Black Stone Heart (The Obsidian Path Book 1)

by Michael R. Fletcher

  I hated me.

  Unsure if I was lying, I told myself the decision had not yet been made. I could still tell Henka later. Or, maybe, if I was sure she wouldn’t betray me, I could leave her in charge of my necromancer army.

  When had I started thinking of the emperor and I as separate people? Were there two distinct personalities in me, or was I simply a young, naive version of the manipulative old bastard I would become?

  I promised Shalayn she could shatter my heart if I became someone she didn’t like. She wouldn’t like the emperor. She wouldn’t like me.

  Were she not dead, would I have kept my promise?

  Were she not dead, everything would be different. I’d be different. All this was Tien’s fault. I couldn’t wait to see the look on the little wizard’s face when I found her, when I cut her down, when I took everything she had like she’d done to me.

  I hid all this from Henka. She didn’t need to know.

  Burying my anger, I forced myself to focus.

  The real question: Knowing who I had the potential to become, could I change?

  Yes, I decided. Yes, I could.

  Wanting what I once had, wanting my memories, wanting to know who I was, did not mean I had to be that person. Yes, I desired something of my old power as well. Once the wizards realized I was alive—if they didn’t already know—they would hunt me. I needed to be able to protect myself. They would not break me a second time.

  We retired to our room, me collapsing on the lumpy bed as Chalaam stood sullen guard at the door. Henka sat at my side, careful not to touch me. She chattered on about the dress she wanted to buy, how she’d need a proper seamstress to make it for her.

  I wanted to see her in it. I wanted to see her out of it, once her necromancy had repaired the damage to her body.

  When the sun sank and the town fell to silence, she touched my hand, the slightest caress, her flesh cold.

  “I won’t be long,” she said. “Get some sleep. We’ll move on first thing in the morning. I want to see the capital.” She flashed a smile of embarrassed excitement at the prospect.

  I watched her leave.

  Chalaam said nothing, stared at the door with the patience of a corpse.

  I didn’t think I could sleep with her gone, but I woke when she slipped back into our room.

  She was stunning, eyes dark and bright, just like I remembered from our first meeting. Her skin, however, was an odd patchwork of tones, some pale white, some more pink.

  Noting my attention, she said, “It will fade. A week, and I’ll be as you remember.”

  As I remember.

  Those words, and seeing her like that, shook something loose, deep inside. Though I still lacked most of my memories, she reminded me of someone. Someone I loved. Someone I lost thousands of years ago. But much as I searched through my disjointed recollections of the past, I found nothing more. Only distant longing and sadness remained of that unknown woman. And now Henka subconsciously remade herself to fit my desires.

  The past was dead. I had to focus on the moment, and on the future. If I regained my skills, my knowledge and power, surely, I would regain my immortality. Henka, too, possessed an immortality of a sort. She’d make the perfect partner, I realized. Gorgeous. Never ageing. Powerful.

  And, if I found her heart, enslaved.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It’s not just lies that fester inside you. Half-truths and omissions do the same.

  I told Henka we were going to visit Taramlae for supplies, food preserves, and a better sleeping roll to ward off the night-time chill. It was all lies. Or at least half-truths. I could have purchased what I needed at any number of the towns we passed through. I had but one reason to go to the capital: Find and kill Tien.

  Her first betrayal led to Shalayn’s death. Her second betrayal nearly cost me my life. I wanted my bloody vengeance and nothing would stop me. I’d see her dead at my feet. Until I achieved that, I could not move on, could not put Shalayn and that part of my life behind me.

  Henka never argued, never showed a hint of doubt. Dark eyes watched me with love, and she agreed to everything I suggested.

  We travelled south, stopping at small towns and villages, taking rooms in quaint inns and taverns. Each night Henka slipped away for an hour or two to work her necromancy. Each time she returned more perfect, more beautiful. She became flawless, a walking goddess. She sparked such an inferno of desire in me I had trouble concentrating. I choked it down. I would not take advantage of this young woman. I would not abuse her obvious worship of me.

