The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “Yes, you are very good with those daggers.” The dwarf was looking straight at Seita.

  “Thank you.” She bowed, and the torch she held flickered.

  “In fact,” the dwarf continued, his voice pointed with accusation as it cut across the room toward her, “I haven’t seen anyone fight like that since Hawkwood was a much younger man.”

  “I take that as a compliment,” Seita answered with another dip of her head. “As you know, all Vallè maidens are taught to fight.”

  “Vallè maidens are not trained to fight like you do,” the dwarf harrumphed.

  Seita shrugged. “I am glad you value my skill. Fact is, we all fought valiantly. Nineteen dead oghuls, and hardly a scratch on any of us. And if not for Stefan’s arrows, we would have likely all perished. This entire battle is an omen of good fortune to come. After this display, I say we are all very nearly invincible.” She turned to Liz Hen. “And we’ll fix your braids when we get out of this rotted foul place.”

  Liz Hen smiled. “That would make me most happy.”

  Though Nail was relieved that the fighting was over, disappointment wormed its way into his gut. The whole battle had been a confusing, bloody blur. He still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around all that had happened. One thing he knew for certain, he himself hadn’t killed a single oghul.

  “We had them oghuls frightened and running about like baby chicks from a silver-wolf,” Dokie said. “The journey over the glacier, and now this. Isn’t it just the exact grand adventure the dwarf promised us in the Turn Key Saloon, Liz Hen?”

  “Grand adventure?” Liz Hen spat the words straight back at him. “I pissed myself twice, you stupid. Your grand adventure can go bugger itself straight in its own arse hole. Don’t you even realize I’m liable to keel over at any moment, my heart jumping right out of my own rib cage the way it’s still hammering?”

  “I’m just saying, this is much better than waiting about the Turn Key Saloon, scarfing down Otto’s vegetable stew.”

  “I could use a good bowl of vegetable stew now,” Liz Hen said.

  Looking at all the blood and savagery, Nail didn’t know when he would again have an appitite.

  “Shawcroft’s instructions are coming back to me.” Culpa cast his gaze about the musty chamber. He stepped toward the altar. “Oghuls this deep in the northern Sky Lochs do not speak the human tongue as well as their counterparts in the south, or in Amadon.” The Dayknight studied the blood-covered altar and cistern dangling crookedly above. He nudged one of the dead oghuls at his feet with the toe of his boot. “I imagine these beasts didn’t communicate at all beyond grunts and hand signals and such, none of them bright enough to explore the room too much beyond the obvious.” He cast his gaze around the cathedral-shaped cavern again. “There are secrets hidden in this chamber. Even a shred of memory can be of use to us now.”

  Culpa pulled his dagger from his belt. He beckoned Dokie over. “I’ll need your help. Bring a torch. The rest of you stay exactly where you are until I call for you. And as I should have mentioned ealier, don’t touch anything. Who knows what other traps are set in these floors.” Dokie, torch aloft, navigated his way through the oghul corpses toward Culpa and the altar.

  “Shawcroft did everything in measured steps,” the Dayknight said. “He was always consistent. In the way he fought. In the way he trained me to fight. In the way he trained Nail to fight. It was all exacting precision with him. And he did things in Deadwood Gate the same as he did here. The new traps he set, the ancient traps he dismantled, the secrets he hid in the stone walls, all exactly the same in both mines.”

  Culpa, dagger in hand, drifted around the altar and faced the far wall opposite the archway—the wall with the burning hearth. He took two measured steps sideways, and then turned slightly to the right. He was now facing the far right corner of the room. He pointed with the dagger. “Dokie, have a gander at that tapestry.” He ruffled the muddy-colored hair atop Dokie’s head. “Now follow me.”

  They both walked straight to the dark crook of the room. Once there, Culpa faced the corner, Dokie directly behind him, torch wavering in hand. “Stay here. Don’t move,” Culpa ordered the boy, and then turned toward the hearth, counted out five large steps, then faced the wall again. The dark, soot-covered tapestry hanging in front of him stretched from the floor up into the darkness. He reached up as high as he could and pricked the tapestry with the point of his dagger, working the tip back and forth, poking a hole into the ancient fabric. He then ripped down with the knife, slicing a large hole into the tapestry. Soot and dust rained over him. He sheathed the blade and reached out with both hands and tore the stiff fabric open clear to the floor. He kept jerking and rending it until the tapestry was ripped wide at least twenty feet above his head too.

