Dark Hunters Omnibus

By Angelo Tsanatelis

They were known by the tales, the people of the Lodge weaved around them. Extremely skilled Assassins, with no moral codes, no emotions, barely human. Some of them had risen to a legendary status, surrounded by myths about unbelievable deeds and incredible cruelty. Some of these stories were false, others were just innocent exaggerations of a younger generation. Like the massacre in the village of Verita or the Cairo events four years earlier. They all had their own version of what happened which they passionately defended.
They were all wrong.

This is the omnibus edition of the Dark Hunters series. It contains all previous three volumes, The Ghost of the Cazador, the Shadow & the Blood Assassin and the Legends, with a completely new prologue from the author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angelo Tsanatelis
• Release date: Jun 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476113722

Angelo Tsanatelis

Angelo (Aggelos) Tsanatelis was born in Athens, Greece on October 24th 1979. He lived for seven years in Bulgaria, where he studied Law at the University of Sofia. During his studies he traveled in Europe and Africa, undertaking 'daring expeditions that no one ever heard about, visited mysterious locations or simply searched for hidden treasures in the most unlikely of places' as he quoted himself in a interview in 2012. After he finished his studies he worked in the private sector for several years before he realized his childhood dream and became an author. His first novel already many years in the making was Origins, the 1st episode in the Living Sword Chronicles series and it was published in April of 2011. It was followed by the novelette, the Rootless set in the same universe and the sequel to Origins, the Lodge & the Tribe.

Book preview

THE GHOST OF THE CAZADOR

One

July 25th 1789 AD, Galite Islands

The man was Tunisian, thin with dark skin and coal black hair. He wore a red turban on his head and his black eyes were neither intelligent nor stupid. A trite look, he thought, perhaps because nothing noteworthy ever happened in this place. The place was the local tavern and inn, a smallish badly illuminated filthy hole, packed with fishermen and a few travelers that had disembarked from the brig, probably already wishing they hadn’t.

Like himself…

I’ll have the beer then. He told him and the man placed before him a large mug of yellowish liquid. He’d called it celtia, the local name for piss, he thought, after tasting it. But he had worse and a man mustn’t pass on an opportunity to pour some alcohol in his system on accord of such trivial details. He drunk the whole mug in a go and nodded to the Tunisian. The man smiled showing him two rows of fast decaying teeth.

I knew you will like it. he told him in broken French.

His own baritone voice covered the noise of the patrons.

Is that so? What gave me away?

Your face. You seem like a man that knows his business. He answered him filling the mug to the brink, some of the foam spilling on the ragged bar.

What business is that?

I dare not say. But you seem practical, enough to know that this being the only tavern on Jazirat Jalitah, it’s unlikely you’ll find another drink elsewhere. He said using the Arab name for the small islands and he nodded with his head that he was right.

The man was right after all. He was a practical man, never bothering himself with trivial matters; like for instance he didn’t necessarily believe in ghosts. When a man goes the way of all flesh, he never comes back. That he knew from experience. But he used to think also, that there were no vampires or demons and life had surprised him a few years back. Jeremiah had said Alquino was alive and perhaps he was telling the truth. Or he could be lying through his teeth, trying to scare him off his tail.

Aye, he was a practical man. That’s why he was still alive when the old guard had slipped away into nothingness, seasons ago. You drink whatever comes your way if it’s not poison, fuck the cleanest cunt, never the cheapest, a land offers you and trust no one but yourself to help you, in a tight situation.

He sipped from his beer finding the taste had improved considerably and he grinned, his eyes examining the smoke-filled, hot-as-hell local tavern. Nothing out the ordinary, he thought. Nothing you can’t handle with ease and you are after all in the middle of nowhere.

A practical man all right and he knew when it was the time to rest from a long journey or if he had enemies near him or not. His grin grew, the scar on his cheek expanded ruining his face, cracking the mask of calmness he had on and revealed his true character. For a brief moment everyone could see exactly what he was; but they were in a badly lit tavern, people were tired and the opportunity quickly went away.

People remained ignorant, which was in a way a good thing; because as he’d learn in his journeys, no one willingly shared a drink with his likes. And while he cared little for their company, this was the only tavern on the tiny island and he badly needed to drink this night away.

