Darkblade Avenger, page 77
part #1 of Hero of Darkness Series
"I had a wonderful afternoon playing with Brannie and Saul. They gave me all the cakes I could…"
"Hailen." The Hunter knew the boy could ramble on for hours. "I need to talk to Sirkar Jeroen here. Go back to the bench and wait for me there." He winced as the words came out harsh, and softened his tone. "After I am done, we will find you more of those cakes you like."
Hailen's smile broadened and he unclasped his hands from the Hunter's waist. "Oh, good. I'm getting hungry, you know."
"I'll be there in a moment."
"I'll take him, sir." A serving girl bustled up behind the boy and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
The Hunter nodded. "Thank you."
The girl led Hailen away, the boy chatting happily as if they were old friends.
"Your boy?" Sirkar Jeroen asked.
Without turning to look at the caravan master, the Hunter nodded. "Something like that." Only once the pair had disappeared through the doorway did the Hunter face Sirkar Jeroen.
"How old?"
"Six." The Hunter couldn't be sure, but it seemed about the right age.
"A kid's extra weight, you know."
The Hunter shrugged. "I'm worth it."
The Sirkar studied him, an eyebrow raised. Clearly the caravan master was skeptical, but the Hunter stood firm beneath the man's scrutiny.
"Well, Hardwell of Praamis, let me tell you something. This gut here," he smacked his ample belly, "has never steered me wrong in my years of business. 'Tis a good judge of character."
"What does it say about me?"
Sirkar Jeroen's boots thumped on the floor and his chair scraped as he stood. "It says you're the kind of hard fellow that's good to have on a dangerous road. Trusting you, now that's another matter entirely."
The Hunter nodded. "It's all a man can ask for."
The Sirkar extended a hand to the Hunter, and he shook it. Sirkar Jeroen pulled the Hunter closer, until the two men stared nearly eye to eye.
"You've got something you're running from, I can tell that by the rumbling in my belly." Sirkar Jeroen's expression turned serious. "I don't know what it is, nor much care. Just don't bring it with you. Do your duty, keep your mouth shut, and you and me will get along fine. Y'hear?"
The Hunter ducked his head in feigned humility. "Thank you, sir. You won't regret it."
"I'd better not." Sirkar Jeroen released the Hunter's hand and reached for his tankard of ale. "Just so you know, the pay might not be what you're used to, but you'll be fed and watered. At least as well as the beasts of burden, eh?" He guffawed and slapped the Hunter on the back.
"Sounds fair to me."
Sirkar Jeroen's face creased into a smile. "Good man. Now, I've got a tankard of Azmaria's finest pisswater going flat." He reached for his tankard and drank deep. "Life has taught me never to leave ale sitting too long. Never know what someone'll drop in it."
The Hunter nodded. "Indeed."
"We leave after dark, Hardwell." Sirkar Jeroen plopped back into his seat. "See Kellen about your travel orders. He'll get you sorted."
* * *
Kellen turned out to be a fresh-faced southerner barely old enough to call himself a man. He sat at the entrance to the stables, muttering to himself about "being the only one left to guard the bloody horses".
"Go away!" Kellen shouted at the approaching Hunter. "This stable is reserved for our beasts only." He stood and reached for the sword hanging at his belt.
"Easy, friend." The Hunter held up his right hand in a gesture of peace. Hailen trailed behind him, clinging to his left hand. "The name's Hardwell. Sirkar Jeroen sent me. Says you're to fix us up with gear."
The Hunter scrutinized the young man. His pale blond hair stood out against his sun-darkened skin, and blue eyes burned beneath wispy eyebrows. Angular cheekbones almost made him look feminine; the pitiful moustache clinging to his upper lip did little to dispel the illusion. The man's scent was a combination of leather, steel, and lavender—odd, but pleasant enough.
Kellen studied him in return. "I don't see no weapons on you. He hire you as the cook?"
The Hunter smiled wryly. "I prefer to keep mine hidden away."
"A sneaky sort, are you?" Kellen took in the mud and blood on the Hunter's clothes. "Hasn't seemed to do you much good."
"Any fight you walk away from is a win, as far as I'm concerned."
