The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Stefan couldn’t move if he wanted to, nailed to the aspen tree as he was.

  He held his bow tight to his body, clutching the black angel stone, feeling some warm power flowing from it.

  When the first of the monsters reached his position, he knew not what to expect, perhaps a sword in the stomach, or an ax to the face. But the beastly mass paid him scant heed. They flowed around him in two delirious waves, all of them after Seita. As quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.

  And there was naught but silence.

  This is our parting, she’d said. The ending I saw. The thick arrow jutting from his chest had not yet registered pain in him. But as he felt his heavy breathing slow, a blurred disorientation along with the return of immense loneliness seemed to fill his entire being. He felt his eyes fluttering closed, but fought with all he had to stay awake.

  He lifted the angel stone. It was a struggle, fingers trembling as he uncurled them. The palm of his hand and pads of his fingers were burned and blistered where he’d gripped the stone. But he felt no pain. But the magic had burned him.

  He gripped the stone tight in his fingers once again and placed his clenched fist against his chest just above the arrow, feeling the slowing beats of his own heart.

  Blackest Heart.

  He couldn’t catch his breath.

  And then the wavering vision of one last oghul in dark leathers stepping cautiously from the woods came into focus. Thick sheets of iron plate armor were buckled to the straggler’s thighs and forearms, rusted and worn. A square war hammer of immense size was hooked to the baldric slung over his shoulder. A brace of bone-handled knives was tied to a crudely fashioned buckler at his hip. Other than that, the beast wore no helm and carried no weapons but for two meaty hands, both balled into a large fists. Tiny sparkling jewels were embedded in the claws that burst from his knuckles. This gray-faced oghul was a brute, larger than the others, flat-nosed and keen of eye, his lower lip swollen.

  A second figure slipped from the woods just behind the oghul, a copper-haired girl in a forest green cloak, the dull hilt of a shortsword just visible at her leather belt. The girl wore black pants and leather boots with dark leather thongs twining around each foot clear to the knee.

  The two newcomers slunk through the trees toward Stefan in a manner suggesting they did not want to be seen. As they drew near, Stefan saw the oghul’s eyes were as black and piercing as the angel stone warming in his own hand. The teeth protruding from both the top and bottom of the beast’s thick dry lips were shockingly long and sharp.

  The girl’s blue eyes were crisp and cold beneath the two dark smears of black ash covering her face. The inky smudges stretched from underneath each brow, down over her eyelids and over her cheekbones on either side of her stark face. Two feathers were tied into her hair just below her left ear, shockingly white against the dark green of her cloak and surrounding pines.

  Stefan felt his whole body go slack; the only thing holding him upright was the arrow pinning him to the tree. His vision again began to waver and fade as the black-eyed giant stood over him. Then the oghul bent down, stiff armor creaking as he seized hold of the bow clenched to Stefan’s chest. Stefan struggled to hold on to the weapon.

  Gisela!

  But his limp hand was no match for the oghul, who wrestled the bow away. With the weapon in one clawed hand, the oghul snatched Seita’s black dagger from Stefan’s lap with the other. He examined both for a moment, then stood and handed the bow to the copper-haired girl, slipping the dagger into his belt.

  The oghul crouched again and stripped the black angel stone from Stefan’s clenched fist. Stefan hadn’t the strength to fight him off.

  Does my mind play tricks on me?

  The oghul stuffed the black stone under his swollen lower lip between two jutting fangs, then sucked on the gemstone hungrily. Much like Father would suck on a pinch of tobacco. But his father was dead. He couldn’t even picture the man’s face anymore. Or Liz Hen’s. Or Nail’s. Or Seita’s . . .

  His vision blurred as both strangers turned and vanished into the density of the forest from whence they’d come. The bow is gone! And Stefan’s fading memory of Gisela with it.

  This was not how he wanted things to be before death could lay its cold claim. “Bring it back.” His body was so numb, he couldn’t even feel his own voice crack. “Bring Gisela back.” He couldn’t even feel the tears he knew were welling in his eyes.

  One red butterfly landed on the arrow jutting from his chest. Stefan watched as both butterfly and arrow rose and fell to the slow rhythm of his own rough breathing.

