The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Jovan looked coolly upon the vicar. “Go on, Your Grace.” He nodded.

  “Do not make Squireck a martyr for the cause of the Brethren of Mia. Do not make him a martyr in the eyes of your own knights who hold the Arena Incantations sacred. Do not let his death at your vengeful hands give rise to some other to take up his cause in the arena.” As the vicar finished, he looked toward Jondralyn.

  “I see the wisdom in your words, Your Grace.” Jovan bowed, showing deference to the vicar. “But justice needs to be satisfied in some way. Such lies, such murderous treachery as Squireck’s cannot go unpunished.”

  “Let him fight one last fight then,” Leif snarled. “Let the traitor prove himself before Laijon one more time.” He drew his long black sword a second time, a ringing hiss that echoed through Sunbird Hall. “I beg of you, Jovan, let him prove himself against me. Here and now. A duel to the death.”

  “Gladly!” Squireck barked. “Throw me a sword and I will end it!”

  “Silence!” Jovan shouted. “Sheathe your sword, Leif!”

  “I beg of you,” Leif pleaded. “Let me at him.”

  “No.” The king put a reassuring hand on Leif’s shoulder, talking more softly now. “I will not sacrifice my future Dayknight captain to folly.”

  Leif’s face raged with anger. He did not sheathe his sword, but looked ready to pounce upon the Prince of Saint Only at any moment.

  “I’ve a better idea, Your Excellency.” The quiet, dark-haired Vallè in the finespun robes strode forward, his hawklike eyes fixed squarely on Gault. “For the sake of the law and the sanctity of the arena, and also considering Squireck’s confession, Leif Chaparral has actually stumbled upon a solution that should appease all.”

  “Speak, Val-Korin.” Jovan dipped his head in respect to the Vallè.

  “If I may.” Val-Korin bowed in return, then moved toward Gault. “Remove this ghastly thing from around his neck,” he ordered the two Dayknights standing to either side of Gault. “For Gault Aulbrek is the solution to our problem, and he needn’t be tortured.”

  Gault was instantly wary, his neck heaving in agony, sweat beading on his bald head, running down his face. Even in Sør Sevier he’d heard of Jovan’s Vallè ambassador, Val-Korin. The Vallè were never to be trusted. The knights obeyed Val-Korin’s command and carefully undid the strap holding the torture device up under his chin. Gault slowly, painfully lowered his head, feeling every single ache and creak in every taut muscle.

  “Stand,” the Vallè ordered him. Knees stiff, Gault stood, shrugging off the help of the knights on either side. He straightened his crooked neck, felt the blood seep from the two holes in his chin.

  “The answer is simple.” Val-Korin bowed to the king. “Have this man, Gault, fight Squireck.”

  Jovan smiled. “A splendid idea! And we shall make it a grand spectacle!”

  “This is not right,” Jondralyn pleaded. “Squireck has already won his freedom.”

  The king ignored her plea and turned to the crowd, voice echoing through Sunbird Hall. “On the first day of the Fire Moon there will be a final match in the arena. A grand battle for the ages! The hero of the arena, the Prince of Saint Only, shall fight one more time! A fight to the death against the savage who nearly murdered my fair sister, Ser Gault Aulbrek, Knight Archaic of Sør Sevier, personal bodyguard of the White Prince!”

  There was a charge of excitement in the hall now, a low rumble of voices and nodding of heads. Jovan shouted over it. “Squireck can avenge my sister and make right his wrongs! And what injustices have been done to the Silver Throne will be dually served!” Cheers burst from the hall.

  Yes! Let me out to fight! Gault thought.

  Denarius bowed to Jovan. “I’m not a man of particularly morbid proclivities. But I see the wisdom and truth in Val-Korin’s idea. If this is your will, Your Excellency, so shall it be. The vicarship will stand behind this decision.”

  “So shall it be!” Jovan shouted.

  Cheers erupted from the knights in the hall again. Spears pounded against the stone-tile floor. Val-Korin smiled at Gault. It was a sly smile.

  “This is not right.” Jondralyn’s face was flushed with anger under her bandages.

  “It has been decided by me, your king,” Jovan reiterated. “And seconded by His Grace, the grand vicar. There is nothing you can do, sister.”

  “But it is unfair—”

  “I will do it!” Squireck commanded the attention of all. “I will fight once more!” His eyes bore into Gault’s. “I will gladly slay this Sør Sevier rat. I would have it no other way.” He turned and bent his knee to Jondralyn, taking both of her hands in his. “I will see the vermin who caused you such pain die at the end of my sword.”

