Darkblade Seeker_An Epic Fantasy Adventure Page 8

  A bellow of laughter burst from the giant demon's throat. "Much better! Now you prove yourself a worthy adversary."

  His attacks came from all sides, but the Hunter leapt out of reach of the long blade. The Warmaster's pursuit forced him to keep retreating. He danced out of reach of the giant's sword, but found himself hard-pressed to evade and parry the attacks.

  Time to take the fight to him.

  He dove forward, and the Warmaster's blade whistled a finger's breadth from his head. Rolling to his feet, he spun and struck at the giant's knees. His sword clacked against the Warmaster's wooden blade. He dropped beneath the demon's counterattack, twisted out of the path of a thrust, and leapt out of reach.

  He staggered. I can't keep this up much longer. The thin air scorched his lungs and turned his limbs to lead.

  The Warmaster showed no sign of fatigue. "I am impressed, Bucelarii. And believe me when I say I do not impress easily. You have proven yourself worthy to join my host."

  The Hunter struggled to control his breathing. "I…thank you for…the honor." Rejecting the demon's offer would only antagonize it. "I will…consider it carefully."

  "Good. I can offer you far more than that snake ever could." His eyes darted toward the Sage. "But first, let us finish this."

  The Warmaster's lunge caught the Hunter off guard, and he barely managed to turn the blow aside. He countered with a high chop that whistled over the demon's head. A flurry of thrusts forced the Hunter backward. As the Warmaster advanced, his foot caught on a depression in the field and he staggered. Before he could recover, the Hunter tapped his wooden blade against the Warmaster's ribs.

  A gasp rose from the crowd. The Warmaster himself looked stunned.

  The Hunter saluted and bowed. "An honor, great Warmaster." He hid his relief. The Mistress’ luck had been with him; he'd never have defeated the huge demon otherwise.

  The giant's face flushed. "Again." His gaze darted to the assembled warriors.

  The Hunter shook his head. "I fear the mountain air has taken its toll on—"

  "I said we go again!" Anger smoldered in the Warmaster's eyes, and a vivid red suffused his cheeks and neck. "We are at a draw. Another match is required to break the deadlock."

  The Hunter studied the enormous demon. Only a fool would say no. His pride has been wounded, so he needs a chance to save face. With a salute, he dropped into a defensive stance.

  The Warmaster stalked toward him, his movements cautious, eyes wary. His sword flicked out, and the Hunter deflected the blow. The Warmaster knocked aside his counter and answered with a thrust. The wooden swords clacked as they exchanged light blows, each testing the other's guard. When the Warmaster failed to break through the Hunter's defenses, he retreated.

  The Hunter circled the larger demon, sword held in a loose grip, muscles tense in expectation of an attack. His lungs begged for air, but he refused to show any sign of weakness.

  The Warmaster's lightning-fast lunge caught the Hunter off guard, but his speed and training saved him. His wooden sword turned the blow aside as he twisted his torso. The Warmaster's blade tugged at his tunic, ripping the cloth.

  Too close. The force of the blow would have shattered a rib, effectively ending the fight.

  Frustration and anger burned in the Warmaster's eyes. The wooden sword creaked in his white-knuckled grip. He rushed the Hunter, sword sweeping toward his throat.

  "Enough!" The Hunter leapt backward. He had to stop the fight before the demon, maddened by his frustration, seriously injured him. "I yield. It is over."

  The Warmaster stalked forward. "No!"

  The Hunter stepped back, shaking his head. "We have fought as you commanded. Let it be done."

  The Warmaster's features shuddered in a sickening wave of flesh and bone. "Fight on!" His roar echoed from the mountaintop. "You do not walk away from this fight before I decree it!"

  The Hunter tossed the wooden sword aside. "I have had enough. You do not command me." He turned his back on the Warmaster and strode toward the edge of the clearing.

  The Sage stood from his seat. "It is over, Warmaster. The Bucelarii has yielded."

  "Coward!" The Warmaster screamed—a savage sound of hate and rage. Heavy footsteps thundered toward the Hunter.

  Damn it! He launched himself to the side. The Warmaster's wooden blade ruffled his cloak and passed dangerously close to his head. Rolling to his feet, he scrambled toward his discarded blade and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. He spun and raised the sword just in time. The Warmaster's practice blade smashed into his with jarring force.

