Excerpt: Blade of the Destroyer
As part of our 2015 eFestival of Words Halloween Party, we are sharing excerpts from some horror, dark fantasy, and Halloween-themed books. Enjoy this excerpt of Blade of the Destroyer by author Andy Peloquin.
About the book
The Hunter of Voramis is the perfect assassin:
Ruthless, Unrelenting, Immortal.
Yet he is haunted by lost memories, bonded to a cursed dagger that feeds him power yet denies him peace of mind. Within him rages an unquenchable need for blood and death. When he accepts a contract to avenge the stolen innocence of a girl, the Hunter becomes the prey. The death of a seemingly random target sends him hurtling toward destruction, yet could his path also lead to the truth of his buried past?
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Excerpt
Eyes the color of night watched Lord Damuria’s body plunge to the forest floor. The wind seemed to hold the nobleman suspended in the air for a moment before slowly releasing his body to the grasping clutches of gravity.
The hard, dark face of the Hunter showed no sign of pity as the body landed with a loud thud at his feet.
It is no more than he deserves, he thought.
The Hunter had no idea why Lord Damuria deserved death, nor did he care. He had been paid, and that was all that mattered.
He felt no remorse as he watched the broken man fight for his last pitiful, agonizing breaths. Not given to mercy, the fear in Lord Damuria’s eyes meant nothing.
Soot and mud stained the nobleman’s robes, his bright crimson blood contrasting sharply with the white blond of his hair. Where Damuria’s hands had once been, only stumps remained. The Hunter’s broad-headed crossbow bolts had sliced through bone and tendon, severing the man’s hands at the wrist. The bolts were buried deep in the stone of the cliff, still stained with Damuria’s blood.
The nobleman struggled to speak, made difficult by the quarrel puncturing his lungs. The Hunter bent close to hear the whispered words.
“Do…it…you…bastard.” Lord Damuria’s eyes closed as he awaited the inevitable.
The Hunter moved with precision and speed, drawing the dagger from his belt and plunging it deep into the dying man’s chest. The thrust snapped ribs and sliced through smooth heart muscle. Damuria’s screams echoed in the silence of the forest, an eerie sound tinged with desperation and terror.
The screams of his victims always remained with him long after their deaths. They played over and over in his mind, accompanied by the vision of their dying faces.
Bright ruby light flared from the gem set in the hilt of the dagger, and power rushed through the blade. The Hunter gasped as the voice in his mind screamed its pleasure. The familiar pain flared along his back, but he was accustomed to it. This pain was the price he paid for the power.
This, he thought, reveling in the sensations flooding through him, this is why I do it.
A final shudder ran through the broken body before him, and the cries of agony faded into a gentle whisper. “Fucking…Hunter…” Damuria cursed with his dying breath.
Silence reigned in the forest, broken only by the sound of the wind whistling through the trees. After the thrill of the chase, the stillness hung like a weight on the Hunter’s mind. A tremble ran through his calloused hands as he gripped the worn hilt of the knife embedded in his latest kill, his long, lean muscles bulging in his effort to wrench the blade free. The knife was caught on the dead man’s ribs, and pulling it free required a surprising amount of effort, even with the Hunter’s immense strength.
Blood glistened on the blade, and the Hunter watched it soak into the steel. The bright red light leaking from the gem slowly dimmed, and the stone became translucent and colorless once more.
The dagger has been sated. He no longer heard the insistent voice in his head urging him to kill. It will remain silent, for now.
The Hunter sheathed his blade and stooped to kneel over the lifeless form of his prey. Placing one hand on the man’s head and the other on his now-silent heart, he bowed his head.
“May the Long Keeper take your body; your soul is forfeit,” the Hunter intoned. His voice was rich and deep with a hint of gravel. A hard voice, reciting a final ritual for fallen prey. A ritual from a past he could no longer remember.
He stared down at the broken body lying at his feet.
This one was surprisingly difficult to track down.
Green blood now oozed from the dead man’s severed wrists, staining the forest canopy a sickly color. The scent of poisoned flesh hung in the air—the effects of the venomous argam with which he coated the bolts, the Hunter knew.
