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

  Perfect, he thought. He will be alone.

  And we will feed, Soulhunger's voice echoed in his mind.

  Yes.

  The Hunter moved through the throng of revelers, pushing toward Lady Dannaros. He tapped her shoulder, and she turned to face him, a smile wreathing her face.

  "My lady," the Hunter said with a deep bow to Lady Dannaros. "I must excuse myself."

  "Lord Anglion, are you well?" she replied. Concern filled her eyes and her smile faltered.

  "I fear the stresses of the journey are doing my stomach an injustice. I apologize for my early departure, but I must rest."

  "Of course, my lord," Lady Dannaros replied. She extended her hand to the Hunter, who bowed low and kissed it. "Do feel better. I look forward to seeing more of you during this Season of Plenty."

  "Precisely why I must rest," the Hunter said with an apologetic smile. "Please convey my regrets to your lord husband."

  "I shall, my lord."

  With a final bow to his host, the Hunter took his leave.

  The night beckoned to him, but he made an effort to climb the stairs at a dignified pace. He was sick of the perfume-laden air, and his sensitive nostrils complained with every breath. It was with great relief that he stepped through the huge front doors, grateful for the crisp freshness of the air outside the mansion.

  He affected a casual stroll down the long marble walkway. There were few people outside, as most were within the mansion enjoying the party.

  Good, thought the Hunter, glancing around, the path is empty.

  Torches smoked in the night air, offering little in the way of illumination as the wind buffeted their meager flames. Thick hedges bordered the path, but the Hunter had found a section where the branches thinned. With a quick glance around to confirm he was alone, he slipped through the bushes and into the gardens beyond.

  The tall hedge cast shadows across the lawn, but he preferred the darkness. It provided him with cover as he moved silently toward the walls of the mansion.

  The scent of wet earth filled the garden, as well as a hint of fragrances from the delicate flowers for which the Dannaros estate was famous. He stepped over flowering trees and bushes, but his heavy elaborate garments weighed him down and caught on branches as he ran.

  Stupid costume. Gods damn Lord Anglion and his accursed fancy clothing.

  The outfit had a single redeeming quality: it allowed him to smuggle a slim sword past the guards.

  And Soulhunger. The dagger pressed against him, its voice whispering in his mind.

  Soon enough, he thought through the throbbing ache in his head. He found himself longing for peace, for the insistent voice to fall silent.

  The Hunter raced through the night, moving along the wall of the towering mansion.

  There it is! A grim smile played on his face.

  Light streamed through a large window set in the second floor of the building. The window to Lord Dannaros' office.

  * * *

  The clacking of Lord Dannaros' boots echoed in the silence of the corridor. His apprehension increased as he reached the heavy bloodwood doors to his office, and he hesitated a moment before pushing the doors open. They closed behind him with a click that sounded ominously loud in the quiet room.

  Waiting in tense silence, unwilling to speak first, Lord Dannaros studied the figure standing beside the fire. A dark cloak hid the man's features from view, but the firelight glowed off the myriad scars crisscrossing the man's rough hands.

  The Fifth, thought Lord Dannaros. Sweat rolled down his back, and his heart thundered. The man before him set his nerves on edge. What in the fiery hell is he doing here?

  "My master has…concerns," said the man, not turning to face Dannaros. "After your failure to deliver the promised goods—"

  "The failure was not mine," spat Dannaros, his eyes flashing. "Lord Damuria was charged with the task, and it is he who has failed to arrive in time."

  "Damuria is dead," said the man, simply. The Fifth turned to face Lord Dannaros, and the aristocrat shrank back from the intensity in the man's gaze. "You and he were given the task, and you have failed. My master—"

  "Will be pleased to know that I have found an alternative," Dannaros said hurriedly. "The first shipment arrived last night, and another is on the way."

  "You would do well to inform him in person," said the Fifth, turning back to the fire.

  "I will compose a letter immediately. You can take it to him."

  "I am no messenger," the Fifth snarled.

  "O-Of course," Dannaros stammered. "I will arrange for it to be delivered."

  "Good." The man turned to face the sweating aristocrat. "See that you do." His voice held an edge of steel, chilling Lord Dannaros to the bone. Sweat broke out on the nobleman's palms.

