The Bloodheart

by Steve Rzasa

  THE BLOODHEART

  Book One of the Relic Cycle

  Steve Rzasa

  ¶

  Copyright © 2017 by Steve Rzasa

  Cover design by Kirk DouPonce

  ISBN: 9781512347333

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  The First Chapter

  The Second Chapter

  The Third Chapter

  The Fourth Chapter

  The Fifth Chapter

  The Sixth Chapter

  The Seventh Chapter

  The Eight Chapter

  The Ninth Chapter

  The Tenth Chapter

  The Eleventh Chapter

  The Twelfth Chapter

  The Thirteenth Chapter

  The Fourteenth Chapter

  The Fifteenth Chapter

  The Sixteenth Chapter

  The Seventeenth Chapter

  The Eighteenth Chapter

  The Nineteenth Chapter

  The Twentieth Chapter

  The Twenty-First Chapter

  The Twenty-Second Chapter

  The Twenty-Third Chapter

  The Twenty-Fourth Chapter

  The Twenty-Fifth Chapter

  The Twenty-Sixth Chapter

  The Twenty-Seventh Chapter

  The Twenty-Eighth Chapter

  The Twenty-Ninth Chapter

  The Thirtieth Chapter

  The Thirty-First Chapter

  The Thirty-Second Chapter

  The Thirty-Third Chapter

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ~

  Many thanks to a handful of people who made this novel possible:

  My wife, Carrie, and my boys Ben and Nate for their unswerving support of my brain-draining habit of creating new worlds;

  Kirk DouPonce, for his outstanding cover;

  Kerry Nietz, for his eBook conversion and his publishing counsel;

  Nadine Brandes and Jamie Waters, for their two very different and equally important sets of advice upon reading the draft of The Bloodheart;

  Tim Joseph, for his guidance on the physics of a very large object falling into an even larger body of water and the catastrophic consequences thereof;

  Also, thanks to my friend and colleague Megan Herold, who, when I pondered where to fit a dramatic moment into the story’s beginning, said, “Why not make it the ending?”

  Good advice.

  THE FIRST CHAPTER

  ~

  Bowen

  THE FIRST RULE OF MAGIC is this: The dead cannot be returned to us. They are forever beyond our embrace, lost on a far-off horizon we can never reach.

  This I know to be true. It has been four years to the day that my beloved wife died.

  There is no man to blame. A fever took her in the dead of winter. One day we stoked the fires at our home, trudged through snow up to our knees to feed the sheep, roasted lamb on the spit as darkness fell, and made love by the last embers of the hearth.

  Not seven days later, the light went out of her eyes.

  You would not think that to be foremost on my mind as I sit before the bar at the Ragged Sails, the most desired tavern in all of Bristol-on-Sky. The crowd is boisterous and cheerful. Every other man here is a sailor on a cloud schooner from some far-flung port. The rest are dock workers in town, who have seats at the Ragged Sails so well-used their buttocks have left permanent saddles in the wood. There is so much smoke in the air I can scarce see the tankard cupped in my hands, let alone smell its contents.

  My name is Bowen Cord. Once I was a freeman landowner. Now I have only my cutter to my name, and a solid aethershard to keep her aloft. Aye, she’s a fine vessel, yet I share none of the glee of these men around me. The Festival of the Third Season holds little appeal. They boast of cargoes delivered and perils skirted, storms avoided and masters made proud.

  I have no master.

  “Did you hear what I said, Cord?” The man sitting to my left has one less eye and nine fewer teeth than I. He also has five bronze coins in his pocket that up until moments ago lived happily in mine. The man is short, balding, and smells strongly of sardines—strongly enough to penetrate the smoke. His voice cuts through the din, whining and insistent. “I tell you, corsairs sacked Applemont not four nights past. They gave no care for its people. Killed every last man, woman and child afloat. Tossed ‘em over the edge…” He shudders. “No way to die, if you ask me.

  I down ale. Foul and watered down. Had I paid for this swill? Yes, the pouch in my tunic was lighter. “What of it? They lacked in both weaponry and magic, obviously. If they fell to corsairs they were weak as this drink.”

