The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “Where is Ethic Shroud?” Jondralyn felt fear creep into her voice. “Where is it, Hawkwood?”

  “Gone,” Hawkwood muttered, staring down into the altar again. Jondralyn had never seen him look so stricken. So afraid. So vulnerable. So utterly worried. The chamber was silent, truly a room full of sorrow from the look now on the Sør Sevier man’s face.

  Squireck’s eyes narrowed to slits, cutting right through Hawkwood. “You’ve got nothing to say?”

  “I left the shield here.” Hawkwood looked up at Jondralyn first. “The shield and the angel stone. I returned them here, just like I promised.”

  “You are a traitor and a liar!” The timbre of Squireck’s voice shook the very air. “To what purpose have you brought us here to this foul crypt?”

  Jondralyn grabbed Squireck by the arm. Tried to turn him. “If he said he left them here, he left them here,” she pleaded.

  “No!” Squireck raged. “He is up to something.”

  “He is not, Squireck.”

  “The used torch.” Hawkwood was looking right at her, his eyes seemingly trying to will her to believe him. “The torch had been used. Someone’s been in here.”

  “Who?” Squireck snarled. “Glade Chaparral? He was the last seen with your swords, correct? Are you placing blame on that dunce?”

  “Whoever took the torch took the shield,” Hawkwood said, holding his own torch over the empty altar again, staring down at the two swords in the altar.

  “The shield never was here,” Squireck accused. “Ethic Shroud. You’ve never even seen it. Or the angel stone. You probably never saw Forgetting Moon, either. Or Ser Roderic’s ward. Did you even truly meet Nail? Or did you murder them all? Where is Roguemoore? Culpa Barra? Godwyn? What treachery have you brought upon us, you traitor, betrayer?” Squireck spat the last word as if it was poison on his tongue.

  “He has not murdered anyone,” Jondralyn said. “Be reasonable.”

  “He is the Assassin, Jon. Can you not see his treachery? Are you so blinded by your own foolishness!”

  “I saw Forgetting Moon.” Hawkwood was still looking down into the altar, oblivious to their conversation. “As did Roguemoore. I left Ethic Shroud right here.”

  “Liar!” Squireck howled, and punched the back of Hawkwood’s head, staggering him, sending the torch spinning away to the floor, where it kicked up a flare of sparks. Before Jondralyn could even shout in warning or the shower of sparks even had a chance to drift to the ground, Squireck struck again. He twisted Hawkwood’s arm, kicked his feet out from under him, slammed his face into the hard stone of the cavern floor, and then planted his knee in the center of Hawkwood’s back. With one fluid motion, Squireck whipped the long knife from his belt and held its razor tip a fraction of an inch over Hawkwood’s upturned eye. “I should kill you here and now!”

  “Get off him!” Jondralyn shouted, tossing the torch down, pulling at Squireck, but he was too heavy, too muscular and strong.

  “You don’t want to do this, Squireck,” Hawkwood said calmly. Squireck twisted Hawkwood’s arm further and jabbed his knee harder into his spine. Hawkwood’s face strained in pain, turning red. He tried to blink away the tip of the dagger poised right at his eyeball. “You’ll want to be wary once you let me up, Squireck,” he said with real venom in his voice.

  “You’re in no position to do anything,” Squireck said dryly.

  “Let him up, Squireck,” Jondralyn said calmly this time, calmly but forcefully. “This is getting us nowhere.”

  “Listen to me, traitor.” Squireck pressed the knife closer to Hawkwood’s eye. “You’re now gonna make me a few promises.” His voice was unyielding. “Do you understand?”

  Hawkwood scrunched his face in the rock, trying to stave off the tip of the dagger.

  “I said, do you understand?” Squireck’s eyes glowed with an inner darkness as he flicked the blade over Hawkwood’s cheek. A ribbon of blood welled up and mingled with the dirt caked on the Sør Sevier man’s face. Squireck placed the tip of the dagger back at Hawkwood’s eye, holding it rock steady. “A simple nod will do.”