  The grim figure walked to the huge doors through which Lord Dannaros had entered. "I can show myself out, my lord."

  The door shut behind the Fifth with a loud click, plunging the office into silence. The shadows pressed in on Dannaros, and his pulse raced. He breathed deeply, struggling to master his fear.

  He hurried to his massive desk and threw himself into his chair. His desk drawer held a feather pen and inkpot. He ignored the shaking of his hand as he began to write furiously.

  His pen flew across the page, ink dribbling from the nib. In his hurry, he abandoned elegance in favor of speed. He knew the one who would read his missive wouldn't care what the words looked like, provided the contents of the message satisfied him.

  Sweat dripped from Dannaros' forehead onto the parchment, and the sound of his quick breathing matched the hurried scratching of pen on paper.

  Finally, it was done. He stared at the contents of the letter, reading over every word. He hoped it would placate the man who had sent the Fifth.

  Lord Dannaros removed a small seal and a pot of wax from the desk drawer. He had just removed the stopper when a harsh, grating voice rang out in the silence of the office.

  "Lord Dannaros, your day of reckoning has come."

  Chapter Eight

  Startled, Lord Dannaros dropped both wax and seal. He squinted up at the figure standing at the far end of the room, hidden by shadow and beyond the reach of the firelight.

  "Who—?"

  The unfamiliar voice had startled Dannaros, but he thought he recognized the face beneath the dark hood.

  "Harrenth? Is that you, Anglion?" He stared wide-eyed at the figure. "What are you doing h—?"

  "The man you know as Anglion does not exist," the figure rasped. "He is simply the tool I used to bring about your destruction tonight."

  Lord Anglion pulled back his hood and stepped forward into the firelight. His hands went up to his face, and Lord Dannaros gasped as his friend peeled away his skin. Beneath the false flesh, hard, unfamiliar features stared back at the gaping man. The green of Anglion's eyes came off with the disguise, revealing the depthless black ones beneath.

  A shudder ran through Dannaros, as he stared into the burning eyes. His blood turned to ice. "The Hunter," he breathed. "B-But…"

  His words trailed off as steel whispered from a sheath. Firelight played across the Hunter's face in an eerie pattern. The grim smile that touched the assassin's lips sent chills down Lord Dannaros' spine, and fear overwhelmed his arrogance. He stared in horror at the jewel-hilted dagger gripped in the Hunter's hand.

  He knew what its presence promised.

  A sudden temptation to try to reason with the Hunter seized him, and he opened his mouth to offer the assassin gold, jewels, and women; anything he wanted if the man would spare him.

  No, thought the terrified lord, none of that will sway him. He won't stop coming for me until I am dead. Or he is.

  "For your sins, Lord Dannaros, the Long Keeper calls you this night." The Hunter's voice rang with an ominous tone of finality. "May the gods have mercy on you."

  Something snapped within Lord Dannaros as the Hunter spoke his pronouncement. His fear faded, the terror in his veins r
eplaced with resolve. He clenched his jaw, and anger burned within him.

  I will not be sent to the Long Keeper with empty hands.

  "You'll find me far less helpless than your usual victims, you bastard!"

  Dannaros' fingers fumbled beneath his desk, and he smiled as he felt the hilt of the slim fencing sword hidden there. He drew the long blade, holding it before him unwavering. The edge of the blade gleamed in the firelight, and the feel of solid steel in his hand restored some of Lord Dannaros' confidence. He strode around the desk, coming to stand face to face with the Hunter.

  I refuse to cower. I will fight!

  "So," said the Hunter, a savage grimness in his voice, "you have a sword, but all I have is this dagger." The assassin tossed his blade from hand to hand, and a mocking smile spread across his face.

  Lord Dannaros watched the Hunter, his eyes following the movements of the wicked blade. In the moment when the Hunter released the blade from his right hand, the aristocrat made his move.

  Lightning fast, he lunged forward—a motion that had skewered dozens of rivals in the past. Shocked surprise flashed briefly across the Hunter's face, and Dannaros knew he had caught the assassin off guard.