  For all my plans of using her to create an enslaved necromancer army, sometimes it felt like I was the one caught in a trap. But what a beautiful trap. I didn’t even want to escape.

  We passed through the gates of Taramlae unnoticed by the Battle Mages. We were nothing, a trio of peasants with little beyond what we carried on our backs. I laughed at them, mocking the filthy wizards in silence. What use were guards who let the long dead emperor, a necromancer, and an undead rapist into the city? Demon guards would do better.

  The Dripping Bucket, I saw, was fine. Tien lied about burning it to the ground. I stifled another laugh at my own gullibility. Unwilling to waste souls, and worried what would happen if I tried to go somewhere that no longer existed, I hadn’t even tried going there. Had I, I could have caught her then. She’d already be dead. On the other hand, in spite of my promise to help Henka find her heart, I’m not sure I ever would have returned to the north. My path was a dangerous one, and with the wizards against me, the chances of death and failure were high.

  Unwilling to return to a place with so many memories of Shalayn, I found us another inn. Once again, I was the centre of attention. This was a city of hate. Anyone who noticed me glared with disgust and sneered revulsion. Henka they treated somewhat better, but she was clearly stained by her association with me. She made no mention of it, didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps, after having lived in the wilds for so long, she didn’t know what to expect of city life. Chalaam, for the most part, was ignored.

  Our funds being limited, I found us a room at a dingy inn called the Dragon’s Cave. I suspect dragon caves were likely both more inviting and more comfortable than the inn. The room was dirty and reeked of sweat and stale sex. The food was plain and boiled tasteless, the whiskey cheap and harsh. Rough and lumpy, the mattress seemed to be constructed of a bag of sharp rocks. The clientele, what little there was, stank and looked like they were succumbing to their various vices.

  I learned something then: No matter how low their station, no matter how poor, how desperate, how close to the pauper’s grave, everyone in Taramlae thought themselves above me. Even the oldest whore, taking customer after customer to scrounge enough bronze to buy himself a drink, eyed me like I was the squirming worm he found on the heel of his decrepit boot.

  The next morning, I asked Henka to take Chalaam and go shopping for food preserves. I told her I knew a place where I could purchase a decent sleeping roll. She agreed without question and led her dead slave out into the street. Without me in their company, no one would pay them any mind beyond Henka’s unearthly perfection.

  I went to the cafe where Tien liked to take her morning coffee. With any luck she’d be there and I’d kill her before she knew I’d returned. If not, I’d ask after her. Someone would tell me what I needed to know. Along the way, I purchase a large floppy sun hat and pulled it low to hide my features. It looked ridiculous, but did the trick. Leaving the millinery, I noticed I was suddenly no longer an object of hate. With the colour of my skin all but hidden, I was suddenly just a man with a poor taste in hats.

  The sky grew dark and heavy with cloud. A storm was coming. Icy winds snapped from the north, chilling me, tugging at my hat and clothes as if they sought to strip me naked, expose me for what I was.

  I hated Taramlae, hated the cold and the weather. Hated the pale-skinned people and their loathing. I wanted to bring it all down, burn it to ash.

  Checking the
long-knife, I made sure it was loose, ready.

  The building hadn’t changed since my departure. It still looked like it might fall in at any moment. After several days without rain, the steps were dry. No doubt that would soon change. The rank carpeting at the bottom, however, still squelched beneath my feet. I doubt it ever fully dried out. The same man, still looking trampled, worked behind the bar, cranking away at a hand grinder to reduce coffee beans to the grit that would soon scum someone's chipped mug. No one looked up when I entered and I saw immediately Tien was not at her usual table. Two other women, however, were. I recognized them as the two Tien had been talking with when Shalayn and I first visited the thieving wizard. They might know something.

  I heard the rumble of thunder and then the patter of rain. It grew steadily in volume.

