The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  But had the Hawk killed the Spider and taken the sword? That was the question. Hawkwood had admitted to nothing. And Leif now carried Sky Reaver

  “Both awake, I see.” Leif Chaparral slowed his mount, a lightly armored palfrey. He rode alongside the cart, gazing down at Hawkwood. “Looks as if I have the honor of informing you poor sods we’re almost to the King’s Highway. Then it’s on to Amadon, where, I fear, a terrible fate awaits you both.”

  Gault fought his way out of the morose stupor, groping for any coherency of thought. He focused on the Dayknight, tried to concentrate.

  Dark hair hung down over Leif’s shoulders, framing a squared jaw under high cheekbones. His blue eyes were rimmed in black ink. High on his horse, in formidable black-lacquered armor, huge black sword dangling at his side, Leif could be a daunting sight for those who didn’t know what to look for in a fighter. But off his horse, the Dayknight had a noticeable limp. And there was an obvious undercurrent of uncertainty in his every word and gesture.

  A leather satchel was secured to Leif’s saddle. Spiderwood’s payoff in gold? Four swords were secured to the saddle behind him: two curved blades with spiked hilts that were once Hawkwood’s, the sword Gault had wielded against Jondralyn in Ravenker, and the longsword with the elegant white sheath—Aeros Raijael’s blade.

  “Neither of you have a thing to say?” Leif asked.

  Hawkwood’s voice was husky and strained with emotion. “I suffer this captivity only for the sake of seeing Jondralyn safely to Amadon. But make no mistake, Leif Chaparral, when I do free myself, you will die.”

  “You will never again be free.” The Dayknight’s eyes were alight with amusement. “Grand speech, though I imagine Ser Gault enjoyed it, sitting there so stoic and grim all the time. Must be hard for Gault, this journey, what with the king of Gul Kana’s sister all sliced up between you two, him the culprit who done it. ’Tis such misadventure for the whole cartload.”

  Hawkwood’s eyes strayed to Gault, narrowed briefly, then he looked down at Jondralyn.

  “Don’t take my words amiss,” Leif continued. “ ’Twas Gault who cleaved her face in twain. I only speak the truth.”

  “Truth?” Hawkwood muttered. “I doubt you know the meaning of the word.”

  “For my part,” Leif went on, “I think it would be amusing sport if you and Gault just fought it out here in the oxcart. ’Course, if you killed him, it would deprive Jovan and me the pleasures of doing unto Gault what Gault and his fellow knights did unto Baron Jubal Bruk.” Leif’s laugh was mirthless. “You do know what Aeros Raijael’s army did to the poor baron, right? Sawed every limb from his body. “What do you think of that, Hawkwood?”

  Despite whatever injuries Hawkwood still suffered, or whatever poison was still working in him, he flayed Leif with his cool, unforgiving gaze, saying nothing.

  Leif drawled on. “I reckon you and Ser Gault can just languish here in your own individual pathetic miseries.”

  “Was you who betrayed your own princess,” Gault rasped, feeling his voice crackle to life of its own volition. “It is you who’s to blame for Jondralyn’s injuries.”

  “How do you figure, Ser Gault?”

  “You pompous fool,” Gault growled. “If Hawkwood or I don’t kill you, rest assured, that rotten Bloodwood you sold your soul to eventually will.”

  “Gault is right,” Hawkwood said. “This is all your doing, Leif. That I know.”

  “This is nothing Jondralyn didn’t do to herself,” Leif said, laughing again. “She did it with your help, no less. Wasn’t it you who trained her in swordplay, Hawkwood?”

  The former Bloodwood did not answer.

  “Let me tell you,” Leif continued. “As a knight, she wasn’t worth a pinch of dry oghul shit. A disgrace. An utter failure. I’m liable to hang the next Gul Kana woman who prepares to take up a sword. Hang ’er and burn ’er. On general principle. In fact, I make it my life’s mission to never again see a woman in Gul Kana armor.”

  Hawkwood growled, “You will be dead before you get the chance to hang anyone.”

  “We will be in Amadon in six days. You can explain to Jovan how you trained his sister to fail, filled her head with folly. I’m sure he will be just swimming with amusement and sympathy at whatever story you tell.” With that Leif clicked spurs to mount and galloped off, horse and black armor quickly swallowed by the mist.

