Heart of a Huntsman

by Liam Reese

  Worse still had been Tiernon’s expression of utter glee as he sliced the girl apart alive. All the time staring at Thoran, his mad eyes telling her this would be her fate eventually.

  As she recalled the harrowing things she had seen, Thoran felt something inside the lock move. She levered it upwards and felt around for more things that moved the same way.

  Tension made her sweat, lack of food and water made her weak, and the constant need for pressure on the lock made her fingers hurt worse than when she had broken one as a child. Only thoughts of Sharova and freedom kept her at the seemingly fruitless task.

  Time dragged by as Thoran worked, clicking the lock picks back and forth in the lock until she thought she would go mad with frustration.

  Then it turned.

  Thoran almost cried when her cage opened, swinging away from her on silent hinges.

  I hope he forgets about me.

  Even as she fled across the throne room, Thoran knew Tiernon would not forget. Even if he did, the cold things with him would chase her down and suck the life from her. Running was her only option, though, so she ran.

  With only a general idea where Sharova had been taken and no idea if he was even alive, Thoran made her way down a flight of stone steps, the temperature falling as the light level did too. She made herself retreat and find a lantern, filled with oil and lit, burning her hand on the metal ring at the top before ripping some cloth from her barely existent dress and returning.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a door blocked her passage, and she fought to control her breath as fear tried to overwhelm her. There was no telling what lay beyond this door, and certain death rose in her imagination, but if he was in here, suffering, she owed it to Sharova to find him.

  Her tiny fingers grabbed the iron ring and turned it with an incredibly loud click that echoed from the stone walls around her. She winced and pushed the door open onto an equally dark space within. Bunks lay against the walls in rooms that lay to either side of the main corridor she found herself in. Nothing moved, not the smallest mouse, and the only sound to reach her ears was the guttering of the flame in her lantern.

  A body lay in the doorway to one room, twisted and broken so badly, she could not tell it had been human once. Horror tore at her when she considered the force it must have taken to smash a person this badly, but she carried on.

  It was some kind of barracks.

  Thoran came to a larger room, the walls lined with shelves on which armor and weapons sat for the taking.

  Dressed in a pair of scratchy woolen trews and linen shirt that exposed one shoulder and the swell of her breast, Thoran carried on to the end of the corridor. Some kind of office sat here. Wood-paneled walls surrounded her and a desk sat as abandoned as the rest of the place.

  Revealed in the glow from her lamp, she could see a door leading into yet another area, this time with a square set into it to see through. Revealed in what little light there was she could see another set of stairs leading down into the blackness.

  Thoran opened the door, peering into the dark as her heart beat faster.

  I must be beneath the palace.

  She descended one slow step at a time, her bare feet feeling the cold biting at them as she went. At the bottom was a set of rooms carved from the rock with doors barring each one. She swallowed and lifted her light up to the metal bars, peering within and expecting to see Sharova’s body at any point. Each was as empty as the last.

  At the deepest, farthest reaches of the tunnel, Thoran saw evidence of recent works. A hole had been blasted into the rock, leading even further into the ground. Her eyes picked out the soot-blackened shapes of melted rock.

  What could have done this?

  Yet some part of her mind knew this had to have been Tiernon’s doing, and if so, this was where she would find Sharova. Gingerly, she stepped through the ragged hole and down the passage there. Twinkling lights glinted back at her from the walls, and she looked closer to see what looked to be gemstones left in the rock. Thoran wondered why Tiernon had not bothered to exploit this treasure but gave up trying to understand him.

  He is mad. Irrevocably, totally, utterly insane.

  She almost crashed into the wooden barrier at the end of the tunnel. Her fingers scrabbled at the wood, splinters shredding her flesh, as she searched for a handle or means of opening it, all to no avail. She beat on the wood, feeling its thickness and resilience, but heard nothing. Why would this be here if there was nothing behind it? Thoran put it from her mind, concentrating on finding a way through.

