Heart of a Huntsman

by Liam Reese

  “Who’s here?” Besmir asked. “What’s going on?”

  Zaynorth turned, looking pale and more worried than Besmir had ever seen him.

  “Tiernon has sent men,” he said quietly. “Apparently word has spread. As you predicted.”

  Besmir turned as mounted riders trotted into the clearing, trampling anything in their path, causing chaos and further panic. One woman took a glancing blow to the temple from a hoof after being smashed to the ground by a horse. Besmir screamed at them to stop, throwing himself at them in a vain attempt to stop them from trampling people to death.

  Ten riders sat atop muscular horses ranging from a midnight black to a chestnut brown, their sleek sides flashing in the sunlight as they breathed. Each of the soldiers wore a polished steel breastplate, helmet, greaves and gauntlets, carried a long, curved sword, and a shield hung from each saddle. Besmir heard more commotion and shouting from behind him and spun to see a further group of men hacking through the tents and shoving people aside.

  Besmir felt his chest burn with rage and found his bow in his hand, an arrow against the string. He pulled back and released in a single movement. His arrow cut the air, punching through the hand of one of the attackers, who screamed and fell to his knees clutching his injured wrist.

  “Halt!” A voice cracked across them all from behind Besmir. “I carry a message from King Tiernon Fringor.”

  Besmir cast his narrow gaze at the man who had spoken. He had guided his horse a few steps forward of the others and looked down at them all through the eye slits of his helmet.

  “Your king ordered me to convey his best wishes. He would also like to know the whereabouts of the one calling himself Besmir.” The soldier cast his glare over the crowd again. Women and children cowered before him, increasing Besmir’s hate. “Your merciful king wishes it to be known that should the whereabouts of Besmir be made available to us now, you all shall remain unharmed. However, should anyone be discovered harboring or hiding Besmir,” he paused for effect, “the whole of you shall suffer a horrible fate.”

  Besmir started forward, about to challenge the soldier, when Zaynorth stepped in front of him, his hands raised in a show of peace.

  “Please, sir,” he said in an obsequious, servile voice. “He left days ago, ran away he did. Up north.”

  Besmir watched as the information sank into the mounted man, his eyes narrowing in suspicion beneath his helmet. Around them some of the tent-town residents started to mutter.

  “He stands right there,” one mumbled. “Why should we shield him?”

  “He has fed us, Nincarly,” another more reasonable voice said. “Where was Tiernon as our children starved?”

  Nincarly mumbled something Besmir could not make out. He heard similar conversations around him as whispers rippled through the crowd that ringed him.

  “Lies will ensure your death is slow and painful, old man,” the lead soldier shouted down at Zaynorth.

  Herofic walked up beside his brother, hefting the large ax without any outward malice. The soldier’s eyes swung to him.

  “Fancy yourself with the ax then, old man?” he sneered. “One of my men favors that weapon also.” He turned to his right, nodding at one of his companions. “Arlon could fell an army with his ax, could you claim to be as good?”

  Herofic looked up at the lead soldier, shrugging wordlessly.

  “Arlon!” the soldier shouted, gesturing toward Herofic. “Now we shall have some fun.”

  Herofic tapped his brother’s shoulder, guiding him from his side and pushing him towards Besmir.

  “What’s the meaning of all this?” Besmir hissed at the old mage. “No one should have to die for me!”

  “Who is about to die?” Zaynorth asked.

  “Herofic,” Besmir hissed incredulously, nodding to the warrior.

  Herofic himself stood calmly in the center of an increasingly wide circle of people. He looked impassive as he rolled his shoulders, loosening his muscles and swinging his keen-edged ax.

  “He will not die,” Zaynorth said with a grunt and devilish grin.

  “What are you up to? Is this all an illusion?”

  “No illusion, Besmir,” he whispered in reply. “Watch. Herofic will take this boy down a peg or two.”

  Besmir turned to watch the armored soldier swagger over to Herofic, kicking the meager possessions of tent town residents aside as he did. Arlon sneered down at the slightly shorter Herofic, removing his helmet and shaking his dark brown hair free.

