The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “Can we toss a water skin out onto the floor?” Dokie asked. “See what happens? See if it triggers any traps?”

  “No.” Culpa’s answer was quick and firm. “We dare not disturb any more than is necessary. Could be a poisonous fume come drifting out of those holes.”

  Nail studied the walls of the corridor. Straight and smooth and perfect, they almost unnerved him. And the hundreds of holes. Indeed, what evil might come shooting forth? Then he remembered something—a secret only he had seen in Roahm, a secret similar to the one Stefan had earlier pointed out.

  “I’ve an idea.” He turned from the passage and took four quick steps down the stairway, everyone watching. Sure enough, he saw what he was looking for in the glow of his torch. Just like the mines above Gallows Haven, the stone against the far left wall on the very top stair jutted out just a bit from the others.

  He pushed it in with the toe of his boot.

  A low moan followed by the slow rumble of rock grinding on rock sounded from the direction of the altar. They all cast their eyes back down the corridor. The cross-shaped altar slowly sank into the floor until only its capstone remained above the floor.

  Nobody breathed for what seemed like forever as Nail’s heart sank into his guts.

  “You just disappeared it, you stupid.” Liz Hen’s disgust broke the silence. She took two steps toward him and punched him in the shoulder as hard as she could. “What the bloody fuck is wrong with you? Haven’t you learned, you just don’t go around touching stuff in a place like this. Stupid bastard.”

  “May the wraiths take us,” Godwyn sighed. “Let’s just be grateful it didn’t sink straight to the underworld.”

  “Rotted angels, but my nerves are completely frayed.” Culpa’s voice was worn and ragged. “For good or ill, what’s done is done.”

  “Nobody touch anything again,” Roguemoore grumbled.

  “We’ve got to act quickly,” Culpa said. “That room below is liable to flood with silver and we’ll have no way out.” He handed his torch to Liz Hen, pulled the rope from his pack, and turned to Stefan. “With all those holes in the walls, I dare not send any of us walking across the floor of that corridor.” He snatched an arrow from Stefan’s quiver. “Can you sink this arrow into that wooden door above the altar?” He tied the rope to the shaft of the arrow.

  “Just like the glacier crevasse.” Stefan nodded. “Maybe easier.” He nocked the arrow to the bow, aimed, breathed deep, held it, and fired. The shot was straight and true and punched deep into the wooden door, rattling it.

  They all waited in silence. Nail half expected the roof to fall in or the whole place to burst into flames, but nothing happened.

  Culpa tugged on the line as hard as he could, jerked on it, yanked and pulled. The arrow was lodged solidly in the wood. The Dayknight tied the rope around his waist and then sat down heavily at the edge of the stairs, his black armor scraping against the stone. The rope was now stretched tight between him and the arrow, suspended about three feet above the floor. “You’re the lightest of us, Dokie,” he said. “You’ll have to crawl over there along the rope, slide that altar stone aside, and see what lies within, hopefully Blackest Heart.”

  Dokie took hold of the line. “Like Stefan said, just like the glacier crevasse, maybe easier.” He looked down the dim corridor. “And if I slip, not as far to fall.” He then did the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over his heart, took hold of the taut line with both hands, and swung under it. He threw his legs up, hooking them around the rope from underneath. The arrow remained lodged in the wooden door forty feet away.

  “Be careful,” Liz Hen muttered.

  Upside down Dokie crawled toward the altar, confident and swift. Culpa and the dwarf strained to hold the rope as rigid as possible. Still the rope sagged some as Dokie reached the midway point. The Dayknight braced himself and leaned back, pulling the rope taut again. Seita and Roguemoore latched onto the rope too, helping to hold it steady. When Dokie reached the sunken altar, he called back, “Do I dare stand now?”

  “Just move slowly,” Culpa instructed. “And be wary of any clicks or other strange noises when you stand! Don’t move about any more than need be! See if you can slide the altar stone aside!”

  Dokie unraveled his legs from around the rope and let his feet drop to the floor. Dangling awkwardly, he waited a moment, then put weight on his feet and stood. Culpa and Roguemoore relaxed on the other end of the rope.