  Gault and Hawkwood sat in silence, both retreating into their own private thoughts. If there was anyone who reminded Gault of Aeros Raijael, it was Leif Chaparral. Around Leif, he couldn’t help but reflect upon his previous growing unease around the Angel Prince. It seemed the closer Aeros’ armies had drawn to Gul Kana, the more unpredictable the Angel Prince had become, the more he had led his armies on the verge of sheer panic. Or perhaps it was me who followed half-panicked.

  Gault had grasped the morale of the men in Aeros’ army years ago. Most were just normal folks who’d led the hard lives of smiths, whalers, farmers, rangers, and trappers before joining the war effort. Aeros was their appointed leader by birthright alone. He was not cut of the same frontier cloth as they, but rather raised in the courts of Rokenwalder with taste and refinement, raised among the opulence of the grand palace, Jö Reviens.

  But during the first battles on Adin Wyte soil ten years ago—battles in which Aeros fought alongside his men valiantly—the young prince had taken the first steps toward proving himself. During those first bloody clashes, the Angel Prince had begun to learn the one secret of being a good leader: you had to be willing to kill with your own hand. You couldn’t always lie back and let others do the unpleasant things.

  And in ten years of war, Aeros had proven with each passing campaign to be more and more unlike his father in this regard. King Aevrett, it seemed, relied more often on Bloodwood assassins like Hawk and the Spider to do his dirty work. One thing Gault knew: a soldier must not only fear, but also respect his leader more than his enemy. And Aeros had earned that respect early, then followed it up by fighting with much brutality and skill, never once sustaining injury, which only added to his growing mystique. Over time every soldier began to look upon him with a certain reverence and awe. As if they were truly fighting alongside the second coming of Laijon.

  But Gault had learned the hard way, you could never be too loyal to any one man, even if the rest of your countrymen thought of him as God.

  Morale and loyalty among Aeros’ ranks was never higher after the conquest of Adin Wyte five years ago. But something had changed within Aeros during the next five years of fighting in Wyn Darrè. Most hadn’t noticed the Angel Prince’s growing impatience. But Gault had. In Adin Wyte, not being rash was Aeros’ strength. Not being stupid, his greatest asset. Aeros’ coolness and calm had been a steadying influence to the entire might of the army. But once in Wyn Darrè, he seemed on the verge of launching into a fit at any provocation, or sequestering himself inside his tent whilst the likes of Enna Spades and Hammerfiss took care of things—things like the treatment of prisoners.

  Now it seemed Spades was running roughshod over every aspect of the war with her unchecked cruelty. And the oddest things of all, the advancement of Mancellor Allen to Knight Archaic, followed by Aeros’ obsession with the village boy, Jenko Bruk. And Ava Shay. Aeros had often acted upon his desires with captives taken in Adin Wyte and Wyn Darrè. But he always killed them within days after slaking his lusts.

  What was it about Ava Shay that changed the Angel Prince? What was it about her that changed me?

  Gault’s thoughts were interrupted as another Dayknight in black-lacquered armor drifted out of the mists, face hidden under an equally black helm. Gault could tell by the way the knight sat in the saddle that it was Ser Culpa Barra of Port Follett—Jondralyn Bronachell’s standard-bearer. His gray palfrey deftly edged toward the cart, pulling up alongside Hawkwood at a cantered gait. Culpa removed his black helm with gauntleted hands, revealing a square-jawed face and dark blue eyes. A mop of sweaty blond hair crowned hi
m; chunks of it clung to his forehead in damp ringlets. There was a keen and cool detachment to the Dayknight, and in Gault’s estimation, the man was a capable soldier, one to be reckoned with.

  “Ser Culpa Barra,” Hawkwood said, tone just low enough that the mounted Ocean Guard escort nearby could not hear. “Hard to be out riding today in full armor. Gotta be mighty uncomfortable.”

  “Aye,” came the knight’s short answer.

  “What took you so long to seek me out? It’s been days since we left Ravenker.”

  “I’ve my reasons.” Culpa’s voice was also low.

