Frissie tugged at the lad's hand. "Come, Hailen. Let's visit the kitchens."

  Excitement filled Hailen's voice. "Kitchens! With the fire, Frissie?"

  "Yes, Hailen, fire…" Their animated conversation faded as they disappeared into the next room.

  "Father Pietus!" The Hunter spoke in a harsh voice, trying to mask his growing desperation. "Let me depart, and no more blood needs be shed."

  The Beggar Priest opened his mouth to speak, but the Hunter cut him off.

  "You may be charged to hunt me and my kind, but this night, I am not your enemy. He is the one you should be hunting!" Soulhunger's tip pointed at Garanis. "He is the real threat you face."

  Garanis sneered.

  Father Pietus arched a bushy eyebrow. "What are you talking about? Garanis is a good man—"

  "He is no man! He is Abiarazi."

  The word had no effect on the Knight Apprentices, but Father Pietus looked physically ill.

  Garanis' jaw dropped. "W-What are you doing? Has he sent you? Tell him I need more time! The Sage must be patient."

  The man's babbling made no sense to the Hunter. But that name! Toramin had also mentioned it. Who in the twisted hell is the Sage?

  "What is he talking about, Garanis?" Father Pietus' eyes remained fixed on the Hunter.

  Garanis swallowed, but when he spoke, his voice held no trace of insanity. "He is mad, Father, touched by the Illusionist!" Fire burned in his eyes.

  The Hunter stepped forward. "I speak the truth, Father. If you have any doubts, have him take up the knight's iron blade. He will—"

  "Father Pietus," snapped Garanis, "we must be off."

  The old priest turned to study the Illusionist Cleric. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  "We have much to do this night," Garanis said. His voice—once tinged with madness—now rang out clear and strong. His hands traced elaborate patterns in the air, arresting the priests' attention.

  Father Pietus nodded. "Of course, Garanis." His eyes seemed to follow Garanis’ fingers, and confusion clouded his features.

  Garanis addressed the Hunter without releasing the priest's gaze. "If the Sage has sent you, it means he is growing impatient. But I am not yet ready."

  The Hunter had no idea what the demon was talking about. "Who is this 'Sage'? And why would he have sent me?"

  "If he didn't send you…" Garanis' head snapped toward him. "Impossible!"

  The guards looked puzzled as well. A few exchanged glances, staring back at the Illusionist Cleric and Father Pietus.

  The Hunter clutched Soulhunger tighter. "Whatever is going on, I want no part of it. Leave me to depart in peace, and it will be as if we had never met." He gritted his teeth to push back the dagger's demands for blood. The demon in his mind remained uncharacteristically silent.

  Garanis studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. "No. You lie! You will return to the Sage and tell him I have failed, all so you can take control of Malandria!"

  The Hunter's mind raced. Something was happening, something much bigger than he understood. And why weren't the knights reacting? Didn't they find Garanis' words strange? Why were their eyes dull and clouded?

  He had no time to contemplate it. A searing pain in the Hunter's arm pulled his thoughts away. Fire raced up and down his arm. Those muscles not taut with agony felt numb, lifeless.

  Keeper! His fingers had started to blacken. He passed Soulhunger to his right hand. He had to get out now, had to find a way to purge the iron from his veins.

  Garanis sneered at him. "You say you want to leave in peace, Bucelarii. I say to you: prove it. Lay down your weapons, and we will let you depart." He pointed at Soulhunger, a grin of triumph on his face. "That must remain."

  Indecision warred within the Hunter. He felt tempted to leave the blade—it would bring him nothing but grief so long as Cambionari remained alive to hunt him down.

  His inner demon's whispers filled his thoughts. “Can you truly leave Soulhunger again? After all you have just endured to recover it? Would you give up your heritage, just to spare the lives of a few priests? All of whom are trying to kill you.”

  Soulhunger twitched in his hands, aching to drink the blood of the men arrayed against him. He fought back its desires, but it threatened to overwhelm him.

  “Look at them. Terrified of you, one and all.”

  The Hunter searched the faces of the guards before him. Though they showed no outward sign, he could smell the acrid stench of their fear. Nervous sweat trickled down more than one forehead.

