practice on the road north, adjusting to the change in weight and reach. It served him well enough.

  No weapon could ever replace Soulhunger. A hidden sheath at his belt hid the dagger beneath his cloak, yet still within easy reach should he need it. The blade's voice echoed in his mind, leering, cajoling, begging to feed.

  He touched the rolled-up blanket tied behind his saddle, and his skin prickled at the presence of the Swordsman's iron blades. The pain felt oddly comforting. It reminded him that demons—those hidden throughout Einan and the one in his mind—could be killed.

  The shrieking fell silent, and the demon's voice grew coherent. “Why? What impels you on your quest to eliminate your kind from Einan?”

  Why did he hunt down the Abiarazi, the demons hiding among humanity? They were among the few that hadn't shunned him once they learned the truth about who he was—what he was.

  “They are the only ones who will accept you.”

  No, that couldn't be true. Hailen had shown no sign of fear, and Bardin had invited him into the pitiful shelter he called home back in Malandria. Father Reverentus, head Beggar Priest in Voramis, and Celicia, Fourth of the Bloody Hand, had seen beyond the assassin and half-demon. Even Sir Danna, the Cambionari knight he had met on the road to Malandria, had glimpsed good in him.

  “Before she put a dagger in your chest, of course.”

  The Hunter ground his teeth. The demon never failed to remind him of what had happened when Sir Danna and Visibos, her apprentice, discovered the truth. He'd ignored the demon's demands to kill the Beggar Priests and nearly died because of it.

  Einan would be better off without the Abiarazi. And the Bucelarii, perhaps. I do what I must to protect Hailen and those like him.

  Movement at the front of the covered wagon drew the Hunter's attention. A woman poked her head out from beneath the canopy and turned to him. Long red hair flowed free, framing her pale, freckled face in a bright vermillion that enhanced her beauty. Natania, the healer Ayden's wife.

  "Here," she said, extending a small bundle toward him. "Your boy worried you might be hungry."

  He swallowed to stifle his body's reaction to her presence, her scent of wildflowers and fresh rain, the way her full figure lent elegance to her modest gown. He'd gone too long without companionship. Too many kills with no release; he would have to remedy that soon.

  "Thanks." With a nod, he took the bundle. Her smile widened for a moment, then she disappeared into the caravan in a flurry of colorful cloth and blazing hair.

  The bundle contained a small portion of day-old bread, cured meat, and pungent cheese that filled the air with its delightful aroma. A handful of nuts and grapes lay scattered within.

  The Hunter dug into the food with relish. He had nibbled at a few cakes last night, but worry had stolen his appetite. Now, after a night in the saddle, he was glad for something to eat.

  "I see you've met my wife."

  A strong, clear voice rang out beside the Hunter. Looking up, he found himself staring into eyes as green as the Maiden's Fields in Voramis. The man's pale skin matched his wife's, but his hair was a shade of brown dark enough to be nearly black. He had strong features, with angular cheekbones, a broad nose, and a solid chin.

  "You'd be Ayden, then? The healer."

  A smile creased the man's face and he nodded. "Aye, that I am. You find yourself with saddle sores, trench foot, goiters, or a touch of the clap"—the smile turned sardonic—"you come to me."

  The Hunter returned the smile. "Doubt I'll need you, but thanks anyway."

  Ayden shrugged and leaned against the wagon seat. The Hunter marveled at the man's thin frame and pale skin, but saw strength in his grip on the reins. Ayden smelled of candle tallow, charcoal, and books—a scent that reminded the Hunter of Visibos.

  Clearly this one spends a fair deal of time with his books when not traveling.

  "Your lad. Hailen. He's a good one. Friendly."

  The Hunter nodded.

  "Too friendly, perhaps?" Ayden studied the Hunter with an earnest expression.

  The Hunter scowled. "What business of yours is that?"

  Ayden held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "None. But I've seen it before. The Illusionist's touch, some say."