  “You needn’t defend my honor in this way.” Jondralyn squirmed as Squireck kissed the back of her hands.

  And when I win, what will be my reward? Gault asked himself. Freedom? A personal escort back to Aeros Raijael’s camp and Ava Shay? He cast his eyes to the cobbled floor, knowing there would be no reward for him, and he would likely never see his daughter, Krista, again.

  * * *

  Their hearing, their sight, the scars upon their flesh and deformities of their faces will all bear witness of their deeds, of their divinity, of their destiny as the Five Warrior Angels returned. Or so false prophecy will reveal.

  —THE BOOK OF THE BETRAYER

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CRYSTALWOOD

  18TH DAY OF THE ETHIC MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  ROKENWALDER, SØR SEVIER

  What’s that filthy fuckin’ mutt gone’n found now?” Bogg whistled at the bulldog. “Git back over here, you rotten fuckin’ varmint!” He snatched a stick from the forest floor and hurled it toward the dog. Krista and Hans Rake exchanged glances. The one-eyed dwarf near Hans rolled his one eye. Café Colza Bouledogue ignored the stick that bounced off his back, flashed a drool-laced grin, and, with a snarl, clamped his slobbery jaws over the pale, ropy thing draped over the pine branch and yanked.

  “What the fuck?” Bogg stomped toward the dog.

  Bogg’s pet bulldog disgusted Black Dugal. It always had. But no more so than Bogg himself did. Leastways that was what Dugal often said when speaking of Bogg and the dog: They are two of a kind, Bogg and Café Colza, rotten to the core, smelly, too—but together, they have their uses. To Krista, Bogg and his bulldog looked exactly alike. Both were large and stout and sporting overly large heads and flat faces—two of the ugliest mugs this side of the Sevier River. Both reeked of Bogg’s body odor too—a noxious fume you could smell coming a mile away, a stink that the one-eyed dwarf, Squateye, claimed could easily coldcock even the stoutest Adin Wyte draught mule. Both had a surly disposition, neither seeming to have the slightest grasp of logic or reason. And their combined unreason was why the four of them were out here in the middle of this mountain forest north of Rokenwalder. It was the bulldog who’d led them here—miles out of their way—and Bogg who’d insisted they follow.

  The two swayback ponies belonging to Bogg and Squateye grazed at the forest floor next to Hans’ stallion, Kill. Krista’s own Bloodeye mare, Dread, stood directly behind her. Café Colza Bouledogue had actually ridden on one of the ponies most of the way here. He sat up in the lap of Bogg right there in the saddle, until he’d caught the scent of something in these woods and bolted off.

  Squateye was another set of complexities and mysteries altogether. A garrulous fellow, his name was the only thing that fit him. He was squat. And he had one eye. The other eye was covered in a filthy leather patch that would ofttimes waft its own rotten, potatolike odor into the air if the wind hit it just right.

  And as Krista, Hans, and Squateye followed Bogg and Café Colza, the one-eyed dwarf kept rolling his one eye at both Krista and Hans—as if he were as irritated as they at the bulldog and this wandering adventure into nowhere. But Krista wasn’t buying the dwarf’s feigned irritation and eye rolls. Squateye and Bogg were the most loyal of
chums. In fact, the dwarf’s favorite pastime was regaling anyone, especially Krista and Hans—or any Bloodwood in Black Dugal’s Caste, for that matter—with tales of the bulldog’s adventures. The two Vallè, Breita and Seita, had taken extra delight in the tall tales.

  Story was, years ago, Bogg and Squateye had first met the bulldog in Sible Hedge, when he was no more than an overgrown pup. The pooch was in the midst of mounting the white puff-poodle that belonged to Lord Truklebank’s wife, Eunice, the two dogs humping unapologetically right in front of the Goat Frog Saloon, much to the amusement of Bogg. For a good ten minutes the tongue-wagging bulldog pounded the frilly white stuffing out of the backside of Lady Truklebank’s sweet, fluffy pet right there on the wood-slate boardwalk in the middle of town whilst Bogg hooted up a storm. Squateye had also watched the proceedings with a humorous eye as Eunice Truklebank screeched and squealed. Once the canine relationship was consummated and the pleasure-filled howling had come to its majestic end, Eunice snatched her poodle up by the scruff of the neck, shouting, “Stupid bitch,” right in its face. Bogg gleefully claimed instant ownership of the amorous bulldog and straightaway named it Café Colza Bouledogue. Squateye would ofttimes make mention that he had no idea what the name meant, and then claim he didn’t give a hoot either. But both he and Bogg giggled every time they got to the “naming of the dog” part of the tale, without fail.