  “Worry not, oldster,” he said in a tone dripping condescension. “I will go easy on you.”

  Herofic looked up at him, silence spreading from his expressionless face. Besmir watched Arlon’s face shift, his confidence slipping but changing to rage. The younger man grabbed his battle axe from its position slung over his back and swung it ferociously at Herofic’s face.

  Herofic never moved, maintaining eye contact with the younger man as he swung the ax within inches of the other. Besmir heard hisses of surprise and approval as well as a few squeals of fright.

  “You have spirit, old man, I will not deny you that,” Arlon said.

  Without speaking, Herofic set his left foot back, turning his side to the younger man and bringing his ax to bear. Arlon tilted his head, smiling in anticipation of an easy fight.

  “Make him pay, Arlon,” the commanding soldier said.

  “Yes, sir!” Arlon cried.

  Without warning, he launched a blow at Herofic, aiming for his chest. Besmir’s heart felt as if it stopped beating when he saw the ferocity of the blow. Yet Arlon missed. Somehow, Herofic had anticipated the blow and flinched out of the way. His own ax flicked out in a blur, catching the overbalanced Arlon in the ribs with the needle-sharp points.

  Arlon bellowed in pain, rage and embarrassment, backing off a step as he swiped blood from his side. Herofic had managed to pierce his skin just behind the breastplate he wore, jabbing through the leather behind with ease.

  Arlon attacked again, another savage blow, cutting diagonally down at Herofic’s shoulder. The older man flicked his own twin-bladed weapon, sending up a ringing clang as the two axes met. Arlon stumbled forward, his ax burying itself in the soil before Herofic’s feet. Herofic hammered a savage punch to Arlon’s face. The audible crack of his nose breaking made Besmir feel sick.

  The armored soldier screamed this time, clutching his face with both hands. Herofic reached down and grabbed the handle of his opponent’s ax, hefting it in appraisal. A few voices in the crowd started to cheer as the younger man stumbled back from the older. Besmir watched the mounted leader’s face fall at seeing his man bested so easily. Savage joy swelled his chest to see it.

  Yes! People will not just let you bully them into submission.

  Herofic swung both blades lazily before him, drawing patterns in the air. With increasing speed he twirled and spun both blades until they disappeared in a blur. Besmir watched in awe as the man he had joked with over the last few months changed into a murder-filled killing machine. Both battleaxes whistled as they cut the air, and Besmir realized they made a shield that even arrows would not be able to penetrate. Abruptly Herofic started forward, determination on his face as he approached the lead soldier.

  Arlon ducked out of the way when he saw the smaller, older man performing the movements, his mouth open and eyes wide with shock.

  Herofic’s chest heaved, sweat beading his brow as he spun the battleaxes. The crowd bayed and cheered to see this lone man face up to a group of mounted soldiers, but Besmir wondered what the outcome would be. There was no way these men could leave Herofic alive and return to Tiernon. Their lives would be forfeit as soon as he heard the news.

  Herofic’s left arm shot out, pointing straight at the lead soldier, who exploded backwards off his horse and crashed to the ground, his helmet and face split open. Shocked silence dropped over all gathered there as they watched Arlon’s ax fall slowly to one side, leaving the soldier’s head split in two.

 
; Chaos erupted then as milling citizens tried to dodge the frightened attacks of Tiernon’s mounted soldiers.

  Fleet Admiral Sharova paused in the shadows of the dark corridor, patting the pouch that he had secreted inside his clothing to make sure it was still there. Not a sound reached his ears save for the cooling breeze that whispered over the palace stonework without. Pressing his back to the cold stone, Sharova considered the absolute stupidity of his idea. Yet his dreams had been haunted by the faces of the women and girls Tiernon had caged in his quarters. Most harrowing of all was the face of the young girl who behaved like a faithful dog, squatting beside her master and fetching things at his behest. Sharova had woken from many a nightmare, sweating and shaken, the image of her slack-jawed face drooling and so close to his own. His mind had tortured him relentlessly over what might be happening to those women, eventually leading to his hiding in the shadows in the early morning.

