Heart of a Huntsman

by Liam Reese

  “What ails the lad?” Toras asked. “Be he petrified through fear?”

  “I do not believe so,” Zaynorth said with worry in his voice. “Let us get him below decks and warm him up.”

  Besmir felt himself drift through the depths. Searing agony throbbed through the creature’s head, pain such as it had never felt before, but it would feed once at the bottom, filling its belly with meat from the floating wooden box. Besmir thrashed vainly at his prison of flesh, struggling to free himself of the primitive beast he had taken over.. Besmir could tell the creature would hide, feast and heal before venturing out again. It had never occurred to it to crack open the floating boxes and feast on the meat inside, but they proved tasty, although the pain had been great..

  Home. Familiar rock formations cradled the creature’s massive body and held the wooden box down as it threatened to escape in the current. Besmir felt the creature work its limbs inside the remains of the ship, ripping at the wood until it opened, giving it access to the feast inside. Besmir felt something soft and grabbed the morsel, dragging it towards his mouth with anticipation.

  Stop! This is wrong.

  That was an odd thought. Why would eating meat be wrong? Bones crunched as the creature tipped the morsel in his mouth and swallowed. Another. Then more. Trapped within, Besmir screamed and screamed.

  Besmir screamed, jerking up straight and clawing at his mouth as he tried to clean the feeling of men from inside there. His fingers encountered nothing and he stared about, trying to comprehend what was happening to him.

  A young woman stared at him in shock.

  Keluse. She’s called Keluse.

  Fine, blonde hair cascaded round her shoulders, falling over her chest and flowing down her back. Besmir concentrated on his feelings where she was concerned: companionship, love?

  Is she my wife? My sister?

  “Besmir?” Keluse asked in a half-whisper.

  “I think so,” he said, frowning. “Am I?”

  “Don’t you know?” Keluse narrowed her eyes, frowning. “What happened Besmir?” she asked. “What can you remember?”

  Thoughts tumbled around like flotsam in a stream, confusing Besmir. Sometimes he was a man, hunting and sailing, while other times he was something else. A massive sea beast that lived at the bottom of the ocean and ate…

  Besmir retched when he recalled what had happened.

  “By the gods, Keluse, how long have I been here?”

  “Four days,” she replied solemnly, unable to meet his eyes.

  “What? How can that be?” he asked, unable to understand how he had been trapped in the sea creature for four days.

  It felt as if he had used the beast to sink the ship before drifting back to its lair then started to feast. Almost as soon as horror had overtaken his mind, Besmir had woken up here.

  “Where are we?”

  “In the hold aboard the Dawn Singer,” Keluse replied. “What happened? Zaynorth said you...somehow called that thing.”

  “It was worse than that, Keluse. Far, far worse.”

  Something in his voice, or the way he looked made Keluse worry, and she rose, telling him she would be back with the old man before long. Besmir lay back on the makeshift bed of sacks and straw, trying desperately to wipe the feeling of devouring humans from his mind.

  “Besmir?” Zaynorth shook him gently awake. “Sire? Are you well?”

  Besmir sat up, wiping his eyes.

  “I was trapped,” he said. “Inside that creature as it...it...” He huffed a breath out and Zaynorth laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

  “Please, please do not ever do anything like that again, at least until we understand how to get you back safely.” the old man begged. “We have no idea what melding with such an alien creature might do to you.”

  “I’ve got no problem with that,” Besmir said. “None at all. Where are we?” he asked, just then realizing the constant creak of masts and rigging was suspiciously absent.

  “Moored in the harbor of Port Vartula on the southeast coast of Gazluth. My brother has ventured out to secure mounts and what provisions he can purchase.”

  “Are we safe here?” Besmir asked nervously.

  “Captain Toras dropped anchor in a sheltered cove and changed the ship’s name to Whistling Mermaid, altered the rigging and swapped the sails. I fear he may be a pirate after all, but I think we are safe.” Zaynorth watched Besmir nod. “Are you able to travel?”

  “Yes,” Besmir said. “I’m fine. Now.”

