Twist of the Heart

by James Val'Rose

  “How much longer are we to wait?”

  “…You need to calm yourself, Baylin.”

  “Calm myself? Calm myself? How can you say that?” His response edged him downward into the glow, causing his dull, dead eyes to illuminate.

  Baylin was a slight individual. His face was gaunt; though white and seemingly untouched by the sun, it wasn’t that … it seemed simply under-coloured and insipid, as if illness stayed with him, lived in him. His long brown hair was ruffled and matted with great clumps of grit engrained within.

  “You’ll either calm yourself or I’ll calm you,” the other man threatened, as he leant in, resting a hand on his crossbow; it was only a subtle move away.

  Unlike Baylin, this man had a much healthier complexion. He had short dark hair and no beard. A scar ran down from the centre of his forehead and just peeked over his left eye that had obviously been damaged from whatever had caused it. He had a strong jaw line and nose and gave off a scent of danger and uncertainty. Both men wore black heavy leather clothes with no truly outstanding features.

  Baylin looked up with ferocity. He clenched his teeth and grumbled, but the anger soon subsided, as he conceded against his obvious leader.

  No words crossed the lips of either. No words needed to, as both returned back to their positions.

  “So what do we do now then?” Baylin asked, obviously concerned, but obviously trying to be as calm as an ill-looking, crossbow-threatened man can.

  “We wait.”

  “What about our friend? What…”

  “Shh,” the man whispered, as he lowered his head.

  Baylin knew not to ask questions and so he kept his mouth shut.

  Even though the wind outside was still raging, a silence swept over the room. Something wasn’t right – maybe the out of place snapping of a twig or an unexpected, over-enthusiastic rustling of leaves – but both men had their hands on their respective weapons, just in case.

  Baylin had only to move his hands slowly towards his belt to which two loaded scabbards had been fastened, while the other man simply took a firmer grip of his crossbow.

  Almost ready for the inevitable, the door suddenly burst open and Baylin quickly heaved the table over towards the door, allowing some small cover against any ballistics that may have entered.

  The second the candle smashed against the floor it died and all that was left was the weak ambient light provided by the moon.

  They stayed quiet behind the table for a few moments until Baylin was given the nod. He slowly sneaked his head out from behind the table to catch a glimpse of the open door. It was clear and Baylin returned to report this.

  With a quick nod to each other they both pounced out from their hiding place, taking a foothold either side of the entrance.

  They could do no more in preparation, as they had no information on what or how many they were up against, so they both remained still.

  Moments later an arrow shot through the open door and stuck in the table with a thud! Their enemies were just trying to force them out, but neither flinched – neither one stirred.

  Minutes passed, as they both stood motionless. They could do nothing but listen to the howling outside.

  Abruptly, Baylin heard the collision of a heavy object, maybe a person – probably a person – on the other side of the wall. Then the other man also heard the same thing on his side.

  And slowly, those figures began sliding across towards the door. It was difficult to listen to, over the howl of the wind, but both men had their ears firmly pressed against the walls, the grinding and scraping of material over wood very detectable, very obvious.

  The figures outside had both stopped in very much the same lateral places. Baylin looked over to his boss who had unsheathed his heavy bastard sword and had taken note of where he last heard the position of the person outside.

  Lowering his crossbow to the ground, he took up a line facing the wall. Slowly he raised his sword high above his head and, with extreme force, thrust it straight through the eye of a panel of wood.

  A massive yelp, followed by the sound of a collapsing body, came from outside giving him the allotted time to pick up his crossbow and take aim at the door.

  A bellow then came crying out from Baylin’s side, as a character charged into view, sword in hand, about to advance through the open doorway.

  With a click, the crossbow was fired; and a thud, the arrow was shot straight into him, the momentum stopping him dead in his tracks.

  He grabbed franticly at his chest, trying to pull the arrow out, but the strength was not there to muster. Instead, he crumpled to the floor. He wasn’t dead just yet though, and Baylin dragged the mortally wounded man inside. He moaned in pain, as his dying almost-carcass was carelessly tugged back.

  “How many more are there?” Baylin questioned.

  Amidst the moaning and gargling, very little was discernible. However, the man was trying to say something. His head turned from Baylin to the other man who was by his sword.

  “You!” He took a deep breath and then coughed. “I know you.”

  “A lot of people know me.”

  “You are … Garrick.”

  “Yes.” He revelled in the fame – the infamy, as it surely was. “What of it?” Garrick continued, as he wiggled, loosened and removed his sword from the wall.