  “As you can see”—Hawkwood’s eyes stayed fixed on Jondralyn as he talked—“things have gone terribly wrong for us here, Culpa. Terribly wrong. Why was she in Ravenker? Why was she dueling one of Aeros’ Knights Archaic?”

  “Never mind all that.” Culpa’s tone was crisp. “ ’Tis a long story, and we haven’t the time. We are nearing the King’s Highway and I must depart. Shawcroft and the dwarf should be made privy to what’s happened to Jondralyn. And they should also know your fate and where you are headed . . . and who you travel with.” His watchful eyes strayed to Gault and then down to the princess. “I imagine Roguemoore and Shawcroft will be at the rendezvous point with Ironcloud.”

  “Shawcroft is dead,” Hawkwood said.

  “For certain?” Real horror was revealed on Culpa’s face, but briefly. He quickly composed himself. “The boy who was with you in Ravenker, the boy who ran off with the dog when Leif and I walked up—I know him. He was Shawcroft’s ward.”

  “Aye, Nail.” Hawkwood looked up at Culpa, eyes now intense. “You must find the boy. Even if it means failing to rendezvous with Roguemoore and Ironcloud. Nail more than likely still travels with that dog and likely my horse. I’ve a feeling he means to abandon our cause.”

  Culpa’s gaze roamed the fog to the west, toward Lord’s Point. “I will do what I can to find him.” He turned back to Hawkwood. “Bear in mind, Jovan holds no love for you. Nor for his sister either. I see Jovan’s hand behind Jondralyn’s fate. Be wary when you reach Amadon. You will likely be hung or beheaded or Laijon knows what.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Ser Culpa.” Hawkwood’s eyes were drawn to Jondralyn once more. “I have taken precautions. I will see that she lives.”

  “This is where I leave you then.” Culpa gripped his helm with gauntleted hands. “Leif will discover my disappearance soon enough. He will take it as a betrayal.”

  “Leif will be dead soon enough,” Hawkwood said.

  “See that he dies painfully.” Culpa dipped his head. “If I indeed find Nail and make it to the rendezvous point, any words you wish to relay to the dwarf?”

  “Tell Roguemoore that I am useless now, sliced up like a wet cod by my brother, the Spider. Perhaps dying. Spiderwood is tricky and cruel with his poisons. But I will make sure that Jondralyn lives. Tell the dwarf that she has been made privy to what secrets I hold. Tell him the princess can find the shield if I die. She knows the way.”

  Culpa dipped his head a second time, then in one smooth motion slid his helm back over his head. He reached into his saddlebag next and pulled forth a heel of bread. “Share it.” He tossed the bread at Gault’s feet. He then pulled forth a spool of black thread and dropped it into Hawkwood’s lap. With that, he set heels to flanks and galloped his horse past the blue-liveried Ocean Guard escort and into the gray mists, heading west.

  “Cryptic conversation.” Gault snatched up the bread and hungrily bit into it. It was sourdough, old and stale, but the best he had ever tasted. He broke off a chunk and tossed it to the former Bloodwood.

  Hawkwood looked out into the cloud of fog where Leif had disappeared. “I spent my whole life killing people until I met Jondralyn Bronachell. Truth is, I haven’t killed a soul since the day I first laid eyes on her.” His rigid, wintry gaze turned back to Gault. “But that might change when I reach Amadon and face Jovan Bronachell.”

  The former Bloodwood rolled over in the cart next to Jondralyn. Propped on both elbows, hands shackled, he unwound the spool of thread and loosened the sliver of wood he’d torn from the bottom of the cart days ago, the sliver of wood he’d previously used as a needle to stitch Jondralyn’s face.

  As the cart continued on its jostling course, Hawkwood picked at the makeshift stitches he’d sewn into the princess’ swollen face days ago, gingerly working them free. Puss welled from the infected wound. Painstakingly he began restitching the bleeding gash, doing his utmost to keep the ragged injury clean.

  Gault Aulbrek watched without purpose or passion, savoring the stale hunk of sourdough.

  * * *

  In the ebbing fires of our smoldering souls, we all of us offer up secrecy and deceit to protect ourselves, to protect our cause. We all of us offer up only partial versions of ourselves and beliefs to the world.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER THREE

  TALA BRONACHELL

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

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Tala wore a sleeveless tan tunic over a black silken shirt and brown woolen leggings, a bejeweled dagger at her belt. ’Twas a blade she’d recently lifted from Jovan’s collection of shiny trinkets he kept in his chamber.

