Heart of a Huntsman

by Liam Reese

  Fool to try and keep him from that girl, Virine.

  Some spark within him must have wanted to stay alive, clinging to the last vestiges of his existence, as he found himself sucking what little moisture he could from the stone. Dirt and grit coated his mouth and stuck in his throat, but he carried on drinking what water he could.

  So I can starve to death.

  “Why did you leave me to Tiernon?”

  Sharova jerked, his heart beating hard enough to crack his ribs and an icy spike sliding through his core.

  “Thoran?” he asked the dark. “Are you hurt? How is it you are down here also?”

  “You left me, Sharova,” Thoran said accusingly. “Left me to endure Tiernon’s tortures.”

  “No!” he wailed imploringly. “I tried to get you to safety. Tried, but he caught us, remember?”

  “It hurts,” Thoran moaned. “So much pain. Help me! Kill me!”

  Sharova jumped up, throwing himself at the door in a vain attempt to try and get away from Thoran’s voice. Part of him understood she was not here, that her voice only existed in his feverish imagination. Yet another part believed her every word.

  Sharova was visited by his mother next. A strange visit, as she had passed into the care of Cathantor decades before. He watched as her kind face hovered in the air before him, looking back at her only son.

  “Why did you fail, my son?” she asked.

  “Mother...no... I...” He watched as a lock of her hair fell across her face.

  She brushed the hair away to fix him with that same gaze again.

  “We gave you everything,” she said, her words cutting his soul. “The finest tutors and education, a place in the royal court, even bought your way into the navy. And for what? So you could end up a traitor, rotting in a dungeon?”

  Sharova’s mouth tried to form words. but no sound came out. A single tear, all his body could afford, rolled from his right eye.

  “No grandchildren for me either,” she continued, lashing at him. “No daughter-in-law to pass along my years of experience to. What a disappointment you are, Sharova.”

  “Mother!” he screamed as her image faded.

  More came to visit him in the black eternity of his own personal hell: people he had wronged, men he had trodden down in his ambition to reach the upper echelons, even his childhood dog came to torture him.

  Sharova lay in a fevered, twitching heap, screaming and crying as the ghosts of his past paid him a visit to rip pieces from his psyche.

  Besmir leaped from Arteera’s tent partly dressed, tripped over his own clothing and fell to the ground. Ordinarily that would have earned him a ribbing, king or not. Today, however, an air of abject fear lay over the tent town. Women and children cowered in their tents, following his progress through the town with despair and fear in equal measure.

  “Soldiers!” a voice continued to wail, as if any remained who did not know.

  Besmir cast about angrily, searching for the owner of the voice.

  Choke them if I find out who it is.

  His foot caught under a tent line, sending him sprawling again, and an explosion of rage filled his chest. More soldiers, probably sent by his uncle to try and kill them all, to put an end to them before he could do any damage. Part of Besmir rejoiced that they had been sent, as it meant his little kingdom was a threat to Tiernon at least as an ideal. Another part feared for what these men might do to a camp filled with women and children. Yet another part of his brain said they would pay dearly for any harm that came to the people under his care.

  Besmir caught his first glimpse of the invaders between the tops of a pair of tents. At the head of the party was an immense bear of a man at least seven feet in height. He wore a long coat of chain mail with steel plates added for reinforcement and carried a sword that looked capable of cutting a man in half. Braided hair cascaded from his chin, and within the mail, a cowl hid most of his head. A cloak slung over his shoulders bore some insignia Besmir was unfamiliar with, a pair of crossed swords on a red and white background. He led a group of around ten men, all similarly dressed, who had halted a short distance from the outskirts of the tent town.

  Probably to call for my surrender.

  With practiced ease, the hunter brought his bow out and slipped an arrow to the string, making sure he had a line of sight on the big man as he approached. He took a deep breath and rounded the final tent, confronting the group who looked surprised to see him and began muttering among themselves.

  “What business have you here?” Besmir demanded.

  Behind him, he could hear people gathering, and his heart swelled when he realized they had come out in support of him.

