“Foul alchemy?” Liz Hen looked horrified.
“Also healing draughts,” Culpa said, a smidgen of reassurance in his voice.
“But what price will the oghul ask?” Godwyn muttered.
“Indeed,” Roguemoore softly answered, a haunted look in his eyes. His beard and face were a bit cleaner now. The oghul blood was mostly scrubbed away, some still visible though, trapped in the cracks and creases of his plate armor. “What price might we all pay for Blackest Heart?”
“We’ve many heavy decisions to make,” Godwyn said.
“Do you think those darts were made of the same creeping silver?” Culpa asked.
“Hard to say,” Roguemoore answered, eyes bleak as they fell on the crossbow strapped to Culpa’s back. Stefan marveled at its solid black beauty and delicate, perfect mechanisms and black string. It seemed only a specifically sized quarrel would fit those exquisite mechanisms. Thicker than normal. Certainly no size arrow or bolt Stefan had ever seen. Seita also claimed it was fashioned of a type of wood she had never seen before, but the finest wood she’d ever laid eyes upon nonetheless.
Culpa also carried the black angel stone. It was wrapped in its silk cocoon and stuffed in a tiny leather sack at his belt. Stefan had only briefly looked at it—when Roguemoore had caught it before it fell into the stream of silver. Not even a flicker or gleam of torch flame had flared on its dark and dusky surface. Unlike the blue angel stone Gisela had found in the mines above Gallows Haven, this angel stone was a seemingly bleak and rootless thing, black and hard.
“He vomits but only air comes out!” Dokie blurted, eyes fluttering open. The boy’s sudden outburst startled them all. His eyes were glazed over with a milky fog. “He claims his ears are filled with water. He can’t feel his feet, either. The armor burnt him good. Left scars.”
“What’s he goin’ on about?” Liz Hen rushed to his litter, grabbed his hand in hers. “Do the wraiths have him now?”
“He’s delirious, feverish.” Godwyn dabbed at the boy’s forehead with a corner of the blanket.
Dokie’s chest rose and fell more rapidly. “The lightning struck! He felt his heart stop!” He sat up, foggy eyes roaming the landscape. “Said he knew what death felt like right then and there. Said he felt his heart start up again when his body hit the mud, said he would be dead if he hadn’t hit the ground so hard.” Dokie’s wild gaze settled on Nail. “He wanted to know if you felt your heart stop too.”
“Dear Laijon, the wraiths have taken him.” Tears streamed down Liz Hen’s ruddy, cold cheeks. “What will we do?”
“Am I dreaming?” Dokie’s rheumy eyes were still fixed on Nail. “Come here.”
Nail sat still as a stone, a bitter look on his face.
“The mark of the cross. I dreamed it.” Dokie pointed to the red cross-shaped mark on the back of Nail’s hand. Stefan had first noticed the burn scar on Nail soon after Dokie had been struck by lightning on Baron Bruk’s practice field so long ago.
“Mark of the cross?” Liz Hen stood up and grabbed Nail’s hand, examining it. “What do you suppose it means?”
“It don’t mean nothin’.” Nail jerked his hand away from her. “He’s lost his mind is all.”
† † † † †
The surface of the glacier was melty in the sun, creating a dangerous surface. Hauling Dokie over and around all the obstacles and puddles in their path took the effort and muscle of all. But they made good headway to the chasm they’d crossed days ago, the two rangy dun-colored mules waiting in the distance, both still staked to the ice.
The gaping chasm appeared to have widened by about five feet since they had last crossed it. The gorge now seemed to emit a low roar of raging subterranean waters from deep within, the raucous din much louder than before. With only one rope left, their crossing would be more demanding this time, if not impossible, with Dokie strapped to a litter. There would be no rope bridge this time. Each person would have to swing across the lone rope they had and brace for impact against the far ice wall, then climb the rope to safety—or be pulled to safety by those who had crossed before.
Val-Draekin went through each pack, setting aside the two pickaxes they needed, then tossed what other gear they could across the chasm, where it landed near the stake. Culpa tied their remaining rope around one of Stefan’s arrows.
