Heart of a Huntsman

by Liam Reese

“I...I thought I was dead...for sure,” she croaked in reply.

  Norvasil gathered her into his strong arms, bearing her away from the horror and death as Besmir approached the undead, demonic corpse.

  “You!” It growled in a voice that bubbled.

  It pointed its remaining arm at Besmir, who walked across towards it almost casually as his warriors fell back to form a ring of steel around it. Besmir tilted his head, seeing the overlay of Tiernon’s features on the demon’s face and knew he possessed its body.

  “Uncle,” he spat. “I’ve come for you.”

  “Come, then,” Tiernon hissed. Blood bubbled from wounds in the demon as he forced it to speak. “Come and die.”

  Besmir shook his head and pursed his lips, raising his eyebrows and resting one fist on his hip. He held his grandfather’s sword out towards Tiernon, turning the blade slowly so it caught the dawn light.

  “Don’t think so, Uncle,” Besmir said in a conversational tone. “I’m going to hack you to pieces with your father’s sword,” he added.

  “Ranyor sends his regards,” the demon hissed. “Withdraw and he will live.”

  Besmir heard Keluse wail behind him, her pain ripping at him, but he also knew Tiernon would not let Ranyor live whether they fell back or not.

  “Why, Uncle,” Besmir said in as charming a voice as he could. “It’s almost as if you’re scared of us.” He smiled as the information rippled through his army, and Tiernon growled through the demon.

  “I fear nothing!” Tiernon spat. “Nothing!”

  “I’m getting bored of this,” Besmir said, waving his hand at the demon. “Shall we speak in person?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Besmir turned and marched for the palace gate, leaving the bloody wreck to scream behind him.

  Several women who remained in a circle around the thing looked at each other nervously. They were all covered in sweat and blood, panting and tired from the short battle but exhilarated to have won, still alive.

  “What now?” one asked as she watched the king stalk off.

  The others looked around in confusion, unsure now they were alone. A horrible, wet, chuckling sound issued from the demon and they all took a step back.

  “Pathetic,” it hissed. “Weak women. Serve me, your rightful king, and kill the usurper.”

  “You heard it, ladies,” one woman said as her fear and confusion fell away. “Kill the usurper!”

  The four women hacked and slashed violently at the demon’s remains, cutting it into pieces and throwing them as far as they could, letting their hatred fuel them.

  24

  Thoran floated on a white sea of ecstasy. Something in the back of her mind screamed endlessly this was wrong and she was in danger, but the voice was faint and easily ignored. Delight washed over her entire body, the warm caress of a lover stroking her flesh, bringing her body to life. Rills and shivers rolled over her skin like gooseflesh, making her shiver and writhe in pleasure. Nothing mattered. Nothing but the endless feeling of happiness, joy...

  I am naked on that table.

  Thoran felt so tired. Just a short nap, a little sleep, and she could wake up in this paradise, refreshed and ready to carry on being loved. Just a little nap…

  No! I have to wake up! We are both going to die!

  Thoran frowned as Tiernon’s vile altar sucked the life from her. The thought of ‘we’ had pierced the ecstatic bubble she had been in. Her eyes opened a little, unfocused and blurry. Something...someone was there, calling to her.

  “That is it, Thoran! Fight it, my love!” Sharova cried from his place attached to the wall. His breath came in short bursts, his ribs and arms stretched so far, he was barely able to breathe.

  Thoran’s body twitched as she tried to move. One leg shimmied over to the edge, her foot falling from the table.

  Sharova. Do it for him.

  Pain cut into her muscles, her bones, her very blood as the feelings of joy fell from her. Something dark and ancient, distant and timeless, bellowed as she rolled from the altar, her body slapping the cold stone floor painfully. The icy chill brought some sense back to Thoran and she recalled some of what had happened. Reaching out for support, the woman felt the wall beside her and leaned against it, standing on shaky legs.

  She took a step, then another. The third step took her foot from beneath her as she tripped over an unseen something, landing heavily on the stone again.

  It was a man. Thoran looked at the thing she had fallen over, seeing the ragged holes in his limbs, the blood and scars.