  “More will,” – he coughed, gurgled, spluttered, a bulge of clotted blood spewing from his mouth – “come and find you.”

  “I’m sure they will. And if they are as competent as you were then I doubt I will have very much to worry about.”

  His words were cold and emotionless, as he walked over to the murdered man.

  “More people will … find you.”

  “I’m sure they will. Why, I even hope they do.”

  “I … I’m not afraid of you. Y-you—” He coughed.

  Garrick knelt down, got in close and personal to the man, enough to feel his rancid breath condensing on his neck.

  “You know, for a man about to die, you’re taking it all very well. I am impressed,” he softly spoke, as he wiped the blood off his sword onto his man’s clothes.

  “I’m … I’m—”

  “Yes?” Garrick said, taking to his feet. He looked at his sword, as if to say, why did I just clean this?

  Garrick placed his foot firmly on the arrow shaft protruding from the man’s body and began to wobble. The moans the dying man tried so hard to hold back turned to wails, as he squirmed uselessly on the floor, coughing up fountains of blood beneath the foot of his torturer; his pain something he related to Hell’s fury.

  Tears began to glisten and bulge within the corner of his eyes, until gently rolling down his cheeks and then teetering, and finally dropping off the edge of his face.

  ‘Pathetic’ was the final word the dying man heard above his own yelps, as Garrick plunged his freshly cleaned sword down and through the man’s ribcage, straight into his heart.

  The door to the adjoining room creaked open.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing unexpected, I suppose. Anyway, what have you discovered, Mythos?” Garrick asked, as he glanced beyond to the next room to where a woman was sitting tied to a chair.

  Mythos and Baylin both shared similar physical attributes in accordance to their build, but Mythos was slightly taller and looked generally weaker.

  He, too, wore black, but it was not as heavy as the other two’s attire. It hung freer over his body.

  “Not as much as I would have liked. She has been very stubborn. However, I did manage to discover somethi—” He stopped, because a figure silhouetted in the doorway caught his attention, and he yelled, “Look out!”

  Garrick dived to the side as Mythos tuned his attention…

  ***

  Jerome had never been this late out, he realised, as he stood on the Melfall-Banneth Fell treeline, watching the raucous crowds pouring in and out of the Vale Inn, few of which would have been locals; most being travel
lers taking shelter for the evening before continuing on their journey either to Cearan or onto Nardil, through the Path of Mante, the only safe passage between Nardil and Melfall and onwards.

  Exhausted, hot and sweaty – but with the bag – Jerome strode onto the firm well-trodden road running through Melfall and wasted no time in dusting himself down before scampering over to his front door, which he knocked.

  Sudden, busied clattering struck up and, shortly after, the door was flung open to a very unrelenting Driana, glowering down over him.

  Jerome’s head drooped, as he shuffled his way in.

  Driana took a quick peep either side of the door to see if anyone else was present. Satisfied there was not, she shut it carefully after. Jerome had already tried sneaking upstairs to avoid his mother’s wrath, but his attempt was halted by the sound of his name bellowing towards him.

  He turned.

  “And what time do you call this?” Driana exclaimed.

  “I’m sorry, mother.”

  “Sorry! You’re sorry? People are strolling out of the tavern with who-knows-what on their minds and you’re sorry? Lucky is what I would call you. You have no idea what kind of people there are around at this time of night.”

  Jerome could do or say nothing, but even though, he beseeched a ‘sorry’, which she seemed to dismiss. No words were going to relinquish her anger. All he could do was to turn away and shuffle upstairs to bed, but not before quickly returning the medallion to her bedroom dresser, hoping she would be none the wiser.

  Later that night, tucked up in the throws of his cover, he heard footsteps approaching his room. Sleep had been out of the question, and the ruffled sheets were surely testament to it, but he didn’t want to face her right now. He felt too ashamed of himself, so he closed his eyes and tried to relax his breath, feigning sleep.

  The door slowly opened and Driana entered. Traversing his room like a mother not wanting to wake her child – nothing was quieter – she perched herself at the foot of the bed before slowly sitting, sinking the mattress a touch.

  He listened to her breath rocking the midnight air; he heard her sighs full of upset and he almost opened his eyes.

  Almost.

  He wanted to, to ease her, to tell that he was sorry, that it was he who had been wrong, that he loved her, but he kept his eyes buttoned.

  She stood up, and tiptoed back to the door, which she opened, taking as many extra seconds as she needed to make sure it opened quietly – the quietest of all kinds.

