Fire and agony filled the Hunter's world.
So this is what it means to be helpless. He was dying, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.
Blood and soot stained his face, hands, and tunic. His lungs burned from the thick, dark smoke that billowed into the night sky and blotted out the stars. Horses screamed in the near distance, the terror in their voices echoed by the cries of the men, women, and children around him. The clash of steel rang out above the roaring blaze that consumed the camp.
"Bring them down, lads!" A strong voice cut through the chaos of the night. Sirkar Jeroen, rallying what few men remained to fight the bandits. His half-dozen caravan guards would be outnumbered, even with the knights to bolster their ranks. Yet that didn't stop the caravan master from fighting back. He had to protect his retinue at all costs.
A gust of wind carried the smell of burning flesh, hair, and cloth. The Hunter groaned as a fresh wave of torment washed through his torso. He could no longer feel his legs. Not even the crushing weight of the wagon atop him registered through the pain. Immortality or no, he would succumb to the effects of the iron-tipped arrows in his chest and shoulder. The metal was poisonous to his kind; it would kill him in minutes.
I…I can't!
The twinkling stars above danced in time with the flames engulfing the nearby wagons.
The wagons!
He’d been so close. Hailen had been just fifty paces away, near enough that the Hunter could see the fear in his little face, see the tracks his tears made down his soot-darkened cheeks. He hadn’t been there when the boy needed him most. And now, Hailen would die like so many others had tonight.
It can't be. I won't believe it.
“Look around you, Bucelarii. Trapped, dying, nothing to save you but that which you reject.” The Hunter hated the voice that whispered in his head. It belonged to his inner demon, the thing that drove him to kill. The creature within him demanded death, heedless of who suffered at his hands.
A gentle throbbing filled his mind. Soulhunger, hanging at his hip, begged to feed. The dagger ached for blood; it would not give him peace until it had been satiated.
“To break free, Bucelarii, you must kill!”
As much as the Hunter hated it, the demon was right. He'd spent weeks fighting to keep the blade's voice at bay, struggling to take only those few lives he had been forced to. But now he needed Soulhunger's aid, needed the power it would provide when it consumed a soul. For Hailen’s sake, he had no choice.
The arrow in his right shoulder sent waves of icy fire radiating down his arm, and a scream tore from his lips as he reached for Soulhunger. His fingers, numb from the iron's poison, fumbled at the dagger's hilt. Pulling the blade free required his last reserves of strength. The pain was a small price to pay to save the boy.
"Hardwell," a weak, gurgling voice called out.
Beside him, Bristan slumped against the overturned wagon, just out of arm's reach. Faint traces of the man's scent—the lard in his hair, the hemp of his clothes, and the musky odor of a working man—penetrated the smoke. "Hardwell…are you…alive?"
"Y-Yes, Bristan," the Hunter said. His tongue was thick, as if encased in clay.
Bristan's legs, splayed out on the ground, refused to move. He stared at them stupidly, with dull, unfeeling surprise written on his face. His tattooed hands clutched the loops of intestine spilling from the gaping slash across his belly, and suffering contorted his fierce, bearded face. The reek of ordure and blood hung thick in the air.
"C…Come here, Bristan." The Hunter swallowed. His throat was parched, his lungs burning with the reek of smoke.
Bristan tried to move. "Can't," he mumbled. "Gotta hold on until Ayden gets here."
The Hunter tried to speak, but nothing came out. Slim, pale Ayden had fallen in the attack, a lance caving in his bony chest and piercing his heart. The healer would never arrive.
He swallowed again. The numbness spread through him, far too quickly. He needed to move before the iron did its vicious work. He had to live, no matter what.
"Come here, Bristan. Let me take a look at it for you." His words came out slurred, but the wounded Bristan was in no condition to care. The bearded man tried to move again, his gaze unfocused, features slackening. Exhausted from the loss of blood, he slumped—within reach of Soulhunger’s sharp blade.
The Hunter stared into the man's eyes. What choice do I have? It's a necessary sacrifice to save Hailen. He tried to rationalize it to himself. The man’s a heartbeat away from the Long Keeper's embrace!
"I-I'm sorry, Bristan."
Weakened by the iron's poison, he struggled to raise Soulhunger above the dying man's head. He had no strength, but the weight of his arm drove the dagger between Bristan's ribs. Bristan screamed in pain and fear and shock, eyes wide in horror and affixed on the Hunter’s face.
Crimson light emanated from the gemstone set in the dagger's pommel. Soulhunger shrieked in delight as it consumed the man's life force. The blade, still embedded in Bristan's chest, fed on the man's soul and sent waves of power washing through the Hunter.
"May the Watcher have mercy on you,” the Hunter said quietly.
The Hunter spoke the ritual words every time he took a life with Soulhunger, but Bristan was not like the others. He hadn't been paid to kill the man, hadn't even wanted to. He'd had no other choice.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Bristan did not hear him. Could not. With one faint shudder and rattling breath, the guardsman lay still, gazing into the smoky night sky.
The momentary stab of sorrow was drowned beneath a torrent of power, Soulhunger suffusing him with energy and life. The Hunter reveled in the sensation, but in the back of his mind, he felt disgust at his weakness. He had given in. Again.
The demon crowed in triumph. “In the end, you always give in, Bucelarii!”
