The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “I can love who I want.” She let the words hang between them. His eyelids tightened as he glared down at her. I am not answerable to him. “It is I who decides where my heart falls, Squireck. Not you.”

  Hurt. Bitterness. Anger. Betrayal. Humiliation. Resentment. Every one of those emotions was evident in his face, every one of those emotions had slithered right through his defenses and set up camp behind his eyes. But it was the helplessness she saw in his slackening face that made the final decision for her. He is all talk. Everything he had previously said was naught but feigned bravado. And it was his utter lack of confidence that she despised most.

  “It’s best I go.” She bowed to him. “I will leave you to pray by yourself.”

  “Go then,” he said, straightening his posture, that feigned poise and confidence creeping back into his tone. “Run from your problems, Jon. Do not face them.”

  My only problem is you. She was already walking away from him, boots clacking against the marble tile. Yes, my only problem is you, Squireck Van Hester, and you’ve made me feel like I should be running, not walking.

  “Love is not full of resentments as you say, Jon,” he called out, his voice growing in conviction. “It does not make everyone miserable. I am not skeptical and cynical like you. I am not afraid to take a chance and open my heart. I won’t give up. I did not give up in prison. I did not give up in the arena. I fought. No matter how difficult things were, I fought. I triumphed.”

  She had moved around the Laijon statue, almost out of earshot now.

  “I will win you in the end!” he shouted. “You will choose me!”

  * * *

  A true soldier never steals anything; he merely takes it. A true soldier shall always keep his sword loose in its scabbard, ready for slaughter.

  —THE CHIVALRIC ILLUMINATIONS OF RAIJAEL

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  GAULT AULBREK

  1ST DAY OF THE FIRE MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  An unseen orchestra above Gault Aulbrek played a somber melody. Squireck Van Hester, Prince of Saint Only, son of King Edmon Guy Van Hester and Queen Beatriz Van Hester, famed murderer of one of the five archbishops of Amadon and renowned gladiator of the Amadon Arena, stared at Gault from across the sand-covered iron platform. Along with the resonance of the orchestra somewhere above, sunlight streamed down on Squireck from the rectangular hole in the ceiling. Gault remained in shadow.

  The sand-covered platform they stood upon was five feet wide, twelve across, and several feet thick. It boasted four stiff chains, one rising from each corner up to four stout iron hoists and pulleys. The platform hung a few inches above the cobbled floor of the arena’s underground catacombs, suspended from the four chains some twenty feet below the arena’s sandy surface above. Ten Dayknight guards in black armor stood in the shadows circling the platform, spear tips glinting in what faint yellow light reached them.

  Squireck was taller than Gault by a good four inches. But he was not lanky. And he was not awkward. He was all bulging muscles and might, long hair flowing in blond waves over broad shoulders. He wore naught but a white loincloth tied at the waist and a wreath of white flowers about his head. A black longsword was gripped in his right hand, its black-opal pommel marking it as a Dayknight blade. His left shoulder bore a square brand—a gladiator brand.

  Gault bore the twin RR of the Riven Rock slave quarry, red and raw upon his own neck. He once again carried the Sør Sevier sword he’d brought with him from Ravenker at his belt, the sword that had struck Jondralyn Bronachell’s face. He reckoned it was a symbolic gesture that they had returned it to him. They wanted him to fight with it. They wanted him to be defeated with that exact same sword in hand. They had also given back his Knight of the Blue Sword armor. He wore the armor now and held the helm in the crook of his left arm.

  “Cousin,” the Prince of Saint Only acknowledged him from across the platform, bowing his head slightly. Gault did not return his cousin’s bow.

  He glanced into the darkness to his right and met the frightened gazes of Lindholf Le Graven and the girl Delia. Both stood about ten feet to the left of the platform; both still wore their dusty Riven Rock slave garb of simple make. All three of them had been pulled from the quarry not three hours ago and marched through the streets of Amadon to the arena. Ten days in the quarry, but it had seemed like a lifetime. Every muscle in Gault’s body felt abused and useless. Aches blanketed his body, and both hands were worn raw from working the rock. His stomach burned with hunger from the pitiful rations. Upon entering the arena, he’d been allowed a few requests: one was water for himself, Lindholf, and Delia; the other was a razor to shave his head bald. Both had been granted. And the simple act of shaving the dirty stubble from his head had made him feel slightly more like himself after the painful drudgery of the quarry. His request for food had been denied. Lindholf and Delia had been told that they would be hung for their crimes in the center of the arena after the fight between Squireck and Gault.

