The only light in the room fell from the burglar's lantern hanging from a low rafter. In the dim and tight pool of light it cast onto the table, lay something he had hoped in his career to never see. A knife with a red handle inlay with three onyx inlays in the shape of daggers, in a red lacquered sheath similarly adorned. The color cried out the blade's purpose, the crimson nearly screamed of blood to be spilled by whoever would take up the blade. Scorpio had heard the tales and rumors before of these blades, but having chosen to walk within the laws of the lands for the most part until now, he had not dreamed one would be offered to him. He had been granted many times the sapphire blue ones of a hunter granted bounty papers, and once the topaz yellow one of a dead or alive bounty. But to have the red blade, the one of open slaying offered for him to take up, it disturbed his soul.
There was nothing he could say to his mentor or the one sitting deep in the shadows of the farthest corner. The code of the Allegiance of the Blades required that he either accept or refuse the blade and the mission that came with it. Only if he placed his hand upon the hilt could he speak. Until then, or once the blade was covered again with the silvery cloth that his teacher in the arts of hunting men had moved to reveal it. Until one of those events, he was to remain silent, listening to what things the two who brought him this commission would have to say. Not that they had to speak, by those same rules.
The half-elven hunter sat patiently, one of the few things he was good at, other than tracking men. Patience was part of hunting though, so it made sense that he was good at both. Until now, his jobs had been mostly small things, local in nature, and only twice had a blue knife come to him. Once just a year before, when he had been sent into the prairies to the east to find one who had run off with the imperial taxes. The other, early in his career, when he had caught one fleeing the justice of those from the island nation far to the west of his land.
His fear was that nothing would be said until his hand took the blade, for rumors abounded in the guild that this meant the death required would be dirty, dangerous, or very tough to perform. Often all three. They still sat wordlessly, none of the three doing much more than breathing. It was not a game of brinksmanship, but one of allowing him to make the decision. And the longer the silence wore on, the more it weighed on his mind. They wanted him to take this job he could tell, which meant they knew there would be a difficult hunt before the kill. He had years ago passed his teacher in the ways of finding those who fled from justice or retribution.
Finally the one in the corner spoke, in a soft voice that rasped with age or illness, which it was he could not tell. "You have heard of the killings around town of late?"
And this explained it. The blade had no name to it yet, he would have to do what the local guard had not done. Identify the killer, track him, and end the life. All hesitation left the bounty hunter, for those slain had been tortured, slowly over many hands of the sun across the sky. Three of the victims had been children. He placed his left hand on the hilt of the blade, accepting the commission, and sat for an hour just listening to what his teacher and the shadowed one had to say of what they knew and suspected. It was not much more than he had already heard. But what they had to offer that he had not heard set his mind to thinking, as paths and trails formed in his mind, having accepted his first hunt to the death.
When he left, with his mentor, the one in shadows had said one thing that bothered him. "You will have a difficult hunt, Scorpio Kenrai. Look to the offside of your hilt, that is the weight behind your commission. And the scope of your hunt." This was something he had never heard, that the blade acted as his papers. But then, he was just a few years in the Allegiance of Blades, and still was learning all of its ways. He looked at the back, and saw the mark of the Master of the Blades. Not the mark of the Master of Blades of Ankhgor, the land he was in, but the mark that ruled all the blades, in every land. The mark of Jinatozu the Slayer. His blood was chilled at the thought of holding such a blade, for if one of the Knights of Justice caught him with such, he would be known no longer as a bounty hunter, but an assassin. Which would end a lucrative career, if not his life.
The killings had bothered him before, now they were driving his mind to distraction. The only patterns he could make out so far pointed to something he had little experience with so far, a cult perhaps. He sat at the foot of the ruined south wall of the oldest part of Cosarali. It was here that every body had been left, somewhere along the bank of the Tarafa Lake. The lake was really more marsh than lake these days, choked with silt and sand washed in by floods, and often invaded by salt waters from the bay two li east of the sunrise shore. The levee built during the height of the local prefecture's wealth had long ago broken under the assault of waves, allowing them to race to the western shore now. Once fishermen had used the water, now it was abandoned, returning to the mangroves and swamps it had been carved from. In other words, it was the perfect haunt for a killer to live or work in.