  “It would be so easy. You need suffer no longer.”

  A fresh wave of pain coursed through his arm. The Hunter looked at the blackened fingers of his left hand. He felt nothing below the elbow, but the fire in his shoulder had now spread to his chest. He was running out of time.

  “If you leave Soulhunger, you will surely die.”

  As much as he wanted to forsake it, he couldn't deny the bond he shared. Indeed, if The Numeniad had been true, the blade bore the soul of one of his ancestors. It was more than just a weapon, or even a prized possession; it was a part of him.

  And what would the demon do with it? What horrors would the thing masquerading as Garanis wreak if Soulhunger fell into its clutches? The Hunter remembered all too clearly that night in the Serenii tunnels beneath Voramis. What the First had tried to do, he could not allow it to happen again.

  Slowly, he shook his head. "I cannot leave Soulhunger. But I give you my word that I will depart without further bloodshed. I will—"

  Garanis cut him off. "The blade stays with me!" He eyed Soulhunger with naked desire written in his eyes.

  The Hunter clutched it tighter. He had seen that lust in the eyes of the First and the Third.

  The Illusionist Cleric waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "I will have the dagger, Bucelarii. Your life means nothing!" Flesh and bone swam in a sickening wave, revealing the creature beneath. None of the guards saw it, but the sight twisted the Hunter's stomach.

  The demon shows his true face. The Abiarazi are ever quick to dispose of their enemies.

  "Come and take it, then."

  Garanis turned to the old priest. "Father Pietus, have your men deal with this creature!"

  Father Pietus stared at the Illusionist Cleric with a dull expression, but something flickered behind his eyes. "Peace, Garanis. He will—"

  Garanis screamed. "Kill him! You have no idea what he is capable of!"

  The Hunter snarled. "But they know what you are capable of, Abiarazi! If not, they can always pay a visit to the labyrinth beneath the Black Manor. There they will see the handiwork of your kind."

  Garanis' forehead wrinkled. "The Black—?"

  The Hunter laughed, a coarse, harsh sound. "Toramin sends his regards, you monster. You will see him in your forgotten hell soon enough!"

  Father Pietus turned to stare at the man, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. "Garanis—"

  The Illusionist Cleric cut him off. "Be silent, you fool! Can't you see what he is doing?"

  Father Pietus' jaw dropped. "Garanis! What is the meaning of this? What are you—"

  Garanis snarled a single word. "Impetus."

  Immediately, Father Pietus seemed to go into a trance. His features sagged, his eyes glazed over, and he stared at the Illusionist Cleric with a listless expression.

  "Now tell them, Father," Garanis hissed. Spittle flew from his mouth. "Tell them to kill the bastard thief!"

  Father Pietus obeyed. "Kill the bastard thief," he repeated in a mechanical voice.

  The Knight Apprentices hesitated, staring at Father Pietus and Garanis. One opened his mouth to speak, but Garanis cut him off with a shout.

  "You heard him! Kill the damned thing!"

  For a moment, tense silence filled the hall. None of the men so much as moved a muscle, their features slack, their eyes dull.

  Then, as one, with a shout of rage and a cry of "For Lord Knight Moradiss!", they attacked.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Hunter sensed, rather than heard, the men behind him. He leapt to the side to avoid a sword blow aimed at his head, raised Soulhunger to ward off a thrust meant to pierce his chest, and ducked under a slashing cut.

  He was surrounded by at least a half-dozen Knight Apprentices, hemmed in by a wall of flashing steel, but that worked out to his advantage. They had to avoid striking one another. The Hunter had no need for caution. With enemies all around, he could lash out at will.

  A nose crunched beneath his fist. Unbearable agony raced up his left arm, and his vision blurred. He gritted his teeth and channeled the pain into his next blow—a kick that shattered an upraised arm. The guard dropped to the floor with a cry, iron sword slipping from nerveless fingers.

  The Hunter dodged a clumsy attack from a heavy-set guard and slammed Soulhunger's pommel into his temple. Seizing the wobbling man, he shoved him hard into the Knight Apprentice beside him. The pair went down in a tangled heap of flailing limbs and weapons, and the Hunter whirled to face his next opponent.