  The Hunter's scowl deepened. "You saying the boy is…"

  "Not at all!" Ayden shook his head. "Different, is all. Too trusting, too innocent. Doesn't know that people mean him harm. Sound about right?"

  The Hunter narrowed his eyes. What was the purpose of these questions? What was the healer trying to discover?

  "I'll take that as a yes." Ayden shrugged. "I've seen it before. Not too common, but not as rare as you'd think. It's a sign of the Illusionist's favor, some say. All I know is you should keep an eye on him. Never know what sort of trouble he might get into."

  "I'll do that." Reflexively, his hand dropped to his sword.

  Ayden watched him with a curious expression. "You can trust Natania, you know. She does well with all the children, but she seems to have taken a special liking to Hailen."

  The Hunter swallowed the anger, though the tension in his shoulders remained. "Everyone seems to think I need to know she can be trusted."

  Ayden gave him a thin smile. "That may have to do with the way your eyes never leave the wagon. You don’t look like one who trusts easily."

  "That so?" The Hunter felt the embers of his anger flare to life again.

  "It's normal, you know." Ayden pointedly kept his eyes on the road ahead. "Traveling alone, just the two of you, it's hard to trust anyone else. I'd say the world hasn't treated you too kindly over the years."

  "It's a harsh world for everyone. We all learn that in time."

  "Maybe. But perhaps it's not all bad. Give people a chance, and they may very well grow on you."

  The Hunter said nothing, his eyes locked on Elivast's mane.

  "A word of caution, though."

  The Hunter looked up at the healer.

  "Good and bad's not always easy to see at first glance." Ayden fixed him with a piercing gaze. "Be careful who you choose to trust."

  "I'll do that," the Hunter growled.

  Ayden nodded and turned his attention back to the horses, leaving the Hunter to the wailing of the demon in his mind.

  Chapter Eight

  Two weeks earlier…

  The Hunter was only too glad when Sirkar Jeroen called a halt for the evening.

  He groaned as he descended from the saddle. His whole body ached. And here I thought I was getting used to long hours of riding.

  He bent to stretch the stiff muscles
in his back and grunted as they slowly loosened. His head felt ready to split in half; the demon's wailing hadn't ceased since the morning. He pinched the bridge of his nose to soothe the throbbing behind his eyes.

  Kellen rode up beside him and jumped down from his horse without a trace of discomfort. "Good first day, Hardwell." He grinned. "Don't wait too long to find your way to Allon's wagon. His food is always best the first day out of a city, and you'll want to get some while it's still hot."

  The Hunter grunted a word of thanks and, throwing Elivast's reins around the hastily-erected picket, followed Kellen to the cookwagon.

  The smell of fresh food drove away the Hunter's melancholy. He hadn't eaten anything since morning, and a long day of sweating in the saddle had taken its toll on him. He didn't bother waiting until the delicious-smelling stew had cooled before spooning it into his mouth.

  "Damn! This is bloody good."

  "I told you." Kellen grinned beside him. The young man also swallowed the food in a hurry, apparently unfazed by its scalding heat. "Food gets a bit rough after a few weeks on the road, so enjoy it while you can."

  A sea of men, women, and children surrounded them, sitting on the ground or whatever makeshift seats they could fashion. Nearby, Hailen sat next to a young, red-haired girl that had to be Eileen. The healer and his wife stood guard over the small group of children under their care.

  Through the crowd moved a handful of women, cloth-covered baskets on their hips. The nutty scent of fresh-baked bread wafted toward him, setting his mouth watering.

  One of the basket-toting women moved toward them—a girl, really, who couldn't have seen more than a dozen winters. When she bent to hand a crust of bread to an older man, the Hunter saw a flash of pale skin. The girl quickly covered it up, but in that moment, the Hunter had glimpsed yellow, brown, and blue bruises mottling her skin. Her eyes remained downcast, and she refused to meet the gazes of the men and women she served.

  The Hunter reached for the offered loaf. "Thank you."