The bodies had been mutilated. Small chunks of flesh carved out of them, in many places. That was the cult connection, for it spoke of hiding some mark, as those of the Blood Drinkers did in lands where they had no welcome. That was done to prevent the bodies from keeping marks of the teeth of those who had drank from the body. The reason for his worry was that far to often, at the heart of a Blood Drinker cult was a true Nosferatu, and he was not up to facing such a being. Even with the backing of Allegiance. That the bodies were nearly bloodless, but still had bled, told the healer at the temple of Varew he had spoken to that the victims were still alive when the death blow had come on this bank.
That was a piece of information the one in shadows and Codi, his teacher, had not had. Codi had chided him over the years for his speaking with many people in town. It made him have connections that could interfere in his duties if they became his targets, the old hunter had said. But it let him have so much more in the way of information. Such as this piece. The amount of blood had told them how short of time they had left, the lack of blood on the body from the night before, the tenth so far, had let the healer on inspection of the body to point out things the investigators, and Scorpio's superiors to miss. There had been no blood on the various removed sections of flesh, which said the death blow came here before the killer hid the marks.
Semani, the healer, had also told him that in her opinion, the victims would not have lived for more than half a hand's movement of the stars across the sky. And with as choked as the waters were, that would mean the island or hummock they were tortured on was not that far. The victims had all been left only along the wall, which at this point was only a li long itself. It narrowed the choices of spots for him to search. The guard had marked the walls with splashes of red paint where each body had been found, after the first. Luckily, Scorpio had seen the first body still in place himself, so he knew about where that corpse had been. He spent a hand of the sun's journey squatting on the wall, observing each of the possible spots in the dying lake that he would need to examine, trying to think his way along the channels and open waters that remained as if he were in a pole boat. Only three of the islands came to his mind for now. Maybe half a dozen of the hummocks, but those were too low, and had only grass to hide them from the view. The last four deaths had come during nights when the greater moon was near full, making it easy to see distances to those hummocks, and from the wall, he could see all of those rises.
That left the islands, but there was not enough daylight left to get a pole boat here, and still search them all for clues. And with the acceleration in the pace of the killings, he did not want to face the killer until he had a better idea of who it was he was stalking. Instead, he turned inland, looking towards the town, and the inner walls. The guard would not let him use the wall, for they would not trust him not to be scouting for some larcenous purpose inside the wall. Only four buildings inside the town rose enough to see the islands. Two were the towers of the keep of the prefect, one was the embassy of the Kiltyen, a new building along the south wall of the artisan's ward. The last was outside the walls, and more to the hunter's liking. It was the new timber shed that Mattias the shipwright had raised just last year. There was a crane for lifting the logs and cut beams for the ships from the ships on the dock to the shed, and it had a view of the entire old outer wall.
He walked away, stopping to get a bottle of wine in the artisan's quarter after passing in the south gate. And all the way, he felt that nagging feeling between his shoulder blades, that told him that even as he had started stalking the killer, somehow, the killer had begun to stalk him. No face stood out in the crowd, no hint of color to keep track of was there. But he could feel the eyes of a predator on him.
He worried that his prey knew there was another predator in game. But then, sooner or later, all his prey knew they were being hunted, and all of them were predators in some way.
The eyes that he had felt followed him from the high window, for as long as they could. Behind those orbs, the mind turned over the long survey this one had made of its chosen killing ground. At last, as the stories had told it, the killer's nemesis had arisen. Until now, the killings had been just for the joy of the torture and kill. Now, there would be more than those simple pleasures. Now, the slayer would face another predator, not just prey, destined to be fodder for its kind. The killer sighed in contentment. This was what it had sought all along, a target that would fight back. Others would still die, to sate its strange hungers. But those victims would be nothing compared to the one it now sought to tear down.
The dying sunlight illuminated his features, glinting off his reddish gold hair, worn in two long braids with the eagle feathers of his father's clan woven into them. His nose was long, and curved down like the beak of that predator, though his eyes had the bronze irises of a cat, a legacy from his long vanished mother. He was tall by local standards, standing two hands widths above the average, and lean as a tiger from the woods. His clothing was that of the locals, but had the beadwork of his Kensori kinfolk worked upon it. The killer recognized the work, but not the other marks on the vest, or the intricate beaded glyphs on the outside of the legs of the trews. The shirt was dark in color, but those were changed often.