Aye, them not knowing was a welcome bonus to him.

Not the part about him being practical and all;

But the fact that death… was his business.

.

TWO

Tonight we whisper,

Inside the horrid peace that suffocates us

The dead singer’s songs…

A whisper by Angelo Tsanatelis

Taken from the Songs of Sorrow

(A dead Hunter)

July 26th, early morning.

There’s no other establishment here I’m afraid. The French sailor said, looking at the sun coming up on the sky; its rays already burning, but not yet as strongly as they would in an hour or so.

Perhaps it’s because we are so close to Africa. The thought, pierced the veil of indifference she wore on her face and the man eyed her suspiciously. Her hand dropped to the handle of her pistol but it was not suspicion but rather lust and the small action was enough to force his eyes to wander shamed towards the docks. He’d gotten the message clearly, not that she could blame him for searching some kind of company to spend his day. They weren’t in Canebiere anymore and this was a poor port by anyone’s standards. Any warm body man’s or woman’s was a welcome treat, beggars can’t be choosers.

Have a safe journey. She told the sailor that avoided her eyes and started walking towards the few dwellings of the village.

She entered the tavern that was the biggest building of them all and approached the bar confidently keeping the hood of her cloak on, half covering her disguised face.

Kept her voice almost at a whisper but being still early and with the place relatively empty, the fat Arab behind the bar, heard her clearly.

I’m looking for a room.

Only one left. The man said a little abruptly.

I’ll take it.

Plan to stay long?

Not if I have a say at it, she thought.

Till the next ship comes.

The Richelieu is bound to anchor next month. If you don’t mind the wait. Which meant she had no other choice.

It’ll do. You said you are almost full. She probed him and the man raised an eyebrow checking her up and down. But he couldn’t see much, her cloak covering her figure from him, the handles of her pistols enough to stop his preying looks.

We will be. That is if you decide to rent the room. He answered in French, with a heavy North-African accent.

I will. You haven’t answered me.

He shrugged his shoulders.

You probably know more than me. There was a brig here yesterday, it came from Italy. But it’s gone now and my brother served the night shift. I guess they got all the other rooms.

A brig from Italy, she thought. Had seen its white sails from the distance as they were approaching the harbor, curled up under the main mast, unable to sleep the night away. What did you bring along? She wondered taking a bottle of wine from the bar and leaving a silver coin in its place.

That should cover you until the Richelieu arrives. The Arab noticed.

She nodded and left without answering him.

The bed was hard and creaked loudly, its straw mattress old and ruined from over-usage but it was softer than the ship’s deck and her eyes closed mere minutes after her tired body touched it. She slept her mind traveling back in time.

The dungeons were dark and her feet slipped on the wet surface a couple of times as she run towards the cells. Her heart beating in her chest in an erratic rhythm, her shoulder burning, the stitches barely holding her skin together.

He laid on the floor, with his face ashen, eyes closed, unmoving. She had cried for him to wake up and when he finally moved, his voice was almost a whisper.

"Alquino!"

"Speak to me dammit! What’s wrong with you?"

And then he did speak. One word.

"Poison."

She had torn his shirt open and searched his chest with panicked hands. She’d seen many scars, his skin ragged but not the one that was killing him.

"Where? I can’t… fuck, Alquino!"

"Too late, it’s in my blood. The way of all flesh awaits me."

"No."

Not like this, she thought and she realized she was crying, what will I do without you? You can’t leave me back, damn it you can’t!

But then his lips moved again and formed another word.

"Dimlight… you’ll have to disappear. Hide thyself, leave the… Lodge."

He said and she heard her screams pierce the quietness, a part from rage and hatred, the other from the painful realization that it was all over for him.

That devil never missed and his poisons were untreatable. Her heart broke in her chest.

"NO!"

"They will come for you. Listen to me… there is a way." He’d stopped her.

And then the only man she’d ever loved gave her a way out. Gave her a purpose and a reason to continue.

