Heart of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the drink, it helps?’

  ‘It’s the only thing that does.’

  The woman nodded. ‘I have no experience in managing Ashai affairs. I am a healer of flesh and bone, not of the intangible. Keep your gold, girl. You and your habits will need it more than I.’

  When Bleak came to, the saddle was as uncomfortable as ever – worse, in fact. She opened her eyes and discovered why. She was sharing the saddle with Fiore. She was seated in front of him, his tattooed arm holding her across her middle, while he held the reins with his other hand.

  ‘What —?’

  ‘You fell.’ His breath was hot in her ear.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You collapsed, had some sort of fit. You were convulsing on the ground.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘I don’t know what caused it. Only the commander knew what to do. He put you on your side so you didn’t choke, held you in place so you didn’t smack your head on something. When you stopped shaking he said it was safe to get you back on a horse. So here we are.’

  Bleak shifted in the saddle and Fiore hissed.

  ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘You’re not the only one in this thing.’

  Despite herself, Bleak laughed.

  ‘Not funny,’ Fiore said, and then, more quietly, ‘That happened before?’

  Bleak gnawed the inside of her cheek. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How can you not know?’

  She looked down at the tattooed forearm across her middle, the thick black flames creating the illusion that the fire was enveloping Fiore’s skin.

  ‘Did it hurt?’ she asked.

  He looked over her shoulder and followed her gaze. ‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘I passed out ten minutes in.’

  Bleak snorted.

  ‘Laugh all you want, but where I come from, it’s a rite of passage. The masters put chemicals in the ink so it feels like fire – you can’t get a tattoo of the goddess without it. They said ten minutes was the longest anyone’s ever lasted.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Silence settled between them, until Bleak realised she was easing into the press of his hard chest against her back, and was acutely aware of the broad hand resting on her stomach.

  ‘I’m fine now. I can ride my own horse,’ she said.

  ‘Not taking chances. Can’t deliver you to the king with a broken neck, can we?’

  ‘I don’t know what you can and can’t do. It might be that the king wants my neck broken anyway.’

  ‘If that was the case, you’d be dead already.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  Bleak shrugged. She could feel his heart beating against her through his leather jerkin. It felt intimate, wrong, given her current situation. She took a deep breath and focused on Stefan’s back, their horse following his up the narrow strip of worn path. Behind them, Felder’s Bay and its turquoise waters had long since vanished from sight. Now, there was nothing but trees. Thousands upon thousands of them, their limber branches shooting up into the dense canopy, the spots of escaped sunlight growing fewer and far between. As they ascended, the air became thinner and colder, a mere whisper of a breeze sending goosebumps racing across Bleak’s skin.

  Orders were passed down from the front of the company: Make haste, we want to reach the summit of the mountain by nightfall. We won’t be stopping again. Bleak heard the collective complaint among the minds around her. She took comfort in the fact that she was not alone in her pain.

  After another hour or so, the incline became so great that the muscles in her abdomen were constantly tensed from pulling herself upright in the saddle, trying not to slide both her and Fiore off the back. What few jokes and conversation there had been before among the men ceased altogether. At the front of the company, Swinton hacked away at the encroaching undergrowth. The branches and vines creeping onto the trail didn’t stand a chance with his battleaxes swinging. The blades sliced clean through the foliage.

  I’d hate to see what they’d do to a person, Bleak mused as they passed the jagged remains of the amputated branches. Her chest felt heavier at the thought of the untouched forest being destroyed, one violent slash at a time. Her tongue was dry and her stomach growled; she really wished Stefan would hide the wineskin from her sight. She thought back to the alcohol that had burst into flames behind her as she had escaped the barn inferno. What she would do for a swig of that good stuff right about now …

  The journey seemed to go on and on. It was punctuated by bursts of hunger and thirst, and clumsily slipping into the guards’ minds for amusement. If she was going to do the time, she may as well do the crime.

