The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Gault was still finding needle-thin slivers of rock embedded in his skin. Other crossbow-wielding guards were perched in the various random cave openings hundreds of feet up, completely inaccessible to the slaves below.

  Most of the seventeen slaves on Higgen’s crew were sawmen. In the bowels of the quarry, the sawmen sawed marble either from the top down, or side to side, or from the floor of the quarry, or they chiseled through it, or swung a sledgehammer at it, or pried it from the walls with thick iron bars, or dug trenches to string rope under heavy blocks of it, or dug trenches for water, or hauled shit buckets up the chute.

  Everyone obeyed the guards, else slivers of marble would fire like lightning from their crossbows. Food and water was a rarity, especially if you were Gault Aulbrek, Knight Archaic of Sør Sevier. And Higgen ran the slave crew.

  Upon their arrival, Gault, Lindholf, and Delia had been stripped of their cuffs and shackles and presented with a twenty-by-forty-foot block of marble to finish sawing in half. The block had already been dug from the floor of the quarry and sanded smooth on all sides. Previous workers had already sawed it almost in half. Higgen had ordered Gault and Lindholf to finish the job with Delia’s help.

  A thin cut in the center of the marble stretched from the top of the block almost down to the bottom. There was only three inches of stone left to cut and the marble would be in two halves. Two ditches had been dug into the marble floor under each half block of marble. Gault had learned that the channels would later be used to fish massive ropes through, ropes that were thick as a man’s leg, ropes used to haul each half block up and out of the quarry.

  With the steel wire they had been given, it had taken Gault and Lindholf half a day to saw through the remaining three inches of marble. Gault on one side of the huge block, Lindholf on the other, sawing back and forth, thick leather gloves protecting their hands. Higgen informed them that there were chunks of diamond in the wire; the diamonds, combined with the abrasive action of water and sand poured from above, kept their wire saw lubricated and sharp. Delia was lifted up onto the block along with a dozen buckets of water and sand. Astraddle the thin cut in the marble, her job was to pour the water and sand down into the crevice at intervals to keep Gault and Lindholf’s saw wet.

  Cutting through that last three inches of marble was the most grueling work Gault had ever done. Lindholf had cried the entire time. Once they were finished, they’d been given their ten-minute break. Except Gault was given shit-bucket duty.

  By the time Gault made it down from the chute, the break was over. Lindholf was still teary-eyed and despondent-looking, standing near the cluster of slave tents, finishing the small crust of bread and cup of water he’d been given. Gault wanted a taste of the water. But Higgen didn’t offer him any. Everything down here ran through Higgen.

  Gault briefly wondered if it was worth risking being shot with shards of marble again for just a drop, wondered if he dared even drink from the mud-colored ditch under the block of marble. It was tempting. He thought better of it and just awaited his next instructions.

  “They’ll be lowering the rope soon, bald man,” Higgen said to him. Higgen had nicknamed Gault bald man, Delia cutie, and Lindholf ugly-faced shitbag. Higgen spit on the marble floor, his leering eyes on Delia. She stood about as close to Lindholf as she could without being right on top of him, somehow finding comfort and safety in the boy’s nearness. He was the only familiar face to her. But it was evident Lindholf was ill-prepared to defend the girl if it came to it. Every slave down here had cast a devious eye the girl’s way at least once. Some stared nonstop.

  A dust-covered slave with shaggy brown hair sidled up next to Gault. “We string rope under the two blocks you cut,” he said. “The horses above haul both blocks up out of here. One at a time, of course. Takes nearly two hundred of the stoutest draught horses you ever seen to pull a block that size up and out of here.”

  The shaggy-haired slave with beady eyes held out his hand to Gault. “I’m Woadson, by the way. But they mostly call me Toad’s Son down here.” Gault shook the man’s hand, noticing a small ring of bent wire around the fellow’s index finger. He wondered if the ring meant Toad’s Son was married. Woadson grinned at Gault, a yellow, toothless smile that looked a trifle childlike under all the pale grit on his face.

  “Look.” Woadson nudged Gault.” The ropes are a-comin’ down just like I said.” Gault gazed straight up the towering marble cliff and saw the two ropes slowly being lowered from the lofty heights, big and round and thick as his thigh. Both ropes were hooked to a much larger rope near as thick as a man.

