The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Bishop Godwyn shook his head with grim determination. “We can’t let them sacrifice this man in some gruesome Hragna’Ar ritual.” His hushed voice was barely audible over the rattling armor and grim bellowing of the oghuls below.

  “I count fourteen,” Culpa Barra said. “The way is blocked, and it’s only a matter of time before our hidden alcove up here is discovered. We need to reach that altar. Our path lies beneath it. But what can we do?” Culpa stared back down into the large room.

  Nail peered between the stone railings of the balcony again. Under the copper cistern of blood, the trapper lay unmoving atop the altar, oghuls poking and prodding at his body with gnarled gray fingers. The chamber itself was shaped exactly like an underground chapel. It was scattered with an odd array of old wooden furniture and several crudely made couches covered in what looked like maroon velvet. Opposite the room’s high arched entry, a huge deep hearth was set against the far wall, crackling fire blazing—the only source of light but for torches a few of the oghuls gripped in thick grubby hands. The columned walls behind the fireplace was draped with tattered tapestries of a dull hue. The floor consisted of a random patchwork of gray and brown stone blocks.

  The Company of Nine crouched behind the thick stone railings of a balcony set back in a nave of sorts, two stories above the strange cavern. Fifty paces to their left, a wide stone staircase curved down to the chamber floor below. A dozen other deeply recessed balconies and gloomy alcoves similar to theirs lined the opposite wall of the chamber. In fact, most of the columned chamber was obscured in shadow and smoky darkness, the faint outline of a buttressed and arched ceiling was barely visible above, huge stone crossbeams as support.

  “We’ve already wasted too much time,” Godwyn said, his voice grave with frustration. “And we can’t just let them kill that man.”

  “We’d be risking a lot to save one old trapper we don’t even know,” Roguemoore countered. “Nor do we know how many more oghuls might come pouring from under that entryway if we go storming down that staircase.”

  “We have to get under that altar,” Culpa said softly. “We knew facing Hragna’Ar oghuls might be a risk from the beginning. We may have no choice but to kill them.”

  Kill them? Nail thought. As if it would be that easy! He turned from the dire scene below. Stefan was peering over his shoulder with fright-filled eyes. Liz Hen, Dokie, and Beer Mug were barely visible in the blackness not ten paces down the corridor, the gear and torches of the company piled against the wall just beyond the three. Beer Mug’s ears were poised and aware.

  Culpa, Roguemoore, Seita, and Val-Draekin knelt next to Nail, the two Vallè taking turns peering through the stone railings into the chamber. The faint yellow firelight emanating from below danced off their pale skin, illuminating the tips of their pointed ears just visible under the cowls of their cloaks.

  “Six more oghuls just entered,” Val-Draekin said, voice soft with concern.

  “That makes twenty,” Roguemoore grunted.

  Nail looked for himself. The six new oghuls, all bearing large scythelike swords, marched up to the altar. Three filed to the right, three to the left. All six set their curved blades over the chest of the trapper and began chanting, “Rogk Na Ark! Rogk Na Ark! Rogk Na Ark!” in deep, rumbling voices echoing loudly off the chamber walls.

  “They are going to sacrifice him.” Roguemoore scooted closer to Culpa. The square sheets of his bulky armor scraped against the stone floor as he moved, the sound drowned out by the oghuls chanting below. The spiked mace strapped to his back loomed darkly over his head. His bearded face was etched with worry as he pulled forth his D’Nahk lè timestone. “We’ve been waiting here half a day almost.”

  To Nail, it seemed the company had been in the Sky Loch mines for weeks. The labyrinth of innumerable tunnels and caverns and caves was vast, at least twice the size of the Roahm Mines above Gallows Haven. They’d ventured down many dead ends to get to this spot, having backtracked at various intervals; Roguemoore always marked their trail with dots of white chalk as they went. Once the dwarf grumbled something about Shawcroft’s satchel and how the lost instructions within it would have greatly sped their journey along. Nail felt pangs of both guilt and resentment, knowing that the dwarf likely blamed him.

