The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Dugal’s eyes bored into hers, unflinching. “You have already killed many in my name. You are brutal and efficient and unfeeling in your work. And that is good. But today will be different. A corpse, alarming to view at first, can become delightful to observe as a work of art. Especially when created by one’s own hand. That is what you are to learn here today. The entire extent of human anatomy. Your final test. Murder in the name of art. The mother of all beauty.” The woman trussed to the tree next to them started gasping in panic at his words.

  Dark gaze focused on Krista, Dugal continued, “Before, you were simply a killer. After today you will be a true Bloodwood assassin. You will become Crystalwood. And with your new name, you must forsake your past. Rid yourself of whatever heritage you still hold dear. There is no more room for tenderness of heart. No room for the longings of the past. No room for love. Today you will learn the full art of what we do.”

  Krista’s stomach crawled up into her throat as her master went on. “Your mother is long dead. You were raised by your father, Gault Aulbrek. You will never again let his name pass over your lips. You are now called fatherless.”

  Loneliness was growing in her breast. Bitterness too. After her father had left for war ten years ago, she had grown accustomed to her miserable, lonely life with King Aevrett and his queen, the beautiful and dignified and cruel Natalia. For five years the woman had treated her as a slave, keeping her under the wing of Aevrett’s own Knights Chivalric bodyguards at Jö Reviens, the king’s palace. And she had grown to despise Natalia for reasons she did not wish to think of now. And she had grown bitter that her father had left her for war and never returned. Left her with an evil king and his even more evil queen.

  Though she ofttimes wondered why Black Dugal trained her, ever since he had rescued her from the torment of Jö Reviens five years ago and just after her father had left for war a second time, the world had become a better place. Less sensible for sure. Less secure, yes. But better. For there was freedom in the power to kill. And cold murder was a swift cure for bitterness. And now life was soon to become infinitely more unloving and brutal and rich. And that is what she had wanted. What she had worked so hard for these last five years. This moment. This Sacrament of Souls. The completion of her training.

  Neither Seita nor Breita were around to keep her company anymore, to soothe that initial apprehension she’d felt those first few years under Dugal. She had learned much from the two Vallè named Silkwood and Rosewood. But these last few moons it had only been Black Dugal and Hans Rake for companionship, that and those few fond memories of her father she held dear, and the paling remembrances of her mother. Despite her bitterness, she wanted to cling to those things still. But her previous life with her father seemed lost in a receding haze, memories fading like a moldering echo. Gault had been the steady rock on which her childhood had been forged. That was why she both hated him and loved him now. And that was at the heart of the confusion Dugal had been trying to rid her of from the beginning. He’s always been able to sense the conflict within me.

  One scene was engraved on her memory, the one memory most fond, the one memory she knew that Dugal could not bleed from her yet—her last look at her father as he’d ridden off to war in Aeros Raijael’s army after his last visit to her five years ago. Dressed in splendorous bright armor and gleaming sword, Gault had sat high and tall atop the warhorse that bore him away from her. His last gesture had been a low, graceful bow from his saddle as he’d handed her a garland of blue Nordland roses tied about with a dark blue ribbon—a ribbon she wore around her left ankle to this day. Always hidden.

  Caring. Death. Longing for the past. Murder. All incompatible objectives. And Dugal reads me like an open book. A creeping malady gathered in her swirling thoughts. Dugal was correct. Emotions would make her weak. It was why she buried them in that bottomless part of her mind. She wanted that maleficent part of her mind that Dugal had been fostering in her to triumph in the end. She was motherless. Fatherless. She had been for a long time. Left adrift and alone in a world that did not look kindly upon abandoned children. Gault had been everything a father should be. But he was now ten years at war, five since she had last seen him—likely long dead. Yes, she was fatherless. And she didn’t care. And the taste of the Bloodwood sap was been so exquisite. . . .

  “It is as you say.” Krista met Dugal’s gaze, refusing to blink. “I am now named fatherless.” A small silver dagger, a natural extension of her hand, snapped like lightning from the folds of her leathers. She held up the blade. “I await my Sacrament of Souls.”