  Sharova sighed quietly, knowing if caught, this would cost him his life, but he could no longer look at his own reflection without the taloned claw of guilt raking through his guts. No matter they had been enemies during the war, no matter they had been engaged or married to those who stood against Tiernon. They were Gazluthian women, and he could no longer bear to think of their suffering at the hands of his insane king.

  Silently Sharova padded along the Hall of Kings. Their statue eyes followed his progress blankly, but he thought he saw approval there also. He paused at the ruined statue of the rightful king, shivering at the amount of power Tiernon must be able to wield to hammer a whole statue through a wall.

  He offered a prayer to Sharise for protection and laid his ear against the door to the king’s private quarters. Silence greeted him, and he let out a shuddering breath as he took hold of the gilt handle and twisted it gently. Every click, every tiny sound that came from the door felt as if it heralded his demise, burning alive as Tiernon focused his power against him.

  Yet with a final muffled thump the door swung inward freely and silently enough to allow him entry. Inside, he had to pause to allow his eyes to adjust to the lower light there. He wrinkled his nose as the stench of human waste crept up his nose, acrid and vile. Muffled breathing and gentle sobs hit his ears, squeezing his chest at the piteous sounds. His eyes started to pick out various shapes as they adjusted.

  Far from being what Sharova remembered, the room had been cleared of the riches, treasures and art, all furniture was gone and the statues were suspiciously missing. Sharova stepped gently across to the thing that apparently dominated the room now. Six feet long, waist height and three feet from front to back, the table had been constructed from some dark wood. Silver inlay crawled across its surface, making patterns that drew Sharova’s attention at the same time as repulsing him. Horror threatened to crawl up his throat when he saw the bloodstains, dark and frightening.

  What has been happening here?

  “Help!” a high voice cried quietly from his right.

  Sharova snapped his attention to the cages and the pale, scared moon of a face that stared out at him. He danced over to the cage, trying to calm her before she raised the alarm and they all died.

  “Help! Oh please, for the love of God, help us!” she cried again.

  “I shall, but you must remain silent!” Sharova hissed in panic.

  She had a ragged and filthy scrap of a dress, stained and virtually useless as clothing. Dark hair that could have been any color − matted and filthy, twisted − framed a face that could have been anywhere from twenty to fifty. It was impossible for Sharova to make a guess due to the poor state of the girl.

  Shapes moved in the darkness, more of the women waking up and turning to look at him with bleary eyes. Some were filled with dread, expecting more horrors to be inflicted on them, while others were well on their way to being as slack and empty as the dog-girl Tiernon had. Sharova’s heart beat faster as the girls and women crowded the front of their cage, all begging for him to help them.

  “Please,” he begged as loudly as he dared. “Please, you must try and calm yourselves. If the king hears you, he will come.”

  The effect of his words was not lost on Sharova as most of the captives fell silent, cowering against the back wall and whimpering quietly.

  Dear gods, help me free these women.

  Without knowing if his prayer was even heard, Sharova crouched beside the gate and pulled a roll of oiled cloth from a pouch at his side. Within sat a collection of lock-picking tools that had cost a small fortune. He smiled as he considered the fact he had paid for the instruments with gold paid from the treasury and now he was about to use them to steal from the king.

  The tip of the torsion wrench skittered over the surface of the lock as his hands shook. Sharova took a few deep breaths to calm himself, closing his eyes for a second. He barely managed to choke back a scream when something touched him. His entire form jerked, ripping his hand away from the lock and scattering his picks. Swearing, he stooped to collect them.

  “I am sorry,” a female voice whispered. “I really did not mean to scare you so.”

  “Really?” Sharova hissed back. “And you thought touching my hand in the near darkness of Tiernon’s chambers would be the best way to achieve that?”

  Sharova’s anger helped to calm his trembling hands, and he slipped the torsion wrench into the lock with ease. A hissing sound came from inside the cage, making Sharova think she was crying.