  There had been signs of oghuls all along the way, signs both new and ancient. Most every passageway, cavern, and moldy grotto they entered was littered with some sort of oghul bones and other foul oghul filth. In one gloomy cave, ancient bone tools and other such crude mining implements were scattered about in cold recesses in the walls. Also, the word Viper had been scratched into many of the walls. Most of the tools were curiously stamped with ancient dwarf carvings and runes, that or the intricate scrollwork designs of the Vallè. Upon Culpa’s advisement, all in the company had not touched any of it. The Dayknight claimed anything could be rigged to drop crushing stones from the ceiling or launch darts or poisonous fumes from the walls.

  Now here they were. Waiting.

  The oghul chants from below slowly dwindled to a dull, rhythmic hum, then fell into silence. But for the crackling of the hearth fire and the occasional whimper of the fur trapper atop the altar, all was calm.

  Then there was total silence.

  And Liz Hen sneezed. A blaring snort that echoed through the chamber below like a clap of thunder. She clamped both hands over her mouth, eyes like twin ovals of stark-white fear glowing in the darkness.

  A stunned stillness settled over the entire company.

  Guttural shouts of dismay sounded from the chamber below followed by the unmistakable rasp of crude weapons being ripped free of rusted sheaths.

  “They know we are up here.” Val-Draekin turned from the scene below and nodded to Culpa, a grim look on his ashen face. “We’ve no choice but to fight now.”

  The Dayknight lurched to his feet and drew his sword with a crisp hiss of steel. Val-Draekin and Godwyn too. Roguemoore growled, pulling the mace from over his shoulder. Despite the chill of the passageway, Nail could feel the sweat building under his armor and clothes as he stood and pulled his own sword from its sheath, trying to muster what bravery he could, heart jumping under his ribs, his fear raw and primitive and all too real.

  “Stay up here and fill as many of those bastards with arrows as you can.” Culpa ordered Stefan. Fire as fast as you can.” He shouted to Dokie, “You stay with Stefan, help him with the arrows!” The Dayknight’s fierce eyes scanned the chamber below, then he charged toward the staircase and the oghuls waiting below, Roguemoore and Godwyn right on his heels.

  Val-Draekin shoved Nail after the bishop. Seita ran with him. Beer Mug too. He sensed Liz Hen behind them. “Bloody fuck!” she shouted as she drew her own sword.

  †  †  †  †  †

  Even before Culpa, Roguemoore, and Godwyn reached the bottom of the curving staircase, Stefan’s arrows were causing chaos. Oghuls shouted and ducked.

  Roguemoore headed straight toward the altar and trapper. Culpa launched himself toward the entryway to the left, long sword flashing in the hearth light, cutting down the first oghul trying to escape under the archway. Godwyn was tight behind Culpa, and the two men were immediately swarmed over by four oghuls rushing to escape, two with Stefan’s arrows lodged in their backs. The bishop tumbled to the floor under the weight of one of the charging beasts. Culpa’s sword whirled with blood as he struck Godwyn’s attacker in the face with a wet thud.

  Nail emptied into the room at a sprint, losing sight of Culpa and the bishop as his own sword came up instinctively, blocking the downward strike from a heavy iron maul aimed at his head. The jarring collision of steel on iron sent him staggering forward into the back of Roguemoore, arms stinging from the impact of the oghul’s blow. The dwarf barely broke stride, heading straight for the altar, spiked mace pulverizing the square-jawed face of one of the three oghuls still standing there. An arrow from above caught another oghul in the neck, spinning him around just as he took a swing at th
e dwarf with a rusted shortsword. The room was now a roaring, disordered symphony of screams and shouts and metal on metal, Beer Mug’s fearsome barks a wild counterpoint to the overall din.

  Seita leaped past Nail, ball-and-chain mace spinning from her hand into the darkness, striking an advancing oghul straight in the helmeted head, cracking his helm, dropping him cold. Daggers were suddenly in both the Vallè maiden’s hands, and before Nail’s mind could even register what was happening, she effortlessly slit the throat of the maul-wielding oghul who was taking another swing right at him. Seita moved on, leaping again; every move she made was elegantly deliberate, arms and daggers a vicious blur as she slashed the neck of another oghul and another and then leaped into the dark after more.

