The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  They reached the wide outer staircase that led to Bruce Hall’s main entrance and marched up. She prepared herself for the foul odors she knew were to come. Sweat clung to her brow and collected moist and uncomfortable under her arms. It had been a rigorous hike from the stables below, and she didn’t know how armored knights such as Mancellor and Spades could manage such exertion in such heavy plate.

  The massive wooden double doors to the grand hall were already swung wide, and Ava, Mancellor, Spades, and the Spider entered the stench and gloom. Bruce Hall was a lofty and vulgar chamber, massive in both width and breadth. Ava reckoned she would never grow used to the filth and ruin and musty stink. The floor was fashioned of large flat stones laid in squares, battered, scuffed, stained, and worn, and all of them covered in a layer of scum and dried feces.

  Most of the hall’s sculptures and other furnishings were tipped over and scattered about. Soot-stained banners, red with white crossed spears, hung haphazardly from the rafters and arches. Tapestries, tattered and hanging ascant, lined the eastern and western walls, great strips torn and detached, revealing the mildewed stone beneath. Blotched mosaics were interspersed between the wormy tapestries, spears and lances too, but again, most of those had fallen from the walls, littering the floor like matchsticks. Even Ava could tell that this was not the mold and worn usage of noble antiquity, but rather plain purposeful neglect. Every square inch of the place looked seldom, if ever, cleaned. But what made the place so utterly horrid—mangy-looking dogs were everywhere, most lounging in puddles of their own piss, some of them maimed, all with ears alert, eyes glowing in anticipation, as if each and every one of them expected some scrap of food to be tossed from all who passed by. Ava nearly gagged at the pungent smell.

  Mancellor led the group in a twining path around many dusty chairs, bronze tripods, inlaid braziers, and dog shit, eventually bringing them to the Throne of Spears at the southern end of the squalid hall. Aeros Raijael, Jenko Bruk, Hammerfiss, and a dozen other knights were gathered near the throne.

  A large white stallion stood there in the center of the group. It was Ser Gault Aulbrek’s warhorse, Spirit. The steed looked royal and stoic, like a gleaming crystal shard in the filth and gloom. There was a longsword and a Knight Archaic helm hooked to the beast’s saddle horn, both also Gault’s.

  A tall and extremely fair-haired man with squared and handsome features lingered near the horse. Ava had never seen him before. He wore Knight of the Blue Sword armor and livery. He immediately bent his knee when he saw her. But Ava ignored the man’s bow, looking beyond him to the fireplace and balconies. A hearth large enough to double as a bedchamber sat smack in the center of the western wall, its once showy stone-carved mantelpiece coated in melted wax and grime, its innards jammed with the torn-up remains of chairs, beds, tables, and any other unwanted thing. Higher up, above the hearth and tapestries, a stone-railed gallery rimmed the entire hall on all four sides, accessible by only one set of stairs along the northern end. Ava wondered if the gallery led to any secluded alcoves or terraces that overlooked the sea. If so, she wished to go up there for some fresh air. Far above the gallery rose stained-glass windows. The glass so soot-covered, what light shown through was grim and uncertain, casting a shimmering, dull-colored tinge over everything, lending the chamber a spooky glow.

  “She cares little for my fealty,” the fair-haired man who had bent his knee to her commented. “I must say I am hurt, Lord Aeros.”

  “Perhaps she prefers King Edmon,” the White Prince said. His skin appeared so ashen in the dim light, it seemed to bleed into the white of his tunic and cloak. His dark eyes, black as spilled ink, were fixed on the Throne of Spears.

  Ava followed his gaze. The throne itself was a large but simple wood-carved chair upholstered in red velvet. A large drooling sheep hound the color of mud lounged on the seat of the throne. The dog was asleep, slobber draining from its floppy jowls and dripping down the front of the chair. On either side of the spiked throne stood men-at-arms, four total, two per side, all in the red-and-white livery of Adin Wyte. They stood as rigid as statues, halberds with gilded spearheads at their shoulders.

  King Edmon Guy Van Hester sat in the shadows on the scum-covered floor at the foot of the throne looking up at Aeros. “Pray sit down upon my throne, Your Grace,” his croaking voice sounded. He held up one grubby hand imploringly. “Oblige and favor me so. Or at the very least have your lady sit here to please me.”

  The dog on the throne woke with a snort and licked the old man’s hand. Ava grimaced in disgust.

