Chapter 7. The Hunt

ouse zu Heltzer was quiet, wrapped in darkness by the time Armand gathered his things and leaped lightly off of the wagon bed.  He tipped the caravoneer for safe passage and stretched the kink from his neck, regretting that he had fallen asleep at such an odd angle.  It was too late to find passage to Brauer Academy.  In fact, it was too late to find much of anything.  The merchants were abed and the place was largely abandoned.  He passed a night watchman and felt the guard’s eyes upon him as he ambled toward the square.  Now he was being followed and Armand was frankly not in the mood to be questioned at this late hour.  He was tired and annoyed that his journey had been full of delays.

“Not a threat,” he spoke into the man’s mind, gratified when he continued on his rounds and ignored Armand. 

With any luck he would rise early enough to catch a caravan to Brauer.  Failing that, he would just have to hire mercenaries though he hated the slack-jawed fools.  He was already a day late to meet Pirunel’s troupe, and even if Pomme d’Or turned out to be a legitimate gig, there was no guarantee he would still get an audition. 

He found a secluded corner of an abandoned merchant stall and decided to bed down for the night.  Armand did not need creature comforts to be content for he had grown up on the open road, a vagabond always and a performer at heart.  He missed his family’s traveling troupe and realized, as he was drawing closer to Brauer, he was feeling excited about something for once.

But still, he had survived by expecting the worst.  With his luck, Pomme d’Or would turn out to be less golden and more rusty.  To soften the coming disappointment he imagined meeting the mysterious Pirunel amid sad tormented animals and aging contortionists.  The world did not seem to need art or wonder any more.  It was a sad, dark place.

Propping himself in a corner, he removed his heavy burgundy jacket and draped it over himself, stretching his legs out before him.  If things did not work out, he did not care.  It was good to be back in Kurzick lands among people who appreciated learning and culture. 

But if things did work out...  His golden brows hardened with annoyance.  Hope was a foolish emotion and Armand Leblanc was no fool.

“Indeed?”

The voice pierced his mind, emanating from within his skull.  He swallowed, scanning the silent pillars and bridges of the slumbering court.  His heart hammered in his breast and he muttered an incantation to shield himself.

“I frighten you,” the voice continued, unfazed, “You wonder how it is possible that I could step so freely into your mind?  I will not hex you, Armand.  No need to take that stance.”

“Get out!”

“Infuriating, is it not?  But does it not also intrigue you?”

It was like being a child again, defenseless and raw.  He tried to center, chanting softly under his breath to form a mental barrier between he and the invader.  Who was he?  How had he entered his mind so easily?

“You want answers, I see.”

Sweat oozed from his brow and still his pale eyes saw no sign of the invader even as he felt the tightening of an invisible snare.  Fear gripped him and he rose quickly, trembling as he prepared to run.

“Run?  I could be anywhere.”

He backed away as a figure emerged from behind a pillar, his flesh pale as moonlight where it emerged from his midnight cloak.  Magenta energies curled from his shoulders as he stalked lightly toward Armand.  The slow clap of his boot heels seemed to drag on for an eternity.

“The chase is on, Mr. Leblanc,” the man said, his perfect features cold and empty as alabaster, a mask.

Overcome with terror, Armand spun about and dashed out of reach, pounding over the venerable stones of the empty court.  He ran past the city guard and halted, realizing, to his mounting horror that the man was dead.  His gouged out eyes and rigid features screamed silently at him.

“You are a long way from home,” the man said, “Why run from me except to give me sport?”

Armand backed into a wall, scanning the shadows once more as he gasped for breath.  Very well, if he could not run, he would fight.  He had bested many a fool toe to toe, and not a few of them had been mesmers.  His eyes flashed in rage, his flaxen hair framing his fierce visage as he mentally sought for his foe.  His rapier hissed free of its scabbard.

“I will kill you,” he thought coldly.

“Fight me?  But do you even know your peril, Armand?”

“What choice have I got?”

“Flee into the ruins, pound upon the gate of the great house?  You have been much less creative than my other victims.  You must be one of Lyssa’s less inspired children.”

“Other victims?”

“I am hunting you, Armand.  Tyrian mesmers of a certain vintage are my favorite prey.  So many of them are lonely and wounded.  Who will come looking for you?  So tragic.”

Armand started moving again, overcome with fear and grief.  Someone would miss him.  Indigo or Mog, perhaps.   At some point.

“Weeks after I have stolen your pretty face,” the man said, emerging behind him this time, “Months after I have dined upon your exquisite terror.”

Armand spun about, lashing the shadowy figure with chaotic energies, tearing into his psyche with a fierceness that would have shocked all but the most determined foe.  And to his horror, the man glowed brilliantly, absorbing everything that was thrown at him as if it were nectar.  He spread wide his black cloak and drew Armand against him, his sickly perfume causing him to choke.

“No!” Armand shouted as the shroud of blackness enveloped him.  The figure’s powerful arms crushed him against his breast and drank greedily of his fear.  Crying out in misery and exhaustion, Armand kicked and flailed, his boots pounding uselessly against the man’s shins, the cloying sweetness sinking into his consciousness until he grew limp, gasping wordlessly.

“Easy, my prize.  I was wrong.  Your spirit is rich with old wounds.”

“Let me go!” Armand screamed silently, unable to move now, his body betraying him as his foe gazed out through his eyes.

“We’re going for a walk.  Come.”

“No!  Gods, leave me!”

But he walked forth under the man’s guidance, a dull expression upon his face as the black draped arm rode companionably upon his shoulder.

“No!” Armand cried, but his body registered nothing, only mutely obeyed, guided forth effortlessly like a compliant animal.  Tears streamed from his eyes as they strode past the gate beneath the curious glance of a guard and entered the ruins.  His heart pounded in his breast, willing him to flee.

“Hush, Armand, you belong to Ashekoroth.”

“Let me go!” Armand pleaded as he strode forth, his fear flaring wildly once more as the light and safety of the great house diminished behind him.  They were truly alone now.

“Sleep,” the man commanded once they were well beyond the safety of the walls.  Now his voice was as sweet and alluring as his perfume and Armand could not resist it, no longer wished to do anything but what he was told.

Smiling, Armand closed his eyes, faintly aware that he was lifted up and cradled in the man’s arms.  He should have been alarmed but now he felt nothing at all.