Stefan nocked the arrow to his bow, aimed, and fired. It was a perfect shot. The arrow lodged deep into a crack in the ice just a foot below the opposite rim. Seita tied the other end of the rope around her own waist, grabbed the two pickaxes from the ice, stepped carefully to the slippery ledge, and jumped. She swung down gently into the chasm and landed feetfirst against the opposite wall twenty-five feet below, her two pickaxes immediately striking into the ice. The Vallè woman dangled a moment, got her footing against the ice wall, and slowly began to climb, using the two picks. Once she reached the top, she wrapped the rope around the stake, then went back, leaned over the ledge, and plucked Stefan’s arrow free. She swiftly untied herself and threw the other end of the rope along with the two pickaxes back over the chasm.
Roguemoore wrapped the rope around his girth multiple times. Pickaxes in hand, the dwarf took one step and leaped ungracefully into the chasm, heavy armored body smacking into the opposite wall of the crevasse with a stout crash. His horned helm rattled off his head at the impact and plummeted away into the vast nothing. The dwarf cursed, oriented himself to the wall quickly, and began his slow climb. Seita pulled on the rope from above.
Stefan thought he heard the distant howling of oghuls. Not sure whether his ears were playing tricks on him, he turned, eyes roaming the icy expanse they had just traveled. The howling grew louder, more distinct and real. Culpa had also turned to look just as a pack of several dozen oghuls crested a rise in the glacier about five hundred paces to the north and east.
They were loutish beasts, snarling and gray-faced, all rumbling and roaring as they tore across the ice, clattering and clanking in rusted armor of savage vulgar make, wicked-looking weapons thrust aloft.
“Hurry!” Culpa turned and hollered at the dwarf. The charging oghuls were a hundred paces closer to the icy gorge by the time the dwarf reached the top of the other side. Seita sent the rope and two axes sailing back for the next person.
“Go, Stefan! You next!” Culpa ordered. “I want you over there firing arrows into those oghuls as soon as you can!”
Heart jumping, Stefan wrapped the rope about his waist, his many years tying knots aboard the Lady Kindly speeding the process. Once secured, he snatched up the two pickaxes and moved to the edge, then jumped. He swung down into the chasm, a dark blue nothingness below, landing feetfirst against the far wall with a jarring thud that nearly punched the air from his lungs. A handful of arrows bounced from the quiver at his back and spun away down into the abyss below. His bow remained safe. He scrambled up the wall, axes biting into the ice, Seita and Roguemoore hauling on the rope from above.
Seita gave him a kiss on the forehead once he was again on solid ground, then untied the rope and sent it arcing back over the gap. Stefan tossed the two pickaxes back over too. The oghuls were three hundred paces from the chasm now, stampeding at a lumbering gait and closing the distance.
Godwyn was quick in securing the rope around his own waist. In two loping strides he jumped and disappeared down into the dark hole below. Stefan helped Seita and Roguemoore pull the bishop up the ice wall. Once Godwyn was safe and the rope and axes thrown back over the chasm, Stefan readied his bow. He quickly nocked an arrow and fired at the approaching horde, which was now less than two hundred paces from the chasm and closing fast. His arrow landed somewhere in the middle of the pack and he thought he saw an oghul go down. He nocked another arrow and fired.
Liz Hen was done wrapping the rope around her own waist when Culpa yelled at Seita. “Take Blackest Heart!” Then he sent the crossbow sailing over the chasm. It twirled through the air, black against the blue skies. Seita caught the cro
ssbow in deft hands and set it gently on the ice behind her.
Culpa jammed his hand into the small leather pouch at his belt, took out the black silk holding the angel stone, and thrust it into Liz Hen’s hand. “Have you a safe pocket for this?”
“Aye.” The girl stuffed the silk and stone straight down her bodice, then cinched the laces tight around her neck. “It won’t easily escape there.”
“Good!” Culpa took Liz Hen’s sword and threw it over the chasm next, the long Sør Sevier blade sailing over the gap, landing about ten feet behind Stefan.
“What about Dokie?” Liz Hen yelled as Culpa shoved her roughly down into the crevasse. Beer Mug let out a shrill bark watching her fall. The big girl dropped from sight and thudded against the wall below Stefan with a grunt. Seita, Godwyn, and the dwarf began hauling her to safety.
Stefan fired another arrow. An oghul dropped in a spray of ice and slush, arrow quivering in its neck. The horde was less than a hundred paces away and bearing down. Stefan fired again.
Culpa Barra whirled and drew his sword, ready for the looming attack. Nail drew his sword too, standing over Dokie’s litter. Val-Draekin pulled daggers from his leather armor, spinning them in both hands.