  “The top of the altar stone has carvings on it!” Dokie shouted, his head cocked sideways. “Carvings like on the standing stones! Like the symbols in my dreams after the lightning strike! Like in all my sketches!”

  “Just see if you can slide the altar stone aside!” Culpa shouted.

  Dokie knelt and pushed against the altar stone, straining. “I can’t move it! It’s too heavy!”

  “Try pushing from another angle!” Culpa shouted.

  Dokie repositioned himself behind the stone and pushed again, this time in little short bursts. “It’s inching aside! But it’ll take me a while.”

  “Just push far enough to reach your arm down!” the Dayknight encouraged.

  A few more shoves and Dokie managed to slide the stone aside far enough to reach inside. He lay down on his stomach and peered into the hole. He scooted nearer the narrow opening and thrust his arm down. “Something’s down here!” He wiggled his arm into the hole farther. “I think I can reach it! I feel it!” After a moment he pulled forth a dark object.

  It was a crossbow. Large, black as soot, and strung with black string.

  A growing sense of awe instantly infused the company. That the ancient relic was actually there and that Dokie had actually pulled it free of the altar after so much trouble and fright was finally sinking in.

  “Is there a black stone down there too?” Culpa yelled.

  Dokie set the ancient crossbow on the floor and put his face to the hole again. “All I see is a dark black shape, like a piece of cloth!”

  “Aye! That’s it!” Culpa shouted. “The angel stone is in the cloth. Get it. But don’t touch the stone. Keep it in the cloth.”

  Dokie reached down into the hole again and pulled forth the swath of black silk and unwrapped it. “An angel stone!” He stood and held the swath of silk out for all to see. “Black!”

  Godwyn said, “We must give praise to Shawcroft for his years of toil.”

  If there was any black gemstone on the black silk, Nail couldn’t see it from so far away. “I’d toss it to you, but I can’t throw that far!” Dokie yelled.

  “Just secure the crossbow tight to your belt and crawl back over the rope!” Culpa instructed. “Wrap the stone and stuff it in your pocket!”

  Dokie wrapped the stone and crammed the silk between his sweat-stained shirt and the plate armor strapped to his chest. He reached down and snatched up the crossbow and lifted it triumphantly above his head. “Look, Liz Hen, I got ’em both! Blackest Heart and an angel stone!”

  Liz Hen clapped and let out a sharp hoot of praise. “He’s like a regular burgler. A dungeon thief.”

  Culpa leaned back on the rope and Dokie’s safety line was again pulled taut. Hanging under the line by all fours like a spider on a web, crossbow hooked to his belt, Dokie crawled back hand over hand. At the halfway point, the rope drooped in the middle again. Culpa braced himself, tightening the line, Roguemoore and Seita also gripping the line, steadying it best they could.

  Stefan’s arrow snapped free of the wooden door.

  Dokie dropped to the smooth stone floor in a clatter twenty feet away, instantly clambering to his knees, crossbow in hand, facing the others. “I’m okay,” he announced.

  There was a sharp hiss of air and a thousand blasts of dust shot forth from the thousand holes in both walls and then silently rained to the ground.

  Dokie, still on his knees in the center of the corridor, toppled sideways to the stone floor; head, arms, legs, torso, every inch of him bristling with shiny needle-thin darts,
none of them longer than a small child’s finger. Thousands of darts were scattered about the surface of the passageway around him, glimmering like tiny stars in the torchlight, merciless and sharp.

  The grimmest of silences fell over the company.

  “Dokie!” Liz Hen lunged forward. Val-Draekin pulled her back before she had a chance to leap over the small stream of silver. Beer Mug barked, pawing madly at the stone landing, also eager to jump across the silver trough and help the downed boy, but sensing the danger. As the dust settled, Dokie’s body slowly curled around the crossbow clutched to his chest, then went still, his folded torso resembling naught but a glittering pincushion in the darkness now.

  A thunderous rumble echoed from the stone all around. The deepness of the sound sucked the breath from Nail’s lungs. The spiderwebs above Dokie began to shiver and quake. Dust rained over the boy again, and the uneven roof of the passageway slowly began to drop.