  Cold steel carved a long slash down his back. A sword stroke glanced off the side of his head, eliciting a grunt of pain. He charged the two men, at the last moment changing course to attack the guard to his right. Caught flat-footed, the Knight Apprentice had no time to react. The Hunter's fist caught him under the jaw.

  In a blur of motion, the Hunter passed Soulhunger to his left hand and wrenched the sword from the stunned guard. He whirled and lashed out at the trio of guards behind him. They held their ground for only a moment, then fell back beneath the Hunter's vicious flurry.

  His inner demon filled his thoughts with its incessant demands. Soulhunger, sensing blood, convulsed in his hand, echoing the cries for death.

  Before the Hunter realized it, his sword had darted in and out twice. Two guards fell to the floor, crimson gushing from their necks. The one on his right hadn't thought to draw the iron dagger on his belt. The Hunter watched the two men slump to the floor. He hadn't meant to kill them.

  The voice in his mind shouted in glee. “Die, you bastards!”

  Soulhunger and his inner demon joined their voices in a cry for blood that threatened to overwhelm his sanity. A crimson fog washed over him, drowning out reason. He tried to thrust away the killing frenzy, but a fresh wave of attackers stole conscious thought from his mind. Instinct alone saved him from being carved to pieces a dozen times. He laid about him with his stolen sword, but only to push back the Knight Apprentices long enough to find an opening for a non-lethal blow.

  Desperation and rage filtered through the swirling maelstrom of his thoughts. “They're going to kill you! Kill them first, else face certain death!”

  Soulhunger added its demands. Kill! Feed me!

  He struggled to push back the fury building in his mind, but he was growing desperate. His grip on Soulhunger weakened with every heartbeat. His movements grew lethargic as the iron seeped into his limbs, filling them with fire. He had lost all sensation in his left arm. Even his sword arm moved more slowly.

  The demon taunted him. “Then you will die! You will die, as your kind has before you—on the end of a Cambionari blade. The memory of the Hunter, lost forever.”

  More and more Knight Apprentices battered aside his weapons or slipped through his guard. Their unrelenting blades carved furrows in his body. Blood streamed from dozens of wounds—many serious—and he grew weaker with every passing second.

  Yet the pain of his body dimmed in comparison to the pressure mounting in his head. His lungs burned, his chest threatening to explode. His inner demon screamed every time he twisted his sword to avoid slicing open a guard's throat. Soulhunger's incessant demands added to the chaos in his mind.

  If only he could find a gap in the ranks to make his escape…

  "It ends here, youngling." Garanis’ taunting voice pierced the echoing din of clashing steel. "Here dies the last of the Bucelarii."

  Rage burned in the Hunter's chest. His eye flashed toward the Illusionist Cleric—no, the demon—mocking him.

  No! The word echoed through the Hunter's mind. I refuse to die here. Not before I—

  Something cold and hard punched through his chest. Gasping, he stared down at the tip of the sword. A dark stain spread down the front of his shirt. He struggled to breathe through the fluid filling his lungs, and coughed up another glob of crimson. He tasted the metallic tang of blood—his blood.

  The blade pulled free of his body, leaving agony in its place. His legs sagged, but he refused to fall. Instead, he staggered backward, stubbornly trying to defend himself. The sword suddenly felt too heavy to lift.

  His heel struck something hard and he toppled, landing with a splash in something wet. His nostrils detected the tang of copper, tainted by the stench of iron.

  Lord Moradiss' blood.

  For a moment, he felt nothing. He floated in a haze, the world devoid of sensation save for the chill spreading through his limbs. Then came the pain, an exquisite agony unlike anything he'd experienced. A million red hot needles bored into his back, legs, and arms. The overwhelming pain rendered him helpless. Blood soaked into his clothing, setting his skin ablaze. He could do nothing but lie there, his body twitching in the puddle of gore. Screams echoed through the House of Need—his screams. Lord Moradiss would have his revenge.

  Soulhunger's cries pierced the numbing agony. Kill!