  “Stop this.” Jondralyn prepared to throw herself at Squireck again. She couldn’t believe it had come to this—that Squireck’s jealousy and distrust could have turned so ugly, so counterproductive to the Brethren of Mia’s cause, a cause he’d fought for his whole life. “Let him up!” she screamed, wondering if she had time to snatch one of Hawkwood’s abandoned swords out of the altar. Could I stab him? “I order you to let him up, Squireck Van Hester! The princess of Amadon orders you!”

  Squireck ignored her command. It was as if she did not exist, as if she never had existed. It was now only him and his rival. “Did you hear me?” Squireck demanded an answer. Hawkwood said nothing. Squireck sliced another faint line across his face.

  Jondralyn’s eyes fastened onto the blade in the Prince of Saint Only’s hand. She knew Squireck would not let Hawkwood up alive. One of them would die here today in this dark, cold chamber of sorrow, and she could do nothing to stop it. Hawkwood was slowly recovering from the initial blow to his head, growing more lucid by the moment, and once he was ready to fight, Squireck would likely die.

  “Stop this, Squireck,” Jondralyn pleaded. She snatched up the torch again. She didn’t want it to come to violence against Squireck, violence at her own hand. But she had to do something. She just wanted him to stop.

  “Enough!” she shouted, holding the torch aloft. “You are acting like a disgrace! I will burn you!”

  Squireck looked up at her, startled, hurt. In fact, the unfathomable pain in his eyes left her stunned. He looked like he had just truly suffered the greatest betrayal yet.

  “I will do it,” she said, inching closer to him, torch thrust out, not willing to give up. “I will burn you, Squireck.”

  “Don’t dirty your hands,” Hawkwood said to her coolly, his body now relaxed under Squireck. “I will kill him before either of you can move.”

  “You forgot my rules, fool.” Squireck ran the blade across Hawkwood’s neck this time, a cut, but not deep. Yet enough of a threat to send Jondralyn’s heart to jumping, arm quivering with fright, torch shaking in her hand. A trickle of blood oozed from the wound on Hawkwood’s face, dripped to the ground.

  “You are about to die, Squireck,” Hawkwood hissed.

  “No more talking from you, traitor,” Squireck growled. “I don’t want you to go near Jondralyn. I don’t want you talking to her. I don’t want you in her chamber. I don’t want you in the secret ways of the castle, stalking her. And if I ever hear that you have broken these rules, I will come at you from behind, just like today, just like now, when you least expect it. I will kill you.”

  With one fluid motion, Squireck whipped his dagger up and around and planted it back into his belt. “I am only letting you live for Jondralyn’s sake. For the Brethren of Mia’s sake.” He spoke in a low and subtle tone, aiming his words right at Hawkwood. “Remember, I am the Gladiator. I have triumphed against better men than you, against better beasts than you. It’ll take more than your flimsy Bloodwood daggers and spiked swords to kill me. Much. Much. More.” And with that he lifted his knee off Hawkwood’s back, stood, and took three steps back. Both men stared at each other, Hawkwood lying flat on his stomach on the stone floor of the chamber, Squireck looming over him, tall and muscular and menacing.

  And Hawkwood struck like lightning.

  He moved so fast Jondralyn didn’t even see him leap to his feet, snatch up one of his own swords from the bottom of the altar, and slash. His swift strike sliced a shallow furrow in Squireck’s shoulder, a strike meant to kill. The Prince of Saint Only barely managed to stumble back far enough to avoid the full effect of the blow. Hawkwood spun and kicked the bigger man square in the chest, sending Squireck flailing against the empty altar.

  “Stop!” Jondralyn yelled, and thrust the torch and herself between the two men before Hawkwood’s next slash struck home. He pulled the blow naught but an inch from he
r bandaged forehead. His eyes met her own, startled, distracted.

  Squireck swept her aside and punched Hawkwood in the face. But Hawkwood swung an arm up just in time, barely deflecting the large fist, which still caught him in the temple and sent him reeling back, sword spinning from his hand to clatter into the dark recesses of the chamber. With a shout, the Prince of Saint Only lunged at the stunned Sør Sevier man.

  Jondralyn jumped in between the two men again, but Squireck’s muscular bulk knocked the torch from her grip and the breath from her lungs, sending her crashing sideways into the altar. Her head struck solid stone as she fell, tearing the bandages from her head. Excruciating pain blossomed in her face. She slumped to the floor, both hands instinctively covering the wound, the stitches now torn free, flesh opened anew.