  Then, with a rapid flutter of its wings, the red butterfly flew away.

  And the final thing Stefan saw before all things grew dark . . .

  . . . the arrow lodged in his chest had stopped moving.

  * * *

  For even the vanity, frailties, and foolishness of dishonest men can fulfill prophecy and make cursed things blessed.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  TALA BRONACHELL

  19TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  When Grand Vicar Denarius finished his priesthood blessing over Lawri, Jovan favored both of his sisters with a dismal smile and continued his back-and-forth pacing.

  Today Tala’s brother was doing his utmost to look official, kingly: silver crown atop his head, decorative silver chain-mail tunic over black leather pants, and a long, black, fur-trimmed coat. Sky Reaver, the blue sword of Aeros Raijael, hung low on his belt.

  But despite his regal bearing, Jovan would not stop his tense pacing at the back of the room. His every irritable movement and grim look was putting all those gathered in the infirmary, including the Vallè doctor, Val-Gianni, on edge. It didn’t help that just behind him was an array of medical tools, saws and knives and scalpels and other horrid-looking items, hanging on the wall. To Tala, the whole room seemed harsh and jagged and sharp and seething with hidden pain.

  Lawri Le Graven was the focus of everyone’s attention. Tala’s blond cousin was sitting on a four-legged wooden stool directly behind an old stone oven in the center of the room. She wore a golden-colored dress that almost matched the ashen, pasty yellow of her face. The whites of her drooping, bloodshot eyes were streaked with sickly green behind black, milky pupils. Her breathing was forced and heavy. Sweat beaded on her forehead and exposed left arm—an infected arm that was the ghastly shade of a rotted plum. The arm was stretched out, palm up, atop the examination table before her. It was a thick wooden table that, to Tala, looked more like a butcher block than anything.

  Denarius placed the stopper back on his bull-horn flask of priesthood holy oil and stepped back from Lawri. He bowed to Val-Gianni. “By Laijon’s will, both her arm and her life are in now in your care, sawbones.”

  “Save her arm,” Mona Le Graven pleaded, her own worried face nearly as pasty and pale as her daughter’s. “The sickness hasn’t completely taken it yet. It looked healthy enough to me.”

  “Healthy enough?” Jovan scoffed, still pacing heavily behind them all. “Foul-smelling thing needs to come off.”

  It did smell. Like a dead dog bloating in the gutter on a hot summer day. The stench permeated the room even over the sterilizing ointment Val-Gianni had spread over her swollen wounds—raw distended wounds that crisscrossed the length of her forearm from wrist to elbow, puffed and sallow with infection. Herbs and spices and scented flowers were piled on a table next to a stone basin of water, their strong fragrance not even enough to mask the smell. The fact was, Tala’s cousin was sick, and the cause of that sickness was her own infected arm, an arm that she had let go rotten all herself.

  “Just chop the damn thing off already.” Jovan scowled. Tala glared at him, knowing this was all his fault.

  “Let the Vallè do his job,” Jondralyn said, hand resting against the small of Mona’s back reassuringly. Half of Jondralyn’s
head and neck was still covered in cloth bandages, though Val-Gianni had earlier mentioned they should come off in a few days. The stitches would remain for a time. But her eye was a loss, and she would soon be fitted with an eye patch. And she would bear a terrible long scar across her face until the end of her days.

  “Just chop her arm off,” Jovan repeated, still pacing.

  “You’re only scaring your aunt with such talk, Jovan,” Jondralyn said.

  “So what?”

  “Lord Lott is not here for her,” Jondralyn went on. “He is not here to comfort his wife. Lest you forget, he’s off preparing for battle with the rest of your men of the court.”

  The king, still pacing like a caged saber-toothed lion, glared at his sister. “And lest you forget, if you were worth a tinker’s shit in battle, I would have sent you too, Ser Jondralyn.”

  Tala could hear the tightness in Jovan’s voice. He wants an argument. He wants a fight. Jondralyn ignored her brother’s jibe and held on to Mona’s arm, comforting the woman. The young Le Graven twins, Lorhand and Lilith, were there too, eyes wide with fear as they trembled behind their mother.