  When it seemed they could go no higher, they did. The mountain was never-ending. Finally, Bleak saw glimpses of pink sky ahead. The trees were thinning out and the land was flattening; they were getting close. Up here, the air was even colder, and she found herself grateful for the warmth of Fiore behind her.

  After another half an hour or so, they arrived at the summit. The men rolled off their horses, aching and exhausted, but there was work to do. Fiore jumped down from the horse with surprising agility for someone so large, and he reached up to help Bleak. Ordinarily, she’d be too stubborn to let someone, let alone a member of the King’s Guard, help her. But her body felt a hundred years old, and the pain searing across her lower half was almost unbearable. As he lowered her carefully, she realised that the pressure of the dagger against her thigh was missing, and without thinking, she patted herself down, wondering where it had got to.

  ‘Ah, that,’ Fiore said, ‘that belonged to me.’

  ‘How’d you —’ Bleak started, horrified.

  ‘When you fell.’

  ‘Right.’

  Bleak chastised herself. That had been her only edge against these bastards. She’d have to steal it back.

  Not too difficult, she mused, recalling how she’d got the dagger in the first place. From where she sat, she watched as the men unsaddled their horses wearily and led them to drink at the nearby creek. Stefan and two of the other guards dragged themselves back into the forest on foot to collect wood for the fire, while Fiore and another set up the commander’s tent. The commander himself was poring over a map he had spread out on the ground, absentmindedly rubbing the scar on his chin. His necklace had escaped the confines of his shirt again, and now hung visibly over his chest. Bleak couldn’t see the map from where she sat at the edge of the camp, and so she edged closer. A little further, a little further.

  It was a map of the trail they were on. It would bring them down the other side of the mountain and out into the West Farmlands, by Angove River. The tiny trail on the map made the rest of the forest and mountain range look enormous. She had no idea the Hawthornes were that vast. All along the trail were little Xs drawn in red ink.

  A hand came out of nowhere and grabbed a fistful of the front of her tunic. She was slammed into the tree behind her.

  ‘If I catch you snooping again …’ The commander’s breath was stale on her face, his umber eyes furious. Up close, he looked haunted – his skin sallow, with circles the colour of lead beneath his eyes. He shoved her away, scowling.

  ‘I —’

  ‘Save it.’ His nostrils flared, and he stepped back, tucking his medallion into the front of his shirt. He shook his head, more to himself than her, and turned back to his map, folding it up and stuffing it down the side of a lumpy-looking bag. Despite his obvious anger, he picked up the bag with an odd level of care. It clinked as he put the strap across his shoulder. How strange. She opened her mouth to question —

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he snarled, before striding off to his tent, the bag clinking softly at his hip.

  She wondered what the Xs on the map were. Gold? Other Ashai? Although she’d received no clear answer from the company of free-flowing thoughts around her, she had gathered that this mission was a
bout more than picking up a stray Ashai from Angove. The Xs on the map proved that – they were why they hadn’t come for her by sea. She kept herself busy creating a nest of kindling for the fire, and had it smoking by the time Stefan and the others came back with the wood. They said nothing to her as they fed the first few logs to the flames.

  Stefan made stew with leftover meat, and they took turns passing it around in a few odd cups and bowls. By the time it got to Bleak, she was salivating, and it tasted amazing, like the beef broth Bleaker Senior used to make in the winter. She slurped it down without pausing, and Fiore refilled her cup, sneaking her a chunk of hard bread to dunk in it. In a way, he reminded her of Bren – his kindness, the sturdiness about him. She wondered what her friend was doing now. Was he trying to rally his brothers to help find her? They wouldn’t come. Although she’d been practically raised alongside them, the rest of the Clayton clan had always kept their distance, understanding that she carried with her an element of self-destruction, a secret that would ultimately be her undoing. And here she was.