  “That’s the rub. They were a coven of soulmages, word has it.”

  Indeed? Ale dribbles past my lips, sopping my beard and wetting the front of my tunic. It’s my favorite one of two my beloved gave me at Solstice six winters ago. A cobalt blue, now stained a darker blue in some spots. I rub at my mouth with my sleeve. “You’re certain?”

  “That I am.” He grins. What a ghastly sight.

  Soulmages. I’d not expected to hear a whole village of them wiped clean off their isle. “You say their city is ransacked? Unguarded?”

  He nods, eager as a mutt awaiting scraps from the master’s table. “The corsairs stripped all the gold, precious stones and other loot. But you know them: right dunces when it comes to anything involving magic.”

  “Yes. Yes, indeed.” Magic. My hands tighten about the tankard. Did it feel colder? I hope not. “Don’t toy with me. Are there relics there? Or is your information spotty at best?”

  “Never! I’d not cheat you. My information is always accurate.” He plays the affronted professional quite well. As a matter of fact, he would not hesitate to cheat me. He’s done it before. But this time around, it’s different.

  He doesn’t know what I hunt.

  “Applemont. I’ve never been there.” I scratch at my beard. Play the disinterested part. He’ll see that and believe I need persuading.

  “It’s three days’ flight due south.” His left hand slips into his cloak. My right hand is on the hilt of my falchion, a stout short sword suited to cleaving armor as well as flesh. His gaze follows the motion, and his eyes widen. “No need for alarm.”

  I smile. “Merely being cautious.”

  “A fine trait.” He sets a crumpled parchment on the bar. “I have a map, it so happens. Difficult to get one’s hands on a chart such as this. All the known winds and lands within four hundred miles of Bristol-on-Sky and the Soaring Green Isles.”

  “Quite useful.” Yes, how well I know this game. It’s easy enough to trade a few more pieces of silver for the chart. He’s true to his word. Applemont is off to the south, and though my charts are superior to this one, none of them have the town marked on it.

  Places not marked on any chart tend to be the most profitable. That’s all that drives me.

  I slide the silver coins under the map. “Always a pleasure.”

  “Fair skies and rising winds, Captain.” He slinks off into the crowd. The coins have vanished.

  I finish my ale. No, I cannot tell you his name, for I make it a point never to ask. That is for the best. Someday I will ask him for information, and someone will take offense to his investigations. They will slit his throat ear to ear, if he’s lucky. If he’s not, well, over the edge he goes.

  The noise of the tavern swirls about me, as fluid as the smoke from pipes. I order another drink—whiskey, to wash the filth of that ale from my mouth. My head buzzes delightfully. I’ve almost forgotten her.

  The bartender is a tall, surly reptiloid missing his right arm. His eyes are bright yellow and bulge out, thrice as big as man’s. Where skin and hair should clothe a man he has iridescent green scales and red spikes. He slides a glass of Sixty-
Six Thirty down the counter.

  “Many thanks.” I pass him coin. An expensive night, this is turning out. “What’s the word on your arm, Skaarl?”

  He massages a bump where his right shoulder ends. His voice is a low, guttural hiss of words. “Three. Weekssss. Fassster with healerssss.”

  “Ah. Have you any rubies for the healers?”

  Skaarl does his best impression of a shrug. Awkward as it is. “No. Ssssave me ssssome. Your nexxxxt ssssail.”

  We both chuckle at this. He knows I’d sooner crack my cutter’s aethershard than lend him rubies. Just as he’d never accept anything on credit from me. Skinflint.

  Skaarl bares his fangs and lurches toward the other end of the bar. The men there are loud and drunk. They simmer once Skaarl looms over them. Most patrons do.

  Not I. Few know he has a pet rabbit in his room.

  The whiskey burns my throat. Ah, that’s fine, it is. Much better than that swill the dwarves call ale. Yet it hasn’t the intended effect. My memories of my beloved are more vibrant. She’s there with me, hand caressing my knee.

  Until I blink, and she’s gone. Again.