A smile creased Kellen's face. "I think I'm going to like you, Hardwell." He held out his hand and the Hunter gripped it. The young man's attention turned to Hailen. "Who's the lad?"
"Hailen, sir." The boy pulled his arm from the Hunter's grip, stepped forward, and extended his hand, still swallowed by the voluminous cloak.
"Pleased to meet you, Hailen." Kellen's smile broadened as he shook Hailen's hand. He looked up at the Hunter. "A friendly one, this boy of yours."
The Hunter forced a smile. "That he is."
Kellen straightened. "Spent much time on horseback, Hardwell?"
"I have my own mount."
"Good. Will you be needing a sword as well?"
The Hunter shook his head. "Might be you have a spare tent? Mine's got more holes than a wedge of Nyslian cheese."
Kellen grinned. "I think we've got a few extras around. I'll have to take it from your pay."
The Hunter shrugged. "Fair enough. Will I be needing rations?"
Kellen waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "The Sirkar covers that. It's why the pay's so low. Besides, Allon is a mean cook when he's in the right mood. Nothing like his boar's feet stew, not anywhere on the face of Einan."
The Hunter gave him a companionable grin. "I'll take your word for it."
"Trust me on this one. After a long day of travel, anything Allon scoops into your bowl will taste like a feast fit for nobles."
The Hunter doubted it. He'd sat at far too many feasts alongside nobles, lords, and even a prince or two, on occasion. But he just nodded.
Kellen pushed through the door of a nearby room. The sound of clanking and grunting sounded from within, and when the man emerged a minute later, he carried a tied roll of canvas, an armload of wooden staves, and a satchel with tent pegs.
"Thank you, Kellen."
"Of course." Kellen inclined his head. He studied the position of the sun. "Just an hour or so before dark. Might want to get yourself something to eat and fetch that horse of yours."
"We just ate."
"We had sweet cakes!" Hailen cried. "With honey and cinnamon and coriander seeds and…"
Kellen laughed. "Good for you, lad." He patted the boy's head.
The Hunter forced himself to remain motionless when all he wanted to do was remove the man's hand. He hadn't grown used to everyone wanting to touch the boy. Every gesture looked like a threat to him, and some protective instinct within him warred against his common sense.
"Come, Hailen." He took the boy's hand again and pulled him away. "Let's go find Elivast and see if he wants an apple."
The boy jabbered excitedly all the way to the stable where Elivast stood. The groom hadn't removed the horse's gear, and the complex knots holding his bags shut remained intact. The Hunter lifted Hailen into the saddle and gave the tack a once-over for signs of fraying or weakening. Hailen chirped at the horse in his high-pitched voice. Elivast endured the attention in stolid silence, content to munch on horsebread.
Satisfied that everything was prepared, the Hunter pulled Hailen down. He drew an apple from his cloak and gave it to the boy. Hailen patted Elivast's long, wet nose as he fed the beast.
Never a moment of silence when he's around.
After so many years of living alone, in silence, having someone around made the Hunter uncomfortable. In the last weeks of traveling with Hailen, he'd hardly had a moment to himself. Strange thing was, he didn't miss the solitude.
Since fleeing Malandria with the boy, he'd relished the time spent in the boy's presence. When Hailen was near, the voices—Soulhunger and his inner demon—remained silent. Only with Hailen close at hand could the Hunter find peace from the endless struggle with his demonic heritage and the incessant demands and pleas for death.
But when he left the boy, the voices returned in force. He hated the internal war for control. The desire for death drove him to do terrible things, and he could not avoid it, only fight until it overwhelmed him. The demon's screams and the dagger's insistent demands for death set his head aching and made him physically ill.
The Hunter gripped Hailen's shoulders and knelt before the lad. "Hailen, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Can you do that?"
Hailen's face grew serious. "Of course I can. I'm six years old, after all!" He held up the appropriate fingers to indicate his age.
"Yes, Hailen, which means you're old enough to understand what I'm telling you."
The Hunter studied the boy's face. The flat bridge of his upturned nose, the full lips, cheeks flushed from the excitement of riding Elivast, the dark blue eyes, the round cheeks, and small chin. He looked so much like Farida, the little girl he'd rescued—and lost—in Voramis.
