Dark Heart

by Tina Daniell

  An explosive noise made her start, but it was only the loudest thunderclap yet. The storm was not abating.

  Back out in the corridor, she made her way slowly to Patric’s cabin, afraid of what might lurk there. Crouching, she came around the corner to see that his door was slightly ajar. With one arm extended, Kit pushed his door open, and waited for some reaction. Again, nothing.

  Crouching lower, so that she was almost on her hands and knees, Kitiara crept around and through the door, ready to spring or roll. Seeing nobody, she stood up. It was then that she noticed the outline of a body, covered with a bloody blanket, lying on the bed. Before Kitiara pulled the blanket off the head, she knew that it was Patric. He lay in a stain of blood that continued to spread from a wound in his chest. It was clear that he, like Strathcoe, had been taken by surprise and stabbed while he was sleeping.

  Her senses buzzing, Kit went to the door and surveyed the corridor again; as before, she saw and heard nothing. Closing the door, she took a good look around Patric’s room. There were no signs of a struggle, no evidence that might reveal who had slain Patric and Strathcoe.

  She could see that Patric’s immense traveling chest was still here, his pouches of belongings, everything that might tempt or lure a thief. For a moment, she sat down on the edge of Patric’s bed, dazed and confused. Why would anyone sneak in and kill these two? What possibly could be the motive, if not robbery?

  Her eyes drifted to Patric’s face, livid with death but otherwise unmarked. He had probably died without waking. She felt only the merest twinge of pity for him.

  For a moment, Kitiara thought of another young noble cut down in the prime of his manhood, several years before. She had never met Beck Gwathmey, but could he have been so very different from Patric of Gwynned?

  Decisively, she stood and looked around. Patric’s death meant that she had to leave the ship as soon as possible. After her reaction to what Lurie had told her, she would be suspected in his killing. Kit had no desire to test the limits of La Cava’s mercy.

  Quickly she rifled the pockets of Patric’s well-made clothing, finding identity papers that might be useful. These she stuffed into her blouse. Kitiara grabbed some of Patric’s clothes and wadded them into one of his medium-sized traveling bags. She tugged and tinkered with the lock of his massive chest, then tried to break it open with the handle of her knife, but it barely showed a mark from her efforts. Happily, Kit found a small bag of gems in the heel of one of Patric’s spare boots. This, too, she stuffed into the bag, which she finally tied over her shoulder.

  Dropping to her knees, Kit found Beck’s sword under the bed, wedged between a plank and the wall. She took it out, made sure it was padded with covering, and strapped it across her back.

  Last, Kit went over to where Patric was lying, removed the necklace she was still wearing, and draped it on his body. Fair’s fair, she thought to herself. And she didn’t want that reminder of him and his mother.

  Stealing out into the deserted corridor, Kitiara listened to the continuing chaos up on deck and realized that the time to act was now, when the storm was at its peak and people were distracted.

  Kit took a deep breath and climbed the stairs as inconspicuously as possible. Men were dashing back and forth, tying ropes and shouting directions at each other. The ship was lurching violently, and Kit was thrown to the deck once or twice before she gained her balance.

  Thunder crashed and lightning split the sky. The bolts illuminated, for a brief instant, La Cava at the helm. The captain screamed orders to a phalanx of his drenched crew.

  Kit was correct in guessing that nobody would notice her in the midst of such turmoil.

  Often stumbling, Kitiara made her way to the bow of the boat. The shoreline was, at most, ten miles away, and Kit thought she had a good chance of making it, even in the storm.

  A glance at the sky told her that the thunderheads were breaking up. The worst was over.

  Stripping off her boots, Kit stuck them in her pouch, then made sure that everything was tied tightly to her body. She climbed up on the railing and, without glancing backward, jumped.

  The cold, turbulent waves hit her with the force of solid stone, nearly knocking her out. But before Kit’s brain could go numb, she was already swimming, a speck in the water moving slowly but inexorably away from the ship.

  “Man overboard!” was the last thing she heard.