  Poor soul. Probably better off, whoever you were.

  “Thoran.”

  She looked up at her name, seeing a figure stretched out on the wall.

  Sharova.

  His smile was a benign light as he gazed down at her, and Thoran felt a wash of love far deeper and more satisfying than the altar had given her. Tears rolled down her face when she recalled his fate, and she dragged herself across to where he hung, standing to look into his face.

  Sharova’s flesh was taking on the color of the wall. Granite grey fingers and streaks reached around his body, pulling him slowly into the wall. His breathing was labored and his eyes rolled madly as he slowly metamorphosed into stone. His beard and hair had already changed to grey, some of it molding to the stone behind his head.

  “Thoran,” he whispered.

  “Yes, love,” Thoran sobbed.

  “You need to go,” he said in a strained voice.

  “No!” she begged in a tortured voice. “I have to stay with you.”

  Thoran put her head on his chest, hearing the labored whistle of his breathing, the slowing thudding of his heart, and wailed. His skin was hard and ice-cold, taking on the properties of the stone he was becoming.

  “You must,” Sharova insisted. “If Tiernon returns, finds you here and not on the altar...” He let the sentence hang.

  “But you—”

  “It is my time,” Sharova said simply. “And I am thankful to have met you...to have loved you.” He smiled. “But you must go.”

  Thoran raised herself on tiptoes, laying herself against him, and pressed her lips to his. They, at least, were still warm, but salty with her tears. With agony in her chest, Thoran stepped back from Sharova, preparing to leave.

  Then the door exploded in a shower of hot splinters and dust, making her cough and blink.

  Besmir stepped into the room that was dominated by a massive table-like altar covered in symbols that hurt his mind. Pure, deadly evil radiated from the thing, warping the space around it. He wrenched his gaze away to look at the naked, crying woman with wide eyes, the man who looked to be sinking into the wall, and Ranyor’s corpse.

  He knelt beside his friend, feeling for any signs of life, his heart heavy.

  “Where’s Tiernon?” he asked the naked woman as she blubbered.

  “Help him!” she cried. “Help him, please!”

  “Where is Tiernon?” Besmir demanded as people flooded the room. A pair of women folded their cloaks over Thoran, who was in no condition to say anything else, and pulled her from the room.

  Besmir approached the figure slowly sinking into the wall.

  “I t-take it you are the king?” he said, cold making him shiver. “I am Sharova, f-former f-fleet admiral.” Besmir nodded slowly. “I t-tried,” Sharova added. “T-Tried to s-stop him...”

  “Where is he?” Besmir asked.

  “Went through that d-door.” Sharova rolled his eyes towards a door at the back of the room. “Take care, M-Majesty, he has...th-things. Evil, c-cold th-things.”

  “Thanks for the warning,’ Besmir said. “What of you?”

  “J-Just take c-care of Th-Thoran, please,” Sharova stammered. “And end th-th-this.” He glanced down at himself.

  Besmir nodded and reached out to touch Sharova’s forehead. Sharova screamed once, then fell silent.

  The king hammered the flimsy wooden portal open with a single thought, walking into the bare chamber beyond. Tierno
n was huddled in a corner, a wasted thing dressed in rags and barely able to support life any longer. Norvasil, Herofic, Zaynorth and a few others crammed into the room behind Besmir.

  There were four creatures in the room. One was attached to Tiernon, locked onto the back of his neck, a pulsing thing that either controlled or fed from him. The other three Besmir knew of. These were the T'noch he had seen birthed in hell. How they had gotten here and what they were doing was a mystery he was not interested in solving.

  “You see them?” he asked.

  Zaynorth nodded, but the rest shrugged in confusion.

  “Give me a second,” Zaynorth said as the nearest T'noch shifted, approaching them.

  The old man concentrated, putting the image of the creatures into everyone’s heads. Norvasil gasped and Herofic grunted as a few of the others cried out.

  “I do not know how long I can do this to so many,” Zaynorth told Besmir in a strained voice.

  “I saw one of these things birthed in hell,” Besmir announced. “Zaynorth and I can see them normally, but he’s showing them to you by illusion. They can die, but I don’t know if you can do anything to them.”