  “Jump to it!” Higgen shouted once the ropes reached the quarry floor. Men scurried to the two blocks of marble, huge ropes now coiling on the ground.

  “Ugly-faced shitbag!” Higgen pointed at Lindholf. “You’re the smallest of us! Snatch the end of that line!” He pointed to the nearest rope. “Crawl the rope under the stone!” He pointed to the ditch under the nearest marble block. Lindholf looked mortified by the very prospect. “Now!” Higgen shouted.

  “That rope is huge,” Lindholf said. “And that trough is full of dirty water.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ripe fart if it’s full of oghul vomit!” Higgen yelled. “Do as I say, or as Laijon is my witness, I’ll motion for them guards to shoot you full of marble shot. Then I’ll rip down your britches and whip you myself.”

  Delia grabbed his arm. “Just do it, Lindholf,” she said softly.

  “You’re right.” Lindholf looked at her, a note of courage in his voice. “I reckon I’ve swum through more dangerous places than that.” He headed for the rope.

  “You too, cutie!” Higgen pointed at Delia, a grin forming at the corners of his mouth. “You take the other rope through the other trough. I wanna see what you look like crawling on all fours, and wet.” The other slaves laughed and jeered their approval.

  Delia looked at Gault pleadingly.

  “Like you told Lindholf, best just do it.” Gault nodded to her. “I’ll wait for you on the other side. It’s only twenty feet under them blocks. Crawl fast. You can hold your breath that long.”

  “But the rope looks so heavy,” Delia said.

  “Higgin is till glaring at you. Better jump to it. No telling how he’ll punish you.”

  Despondent, Delia followed Lindholf toward the ropes. Gault walked around to the other side of the two marble blocks. The trenches stretching under the blocks were three feet deep, chiseled from under the marble slabs before any cutting began, and they were used to collect the sluice and water and sand. Now they’d be used to fish the heavy rope underneath.

  Lindholf and Delia did not dawdle. He could hear them splashing through the troughs now. Lindholf popped up from under the left slab first, sputtering muddy water, the heavy rope draped over one shoulder. The girl emerged soon after, muddy and wet, thick rope grasped between her arms, clutched to her chest, her sopping prison garb clinging to every curve of her body. The slaves hooted and hollered their pleasure as she crawled from the trough. Higgen shouted, “Back to work! Now that you got your eyes full, back to work!”

  Every slave scurried to their duty, leaving Delia lying chest down on the marble floor, lungs heaving in great gulps of air. Lindholf crawled to her aid.

  “Back to work, ugly-faced shitbag!” Higgen grabbed him by the collar and tossed him back. Lindholf stumbled away, falling hard to the marble. Higgen helped the wet girl to her feet himself, arm around her shoulder. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He guided her toward a water bucket and a pile of rags near the tents.

  Lindholf painfully levered himself to his feet, gaze full of hurt and anger as he watched Higgen clean Delia’s muddy clothes with one of the rags, grubby hands fondling the girl’s body wherever he could. “Bloody Mother Mia,” Lindholf muttered. “None of this is fair.”

  Gault and the boy watched as both ropes were wrapped around each block several times and secured tight to the other much heavier rop above, which, Gault noticed on close
r inspection, looked about twice as thick as a man. The whole apparatus was soon secured and ready.

  With a few hand signals from the guards to someone waiting above, the first marble block lifted off the ground with a loud groan. As it slowly rose, inch by inch, thick white dust swirled in the air. Once it was about six feet off the ground, Woadson and five other slaves scurried underneath it with iron poles, using the iron to brace the slab against tipping. To Gault’s estimation, the block was so heavy, he doubted the six slaves and their poles were doing much to guide it.

  Lindholf knelt by one of the exposed troughs of milky water and dipped his hands in, cleaning them. Gault drifted toward the boy, mouth parched and dry. Just a quick kneel down and dip of my head, and I can finally slake this thirst. He wonderd if Lindholf would sneak a drink. But the guards above were ever watchful, and he knew Lindholf dared not.