  Chapter 12

  WASHED ASHORE

  ———

  The storm sucked all the light and color from the sea. The waves looked black as they crashed down on Kitiara, again and again. She struggled to keep her head above water. Her arms flailed until they were numb.

  Hours passed.

  Weighted down by the sword strapped to her back, Kit could barely summon the strength to kick her legs. Her whole being felt waterlogged. Kit had swallowed so much seawater that she retched violently as the waves rolled over her, not for the first time that night.

  Luckily, Kitiara had managed to grab hold of a small wooden barrel that whirled past her in the water. Its buoyancy was the only thing keeping her afloat now—that and her determination not to let go of it.

  The storm raged much longer than Kit had guessed it would when she jumped overboard. She had long ago lost sight of the ship, but had no idea whether she was still pointed toward shore or how far away the shore was. Although the storm had subsided, the cloud-darkened sky did not offer any hint of dawn.

  Kit’s cheek rested against the barrel’s rough timber. Her tongue had swollen so that it felt twice its normal size inside a mouth that was parched of all moisture. Her lips were rimmed with salt residue. A bone-tiredness overtook her. Kit’s eyes closed. She didn’t care anymore.

  Instantly, images of Crystalmir Lake flooded her mind, its surface glittering with sunlight, waves lapping at the shore, a day peaceful and perfect.…

  A hundred stinging needles jolted her awake. Her leg screamed in pain. Something was attacking her. Kit could see little beneath the waves, but she gritted her teeth and kicked hard at whatever it was.

  Kit came in contact with something cold and slimy. Twisting around, she could barely make out a silvery-white gelatinous mass that had broken the surface.

  As she stared, the thing—two arm’s widths across and one high—drew closer. While her attention was diverted, more needles raked across her back. She kicked hard again and saw two elongated shapes, red-brown with chocolate splotches, slither away from her under the water.

  Then she realized it was a giant jellyfish accompanied by sentinel eels. Kit was on the menu for breakfast!

  She gazed in horror at the quivering jellyfish, hovering some feet away. Two milky eyeballs protruded on stalks in front of the beast. The stalks probed forward, while the bulbous body swayed in the water.

  Kit watched as the two eels cut through the water on either side of the shimmering hulk, heading straight toward her. Lurie had told Kit about these sentinel eels who often traveled with jellyfish. Their job was to herd prey into the mass of tentacles by relentlessly attacking them with their hundreds of tiny, razor-sharp teeth.

  This time the shock of their attack almost made her lose her grip on the barrel. The eels had wrapped themselves around one of her legs, pulling her down. With all her might Kit resisted, but her brain reeled from the biting pain. By the time her senses cleared, the jellyfish was upon her. It loomed over her, smothering her, sucking her toward its soft, purplish mouth.

  Kit let go of the barrel and dove under the tentacled mass, as deep as she dared. She came up, her lungs bursting, behind it.

  The two eels were still attacking her leg, but she had a moment to reach down and pry one of them off. It squirmed in her grasp, trying to fasten its rows of tiny teeth on her arm. She lifted the eel out of the water and, with all of her strength, twisted it up into a knot and tore it in two sections. The two parts writhed in the water, spewing blood.

  No sooner had Kitiara done this than the other eel detached its
elf from her leg and swam over to feed on its mate.

  She had no time to congratulate herself. The huge jellyfish was upon her again, this time wrapping its tentacles around her legs and back, shooting venom into her. Her sword was of no use; Kit couldn’t get at it in the water. And the weight of the jellyfish was pulling her under, even as it dazed her with its poison.

  One of its stalks glided before her eyes, probing her. Desperately she reached out and was able to touch one of the sea creature’s milky eyeballs. The stalk thrashed frantically. Kitiara was rocked with pain, yet she managed to close her fist around the eyeball and squeeze.

  The soft, pulpy thing exploded in her hand, sending a spray of blood and ooze through the water. In that instant, the beast wilted, its will or strength sapped. Before Kit knew what had happened, the slimy creature had withdrawn, swiftly gliding backward and vanishing underwater.

  Bits of quivering slime covered her. The pain was already receding. But Kit was quickly losing consciousness from exhaustion.