  The nearest T'noch reached for Besmir, unaware he could see them, and the king lashed out with green lightning as he had in hell. The T'noch died, fading from his vision as the other two advanced. Herofic and Norvasil stepped forwards, each hammering blows against one of the T’noch and hacking pieces off them. They screamed, lashing out at anything within range with their long arms, felling people like trees. Besmir lanced his sword into one, sending lightning arcing down the blade to cook it from the inside. The T’noch screamed, its voice a hot pressure in their ears, bringing pain as it died.

  Beside him Herofic and Norvasil were back on their feet and slashing at the remaining creature. Norvasil bellowed as the thing grabbed his arm, twisting and wrenching the bones. Besmir could not attack it with his magic for fear he would hit his friends.

  “Fall back!” He shouted at the two warriors.

  Yet Norvasil could not. The T’noch had managed to pull him further towards its body, wrapping the big man in a death grip. The muscular warrior’s head shot back, his mouth open in a silent scream as the demon crushed him. Besmir grabbed the thing, his skin trying to recoil from the horrible contact. Its rubbery flesh felt hard beneath, as if it covered bones that were as thick as his legs.

  Flame leaped from Besmir’s hand, searing and cooking the demon’s body, making it thrash and scream. It let go of Norvasil who collapsed to the floor so it could pull away from Besmir but when he saw it let go of his friend he increased the fire leaping from his hands, burning it alive. The stench of burning flesh filled the room as Besmir torched the creature, blackening its features until they were unrecognisable.

  Before them all, Tiernon rose up. The thing that had attached itself to the back of his neck had become part of him somehow, restoring his body a little and giving him power again.

  “Zaynorth!” Tiernon cried as if he was greeting an old friend. “It is a pleasure to see you. A pity you have to die so soon, but...”

  Tiernon flicked lightning at Zaynorth, who screamed, his body crashing against the wall..

  “No!” Besmir shouted.

  He launched himself at Tiernon, power burning from his hands, head and chest. The demon possessing Tiernon flinched as Besmir’s magic hammered into him, pure force blasting him against the stonework behind him. Besmir tore at Tiernon with power, ripping wounds open and sealing them again so he could inflict even more pain.

  Tiernon laughed in between dire screams of agony. His torso exploded, ribs erupting from his chest as Besmir pulled his lungs from inside. Yet the king had not finished. He healed Tiernon so he could hurt him again, reformed his bones and knitted his skin in order to rend it again.

  “What are you laughing at?” he screamed at Tiernon. “What’s so funny?”

  “You,” Tiernon wheezed through the agony. “You are become just like me,” he tittered. “Vicious and cruel. You are of Fringor blood, boy.” Tiernon spat blood to the floor.

  Besmir halted. Tiernon was right. He had counseled against this kind of thing, made sure all he encountered in his long journey knew he was not like Tiernon. Vengeance and torture were not part of his arsenal, and shame colored his face.

  “End him, Your Majesty,” Zaynorth said, gripping his arm. “Kill him, Besmir.”

  The old man was deathly pale and his clothing had been ripped. Burn marks darkened the skin of his chest, radiating out in jagged lines, but he lived.

  Besmir drew his grandfather’s sword and crossed the room to where Tiernon sat in a pool of blood and shredded tissue. His eyes rolled up to Besmir and he grinned.

  “Just like me,” he gurgled.

  Besmir thrust the sword down. Bright steel pierced Tiernon’s chest, cutting through muscle and bone easily. The blade passed through Tiernon’s heart and into his aorta. Besmir twisted the blade before wrenching it free. A thick gout of blood exploded from Tiernon as he took his final breath and his smashed body slumped sideways.

  25

  “It is done,” Zaynorth said with a note of satisfaction in his strained voice. “Yet I am sure the work must now begin in earnest.”

  Besmir yawned stretching his face as the adrenaline drained from his system. “Surely this is enough for today?”

  “Gazluth is weak,” Herofic said as he kicked at the gruesome remains in the corner. “Any number of foreign powers might seek to capitalize on the lack of people and undefended borders.”