  “I thought I ordered you to have this chamber cleaned,” Aeros said, reaching up, gripping the reins of the white stallion in one white-leather-gloved hand. “I gave you enough servants for the task, the very same servants who’ve been scrubbing my own bedchamber, which I hope to be ready soon.” He stroked the horse’s muzzle.

  Edmon’s sagging eyes roamed over the entire group, the stallion included. “I entreat you all, excuse me my laziness. But my wife is gone, disappeared, mayhap dead. Was Beatriz who kept up with the cleaning. I’ve dismissed all her servants but one, the lovely Miss Leisel. She will bring your esteemed lady friend refreshments soon, my lord Aeros, if it please you.”

  To Ava’s ear, Edmon had a strange way of speaking, and of moving. He wobbled to his feet drowsily, almost like a pure invalid. He wore a tattered cloak of a sort that, like his breeches, seemed to be cut for a much smaller person when he stood.

  He stepped toward Aeros cautiously, moving with a curling stoop, bandy-legged and haggard, as if he would soon crumble to dust. He beckoned toward the fair-haired knight next to Aeros. “Leisel will have cool drink for you too, good Ser.”

  “You’re an embarrassment, Edmon,” the fair-haired knight said. “Your throne room is an embarrassment. Has your son’s murder charge in Amadon disgraced you to the point of complete uselessness?”

  Rumor was Edmon’s only son, Ser Squireck Van Hester, had murdered one of the Five Archbishops in Amadon, bringing crippling shame upon the once-noble king of Adin Wyte. Despite Aeros having destroyed his kingdom, the White Prince had let Edmon rule in the fortress anyway. Though all knew it was Aeros Raijael who was in charge. Edmon Guy Van Hester was now naught but a sad-looking old man reduced to eking out his days in the impoverished reek of a once-grand hall.

  “I live by thine own mercy, fair Lord Aeros.” Edmon now made an odd sniffling sound as he talked. “As I said, I seem to have misplaced my wife. Was she who kept things tidy.” His cloak fell aside at the hip, revealing the worn pommel of a sword and scabbard hooked at his drooping belt. Skeletal fingers curled around the weapon’s hilt as Edmon drew the sword slowly from its hardened leather sheath.

  “Yes, I live in disgrace.” He held the sword’s hilt forth for Aeros. No light gleamed on the blade—it was naught but dull metal. “Take it and slay me now if you must; execute me for my gross incompetence before you.”

  “Nonsense,” Aeros said. “I’ve come to introduce you to the new Lord of Saint Only, your new master, Ser Ivor Jace.” He beckoned to the fair-haired knight who had earlier bowed to Ava.

  “You would replace me?” Edmon straightened some, resheathing his sword. With that one gesture, Ava thought she could see the once-noble and imposing man somewhere inside this lamentable creature named Edmon Guy Van Hester. “Ivor’s been here for a while now, and you would replace me with him now?”

  “You’ve always known I would replace you with him,” Aeros said.

  “I implore you, say it is not so.” Edmon’s posture wilted again. “That such gentry as yourselves hath visited such horrid and detestable barbarity upon us, upon our entire kingdom, yet let me keep my throne room and castle and entire fortress only speaks to your divine kindness, no? Why change things now, at this late hour?”

  “Had you acted like a man and not treated this place so unspeakably disagreeable, perhaps I would let you continue your pathetic little reign, but alas, things being as they are, Ser Ivor Jace is now
the new ruler of Saint Only and the new King of Adin Wyte.”

  Ava looked again at the blond knight who bowed to low Aeros. The first noticeable thing about Ser Ivor Jace was his height. He was tall, not nearly as towering as Hammerfiss, but almost. He had a sculpted yet doggedly handsome face complete with a row of scars across his jaw and neck that gave him a slightly unnatural, mocking air. A natural self-assurance pervaded his already noble physique.

  “Ser Ivor is a bold knight.” The White Prince’s voice now carried across the broad expanse of Bruce Hall. “He would fight all Gul Kana with naught but his bare hands if I so ordered.” Aeros’ gaze found Jenko Bruk, then lingered on Mancellor Allen. He then turned to Edmon Guy Van Hester once again, unforgiving eyes now piercing and black as a demon’s curse. “Listen well, Ser Edmon, for you will now learn some few things about your own realm. Or perhaps I remind you of things you already knew. Ser Ivor was once a gallant knight under your own command. Ser Ivor was once an Adin Wyte soldier, raised in the far north at Storm’s Watch. Ser Ivor survived my attack on Storm’s Watch. I gave him rank in my armies. And he proved his quality in war. He is a man now beholden to the covenant of Raijael. In fact, he was the hero of the Battle of Kragg Keep. Now I make him Lord of Saint Only. What think you of that, Ser Edmon?”