A fit creature for the hunt. A sense of satisfaction flooded him. Another contract fulfilled.
He had killed all manner of men. Big men, little men, strong men, weak men. Cowards, and brave fools. Heroes, villains, rich men, beggars.
He was the Hunter, and all men were his prey.
Climbing to his feet, the Hunter turned his back on the corpse and strode toward the cliff. He climbed the craggy face with ease, taking care to avoid the blood-soaked rocks marking Lord Damuria’s fatal path. His powerful muscles made the ascent easy, and he soon stood at the top of the cliff, showing no signs of exhaustion.
The Hunter stared at the city sprawling across the plain and along the ocean’s edge.
Voramis. My city.
Thick walls towered high, the massive city gates open to allow the traffic to flow at a steady pace. Temple spires reached for the clouds, while the blocky Palace of Justice watched over the sprawling metropolis in its shadow. Upper Voramis, jewel of the city, straddled the hilltop upon which the city had been built, looking down protectively over Lower Voramis. To the west, the cloudy blue waters of the Endless Sea stretched farther than the eye could see.
The Hunter studied the position of the sun—already well into its descent toward the horizon. Night would have fallen by the time he reached Voramis. It was always easier to move through the city streets after dark; he wouldn’t attract undue attention—either from the Heresiarchs guarding the city gate, or from the gangs of thugs roaming the Merchant’s Quarter.
With a sigh for his road-weary feet, the Hunter began the long walk back to the city.
* * *
The streets of Lower Voramis came alive after dark. Light spilled from the numerous brothels, taverns, and gambling houses, along Reveler’s Lane, illuminating Voramis’ busiest and least-reputable thoroughfare. The Blackfall District served as the hub for every vice and crime created by men and women with more money than good sense.
Burly men wearing the uniform of hired muscle guarded the doors to their establishments with fierce pride, their watchful eyes never straying from the drunken revelers stumbling between alehouses and whorehouses in various stages of inebriation.
The working classes inhabiting the run-down districts spent their meager coin on drink, gambling, and cheap whores. Unwary visitors to the district often woke up with an aching head and an empty purse, not to mention a host of persistent diseases on body parts better kept free of infection.
The Hunter hated the Blackfall District, but his home in the Beggar’s Quarter lay on the far side of the city, leaving him no choice but to traverse it.
He groaned at his untimely ill-fortune as three drunken men stumbled from The Cock and Bull—an inn known for cheap beer and cheaper women—belting out a bawdy tune. Two of the lushes clung to each other for support, barely managing to keep their feet as they wended their unsteady way down Reveler’s Lane.
The third, a man with a forehead like a rock and a nose flattened by too many beatings, crushed his pewter tankard in his massive hands. His arms looked hewn from rock—a very hairy, very tattooed rock.
“And then me love, a lovely lass,” sang the two drunkards, their voices rising above the din of revelry around them, “she kissed me face, I poked her-“
“Won’t you two shut the frozen hell up?” their companion muttered. “Drunken idiots, ya can’t even get the song right!”
“You’re jush jealoush becaush ya don’t have me fine singin’ voice, Rifter,” one slurred at him.
“Oh, get stuffed, Emon,” Rifter said with a glare. “If ya weren’t so Minstrel-damned drunk, you’d know that ya sound worse than a pair of ruttin’ cats in a laundry press.”
“And that’sh why yer jealoush, Rifter,” said the second drunk. “Your shingin’ shoundsh like it’s coming from the Watcher’sh own arsehole.”
“Which is why, Eld,” Rifter snarled, “I know to keep me mouth shut instead of singin’ at the top of me lungs when I’ve had too many ales.”
Something about the tension in Rifter’s shoulders, coupled with the flattened nose, shouted of the man’s desire to fight. In an effort to avoid a confrontation, the Hunter slipped down a darkened side street and into an alley.