  "Enough!"

  The Warmaster ignored his shouts. Teeth bared in an animal snarl, eyes blazing with hate and rage, he unleashed blow after blow, each packed with enough power to drive through the Hunter's guard. His massive arms wielded the light practice blade with terrible efficacy.

  The Hunter ducked, spun, and twisted, avoiding contact whenever possible. When forced to block, the impact sent a jolt down his arm. He summoned every trick of skill and cunning in a desperate effort to avoid the demon's blows. If he let even one through, it would shatter bone.

  And still the Warmaster came, implacable as a whirlwind, with speed to rival—even surpass—the Hunter's. Step by step, the Hunter retreated before the terrible onslaught. His shoulders, arms, and wrists smarted from the battering, and he felt the wooden fibers of his practice sword weakening beneath the hammering blows.

  The Warmaster drove his boot into his chest, and the Hunter staggered. Bellowing, the huge demon brought his wooden sword down in an overhand chop. Instinct kicking in, the Hunter raised his practice sword to block, and the wooden weapon shattered.

  The Warmaster's blade struck his head with terrible force. Darkness filled his vision, and the world spun around him. Something slammed into his midsection, knocking the air from his lungs. He clasped the foot, but it ripped from his grasp and smashed into him again. His ribs gave way with an audible snap, driving the breath from his lungs, and the force hurled him backwards. He fell hard, ears ringing, mouth tasting of dirt and blood.

  The wall he'd constructed in his mind shattered. “Foolish Bucelarii!” The demon's voice stabbed into his thoughts, and mocking laughter echoed his head. “See what happens when you challenge the might of the Abiarazi? When will you learn your place?”

  The Hunter shook his head and pushed himself up. It's not over yet! Despite his bravado, he could barely bring himself to stand. Every bone in his body ached; his limbs felt leaden, too heavy to move. But the Warmaster refused to let him yield. He had to fight until the end, even if that meant taking a pounding.

  "Stay down, boy." A quiet voice spoke from behind him. "You're only making things worse."

  The Hunter whirled. Shock jolted through him. That face!

  The man stood before him, arms folded across his chest, clad in the black and white robes of the Elivasti. Deep lines wrinkled his sun-darkened face, but the Hunter would recognize those violet eyes and the serene expression anywhere.

  Reality faded as the memory took over. "I have taught you to master the voices in your mind, but there may come a day when you will forget what you have learned. But if you keep these words forever locked in your memory and repeat them with every kill, they will serve as a link to the things that keep your humanity intact."

  It can't be! He stumbled backward. It was. Master Eldor?

  A roar echoed behind him. "None can stand before the Warmaster!"

  The Hunter whirled, his movements clumsy and slow. He lifted his practice blade, but too late saw the shattered stump of wood in his hand. Time slowed to a crawl as the Warmaster's sword carved a terrible path toward his face.

  Pain exploded in his head.

  Chapter Eleven

  The smell of jasmine and honey blended with the rich aroma of cinnamon and the fresh tang of berries. She lay back on a mountain of plush velvet cushions, smiling at him as he ran a hand over Her swollen belly.

  "Hello, little one. Can you
hear me?"

  She pushed his head away. "Of course not, silly man."

  "You don't know that. Look! He's kicking." The flesh of Her stomach wiggled. "He likes the sound of my voice."

  "What if it's a 'she'?" Her brows furrowed in mock severity. "What then?"

  He nuzzled Her neck. "Then 'she' will be as beautiful as her mother."

  She grinned. "Gods forbid she looks like her father."

  He took Her hand, marveling at the strength in Her grip, the confidence in Her eyes. She was the perfect match for him in every way.

  "Boy or girl, it matters not. The child will be loved. And protected."

  Her face fell, and tears sparkled in Her eyes. "But not by you." She kissed him. Her lips—soft as silk—tasted sweet on his. "My love." His heart skipped a beat at the sound of Her velvety voice. "This must be goodbye."

  "Why?" He tugged at a strand of Her golden hair.

  Lines of worry creased Her forehead. "It will mean death for both of us if ever we meet. It cannot be."