For five straight years she had raged a crusade against the killers of the New Lodge. She had bathed in their blood, until their numbers and the brutal demise of all her old allies had forced her to retreat; a Hunter being hunted, but she ought it to him to try to survive. It was what he wanted.

"Haunt their nights for as long as you can babe. He’d said to her. Ruin their plans, use me, use what I am to the Lodge and to our people for this purpose, but when the time comes, you’ll have to stop. Disappear the way I would. Live for thyself, live for me and live well, my God you deserve it."

He didn’t know the fat Arab behind the bar. The man saw him approaching and something in his stare warned him that something was wrong. But he didn’t know him, did he? Could it be that he‘d met him in his past and had forgotten about it? Then a sailor walked in and headed for the bar. He wasn’t on the ship with him yesterday and that meant only one thing.

There’s been another ship.

Perhaps earlier this morning, while he was still asleep. He sat on the empty stool next to the sailor and brought both his hands on the bar in front of him.

Where to? He asked him and the young man, no more than five and twenty spared him a look. He seemed tired and bored.

Anywhere but this hellish place. The sailor said.

Beer here is good at least. He remarked casually and watched him trying to gulp the strong ale down. The young man cracked him a smile.

Your standards are pretty low my friend. He said. This is the worst shit I ever had in my life.

You are probably right at that, but then again you’re still young.

The man laughed this time more open and had another go at his drink.

It does gets better with time. He noticed.

See? Told you so.

Are you here long? He asked him and he considered lying to him for a moment.

Not really. A day, but then again some will say a day is more than enough.

The young man almost drown on his drink, which would have been unfortunate on one hand and a brilliant way of disposing a man, on the other. That brought a grin on his own face. The fat Arab saw it as an opening.

Something to drink?

Anything but beer. He countered.

Sorry. Only wine I had, I sold it already.

Then you should have said it differently.

Oh yeah?

He didn’t like him, he preferred the other one from last night.

A beer will be fine.

A mug appeared in front of him. The beer was as it looked. Warm like piss. It seemed a small abstention from it brought all the foulness back. He had a large gulp determined to get used to it as fast as he could… again. The publican turned to his chores but he stopped him with what was a query even if he hadn’t delivered it as one.

You said, you’ve sold your wine.

Was that weariness in the man’s eyes? He seemed to take his time to answer him. His eyes desperate to avoid his intense stare. He knew that look, seen it many times in the past. Silence was his ally, the threat of it looming over the man for a dragging moment, making the sailor turn his head towards them puzzled.

A man paid for it earlier. Got a room next to yours. The publican finally said, a small droplet of sweat running down his nose.

Interesting.

What kind of man? He asked him finishing his mug, the taste of the beer already improving, on its way down his throat. It was almost a miracle.

Medium built, tanned face, scarred like yourself, not much hair on his face, but for a goatee, armed to the teeth.

What was his name?

I never asked.

It’s probably nothing, he thought. Or could be a great many things not connected with you. Your job is to return to France. Find that idiot Bonaparte and explain to him again what the New Lodge wanted of him.

The man was looking at him and he returned his stare making him back up a couple of steps. His voice came up cracked barely managing to form the words.

Do you want another beer?

He smacked his lips. Yep, he was still thirsty. He nodded with his head.

Bring me two mugs. I hate drinking alone. He lied.

And that brought an almost triumphant cry from the sailor, who seemed endeared to the foul beer rather quickly.

You’ve heard the man. He said and added Have them coming, can’t leave him drink all by himself huh?

Which of course was inaccurate as he could drink by himself just the same. Details, he thought, can’t have yourself bothered with them.

But then again, the Devil lives in the details.

(Several hours later)

The blood had come sometime during her sleep. It had flowed freely, soaked her underwear and sipped through to the straw mattress underneath. She cursed loudly in French and almost immediately after, bitten at her tongue to punish herself for that small outburst. The walls were as thin as paper and she couldn’t allow the people staying in the other rooms, find out her true identity.

She jumped off the bed, her body a tangled mess, muscles hurting and protesting as if he hadn’t slept at all.

No rest for the wicked. She murmured and eyed the barrel situated at the corner of her room. After a quick examination, she found out that it had water in it. Not fresh or warm, but water nonetheless, enough for her to wash the stench off her body. She stripped off her clothes and with a small hesitation, lowered herself in the barrel the water reaching the top of her shoulders.