  The woman shackled to the tree shrieked in terror. Her cry set off a chain reaction of horrified screams from the other prisoners, which resounded in the distance. But Krista did not flinch. She met Dugal, eye to eye. Then her master whirled soundlessly and took his leave, disappearing into the maze of trees from whence he’d come, his red-eyed stallion, Malice, waiting in the gloom.

  †  †  †  †  †

  Krista faced the woman, tilted her head, taking the captive’s measure. The prisoner’s lungs began to heave. Tears welled like fire behind her eyes as she pleaded, “Please, miss, let me go. I know I’ve wr-wronged the throne of Raijael. I know my crimes. But I—I don’t belong here. I’m not like the rest. I swear it. I was only in the dungeons of Rokenwalder for a day when they took me. You must have mercy.”

  “Ah,” a voice sounded behind Krista. “A mercy I hadn’t gotten here sooner.”

  In one fluid motion Krista whirled, silver dirk at the guard, ready. It was Hans Rake. He sat royal and tall astride his Bloodeye stallion, Kill. Cursing herself for not paying better attention to her surroundings, Krista looked at him blankly, blade still gripped in her hand.

  “Well, Krista, have you a new name?” Hans’ voice carried a throaty, indignant lilt. He wore the same black leather greaves and armor as she, marking him as one of Black Dugal’s Caste. Along with the twin daggers at his belt, a crossbow and quiver of arrows were strapped to his back in plain view. Hans Rake had a slightly hooked nose, squared jaw, and a face that continually bore a peevish, conceited expression. But it was a face graced with solid cheekbones and fiery green eyes—confident, cunning, brooding, mischievous eyes. And like Dugal’s, they were faintly streaked with red. His hair was shaved far above his ears on both sides of his head, blue Suk Skard clan tattoos covering either side of his scalp. The strip of dirty-blond hair atop his skull was a two-inch-high row of carefully formed spikes from his forehead to the nape of his neck.

  Both Krista and Hans were seventeen; both had spent the last five years under Black Dugal’s tutelage, killing in his name. But three days ago they had been set to the final game, their very last test to become full Bloodwoods, their final pilgrimage to this, their Sacrament of Souls. It had started in Rokenwalder, with a slew of clues and puzzles that had led them here. Hans now knew well that she was finally in favor with their master. She could tell her arriving here first bothered him greatly. For Hans Rake always quailed to please Black Dugal more than she.

  “So, have you a new name, my love?” he asked again.

  She had reached the Sacrament of Souls first. Her reward was her new name. Crystalwood. A name she could not divulge unto Hans until he too had a new name. But when would Dugal give him that name?

  “I am not your love.” Krista continued her blank stare.

  “You can only keep your name from me for so long.” Hans now held his head high and regal, as if he were looking down his nose at her. An aura of dominance and strength suffused him. “Or has our master finally taken you into his secret councils?” He smiled a mischievous smile. “Do you share secrets with him?”

  Krista felt her entire body grow rigid. She didn’t want to be goaded by his haughty innuendos now. With Hans, it was always there, that hint of flirtation, constant insinuation, always directed at her, and always with a certain cruel, yet mannered charm. It was all in his game. She remained silent under his intimate gaze.


  Hans looked past her to the woman chained to the tree. “Or perhaps this dead dungeon slut keeps counsel with our beloved Black Dugal. Or perhaps she has been given a new name too.” He dismounted his Bloodeye steed, drifted toward the captive. “What is your name, woman?”

  The captive said nothing, frozen in fear.

  “Yes, this one will be mine.” Hans’ fingers coiled through her natty hair. “Naught but a pile of shivering, blubbering meat meant for my blades.” He glanced Krista’s way, saw the dagger still in her grip. “A new name you may have, but still you carry the same silver as I.”

  Krista remained silent, calm. Hans turned back to the captive, and his expression relaxed into wistfulness. “See, m’lady prisoner, we don’t get to fashion our own Bloodwood daggers until after completing our Sacrament of Souls. We must gather the red sap of these trees . . . and then gather your blood.” He trailed off, traced steady fingers over the woman’s neck, digging his fingernails in. Blood trickled down her pale skin as she whimpered in pain. Behind Krista, Kill whinnied in approval.