  The young woman's face reddened, and she mumbled a reply. The Hunter followed her darting, fearful glance. A man more than twice the girl's age glowered at her, his teeth pulled back in a snarl, hairy-knuckled fists clenched.

  The Hunter's fingers itched to grasp a blade. He knew the man's type; the girl had a miserable evening awaiting her. Lower Voramis was home to many in her situation, and the thought of the fat bastard's hands on her brought acid to his throat. He ate in silence, watching the bald, moustachioed man from the corner of his eye. The young girl emptied her basket and hurried away with a terrified glance at the man. A moment later, he followed.

  "You'll want to avoid Gwen in the future," Kellen said in a quiet voice. "Rill thinks she belongs to him, and he has a terrible temper." The young man swallowed his last bite, sighed with content, and stood. "Get some rest, Hardwell. We leave bright and early tomorrow morning, and you'll be riding up front."

  The Hunter gave a noncommittal grunt and, stuffing the last bit of crust into his mouth, handed his bowl to another woman carrying a basket piled high with used trenchers. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he searched the crowd for Hailen.

  The sound of shouting drew his attention.

  "You bloody bastard!" A voice roared from beyond a nearby cluster of tents.

  Kellen sprinted in the direction of the commotion, and the Hunter followed on his heels. As he rounded the shelters, he saw three men locked in furious struggle. Rill had one hand locked around the throat of an enormous man with a bristling chestnut beard—Bristan, one of the caravan's sergeant-at-arms—who struggled to wrest his right arm free of the grip of a third, a smaller, pinch-faced fellow.

  "What are you going to do, Bristan?" Rill sneered, and spittle flew as he tightened his grip on the huge man's neck.

  Bristan's left fist slammed into the underside of Rill's chin, and the fat man staggered backward. The big guard's elbow collided with the other man's face, drawing blood. He seized the smaller man by the collar and all but hurled him across the open space. Tents collapsed beneath the falling man.

  Rill drove a fist into Bristan's side, and the big guard grunted. He lifted his hands to ward off more blows, but Kellen wrapped his arms around Bristan's waist and drove him backward. From behind came another pair of arms: Graden, Bristan's fellow sergeant-at-arms, a clean-shaven, dark-haired man of a size with the huge guard. Together, they dragged Bristan away from the livid Rill.

  "You cunt-faced bastard!" Rill shouted, spitting blood. "Wait until I tell the Sirkar what you've done."

  "What I've done?" Bristan's roar dripped venom. "Once he sees Gwen, he'll…"

  "Do what? You think he cares how I instruct my woman?" He leered. "I'm well in my rights to teach her a lesson when she's out of line."

  With a shout of rage, Bristan struggled in Graden and Kellen's grip. He all but broke free and swung for Rill's face. The fat man ducked the punch and threw one of his own, which struck Kellen in the back of the head.

  The Hunter drove his shoulder into Rill's ribs, wrapped his arms around the man, and dragged him back from the scuffle. The pinch-faced man joined in as two more guards tried to restrain Bristan. The huge sergeant-at-arms spat and shouted curses, fury purpling his face.

  "Keeper take you, you fat coward!" Bristan wrestled against the four sets of restraining hands.

  "Wouldn't you like that?" Rill spat a gob of phlegm toward the huge man. "Get me out of the way, you can finally have your way with my Gwen."

  "She's not your Gwen!" Bristan's bared teeth shone white through his bristling beard. His futile struggles slowed as his strength abated. He shook off the restraining hands and straightened his clothing. "Mark my words, Rill. Your days are numbered."

  "Fine words." Rill snorted. "I'd love to see you back them up. Of course, the Sirkar won't be too pleased when he finds out. He tends to take the protection of his guests seriously."

  "Soon, Rill." Bristan's huge hands flexed, as if curling his tattooed fingers around the grip of his great two-handed sword. "She will be free of you soon enough."