  For the first time in two days, she wasn’t starving. But she was sore all over, and she eyed the wine enviously as it was passed around between the men. Sometimes it was close enough to smell, but she didn’t move. Not while the commander was still here. The men got drunker than the night before, complaining about the bite of the cheap wine, but guzzling it down all the same. She managed to steal back Fiore’s dagger. It was of Battalonian make – well-balanced and simple, without the embellishments and engravings so many of the Ellest weapons boasted. She tucked it into her boot this time, still wearing the enormous pair she’d been given that morning. Then she sat back and watched, threading her length of rope between her fingers, finding comfort in the methodical patterns in which the knots were created. Knots were all about finding a solution to suit a greater purpose – problem solving – and in this respect she liked to think she was good at it. Looping the rope around her hands, feeling its permanently damp and frayed texture on her skin calmed her. So she tied knot after knot, undid them, and then started again.

  Bleak was thrown the same blanket as the night before, and she was grateful. The air at the summit was icy and the earth beneath her was wet. As darkness settled, her teeth were chattering. One by one, the men nodded off, chins resting on their chests, or faces pressed carelessly into the dirt. The commander retired to his tent after shaking his head at his sorry company. Bleak felt restless. She couldn’t let the King’s Guard drag her all the way to the capital, not knowing what would happen. Despite her haphazard lifestyle, she liked having a plan, a sense of direction – a purpose, if that wasn’t too much of a stretch of the word. And that’s what she needed now – a plan. A plan to rid herself of Swinton and his men, a way of getting back to Angove, back to Bren and her boat, so she could move on. She would find a healer and be done with all of this. So far, she had her length of rope, Fiore’s dagger and a pair of overly large boots. She’d need more than that. She glanced around, eyeing numerous weapons she knew she could barely lift, let alone wield. Then, her attention snagged on something: a discarded wineskin. It called to her from beside the glowing embers of the fire.

  Yes. That will do nicely, she thought as she inched her way towards it. She was so focused on what that first delectable sip was going to taste like, that she heard no thoughts around her. Not even those of Lennox, as he clapped his thick, callused hand over her mouth.

  ‘Listen here, girly, we can make this nice and simple. It can hurt a little, or it can make you wish you’d never been born …’

  Panic surged as she felt the tip of a knife at her throat. She dug the heels of her boots into the soft ground, wanting to scream, but the blade pressed against her, stinging her skin. Warm blood trickled from the cut. She couldn’t fight him, she’d kill herself in the process. Terror iced her insides. He dragged her deeper into the woods and grabbed at her roughly, forcing his other hand down the front of her tunic, squeezing her breast.

  And then, the air changed.

  Chapter 4

  Five women, unlike anyone Bleak had ever seen, stood before them. Tall and limber like the trees around them, their every limb was lined with tight muscle. They wore clinging leathers of deep forest green, which covered their skin from the base of their throats to their knee-high laced boots. Each of them had long, thick hair braided down one side, and their eyes were lined with black kohl. A woman with rich, fiery-red hair stood at the front of the group, her chest out and shoulders pushed back. The men must have also sensed the shift in the air, because they began to rouse from their drunken slumbers. Stefan, the youngest guard, stoked the fire back to life. However sluggish and unprepared, the men still outnumbered the women, two to one. Bleak’s heart hammered against her sternum. But there was an unnerving calmness in the five.

  The flickering light of the campfire illuminated their faces, which were alert and surprisingly young. Their stances, however, were those of experienced warriors – feet apart, hands resting casually on the grips of their weapons: swords, spears, daggers … Lennox had just set something in motion that could never be undone. A wave was cresting, and it was about to come crashing down on them all. The women said nothing, only waited for the men to gather themselves.

  Lennox’s hands were still on Bleak. Fiore wrenched him away from her, causing Bleak to stagger back into the Battalonian. The women watched them coolly, noting the rope burn on Bleak’s wrists and the knife in Lennox’s hand.

  ‘What’s your business here?’ Lennox sneered. He was fuming he’d missed his chance to ravage the gutter rat, Bleak understood.