  The slab of marble was about twelve feet off the floor of the quarry now, rising ponderously, the six slaves stationed under it even now trying their best to guide it with their iron poles.

  Lindholf, still kneeling, swiped his hand through a mound of white dust that had gathered under the block of marble. He stood, examining the small pile of the dust cupped in his palm. Then lifted his hand to his nose and sniffed the white powder straight up his nostril. Then he sneezed.

  He’s bloody well lost his mind, Gault thought.

  Then he heard the loud snap of the rope above . . .

  . . . saw the horror-stricken look on the upturned face of Woadson, directly behind Lindholf.

  Instinctively, Gault snatched Lindholf by the front of his shirt and pulled the boy toward him. The massive marble block came crashing down, scraping the back of Lindholf’s mud-soaked clothes with a rush of air.

  The block hammered to the floor of the quarry with a thunderous boom, crushing Woadson and the five slaves underneath, flattening them, the two ropes secured around the block falling perfectly into the two wet trenches.

  A blast of white dust billowed up around Gault and Lindholf, and the singular heavy rope came coiling down around them. The twin troughs of milky water turned red with blood.

  Lindholf, eyes wide as teacups, scrambled away from Gault.

  A portion of the still-falling rope hit the boy in the shoulder, knocking him backward into the bloody trench, his entire body submerged in swirling red. Gault reached into the water, latched onto the boy, and hauled him from the ditch.

  “Stupid kid done bathed himself in the blood,” the slave nearest Gault commented. Lindholf choked and coughed.

  “Bloody Mother Mia!” Higgen ran up, appraising the disaster before him. “Rotted angels, but I ain’t seen a rope snap like that in five years. Ain’t seen a man crushed in ten.” His eyes fell on Gault and Lindholf, lingering on the boy. “Bad luck is what you are, ugly-faced shitbag, covered in blood and marble sludge like that.”

  But Lindholf didn’t even seem to hear the man; his eyes dwelt on something sticking from under the base of the fallen block of marble.

  A lone arm.

  From elbow to fingertip the arm was perfect, spotless, just resting there palm up, fingers slightly curled, one finger with a small circle of bent wire for a ring. It was Woadson, or what remained of him. The shaggy-haired man was flattened somewhere between the heavy block and the marble floor, flattened somewhere in a space so thin Gault figured he couldn’t even slip a piece of paper into it.

  Lindholf, eyes on the arm, took three huge breaths, did the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over his heart, and fainted.

  †  †  †  †  †

  Gault spread out his bedroll on the slope just under the marble cliff face, next to Lindholf. He sat with his back against the wall, eyes locked on Woadson’s arm sticking out from under the marble block not thirty feet away. Delia rolled out her bed next to his. She lay flat on her back, suffering the day’s exhaustion in silent torture. Lindholf was propped on one elbow under a thin blanket, eyes staring into space, hollow and haunted.

  Higgen and the eight remaining slaves in his crew hunkered in a circle near a makeshift lean-to below, some sort of gambling-type game scratched into the surface of the marble floor between them—the remaining bedrolls of the six dead men were the prize. Several torches flickered above, the camp’s only light, both near the lone guard posted on the catwalk.

  Once darkness had settled over the quarry, all work stopped, all metal tools, wires, and ropes were bundled together and hoisted onto the catwalk and placed under care of the guard. Then the pulley system was shut down.

  “They’re going to kill me on the morrow,” Lindholf said. “Those guards will kill me when I refuse to help. And I ain’t helping. I ain’t working no more. Higgen said my job was to scrape those squashed men off the floor once they raise the block again. And I just can’t do it, Gault.”

  “Surely you’ve seen warriors die gruesome deaths in the gladiator arena,” Gault said. “This is no different. They’re just dead men. That’s all.”

  “No,” the boy muttered in response. “This is different.”

  “I wish they would just kill me now,” Delia said to no one in particular, soft frightened voice naught but a hushed whisper in the dark.

  There was a sudden burst of laughter from the slaves gathered below. Then Higgen and two other slaves stood and sauntered up the slope toward Gault. Higgen led the way, a wry smile curling at his lips. Gault sat up straighter. Delia sat up too, worry flushing her face.