  If Tiernon has the power to smash through rock, why does he need to have someone build a wooden barricade?

  Thoran considered the point as she trekked back the way she had come, looking for something to break through the wood. In the barracks she found a sword, heavy and rust-pitted, that she thought might work, and trotted back down into the bowels beneath the palace.

  Searing pain shot up through her feet and she paused to look. In the dim light cast by her lamp, Thoran saw the soles of her feet had been shredded by the rough floor. She stopped her descent to cut bandages from her voluminous shirt with the sword, wrapping her feet as best as she could before continuing.

  She set the lamp down a little way from where she planned to start cutting at the wood, then gripped the sword in both hands and swung it as hard as she could at the wooden barrier.

  Agony rolled up her arms as the sword bounced off the wood and slammed into the floor, jarring her elbows and shoulders. Moaning and panting, she slumped to the floor, waiting for the pain to subside.

  Thoran tried to lever the heavy planks loose, wedging the tip of her sword between the boards and working it back and forth. The heavy, wet wood refused to give at first, and she leaned more of her weight against the handle until the sword started to bend. Tears of frustration rolled down her face at the realization she was never going to get through to Sharova.

  Just when she was about to give up in defeat, one of the thick boards gave way with a scream of wet nails pulling from wood. Hope flared in Thoran’s heart. Then her lantern flickered out.

  14

  The men of the White Blades integrated into the tent town well. Many of the women in the camp had lost husbands in the civil war and were more than happy to entertain strong, fit men. Besmir watched his little kingdom as women fought over the men they outnumbered. The men were, unsurprisingly, quite happy about the situation.

  He, Zaynorth, Herofic and Norvasil were sitting in a tent Norvasil had insisted Besmir have as his interim palace. In comparison to the one he had been sharing with Arteera, it was a palace: spacious and containing furniture.

  Arteera was quietly embroidering stags on any scrap of cloth she could lay her talented fingers on as the little group listened to Norvasil’s tale.

  “After your father left, I had a brief chat with the lads. No one was particularly interested in guarding Tiernon,” he said dryly. “So we pinched as much inventory as we could and left.” The big man scratched his cheek. “Trekking north seemed to be the best course, and we spent a few months wandering like nomads until word of Tiernon’s war reached us.” Norvasil drained the wine from his cup and belched. “It was not even a decision we had to consciously make. We lent a hand wherever we could against Tiernon’s forces.” Norvasil sighed. “Petty skirmishes when I look back now, but I had to stay true to your father, and with him in exile, the only thing I could think of was to attack his enemy.”

  Norvasil chuckled, running his fingers through his thick beard. Now out of armor, he had pulled the braids from his hair and beard, revealing lustrous curls that drove the tent town women wild.

  “I suppose I hoped someone might slip a knife between his ribs, end it all, and your family could come home.” Norvasil screwed his face up in thought. “Well, he put an end to that, eh?” He scanned the other men to see if there was judgment in their eyes. Seeing nothing but sympathy, he continued. “We were starting to settle down, put some crops in and starting t
o make some kind of life trading and running mercenary jobs, protecting caravans and the like, when word reached us there was a man claiming to be the rightful king. A hunter that was feeding the starving and clothing the poor.” He grinned at Besmir. “A fanciful tale to be sure, but if there was even a grain of truth to it, we decided we needed to come and help.” He shrugged his muscled shoulders.

  “And here you are,” Besmir said.

  “Here we are,” Norvasil echoed. “What will you do?”

  Besmir rolled his eyes and looked at Zaynorth, who made no comment but pursed his lips to stop himself from speaking.

  “We’ve had a few differences of opinion regarding that,” Besmir told him. “Without an army, Tiernon can just roll over us at any time he wants and we’re just a target waiting for him to do it.”

  “Arm the women,” Norvasil said immediately.

  “That’s what I said,” Besmir cried, turning an accusatory glare on Zaynorth.