  Nail stumbled forward in shock, moving to help Roguemoore. A thin-faced oghul clambered atop the altar, rusty dagger plowing a deep red furrow into the naked chest of the helpless trapper. With a roar, Roguemoore swung his spiked mace straight over his head in a powerful arch toward the murderous oghul. The thin-faced beast sidestepped the dwarf’s blow and the heavy mace smashed into the side of the altar with a soul-shattering crash, spitting chunks and bits of stinging stone straight into Nail’s face. He reeled away, swiping at the stringing grit.

  The oghul cut loose one of the three chains holding the cistern in place. The huge copper basin tipped ponderously, spilling its foul contents over Roguemoore and the altar and the newly gutted trapper, both dwarf and oghul suddenly awash in a great torrent of thick dark blood.

  Feet slipping in the red sludge, Nail whirled and crashed straight into the heavy gauntleted fist of a large barrel-chested oghul. The crushing blow sent him careening back across the floor in a daze. The giant oghul came at him again with a serrated broadsword, its bone handle nearly as long as the blade, clutched in his gauntleted fist. Nail jerked to his feet and set his feet instinctively, exactly as Shawcroft had taught him in the mines. Swing the pickax just so, he could hear his master as the oghul’s gruesome longsword came swinging toward him. He stepped aside and blocked the creature’s blow, and returned the attack with a thrust of his own. The tip of his sword caught the oghul right in the mouth, stabbing through gruesome yellow teeth. Blood bloomed thick and crimson down the giant’s gnarled chin and neck. The oghul roared and swung the sword again in a backhanded arch that sizzled in the air. Nail parried swift and hard with his sword. But the oghul’s serrated blade caught Nail’s weapon just right, yanking it from his grip, sending it skittering to the floor where it disappeared under one of the velvet couches. The oghul swung again. Nail dove aside, launching himself toward the couch, outstretched hand reaching for his lost blade underneath.

  The oghul took one giant step toward him, then dropped face-first to the floor right in front of Nail, dead. The crash of armor and striking stone as loud as a tall timber falling in the forest. The oghul’s legs twitched as Seita stood over the him, bloody daggers whirling in both hands. She bounded away toward Val-Draekin and Liz Hen, who were engaged in battle with two oghuls near the staircase.

  Nail snatched his sword from under the couch and lurched to his feet, glimpsing the faint forms of Stefan and Dokie perched on the balcony above. Stefan was braced against the stone balustrade, arrows flying from his bow in swift repetition, the deadly shafts knocking the thin-faced oghul from atop the altar. Roguemoore was on his hands and knees at the base of the altar, vomiting up a thick stream of puke, his entire body coated in dark dripping blood from the overturned cistern. There were no other oghuls near the dwarf.

  Nail raced after Seita. One oghul already lay dead at Val-Draekin’s feet, his own daggers flashing like lightning as he slashed at the other oghul before him. Liz Hen stabbed at the armored stomach of the other oghul, who swiped at her with a long blade of his own. Beer Mug tore at the back of his ankles and legs with wicked flashing teeth, instantly hobbling him. An arrow from above bounced off his helm and shoulder plate as he fell back. Seita launched herself straight into a third charging oghul, blades flashing, finishing him quick and mercilessly. The creature bellowed and fountained blood, arms thrashing as it spun to the floor, dead.

  Culpa loosed a bloodcurdling yell from under the entryway. Nail whirled in time to see the Dayknight stumbling to the ground, tripping over three dead oghuls at his own feet. His panicked eyes were fixed on Godwyn. The bloody-faced bishop, sword clutched in both hands, was battling two ax-wielding beasts who were pressing the attack. The bulky monsters had the bishop backed against the wall.

  There was a loud crash, like the slamming of a heavy iron door.

  And the floor instantly dropped out from under Godwyn and the two oghuls, all three vanishing down into a gaping black nothingness. The surprised shout of the bishop and the raspy screams of the two oghuls were cut short, and the entire room was pitched into a sudden, deathly silence.

  Nail’s heart pounded. Everyone stood still, frozen in place.

  All eyes were focused on the dark void in the floor where Godwyn had just vanished. Even the lone oghul left standing, gaped at the hollow cavity in the floor where Godwyn had disappeared.

  Seita walked up and casually thrust one of her daggers straight into the oghul’s wide eye. The beast toppled over backward with a clatter.

  Liz Hen dropped to her knees, suddenly gasping for breath.