  “No,” Culpa Barra gasped as the ceiling descended toward Dokie with a loud, ponderous grind—a scraping slow descent that shook the very ground.

  The Dayknight was swiftly on his feet, armored body coiled and ready to spring to Dokie’s rescue. But the sudden firm hand of the dwarf on his chest plate stopped him. Culpa’s normally proud posture went slack. His pained eyes roamed over the thousands of murderous dark holes in the corridor’s two walls, and the thousands of silver darts on the floor, and Dokie’s inert form; he knew there was naught he could do.

  Liz Hen struggled against the strong grasp of Val-Draekin. Seita joined in restraining the distraught girl. Roguemoore, too. The girl’s loud cries filled the cavern, drowning out the rumble and grind of the descending roof.

  Culpa grabbed the rope and started pulling it frantically toward him. The arrow, still tied to the line, skittered along the floor behind Dokie. It caught on the boy’s armor. Culpa hauled on the rope, trying to hook Dokie and fish the boy to safety. But the arrow snapped in half and the rope went slack. The Dayknight hurled the rope to the ground, shouting aloud in frustration.

  Nail watched as the roof dropped below eye level, knowing his stalwart companion from Gallows Haven deserved better than a crushing death here in this mournful shit hole of a mine. It was like being aboard the Lady Kindly again. Nobody had moved to save Zane from the sharks. And nobody was moving to save Dokie.

  With that thought, Nail launched himself over the stream of silver and ducked under the sinking ceiling, lunging forward to rescue his friend. A sharp hiss of air and a blast of a thousand winds blew past him. Darts peppered the sides of his breastplate and ricocheted away into the darkness. Pain scorched his face. He felt Culpa Barra’s strong hand curl around his belt and he was yanked roughly over the stream of silver and from the danger of the corridor to safety.

  Nail and the Dayknight tumbled back onto the stone landing in a clatter of armor. Nail swiped at the darts clinging to the sides of his face, frantically scraping them free of his searing flesh. The pain blooming over his face was almost too much to bear. He gritted his teeth, his heart a hollow mass of agony as he watched the ceiling slowly grind ever downward on his friend. A gap of only four feet was now all that separated Dokie from certain death. If he’s not already dead. The darts held a furious sting, and Nail had only been shot with a few.

  With a loud bark, Beer Mug leaped the stream of silver and dashed under the descending slab of rock. There was another hiss of air and whoosh of darts, and the dog was struck by silver darts on both sides. But he scarcely broke stride. Cobwebs from the sinking roof dragged across Beer Mug’s back as he scrambled to reach the boy. His teeth clamped around Dokie’s booted foot and he began dragging the boy toward safety, crouching low as the ceiling pressed down. Darts spat from the walls a second time, striking both the boy and the dog.

  “Save them!” Liz Hen was crying. “Somebody save them both!”

  The entire company was on hands and knees now, every eye fixed on the pressing slab as Beer Mug struggled toward them, all four legs churning, pawing, clawing at the floor, pulling Dokie by the leg. But the ceiling continued its descent, buckling the dog’s four legs, slowing him, pushing him to the floor, darts firing into his body a third time.

  Then his tail was free of the falling roof. Culpa Barra straddled the silver stream and snatched the dog by the haunches, yanking him fiercely from under the crushing slab. Culpa tossed the large dog boldly across the room and into the arms of Liz Hen, who staggered against the side wall and clutched him to her chest, screeching, “He’s full of needles!”

  In one fluid motion, the Dayknight straddled the stream of silver again, then dropped to his knees on the other side and stretched the length of his arms out under the grinding rock, seizing Dokie by the ankles. He jerked the boy violently free of the slab. The black crossbow in the boy’s curled arms spun across the room and smacked the wall near Liz Hen and Beer Mug. The swath of silk flew from under his chest-plate armor. The black cloth fluttered to the floor, and the black stone hit the ground and bounced toward the flowing trench of silver . . .

  . . . and Roguemoore’s calloused hand snatched up the black gem, mere inches before it fell into the trough.