  “Good night, Jerome,” she whispered to him.

  He couldn’t help himself and, to her, he whispered back, “Good night.”

  She didn’t come back though, but her smile graced the air and Jerome felt it as a warm, soothing flow in the midnight air. The argument they had had earlier had been put to sleep, to a place where Jerome also settled.

  ***

  I am standing on the battlefield. My father is next to me. I’ve never seen him before, and even though he looks at me, and I look back, I can’t put a face to the head, yet I know that it’s him. It feels good that we are standing together, father and son.

  He draws his sword and it spurs me on to do the same. The sword feels light and easily wieldable. We run together down the battlefield…

  ***

  The high tree branches of Dewdrop Wood rippled pleasantly to the invisible breeze, making occasional openings for the sun to beam down onto her weary face.

  She blinked awake in a slow wistful mood, wishing the night were not over. But it seemed a pleasant day and so she rolled out of her blanket and got to her feet.

  After a satisfying stretch and a big yawn up to the gods, she dug out her water flask and tore off a small chunk of bread.

  An unforgiving wisp of wind gusted through the trees and hit her square in the face. Her eyes closed a fraction and she exhaled with the shock.

  She had always liked the elements’ unpredictability. There was never a correct time or place for it to show off. It just did as it pleased. Free as the wind, she wondered. Well there was the proof, she accepted, as she chomped the last mouthful and guzzled another swig.

  The weather gave another display of its might. The wind might be free, but she certainly wasn’t, and with that reminder she rolled up her blanket, placed it in her bag along with the beaker of water and slung it over her shoulder.

  She had only been walking a few hours and she was already outside of Dewdrop Wood. It was a good sign; Toryn, she hoped, would only be another half a day away.

  The sun had reached its meridian when she sighted a brook, a good place for a break, the last break, she thought, as she glimpsed at the crumbs of bread rolling around lonely in her bag and giving her water flask a shake.

  Toryn couldn’t be that far away, she thought. May even get there before sun down.

  She stopped herself from taking that thought any further. This was not the time to hope or be hopeful.

  A few clouds had begun to cross over the sun’s path, as she watched the huge shadow cover the bright grassland and leave it looking dreary and unwelcoming. The wind had also picked up and, before long, outside the warmth of the sun she was very cold. Fortunately, the clouds blew over and the wind stopped, allowing the chill she felt to quickly depart. Her final leg of the journey had begun.

  The sun had just sunk its head behind the horizon, as she saw the high walls of Toryn sticking out in the distance.

  Over the past hour the weather had got progressively worse and when she reached Toryn, the heavens had fully opened and a thunderstorm raged.

  A huge, stone wall surrounded the whole city. There were many entrances that she knew of, but the one at which she arrived was just on the edge of a small wooded area – a small woodland twinned with Dewdrop.

  Two braziers either side of the gate shone brightly and one guard stood on duty wearing full plated armour.

  She approached carefully although, because of the rushing rain, the guard didn’t notice her until the last minute.

  “Halt! Who goes there?” he bellowed, as he lowered his halberd to a menacing, head-height level.

  His brash response startled her, but she begged, “Please, let me in.”

  The guard had been caught entirely unawares. In truth, he wasn’t expecting anyone to be arriving in such conditions. He quickly recognised her to be a young girl and, although he knew it shouldn’t make a difference, he was a kind man and wasn’t going to let protocol keep her out here.

  “All right, miss,” he said, opening the gates and shuffling her into safety. “I’m putting my neck out for you, so don’t you be getting yourself into trouble now.”

  She rushed in, thanking him profusely – and promising him that she would be no trouble – and the door closed behind her.

  She may have been inside the walls of the city, but the weather wasn’t any easier to bear, as she stumbled and fumbled her way through the muddy slums.

  Shops that would normally be open and flourishing were shut and not a trace of a life was to be found anywhere. Even the rats and mice, she thought, would be tucked away in their hidey-holes.

  Hours seemed to pass as she searched high and low for a place to rest.

  All sense of time and direction was lost as she fought hard against the weather, until eventually she found herself peering over a hedge, surrounding what seemed like a regal edifice and courtyard; and what lifted the weight off her shoulders was a light, glimmering and spilling out onto the stone paving outside.

  Not another moment did she wait, as she threw herself over the hedge and scrambled across the courtyard to the heavy ornamental door, which she knocked with the remaining drops of energy she still possessed. The handle began to rattle, and as it did she sank down softy to the ground and let her eyes close.

 
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