  The wooden ladder she faced was rotted in spots but felt sturdy enough to hold her weight. She climbed, testing each dust-covered rung as she went. The ladder emptied her out into a pitch-dark room. A crawl space really. On hands and knees she searched for another pathway, worried she might fall into some unseen pit. As she ducked under a hanging spiderweb, she could feel the rat droppings crunch under her hands and knees. The stench of long-spoiled food and dead rodents permeated the air. The dreary squalor of the unkempt place made her want to puke. Still, the looming dangers of the secret ways once again sated her need for adventure.

  She located the trapdoor the Bloodwood’s note had mentioned, hidden in the floor with its bolt sheared. With a grunt, she lifted the heavy iron door and scooted down a cramped circular staircase. She entered a series of dimly lit rooms lined with wood-plank boxes and piles of discarded moth-eaten cloth and rusted pottery and other musty oddments. She came to another iron door, also with a broken lock. She slipped through into a much wider chamber, dusky light streaming in from two windows high above. This room was filled with nooks and craggy shadows. The head of a highland elk was nailed above the long-dead hearth at the far end, frosted with dust and cobwebs. A silver-strung harp stood on a pedestal near a heavily quilted bed, both covered in a dull gray blanket of dusky filth. Four chairs and a divan in neat array, all padded with rich red velvet, stood next to a large mahogany chest with bronze-filigreed handles. Long tapestries hung from every wall. Dark alcoves of black shadow lined the wide spaces between, alcoves rising high to a complex latticework of arching wooden rafters above.

  The Bloodwood’s instructions had led her to some royal chamber long since abandoned. Tala cast her eyes about, half in wonder, half in fear. The place was palatial, but gray and grim. That an unknown room full of such an array of unused luxuries existed within the bowels of the castle was a mystery. A chamber for a queen!

  “There you are.” A smooth voice came from nowhere and everywhere. “I was starting to worry you did not get my note.”

  “I am here now.” She pulled the ornate dagger from her belt.

  “Where are the two boys I asked you to bring?”

  “I am done following your orders,” Tala said with confidence, having practiced what she would say beforehand. She was done with secret notes and silly Bloodwood games. Today she would stand up to her tormentor. She clutched the dagger tight in her fist. “Show your true self for once.”

  “Do any of us ever truly show our true selves?” The voice cut through the air. “Do you, Tala? Do you even truly know yourself?”

  “We are not talking about me.”

  “Yet we are.” The assassin’s voice glided through the air with confiden
ce. “You did not like that busty barmaid making advances on your sister, did you?”

  “Did she stab my brother?” Tala spouted. “Or was that you?”

  There was laughter. “You are a pampered and entitled little snot.”

  “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

  “You do not like those of lower station. You despise them. You thought Delia was uncouth. You are a jealous person. I can read your mind.”

  It did feel like her mind was twisting over on itself, expanding, as if her very thoughts were being pulled through her ears and eyes. How could I be jealous of someone like that barmaid? Tala clenched her eyelids tight. Think of something else. Anyone else. Just not the barmaid. The image of Sterling Prentiss’ naked body spread across a cross-shaped altar entered her mind, his blood dripping over the stone. He was still there in that red-hazed room, cold and rotting. A man is dead because of me! All the lies I have told!

  “Oh, the things you did to the Dayknight captain.” The Bloodwood’s soft voice oozed into Tala’s thoughts, overtaking them. “Rich and cunning and bloody things. You do not even know your true self, nor even your own potential. Do you, my pet?”

  Tala stepped back, unhinged by the two last words. My pet. The assassin’s insinuation sent loathsome images pouring unwanted into her mind: Glade so callously slicing the captain of the Dayknight’s throat, her stirring the man’s guts with her own hand. Do any of us ever truly show our true selves?

  The Bloodwood’s earlier statement was a direct quote from the last note. A note Tala had set to memory.

  Bravo! You succeeded in every task.

  Thanks to your devotion, the downfall of Gul Kana and the entire Five Isles is now underway. Just a few more tasks and Lawri’s transformation will be complete. And only then will your destiny also be secured.