  “A silver blade is never thirsty.” Hans continued his seemingly idle regard. “But give me a black one of my own making . . .”

  The captive screamed as her eyes bounced between Krista and Hans and out into the vast, wretched forest as if searching for escape or rescue. Hans frowned his displeasure. “All the wailings and protests in the Five Isles will not save you. The locals dare not venture here. They claim this forest is haunted.” His eyes roamed the trees in lazy regard. “Oh, and I would say this place is most haunted, and about to become more so. These trees drink the blood of the dead. The blood of you prisoners nourishes the soil. I imagine our Sacrament of Souls sustains this forest. Am I being deliberate enough, making clear our aim?”

  “Please, no.” The woman gave one last primal plea, eyes bouncing again from Hans to Krista and back to Hans. “Have mercy, both of you, please.”

  Though Hans Rake ofttimes liked to act the part, Krista knew he was no brutish, slit-eyed thug from the gutters of Rokenwalder. He was slick and smooth and aware and lucid at all times. But he carried in him some monstrous feral need for butchery and violence that could manifest itself in spectacular wicked fashion. She, too, felt those same longings for chaos and violence. It was the one way in which they were shockingly similar. They had killed together before. This was their Sacrament of Souls. And together they would kill everyone here.

  Hans’ flat eyes appraised the woman as he touched her face lovingly, his thumbs sliding up under her ears, caressing the hinge of her jaw. He dug in swiftly and jerked out violently, dislocating her jaw. Her eyes widened in both surprise and pain. Her screams turned to muffled gurgles as Hans took his dagger to her windpipe.

  And with that, Krista found herself wondering what her father would think of all this: the Bloodwood training, all the killing she had done in Black Dugal’s name, this Sacrament of Souls. What would Gault Aulbrek think of her life as an assassin these last five years? He had been so serious about perfecting his own sword craft, so earnest in his study of war, so beholden to his Lord Aeros. She had admired that devotion in him. And as she watched Hans carve into the woman, she indeed wondered what her father would say to her now.

  After a time, Krista turned away from Hans Rake and his bloody labors. Let him have the first victim. What did she care? She preferred to work alone. And there were a hundred other prisoners awaiting. Sheathing her dagger, taking Dread again by the bit, she stepped lightly, the soil at her feet a sponge of thick grasses and black flowers. She passed Hans and his desolate victim on her way toward the center of the lush woods and the rest of the quivering captives—canvasses for her art, her final Bloodwood test.

  Before she disappeared into the black forest of prisoners, Krista saw Hans look up from his work and throw her a coy, curling little smile. Red butterflies still danced in the air, and somewhere in the distance came the lone shriek of a crow. Krista Aulbrek would walk among the dead soon—the dead of her own creation.

  And with her new name—Crystalwood.

  * * *

  Treachery and betrayal endures. If a warrior turns against Raijael, seize him and slay him by the sword and bury him wherever you find him. And if that betrayer is a woman, burn her slow and leave her unburied, for ’tis only by the grace of Raijael she has even been gifted a weapon.

  —THE CHIVALRIC ILLUMINATIONS OF RAIJAEL

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWO

  GAULT AULBREK

  6TH DAY OF THE ETHIC MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  OUTSIDE LOKKENFELL, GUL KANA

  The dewy morning landscape was woolen with haze and fog. The old wooden cart and its load of three prisoners trundled along the rutted path, two stout muddy oxen at the head. Feathery green tussocks and peaty soil lined the roadway. A contingent of Lord’s Point Ocean Guard, mounted and draped in blue livery, accompanied the cart on all sides, the steel-shod hooves of their heavy steeds drumming against the boggy ground. The Dayknight, Leif Chaparral, led them. Several dozen squires trailed the entire procession.

  Gault Aulbrek sat against the sidewall of the cart, hands cuffed before him, legs shackled to the floorboards beneath. Hard-bitten veteran though he was, Gault still battled the pain of having been betrayed by his Lord Aeros. Thoughts and feelings he’d never dared feel now floated freely through him.

  He would likely never see his beloved mount, Spirit, again. The rare stallion would be bequeathed to Aeros’ next Knight Archaic. As would his sword.