  "We have faced death before." He smiled up at Her. "Not even the fires of Khar'nath could pull us apart, Az'nii. Not now." He placed a hand on Her stomach.

  "But the Beggar's servants will find us!"

  He stroked Her face with a gentle hand. "Let them come. We will be long gone by the time they arrive."

  Her eyes slid away. "I cannot leave this place. It is my home. You must leave, alone."

  He recoiled. "You would bid me leave? Are you so afraid that you will put an end to what we share? What we have created?"

  "I have no choice." She pressed him to the bed, gentle yet firm. He yielded. "They have left us no choice at all."

  "But—"

  "Hush." She touched a finger to his lips.

  "I will not allow it, Az’nii." He kissed the finger. "They will not tear us apart."

  "Then I'm sorry, Hai'atim. You have brought this upon yourself."

  Steel glinted in the candlelight. Sorrow twisted Her face as the dagger plunged toward his heart.

  Agony. Silence. Darkness.

  * * *

  The Hunter bolted upright, clutching at the agony in his chest. A phantom pain from his distant past.

  The memory had returned as he crossed the Advanat Desert in the company of Sirkar Jeroen and his crew. Over and over, he’d relived the moment She plunged the dagger into his breast, delivered him to the Illusionist Clerics. He’d wrestled with the sting of her betrayal in the weeks since.

  But now he’d learned something new about Her. About himself.

  I have a child. He clung to the dream like a drowning man clung to a lifeboat. The image of Her smiling face and rounded belly remained fixed in his mind. His heart twisted, and acid burned in his gut. I'm a father.

  He still couldn’t understand Her actions, but he had to face a new question: did the child live? He had no idea how much time had elapsed since he'd seen Her last: centuries, for certain. Perhaps millennia. He'd lived for thousands of years, since the War of Gods. When had he met Her? And when had they had a child?

  The door opened, and the Sage strode into the room. "You're awake."

  The Hunter, lost in sea of emotions churning within him, stared at the demon, uncomprehending.

  The Sage lowered himself to the floor beside the Hunter's bed.

  Bed? The Hunter's eyes focused on the features of the unfamiliar room: a plush bed, bloodwood armoire, and intricate Serenii carvings etched into the softly-glowing walls. A slight evening chill drifted in through the bay windows opened onto a balcony. Evening?

  "Where…?"

  The Sage raised an eyebrow. "I see you're not yet fully recovered."

  "Recovered? What are you talking about?" He couldn't recall climbing into bed. The last thing he remembered, he'd been walking the halls of Kara-ket with the Sage.

  "The Warmaster's blow took more out of you than I expected."

  "W-Warmaster?" The memories returned in a flood. The sparring grounds. The Warmaster. Master Eldor!

  He threw off the covers and made to stand, a wave of nausea washed over him. Damned demon! He squeezed his eyes shut to stop the room spinning.

  "Easy." The Sage's hand pressed him backward. "Don't get up yet. Given the injuries, I'm certain it must still be difficult to accelerate your body's natural healing."

  The odd phrasing caught the Hunter by surprise. Was it a slip of the tongue? No, the Sage had never spoken idle words. "Accelerate?"

  Astonishment flashed in the Sage's empty eyes. "Surely the Illusionist's priests haven't taken everything from you?" He shook his head. "The injustice!"

  The Hunter nodded. The memory of being strapped to the Illusionist Cleric's table still sent a chill down his spine. He'd come so close to losing everything.

  The Sage stroked his chin. "Have you rediscovered your ability to change the shape of your body?"

  "Yes." Queen Asalah—or the Abiarazi that wore her face and perfect body—had taught him how. "Though I have yet to master it."

  The Sage dismissed it with a wave. "No matter. It is enough that you know. You impose your will on your body, forcing it to change, yes?" His features swam, shifting between a half-dozen faces in as many heartbeats.

  The Hunter flinched at the gruesome wave of flesh and muscle. "Yes."

  The face of the Sage returned. "Good. Healing your body is the same. Command your flesh to be whole. Instead of shifting the shape of your bones and muscles, will your body to mend itself. Give it a try."