  “As you deem it, so shall it be done,” Edmon sank back into the shadows at the foot of the Throne of Spears, stroking the leg of the velvet-covered chair with long bony fingers, the slobbering sheep hound atop the throne looking down at him lazily.

  Aeros handed the reins of the white stallion to Ivor. “I honor you with Ser Gault Aulbrek’s steed.” Ivor bent his knee to Aeros, then reached out and grasped the reins with his left hand. “The warhorse is named Spirit,” Aeros said, “and may he bear you well.”

  “I am honored,” Ivor said, bowing again.

  To Ava, the man certainly seemed fond of bowing, but it also seemed all a grand act to her.

  “Spirit is one of only five such white stallions,” Aeros went on, “grand mounts meant for my Knights Archaic, of which you are now one.”

  Ivor again bent his knee. Spades and the Spider exchanged glances as Aeros bowed to Ivor in return, then continued, “Gault’s sword and helm are hooked to the saddle horn. We shall fit you with the proper armor later.” His gaze circled the gloom of the hall, falling on a slip of a blond girl who approached. “Ah, yes, now let us drink.”

  The tawny-haired girl of about fifteen came bearing a huge hollowed-out oxhorn brimming with dark mead. She stepped demurely into the circle of knights and bowed to Aeros. And Aeros bowed back to her.

  Ava was taken aback, for the fetching young girl had such soft eyes and such a bright trusting countenance. Her delicate ivory face was freckled about the nose and bridge of her cheekbones.

  “Young Leisel.” Aeros’ lips curled into something that was not quite a grin. “Bringing cool refreshment for our newest Knight Archaic right on time.” He turned to Ivor. “The honor is yours.”

  Ivor Jace snatched up the massive oxhorn with his right hand and drank lustily, then offered the mead to Spirit. The stallion snorted and stepped back, ironshod hooves clacking hollow against the stone floor. The horse eyed the oxhorn under its nose with a look of utter contempt.

  “Well, never you mind, then, finicky nag.” Ivor furrowed his brow, then bent his knee to the horse. “All the more for me.” He smiled, glittering eyes on Aeros. “I’ve always found a stout warhorse makes for the best of drinking partners, but alas, the steed you’ve bequeathed to me seems preposterously disinterested in the notion.”

  “Ser Gault was not the type to drink with the equine.” Hammerfiss smiled—a wide spreading of his already wide mouth. The blue Suk Skard clan tattoos spanning his face stretched in merriment. The small fetishes tied in the tangled mass of his beard jingled. “I’m afraid Gault’s stallion never developed a taste for grog of any kind.”

  “A shame that,” Ivor said. “Nothing like a drunken horse to liven a gathering.”

  “Ha! I always did like your flair for the absurd, Ser Ivor.” Hammerfiss laughed heartily. “I for one say it is good to have you with us again.” The red-haired giant then snatched the oxhorn from Ivor, drinking the mead down in one gulp, laughing riotously.

  Ivor laughed too. “Since you’re the next biggest thing to a war charger, drink up, my new equine companion, drink up.”

  Hammerfiss’ smile widened. “You’re lucky I don’t mind being called a horse.” He clapped the man on the shoulder. “I do miss fighting by your side, Ser Ivor.”

  Ivor grinned. “Well, we shall soon be fighting side by side, Ser Hammerfiss. Within days I reckon.”

  “Splendid.” Hammerfiss tipped his head in admiration. “For that, I cannot wait.”

  “I would surely like a swig of that mead.” Edmon Guy Van Hester’s voice croaked to life again. He glared at Leisel. “Would you at least oblige and favor me with some more dog food?”

  The girl dug into the cloth pouch at her belt and tossed a handful of dried pellets of jerked beef on the floor under Edmon. The old king scrambled to gather the dog food. The slobbering sheep hound on the chair above him bounded down too, lapping the jerked beef from the floor before Edmon could reach it. Several other dogs rumbled over, growling as they jostled and squabbled.

  “Spades and Hammerfiss and Mancellor you already know,” Aeros said to Ivor, ignoring the dogs. “But allow me to introduce Ser Jenko Bruk.”