  And what will happen to Ava Shay? He thought of his stepdaughter Krista, too. Could he save her from whatever evil fate the Angel Prince had set for her?

  Aeros had planned it all so well. Everything now wrong in his life began and ended with Aeros Raijael. In the beginning, war at the side of the Angel Prince had been exciting, filled with hate for the enemy, a noble crusade to reclaim lands once belonging to the realm of his birth. Each new skirmish had come complete with a new thrill, a new heroic tale. Ten years crusading, and in that time Gault had watched men hack away at one another with ax and sword, slugging it out in both dust and muck as they trampled their own guts, spat out their own teeth, bloodlust sparking in their eyes, their noble deeds recorded in The Chivalric Illuminations. He himself had slain so many of the enemy he couldn’t even count. Hundreds. No. Thousands! All glory and majesty.

  But how he’d just wanted it all to end.

  In fact, if he were to be honest with himself, the last year or two around Aeros Raijael he had been anxious, afraid. He had lived with a fear that manifested itself in extreme paranoia. He had lost sight of the difference between being brave, angry, or just plain scared. And it was all connected to Aeros.

  He recalled his moment with Ava Shay, embracing, kissing. Had Aeros seen? Another truth—they had wanted to get caught. It was because of moments like those that the Illuminations constantly encouraged ridding oneself of all tenderness and feeling.

  And look where a moment of caring landed me. . . .

  Fatigue ate at his bones. It didn’t help that the cart jostled and bounced, as it had for days now. Since Ravenker there’d been scant food and water. The scent of blossoming blueberries that occasionally lined their path drove Gault mad with hunger. He’d spent most of the ride lulled to sleep by the rattle and rhythm of the oxcart, inhaling the mixture of sweaty horses and moist peat. He fought to stay awake now.

  With heavy-lidded eyes, he gazed at his two fellow prisoners: the Betrayer of Sør Sevier, Hawkwood, and the Princess of Amadon, Jondralyn Bronachell. Auspicious company if ever there was. The princess, still in full Amadon Silver Guard armor, lay on her back in the center of the cart, legs tied down, arms folded over her silver breastplate, wrists cuffed with heavy irons. Not that she was in any shape to go anywhere. Gault had seen to that in Ravenker. Some five days ago the woman had foolishly challenged him to a duel. His first blow could have severed her spine. His second could have split her head.

  She only lived because he had purpos
ely pulled both blows.

  He could see the gentle rising of her chest. Slow breaths now, ofttimes labored. For the bulk of the journey, Jondralyn’s deep wheezing had been an unsettling counterpoint to the grind and rattle of the cart and the clomp, clomp, clomp of oxen hooves. In her few waking moments, she’d moaned in pain, falling back into unconsciousness almost immediately. Thick gobs of congealed blood matted her hair. The scarlet stain under her head had mostly soaked into the wood of the cart. The surrounding fog robbed her skin of all color. Dull light bled across the ragged wounds of her broken face—a once beautiful face that now bore a swollen raw gash from her forehead just above her right eye down to the left side of her chin. The wound was shockingly infected. And she would likely lose the right eye. If she lived.

  Hawkwood had tried his best to stitch the wound closed, using thread pulled from his tunic and a sliver of wood peeled back from the floor of the cart as a needle—a nearly impossible task, trussed up and injured as he was. The makeshift surgery was shoddy. Raw muscle and fat still bubbled from the damaged skin. The bones of her nasal cavity near her eye were still exposed, white and jagged.

  The Jondralyn Bronachell in the bottom of the oxcart bore scant resemblance to the striking image on the Gul Kana coin Enna Spades had kept.

  As for Hawkwood, he looked about as miserable as Gault felt. The former Bloodwood listed awkward and lethargic against the opposite wall of the cart. He had also spent most of the journey racked with labored breathing. Wounds crisscrossed his forearms and neck. His leather armor was shredded. Gault figured whatever blade had caused the great number of cuts on the man had likely been poisoned. In Ravenker, Gault had watched from a distance when Leif Chaparral and Culpa Barra had found Hawkwood with Aeros’ sword, Sky Reaver. Which meant Hawkwood had come across Spiderwood in Ravenker. The injuries he now suffered were likely the work of his brother.