Heart of Shadows

by Martin Ash

  Still unable to stand, she propelled herself back on elbows and heels until she was protected among rocks. The thunder of the horses’ hooves diminished, partly because most had now passed but due also to her having identified the sound and so reduced its impact. In a moment’s impulse she tried to climb to her feet, thinking to rush out and leap onto the back of one and ride free of the battle-ridden camp. But her legs buckled, and reason told her that even if they had supported her she could not have ridden bareback. So she lay where she was, gingerly flexing fingers and toes, testing joints, finding to her relief that no bones were broken.

  It was plain she could not remain where she was. Most of the sounds of battle now came from her rear, but she was not yet clear. She rose, slowly and unsteadily, and looked about her. The horses had gone. The dim moonlight showed a flat area before her, and beyond that, perhaps twenty-five paces off, the dark humps of boulders. She stepped out cautiously, and with pains shooting through her ribs and shoulder, made for the cover they offered.

  Somewhere just off to her right men were locked in combat. Their grunts and laboured breathing, the clash of their blades, were close in her ears. She caught a glimpse of moonlight on a lofted blade. They were nearer than she had thought but were so intent upon their grim task that she was able to slip past, unnoticed. She reached the rocks and clung to one, panting, almost losing consciousness again.

  Rough wasteland extended beyond. Meglan thought to find a sheltered spot some way further out, and hide up there till morning, which was not so far off. Already, faint rumours of dawn could be detected low in the eastern sky. By sunrise, she hoped, the battle would be over, the brigands repulsed.

  She limped around the rocks and headed for the black scar of a ravine. But as she stepped out a figure came suddenly from one side and made to grab at her. She stumbled back, swiping wildly with her sabre. She was grabbed roughly from behind. A hand seized her sabre-arm and the first figure took her wrist and forcefully wrenched the sabre from her grip.

  She was thrown to the floor, crying out in pain. The two bandits laughed. One leapt on her, pinning her to the earth. He brought her arms up above her head, gripping both wrists with one strong hand. With the other he began to rip at her clothing.

  She kicked and struggled but the second man grabbed her ankles.

  ‘Cease!’ snarled the man who held her down. She ignored him, resisting as forcefully as she could. He drew back a fist. ‘Cease!’

  Meglan managed to bring up a knee, catching him on the side of the head. But it was a glancing blow. His lips curled and he raised his fist higher.

  She closed her eyes, tensing for the blow. She heard a grunt, and suddenly the pressure on her wrists and ankles was gone. She opened her eyes in time to see the first bandit being hauled bodily backwards, into the air, and thrust aside to land hard on his rump in the dust.

  Another man stood over her, this one massive, barrel-chested. He swung one arm in a wide arc, warding off the two brigands. ‘Back, maggots! Who do you serve? All prizes go first to me!’

  ‘We were bringing her to you, but she fights like a wildcat!’

  ‘Bah! Are you bested by a girl? Begone, you infested toad droppings! Leave us!’

  The two men made off, and the big man bent and slipped a massive arm under her armpit, hauled her to standing. She stared up into one of the most hideous faces she had ever seen.

  Fagmar the Angelic was a freak, a monstrosity. Even in the concealing dark the sight of his face made Meglan shrink. A powerful hand seemed to have taken the lower half of the face and wrenched it forcefully up and to the left so that the mouth appeared as a slanting, malformed gash high on the left cheek. The jaw was twisted askew, the chin bulging like a carbuncle at an angle beneath the cheek. The whole face was a mass of lumps and boils, raspberry red, weeping, smothering the flesh, even the lips and eyelids. Tiny eyes were part-obscured between bloated lids. The nose, its flesh cracked and fissured, bent to the side midway down, its bulbous tip almost merging onto the mouth. A shock of dark grey, matted hair fell unkempt below his massive shoulders. He stank of stale sweat, pork and piss.

  He raised a hand that could have effortlessly snapped her neck, and tipped her chin upwards, then to one side, then the other, peering close. ‘A prize,’ he murmured, his voice skewed by his disfigurement. ‘Indeed, a prize.’