  Val-Draekin knelt at her side. “Take three long breaths, hold it, and three more.” Liz Hen sucked in a great gulp of air, her three struggling breaths the only sound left in the chamber.

  “Godwyn!” Culpa Barra snatched one of the discarded oghul torches from the floor and rushed to the gaping hole where the bishop had disappeared.

  Nail fought off his own trembling breathing and approached the hole, shaking legs carrying him nervously forward, frightened eyes gazing down into the pit once he stood beside Culpa Barra. Illuminated by the light of the Dayknight’s torch, the hole was no more than ten feet deep, the bottom of it bristling with sharpened iron spikes of varying lengths.

  The two oghuls were impaled. Dead.

  Bishop Godwyn lay on his back atop the armored body of one of the dead oghuls, one arm drenched in blood. His eyes were as wide and white as dinner plates, and he gaped back up at Culpa and Nail.

  “I’m okay,” he gasped. “I think I’m okay.”

  †  †  †  †  †

  Once Godwyn was pulled from the pit, everyone checked themselves for wounds. Only the bishop had suffered any injuries—two deep slashes to his left forearm and one light cut across his forehead. Val-Draekin and Seita began bandaging him.

  The entire cavern brimmed with the thick taste of blood. It was a slaughterhouse. The hanging cistern dangled askew, drained of its foul contents, and the bearded trapper atop the altar was utterly dead. Roguemoore still knelt on the floor at the base of the altar. He couldn’t stop retching. Culpa helped him to his feet and together they walked arm-in-arm back toward the others. The stench of the blood that coated every inch of the dwarf was horrid and caustic. He’d so far managed to swipe most of it from his face and beard, but still looked a savage sight. He tried cleaning himself with strips of velvet Dokie tore from one of the nearby couches.

  Culpa Barra walked the chamber and rammed his sword into the neck of every single oghul on the floor, counting the dead as he went. Stefan, hollow-eyed, stared at the destruction. With a sigh of resignation, he flung his bow over his shoulder and followed Culpa about the room, gathering what arrows he could find. Dokie and Liz Hen grabbed torches and began gathering up their gear from the balcony. The big girl still seemed shaky afoot, sword resheathed at her bulky hip. Dokie looked both haunted and energized by the entire fight.

  Once all their gear was accounted for, Godwyn took the first drink from one of the water skins, then handed it around for the rest. They all drank long and hard, even Beer Mug.

  “I count only nineteen dead,” Culpa said, ramming his red-stained Dayknight sword home in its sheath. “Bloody rotted angels, there should be twenty bodies.�
�� He took the water skin last. Three gulps and it was emptied. “I wasn’t sure, but during the chaos, I thought I saw one of the oghuls slip away under the arch. Now I know for sure.”

  “Who knows where he’s gone off to,” Godwyn sighed. He held up his bandaged arm. “But we can’t let setbacks defeat us. My father suffered through years of chronic pain before his death. He used to say. ‘I ask for no man’s pity. Every day is a gift. And we Godwyns push on. As would every man who values his honor.’ And we too must push on. All of us. We have survived this far.”

  “And we shall push on,” Culpa said, “But I fear we haven’t much time. Luckily, we are in the right room. If Shawcroft was consistent about one thing, it was in his ways of setting up new traps and dismantling the ones already set in place by the ancient worshippers of Mia. He once told me he set up Deadwood Gate the same as he set up this place here under D’Nahk lè. Hopefully I can remember enough about Deadwood Gate to find my way around in this chamber here. . . .” He trailed off into silence.

  Roguemoore, still a bloody mess despite his best efforts to clean himself, looked at Liz Hen. “You accounted well for yourself in the battle.”

  “One thing about Liz Hen,” Val-Draekin said. “She’s not very agile or fast, but she’s most definitely full of purpose. She set those oghuls on their heels sure enough.”

  Liz Hen smiled weakly at the praise, one shaky hand reaching up to straighten a braid in her hair. “I’m afraid the fight mussed up the braids Seita done for me the other night, though. Mussed ’em up good and snarly. I imagine I looked very pretty with them done up tight.” She was looking at the Vallè maiden now, something approaching hero worship glinting in her eyes. “Truth is, was Seita who saved us all. That oghul woulda kilt me and Beer Mug if she hadn’t pounced on its back and slit its throat wide.”