"You and I are going to go on a journey, Hailen. We need to leave Azmaria. Tonight."
Hailen's brow furrowed and the corners of his mouth drooped. "But I don't want to! I don't want to leave Branna and Mistress Arna and Saul and…"
"I know you don't, Hailen, but we have to. Something important has come up, which means we have to keep traveling north."
"But…"
"I'm sorry, Hailen."
"You can't make me leave!" Hailen stamped his foot on the floor and crossed his arms. "I won't do it."
The Hunter had no idea how to deal with the boy. "We don't have a choice! I have to leave, and I have to take you with me."
"Why can't you just leave me here?" Hailen asked. "I can stay with Mistress Arna until you come back and get me."
The Hunter's chest felt as if someone had snapped his ribs and squeezed his heart. "I can't, Hailen." He swallowed hard. "I have to take you with me. It's the only way to be sure…"
He trailed off. The boy wouldn’t understand why he had to leave. His little world had no place for assassins, demons, and everything else that was part of his life. But the Hunter couldn't be alone with his inner voices, not when taking the boy with him would bring him peace and silence. The child would have to understand.
"You have to trust me, Hailen. Trust that I'm doing what's right for you, for the both of us." He tried to say it with conviction, but he couldn't convince himself.
Hailen's face fell. "B-But, can we come back soon and visit?"
"I don't know. We'll have to see." He had no need to return to Azmaria, but the boy wouldn't understand. The little lie couldn't hurt.
Hailen's lip trembled, but he nodded.
The Hunter smiled. So trusting.
His face fell. He remembered the real reason he had to speak to Hailen alone. "One more thing, Hailen."
The Hunter seized the boy's right hand in his own and held it up. "You know what happens when you touch me or I touch you, right?"
Hailen nodded. "My fingers get all yucky."
"That's right." The Hunter unwound the cloth from around the boy's hand, revealing fingernails stained with blood. Crimson dripped from Hailen's fingers, staining the hay-strewn floor of the barn. It happened every time Hailen came in contact with those of demon blood.
"Is it bad?" Hailen looked worried.
"No, of course not. But others won't understand it. They'll think I'm hurting you."
"Why would they think that?"
Hailen couldn't understand. He was too innocent and naïve. It was what put him in such danger, why the Hunter had to protect him. He'd failed Farida; he wouldn't allow Hailen to share the same fate.
"Just trust me. Can you do that?"
"I can."
"Good. Then don't touch me."
Hailen's eyes grew serious and frown lines creased his forehead. "Did I do something wrong? Are you angry at me?" His big eyes filled with moisture.
"No, Hailen, of course you didn't do anything wrong! I'm not angry." The Hunter shook his head emphatically. "But if someone else sees what happens to your hands, they may want to know why. They won't understand that you were born that way, that it's what makes you special." He had no idea what caused Hailen's fingernails to bleed, but saying the words helped Hailen feel better about it.
The worry in Hailen's face cleared and he smiled again. "Yes, Father Pietus always told me that I was chosen by the Illusionist. He said I was going to do great things!"
"And he was right, Hailen." The Hunter began to unwrap the cloth from around Hailen's hands, careful not to make contact with the exposed flesh. Slowly, the red faded from the boy's nails, and they returned to their regular color. "So just…just don't touch me. Can you promise me that?"
Hailen considered this with a somber expression, then nodded. "Yes, Hardwell, I can do that."
The Hunter finished unwrapping Hailen's hands and held them up. "I'm doing this for you. I promise."
Before he could react, Hailen threw his arms around his neck. The Hunter stiffened. Farida had hugged him before when he wore the disguise of Danther the tailor, but he—the Hunter—had never given her a proper hug. He didn't know how to process the myriad emotions flooding him. Most surprising of all, he found himself returning the affection.
After a moment, Hailen pulled back from the Hunter and patted him on the head. "No touching, Hardwell, remember?"
With a smile, the Hunter climbed to his feet. "Of course, Hailen. How could I forget?"
Chapter Six
The wagon train rolled out of the caravanserai less than an hour after sunset.