  He pushed her down so that she fell on her back again, then knelt beside her. ‘Don’t struggle or I’ll kill you. Alive or not, it makes little difference to me. I prefer them live, but the dead, if still warm, are almost as good.’

  Meglan’s fingers closed around a loose rock. She brought it up hard to smash into the side of Fagmar’s massive head, but he blocked it easily with one arm. He squeezed her fingers around the rock until she cried out in pain, then took the rock from her and tossed it away.

  ‘Alive or dead,’ he hissed. ‘No more warnings.’

  Another voice spoke. ‘The malkin’s mine.’

  Fagmar the Angelic shifted his bulk around. Meglan saw a shadowy figure to his rear. She could not make it out, but she knew the voice.

  ‘Master!’ Clambering from Meglan, Fagmar knelt on the ground and abased himself. ‘If she is yours, by all means… She’s untouched. I didn’t know.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’ Skalatin came forward. ‘Stand, pret-ty Meg-lan. Are you harmed?’

  Meglan climbed stiffly to her feet, a sense of all-pervading hopelessness descending. From one horror to another. What could be next? She shook her head. Skalatin turned to Fagmar who, having risen, was a giant beside him. ‘It is well, then.’

  Other figures were gathering in the half-light. Bandits, some bloodied, returning from the fray.

  ‘How went the battle,’ Fagmar demanded of one of them.

  ‘The soldiers fought fiercely, but we have weakened them. We lost up to eight of ours, though.’

  ‘Master, we should leave,’ said Fagmar. At his words the other bandits, recognizing Skalatin, stepped back with respectful, fearful, bows and murmurs.

  Skalatin nodded. ‘There’s a horse for the love-ly chi-ld?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Skalatin took Meglan’s arm. ‘Come, pret-ty.’

  ‘What do you want with me, Skalatin?’ demanded Meglan. Her voice shook. Her spirit was fleeing her. She fought back bitter tears. ‘Why not kill me now and have done?’

  ‘Kill you? Beau-tiful Meg-lan, why would I do that? No, I don’t want your death. Not yet. That would bring nothing of value. You must take me to my Heart, you seen. And then, when that’s done, when I’m whole again, you shall be honoured.’

  ‘Honoured?’

  ‘Oh yes, pret-ty, pret-ty. Sko-ulatun has chosen you, don’t you know? You’re to give me my children.’

  ~

  By the time the sun was up they had put a good distance between themselves and the shattered Darch camp. From listening to talk between the brigands Meglan learned that the soldiers had been taken almost completely by surprise, not only by the attack but by the number of men Fagmar had at his command. Plainly, in recent weeks, he had recruited new followers: thieves, criminals, vagrants and vagabonds from the surround regions and beyond – the ne’er-do-wells of Tulmua, Darch and further lands, drawn by his notoriety and the allure of good pickings. Even now, taking into account the night’s losses, his band numbered scarcely fewer than fifty. Many of them rode the mounts they had freed from the Darch.

  Meglan rode in a state of near-numbness, barely capable of even reflecting upon her wretchedness. She was at the centre of Fagmar’s gang of foul-mouthed, foul-smelling dregs. She kept her gaze averted so as not to see how they eyed her, how they leered and winked and made lewd motions with lips and tongues. Fagmar, a misformed hulk on a great grey stallion, rode at the head. And in the wilderness to one side, glimpsed from time to time, Skalatin sped, glancing her way with lolling tongue, clad in the grotesque flesh of his creature form.

  Through her apathy her ire rose hotly as she confronted the
brutal irony of her situation: Skalatin her protector, keeping her from the attentions of this company of pariahs. She shut from her mind the image he had etched for her, of his reasons for protecting her.

  She could imagine no escape, but she reminded herself that she lived, that Skalatin wanted her to live, at least for now. And there, surely, hope must lie. And the journey she now had no choice but to make, in the midst of these grotesques, was still the journey that, albeit coerced by circumstances, she had earlier embarked on of her own accord. Her goal had not changed.