The coolness of the water revitalized her and cleared her head of the drowsiness. She heard the voices of the tavern below her, the men drinking and discussing loudly, their voices a mix of languages and accents, French and Arabic with the occasional Spanish thrown in. Reaching with her hand she cleaned the area between her legs, cursing again, this time keeping her voice low, the erratic timing of her female body’s monthly functions.

She will have to spend the next few days in pains, a constant strain on her nerves and with her abilities diminished severely.

Damn... of all the places, I had to remember I’m a woman in this hellhole!

What do you have in that bag? Geoffrey the sailor, asked him pointing to the leather bag he had laid on the floor next to his stool. A normal man would have stared towards it out of habit, an unnecessary but common gesture; but his eyes searched the tavern around them instead, reading expressions, hunting for a slight change of tone in the voices of the patrons, a nervous movement of the head.

Nobody paid any attention to them. But he was still nervous, on the edge, the cheap local beer unable to settle his worrying mind. But why? He wondered. What is it you fear is dangerous to you, in this faraway place? What could have come for you, when all your enemies rot in their graves? Those who were lucky to get a proper burial that is.

Tools of my trade. He said his voice rugged, borderline intimidating. Geoffrey didn’t seem bothered by his tone, the many mugs he had downed probably helping in that department.

I never came around to ask you, what is it that you do exactly?

That is none of your concern.

I suppose it isn’t but seeing as we are drinking like good ole friends here, I thought—

He cut him off midsentence.

You shouldn’t.

The sailor turned his head towards him. He had hazel eyes, his thick brown eyebrows making his face perhaps a little more serious that he intended.

What do you mean... shouldn’t do what exactly?

Think. It is bad for you. Trust me on this one.

Geoffrey made a small nod with his head.

You know what? You are right. We should be spending our time trying to find something to stick our cocks in. Am I right? I mean it’s either that or spending the days till the Richelieu arrives drinking this fucking beer man.

He considered slitting his throat but something in all that blundering caught his attention and preferred to inquire about it instead.

You mean the Frigate?

Aye.

When is it due?

End of this month that is in less than a week, no?

But he wasn’t paying attention to him. He had finished counting the people present in the tavern; had recognized in the process, those of his ship and checked which of them had come down from the upper floor of the public house. Four they were and that made it counting him, five people renting the six rooms of the upper floor. Something wasn’t right, but perhaps the answer to this small riddle was simple after all. He turned to the sailor, who was probably expecting an answer to whatever was his stupid earlier question.

Are you renting here?

Nay, it’s too expensive for me kind. I’m gonna sleep outside, that is what I like most about summer.

He on the other hand preferred winter. There were less people outside meddling with his business; and that added yet another unimportant detail, he should really focus on more important matters sooner rather than later.

No one from his ship rented a room hither? He asked the publican and the man stopped whatever he was doing, probably eavesdropping on their conversation, and stared at him again with those guilty eyes. Perhaps it is just the way he stares at people, he thought, nothing to worry yourself about.

The man I’ve talk to you about earlier did. He hasn’t come down yet though, probably drunk that wine and he’s dead asleep on the floor for all I care.

Which was possible of course. He looked at his mug and decided that he had enough piss for a day.

Have you got any warm water for a bath? The publican’s eyes told him that he hadn’t. It was a slim chance anyway. Nevertheless I’m going to wash some of the salt off me then. He announced and stood up not before grabbing his bag, his swords clanging loudly drawing the attention of the fat Arab. He locked his eyes on his face and the man seemed to get the message. Smart son-of-a-bitch, he thought and went for the stairs leading to the second floor.

The sun was almost down, its last rays coming from the open window barely illuminating her room. She should get out of the bathtub, the barrel she corrected herself, while she could still see her own tits.

Moaning softly she climbed out, her bare feet slipping on the wooden floor for a moment, causing her to pause to regain her bearings before going for her clothes. She dressed up quickly but left her daggers behind choosing to bring only a flint pistol along. The rest of her weapons