The Bloody Hand kept discipline in the Blackfall District, but they failed to maintain even a moderate standard of cleanliness. Just one street away from Reveler’s Lane, the stench of waste was such that the Hunter had to cover his face with his cloak to quell the urge to add the contents of his stomach to the filth. Men and women lay scattered in varying states of drunkenness and drug-induced stupor, many of them wallowing in their own filth. Debris and litter clogged the gutters, the refuse spilling out into the street.
Picking up his pace, the Hunter hurried through the streets, keeping his breaths shallow to avoid filling his lungs with the noxious air.
“Evenin’, gents.” A woman’s voice drifted from around the next corner. “Can I offer either of ye a good time? Only four bits, and I promise I’ll be gentle with ye.”
“What’sh a pretty lady like you,” a male voice hiccupped in her direction, “doin’ in a place like this?”
The Hunter’s heart sank as he recognized the voice of one of the three drunks he had tried to avoid. He was faced with a choice: backtrack and go around the men to avoid a fight, or walk past them and hope his ragged cloak would deflect their attention. With a shrug of resignation, he hunched his shoulders, bent his back, and began to shuffle forward, mimicking the slow gait of a tired old beggar.
The drunken attempts of the two lushes to accept the painted doxy’s invitation seemed to have the opposite of the desired effect.
The whore stared at them for a moment, as if weighing up her options, before waving them away dismissively. “The pair of ye’s looks too drunk to handle me. As for you, big boy,” she said, staring up at Rifter, “I reckon ye’ll split me right in half. And that’s with me on top, eh?” She patted his arm provocatively, but he pulled it away.
“I’m not much in the mood for company tonight, back-bedder,” Rifter spat.
Her face contorted, showing clear distaste at his words. “Well, I’ve no mind to bed any of ye,” she protested. “I’m sure it won’t be hard to find men of a far better stock than you sorry lot, anyways.”
Rifter’s expression darkened and he ground his teeth as he watched her mince away. He clenched his fists, his massive arms flexing in anger.
His gaze fell on the Hunter shambling toward him and a malicious gleam flashed in the man’s eyes. The other two men saw the Hunter as well, and a grin creased the face of the one called Emon.
“Let’s see if we can’t have a bit of fun, eh, Rifter?” he asked, chuckling softly as he pointed down the darkened alley in the direction of the Hunter.
Eld released his hold on Emon, and stumbled towards the harmless looking beggar.
“I say there, friend,” he said, struggling to imitate a member of the upper class, “it’s time for you to move out of the street and make way for your betters.” Emon clapped his hands on the Hunter’s shoulders and shoved hard.
The Hunter had no intention of allowing himself to be pushed into the filth of the gutter. From it rose the strong, repulsive odor of human refuse mixed with the gods-knew-what else, resulting in the type of stench that seeped into the pores of a man’s skin and reeked even after weeks of regular washing. He stood firm, and the drunken man sprawled into the muck.
Emon gagged as his mouth filled with the slime, and he retched—adding his vomit to the ordure staining his face. His companion, no less drunk, stared down at his friend for a long moment before reacting.
“Say there,” Eld protested, “that’s down…down…right rude of you, friend, to knock Emon over.”
The Hunter attempted to step around Emon’s fallen form, but Eld moved to block his way. Opting for retreat, the Hunter found the hulking form of Rifter cutting off his escape.
“My friend speaks the truth, wretch,” Rifter growled, his breath heavy with alcohol and anger. “You owe him an apology, and an imperial for his clothing.”
Emon’s clothing was clearly worth far less than an imperial—an entire year’s wages for a day laborer—but the Hunter could see Rifter was spoiling for a fight.
“Apologies, good sirs,” said the Hunter, adopting the quavering voice of an old man. “It was clumsy of me not to see where you were walking. Alas, I have naught to give you.”
“Nothing, beggar?” Rifter’s voice had a hard edge.
“No, good masters. A poor man like myself can barely scrounge together two bits, much less a whole imperial. Please, I beg you to let me pass, and the gods will bless you for your generosity.”
The Hunter attempted to move once more, but Rifter’s hand on his arm was firm, holding him in place. “If you don’t have an imperial to spare, beggar,” the big brute said, “we’ll just have to take what you have and be content.”