Sirkar Jeroen, as if sensing the Hunter's need to remain near Hailen, assigned him to ride beside the covered wagon that belonged to Ayden, the healer. The man had a daughter of an age with Hailen, and had agreed—upon the Sirkar's request—to allow the boy to ride with them. The Hunter had no idea if he could trust the healer or Natania, his wife, but had no choice. Hailen's laughter rang out from within the wagon, and the boy's exuberant, piping voice carried the conversation long after his companions had fallen silent.
Draping the reins over the horn, the Hunter leaned back in the saddle and breathed deeply of the night air. The heavy smell of animals—horses, oxen, and mules—filled his nostrils, accompanied by the myriad of scents of the men, women, and children who journeyed with the caravan.
A gentle breeze caressed his face, bringing with it the fresh scent of green life, the last swaths of verdant country before the Advanat Desert. He smiled and allowed the tension in his body to drain away. He glanced over his shoulder, taking one last look at the village of Azmaria slowly receding into the distance.
If I never have to see that place again, it will be too soon. He had no idea how the Illusionist Cleric had found him, but surely the madman and his servants couldn't track him across the Advanat. He should be safe.
The final rays of daylight faded, leaving behind a dark sky flecked with more stars beyond number. Ever since he had fled Malandria with Hailen by his side, the emptiness of the sky no longer mocked him. Now, the twinkling lights high above served as a reminder that he wasn't alone.
“You've never been alone,” the demon whispered in his thoughts. “I have been with you all along.”
The Hunter clenched his fists, and the tightness in his shoulders returned. If only I could find a way to be rid of you once and for all! Both of you. He stroked the silver pendant at his neck, an unconscious gesture, finding comfort in the smooth metal.
Soulhunger throbbed in his mind. The dagger, hanging at his belt, begged to be used. It hadn't fed for more than a week. The blade—and the voice in his mind—grew restless and demanding. He found it ever harder to silence their relentless assault on his sanity.
“You will give in, Bucelarii.” The demon's voice mocked him. “Why fight it at all?”
Because I must. I refuse to be ruled by anyone or anything, even you. I am the master of my own fate.
One of the caravan guards—the Hunter hadn't learned his name—trotted past, nodding companionably at the Hunter.
“Kill him,” the demon wheedled. “He is strong. His power will feed you well.”
You know our bargain, Abiarazi. He pushed back against the presence. I kill when I will, and only those of my choosing.
In Malandria, the Hunter had come to a simple realization: he needed to kill as much as the voices in his head. But he refused to be controlled by his own nature. He would choose his targets from among those who deserved it—a small capitulation to his humanity.
Disapproval reverberated in his thoughts. “Ever the recalcitrant Bucelarii. One day soon, you will lose control again. I will be waiting, and together, we will wreak glorious destruction.”
Images of Malandria danced through his thoughts, and he once more stood in the blood-soaked carpet of the House of Need. Poisoned by iron and minutes from succumbing, he had given in to the demon's demands. Soulhunger had purged the iron from his body, and he'd turned the Beggar Temple into an abattoir. At the time, he'd told himself he killed to survive.
Now he knew better. Facing death, he'd given in to the part of him that lusted for the kill. He had reveled in the carnage he wreaked that day. The power had filled him with a thrill no food, liquor, opiate, or companion could provide. His fingers traced the scars—nearly twenty of them—across his chest. A mark to remind him of every life he took.
He didn't regret his decision. He had to kill, that much he knew. If he didn't, the voices in his mind would drive him insane. He'd struck a bargain with the demon: he would kill, and it would give him peace. The voices fell blessedly silent once he'd sated their bloodlust, their clamor for death. Yet the lull in chaos grew ever shorter. The cries for blood returned all too soon.
In the weeks since leaving Malandria, he'd learned to hide his thoughts from the voices, to fight back when they threatened to shred his sanity. But he could only block them out for so long. They always returned to plague him.
He had only one choice: to give them what they wanted.
So be it. He could cling to the fact that he only killed the deserving. If his actions rid the world of a stain upon humanity, it would be enough. He could live with a few deaths if it preserved his sanity.