  ‘Do you know where you are?’ the redheaded woman at the centre of the group asked, her voice mild.

  ‘We’re in the Hawthornes, bitch. This is the king’s territory,’ said Lennox, his knuckles paling as he clenched his fists.

  The woman smiled. ‘Only a fool would call any part of these mountains the king’s territory.’

  ‘Oh yeah? This is the King’s Army, the king’s land. What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d ask for a demonstration.’ She took a step forward, her hand at her sword pommel.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Commander Swinton emerged from his tent, buckling his sword belt at his waist, his nostrils flaring. He stopped in his tracks at the sight of the kindred.

  ‘We were going to let your company pass through our lands peacefully, until one of your guards sought to insult us by assaulting your prisoner. You know we don’t take kindly to that kind of behaviour.’

  Swinton flung a repulsed look at Lennox before turning back to the woman. ‘I’m well aware. Who are you?’

  ‘First-in-command of the Valia kindred, Athene.’

  Swinton examined the women before him, and following his gaze to each of their weapons, Bleak realised these were no ordinary women of Valia.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘In that case, I apologise for my soldier’s actions. I’ll see to his discipline personally.’

  Bleak gaped. The commander had apologised? Where was the snarling, brutish bastard who’d manhandled her earlier? His eyes did not leave Athene’s.

  ‘We appreciate that,’ said Athene. ‘Now if you’ll hand over the girl —’

  Bleak started. What? What do the Valia kindred want with me? What do any of them want from me? She tried to focus on their minds, but they, like Swinton, were unreadable. She wasn’t sure if it was panic that was blunting her abilities or something more sinister. As if in answer, her stomach churned.

  ‘That won’t be possible,’ Swinton said.

  ‘I assure you, it can be made possible in a number of ways, Commander. I hope you choose the simple option.’

  ‘Take her out, Commander,’ jeered Lennox. ‘What’s a bitch like her —’

  ‘Speak out of turn again, Lennox, and I’ll kill you myself,’ the commander cut him off.

  Athene gave the man an icy glare. ‘The girl. Now.’

  ‘She’s been summoned by the k
ing.’

  ‘How intriguing. Here I was thinking you just wanted her for sport. What does His Majesty want with a commoner?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that.’

  Athene sighed and drew her sword. ‘Then you’re merely postponing the inevitable, Commander.’

  ‘Where is your leader?’ he snapped. ‘Why is Henri not here to face us? Hiding out in the Valian keep? Protected by enchantments? Still in mourning —’

  Quiet fell.

  ‘You know that’s not my style, Swinton,’ said a soft voice. The woman at the end of their formation stepped forward, two gleaming katars at her sides. Athene bowed her head and stepped back in line. Bleak inhaled sharply between her teeth. This was Henri Valia? The famous warrior? Like her kindred, she was slender and muscular, her forest-green leathers covering nearly every inch of skin. Lined with heavy black kohl, her eyes were striking, a graphite grey with vibrant flecks of green. Waist-long blue-black hair was braided tightly down the left side of her head, framing her sharp, determined face.

  ‘We’ll take the girl and leave you be,’ she said.

  The commander shook his head and drew his axes. ‘As I said, that won’t be possible.’

  Henri unsheathed her own katars. ‘Alright, then.’

  In a blaze of anger, Swinton lunged first, his battleaxes whirling through the air. Henri sidestepped and waited for his next attack. Around them, the King’s Guard attacked the kindred in an ear-ringing clang of steel upon steel, but Bleak couldn’t tear her eyes away from Swinton and Henri. While Swinton’s face was contorted with rage, Henri was eerily calm. She hadn’t bothered to attack yet, but knocked Swinton’s blows aside with her katars, one brow raised in quiet amusement.

  ‘Enough games,’ Swinton muttered, before charging again, his well-muscled arms wielding his axes in a way that would have meant death to any other sparring partner.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost your touch, Commander.’ Henri deflected another of his strikes and let Swinton catch his breath.