Rifter reached out to pull back the hood, but the Hunter twisted away, his speed clearly surprising the hulking Rifter. The big man had still managed to close his sausage fingers around the Hunter’s robe, ripping it from the beggar’s shoulders.
“Let’s see what this has to…” Rifter’s words trailed off in disbelief.
The Hunter straightened, his eyes now level with his enemy. Rifter frowned as he took in the features of the handsome face of the Hunter; the sculpted nose, high cheekbones, and strong chin were not the features of a penniless beggar. His dark hair, its color near-black in the dark alley, was pulled back into a tight tail. His unadorned leather armor, clearly worn and well-used, revealed a lean, lithe form.
The Hunter’s eyes, a color somehow darker than the starless night above, held no fear. He glared at Rifter with quiet calm, taking in the huge man’s features, and his expression showed nothing but contempt and resignation.
Rifter’s eyes dropped to the sword at the Hunter’s waist, and the Hunter knew the man’s dull mind was struggling to keep up. Only Heresiarchs were permitted to carry swords, but the Hunter cared little for the laws of the city.
“Hey,” shouted Emon from the ground, spitting foul muck and wiping black slime from his mouth, “he’s not old! What’s going on here?”
“Last chance,” the Hunter said in a voice filled with menace. “Walk away.”
In their befuddled state, Emon and Eld tried to comprehend the gravity of their situation. The Hunter saw the momentary flash of good sense in Rifter’s eyes, as his brain screamed for him to run away, but the anger in the big man caused it to go unheeded.
“Sorry, boyo,” Rifter said, lapsing back into his usual brogue. He bared his teeth in an evil grin and balled his enormous fists. “You’ve insulted me mates, and now it turns out you’ve got somethin’ valuable beneath that ratty cloak of yours.”
“You’ve been warned,” replied the Hunter, “and now you’ve seen my face.”
He stepped back as the foul-smelling Emon struggled to his feet. His hand dropped to the sword hanging from his belt, and he stared down into the drunk’s befuddled eyes.
“That’s mine now!” Emon stumbled forward and reached for the sword.
The Hunter stepped forward, the blade seeming to appear in his hand.
It took Emon’s befuddled brain a few seconds to register the fact that his hands were no longer attached to his arms. He didn’t even scream as he fell to his knees, blood spurting from the stumps of his forearms.
“Emon!” Eld lashed out with a wild swing at the Hunter, who took a single contemptuous step back to avoid the drunken blow.
Eld stumbled off balance, and before he could recover, the Hunter slammed the hard edge of his calloused hand into the soft tissue of Eld’s throat. Eld fell to the floor, clutching at his ruined windpipe.
Rifter had not moved in the seconds it had taken the Hunter to dispatch his friends. He remained rooted to the spot, eyes wide. A flicker of fear flashed through his befuddled mind.
“Two down, riend,” the Hunter rasped, his depthless eyes burning as he stared at Rifter.
The harsh voice wrenched the big man from his stupor, and rage bubbled in his chest. “You cunt-eating bastard,” Rifter growled at the dark figure. “You’ll pay for that.”
He carried no sword, but the long dagger he drew from his coat was razor sharp. His huge fists dwarfed the blade, and he wielded it with familiar ease.
Iron.
The Hunter’s eyes flicked to the dagger in Rifter’s hands for a second, and something akin to hesitance flashed across his dark, handsome face.
“Now let’s see how you fare, you dim-witted fuck,” Rifter said, his voice low and filled with rage.
The Hunter’s burning black eyes stared back at Rifter, locking gazes with the big man. Fear flashed through Rifter once more. He saw death written in the Hunter’s expression.
Rifter stepped forward, slashing with short, quick strokes meant to slice open the Hunter’s intestines. His attacks lacked sophistication, yet there was brute force behind the blade’s cruel edge.
The Hunter avoided Rifter’s attacks with ease, not even bothering to block the blows. A dagger appeared in his free hand. Longer than Rifter’s weapon, the blade had a single razor edge and a slight curve—perfect for both stabbing and slicing. A small, transparent gem was set into its hilt, and the stone caught the light of the moon in its facets. Something about it made Rifter hesitate for a moment, but that was more than enough.