  “You’re sitting with your back to the door.” A hand grips my shoulder. The voice is a smooth baritone with a lilt I’d recognize were I struck blind on the morrow. “And don’t bother with the blade. You’d be too slow.”

  “You could simply avoid stalking me, Niall.” A glance behind my right shoulder confirms that my first mate Niall Phelan does stand behind me. He smiles slyly, green eyes aglitter. Unlike most of the men in the tavern, his hair is a fiery red, wild and unruly. Far ruddier than my own locks, which tend toward auburn. He wears a ruddy brown cloak over a brilliant red tunic and tan trousers. None fit him well. Baggy as empty flour sacks. He props a shiny black boot up on the bar stool to my left, the one my informant emptied.

  Niall grins. His teeth are decidedly sharper than a man’s should be, or so my whiskey-addled eyes suggest. “Ah, and where would be the fun in that, now? A vulpex must keep his hunting skills sharp. Never know when the chance arises to nab prey.”

  “I’d hardly call your captain and friend prey.”

  “True.” He sits on the stool.

  “Do you bring word from the ship? Or have you come only to play nursemaid?”

  “The former. Ariya bids you good evening and says we can make sail at first light.”

  “Good evening.” I snort and down more whiskey. Ack, but it burns. “Translation: She’s madder than a wet hen that I’ve not inspected her repairs to the foremast and threatens to cast off without me.”

  “She’d make good on the threat, I’m afraid.” Niall drums his fingers on the bar.

  Skaarl is there instantly. He snarls. It is his way of politely inquiring, “And what will ye drink, fine sir?”

  Niall sniffs the air. “Red wine, please. Only a glass. Bordeaux, if you have it, and a quail for meat.”

  Skaarl shuffles off, muttering something that sounds like a mix of Reptilish and German.

  “He hates wine, you know. The smell gives him a headache.”

  “Oh, I know.” Niall winks. “And how went your evening chat?”

  I pat the crumpled chart still sitting on the bar. “You can tell Ariya we make for Applemont, at her convenience, of course.”

  “Applemont.” Niall’s eyes glitter. “So you were right.”

  “Soulmage relics, Niall. A fortune to the right buyer.” That’s all I fancy. The money to keep my cutter aloft and sailing. “We’re off on the Arch Stream as soon as the winds pick up with the sun’s rising.”

  “Fantastic! I’ll not keep you from sharing the news with our fine and fancy-free sailmistress.” A plate rattles across the bar, bare minutes from his order, halting before him—quail, dripping with grease and blood. To describe it as rare is an understatement. Niall tears off a wing and rends the meat from the bone with one yank of his teeth. “Go on now, get along home, Captain. I’ll enjoy my wine and watch your back.”

  I scowl. A foul trick. But I know as well as he does it’s for the best. Ariya is not one to trifle with when she’s in a mood. Best if I do what the crew recommends. Nosy lot.

  I polish off my drink. The room spins as I stand. Steady on. Nothing I can’t handle. Like being on the deck of the Sleet when she’s tilted athwart the winds blowing off a thunderhead, navigating a barroom whilst inebriated requires both skill and practice. I have both.

  I make it to the door without disturbing anyone else’s drink. There’s a large dog resting under a bench to one side. The men at the table pay it no heed. He is a husky, bright white and coal black.

  “Come along, Gridley.” I snap my fingers twice. “Walk me home, boy.”

  His eyes snap open. They’re blue as sky. He is on his paws instantly, and slips out from under the bench. His tail thumps against the wall.

  “There’s a good lad.” I scratch Gridley behind the ears. His tongue hangs out.

  “Ye’ve got as tame a hound as I’ve e’er seen,” says one drunk. With his eyes as crossed as they are I’m surprised he can tell a dog from the hind end of an ox. Foam sloshes from his tankard onto the floor. “What’re ye willin’ to sell him fer?”

  Gridley gives me a look. It drips disdain. Really, Bowen? This is the crowd with whom you spend your time? Men are strange creatures.

  “Good sir, he’d cost you far more silver than you could lift a city with.” I give a slight bow and sweep to the door. Laughter follows my footsteps.