  The old mage grumbled something unintelligible and drained his own mug, refilling it from Norvasil’s bottle without asking. The giant said nothing about that but carried on talking about the women in camp.

  “My men could start to train a small group each, say ten per man, just basic hack techniques.” He looked up as he thought. “Each one of those could teach what they have learned to another ten, and before long, you would have a small force,” he said.

  “Even if that were to work,” Zaynorth said dismissively, “with what do you expect them to fight? Harsh words? We have no armory and no smith.”

  Norvasil grinned and stood.

  “If you gentlemen would be so good as to follow me,” he said, leading them from Besmir’s tent.

  They followed him a short distance from Besmir’s tent to where they had stowed their wagons. Norvasil leaped up into the back of one, making the whole thing rock on its wheels. Deftly he untied the ropes holding a thick, oiled canvas sheet down and pulled back one corner.

  “By the gods!” Herofic muttered when he saw the pile of swords and axes under the sheet. “Where did you come by these?”

  “Stole them,” Norvasil said. “We have been hauling Tiernon’s weapons around for more than a year. The oxen have just about had enough now,” he added.

  As if it understood his words, one of the massive bulls grazing nearby bellowed a low moo.

  “Stop complaining, Zaynorth,” Norvasil shouted at the animal.

  The old mage stared at him while Herofic tried to stifle his laughter behind his hand. Besmir grinned, looking between Norvasil and Zaynorth.

  “Did you really name the beast Zaynorth?” the mage asked.

  Norvasil nodded, an impudent grin spreading beneath his beard. Besmir chuckled.

  Thunder rolled across the sky, dragging their attention westwards. Zaynorth and Herofic both frowned, glancing at each other worriedly.

  “What is it?” Besmir asked.

  “Thunder. From a cloudless sky?” Zaynorth said.

  Besmir looked, realizing he was right. The sky was a warm azure from horizon to horizon, and a few wisps of white were all he could see.

  “So what does that actually mean?”

  Zaynorth looked from Norvasil to Herofic then back to Besmir before he answered. “Magic,” he said sternly.

  From the far side of the tent town the sound of yelling came to their ears. Besmir’s heart beat faster, anticipation gripping his chest as he sprinted through the camp, weaving through bodies and the goats that had broken free and were bleating their way between the tents. Besmir could hear Herofic cursing his way along, shouting and extorting people out of his way.

  Fright grabbed his chest when he caught the first scent of smoke tainted with the sweet stench of burning flesh. Something exploded to his right, the heat from the fireball searing his face and making him flinch. Besmir swore, ducking and swerving around another tent as he threw his arm up to cover his face.

  His panicked run was cut short when he reached the edge of the destruction. Flames leaped from three tents and nausea flooded his stomach as he saw people, his people, burning alive inside. Rage burned the sickness away and he grabbed his faithful bow, notching an arrow to the string as he hunted for the source of this violence.

  Two figures stood a few feet back from the edge of his town, and Besmir let fly without a thought, his arrow streaking through the air and slamming through the man at the front. He watched as the man’s knees buckled, tumbling him back into the one behind.

  “Tiernon!” Zaynorth gasped in shock. “You shot him!”

  “And I’ll do it again,” Besmir growled, loosening another arrow at the second man.

  This time, however, the missile exploded a few inches from the pair, and Besmir watched as Tiernon got to his feet, grinning madly. The hunter stalked over towards the pair, firing arrow after arrow, each one exploding in a blue flash before it could do any harm. Hate and revulsion rolled through him as he regarded his uncle, realizing he was a blood relation to the maniac.

  Tiernon was nothing like Besmir expected. His mind had conjured images of a massive, powerful creature bristling with spiked armor and riding an immense stallion that could breathe flame. The pathetic thing that stood before him was deflated, flaccid as an empty bladder, and looked to be on the verge of death. Skin sagged from bones that jutted painfully from beneath, revealing every aspect of Tiernon’s skull. His emaciated fingers jabbed the air like daggers, thin and pointed. A purple and gold silk brocade shirt hung from his thin shoulders, and Besmir could clearly see his collarbone and the top of his rib cage.