  “Curse Patric for getting his throat slashed and curse the heavens for the wretched storm!” Kitiara weakly shouted, somehow comforted by the sound of her own voice.

  Kit’s heart leaped at the thin dark line she glimpsed to the west. Land!

  The barrel floated by. Her legs pumping, Kit reached out and caught hold of the bobbing wood. She held on with what little strength she had left as the current carried her toward shore.

  Kitiara woke to a relentless thirst and the blazing midmorning sun. She was dazed and sore, but alive.

  Picking her head up off the sand, she saw that she had washed up on an isolated stretch of beach. Just as well, considering that the waves had torn at her blouse until it was now little more than scraps held together by threads. Her pants had survived the storm only somewhat better.

  Sitting up groggily, Kit took stock of her resources. Beck’s sword was still lashed to her back, luckily. But the small pouch of gems and identity papers grabbed from Patric’s cabin had been lost in the struggle at sea, as had the bag containing her boots and extra clothes. A quick inventory of her pockets turned up a few coins, nothing more.

  Kitiara poked through the debris tossed up on the beach by the storm: assorted timber, a battered ship’s lantern, pieces of frayed rope, a dead cat, a single boot, and something that looked like the chewed-up head of one of the eels that had attacked her. Nothing was of interest to Kit except for a worn leather vest. It must have belonged to a sailor not much bigger than she, and fit her fairly well. When Kit donned it and rearranged the shreds of her blouse, she looked almost presentable.

  A rumble from atop a boulder-strewn cliff made her think there was a road above the shoreline. Barefoot, she climbed the rocks.

  She was right: a road. Kit saw an open wagon approaching from one direction and flagged it down. The driver, obviously a farmer, pulled over in neighborly fashion, but he eyed her warily. She was a sight in her piecemeal garb, with the sword-shaped bundle that she carried on her back.

  Kit gave him her best crooked smile. “Shipwrecked,” she said. “I’m going wherever you’re going.”

  He hesitated before smiling. “Hop in,” he said, motioning her up on the bench seat alongside him. “You look shipwrecked all right, although I reckon it’s a more interesting tale than that.”

  She climbed in eagerly, saying nothing else to satisfy his curiosity. He seemed to take no offense, and the wagon started moving again.

  Kit noticed a water canteen on the seat next to the driver. Thirsty as she was, she could not keep her eyes off it. Without a word, the driver handed it to her.

  As she was drinking, Kit appraised her savior. A black hood pulled up over his head to protect him from the sun contributed to a sinister first impression. On closer inspection, however, Kitiara saw kindly eyes in a weather-beaten face.

  He caught her looking at him and smiled again. “Name’s Rand,” he said. “I just came from the market at Vocalion. If that’s where you’re headed, I won’t be going back for a couple days, but you’re welcome to come home with me for the time being. I’ll feed you, maybe even find some decent clothes for you. Won’t be the first almost-drowned sailor I ever rescued.”

  Rand gave her a friendly wink. “All I’ll ask is a little help around my place.”

  Kit found it hard to put on a convincing expression of joy. Working on a farm, even for one or two days, held no attraction for her. On the other hand, food and fresh clothing sure sounded good.

  “Vocalion’s only a half day’s ride,” Rand continued, unimpeded. “It’s smaller than Eastport, but it has good shops and facilities, and you should be able to find a job to tide you over. You could probably walk there in a day, if you don’t want to wait for me. On the other hand, I’m not such bad company for a few days.

  Rand kept up such a steady stream of talk that Kit didn’t have to say much in response. His virtual monologue gave the young woman a chance to think about what she would do next. Eastport was out of the question; she knew that the Silver Gar had been planning to put in there. That meant she may as well give this place—Vocalion, did he call it?—a try.

  It turned out that Rand lived by himself—a widower—on an isolated farm. “My castle,” he had proclaimed as they pulled up in front of a low-slung farmhouse built into the side of a hill. After three days there, Kit would have said it was anything but.

  Sod covered the roof, which meant that dust sifted inside constantly, especially when Rand’s goats climbed up there to do some grazing. The interior was dark, but Kit came to regard that as a half-blessing, for Rand wasn’t too tidy a housekeeper.