  In the pre-dawn dimness at the edge of the battlefield, Skalatin had asked her where she was bound. Did he mock her? She half-suspected that he knew, that he toyed with her, but she answered with half-truths, praying that in keeping something back she might be preserving hope for Sildemund, for her father, for herself and all others who had found themselves involved in this dreadful mystery. She endeavoured not to think of what the ultimate consequences of Skalatin’s regaining the Heartstone might be, for she sensed more than ever that his possession of the stone could bring nothing that was good.

  ‘The Heart has been taken north,’ she had said. ‘That’s where I’m going.’

  Skalatin had nodded. ‘Where north?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps Tulmua.’

  Was there a swiftly concealed glimmer of satisfaction in his eye? He asked her nothing more. ‘Let me escort you safely there, then,’ he said.

  Now, as she rode, a wild thought came to Meglan. She recalled that, two days earlier, while still on the Serpentine Path on her way to Dharsoul, she had crossed a road. It had run in a north-south course. It could only be this road.

  Was this her salvation?

  She kept her eye on the serpent talisman at her wrist. It swayed restlessly, pointing in no single direction. But if she crossed the Path it would swing, as it had before, to point along it. And she would become invisible to anybody not also on the Path!

  Meglan began cautiously to slow her horse, intending to drop to the back in the brigand pack. Immediately she was jostled by those behind. One of Fagmar’s lieutenants leaned over and slapped the roan hard on the rump, growling at Meglan, ‘Keep up! Don’t lag!’

  Downcast again, she watched the talisman. It continued to swing as before. She wondered whether they had already crossed the Serpentine Path and were well beyond it, without her having been aware. They continued for an age, and then, just as she had persuaded herself that the Path must lie somewhere far behind them, the talisman swung so that its silver-white head was aimed determinedly to her right. For five of the roan’s paces… six… seven… eight… then it resumed its erratic sway.

  She glanced nervously at the men surrounding her, but none paid her any more attention than before. They had noticed nothing.

  Meglan swivelled in her saddle and looked back, for now that she had travelled beyond the Serpentine Path those still crossing it should briefly become invisible to her eyes. But none did. Perplexed and frustrated, she ripped the talisman from her wrist and would have thrown it away, but something stopped her. She thought again. At this point, where it crossed a road used regularly by travellers, was it not reasonable to expect that the Serpentine Path would have some form of protection to avoid detection by any passing over it?

  With this in mind she slipped the talisman into the pocket of her tunic.

  ~

  The road was deserted all the way to the border. After a few hours of rest they arrived the next day within sight of the Darch checkpoint. Fagmar took his men off the road and conferred with Skalatin and a couple of his lieutenants.

  The checkpoint consisted of no more than a handful of wooden buildings and a watchtower, protected by a timber palisade. Fifteen bored soldiers made up its garrison, with a few more administrative staff. With the exception of the Darch royal party nothing had passed through for several days.

  With no further delay, the bandits attacked. Meglan, guarded by three of Fagmar’s thugs, watched from a distance as the Darch soldiers were quickly overwhelmed and the buildings torched. She was then brought up. Bodies lay strewn across the ruined checkpoint, for no one had been spared. Fagmar sent a couple of men to reconnoitre the Tulmu post, half a mile or so along the road. They returned within the hour to report that the post was manned by twenty or so border guards. Merchant wagons were there, some with guards, held up by the usual restrictions. None were heading this way. Any intending to enter Darch were travelling further west to cross onto the safer Volm Road. Fagmar’s scouts perceived no great difficulty in overpowering this checkpoint too, with a little trickery, and it was obvious the pickings there would be quite considerable.

  Fagmar hid ten armed men in a covered wagon. Skalatin, expressing a desire for some sport, joined them, and the wagon was sent forward. Once inside the compound the bandits, aided by Skalatin, came from hiding and swiftly secured the main building and gate. As they fought off the Tulmu guards, the remainder of Fagmar’s force charged in on horseback.

  The Tulmu offered stiffer resistance than had the Darch, and were augmented to some degree by the guards of the independent merchants waiting there. But the merchants were more interested in preserving their own hides, and seeing the way things were going they chose to flee, along with their escorts. They were not pursued. The border post fell, and a number of wagons were taken by Fagmar. Survivors’ throats were slit and the brigands made ready to move on.