  Squireck Van Hester stood directly behind Jondralyn, scowling at the king. The Prince of Saint Only had been favoring Tala’s sister with his company daily, hourly, hovering protectively over Jondralyn continually. And Tala could tell her sister did not appreciate his constant presence.

  Val-Korin was here too. He lingered near Val-Gianni, ready to render advice or aid. Denarius also stood near the Vallè sawbones, as did the five archbishops: Vandivor, Donalbain, Spencerville, Leaford, and Rhys-Duncan—all of them dressed in their finest robes and gold necklaces. Glade Chaparral leaned against the windowsill at the far end of the room; light streamed through, illuminating his bright Silver Guard armor. His three henchmen, Tolz, Alain, and Boppard, stood at attention next to him. Dame Mairgrid was there, hovering over Tala’s younger brother, Ansel, who looked on in mute fascination. Others present were Lars Castlegrail, commander of the Silver Guard, and Tomas Vorkink, Landon Galloway, and Terrell Wickham, the steward, chamberlain, and stable marshal of the castle. Everyone of note was stuffed into the small room.

  Tala’s eyes couldn’t help but stray to the limbless Jubal Bruk, who sat propped up on a cot in the far corner. The baron was watching the proceedings with great concern. As Tala stared at Jubal Bruk, all she could think about was how the Bloodwood’s game had spiraled so far out of control—Lawri’s well-being was continually in the balance.

  Val-Gianni began poking and prodding at Lawri’s arm. The girl squirmed under his touch, bearing the pain in silence.

  “You won’t cut off her arm like Jovan ordered, will you?” Mona reached for her daughter. Jondralyn pulled her back. Jovan met the woman’s concerned gaze with naught but contempt, a hard light growing in his eyes. He continued his pacing.

  “Please don’t cut off her arm,” Mona said again.

  Val-Gianni looked up from his work. “If she is willing to follow my instructions, allows us to drain her arm of infection daily, and takes the medicines I give, we might be able to buy her arm a few more days. Might even be able to save it.” He positioned himself behind Lawri, reaching for a ceramic vial. Val-Korin propped the girl’s head back and Val-Gianni forced the herbal draught down her throat.

  To Tala it didn’t seem right. She’s swallowed enough potions. As she watched Val-Gianni and Val-Korin work, her mind again drifted to the Bloodwood. The situation had fallen into madness. And poor Mona. Tala looked from Val-Gianni to her distraught aunt—her son framed for murder, her husband off preparing for war, her daughter . . .

  . . . her daughter’s infected arm spread out on a wooden table, head tilted back whilst two Vallè practically forced more potions down her throat. Tala wondered when all the hurt and insanity would end.

  Tala’s stomach twisted noticeably when she heard the slither of steel drawn from a scabbard. “Enough!” a deep-timbred shout boomed through the room. And Jovan took one long stride toward the examination table, fur-trimmed coat billowing behind like a black storm cloud, Sky Reaver suspended in both hands above his head.

  And the blue sword came slashing down like lightning, blade striking the wooden examination table like a heavy clap of thunder.

  Val-Korin and Val-Gianni jumped back from Lawri with startled faces, the ceramic vial clattering to the floor. Mona screamed, one sharp screech of horror. Lorhand and Lilith cried out in terror.

  Then breathless silence.

  Jovan wrenched the blue blade from the inch-deep groove sliced into the length of the table. Lawri’s arm was severed just below the elbow. One clean and bloodless thin line. Lawri didn’t move. She just stared.

  “Lawri likes blood so much”—Jovan wiped the blade on his coat, looking right at Tala—“I figured I’d give her a cut to remember.” He slammed the blade home in its scabbard. Jovan looked at Val-Gianni coldly. “Just dip her arm in boiling tar and be done with it. Seemed to work just fine for Baron Bruk.”

  Lawri looked up, emotionless, green-streaked eyes meeting Tala’s. A heartbeat passed. It was as if shards of ice ripped open Tala’s spine when Lawri slowly lifted the remaining stump of her arm from the table, saying, “What handsome court boy will want me now?”

  Dark red suddenly flooded from the grisly wound.

  Val-Gianni and Val-Korin leaped to Lawri’s side, rags pressing down on her arm to stanch the pluming gouts of blood . . .