  The platform shook; the four chains creaked and groaned. The sound of the orchestra above dwindled to a cheerless, dull hum.

  “Make no mistake, Ser Gault.” Squireck’s voice again broke over the dying tide of music. Gault turned his silent attention from Lindholf and Delia to the tall man on the platform before him. “I am not Jondralyn Bronachell.” Squireck’s eyes tightened as he went on, “I am no mere woman. I am a true knight of Gul Kana. I can fight, furious and savage. And you, cousin, will die here today.”

  Gault remained silent.

  “You can also thank me for that armor you wear,” Squireck prattled on. “ ’Twas me who insisted it be returned to you. Not that it will do you any good. Amadon will see you die in the colors of the enemy.”

  “And you with no armor,” Gault finally spoke. “What foolishness is that?”

  “I am the Gladiator.” Squireck’s posture straightened even more, if that were possible. “Laijon is with me. He will see me victorious. Blessed Mother Mia guides my sword.”

  “Your surety implies I am naught but a dead man in the eyes of Laijon,” Gault said. “What makes you more special than I?”

  “I am one of the Brethren of Mia.” Squireck held his head high. “I have the truth.”

  “The truth?” Gault scoffed.

  “Laijon has already shown me his mercy and favor, in this very arena.”

  “Or perhaps you were merely better than the other fighters,” Gault said, a droll lilt in his tone. “However few there were.”

  “Several dozen,” Squireck boasted. “ ’Twas only by Laijon’s will they were slain.”

  “You give the gods too much credit.”

  “I humbly give Laijon all credit.”

  Gault spoke softly, succinctly. “Then I will make this as simple as I can, cousin, so we can both be assured whose side the gods are on. You say you’ve killed several dozen men? Well, I have seen ten years of war. Killed thousands in the name of the gods. I spit on both Laijon and his son Raijael.” Gault spat on the sand-covered platform between them, his voice rising. “And I would fuck your precious Mother Mia in the ass.”

  Squireck blanched. “You’ve truly no honor.”

  “I fuck honor in the ass too.”

  The music’s swell and crescendo above had stopped. The chains of their platform rattled again. Squireck looked up. Gault, too.

  A loud voice shouted, “History will know it as the Great Battle of the Fire Moon!” The voice boomed from above, reverberating down through the rectangular hole in the arena floor, loud and succinct. “The enemy of Amadon and all Gul Kana, Knight Archaic of Sør Sevier and personal guard of the White Prince, Aeros Raijael, Ser Gault Aulbrek, against our own arena champion and Dayknight, the Prince of Saint Only, Ser Squireck Van Hester!”

  The throng above roared.

  The platform the two fighters stood upon began to rise toward the arena floor with a grinding of gears. Gault hated to admit it, but as
the platform hauled him up, he was awed by the immensity of the crowd’s deafening, swelling sound. Soon his head was above ground and still rising, the arena finally revealed around him in all its glory. The light of the sun illuminated flowery stonework palisades, tan awnings, and tall columns. Crenulated balconies rose up in majesty, circling the grandstands brimming with spectators.

  As the platform drew even with the arena’s sand-covered floor and settled to a stop, Gault’s gaze fell upon the king’s suite above the orchestra pit. Two spear-wielding Dayknights stood on either side of Jovan Bronachell. The grand vicar and the Quorum of Five Archbishops of Amadon were seated on a riser behind the king. Other nobles and Gul Kana royalty were gathered in the suite. Gault noticed Jondralyn Bronachell, cloaked and hooded. He could only imagine what the injuries hidden under the cowl must look like now. Injuries he himself had gifted her.

  With a jerk, the platform settled into place, flush with the arena floor.