  “There,” he announced, holding one frayed flap of the tapestry away from the wall. “Come look, Dokie.”

  From his vantage point, Nail couldn’t see anything save a smooth stone wall flickering yellow with Dokie’s torchlight and the burning hearth. Where the smoke from the hearth floated off to was a mystery. The entire mine was a mystery.

  “Set the torch down and stand on my shoulders.” Dokie set down the torch and climbed up onto the man’s back. Unsteady, the boy wobbled, feet set on either of the Dayknight’s shoulders, one hand braced against the wall before both of the Dayknight’s thick arms grasped his legs tight.

  “Do you see a tiny crack in the stone just above you?” Culpa asked. “Just a sliver of a crack, no longer than an inch, I’d say.”

  Dokie tentatively reached up and touched the wall with his fingers. “I feel it.”

  “Take the blade,” Culpa let go of one of Dokie’s legs, pulled his dagger from his belt, and held it up for the boy. “Stick the tip of the blade in the crack.”

  Dokie did as the Dayknight bade, working the tip of the blade into the stone.

  “Really force it in there,” Culpa said.

  There was a loud click! Nail felt a deep rumble under his feet. There was a louder snap! followed by metal clanking on metal.

  Then the rectangular altar in the center of the chamber was slowly rising up out of the floor to the dull resonance of stone grinding on stone, thick blood dripping from every side. “Bloody Mother Mia and the baby Raijael, too.” Liz Hen did the three-fingered-sign of the Laijon Cross over her heart.

  The altar rose up out of the floor, revealing four stone posts, one at each corner holding it aloft, the top of the altar eventually clanking into the overturned cistern hanging above. When it finally ground to a halt, the altar stone was balanced seven feet above the floor atop the stone posts, blood draining from every edge, raining down into the dark square hole beneath.

  “Just like Deadwood Gate.” Culpa helped Dokie climb down from his shoulders. “The staircase should lead to the gears and levers below. Once underneath, we can close the altar and no oghul will ever know where we went.”

  Torches, packs, and water skins were quickly gathered. Culpa led the way down the steep set of stairs under the altar, torch aloft. Roguemoore was next, followed by Godwyn, also with a torch. Beer Mug scampered down, followed by Liz Hen, Dokie, and Stefan. Val-Draekin and Seita were in front of Nail, who went last. He carried a torch.

  The staircase was slick with sheets of blood and the walls were streaked with running rivulets of red. Twenty steps total. Nail stepped into the passageway last, the corridor stretching off in just one direction before him.

  A small grotto just off the main corridor behind him boasted a complicated set of gears and pulleys and chains. Culpa ignored the room full of gears. Instead he searched the wall of the passageway opposite the stairs, finding what he was looking for near the floor—a stone jutting about two inches out of the wall. He stuck the toe of his boot under the stone and nudged it up gently. With a dull grinding of gears, rattling of chains, and rumble of stone on stone emanating from somewhere in the walls around them, the altar above slowly descended back down, settling back in pla
ce, sealing them underneath with one long, wet, bloody hiss of finality. “We needn’t worry,” the Dayknight said. “I move that same stone and the altar will reopen.”

  Culpa led them down the corridor a few hundred paces, the passageway emptying them into a small square chamber, a dead end for all intents and purposes.

  “It’s cold in here,” Liz Hen said once all nine had settled into the room. To Nail it seemed an awful gloomy place. The floor was lined with perfect rows of gray brick, each brick about a foot square. A fur-covered stool rested in each corner, the fur moldering in the chill, mournful air. Long-dead coals lay in piles of dust in a fireplace cut into the left wall, and the mantel was decorated with one small rune—a crescent moon made of rusted metal pinned right in the mantel’s flat center with two small iron spikes.

  “I’m exhausted.” Liz Hen plopped down heavily on one of the fur-covered stools, the Sør Sevier sword at her hip scraping the wall behind her.

  “Don’t!” Culpa shouted. There was a loud click! And Liz Hen jerked to her feet.

  Nobody moved. All looked around nervously. All waited for the floor to drop out from under them or some giant saw to come swinging in from out of nowhere and slice them all in half. All waited, staring at the walls, staring at the stools, staring at one another, none daring to exhale so much as a breath. The silence was profound. The only sound was the crackling of their three torches.