  The voice of the demon in his mind mocked him. “And now you die. Here lies the Hunter, undone by his own weakness. All to spare a few human lives.”Something within him protested. I am not weak!

  Fear coursed through him. He didn't want to die, not like this.

  Another part of him burst free of its chains: the animal side, the instinct that had kept him alive in the Chasm of the Lost.

  Live, it told him. Survive, no matter what the cost!

  He wanted to protest, but the rational, human part of him was dying, soaked in a pool of blood.

  You must live! You did not escape the Chasm of the Lost to die here. You are meant for more than this. Your story does not end here.

  He tried to move, but his body refused to obey his commands.

  You know what you must do.

  Soulhunger's voice echoed in his thoughts. Yes, he knew what had to be done, but could he pay the price? If he gave in to the blade's demands, he could very well bring about the end of the world.

  The price of life is always high. But that is ever the Way of the Hunt.

  A weight of sorrow settled on the Hunter. He didn't need to feel the scars on his chest to know they were there. Five vertical lines etched into his flesh, alongside the jagged, raw mark of Toramin's demise. The stain of death, forever branding him a killer.

  For a time, he had been free of the scars. He'd been given a chance to start again. In a moment of rage and bloodlust, he'd yielded to the demon's demands and the dagger's thirst for death. But he'd had no choice.

  You do what you must. It is the way of the world: kill, or be killed.

  For one long moment, the world was still. He drifted in a haze of pain, everything around him a blur, but he didn't care. The voices in his head had fallen silent. They knew what he would do.

  I do what I must to survive. But not because I want to.

  With that realization came peace. He had no desire to kill; he did it out of necessity. To silence the voices filling his mind. To stop creatures like Garanis, Toramin, and the First from doing to the world what they had done so many centuries ago. To save those who needed his protection.

  If death is the means through which to achieve that end, so be it.

  Somehow, he found the strength to sit up. He leaned on quivering arms and gathered his knees beneath him. He faced certain death once again, but it would not end here. He gave in to the demon's incessant screaming. He had no other choice if he wanted to live. A red haze filled his vision as the animal within him roared to life.

  Slowly, every part of his body shrieking, he climbed to his feet. He knew he should feel pain, but he was beyond feeling. Only maddening blood rage filled him.

  The words tore from his throat. "Come on, then! Do your worst."

  The Knight Apprentices attacked. Too weak to defend himself, the Hunter gave himself over to the demon within.

  The world moved in slow motion. The Hunter watched from behind his own eye.

  Soulhunger deflected a blade thrust at his throat and plunged into the man's chest. Blood sprayed as the Hunter ripped it free and turned its razor edge on the guard's companion. He carved through the guards like a whirlwind through a field of wheat.

  The human part of the Hunter cried out for him to stop, but he paid it no heed. Only the animal and the demon filled his thoughts. The pain of the iron flooding his body numbed his mind to reason. He had only one thought: kill.

  The demon's triumphant laughter echoed in his mind. “I am an unstoppable force of destruction. I am inexorable. I am death!”

  Distant cries of terror and agony reached his ears, but he heard only Soulhunger's screams of pleasure as the dagger fed. His body moved of its own accord, a perfect creation of destruction and chaos. Death danced with him in the House of Need. The Keeper reached out pale fingers to touch every man who raised a sword against the Hunter.

  Then there were no more to kill. The Hunter stood alone in the midst of an abattoir, breathing hard, every muscle in his body aching. Blood dripped from his weapons, his clothing, his hair, his face, stinging his healed left eye. The gem set into Soulhunger's hilt blazed with a light that outshone the lamps set into the wall. His world filled with the crimson glory of death.

  He felt no pain. His bloodstained cloak had fallen off in the scuffle, and the blades of the Knight Apprentices had carved his clothes to ribbons.

  The demon begged for more. “Find every accursed priest in the building and kill them all!”

  No. The Hunter clenched his fists and gritted his teeth against the voice. He would not give in to the demon; he had had enough. He was in control of his actions.

  I did what I must to survive. There is only one more life to take tonight. The demon's rage burned in his mind, but he pushed it back. His chest felt filled with molten lead; he didn't need to touch the flesh to feel the angry scars etched there.

 

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