  The herald above the king’s suite leaned into the copper tubes that magnified his voice and bellowed, “Let the fight begin!”

  The crowd erupted in a thunderous wave of noise that punched Gault right in the gut. Do they come to watch the beauty of battle? he asked himself, gaze soaking in the scene, the massive roar nearly drowning out his own thoughts. Or do they just come out of a curiosity to watch violent death? If the throng were as inured to the horrors of war as he, battle-tested even a little, they would not rush to watch men bleed for sport. Or so Gault figured.

  The din eventually quieted. And Gault drew his sword.

  Squireck faced the throng, shouting, “A true soldier and honorable man would strip off his armor and fight as I do!” There was a challenge in his eyes, which raked the crowd. Then he lifted both arms as he faced the king’s suite, Dayknight sword gripped in one hand, showing everyone in attendance how exposed and vulnerable he was, his back to his enemy. “A true soldier and honorable man would fight on equal terms!” Then he turned and pointed his sword at Gault. “Are you, Ser, an honorable man?”

  Gault didn’t speak any louder than was necessary for Squireck to hear. “You want to act a fool and fight in your underwear with flowers atop your head, then that is between you and Laijon.” He let the helm slide from the crook of his arm into his gauntleted hand, then placed it over his head and waited.

  The vast horde jeered and mocked and booed.

  Squireck smiled triumphantly as the crowd’s disapproval rained down. Through the eye slit of his helm, Gault studied his foe, measuring the man’s weaknesses, uncaring that the people of Amadon did not like him or his armor or his honor. Their boos turned to cheers as Squireck set his stance. I can best him easily sword-on-sword. Gault didn’t move. He just stood there, sword held loosely in hand, blade dangling casually at his side. But I mustn’t let him get hold of me in hand-to-hand combat. Weight and strength will work to his advantage then.

  The Prince of Saint Only launched his attack, charging, magnificent Dayknight sword swinging at Gault’s head, a great arching stroke that made the very air hum.

  Gault merely stepped back and slightly to the side.

  Squireck’s blade missed him by a foot. The momentum of the attack carried the prince forward, and he was thrown off balance, stumbling easily within Gault’s reach as the wreath of white heather tumbled from his head to the sand.

  Gault didn’t move to counter. Again, he just stood there, sword held loosely in hand.

  Squireck righted himself quickly, scowling, long blond hair tousled, black blade wavering menacingly between them. He launched his second attack, a powerful swing from the opposite angle. Gault merely stepped back again, this time checking the blow with a rapid backhanded counter, deflecting the Dayknight blade over his head.

  Then he brought his own blade swiftly back around, the very tip carving a thin line in Squireck’s upper torso from shoulder to shoulder. A long sliver of red welled from the Prince of Saint Only’s bare chest as he tottered back, surprised. The wound dribbled dark blood down his front.

  Squireck glanced at the wound, roared, and attacked again.

  Gault killed his cousin with the same move he’d used on Jondralyn Bronachell in Ravenker, only this time he didn’t pull his final blow.

  His Sør Sevier blade clove the Prince of Saint Only’s skull straight down the center to mid-nose. Jerking the sword free of bone and brains, Gault swept his weapon up and around and struck the man’s head from his neck.

  The Prince of Saint Only’s knees folded as he toppled sideways to the arena floor, cloven head landing in a puff of sand at his feet.

  Silence filled the arena.

  Wind rippled the tan awnings above.

  Gault’s sword was stained red, gripped in one gauntleted hand. He tossed the weapon to the ground, then reached up and pulled off his Sør Sevier helmet. The breeze bit into his skin as he threw the helm in the sand too.

  His eyes lanced through the crowd, locating King Jovan Bronachell.

  There was a heavy rattle of chains as the wrought-iron gates on either end of the arena rose up with a deep rattle and grind. An armored knight rode out from the southern gate on a sorrel charger, a rope and meat hook fixed to his saddle horn. Behind the horseman came twenty armed Dayknights, all fully armored, all charging toward Gault. Twenty similar Dayknights also ran at him from the northern gate.