  Jondralyn sensed her entire body going into shock. Her trembling fingers felt the gaping wound and the raw wet flaps of skin hanging from her stinging face. “No!” she cried out. “No!” It was like a million needles were pricking her head, scalp, face, her brain, poking, jabbing. Where her one eye used to live was naught but a stinging cavern in her skull.

  Both men were staring at her.

  Concern and fear were etched on Hawkwood’s face.

  But the look on Squireck’s face was one of utter revulsion. He stumbled away from her and snatched up the torch she had dropped. He cast one last horrified look at her, then dashed out of the chamber and down the dark corridor.

  †  †  †  †  †

  The skiff was still awaiting them, bobbing in the swollen waves exactly where they had left it at anchor in Memory Bay. Jondralyn and Hawkwood swam to it. He had his two swords back, tied to his belt.

  With some effort in the crush of the waves, Hawkwood climbed aboard the boat first and then helped pull her in next. Once secure and seated, Jondralyn checked the state of her bandages. Hawkwood had wrapped them tightly about her head again in the Rooms of Sorrow. And they had fortunately remained in place on their return journey. Neither had much to say as Hawkwood placed the heavy cloak about her shoulders.

  Both of them had let the truth sink in. The worst had happened.

  Both Ethic Shroud and the white angel stone were gone. Lost to them. Stolen. Taken. But by whom? Glade Chaparral? It hardly seemed possible.

  We have failed. Before Jondralyn threw the cowl of her cloak up over her head, she let her eye roam over the nearby craggy slope and gray cliffs of Mount Albion and Amadon Castle one last time. There are no answers up there.

  Despair and pain engulfed her as angry waves broke against the rocks nearby, foaming and thunderous. The little inlet nearby was empty.

  And Squireck Van Hester was nowhere to be found.

  * * *

  Strip faith from the most faithful, belief from the heartiest believer, and what are you left with? The angriest and most dangerous of enemies.

  —THE ANGEL STONE CODEX

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  LINDHOLF LE GRAVEN

  9TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Lindholf let the door swing shut behind him. The light of midafternoon was swallowed by the darkness of the Filthy Horse Saloon, and the sour odor of the dingy place hit him like a punch straight to the nostrils. Stewed pork gone rancid? An open latrine? He pulled the hood of the heavy cloak farther over his head and stepped cautiously into the smoke-filled room. His eyes adjusted to the dimness. Harpoons, ship wheels, anchors, nets, and other such fishing accoutrements decorated the grim wall to his right; liquor bottles lined the shelves behind the stained bar to his left. An unswept floor strewn with random tables and chairs and brick hearths and iron kettles receded off into dark reaches, all under a roof fashioned of low-hung beams of heavy timber.

  About a half-dozen sailors hunched over drinks at various tables. Only a few of the patrons seemed to look up at his entrance. All ripe for a pickpocket! But Lindholf knew he was not up to attempting anything so foolish here, specially without Val-Draekin or Seita as backup, or a pinch of Shroud of the Vallè for confidence.

  He had ventured into this dung-hole previously with Glade and Tala. Nothing in the place had changed much. One serving wench stood behind the bar. A stick-thin gal, pasty-faced and black-haired, with dark rouge smothering both cheeks. No Delia in sight. He wondered if he should just turn around and leave. But it had been seven days since he’d last tasted the powder, and his craving for Shroud of the Vallè had a total and complete hold on him now. His ache for it had become so overwhelming he thought his body would just plain shut down if he didn’t soon taste it.

  Should I approach the girl behind the counter? He cursed his own hesitancy in everything. If I show the wreath, would it truly be enough to summon Delia?

  The wreath of heather Delia had given him was under his cloak. Ethic Shroud was in the large burlap sack in his hands. And the white angel stone was wrapped in black silk in his pants pocket. He had never touched the angel stone. For some reason his utter reverence for the ancient gem would not allow it.