  “Look, I apologize,” he said, his chest aching in sympathy. The last thing any of these captives needed was to face his anger. “But I am already on the edge of my nerves and your touch…well, you know.”

  It was as he was slipping the hooked pick into the lock that Sharova realized the woman was laughing, not crying at all. He felt a ridiculous grin spread over his own face, tension draining from him rapidly. A mad chuckle threatened to explode from his chest, ending this insane venture before it had properly begun.

  “Try to control yourself, woman,” he snapped, using false anger to control his own fear.

  Whoever was within started to snuffle, her muffled laughter infectious, and Sharova had to bite his tongue hard enough to draw blood to stop himself. He sighed and started the process of feeling the tumblers inside the lock.

  Minutes stretched out, each feeling like a decade, as the gentle clicks and occasional squeak leaked from the lock. Each tiny sound was like thunder in his ears, and Sharova found it impossible to understand how no one had been alerted to his activities. The woman just on the other side of the ironwork had finally fallen silent but gripped the bars close to the lock, her hands deathly pale in the wan light.

  “Thank you for this,” she breathed as sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “You...are not...free yet,” he replied, trying to maintain pressure on the wrench.

  “I thank you...we thank you, for even making the attempt,” she said. “Everyone else thinks we are traitors, betraying king and country. I have heard them speaking as if we are not here, saying we deserve our fate…” She trailed off into silence as he worked.

  “It matters not to me whether you are traitors or innocent,” Sharova said haltingly. “No one deserves this fate.” He heard a long, shuddering sniff from inside the cage. “Once I heard his plans for you, I knew I had to take action...yes!” Sharova hissed as the lock gave with an audible click.

  The gate swung inwards on silent hinges and a sea of dirty, smelly women, dressed in rags, poured out into the room. Sharova’s heart beat a little faster when he realized his insane plan might actually work. One of the women had laid her head on the massive altar, silent tears running down her face and onto the surface. Sharova watched in disbelief as her tears melted into the numbing symbols inlaid there, the silver glowing a pale blue.

  “Come,” he ordered. “Be as silent as you can, stay in the shadows and do not move unless I do so first.”

  He scanned the small group, counting seven in all and wondering where the rest had gone, as he recalled there being
many more during his initial visit. Some of them met his gaze with frightened but hopeful eyes, others looked away, trying to cover themselves as much as possible with crossed arms. Sharova made sure each woman nodded they had understood his instructions before turning towards the door again.

  “In case we do not escape,” the laughing woman said, “I am Thoran,”

  “Sharova,” he whispered in reply.

  “I know, Fleet Admiral,” Thoran said. “I recall your visit.”

  “Fleet Admiral no more,” he said. “Grand treason is a good way to hand in one’s resignation, however.”

  Thoran smiled, the expression lighting her features, and Sharova realized she was beautiful beneath the layers of filth and depression. He smiled in return and was about to speak again when the door to Tiernon’s inner chambers opened, admitting his pet dog-girl.

  Her eyes went wide with horrified surprise when she saw the women outside their cage. She dragged in a deep breath and opened her mouth to scream.

  10

  Keluse’s body refused to move. Her mind screamed at her to run, hide, get away, but her limbs felt leaden and would not obey her commands. As soon as Herofic had killed the lead soldier, his men had attacked. Herofic had thrown himself at the man nearest to him, cannoning into his horse and knocking it off balance.

  She watched as the other horses bucked and threw their riders, some trampling their former masters.

  Besmir. Besmir did that.

  As if her thoughts summoned him, she watched an arrow appear through the throat of one of the men about to stab Herofic in the back. He stiffened, clawing at his throat as his eyes rolled madly, looking for one of his comrades to help.

  Ignorant of his being saved, Herofic hammered his battle axe into the soldiers who had formed into a rough fighting group. His immense strength, combined with the weight and sharpness of his ax, rendered their armor next to useless, his blows ripping through metal as easily as their bodies.