  The Hunter leapt backwards, just managing to block Dannaros' thrust with his dagger. The noble pressed his momentary advantage, unleashing a flurry of blows in an attempt to overwhelm the Hunter's defense. If his longer weapon could hit something vital, he had a chance.

  After a prolonged exchange, Lord Dannaros disengaged, his breath coming hard. His efforts to break through the Hunter's guard failed, but a few of his desperate strikes had found their target. The assassin bled from a pair of wounds, but showed no sign of slowing. Instead, he stalked toward the panting nobleman with feline grace, the wicked smile still on his lips. Fear once again flashed through him at the implacable intensity burning in the Hunter's eyes.

  "They say Lord Dannaros has the fastest sword in the city," the Hunter said, his voice as cruel as his smile. "Let's put that to a real test."

  The Hunter reached within his dark robes and drew a sword of his own. The blade matched Lord Dannaros' sword in length and weight, and the assassin gripped it with casual grace. Lord Dannaros' eyes widened in desperation, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He now faced two weapons, and a foe clearly skilled in their use.

  With a salute of his thin sword, the Hunter attacked. His strikes came quick and hard, yet the desperate Dannaros found them easy to counter. They exchanged dozens of cuts, thrusts, and parries in the space of a minute, the clang of steel loud in the silence of the office.

  The doors are too thick for the guards to hear us, thought Lord Dannaros, his panic rising. No matter how many times he batted away the Hunter's lightning sword strokes, the assassin followed up with two more. Dannaros bled from a handful of shallow cuts, but the Hunter's movements remained unhindered.

  But I wounded him, Lord Dannaros' mind protested. He should be slowing down, unless…

  "So it's true what they say, Hunter," Lord Dannaros spat out, contempt in his voice. "You truly are the devil incarnate."

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Lord Dannaros, you wound me. If only words could kill, my lord…" He trailed off, a mocking smile on his face.

  "What must it be like, being what you are?" The noble's voice filled with anger, but confusion flashed on the Hunter's face.

  "You know nothing about me, Dannaros," the Hunter snarled.

  "More than you'd think," Dannaros mocked. "I know you are the last of the accursed Bucelarii."

  From the puzzled look on the Hunter's face, the assassin had never heard the name before. This struck Dannaros as odd.

  "If you kill me," he told the Hunter, "you'll never know the—"

  The Hunter launched his attack, taking Dannaros by surprise and cutting off his words. The assassin pressed the noble hard, and Lord Dannaros fell back beneath the onslaught. The Hunter didn't bother to use the blade in his left hand; his long sword cut through Dannaros' guard.

  A crushing feeling of dread filled the noble, and with a sinking gut Lord Dannaros realized the Hunter had been toying with him. He disengaged once more, breathing hard, and edged backwards, moving around the heavy desk in a desperate attempt to escape the Hunter for a few moments more.

  "You are as skilled as they say," Lord Dannaros said. "Now let's see if the…GUARDS!" He had to believe the men in the corridor could hear his cries through the thick door.

  Panic rose in him as the Hunter attacked, implacable, inexorable, ruthless. Lord Dannaros saw death written in the depthless eyes of the Hunter, and he wondered if the assassin could sense his fear.

  The Hunter's slim sword was everywhere, and all of Dannaros' skill failed to stop the blade from finding flesh. With a stubborn tenacity, the aristocrat fought on, struggling to prevent panic from overwhelming his mind. He was outmatched, he knew, yet he refused to yield. His primal instinct to fight—to survive—kept him from fleeing a battle he had no hope of winning.

  The Hunter's blade scored his face, his forearm, and his leg in rapid succession. Blood dripped from a piercing wound in Dannaros' shoulder, slowing his movements. Sweat trickled into his eyes, and his lungs burned.

  "Guards!" he yelled in desperation. "GUARDS!"

  The expressionless face of the Hunter stared back at him. " Scream all you want, Lord Dannaros. No one will arrive in time to save you from the fate you have earned this night."

  * * *

  Soulhunger shouted its insistence in the Hunter's mind, pulsing in time with the rapid beat of Lord Dannaros' heart. His nose filled with the scent of the man's fear, and a thrill of pleasure ran through him as he fought. Lord Dannaros' parries came slower, his movements more pronounced as he flagged.

  I can feel his terror, the blade whispered to him. Let me feed.