  The journey from the castle had been uneventful. Once again, unnoticed as always, he had just walked out the front gates, bulky sack slung over his shoulder, black dagger at his belt. He’d hitched another ride on an oxcart, this one driven by a wool merchant he readily recognized, who was in and out of Amadon Castle daily. The merchant had asked him no questions, dumping him off about ten blocks from the Filthy Horse. He’d walked the rest of the way. And as he’d trekked through the grungy dock district, an idea had come to him. If I were to bring Delia back to Amadon Castle, I would be hailed as a hero for finding the one accused of trying to assassinate King Jovan. But the notion seemed to dissipate quickly with each new ache for the Shroud of the Vallè that surged through him. Perhaps after a sniff of the powder he could summon some bravery.

  Lindholf took the wreath of heather from his cloak and placed it on the bar in front of the skinny, pale serving wench, saying simply, “Delia.”

  Without even a glance at him, the girl swiftly snatched the wreath from the counter and disappeared through two swinging doors behind the bar.

  Lindholf waited, itching with impatience, his want for the white powder nearly driving him mad.

  †  †  †  †  †

  It was more than an hour before Delia emerged out of the saloon’s darkness behind him. She wore hard leather boots and leather pantaloons the color of tanned hide and a short black shirt that didn’t quite cover her belly button.

  “I’ve longed to see you, my dear.” She took him by the hand and led him on a winding path through the tables and chairs to the very rear of the dim-lit saloon, the burlap sack hoisted over his shoulder. When they reached the back recesses of the saloon, Delia unlatched a hidden door in the corner and led him quickly down a separate corridor lit with small lanterns hanging from rusted hooks high on the walls.

  The hallway was about thirty paces long and came to a T, branching to the left and to the right. Delia led him past only one open door, a bedridden old man under soily sheets in the room’s center—he looked pale, gaunt, near death. She guided Lindholf down the left passageway and through another wooden door and out into a canopied courtyard, sunlight filtering through many cracks in the drooping cloth awnings. A stone basin about the size of a large bed sat smack in the center of the grassy yard, bright purple tulips surrounding its base. It was about three feet high and empty of water, its entire surface overrun with vines and ivy. Rough stone sculptures of naked women holding large bowls of fruit above their heads lined the high stone wall that surrounded the yard. Brass fountains gurgling clear waters were set in each corner of the nook. Delia led him to the stone basin.

  “I see you brought what I asked for?” She turned to him, pressing her body to his, kissing him lightly on the cheek, wet tongue gently, briefly caressing his burn scars before she backed away. “At least I do hope it is a shield in that sack slung over your shoulder.”

/>   The freckles on her face literally glowed in the golden light of the courtyard. And those dimples when she smiles! He so desperately wanted Shroud of the Vallè. His heart pounded as he unslung the sack from over his shoulder and leaned it against the ivy-covered basin. He untied the string cinching the sack closed and let the cloth fall away. Ethic Shroud was revealed to Delia in all its tremendous white glory. A shaft of sunlight gleamed off the very top corner of the shield, nearly blinding him. He brought up his hand to deflect the light.

  “And the stone?” Delia asked as Lindholf reached into his pants pocket and pulled forth the black silk. He carefully unfolded it, unveiling the small white stone to the barmaid. It sparkled in the sun more than Ethic Shroud, almost dancing with inner light.

  “It’s more glorious than she said it would be,” Delia muttered, reaching out to touch it. But then she stopped herself, fingers hovering just above its twinkling surface. She jerked her hand away. “Wrap it back up,” she ordered.

  He folded the silk around it before stuffing it back in his pocket.

  “Wrap the shield, too,” she said. Lindholf pulled the burlap back up over Ethic Shroud and tied it closed. His every nerve ached for Shroud of the Vallè.

  Delia clicked the toe of her leather boot against the side of the stone basin. There was a faint grinding noise from somewhere underground. Lindholf stepped back, the sack gripped in both hands as the stone basin, ivy clinging to it, slowly rose up at one end like the lid of a giant iron pot, revealing a set of stairs descending down into the pitch darkness of the space beneath.

  “Follow me.” Delia ducked under the basin and scampered down the stairs. “And bring the shield with you.”

  With the burlap sack in hand, Lindholf followed her down the staircase and into the blackness. Delia lit a candle and guided him past a series of gears and chains and pulleys, through a succession of bare underground passageways, and into a dank room. A tall and plain-looking wooden cabinet with double doors stood against the far wall.