  . . . blood that was streaked with green.

  †  †  †  †  †

  Tala stood before the cross-shaped altar, her back to the large stained-glass window above. Each deep red pane cast a scarlet, dust-filled haze over the tapestry hanging across the room. The tapestry was a likeness of Mother Mia. The Raijael worshippers of Sør Sevier referred to Mia as Lady Death. And the armies of the White Prince brought death to Gul Kana. Just thinking of her besieged kingdom brought an enormous weight of sadness that filled the whole of Tala’s body. That combined with all the trouble the Bloodwood had wrought within her own life was nearly too much to bear. For several moons now the sheer power and presence of the Bloodwood had haunted her every thought. But now the Bloodwood was silent.

  “Show yourself!” she screamed into the hollowness of the chamber. But there came no answer. Not even an echo of her own voice could be heard in the daunting spaciousness of the high-ceilinged chamber. The room’s ruby-tinted, smoke-streaked walls just stared back at her silently.

  “I’m right here, right now in your secret ways!” she roared. “Violating your precious haunts!” Nothing answered, as if the very room swallowed up her shouts in smothering oblivion.

  “Show yourself!” Her voice strained under the power of her scream. “Explain yourself! You foul monster! Talk to me if you dare! Come slay me if you dare! I’m here waiting if you dare! You rat-fucking Bloodwood!”

  Nothing.

  She’d come here straight from the infirmary. Lawri’s arm was gone. She hadn’t even brought a weapon. It didn’t matter anyway. There was nothing.

  Nobody.

  Her eyes roamed the unbearably quiet room, her tortured mind traveling back to the gladiator arena more than a moon ago. I don’t want him touching me, Lawri had shouted, or touching Tala. Then she’d tossed the severed head of the dead gladiator at the grand vicar. Tala thought she would never see a more horrid sight than that.

  Until today in the infirmary. The image of Jovan striking off Lawri’s arm was now a dark blot forever seared into her mind—her stunned mind. As she stood here in this grim room awaiting the Bloodwood, her heart was caught between beats in a silent cry, her mind naught but utter vacancy of thought, unable to comprehend what she had witnessed. Is Lindholf even aware of his sister’s plight? In the slave quarry, her cousin probably wasn’t aware of much beyond his own torment. I’ve betrayed so many!

  She stared at the altar in the center of the room. Even Lawri dreams of this cursed crypt. Streaking the stone were dried rivulets o
f blood—Sterling Prentiss’ blood. At the base of the altar, mingled with ashes and dirt and fragments of bone, were strange little carvings that curdled her blood with their unholy blasphemy. She had not seen them in her previous visits to this cursed place. Beasts of the underworld!

  Curved jagged teeth and horns, scaled flesh and hooked wings, forked tails of bone and claw. Dragons! How did I not see them before? If this horrific stale place where Sterling Prentiss had been murdered could get any worse, Tala couldn’t imagine how. As if her life could get any worse.

  “Show yourself!” she shouted one last time. She wanted to cry. Yet no sound issued forth. Her lungs strained with pain as tears of unfathomable sorrow streamed over her face. “Just show yourself, stupid Bloodwood,” she mumbled.

  “Call for a Bloodwood,” a familiar voice said from behind her, “and a Bloodwood will come.”

  Heart jumping in her chest, Tala whirled.

  Hawkwood stood in the doorway, black cloak wrapped around his body from head to toe. Strapped to his back were two cutlasslike swords, their familiar spiked hilt-guards staring back at Tala accusingly. But I threw them in the underground river!

  With a graceful gesture the man drew the hood back from his angular face with both hands. His gaze sliced through the red-hazed air, lingering on her as he stepped into the room.

  “Are you a Bloodwood?” she asked him. “Are you the Bloodwood?”

  “That is a long story.” As he drifted toward her, his smile was wry, introspective, captivating. And she did not like it.

  Tala remembered asking Roguemoore if Hawkwood had once been a Bloodwood assassin. The dwarf had never answered. Nonetheless, here the man was in the secret ways, almost admitting to his true nature. He was from Sør Sevier. A smidgen of fright infused her soul, and she stepped around the altar, keeping it between them.