  “I was in denial when I heard it to begin with,” the tall warrior spoke in a deep, rumbling voice that carried past Besmir to his people. “One who called himself the rightful king, living with a group of women and children.”

  The giant started across towards Besmir, his armor clinking and leather creaking as he moved. Besmir tensed, pulling his bowstring back and sighting along his arrow directly inside the mail cowl.

  “I knew your father,” he said, falling to one knee. “Your Majesty.”

  Behind him the other men followed suit, all kneeling before Besmir even as they held the reins to the powerful horses they had ridden here.

  “Who are you?” Besmir asked, relaxing his bow.

  The giant looked up, nearly as tall as Besmir even though he was kneeling, and smiled.

  “I am Norvasil, commander of the White Blades,” he said indicating the small group.

  “White Blades?”

  Norvasil frowned slightly, the tufts of hair over his bright eyes shifting as if alive.

  “Have you not heard of us, Majesty?” he asked. “Has no one ever spoken of our deeds?”

  “Not to me,” Besmir said. “You may as well get up before that mail starts to rust. Then explain to me who you are and what it’s got to do with me.”

  A wide grin split Norvasil’s face then, and he grunted his way to standing again. “By the gods,” he bellowed. “Alike in manner as well as looks.”

  “Norvasil?” Herofic’s voice rang out. “I thought I could smell something foul.”

  The giant’s eyes roved the crowd beyond Besmir for the source of the voice.

  “Herofic?” he thundered with widening eyes. “From the bowels of which vile creature were you expelled?”

  “I believe she called herself your mother, and it was not her bowels,” Herofic shouted as he trotted across to be engulfed in a massive hug. Besmir watched in confusion as the massive Norvasil tried to squeeze Herofic into submission. The pair laughed and insulted one another freely before the crowd, and a few giggles could be heard. Besmir turned to see many of the women were whispering and muttering to each other, pointing at the newcomers.

  “Sire, this degenerate and his crew of little girls,” Herofic said when he had finally managed to extricate himself from the cage of Norvasil’s arms, “are what remain of your father’s royal guards.”

  “I thought you were part of that,” Besmir said.

  “He was unable to make the cut, Your Majesty,” Norvasil said cheekily.

  “I served your grandfather,” Herofic said with a warning look at Norvasil. “For some unknown reason your father chose this bunch as guard.”

  “And yet he was butchered in a foreign land along with my mother,” Besmir said.

  It had been an observation rather than an accusation. Besmir’s feelings for his parents were nonexistent. To him, they were two people he had never known and would never be able to meet. Norvasil, however, paled then reddened as Besmir’s words hit him like balls of flame. His expression changed, the levity falling from his features to be replaced with sorrow and loss.

  “Your father ordered us to leave him,” Norvasil rumbled. “I begged to be allowed to accompany him, but he refused, said our place was at the palace,.” Norvasil spat on the floor. “I would sooner defile my own mother than serve t
hat...thing calling himself king.” Acid hate laced his every word, and Besmir felt kinship brewing inside him already.

  “I meant no offense,” he said. “From what I hear, my father made a number of mistakes. Mistakes that cost him and my mother their lives. Will you join us?” he asked.

  “We are yours to command, Majesty,” Norvasil said worriedly. “We present ourselves before your mercy to—”

  “Why, if it is not Norvasil as I live and breathe,” Zaynorth said as he made his way through the crowd. “We do not have a stable for you as yet,” he added, grinning. His smile faded as he saw the expression on the giant’s face. “Is there a problem?” he asked Besmir.

  “More of a misunderstanding,” Besmir replied. “Seeing as how no one ever told me my father had a dedicated royal guard, I was unaware he told them to remain here while he exiled himself to Gravistard.” His voice held a hint of anger.

  “That is where he went?” Norvasil wondered.

  “And where I was raised an orphan,” Besmir said.

  Norvasil’s eyes crinkled at the corners and he blinked several times, his mouth downturned.

  “An orphan,” he muttered. “Of course you must have been. I am so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Besmir said, feeling a little guilty for the big man.