  Besmir swore, cursing himself for a fool. Of course killing Tiernon was never going to be the end of his duties. He was a king, with people to care for and lands to tend. Zaynorth spoke the truth: this was merely the beginning.

  “We need to destroy that altar for starters,” Besmir said irritably. “Get some people in here with axes to chop it into firewood.“ One of the women in the room saluted and ducked back through the door to issue orders. The sound of metal on wood came to their ears and Besmir smiled as Norvasil struggled to his feet again.

  “Sire, we cannot make a mark on it,” the woman reported as she stepped back into the room, panting.

  “I will deal with it later,” Besmir muttered. “Post guards outside the door and make sure no one gets near it, it’s lethal.”

  Besmir finally tore his eyes from the pile of bloodied flesh in the corner and scanned the room more fully now.

  Tiernon had cleared every last scrap of furniture from the place for some reason. This had been his bedchamber when he had been sane, but Besmir could think of no reason for stripping it bare. It nagged at him as he wandered around the space, hovering at the back of his mind.

  “Something’s wrong here,” Besmir said.

  “Are you serious?” Herofic asked incredulously. “Nothing is right here, Besmir.”

  “It’s more than that.” Besmir pointed at Tiernon’s body. “Look around. Why is this room empty?”

  Zaynorth looked, frowning in confusion as Herofic huffed.. The old man leaned against the nearest wall, looking grateful for its cool support. Zaynorth frowned and called out and within a few seconds they were all searching the wall for the source of a breeze he could feel. Norvasil went as far as to hammer against the stone with fists and feet, searching for a hidden exit.

  Besmir loosed his mind, sinking through the stones to seek out what was hidden from them. A chasm had been carved beyond the wall, a tunnel leading down into the rock of the planet. He searched feverishly for some way to access it and eventually discovered a latch, the lever hidden in the fireplace. Returning to his body, Besmir triggered the latch and a small section of stonework opened inward.

  “If he had a bolt hole,” Besmir said as he approached cautiously, “why didn’t he use it?”

  “Insanity probably had something to do with it,” Herofic growled, walking over and looking at the hole suspiciously. “No telling what might be down there,” he grumbled.

  Besmir grabbed
his shoulder as he looked to be about to enter.

  “Just a minute,” he said.

  Besmir sent his mind out into the hole, searching for any signs of life. A lone spider hung in a corner, sitting in the center of its web, but Besmir drifted past, as it was far too small. Farther down the rough passage he encountered a mouse that fluttered nervously along the base of the wall. He dived into it and scurried downwards, searching the area out.

  Herofic looked at Zaynorth, scowling at his brother’s condition.

  “You need to rest,” he said. “Before you collapse on us all.”

  “He needs me,” Zaynorth said stubbornly. “I will not abandon him this day.”

  “Not much good to him if you are dead,” Herofic growled.

  “Just leave. I—”

  “By the gods!” Besmir yelled, his eyes widening. “Get torches. Lanterns, anything to cast light,” the king ordered, virtually diving through the hole.

  Zaynorth staggered after Besmir, worried over his headlong and foolish charge. As he struggled to catch up with the king, a smell insinuated itself into his nose. Perspiration and human waste mingled with the pungent stench of fear as he descended along the passage Tiernon must have cut into the living rock the palace backed onto.

  It widened at the bottom, leveling out somewhat, Zaynorth saw as he leaned his hands on his knees and waited for lights to be brought. A pair of soldiers brought a handful of torches each and started to light them from one they jammed in a crevice in the wall.

  Besmir took a few and placed them at various intervals around the wall, illuminating the space. Zaynorth felt sickness wash through him when he saw the multiple glints in the darkness, hundreds of eyes staring back at him.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Besmir called in the softest voice he could manage. “Tiernon is dead and you are all free again.”

  Whispers and mutters ran through the room as the women penned there spoke to each other in disbelief.

  “I am Besmir, son of Joranas and Rhianne, and the rightful King of Gazluth,” he said. “You are all free to leave this place. Many of you might have family or friends in the world above.”