  Thinning hair fell limply from a translucent scalp, allowing all to see the network of blue veins beneath, and the skin on his face sagged, pulling his lower eyelids down to reveal the raw, red wetness within.

  Tiernon viewed the world through minuscule pupils that darted around as if unable to remain fixed on a single point. The kiss of reason had left those eyes long ago, Besmir could see, leaving his uncle utterly insane.

  Tiernon watched in fascination as Besmir drew an arrow, aiming it at his chest., recognition and shock pulling his slack features into a gruesome mask as he stood rooted to the spot. Besmir reached him and halted, staring into his eyes with towering rage in his expression, his shoulders heaving with every breath.

  “Brother?” Tiernon asked in a whisper. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, focusing on something behind Besmir.

  “Zaynorth,” he said without surprise. “I did wonder where you lost yourself to. So it is true then, my nephew survived. I can hardly believe the truth of it.” Tiernon looked to his left and nodded. “Yes, T’noch, you were right after all.”

  Besmir frowned, as he was not speaking to the other man who cowered behind him and seemed to be overlooked.

  “Leave this place!” Besmir shouted. “Or die where you stand.”

  Despite the fear that threatened to overwhelm him, Besmir stood his ground, especially as many of his people were watching his every move. Tiernon’s awful gaze rolled to him again.

  “No, I cannot do that,” he spoke gently, calmly, with an almost conversational tone that Besmir thought he might do no more for a second. “I cannot allow you to live, unfortunately, and this little group of slaves will have to serve me now.”

  Besmir heard a thunderous roar from beside him and spun to see Norvasil hammering a blow at Tiernon with his massive sword. Lightning lanced down the blade when it hit the barrier that surrounded him, throwing the big man ten feet to land in a heap at the feet of the gathered crowd.

  “Run!” Besmir bellowed at his people.

  He knew nothing would ever be able to reach Tiernon, causing harm, while he had his barrier in place, and despite outward appearances, he had immense powers to draw on and maintain it.

  He concentrated, letting his mind soar from his body and grab hold of a flock of passing birds, causing them to dive at the sagging form of Tiernon, blocking his vision. From his lofty view Besmir could see a number of women were dragging Norvasil f
rom the field, and he hoped the big man was unharmed.

  Dropping like a stone, Besmir hunted through the grass for mice and other small rodents he could use to distract Tiernon, trying to give his people time to escape at least. Tiernon himself did not bother with Besmir’s statuesque body, concentrating rather on burning as many tents and people as he was able to see.

  Despair crashed through Besmir as he watched more of the tent town destroyed, homes, possessions and even people burning to ashes under Tiernon’s rain of violence. He searched in vain for something he could use, insects if need be, to attack the battlemage.

  At the edge of the forest to the northern boundary of the tent town, he caught sight of his stag. The same mighty, proud creature he had brought into camp weeks ago as a sign to the people, a pledge. Besmir flicked into its mind with a blink.

  Sweat dripped from the toiling woman as she worked in the icy blackness, feeling her way through the layers of planking that had been installed there. Thoran had come to the conclusion Tiernon had had this built, as, despite his immense power, he could only destroy. Even the simple act of creating a barrier to keep Sharova penned in was beyond his capabilities.

  Thoran slipped her numb fingers along the jagged edge of the wood, splinters tearing at her as she sought another point to set the sword to work. Her limbs ached as if she had been punched, and unconsciousness was horribly close as she set the sword in place. Thoran hauled herself to her feet and pushed the sword into the wood. She had made her way through four layers of timber so far, the last three in complete darkness, and had no idea how thick this barrier was until she stumbled forward as the blade disappeared between two of the boards.