  The Hunter's face creased into a grim smile.

  I have toyed with him enough, thought the Hunter. Time to put an end to this.

  His blade flashed in the firelight, moving faster than Lord Dannaros could follow. The razor tip bit deep into the noble's inner thigh. Dannaros screamed in pain, and clutched at the wound in a vain attempt to quench the torrent of blood pouring from the artery in his leg. His knees buckled, and he slumped to the floor.

  Defiant to the end, the noble's right hand scrabbled in the widening pool of blood. His sword lay just beyond his reach, but that didn't stop him reaching for it. The Hunter's boots crunched down hard on his fingers, shattering them. Soulhunger's triumphant laughter echoed in his mind.

  Adrenaline coursed through the Hunter's veins as he stared at the struggling man. Soulhunger throbbed in his left hand, lusting for the blood dripping onto the floor.

  Feed me, it pleaded.

  The Hunter wiped his sword on the fallen noble's clothing and grinned at the look of outrage crossing Dannaros' face. Lord Dannaros struggled to sit up, but was too weak from blood loss to do more than glare.

  "I curse you, Hunter," said the nobleman, venom dripping from every word. "May all you love turn to ash, and may the gods piss on your corpse as you scream in the flames of the fiery hell."

  The Hunter smiled the pitiless grin of a predator. "Keep a place warm for me, Lord Dannaros."

  His sword slammed home in its sheath with a ring. He knelt over the dying nobleman and passed the dagger to his right hand. Soulhunger twinkled in the firelight. Fear fill Dannaros' gaze as the noble watched the blade rise and fall.

  The Hunter's powerful muscles drove the jewel-hilted blade deep into Lord Dannaros' chest. Ribs broke beneath the force of the blow. The Hunter felt Soulhunger's point enter the nobleman's heart, heard the dagger cry out its ecstasy as it fed. Dannaros' scream echoed loud in the silence of the darkened room. It held a note of abject terror—a man dying with the knowledge that Hell came for him.

  Pain racked the Hunter's body as the blade in his hand drank deep of Lord Dannaros' soul. Fire flared beneath the Hunter's skin, and his chest burned as a new scar was forever etched into hi
s body.

  And still the dagger fed, pulling more and more of Dannaros' being into itself. The weapon didn't simply kill: it gathered the essence of its victims and transferred it to the Hunter. Power flooded his body from another life stolen by Soulhunger's wicked blade.

  Crimson light flared from the gem set in Soulhunger's hilt, illuminating the dark office. The Hunter stared at the long blade of the dagger, watching the steel absorb the blood. He thrilled at the sensation coursing through him.

  This is better than any drug, he thought. Closing his eyes, the Hunter savored the moment. Raw power surged in his veins. He no longer needed food or drink; all he wanted was the life flooding his body. The intoxication of the hunt warred with the pleasure of Soulhunger's feeding. The coppery smell of fresh blood filled his senses.

  The light in the room slowly diminished, and the Hunter opened his eyes as Soulhunger's gem faded to a dull, clear stone once more. He still clutched the dagger tightly, his forearms aching from the strain. Slowly, he unclenched his fingers.

  The Hunter took deep, calming breaths, reveling in the rush that followed the kill. He slipped Soulhunger into its sheath. The blade had fallen silent. Blood pooled at his feet, soaking into the plush carpet.

  He stared down at the lifeless body of Lord Dannaros, a man he had befriended while in the disguise of Lord Anglion. He studied the man's corpse, looking at the still, slack features that were so familiar. He knew he should feel anguish at the man's death, but he felt nothing. No sorrow, no remorse.

  Lord Dannaros was always just another tool to be used.

  The Hunter placed one hand on Dannaros' head, the other over his heart. "May the Long Keeper take your body," he intoned. "Your soul is forfeit."

  It was a simple ritual, but one that served as a final kindness to those who would never know the bliss of the Long Keeper's final embrace.

  Death is nothing to Soulhunger's victims. It is simply the first step in the endless torture they face in the hells to which all the soulless dead are sent.

  The stillness felt eerie after the furious struggle. The absence of Soulhunger's cries in his head amplified the unnerving quiet. His eyes took in the details of Lord Dannaros' office.