  Head down, I weaved through the tables, unhurried. Sliding the knife free, I held it behind my back. From under the brim, I examined the two women as I approached. One was older, maybe in her thirties. The other looked to be in her early twenties. Both had the pale hair and eyes of northerners, though the younger woman’s eyes were more green than blue. She was pretty, in a freckled waifish kind of way, though she had none of Shalayn’s muscled solidity. The more mature of the two had a presence to her. She stood at the table, poised and regal, like she owned the place. The tables around them were all empty as if no one dared encroach on their space.

  What were the chances at least one of Tien’s friends was also a wizard? Quite high, I decided, studying the woman. I hated her instantly.

  “That is the silliest hat I have ever seen on a grown man,” said the older one as I arrived.

  I looked up from under the brim and she added, “Oh. You’re just a boy,” in a dismissive tone.

  Her eyes widened as she recognized me. Hand lifting, her fingers twitched, drawing invisible shapes in the air. Remembering the wizard Shalayn killed in the tower, I stabbed her in the throat, angling the long-knife upward. She gagged, spewing blood. Ripping the knife free, doing as much damage as I could, I grabbed her by the back of the head and slammed her face into the table. The table broke under the impact, as did the wizard’s regal nose, and the two crumpled to the sodden floor. The mage lay twitching and retching, clawing at the savage wound in her throat.

  I stared at her, stunned at what I’d done, horrified by the sudden brutality. It had been easy, so easy. It almost felt like someone else had done it, like I’d stepped aside while an older, more experienced man, did what needed doing.

  The other woman squeaked.

  Turning my attention on her, I said, “If you move, or try to cast a spell, or run, I’ll kill you.” I flashed her a cold grin, all teeth and rage. My god, it felt good to finally kill a wizard. “And leave your hands where I can see them.” She held one of those small chipped cups clutched in both hands like she’d been using it to warm them.

  Frozen in terror, she didn’t move. Blinking back tears, she gaped at the woman on the floor, watching the last shudders run through her as she died.

  By the time the wizard stopped moving, the cafe was empty. Happily, there were no heroes, no one rushing to this woman’s aid.

  “I have questions,” I said. “Questions you will answer.”

  Clutching the mug, tears streaming from green eyes, she whispered, “You… You killed her.”

  “She was a wizard,” I said, as if that justified my actions. “Are you?”

  She shook her head, blond hair moving about her shoulders.

  “Then perhaps I won’t have to kill you. Answer my questions, and I’ll be on my way. Stall or lie, and I gut you here and now.”

  She nodded quickly. Staring at her mug, she took a sip as if to bring some normality to the situation.

  “Tien,” I said, “the wizard you were with when I first came here.”

  She looked at me now, eyes desperate.

  “Is she still in Taramlae?”

  Apparently too scared to speak, she shook her head.

  Holding the bloody knife before her face, turning it so she could appreciate its brutal simplicity, its defining purpose, I asked, “Where did she go?”

  “South. Nachi, on the coast.”

  “Why?”

  She gaped at me, baffled. “I… I don’t know. Sometimes they go south for the winter.”

  “They?”

  “She and her sister.”

  “Is her sister a wizard?”

  She shook her head again. “No.”

  “Good.”

  She wasn’t lying, I felt sure; she was too terrified.

  I had what I needed. It was time to leave.

  Yet I hesitated. This girl could describe me in detail. To the rest of the patrons, I was probably nothing more than a silly sun hat and a knife, but she’d seen my face. She could connect me to Tien, might even have some way of warning the wizard. If Tien knew I was coming, I wouldn’t have a chance. I wondered if she really could boil a man’s blood as she so often threatened.

  I killed a Septk boy because I was unwilling to leave an enemy behind me. This young woman associated with wizards and was a friend of Tien’s. Was she my enemy?

  She watched me, tense.

  “I’m not going to kill you,” I told her.