  Thing was, Café Colza was always up to no good.

  He had sniffed out something in the woods today and was tugging on it with a mighty force, teeth clenched, entire jaw dripping with drool. Whatever the dog had ahold of tore in half, sending the longer ribbonlike length snapping back up into the trees, the shorter length straight down his throat. Café Colza could gobble things up in a hurry, as Krista was well aware. Hans Rake had learned that lesson the hard way. Two moons ago Café Colza had sniffed out a strip of elk jerky in the satchel dangling at Hans’ waist and snapped at his leg, tearing the jerky straight out of the satchel and ripping a patch of Hans’ black boiled-leather pants clean off. The jerky and leather armor were swallowed in one gulp. And to top off the insult, Café Colza had growled at Hans for more.

  Now Hans and Squateye and Krista and their respective mounts watched the dog lick its lips and eyeball the remains of the stringy object dangling from the lone pine tree. The tree itself stood before a thicket of scrub oak and aspen. The mysterious purplish-gray ropy object was draped over branches of the pine, the length of it receding back into the aspens, disappearing into the forest thicket and out of sight. Café Colza leaped for another bite, but his stumpy little legs didn’t get him more than a foot off the ground. The bulldog turned and bared its teeth at both Krista and Hans like his limited leaping ability was all their fault.

  “Crazy fuckin’ mutt.” Bogg bent and let the dog lick his face. Then the two playfully wrestled on the ground under the pine, Café Colza yipping and nipping at Bogg’s pokes and jabs. Bogg was laughing up a riot. Soon the dog was growling in the man’s face. “Don’t get mad at me!” Bogg slapped the bulldog hard across the snout. “Crazy fuckin’ varmint!” He slapped the dog hard a second time. With the third slap it looked like Café Colza was starting to enjoy the abuse, bouncing on all fours, tongue and tail wagging at Bogg. Then Bogg grabbed the rusted spiked collar around the dog’s neck and pointed the little beast in the direction of the woods.

  Hans’ dark eyes narrowed with pure impatience. A hint of dusk was settling over the forest now, and with it, the cloudless sky carried the last faint wash of light. “We haven’t time for this,” he said. “Dugal wanted us back in Rokenwalder by tonight.”

  “Who can ever know for sure what Dugal really wants?” Squateye said flatly.

  “He said be back by nightfall of the eighteenth day. It is the eighteenth day. He was pretty clear on his wants. He will be sorely disappointed when I tell him we accomplished nothing in Eark.”

  “I daresay your disguise did its job just fine.”

  “Wandering about a strange town among strangers whilst in a disguise hardly constitutes much of an accomplishment.”

  The dwarf shrugged with a hint of a smile. “Either way, you’re out of your disguises now, the both of you back to normal Bloodwooding as you like.”

  Hans threw him a chilling glance. “Following a stupid bulldog into the woods is not Bloodwooding.”

  The dwarf shrugged again. Dread stepped up beside Krista. She rested her head against the mare’s neck, letting the warmth soothe her. She too wanted to just move on from here. Random journeys with Bogg and Squateye had always been part of their Bloodwood training. Neither Krista nor Hans could figure out what they ever gained from the bizarre adventures with the two. Perhaps merely a test of our patience. Squateye once made mention that Bogg had been a Bloodwood assassin ages ago. No more than a kid at the time, and fat. Dugal had named him Jellywood. Hans once asked Bogg if the Jellywood story was true, only to get a threatening look followed by a stern admonition, “Beauty is the first rule of the Bloodwoods according to Dugal. There was never no Jellywood. And don’t bring it up again unless you want your fuckin’ eyes plucked right out of your fuckin’ face.”

  “A real secret weapon, Bogg was,” Squateye would ofttimes say when Bogg wasn’t near. “Nobody ever expects a knife in the neck from the fat guy.” The one-eyed dwarf claimed Bogg was the only Bloodwood ever to successfully retire from Dugal’s Caste alive. “Most Bloodwoods either die on the job, or die at Dugal’s own hand.”