  The Hunter closed his eyes and, with a deep breath, turned his thoughts inward. He tried to focus on the sensations running through him. The throbbing in his head, the nausea churning in his stomach, the ache of his sore muscles—these sensations intensified with every heartbeat.

  Yet with the increase in sensations came an enhanced awareness of his body. He could feel the blood pulsing in his veins, the contracting and relaxing of his muscles, the beat of his heart. He focused on the bone, flesh, and nerves in his head, building them back up piece by piece.

  He fell back with a gasp, exhaustion snapping his concentration. Whatever he'd done had worked, somewhat. The pain in his head had dimmed to a dull ache, but at least he could sit upright without swooning. The room's pirouetting had slowed. "How long was I unconscious?"

  "Most of the night. The Warmaster's blow shattered your nose and jaw, nearly caved in your skull. There was blood…everywhere."

  Rage flickered hot in the Hunter's chest. "That bastard! Next time I see him I'll—"

  "Easy, Hunter." The Sage held up a restraining hand. "I'd caution restraint when it comes to dealing with the Warmaster. As you saw, he is quick to anger, and woe to the man—or Bucelarii—who is the object of his fury."

  A knock sounded at the door, and the Sage turned. "Speaking of…"

  The Warmaster's hulking frame filled the door. Unlike the Sage, he wore no perfume, made no attempt to mask his unearthly reek.

  The Hunter sat up in bed, instantly aware of the fact he wore only a simple pair of breeches. He searched the room for Soulhunger, his sword, anything.

  "Be at ease, Bucelarii," the Warmaster rumbled. "I have come to explain my actions."

  The Hunter crossed his arms. "Speak." This ought to be good.

  The Warmaster clasped his hands behind his back. "I acted rashly, out of anger."

  The Hunter snorted. "And that is your apology?"

  The Warmaster stiffened, massive hands flexing. "I am sorry that you were hurt, and I regret that my anger got the best of me." His face showed no remorse, no emotion at all. Cold fire burned in the depthless void of his eyes, and he stood rigid, his back ramrod straight.

  The Hunter suppressed a sneer. With all the sincerity of a wolf apologizing to a stag. He took a deep breath and struggled to rein in his fury. Had he faced any normal man, he would have leapt from the bed and snapped the bastard’s neck. He’d have to make an exception in this case. He couldn’t afford to antagonize the enormous, powerful warrior—one whose skill, strength, a
nd speed surpassed even his own. Not yet.

  The Hunter clenched his jaw. "I…accept."

  The Warmaster's expression relaxed, and he nodded. "Allow me to make amends for your injuries. Let me hold a feast in your honor tomorrow night." His eyes darted to the Sage. "I can offer you certain…entertainments you will not find elsewhere."

  The Sage made no attempt to hide his scorn.

  The Hunter spoke before the Sage could. "So be it. We will attend your feast."

  The Warmaster's eyes blazed at the mention of the word “we”, but he managed a stiff bow. "Until then, Bucelarii." His gaze avoided the Sage as he strode from the room.

  The Sage curled a lip at the closing door. "Vicious bastard!" He pitched his voice low so only the Hunter could hear. "You have no idea how many of my men have died at his hands. 'Necessary training', he calls it." He rattled off a string of vitriol in a language that jarred the Hunter's ears.

  The Hunter closed his eyes and leaned back against the headboard. He was more tired than he cared to admit, and his efforts to heal himself had sapped his energy further.

  "Though, I must admit I find his apology—such as it was—something new." The Sage gave a wry grin. "Clearly, he wants something from you badly enough he’s willing to pretend humility."

  The Hunter nodded. Of course he does. But so do you.

  "I trust your new accommodations are satisfactory?"

  "They are." The Hunter opened his eyes to meet the Sage's inquiring gaze. "Though I find myself wondering why I’ve been moved."

  "I told you I wanted you somewhere I could keep an eye on you, to be certain you could be trusted. The way you handled yourself with the Warmaster—let’s just say, if you’d wanted me dead, I would be." The Sage folded his hands delicately in his lap. "Here, there are fewer…restrictions on your movement."

  The Hunter suppressed his scorn. So there won't be guards posted outside my door.

  "On the practice field," the Sage said, his face a mask of perfect calm, "he tried to entice you to join him, didn't he?"