In the time it took Rifter to swallow his terror, the Hunter’s sword cut him to shreds. Blood flowed from a gash in the big man’s neck, and he fell to his knees, grasping at the coils of his intestines spilling onto the streets.
“I warned you, friend,” the Hunter snarled, his voice quiet, “but you refused to heed. You are not my prey this night, yet you made the mistake of seeing my true face.”
He held up the wicked-looking dagger. “Your life is forfeit, but I leave your soul to the Long Keeper’s embrace.”
The Hunter slid the blade smoothly into its sheath and gripped his sword with both hands. Moonlight glinted off the flashing steel as the Hunter struck. Rifter’s blocky head fell from its place on the man’s sloped shoulders, landing in the muck alongside Emon’s bleeding body. His huge, decapitated torso slumped to the ground next to the convulsing figure of Eld, who somehow still lived, fighting for each breath.
The Hunter surveyed his handiwork without remorse. He stooped over the dying man, keeping well away from the iron dagger gripped uselessly in Rifter’s hand.
“May the Long Keeper have mercy on your soul, friend,” the Hunter whispered in the man’s ears.
Eld’s eyes closed, and his struggles weakened. The dying man voiced no protest as the Hunter wiped his long blade on his clothes.
Shaking his head in disgust at the foolishness of these men who had thought to accost him, the Hunter stooped, recovered his cloak, and donned the disguise of the old man once more.
With slow, measured steps, he shambled away, leaving death in the street behind him.
* * *
The Hunter tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep. His blankets suffocated him, but chills shook his body when he kicked them off. He had no idea how much time had passed since he had climbed into bed. It could have been hours or days, but he cared little. The musty scent of unwashed bed linens hung thick in the air, ignored.
While he hunted, the thrill of the kill sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. He could stalk his quarry for days on end without sleep or food, as the inner voice urged him on.
Disgusting mortals, it would whisper in his thoughts. So weak, so easy to kill.
But once his prey lay dead at his feet, the absence of the voice echoed like a void in his head. The death of Lord Damuria had silenced the insistent chatter, filling his head with a numb, dull ache that pressed inward and muddled his thoughts.
The end of the hunt brought on a weariness that days of sleep could not ease. He would lie in bed, staring up into the darkness or idly watching the movement of the sun through his windows. He could sleep for days and wake up exhausted, or he wouldn’t sleep at all. He had no appetite; the power of the kill fed his body, yet it felt as if every death ate away another piece of his soul.
He tried to ignore the gnawing in his chest. His blade, Soulhunger, remained silent, the kill temporarily sating its bloodlust. He hated the silence more than anything else in the world. In these moments, his mind would replay memories of the hunt. The faces of his victims would float before him, their empty eyes accusing.
He absentmindedly watched dust motes dance in the rays of sun filtering through his window, all the while reliving the gruesome deaths at his hands.
As their lifeless faces danced through his head, he drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, his thoughts filled with hate. He could discern irrationality from logic, but at times like this, he didn’t care. He despised every single one of the humans around him, and the voice in his head echoed his ire. He could ignore the voice and its hatred of humanity when he surrounded himself with others, but when alone, the hate bubbled within him like a cauldron of vitriol.
Hours passed, time moving at a snail’s pace yet flashing by in the space of a few heartbeats.
The light filtering through his window weakened, doing little to illuminate his bedroom. Peering outside, he saw the sun had begun its plunge into the Endless Sea. The ache in his head subsided, replaced by the voice whispering its renewed bloodlust.
Feed me, it said. Fighting the profound weariness tempting him to remain in bed, he forced himself to climb to his feet. He shook his head to clear the languor, to push back the gloom filling his mind.
It is enough. Time to get up.
His clothes lay piled on the floor, and he sorted through them in search of an unsoiled garment.
Let’s see what new victims await me in this new day, what sport I can find to distract myself from this aching.