Now, the killer thought, the real hunt will begin. The mind behind the face none suspected churned with plans and ploys, and a rush of energy seemed to flood the blood of the killer. The smile was not a pleasant one, and broke the innocent visage with an appearance of the beast within, for just a moment, until the face returned to its normal innocent appearance, though in the eyes, any who could read it would see the predator lurking in the darting irises of green.
He had waited at the docks, a place he was known to frequent when drinking. The rains that had rolled over the marshes and town had made going to those three islands to search for clues less than desirable. And while it was known that he often went there to hunt the crocodiles that dwelt there, to gain a few coins from their hides and meat, he had something else he was more known for. Other hunters refused to keep a pattern, but Scorpio had found over the last few years that his pattern, while it often put him at risk, allowed observation of key spots in town. It was known that he would spend many nights drinking at the dockside, watching the ships in port. As the port only allowed the fishing fleet to come and go every day, and the chain for the galley and sailed vessel docks were lowered only once a five day, from sundown to sundown. And by being at the dock on those afternoons each five day, the hunter had a better idea of who had come to town from where, or left for which other port. Knowing this was an edge in the bounty market for him, he gathered many more, not just guild bounties, but those from the local lords of the tiny nation that still dreamed of the empire it had once aspired to.
He wore his trews of deerskin, the elk hide vest with the black eagle on the back, and the long sleeved, flowing shirt of silk dyed bright orange. Others laughed at his little flamboyances, but only once had a witness accurately described him to authorities, and as those authorities had asked the guild to catch the victim of the topaz adorned blade left in its ribs, nothing had come of the allegations of murder he had faced. He sipped gently from the wine bottle, into which he had poured a light fruit juice with just enough of the wine left to give the aroma needed to make folks think he was drinking like any other drunk near the docks.
Only four vessels moved in or out that day. Leaving were two from the dwarves to the north, who called themselves Karleekie and one merchantman from the Syndics of Chiga to the eastern coast. The last was the only arrival for the week. A coastal galley from the lands of the Volant Peninsula, the land of the Parvi and Kiltyen Hill Barons. It was a trade vessel, but it came in without a town or baron's ensign flying. There were several groups from that land in the port now who were due to leave soon. Something about it tickled the memory of the hunter, but failed to bring a thought to the surface for now.
As the sun set, and the chains across the entrance to the harbor were raised, Scorpio thought about the job he had taken, and the world that required such a profession as his to exist. He finished the bottle, and decided he needed a real drink. But drinking in town was not his preference, save at the docks. With the setting of the sun, the gates would close as the light failed. He would have to hurry to get out hidden in the cart of some farmer returning to his land to the north of town.
Scorpio Kenrai gently poled the small skiff through the remains of Tarafa Lake, following the widest and easiest of the channels, as the fogs of the night before slowly lifted. A night in his preferred drinking place, the inn of the exiled dwarf just across the stream of Kasa-alar, had gained him only a headache, and no more insights. The rumor mill was silent for a change, as the latest victim had been one of the town's greatest gossips. Her body had been found just before the setting of the sun, when a reed raft was moved, revealing her body underneath it. The cuts were in the same places, both sides of the neck, at the great arteries of the groin, and the insides of the elbows, as well as several others. The spots of desecration of the flesh now numbered ten, and rumor in town had it that a Nosferatu had come to town to rise up a cult of Blood Drinkers.
Vampire tales always moved fast once told, they held some strange fascination with those who listened to them. Perhaps it was the promise of eternal youth and the erotic nature so many of that kind were said to have, or just some desire to hear of something evil. But other tales, those of the sea grass women that dwelt in lakes were now being told too. All the half-breed hunter knew was the marsh was closed off, and only by using all his skills had he found a skiff not yet secured and been able to enter the waters of the dying lake.
The mists still hung thinly in the air when he reached the island that was on this channel, and his sense of time told him it would be the one used. He poled around it, looking for a place one could hide a reed raft such as had been found while he was in his cups the night before. As he had worked towards the sun then followed it west, it took him nearly three spans of his had on the sky to find the place, the trail, and the still fresh tracks. This victim had not been docile, and judging by the various aging of the broken branches and torn spots on the grasses along the trail, neither had the others. So much for the Nosferatu, Scorpio thought. The three he had encountered were able to make their victims compliant, and walk willingly to their deaths. That the victims were not drugged or drunk would take time, but the member of the guard he had drank with overnight had not mentioned any smell of alcohols or marks that most drugs left on the users.