  Gault bent and picked up his cousin’s severed head by a matted clump of bloody blond hair and walked casually with it across the sand in the direction of the king’s suite.

  Twenty long strides of measured purpose, and he hurled the Prince of Saint Only’s cloven head as high and far as he could. Over the throng of musicians the head spun wildly toward the king of Amadon, long hair whipping thick, ropy trails of blood and brains as it soared.

  But Gault didn’t see where Squireck’s head landed. Instead he ate a face full of sand, tackled from behind by the rushing Dayknights.

  * * *

  The grace of the great One and Only be with the people of his church in those final fiery hours of Absolution. For the sword of Laijon is bathed in blood.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  TALA BRONACHELL

  1ST DAY OF THE FIRE MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Tala sat in the king’s suite with the young Le Graven twins, Lorhand and Lilith, at her side. Jondralyn was slumped in her chair on the other side of Tala, the hood of her cloak pulled over her face. The twins’ mother, Mona Le Graven, sat behind Tala with Mona’s eldest daughter, Lawri—all of them awaiting the hanging of Lindholf.

  Lawri’s face was pale, and weariness and defeat veiled her eyes—sickly orbs streaked with green. Her arm, or what was left of it, was wrapped in white bandages and concealed under a thick cloak on her lap, hidden from curious eyes. Val-Gianni had plied her with rare Vallè medicines to help ease the pain and lend speed to her healing. And she seemed to be doing well, despite all. The Vallè sawbones and Val-Korin sat near Lawri too, their eyes ever watchful.

  In the six days since Jovan had chopped off Lawri’s arm, Tala hadn’t found the right words to express her heartache to her cousin. They had remained apart, Tala feeling guilty, knowing that the entire horror was her fault. And now here they were, finally together again, in this most horrific of places.

  The wind howled and sobbed as it broke over the towering columns of the arena. Within the king’s suite lived an ailing silence broken only by the awning snapping in the swirling air. Squireck Van Hester’s headless body had been hooked and then dragged back to the iron platform, then lowered into the bowels of the arena, sand raked over the bloody trail. The rectangular hole where the platform had disappeared was still visible, like a haunted dark cave punched into the floor of the vast fighting pit. It pulled at Tala’s gaze. A place of ghouls and wraiths.

  All in the king’s suite had seen the Prince of Saint Only’s severed head sail through the air toward th
em, split from crown to nose, blood and brains raining over the orchestra below as it landed with a wet thump at Grand Vicar Denarius’ feet. The Dayknights guarding the vicar had simply scooped up the head and placed it in a leather sack.

  Tala couldn’t wrap her brain around the fact that the gruesome bloody orb had belonged to a man she once knew. She couldn’t push the terrible images of the day’s events from her tortured mind. She hated the arena, loathed the pointless slaughter. In the past, she had kept her eyes closed during the gladiator bouts.

  But she’d watched this time, wanting to see the Prince of Saint Only slay the enemy. Wanting to witness the death of the Sør Sevier knight who had participated in the slaughter of innocent citizens of her kingdom. She’d wanted to see the knight who had injured her sister suffer equal amounts of pain.

  But what was proven today? Gault Aulbrek still lives.

  What holy laws did Laijon uphold with today’s result? None.

  Squireck’s grisly death had been met with gasps from those in the king’s suite, followed by sniffles and weeping moans of distress that continued still.

  “Oh, recover yourselves, people!” Jovan’s admonition burst forth in a rush of breath, the first words from his mouth since Squireck’s murder. “Can you not see? It is a good thing the Prince of Saint Only is now killed and dead. It is only what he had coming. Laijon’s will toward that traitor is now finally known! God hath spoken! And now we get the further honor of watching Gault Aulbrek hang for his crimes!”

  Jondralyn rose at her brother’s words. “You have just sealed the fate of all Gul Kana and the entire Five Isles today with your selfishness and folly.” The hood fell back slightly, her face no longer hidden in shadow. “Do you not know who Squireck is? Do you not know how important—”

  “Do I not know how important he was to you?” Jovan raged. “No! I do not know! For it seems you had forsaken him long before I!”