  Through the smoke of the burning buildings Skalatin loped up beside Meglan. He was eating something. Gobbets of flesh hung from his jaw. The sallow meat of his face and gums was wet with blood. Meglan turned her face away.

  ‘Now, pret-ty, there are three roads. West towards the land of Thonce, northwards into central Tulmua, and, a little way along, a smaller road that leads into the wild hills and eventually the mysterious hill town of Garsh. Which should we take?’

  There was no doubting that he knew.

  ‘Garsh,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘Yes.’ He sucked the blood from his lips.

  The brigands sang as they rode, elated by their plunder. Somewhere ahead of them the lonely town of Garsh lay under siege. Tulmu and Darch troops waited outside its walls. The beleaguered Revenants of Claine had briefly opened the town’s gate to the royalty of both nations, and the fated stone, the Heart of Shadows, had been taken inside.

  XXV

  Some miles from Garsh, Fagmar the Angelic took his cutthroat band off the trail and into the hills. They climbed and looped, following no discernible path, but utilising what sparse natural cover existed. It was obvious that Fagmar knew every last feature of this land.

  An hour later, from a rocky, wind-scuffed hilltop, Meglan had her first sight of the town, picturesque beneath a wide, hazy blue sky, and of the troops marshalled before it. Her heart swelled. Somewhere there was Sildemund, and somewhere the fateful Heartstone that had brought them both so far, through so much, that had riven their lives, transforming them from the innocents they had been. Uppermost through the welter of her emotion came a sharp pang of regret. It was true: the girl she had been was left forever somewhere far behind. Whatever might happen now, she would never know that person again.

  Skalatin crouched beside her, directing her gaze to the fluttering tents of the Tulmu force, and those of the smaller Darch encampment further back. ‘Where is my Heart, Meg-lan? There, or in the town?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Truly I don’t.’

  ‘Then we must discover.’

  He took her hand – she recoiled. His was hard, dry and scaly, almost fleshless, and cold, so cold. He walked with her into the lee of the slope to where the huge figure of Fagmar conferred with his henchmen. Seeing Skalatin, Fagmar bowed as low as his over-sized bulk would allow. ‘Master.’

  ‘We require a little assistance,’ said Skalatin. ‘It might be useful to question someone – a soldier, perhaps. Will you arrange this for me?’

  ‘Of course, Master. Do you prefer a Tulmu or a Darch, or pe
rhaps one of each?’

  ‘For the present, a Darch will suffice, I think.’

  Fagmar barked gruff orders. Four men set off apace down the slope. Skalatin took Meglan along a rough track to a gulch, the walls of which were pocked with caves. They entered one. Inside, a fire burned. One of Fagmar’s men tended a pot on which some unidentifiable lumps of dark flesh floated in an oily liquid. Steam rose from the simmering mess, permeating the cavern with an unpleasing smell. At the sight of Skalatin, the bandit fell to his hands and knees.

  ‘Be-gone,’ said Skalatin. The bandit hurriedly took the pot from the flame and placed it on the ground close by, then scurried from the cave.

  ‘Sit, Meg-lan.’

  She did so, and he took a position opposite her and regarded her over the low flames. He said no word but his gaze was unflinching and, beneath his cowl, a morbid remnant of a smile stayed fixed upon his face.

  For long minutes the silence persisted. Meglan grew uncomfortable. Skalatin did not move so much as a hair. All she could hear was his breathing, mingling with chilling intimacy with the sound of her own. The pressure built, until she felt she would scream. She realized he was playing with her, and eventually, to break the silence rather than for want of his conversation, she said, ‘Who is your client, Skalatin?’

  ‘My client?’ His ghastly smile broadened. ‘Ah yes. Have you not guessed?’

  ‘My guess is that you represent no one else. You operate alone.’

  ‘You are wrong.’

  ‘Then who, or what, is it? Who do you seek the Heartstone for?’

  ‘I thought you would have understood by now, Meg-lan. I seek it for he who I once was.’

  Her brow puckered. ‘What does that mean?’

  Skalatin chuckled, a low, bestial sound. ‘Ahh, yes. When I have my Heart I will be whole again. I will be what I was before, when all men worshipped me.’