The top of this island, which was nearly four hundred paces long by three hundred wide, was crowned by a bowl depression ringed in moss bearded cypress trees. And in it lay a dark pool of water, so calm and black it looked at first like a pool of oil. Around the pool someone had erected four stone altars, one at each cardinal point of the compass. As he had come up the slight rise to this bowl, he had not walked on the trail, but walked softly as the legends of his mother's kindred spoke of. It was not something that came natural. He had learned it the hard way, out on the prairies, after his mother was taken away to the west by her relatives, and he was abandoned by them to the wilds.
He shook his head, and cleared the memories of the past, which were driving him to mistakes. The hunter stood for many breaths just looking over the bowl. It was too much like a cult site. Whether the killer had found some old cult site to use here, or set one up to fool any who found it. The earth was only depressed around the altar closest to the head of the trail. Scorpio squatted down, glad he had seen the alchemist in town for the unguent he had spread on his arms, neck and face to keep away the bugs. It was alright, but nothing seemed to work against every thing in this swamp.
The more he looked over the glade, the less he liked it. He knew the stories of his mother's people, that they had strange abilities of the mind, to share thoughts, see things distant and the like. He had never shown such powers, but again, he was half human, not a full blooded elf. The most Scorpio had ever developed was a nagging sense in the back of his head that manifested when near necromancy or when being stalked by some beast or person. And he could feel that now, faintly, from this glade. It intruded into his real senses, filling his nose and mouth with impressions of rotten flesh. But it was old, like a distant memory of flavor or scent.
The hunter sat observing, waiting for something to come drink at the pool, and as nothing, not a squirrel from the trees, nor a rabbit, all of which he had seen in the short walk here, came. The sun at last burned through the fog, and sunlight speared into the opening in the trees. By the angle of the shadows it cast, Scorpio knew he had been here for half the morning already. Patience is a virtue, but when lives are at stake, sometimes one should hurry, he decided. He stood and moved down to the tiny pond, picking his path as best he could to not leave any prints. It was not too hard, for he found there were stone walkways set into the depression. Once down by the pool he knelt, and dipped a stick into the waters.
The water was only dark, there was no slime of oil or green tide as the fishermen called the blooming of green slicks on the waters. No, it was just heavy with loam, and he could tell that there was a spring in the pool. He noted the outflow for it, of old construction, older even than most of the stonework in Cosarali. It reminded him of the ruins to the west of the lake, where once a city had sat in ancient times, before the coming of the current rulers of the land from across the Far Shore Sea to the distant east. This was some old site, a holy site perhaps, and it was being twisted to evil. Despite his own disbelief in gods, this bothered him for some reason.
Then he saw something move in the pool. The thing was about the size of the eels that some still fished from the lake around the island. Except these were black and not narrow in breadth. Scorpio leaned back slowly. Leeches, and large ones, not common to this area. The leeches of these swamps were normally the green leeches, about half the size of the ones here. Scorpio pulled a dagger from its place in his right boot, and poked the bloated leech. Blood jetted out of the hole, blending into the soil stained water, and drawing more of the creatures to the edge of the pool. He dried the blade on the leaf of a nettle that grew around the eastern altar.
The altar had not been used in so long it had moss and vines on the north end. The channels and shape of the depression on the top told the hunter from the Kenrai clans much. This place had once been a cult site, if not for Blood Drinkers, then for some necromantic cult. Even his father's ancestors had abandoned the drinking of blood of humans, elves and dwarves long ago. They still told the tales of the strengths to be gained by such around the campfires, but those stories also told of the horrible price those who did so paid eventually. The predator he hunted knew some of the tales, and was using them as a cover, he was sure. Something still niggled at the back of his mind, but would not do more than send shivers and partial ideas forward.
He returned to his skiff the way he had come, but took another channel back, checking the other two islands, just to be thorough, even though he knew he had found the killer's playground. But he had to be cautious, for this was a killer that had chosen the weak and innocent. And any killer who preyed on children was more dangerous than most thought. To prey upon the future was the worst thing Scorpio could imagine.
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