  “Ye be departing then?” Toras growled when he saw Besmir, Zaynorth and Keluse climbing from the hold.

  “Yes, Captain,” Besmir said. “Thank you for getting us here.”

  Toras reached out and guided Besmir aside, leaning in close to murmur in his ear.

  “I be wondering if it is I who should be offering ye thanks,” the captain said, flicking his eyes to the water and back to Besmir. “Some think I just be an old pirate.” He tapped the side of his head. “But I be thinking you be something special. Look up the Whistling Mermaid if ye be needing a reliable ship.” He grinned. “Or be wishing to adopt a kitten.”

  With that, Captain Toras gripped his hand, shaking it firmly before stomping off along the decking. Besmir watched him go, wondering what the old pirate had managed to overhear of their conversations and if he had been eavesdropping. Deciding he would never know, Besmir trotted down the gangplank, leaving the Whistling Mermaid to set his first foot on Gazluth.

  King Tiernon Fringor looked at the man kneeling before him with a mixture of distaste and ridicule. Fleet Admiral Sharova was a small man, compact and short but a powerhouse nonetheless. This story he had brought before the throne, however, made Tiernon smile as well as inciting rage within him.

  Is he attempting to make me look foolish? Why would he risk it knowing I would likely have his head?

  “Tell me, Sharova,” Tiernon said in a deceptively calm voice. “Do you actually expect me to believe my flagship was dragged to the bottom by a Torasner?”

  Sharova looked up into his king’s eyes with utter fright carved into his features. Tiernon re-evaluated what he was being told as soon as he saw it.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. According to the survivors, it was some kind of massive thing with numerous limbs that grabbed the Imperious and sank it with almost all hands aboard.” The fleet admiral’s voice shook as he made the report.

  Tiernon stood, pulling his ermine-trimmed red and purple robes around him.

  “Join me in my chambers,” he ordered. “I would hear this tale in private.”

  The king stroked his gaze around the room, looking for any sign of a challenge from the assembled nobles and visiting ambassadors.. Not one of them even had the courage to meet his eyes, and he sneered as he stepped down from the dais, letting his guard form up around him.

  Throughout the palace, servants and other lowly creatures darted into side passages as he approached, hiding from his potential, unpredictable rage. Statues of his ancestors watched him pass with sightless, marble eyes until he reached the far end and looked with pleasure at the gaping hole where his brother’s likeness once stood. Tiernon had allowed the plinth to stay but blasted the rest of the figurine through the granite wall when he had left.

  “This is probably one of the most satisfying spots in the entire palace, Sharova,” he said, pausing at the empty alcove.

  “Yes, sire,” the other man said in a defeated voice, stumbling when one of Tiernon’s guards shoved him along after the king.

  Once inside his quarters, surrounded by expensive luxuries and priceless artworks, Tiernon shrugged off his heavy robes and threw himself into a comfortable seat, hanging one leg over the arm. Sharova glanced around, his face going pale as he looked at the terrified faces of the women caged around him. Tiernon snapped his fingers and a young girl appeared, a gold-jeweled goblet in her hand. Although she had been pretty once, the way her jaw hung open, drool freely running down her face, changed her appearanc
e into a gruesome parody of beauty. Vacant, empty eyes stared from her head without seeing anything, and Sharova stared at the poor thing.

  “Like my pet?” Tiernon asked as the girl squatted beside his chair like a faithful hound.

  “Yes, sire,” Sharova said,swallowing hard..

  Tiernon regarded him with cold, unfeeling eyes, the minutes drawing out until the naval man thought he was sure to die.

  “So, Admiral,” the king said eventually. “Tell me again of this sea beast.”

  Sharova swallowed hard before relating the story he had heard from eight men, collating all the stories into one account. Once finished, he waited for Tiernon to pass judgment. The king sat, staring at the wall while the mindless girl beside him urinated on the floor as if unaware she had company or was in the king’s chambers.

  “How many aboard?” Tiernon asked.

  “One hundred and seventy souls, sire.”

  “How many survived?”

  “Eight, Majesty.”

  “Have them brought here,” Tiernon said. “Their families as well.”

  “Their families, Majesty?”