  “You are gracious to say so, sire. Yet the fact remains it was our duty to protect your family and we failed.”

  “By carrying out your orders?” Besmir asked.

  “Yes, sire,” Norvasil nodded solemnly. “For we had a sworn oath to protect your family, even if it was from themselves.”

  Keluse and Ranyor made their way over, staring at the newcomers. Besmir felt a little smile cross his face when he saw their linked hands.

  “Nice of you to join us,” he ribbed them. “What kept you?”

  Keluse reddened and looked away, a little smile on her face.

  Ranyor looked Besmir in the eye, straight-faced. “I must apologize, sire,” he said. “For being unable to get here sooner. Had this been an attack, I—”

  “Just don’t let it happen again,” Besmir said quietly to them. “I know what it’s like,” he said, glancing sideways at Arteera. Ranyor nodded.

  “Who are these men?” Keluse asked with interest.

  “Apparently they are the remnants of my father’s royal guard. That big one in charge is called ‘Norvasil,’” Besmir said.

  “So why—” Keluse started.

  “We’ve already been through all that,” Besmir hissed. “I’ll tell you later.” He glanced at the giant. “I think he’ll eat me if I rake over it again.”

  He made his way across to the White Blades, assessing their dour mood.

  “I’m not one for flowery speeches,” he said. “And I don’t always think about what I say before I say it, but if you’re here in support of me and in particular these people,” Besmir cast his arm back at the people of the tent town, “then I welcome you with open arms.”

  “It would be our honor to serve the son of the man we pledged ourselves to, Majesty,” Norvasil said with a bow made awkward by his armor. “To that end,” he added, fetching a bone horn from his saddle, and blew a long note, the mournful sound rolling across the grassland towards the horizon.

  Besmir waited, following Norvasil and the other Blades’ gaze. Eventually his eyes caught sight of another group of people, teams of oxen straining into the traces of loaded wagons and a small herd of goats and sheep.

  “The remainder of our force,” Norvasil stated quietly. “We did not want to cause panic by advancing in numbers.”

  Besmir looked at him and shook his head, laughing.

  “So you chose to send,” he counted, “nine massive armed men, rather than the goatherd?”

  Norvasil looked sheepish as he thought about how it must have looked.

  “Don’t panic, Norvasil,” Besmir said. “Pick anywhere you like and set up. Come find us when you’re ready and we can have a conversation in a little more comfort.”

  “As you order, sire,” Norvasil said, saluting.

  13

  Tiernon stared at the little man who stood before him, trembling like a bride on her wedding night. General Marthius, head of his armies and the most decorated man Tiernon’s father had promoted, reeked of fear. Tiernon reveled in it.

  “What?” the king asked bluntly.

  “It... I-I-It is... I mean, the attack, sire, it…failed.” Marthius flinched as he related the report.

  “What are you blathering about? What attack?”

  “The one you ordered on the impostor, Besmir, Majesty,” the general explained, squirming.

  Rage exploded inside Tiernon, burning and cutting him. Beside him, T’noch turned his beastly head to stare at the king.

  “As foretold,” it hissed. “You must deal with him directly.”

  “I take no orders from you, fiend!” Tiernon shouted at the presence only he could see. “It is I who countenance your existence here, and I who can banish you back to the hell from which you came!”

  “Sire?” Marthius asked, confusion plainly written on his white face.

  “Not you,” Tiernon growled. “Him.” He stabbed his finger at what Marthius saw as thin air.

  Tiernon rose from the throne, pacing before the dais and muttering crazily to himself as well as cursing T’noch. Dripping with vile hatred for all things living, T’noch watched Tiernon pace with one pair of its eyes while the other pair monitored the other human in the room. Two of T’noch’s minions were approaching General Marthius, unseen, from behind him. A hiss rolled from his throat, filling the air with communication pheromones only they could understand. They backed away, hissing their own displeasure at being denied an easy meal.

  Tiernon rounded on Marthius, staring at him with contempt pulling a sneer on his face.