  Then every other row of square bricks beneath their feet started sinking slowly into the floor. Nail, standing directly on one of the sinking rows, hurriedly stepped onto solid ground, torch flickering. Dokie, too. Beer Mug seemed tremendously interested in the goings-on, turning about this way and that, barking, eyes fixed on the rows of brick descending into the floor. The dog bounded from row to row until the sinking stones ceased their ponderous descent. Each new furrow in the floor was about a foot deep. Nail counted twelve in all. If it was a trap, it made no sense.

  “Rotted beasts of the underworld?” Liz Hen exclaimed, eyes darting from Culpa to Seita to Roguemoore and up to the ceiling and down to the furrowed floor. “May the Blessed Mother Mia suckle me dry if I make it out of this mess alive.”

  “Quiet.” Culpa held up his free hand for silence. “And nobody touch anything else without my say-so.”

  Then one of the fur-covered stools tipped and fell to the floor with a clatter.

  A brilliant silver liquid began seeping like tree sap from the base of the right-side wall opposite the fireplace. Nail’s eyes flew to Stefan’s. They’d both seen the same type of silver rivulets leaking from the walls in the Roahm mine tomb where they’d found Forgetting Moon. Shawcroft had warned them not to touch it. Nail noticed that Val-Draekin had gripped Seita’s arm, horror fixed in his eyes. The Vallè maiden had a look of almost smug satisfaction on her face.

  The shiny sludge bled from the small cracks near the floor, slowly slithering toward each sunken trough underfoot. Fear was etched on Liz Hen’s face as the syrupy silver fluid began to leisurely fill the bottoms of the furrows. Confusion filled Culpa Barra’s own eyes. Roguemoore’s too. His beard was still matted with congealed blood, armor smudged dark red.

  “Look!” Dokie pointed.

  The moldy fur on the wooden stool that had toppled earlier was being devoured by the silver liquid, vanishing into smoke and fume. And then the round wooden seat of the stool was soon eaten away, smoke billowing above. Roguemoore snatched one of the stool’s remaining legs and held it up. Molten silver dripped from the smoldering wood, the leg still being consumed by the foul bright corruption that lingered there. The dwarf tossed the hunk of wood into the empty fireplace.

  Silver liquid kept leaking into the room, running into the twelve furrows, making its way toward that same fireplace. Val-Draekin knelt and dipped the tip of a dagger into the nearest of the silver troughs. A swirl of smoke billowed, and when he pulled the tip of the blade free, the steel was completely eaten away. He let the rest of the dagger drop into the slow-flowing silver, where it disappeared with a mournful fizzle. His anxious eyes fell on Seita. Her face remained impassive as she shook her head.

  “Eats the dagger and wooden stool but not the stone underfoot.” Godwyn adjusted the bandages around his arm, torch guttering above.

  “Yet it has no effect on rock,” Roguemoore said. “I wouldn’t mind taking a stone basin of the stuff out of here with me . . . if I had a stone basin.”

  “Shawcroft knew of this stuff.” Stefan looked at the dwarf. “He told us not to touch any silver if we saw it in the Roahm Mines. Why would you want to keep some?”

  “I am a student of potions and alchemy,” the dwarf said. “I have never seen such a thing.”

  “Very ancient witchcraft this,” Culpa said. He looked at the dwarf. “The Moon Scrolls speak briefly of the silver secret of the Skulls. Could this be it?”

  “Dark Vallè alchemy, more like.” The dwarfs cold eyes moved from Val-Draekin to Seita. Again the two Vallè shared a concerned look.

  Culpa swept his torch around the room, “Whatever its origin, Vallè or not, it’s still seeping from the wall. We must not let it touch us. It’d be a horrible way to die for sure.”

  “No need to state the obvious to me.” Liz Hen did the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over her heart. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Nail agreed. These mines were foreign and foul beyond words. He looked at the entrance to the room and the corridor beyond. Wreathed in torch smoke, it beckoned.