Stefan fired another arrow and a second oghul dropped to the surface of the glacier in a skid of blue ice. At the same time, Val-Draekin let both of his daggers fly. Two oghuls went down instantly as the glittering blades sank into their exposed necks. The Vallè readied two more daggers. Stefan was firing arrows as fast as he could.
Liz Hen was soon clambering over the rim of the chasm in front of Stefan, Seita and Godwyn dragging her by the rope. Seita leaped forward, tore the rope off Liz Hen, and cast it back over the chasm. Val-Draekin seized hold of the line and swiftly wrapped it around Dokie’s litter a half-dozen times, cinching it tight, tying several quick knots. Then he sent Dokie sliding toward the chasm with a shove. The litter glided over the glacier and dropped down into the icy defile.
Stefan heard the litter clatter against the ice below. Behind him, Liz Hen, Roguemoore, and Godwyn were hauling on the rope, pulling Dokie’s litter up the wall of ice. Stefan fired another arrow into the pack of oghuls now fifty paces from the gorge and closing, and then another. Seita was throwing daggers of her own. Multiple oghuls were dropping now, others tripping over the dead as they ran, the confusion slowing the pack some, but not enough. Dokie’s litter was pulled to safety, the rope swiftly untied and sent back over the chasm.
Beer Mug launched himself toward the advancing throng of oghuls, teeth bared and glaring, muscles and haunches bunching as he ran. “No!” Liz Hen screamed as the dog leaped at the throat of the lead beast, both tumbling in a snarling heap and spray of ice.
Stefan fired another arrow into the center of the horde, and then another. Nail was wrapping the rope around his own waist when the first of the charging oghuls reached Culpa Barra and Val-Draekin. Nail dropped the rope, brandished his sword, and turned to join the battle.
“Save yourself, Nail!” Culpa yelled. “Go!” The Dayknight’s black sword parried the heavy battle-ax of the first oghul with a shuddering thud.
Val-Draekin leaped high, daggers whirling as he laid into the next two rushing beasts. The Vallè was quickly outnumbered and pulled to the ground by a swarm of thick-armored oghul arms and fists and crude hacking blades.
Conflict etched on his face, Nail turned and threw his own sword across the chasm just as a maul-wielding oghul lunged for him. Nail ducked the wild swing of the iron maul and fell down. He flung himself to the side, skidding along the ice, spinning the rope around both of his wrists as he rolled away from the second crushing blow of the oghul’s heavy weapon. The maul splintered the ice.
Nail scrambled to his feet and jumped out over the chasm, holding fast to the rope with both hands. The oghul reached out one grubby fist and latched onto Nail’s booted foot, but Nail’s momentum dragged them both over the edge. The oghul lost hold of his grip and dropped into the chasm with a fearful bellow, disappearing into the deep blue nothingness. Nail clutched the rope as it swung low, hitting the wall below Stefan with a crash. Seita threw the last of her daggers and ran over to help the others pull Nail to safety. Stefan fired again into the battling throng of whirling bodies cross the chasm, but he was running low on arrows.
Culpa Barra and Beer Mug were in a desperate fight against more than a dozen of the ponderous beasts, a battle that surged to the right along the chasm’s rim, a swirling mass of weapons and rusted armor, Culpa taking many blows. Unstaggered, the Dayknight fought on, his black sword crushing away in a brave flurry.
Beer Mug lunged and leaped and darted in a blur of gray fur, blood and sinew gushing and tearing from the ankles and hamstrings of every creature he snared, many oghuls falling to the ice, legs useless.
To the left, Val-Draekin was once again on his feet and fighting, but injured and bloodied, gray cloak in tatters, his daggers lethal and flinging red droplets everywhere. Many oghuls lay dead around him, gouts of scarlet spraying over the ice from harsh wounds. Val-Draekin slipped and slid in the blood and melt as the remaining beasts circled him.
Stefan fired an arrow into the group of oghuls, dropping one instantly, arrow jutting from its blunt face as it folded to the ice. That created an opening for the Vallè. He leaped through the gap and dashed away to the north and west, pulling many of the oghuls with him as they took to the chase. Stefan fired his last arrow at the group pursuing Val-Draekin, seeing one fall, arrow protruding from its back. Then his quiver was empty.