  “Tell me what happened,” he ordered. “And leave out no detail unless you wish me to feed you to T’noch.”

  Tiernon watched Marthius struggle with the questions he obviously had, not knowing what a T’noch was. Luckily for the general, he managed to rein his curiosity in, explaining what he had gathered from his spies.

  “Our agent in their camp has been keeping a close eye on the one calling himself Besmir, sire,” Marthius finished. “She is certain she can slip a knife into him as he sleeps.”

  Tiernon considered letting this woman, whoever she might be, do just that. It would save him a job he could not be bothered to do, as well as sending a message to any who opposed him that he could get to them at any time.

  “You must do this deed,” T’noch hissed.

  Tiernon spun to stare at the half-formed thing he had summoned.

  Gods, how I hate you!

  “Your sibilant whispering sets my teeth on edge, T’noch,” he said. “And stay out of my thoughts unless you wish to return to hell.”

  T’noch recoiled, feigning compliance while sucking sustenance from Tiernon’s aura to ensure his obedience.

  “Marthius, approach me and we shall visit this Besmir. Teach him and his petty band of followers what it is to stand against me.”

  General Marthius forced himself to step closer to his king, feeling the cold touch of horror when he drew near. There had been something badly wrong in the palace for weeks now, worse than when Tiernon had usurped the throne from his brother in the first place. Now the disappearances, the casual discovery of mutilated bodies in the palace and the general disrepair of the palace itself all pointed to a horrible conclusion for Marthius. He was cursed.

  I will end up like Sharova. Left to rot in a cell.

  Marthius took the king’s offered arm. His flesh had the feel of a corpse, cold and stiff, and it was all Marthius could do to stop himself from recoiling. Tiernon held out his other arm, his hand made into a claw, and Marthius’s jaw dropped as he watched something else take hold of it.

  Inch-long, sickly green talons extended from something that had seven digits. Its skin looked paper-dry, but was dripping w
ith slime simultaneously. The hand, if a hand it was, faded into invisibility just above the wrist, and Marthius came to several realizations at that point.

  The thing he talks to is real!

  It is some manner of hell beast.

  This is my last day alive.

  The world faded in Marthius’ eyes and he felt a sickening wrench as if he was being dragged sideways by the stomach, his entrails trying to follow.

  A single figure detached itself from the darkness, its feet slapping on the stones as it moved through the dark of the palace. Thoran had seen more horrors in the last few days than she believed she could bear. From the poor dead girl, Virine, being used as a puppet by the king, to watching helplessly as Sharova was beaten and imprisoned. She had watched in horror, as Tiernon had casually butchered men, women and children on his altar, their screams haunting her both day and night. Worse even than that was the horrible, cold presence that seemed to follow Tiernon everywhere he went. At first she had thought it was the strange, silent guards that accompanied him everywhere, but she had felt it, felt them, when Tiernon was out of the room.

  When she realized she was alone in the palace, Thoran knew she only had one chance. She took the small lock-picking kit she had picked up after Shorava had left it during his initial rescue from the only place she had to hide it and started to learn how to pick locks.

  From observing Sharova previously, Thoran had learned she needed to put the L-shaped wrench in the bottom of the lock and turn it a little. From there, however, she was at a complete disadvantage. She knew there were sections within the lock she needed to do something to, but not how, and had no idea how to tell if she had done the right thing.

  Fear sharpened her mind as she recalled how Tiernon moved her from place to place in the palace, stowing her in a different cage and forcing her to witness his atrocities. She had been present when he slaughtered the Lorangian ambassador, slashing his throat in plain sight of numerous other foreign dignitaries. She had been there as he took a naked girl, jabbering and begging for her life, to his altar. She had quieted as soon as he lay her on the surface, her skin dimpling with gooseflesh despite the warmth in the room. Thoran cried out, thinking he was about to rip her virginity away, but what he did was somehow worse. His razor-sharp knife had kissed the girl’s flesh deeply, making her back arch, but no sound came from her throat. Blood − bright red and hot − flowed down onto the table, into the table, feeding it in some disgusting manner.