  When she sagged with relief, eyes closing, I stabbed her. I tried to do it fast, to make it a quick and painless death. Inexperience betrayed me. Instead of stabbing her in the heart, sliding the blade neatly between ribs, the knife tore a long gash in her, skidding off bone. Screaming, she flailed at me, retreating. I followed, stabbing and slashing, wanting to tell her not to fight, that it would be quicker if she didn’t, but knowing how insane that would be.

  By the time I left the cafe I was splashed in gore and shaking at the horror of what I’d done. I butchered a woman who fought for every last second of life. Long gashes left by sharp fingernails raked my arms. My face burned where she clawed me, blood trickling down my neck. I’d lost the stupid hat in the struggle.

  Staggering up the steps, wading through the waterfall cascading down them, I stood in the icy rain, face turned up to the sky so it might cleanse me of my sins.

  Soaked through, I found a shop selling sleeping rolls and purchased one. The shop-keep looked like she wanted to spit on it, but seeing my fresh wounds, wisely decided not to.

  By the time I returned to the Dragon’s Cave I was shivering from the cold, deep bone-shaking shudders. My wounds still felt hot and raw. In our room I found Chalaam staring glumly at a wall. Henka sat on the bed waiting with that infinite patience she had.

  “You’re soaked. Oh!” Leaping up she came to my side, checking the lacerations, making sure none were serious.

  “I’m fine.”

  “These were left by fingernails,” she said, watching for my reaction, gauging.

  I forced a rueful grin. “I ran into a woman I knew last time I was here.”

  “Oh?” she asked, an eyebrow lifting.

  “She was a wizard. I killed her.”

  The tension left her and she returned to fussing over my wounds.

  Tien went to Nachi, a city on the southern coast. Did she know I was coming for her? When I found her, I’d have to kill her fast.

  “Tomorrow we leave for the coast,” I said.

  Henka nodded without looking up.

  “We’re going to Nachi. We should be able to hire a boat to take us south from there.”

  “It’ll be nice to get away from the cold,” she said.

  Her hands, I realized, were warm with life. Leaning close, she licked the blood from my arm with her hot tongue.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  After Taramlae, we followed my heart, its pull dragging me like an ocean current stealing a ship. Having come this far south, I no longer felt like I was going to freeze to death every night. Winter, however, followed close in our footsteps.

  The weather held, favouring us with blue skies and the rare cloud of brilliant white, glowing in the sun. The land changed, becoming greener, more
vibrant. Shards of memory bubbled up and I realized how much I missed the bright life of the south. Gloriously colourful birds, blue and gold and crimson, replaced the dark and drab birds of the north.

  The people changed, too. Their skin faded from the bright pink of folk who saw little sun, to the tanned brown of those who lived their lives beneath it. I still stood out, my jet-black flesh much darker than anyone else, but the further south we got, the less hostile the stares became. Not that the hate ever completely went away. We were still days from the coast, but I wanted to be there. I wanted to board a ship, feel the familiar rise and surge of the ocean beneath me. I wanted to hear the gulls and taste the salt air. Somewhere out there was an island. My island.

  PalTaq.

  It would have to wait.

  In the last day, the call of the nearest shard of my heart grew louder. We were close. Somewhere far to the south, I heard the call of another piece. A large shard, if the volume and pull was anything to judge by. It, too, would have to wait.

  Early one morning I spotted the ruins of a much larger city to the east of us. Unlike the wizard’s capital, this city had no wall. Colossal towers stabbed into the sky. Sweeping bridges, mere spiderwebs at this distance, connected them a thousand feet above the ground. From here I saw no obvious signs of damage.

  Over the next several days we moved closer, our route taking us past it. I made out more detail. While the city was overgrown, vines crawled over everything, and trees and plant-life had long erupted through the stone of the streets, it seemed otherwise untouched by the passage of time.

  “What is that place?” I asked Henka.

  “Kazamnir. A city of the old empire.”

  “Kazamnir,” I repeated. The name meant nothing, twigged no memories. “It dwarfs Taramlae.”