  "Not until she's paid her debts. Won't be anytime soon, the rate she's earning. Her…services have been somewhat lacking of late." He stroked his paunch and wiggled his hips suggestively. "Perhaps tonight she'll have another chance to work off what she owes."

  Bristan's face went dead white with rage. Graden placed a hand on the sergeant-at-arms' shoulder, but Bristan shrugged it off and turned to Rill's pinch-faced companion.

  "For his sake, Udell, keep him as far from me as possible. One more glimpse of his ugly pudding face, and I'll give him a taste of steel." He spat between Rill's feet, turned his back on the man, and strode away. Graden strode alongside him, and Kellen watched the pair go, concern furrowing his brow.

  The Hunter released his grip on Rill's clothing. His nose burned from the man's thick scent of wagon grease, canvas, and rotting teeth, mixed with a faint floral fragrance. A woman's scent. Or a young girl's.

  Rill massaged his jaw. "Thinks he can steal my Gwen from me?" His fingers tugged at his belt. "She'll get what's coming for encouraging him." He walked away, muttering curses at Bristan.

  The Hunter's stomach twisted as he watched the man go. There, he told his inner demon and Soulhunger. There is a man no one on Einan will miss.

  Udell stepped up beside him, wiping at the blood still streaming from his hooked nose. "Might want to have a word with the Sirkar." He looked at the Hunter with disdain. "You lot are here for our protection. Best you remember that." He straightened his ragged, vomit-stained clothing. "Now, I'm off to find a bottle so's I can forget I'm in the middle of the bleedin' desert."

  Judging by the man's scent—a foul mixture of vomit, dried urine, horse dung, and the home-brewed liquor known around Einan as "agor"—the man had no need for more alcohol. The Hunter was only too glad for the breeze that carried Udell's odors in the other direction.

  "Hardwell."

  The Hunter turned toward Kellen.

 
The young man held out a hand. "My thanks for your assistance. For a moment, I thought Bristan was going to kill him."

  The Hunter nodded and gripped Kellen's hand. He wanted to say "I wouldn't have stopped him", but instead muttered, "He still might."

  Kellen shook his head. "The Sirkar will keep him occupied. Take his mind off…things." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Well, I'd best be off. Graden and I have the south and west patrol tonight. Get some rest."

  "I'll do that." He turned and strode away from the young man. First, he'd see if Ayden could have Hailen for the night. Eileen loved it when the boy stayed over, and Hailen loved the healer's stories. Once the boy was settled, he would be free. His eyes turned in the direction Rill had gone, and his fingers twitched.

  He'll do.

  The demon's voice faded to a muted hum, and even Soulhunger's throbbing presence quietened. Good. He would have peace soon enough. He'd accepted his need to kill—he would rid the world of the filth that plagued it, even if it meant staining his body with another scar.

  No, he had no need of sleep tonight. He had other plans.

  * * *

  The Hunter peered out from behind the silent wagon. Good. No sign of Kellen or Graden. He'd have to keep an ear out for the caravan guards, but he should have plenty of time. The patrol had a lot of ground to cover.

  Grunting, he shifted the heavy load on his shoulder and darted out from the row of shelters, hurrying toward the outcropping of boulders he'd chosen specifically for his task. He ducked behind the boulders and hurled his burden to the ground. A grunt and muffled cry came from the bundle, and something squirmed within.

  He's coming to. Good timing.

  The Hunter pulled back the canvas, and moonlight shone on Rill's pale, sweat-soaked face and wide eyes. Blood oozed from a wound on the bald man's temple. The Hunter hadn't bothered to be gentle.

  "W-What?" Rill's eyes darted around, and his gaze fell on the Hunter. "What is this?"

  The Hunter struck the man hard. "Justice."

  Rill made to cry out, but the Hunter stuffed canvas into his mouth. "Ironic, isn't it?" His fingers twitched a corner of the thick cloth. "You spend every waking hour stitching up canvas. Fitting that it will serve as your funeral shroud. There was more than enough of it around your area to wrap you up."