  As they’d ridden out of Eark, the dwarf had pointed a thick, stubby finger right at Krista and said, “A Bloodwood rarely makes it out of their twenties alive. Remember, lassie, trust is fleeting, whilst betrayal is timeless. Learn that one lesson if you want to retire a Bloodwood. Learn how to figure truth from lies. For each of us has a destiny. Those who set out to lie and deceive keep those meant for a higher cause from their destiny. Remember what Dugal has told you: everything about our king Aevrett Raijael and his son, Aeros, is a lie. Remember too, everything about Black Dugal is also a lie. And deciphering truth from lies is part of your test.”

  Bogg had wobbled up and said, “You’re wrong, dwarf. Dugal is a great man. And I was never named Jellywood. So stop tellin’ the poor girl lies.”

  “He was Jellywood.” The dwarf had winked his one eye at her after Bogg was out of earshot. At any given moment, Krista honestly didn’t know whether Bogg or Squateye, or even the bulldog, was fooling with her head or not. Most things were a joke to Bogg, except when it came to Black Dugal. Then everything was deadly serious.

  Bogg was acting warden and Squateye the head gaoler of the famed dungeons of Rokenwalder. Krista had been on enough adventures with the duo that she figured they were the most lawless pair in all Sør Sevier. Their job was to teach Dugal’s Caste of Bloodwoods-in-training how to escape from any dungeon, prison, iron chain, or shackle. They’d also taught Krista and Hans how to fashion a key for any lock from items as simple as nails or a link of chain or a silver coin.

  The first time Krista had been tied up and left alone in a dungeon with the directive to escape, she’d panicked and failed, her first-ever failure under Dugal’s tutelage. It was an embarrassment. But she’d been terrified of the confinement. To this day nothing scared her more than a prison cell. She figured her fright should’ve spurred her into figuring it out all the sooner. But it hadn’t. Her fear would usually incapacitate her totally when confined in a cage.

  After the failure, Dugal was harsh with her, Hans mocking. But both Bogg and Squateye had patiently worked with her until she made progress. She wanted to please them. They were an integral part of Dugal’s Sacrament of Souls, providers of the sacrificial criminals and the poisons for their blades. Bogg was a master at alchemy, his concoctions numerous: poisons that killed instantly, poisons that were slow to kill, poisons that blinded the victim, maimed them, gave them boils, turned them insane, and even a poison that slowed the victim’s heart to the point that they could easily pass as a cold, dead corpse lying in
a gutter. “And that is an important poison,” Bogg would often say. “For sometimes folks just need to look dead.”

  Despite his girth and awkward ways, Bogg was a wily, crafty fellow, as was Squateye. Both were an odd pair for sure. And an evil pair, make no mistake. “If ya can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” Bogg had quipped on more than one occasion—usually when Hans had asked him particulars about his job in the dungeons. “ ’Specially when it comes to robbers, sword fighters, gamblers, and whores.”

  “Shit, ain’t no sense even arrestin’ the whores,” Bogg had laughed one night with two Gul Kana thieves named Clive and Llewellyn at the Dirty Coin Saloon in Rokenwalder’s dingy dock district. “Just drop yer trousers and club ’em up the arsehole, if you take my meaning, then let the bulldog lick up the mess.” The thief named Clive hadn’t found the comment all that amusing, but Llewellyn had laughed. Of course, Llewellyn was a sniveling kiss-ass, in Krista’s estimation. He owed Bogg about forty-five coppers in gambling debt. Clive, on the other hand, was a smooth and cold-eyed robber. Both were part of Praed’s famed wild bunch of roaming bastard thieves called the Untamed, a gang of four wily outlaws who were a nuisance throughout the Five Isles. The Untamed ofttimes ventured into the Bloodwood Forest to collect Blood of the Dragon. Praed was known to deal in the drug, selling it to oghul pirates against Dugal’s wishes.

  Krista and Hans, along with Seita and Breita, had been there in the saloon with the warden that evening. They’d gambled all night with the outlaws. Seita and Breita actually owed Bogg about two hundred coppers combined near the end. Bogg loved whores, and loved gambling even more, and loved when others lost at gambling, especially to him. Squateye didn’t whore or gamble himself, but he liked to watch those who did, the gambling part anyway, even though it was against the laws set forth by Aevrett Raijael and enforced by his five Knights Chivalric. Gambling was illegal in Sør Sevier. Still, Squateye claimed if you started arresting folks who partook of the whoring and gambling trade in Rokenwalder or Dashiell or the logging and mining towns like Eark, you’d “kick up a bloodbath of riotous behavior and rebellion that would never end.” So Squateye looked the other way when it came to gambling. He wasn’t a stickler for the letter of the law himself, figuring it best to just let things be as they were. Bottom line, Bogg and Squateye were an odd pair.