  I reach for the handle. Frost crackles across the wrought iron. My hand tingles, and the fingertips glow blue like the stars in a moonless sky.

  Gridley’s mouth snaps shut. He cocks his head. His glance asks me, What was that about?

  “Sorry. Too much drink loosens the old control.” I shake my hand vigorously. The blue fades, as does the feeling of pins and needles. The frost quickly melts.

  The second rule of magic is this: Once learned, it can never be denied. It is your birthright or it is not.

  How I wish it were the latter.

  THE SECOND CHAPTER

  ~

  I almost step on the boy sitting outside the bar.

  Night has fallen. The sky above is black velvet studded with diamond stars. I could see more if not for the illumination from the tavern windows and the torches in visible in a dozen other homes.

  There is a barrel just outside the tavern door that, of course, I fail to notice until my hip connects with it. It is full of rotting food and other, unidentifiable refuse. It all stinks to high heaven.

  Gridley barks. His irritation is evident.

  “Sorry, boy. Promise I’ll watch my step from here on out.”

  He ignores my outstretched hand. Instead he rounds the barrel, tail wagging as happily as if he’s treed a squirrel.

  No squirrel. There’s a tuft of black hair, barely visible in the flicker of orange lamplight through the tavern window. I would have missed it if not for Gridley’s investigation.

  It is a boy, no older than ten or eleven. All I can see are a pair of ears, pale as cow horn, beneath the hair. The rest of his face is buried deep in the rags he wears. At one time they may have been a fine tunic that fit him well, but now they are soiled and torn and ill-patched. His arms wrap about his knees, pulling them close for warmth. I can only imagine—even with my cloak cinched tight, this autumn evening’s chill is enough to feather my breath.

  Perhaps it is the whiskey, but my heart aches for the boy. Beggars I despise. There’s plenty of work to be had without panhandling for coin, thank you very much, but to see a child in such a lonesome state…

  Gridley whines. He looks from me to the boy.

  Yes, I know, let me think. There are few options in Bristol-on-Sky. No innkeeper I know would be willing to take him in, even if I were to pay. And the Church has no orphanages here. They are not the finest places in which to spend one’s youth, but then again, no one else believes a lone, abandoned child to be worth two bits.

  There i
s a cup sitting in the dirt in front of him. It is empty, except for two pebbles.

  My pity burns to anger. Yes, that is the whiskey at play. No one has given him so much as a copper.

  Gridley gives me another of his looks. You cannot leave him out here. Show mercy.

  I tell you, I would make a better captain could I command my crew half as well as they command me. “It’s rather cold out tonight, lad.”

  He says nothing. His face remains buried in his arms.

  “There is lodging upstairs. I could have a word with the innkeeper, drop some silver into his palm…” The suggestion hangs there, unfinished and unanswered. Can he hear the half-lie in my voice? It rankles me.

  His head shakes. No, then. Gridley does not take this as a rejection. He sniffs at the boy’s hair, and licks his hands. He is a right sap for children, always has been. Not that I have room to talk.

  I like to think he would have been a fine dog to keep watch on mine own children, had my beloved and I been so blessed.

  Gridley’s ministrations yield a giggle.

  “Come now, lad, we shouldn’t tarry out of doors.” On cue, boots crunch on dirt and gravel. I hear the men before I turn to look. Four of them—stout, burly arms, filthy beards and greasy hair. Their frocks mark them as stevedores. They sneer.

  My face stays impassive. My cloak, however, shifts enough for them to behold my falchion in its scabbard on my left hip. There’s a wheellock pistol strapped to the right in its holster. Gridley knows his place well. He lopes up next to me, teeth bared, a growl rising deep in his throat.

  That is enough to dissuade any further curiosity. They amble down the street, casting dark looks back our direction.

  “You didn’t need to scare them.”

  The boy’s voice is clear and strong as diamond. He’s staring at me. His eyes are the deepest brown I have ever seen. At first I mistake him for a Nordic by his features, but the light shifts enough to reveal the narrow eyes and round face of the Asiatic. No smile, but he is rubbing Gridley’s head.

  “And why not?” I let the cloak cover my weaponry.