  “What say the girl sleeps down by us tonight?” Higgen’s greedy eyes were fixed on Delia.

  “She stays with me.” Lindholf shook his blanket off. “You won’t touch her.” He stood, facing Higgen bravely.

  “Fuck off, ugly-faced shitbag.” Higgen took two quick steps and shoved Lindholf back to the ground. He reached forward and snatched Delia by one leg, pulling the girl away from the wall. “You still ain’t thanked me for cleaning the mud off you earlier,” he laughed as he siezed her by the hair and dragged her down the slope.

  On her back, Delia struggled against him, screaming, kicking.

  “Leave her alone!” Lindholf scrambled to his feet. One of the two other slaves grabbed the boy around the midsection and lifted him straight up, then dashed him hard against the marble floor. Lindholf’s entire body struck the unforgiving surface with a sickening thud. Moaning, he didn’t get up.

  Gault watched Higgen drag Delia away.

  He knew the girl was going to be raped by each of the nine slaves below and there was nothing to be done about it. He’d seen worse in war, and it just didn’t matter. The gang rape of one slave girl just wasn’t much of a concern, not to Laijon, not to Raijael, nor to any God that came before or likely to come after. And not to Gault.

  Why should it matter to me? I am no god. I am no one’s savior.

  Even the lone guard standing in the faint torchlight above looked down on the scene with scant concern, crossbow still strapped to his back. He merely watched as if he too wished to be down there lining up to feel a woman’s soft flesh under him.

  Near the lean-to below, all nine slaves had gathered round the girl. Delia was being roughly stripped of her prison garb by Higgen, her soft flesh as pale as the hard marble. She trembled in the torchlight. Ribald laughter filled the night as the girl was shoved to the ground and Higgen began stripping off his own clothes.

  Lindholf cried, despondent. The look on the boy’s face was of sheer helplessness.

  At least he tried. That he had been soundly beaten was not his fault. The biggest and strongest and most confident of men will always conquer. And the weak recoil. That is just the way of things.

  With that thought, Gault stood.

  He walked toward the block of marble that had crushed the six slaves earlier that day. He grabbed hold of Woadson’s arm, and with a swift pull, tore it free from under the stone with a loud snap of bone. Grasping the severed arm by the wrist, he walked toward the nine slaves gathered around the naked girl, his free hand p
eeling back the flesh of Woadson’s arm, exposing one long single shard of bone.

  Gault stepped into the circle of slaves. “Back away from the girl,” he said.

  Higgen, on bare knees between the girl’s legs, turgid cock stretched out before him, looked up angrily. The eight other slaves were staring at Gault too, every eye transfixed by the darkness set in his cold, hard orbs, only a few noticing the severed arm clenched in his fist, their eyes widening with concern. “Stand up,” he ordered Higgen.

  The burly slave stood, pulling his breeches up in the process, advancing on Gault with purpose. “Listen, bald man.” He scowled, both fists balled up tight, a glint of annoyance in his eyes. “You best go the fuck back over to your side—”

  Gault rammed Woadson’s severed arm straight into the underside of Higgen’s chin. The thin shard of bone hammered up through the man’s mouth and nasal cavity, punching straight out of his left eye socket, white eyeball pierced clean, soft as an egg yolk. The flesh of the severed arm bunched under Higgen’s chin as Gault continued to push upward. He was practically holding the slave aloft now with the strength of his arm, Higgen’s toes brushing the ground. Blood gushed red and livid from the hole in the man’s neck, coating Gault’s own clenched fist, running down his straining muscles.

  “Get up.” He glanced down at Delia. “Go back to Lindholf. Do it now.” The girl snatched her prison garb from the quarry floor and scrambled away.

  Gault yanked the bone straight down out of Higgen’s impaled face. The man folded to the ground, split tongue lolling from his gaping mouth as his head cracked against the marble. Blood bubbled and frothed as he gasped for air.

  Gault’s eyes roamed over the remaining eight slaves, taking the measure of each. He calmly met their angry stares. It was clear by their demeanor that the fight was not over. Many of them looked eager to attack. “You kilt Higgen,” one fellow snarled.