  And with a heavy crunch of finality, the ceiling of the corridor slammed shut behind Culpa Barra. The Dayknight, straddling the stream of silver once again, held Dokie Liddle up by the ankles, the boy’s limp body dangling, riddled with hundreds of tiny silver darts.

  * * *

  O, ye people, adore your great One and Only for now and forever. Anguished, Laijon drew Affliction and thrust the Last Demon Lord through. O, ye people, who of you does not bemoan that Vicious War of the Demons, that dread battle waged under constant mystery?

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  STEFAN WAYLAND

  10TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  SKY LOCHS, GUL KANA

  The Company of Nine finally broke free of the deep mountain crag, stumbling straight into the sunlight and the happy song of faraway birds, whirls of dusty snow dancing on the great D’Nahk lè behind them. The immense glacier and its vast pearl-white brilliance dominated the landscape to the south, vaulted peaks rising beyond. Eyes aching from the sudden sight of so much space and light, the company quickly stowed their torches and plopped to the ground, haggard and weary. Roguemoore’s chalk marks on the walls had saved them some time and headache. Still, the trek from the black depths of the mines had been long. Luckily, there had been no further sign of oghuls.

  Stefan and Val-Draekin set Dokie’s litter on the stony ground. Stefan breathed heavily from the exertion of carrying the boy. The litter itself was cobbled together from two wooden poles found in the mines along with some dismantled wooden stools. It was tied together with what little remained of the rope Dokie had used to traverse the corridor, and a blanket was stretched across it all. Another blanket covered Dokie. Every member of the company save Godwyn had taken shifts carrying the sick boy out of the horrid mines—the bishop’s injured arm was still bandaged, now in a sling. Godwyn pulled the last water skin from his pack and they all took a short drink. The bishop also forced some form of healing draught down Dokie’s throat, a brown mixture he’d pulled from his poultice pouch. “As long as we can keep him breathing, there is hope.”

  “He’s liable to freeze out here.” Liz Hen looked glum, Beer Mug curled against her leg, her hand nervously stroking his back. Ever since rescuing Dokie and being stung by the darts, the dog had been quiet, tongue lagging, panting heavily, head drooping. The dog’s tail didn’t wag once, even at the girl’s gentle touch. “May the wraiths take me for saying as much. Though it’s bright and sunny as the blazes out here, the mines were much warmer.”

  “We dare not go back in there, Liz Hen,” Godwyn said, his face grim. “No matter how warm those caves are. It will be all I can do to nurse Dokie along until we can get him the real medicines he needs. We must make haste. We shan’t rest long here.”

&
nbsp; In their escape from the mines, they had stopped at intervals so the bishop could remove the darts from the unconscious boy. Luckily, most of them had glanced off Dokie’s armor, or pierced his leathers only shallowly. Still, at least several dozen had punctured his face, arms, and legs. Whatever foul poison was on them had knocked him out cold and now affected his breathing. His face was terribly swollen and red.

  Liz Hen had plucked what darts she could from Beer Mug. The dog seemed to be growing more lethargic by the hour. Both sides of Nail’s face were also pocked and swollen. But he seemed to suffer no other ill effects from the dozen or so small bee-sting-sized wounds.

  “Dokie won’t die, will he?” Liz Hen asked, still stroking Beer Mug.

  “I don’t know.” Godwyn answered. “But I imagine the poisons on those darts were centuries old and had lost most of their potency.

  “The oghul in Stanclyffe, the tattoo under his eye, you saw it?” Culpa asked Godwyn. “That oghul may now be Dokie’s only chance.”

  “Stanclyffe is a long way off,” Godwyn said solemnly.

  “We’ve no other choice,” Culpa said. “You’ll have to get the boy to that oghul if he has any chance to survive.”

  “Stanclyffe is not the direction we travel.” Godwyn looked up, grim-faced.

  “What’s so special about that oghul in Stanclyffe?” Liz Hen asked. “What can he do for Dokie?”

  Culpa met her gaze. “The tattoo under that oghul’s eye is a sign, a sign announcing just what type of foul alchemy he barters in.”