  Jenko, also in Knight of the Blue Sword armor, stepped forward. Ivor shook his hand vigorously. Jenko was big and strong, but he was nowhere near as tall as Ivor was.

  “And my lovely princess, Ava Shay,” Aeros said, emphasis on the title princess.

  Not knowing what else to do, Ava bowed before the new Knight Archaic.

  “Most beautiful to be sure.” Ivor spoke with an arrogant, honeyed voice.

  He reached forth and took her hand into his own, brought her fingers to his lips and kissed the back of them. Ava felt her flesh crawl at the gesture. Ivor’s eyes bore into hers. “What glorious children you will create, my lord Aeros. What glorious children with such a divine princess such as Ava Shay.”

  As Ivor released Ava’s hand, dread slithered through her every vein like creeping serpents. She glanced at Jenko. His face burned red with jealousy. Am I already pregnant? The thought struck her hard. The fear of it nearly strangled her then and there. Her one consolation; she recognized these feelings of sudden pernicious dread as her own conjurations, not some foul delusion induced by the wraiths. The wraiths had left her alone for nearly a moon now.

  There was a cacophony of barks and yelps from near the Throne of Spears, and the area was a chaos of whirling bodies and flashing fur as more dogs joined in the fight over the last morsels of jerked beef. Old king Edmon was right there in the tussle, snarling and fighting along with the dogs.

  Hammerfiss loosed a loud guffaw. “I place two coppers on the old man!”

  “And I say the sheepdog takes the prize!” Ivor shouted.

  Ava’s nerves and stomach could scarcely tolerate the horrendous noise and chaos caused by the quarreling dogs. “May I take some air on the balcony?” she asked Aeros in a gust of words.

  “Of course, my princess.” Aeros bowed to her. “Dog fighting is a sport for warriors, and you are no warrior yet.” One languid hand gripped her shoulder, the palm of the other on her stomach, gentle. “We shall both be looking after your health from now on. You needn’t sully yourself with the hounds, nor the shit, nor Ser Edmon’s stink.”

  †  †  †  †  †

  Much to Ava’s chagrin, Spades accompanied her to the balcony. They passed under the frowning arch of the gallery onto the terrace, leaving the floor of Bruce Hall below, stepping into the fresh air. Colorful butterflies fluttered up from the balcony’s chest-high stone railing. Ava gripped the banister with trembling hands, light-headedness taking hold. Spades leaned into the railing by her side, taking in the view.

&n
bsp; They were high up face of the Mont, naught but jagged cliffs and a rocky shore of billow and spray below. The sandy channel to the east gave way to Lord’s Point some ten miles distant, beyond that farms and wooded glades stretched to Lokkenfell. The peaks of the Autumn Range faded into the farthest horizons.

  Lord’s Point Cathedral stood out in stark splendor against the vast maze of streets and buildings of the city. The walled castle stood out too. Ava had never seen such a huge place. And she now had the bird’s-eye view of it. She wondered how Aeros’ army could take such a populous. Some fifty thousand Sør Sevier soldiers were already camped south of Lord’s Point, awaiting the siege. She had traveled north with that vast contingent as they’d slaughtered their way up the Gul Kana coastline. Near two hundred thousand more Sør Sevier warriors awaited on the peninsula north of Saint Only.

  To the west she could see the cliffs of Wyn Darrè and the five Laijon Towers jutting heavenward. From this one vantage point Ava could see both Gul Kana and Wyn Darrè, all while standing at the tip of Adin Wyte. Many said the view from the fortress of Saint Only was the grandest view of all in the Five Isles.

  A veil of puffy clouds drifted in directly overhead, lazily pushing toward Lord’s Point. The billowing clouds were moving on Gul Kana, just as she knew Aeros’ armies would soon do. The White Prince planned on striking Lord’s Point soon. He had divulged some of his plans to her. The ten-mile channel of ocean that separated Saint Only from Lord’s Point was shallow. The fickle tide, he had explained, would retreat for some four to six hours every afternoon, so low one could actually walk from Mont Saint Only to Lord’s Point across the muddy sands. During that span of low tide, his army of two hundred thousand waiting on the peninsula north of Saint Only would cross the expanse and attack Lord’s Point from the west, whilst the fifty thousand he’d left south of Lord’s Point would advance on the city from there. Aeros had also told her he had one more special surprise in store for the poor hapless souls of Lord’s Point.