Nail was already hauled up out of the chasm, safe with the others. The rope sailed back over the abyss toward Culpa with a deft toss from Seita. The Dayknight, still in mortal combat with the oghuls in front of him, saw his safety line land in the bloody slush at his feet. The rope instantly slid back toward the yawning gorge. Without hesitation, Culpa turned from the fight and threw his sword high over the chasm. He knocked aside a burly oghul with his shoulder, then dove for the rope snaking toward the ledge, sliding chest-first in ice and blood, outstretched hands seizing the rope just as it slithered over the lip of the chasm. Two of the oghuls lunged for Culpa, scrambling and sliding on the ice, losing control, arms flailing. The Dayknight’s momentum carried him forward and he slipped facefirst down into the crevasse, rope in both hands, dropping away and disappearing from view. Unable to stop their own frantic impetus, the two oghuls slid headlong into the chasm behind him, spinning silently into the darkness of the deep. Culpa slammed into the wall below Stefan. The others began pulling on the rope, hauling the Dayknight up.
Beer Mug was left alone with nearly ten oghuls, all swinging at the dog with rusty weapons. None of their lumbering blows landed. The shepherd dog, deft on his feet, darted free of the throng and dashed toward Val-Draekin. The Vallè, about fifty paces away from the crevasse now, sorely injured and trailing blood, was forced to turn and engage in battle with the hulking beasts that had given him chase. The oghuls had the advantage in number, backing the valiant blood-covered Vallè down. Beer Mug launched the full weight of his body into the back of the largest oghul near Val-Draekin, knocking the beast face-first to the ice. The dog’s gnashing teeth tore at the back of the oghul’s thick neck. Again, it was all the distraction the Vallè needed.
As Culpa Barra was pulled over the rim to safety, Val-Draekin broke from the fight and ran straight toward the crevasse, three oghuls galloping after. He reached the opposite edge of the chasm at a full sprint, launching himself out over the abyss as far and high as he could. Seita ripped the rope from Culpa’s waist and tossed it as far and as high as she could toward her fellow Vallè.
Val-Draekin and the rope sailed toward each other over the gaping blue void.
The Vallè snatched the end of the rope out of the air as casually as a cat snagging a fluttering moth with its paw, seizing the rope midflight. He dropped down into the chasm, wrapping the end of it around his hands as he fell, now swinging toward the opposite wall. Behind him, the three pursui
ng oghuls couldn’t slow in time and slid in a spray of bloody ice over the edge, screaming great guttural roars as they fell.
Val-Draekin slammed against the ice below Stefan. Every member of the company but Dokie rushed to haul on the rope. The injured Vallè was soon up and on the safe side of the deadly gap, blood dripping to the ice from his many wounds.
“Beer Mug!” Liz Hen screamed.
Across the ice, the shepherd dog was still dodging the blows of oghul weapons, a noticeable limp in his gait, weary eyes fixed on the rest of the company now safe on the opposite side of the crevasse. Beer Mug’s fur was covered in blood—whether his own, or that of the oghuls, Stefan could not tell. But his heart went out to the stout dog.
“Beer Mug!” Liz Hen screamed again, tears streaming down her face as the dog wove between the legs of the oghuls still trying to kill him, his every move becoming increasingly lethargic. “We have to save him!” she cried.
“There’s nothing to be done.” Roguemoore’s gruff voice spoke the truth they all were thinking. ‘We’ve no more arrows. No more daggers.”
Stefan had seen the dog jump the chasm before. But that was two days ago when the gap was narrower and the dog healthy.
Through a mist of his own tears, Stefan watched as a vicious blow from an iron club caught Beer Mug right on the top of the spine. The dog yelped. Head now cocked awkwardly to the side, Beer Mug limped away from the lumbering oghul, paws slipping on bloody ice as he staggered along sideways, almost as if drunk. The oghul with the maul was right on his heels, the others jeering and taunting with their crude weapons. On weary legs, limping, whimpering, the dog weaved his way through the carnage and blood and dead oghuls, sorrow-filled eyes fixed on the Company of Nine watching from the other side of the chasm.
“Jump, Beer Mug!” Liz Hen screamed. “You can make it!”
The dog’s ears perked at her encouragement. He took a halfhearted run at the chasm, then backed off, coming to a stop at the rim of the crevasse, eyes forlorn as he dropped to his haunches, head hanging, entire body heaving with each panting breath.
The Blackest Heart Page 47