  Still, Rand kept a well-stocked larder. He was also generous with its contents, which included not only goat’s milk and cheese, but all variety of meat and fruit in season. In addition to raising goats, Rand brewed a tasty mead in a shed near the barn. Its local popularity meant he could always barter for something he didn’t care to raise on his own.

  “I tell you what,” he had said that first day, after watching her wolf down bread, cheese, an apple, and two helpings of cold mutton. “If you’ll stay to help me get this latest batch of mead barreled, I’ll send you on your way with a few coins. It’ll only take three days. You don’t want to go to Vocalion as a beggar.”

  Kit suspected what Rand really wanted was a listener for his chatter, but she had already made up her mind to stay there for a couple of days before heading on to Vocalion, so she agreed. She had learned to be a good listener, or at least how to appear to be a good listener, at Otik’s.

  In truth, the three days passed swiftly. Not only did Kitiara feel rested when it was time to leave, but Rand was more than generous with the handful of coins he counted over to her.

  As soon as his newest batch of mead was barreled, the farmer prepared to take it—and Kitiara—to Vocalion.

  “You’re lucky,” Rand told her over supper the night before they were to leave. “Tomorrow’s the last day of the famous Vocalion Wooden Weapons Annual. Famous in these parts anyway,” he chuckled. “Folks come from miles around to watch it and make bets.”

  “Wooden Weapons Annual?” Kit asked, amused.

  “Only wooden weapons,” said Rand, slurping some mead. “That way nobody dies. Well, hardly ever. Best man wins.”

  Kit was only half listening. What fun was a tournament without weapons? Sounded just like something dullards would think of.

  “The tournament goes on for seven days. If you win the first day, you fight two matches the second, and so on for the other six days. One defeat and you’re eliminated.” He shook his head. “By the seventh day only the best fighter is left—usually this chap by the name of Camium. On the seventh day he has to fight six more fresh challengers, one at a time, before winning the prize. But he always does. Camium’s been champion for eleven years straight.”

  “What’s his secret?” Kit asked.

  “No secret,” said Rand. “Just a ruthless cuss. Best man going on twelve years.”

 
“Why do you keep saying ‘best man’?” Kit asked with an edge of irritation.

  “Just a figure of speech,” answered Rand, oblivious to her annoyance. “Although females are barred from the competition, of course. Fortunate for them too,” he slurped some mead, “because Camium is no gentleman.”

  Kit’s interest was piqued. “What’s the prize?”

  “Oh, didn’t I mention,” added Rand, “a bag of gold, guaranteed, plus one coin out of ten from the bets.”

  “And tomorrow’s the seventh day, you say?” she asked, her eyebrows drawing together.

  “Yep. You should go. Women ain’t barred from betting.”

  It had taken them a lot longer to load the wagon than Kit had expected, for Rand was painstaking in his preparations. It was midmorning before they had departed the farm, and late afternoon before they caught sight of the town. Rand’s massive chestnut farm horse strained against the harness, pulling the wagon to the top of a crest overlooking a turquoise bay. Kit caught her breath. She knew little of this part of Krynn, but she was surprised to discover such a scenic outpost.

  Most of Vocalion’s buildings appeared to be made out a uniform white stone that reflected light. On the landward side, a wall interrupted by guard towers and gates protected the town. Several ships bobbed in the pretty harbor.

  As they drew closer, their wagon entered a line of carts and foot traffic headed toward Vocalion. Kit’s fingers drummed impatiently against the wagon seat. “Here, I’ll just jump out,” Kitiara said suddenly, gathering up a sack that held her sword, a few extra clothes Rand had given her, and some food she had packed.

  “Thanks for everything, Rand,” Kit added.

  Rand barely had time to register his surprise before she had fled down the road ahead of him. “Luck, Kitiara,” the farmer called out.

  After walking for several minutes, Kitiara entered the town proper and fell in behind two broad-shouldered fellows whom she judged to be members of the local guard because of the common insignia on their helmets and breastplates. The crowd parted somewhat for these two, and Kit was able to move swiftly in their wake.