  “We can’t leave just yet, Liz Hen.” Culpa was studying the mantel of the fireplace, eyes particularly focused on the rusted crescent moon rune. “This is the exact place we need to be.” He handed his torch to Stefan. Careful not to step in any of the troughs of silver liquid, the Dayknight moved toward the fireplace. He took out his dagger and began prying the rusted moon loose with the blade’s tip, working the two irons spikes out of the wall in the process. The rusted metal moon eventually popped free of the mantel, the two iron spikes still secured in the rune, sharp tips jutting from the crescent moon’s backside. One spike was considerably shorter than the other.

  Culpa worked the longer spike free of the rune with his fingers, then did the same with the shorter one. He set the rusted metal moon up on the shelf of the stone mantel and held up both metal spikes, examining them carefully.

  Nail looked back at the fireplace and saw that there were three holes in the mantel in the space where the crescent moon had hung. Culpa turned and placed the tip of the longer metal spike into the middle hole. With the hilt of his dagger, he pounded the nail all the way into the mantel until it was flush with the stone.

  Then the Dayknight cast his eyes about the room as if waiting for something to happen. The base of the wall opposite the fireplace still bled silver, and the twelve furrows in the floor were still filling with the liquid; each was about a quarter full now. Culpa, brow furrowed, turned and gave the metal spike in the wall one more solid tap with the hilt of his dagger.

  And then there was another loud click!

  With a deep grumble of gears and stone, the wall opposite the room’s entrance slowly began to rise—as if the ceiling above was sucking the stone wall straight up into some secret attic above. Behind the ascending wall was a wide staircase. Stair upon stair was gradually revealed, climbing up into the darkness.

  “Up we go,” Culpa announced.

  “Wait,” Stefan blurted. “You said even a shred of memory can be of use now. You said that Shawcroft was consistent in everything, right?”

  “Aye,” Culpa answered. “That I did.”

  “I’ve seen a staircase like this before,” Stefan said. “Liz Hen, Dokie, Nail, we all have. Nail and I found the battle-ax atop a staircase that looked just like this in the Roahm Mines. Shawcroft told Nail to remember the third step up, far left stone. He instructed Nail to push it inward, push it but an inch and the rest of the stairway above would be free of traps.” He pointed to the third stair up. The far left stone protruded from the r
est of the long stair. Just like in Roahm. Nail, disappointed in himself for not spotting it first, knew his friend was right.

  Stefan said, “Nail pushed a stone in just like that in the Roahm Mines.”

  “Shawcroft set it up like that in Deadwood Gate, too,” Culpa said eagerly, then stepped up the staircase and tapped the stone in question lightly with his foot. The stone seemed to recede into the wall of its own volition. There was a short burst of wind from above and then a faint tink, tink. And silence.

  “Quick thinking.” Culpa turned back to Stefan. “You very likely saved us all. Who knows what traps were just dismantled.”

  Culpa led the company up the stairs. They soon found themselves atop a small landing, another foot-wide trough filled to the brim with the same type of silver fluid lay at their feet. This one singular furrow stretched from wall to wall. Beyond it was a somber-looking forty-foot-long corridor, its uneven roof of rough stone draped in a thick latticework of spiderwebs. The walls and floor of the passageway were fashioned of perfectly smooth stone. Hundreds of dark holes peppered the walls on both sides.

  Centered at the end of the corridor some forty feet away was a cross-shaped altar. In the center of the wall above the altar was a square wooden door. The altar itself looked to be capped with a slab of stone like the one in the Roahm Mines. The intricate Vallè scrollwork carved into its base was too far away to make out the details. But Nail suspected what foul, nameless creatures those carvings were of: dragons.

  “This is the place,” Roguemoore said, his blood-matted beard and bloodstained face looking savage in the torchlight.

  “Looks like the altar in Roahm,” Stefan said, gaze meeting Nail’s. “Only that altar was set in a tomb, bones and skeletons scattered around.”

  “I do not like the looks of these walls,” Culpa said, his torch weaving before him, eyes scanning the sides of the corridor stretching between them and the altar. “More traps set by the original worshippers of Mia, I suspect. We dare not walk down that corridor. Who knows what foul things might come a-creeping out of those holes? Who knows if Stefan’s idea dismantled every trap? And we dare not touch this trough of silver, either. And that wooden door above the altar. Who knows what it may hide?” He glanced at the dwarf, then at Godwyn. “The closer to the prize, the trickier and more deadly the traps, Shawcroft always said.”