  “Oh, yes,” the king said absently. “Nothing makes a man more likely to speak the truth than sawing off his wife’s fingers. I will discover what really happened to the Imperius and I will punish all those who have lied to me.”

  Sharova swallowed

  “By the way, how are the slaves I generously provided working out?” King Tiernon pinned the other man with his insane glare.

  “Excellent, Majesty, they have proved their worth in capturing further vessels to swell your navy. However, some of your lower-ranking officers have seen fit to work them until death, so we are running low on stocks.” Sharova spread his hands apologetically, noting how they trembled.

  Tiernon scratched the head of the girl squatting beside his chair and drained his goblet, handing it back to the pathetic creature that had once been someone’s daughter. Sharova watched as she trotted obediently off, his mind trying not to consider what had been done to make her that way.

  “It is your responsibility, Fleet Admiral, to ensure the assets I have granted are well looked after. I do not possess an endless supply of fresh slaves yet.”

  “Of course, sire,” Sharova answered. “I shall see to it those officers are punished.” It took a few seconds before Tiernon’s words registered. “Yet, Your Majesty?”

  The king grinned, a savage and cunning smile that sent spears of ice into Sharova’s belly.

  “Yes, Sharova, yet. I have plans in place to ensure enough bodies to swell the army ranks as well as provide more slaves to row the fleet.” Tiernon looked incredibly happy with himself.

  “Are we to go to war then, sire?” Sharova asked in confusion.

  Tiernon shot forward, leaning in close to the other man, who only just managed to halt his natural reaction to flinch back. Sour, rotten breath puffed over his face, and Sharova gagged. Tiernon, unknowing or uncaring, carried on speaking, excitement making his breath puff out in little waves. Iron fingers grabbed Sharova’s shoulders, squeezing hard as Tiernon explained his plan.

  “No war, Sharova, not yet anyway, no. Breeding.” Tiernon’s mad eyes searched Sharova’s to see if he understood.

  “Breeding….people?”

  “Exactly!” Tiernon shouted, snapping to attention. “Exactly.” The king threw one arm out towards the caged women, who flinched as far back as they could. “Some of these will give birth to my new soldiers,” Tiernon exclaimed, bringing groans and whimpers from the cages. “I will personally sire the first generation and they will sire further troops in the space of thirty years I will have hundreds, thousands, of trained men ready to do my bidding.”

  Sharova swallowed again, pure fright clawing at his insides as if a hellcat were trying to escape. Such a plan had to come from a broken, insane mind. Not only to consider breeding humans, but to use his own children?

  Pack and leave. Run to another country and become a farmer.

  Sharova’s mind began planning his escape from this living hell until his eyes raked over the desperate faces of the caged women. Dressed in little more than rags, beaten and starved, some barely out of childhood, they stared at him with pleading faces.

  What if it were my sister? My niece?

  These had been proud Gazluthian women once. His people.

  How can I leave them to face this future?

  “What say you?” Tiernon asked, drawing his attention away from the women.

  “Sire?” Sharova asked, confused,

  “Do you like my plan?”

  Revulsion rolled through Sharova at the very thought, but he managed to fix a placid mask over his features, smiling sickly at his king.

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” he forced himself to say. “It is an excellent idea.”

  Sharova found himself considering various poisons.

  5

  Besmir saw a similar mix of cultures and people in Gazluth to those of the land he had left. The differences, however, were numerous and stark. People here were quiet as they bustled from place to place, heads bowed so their eyes did not meet the gaze of any other. Hooded cloaks covered at least half of the people in the streets, and tension made the air thick. Besmir could feel the oppression clamping down on him with every footstep he took into Port Vartula. Glancing over, he saw the same expression of distaste on Keluse’s face that he could feel on his own.

  Gravistard had been vibrant, colorful and loud, but the image and atmosphere Gazluth presented was one of depression. Of the buildings that were actually in use, few were well maintained, and many of the abandoned ones had been destroyed by fire. Piles of blackened timber and wet ash spilled into the streets, left to the elements. Horror slapped Besmir when he saw ribs − obviously human − partially buried in one of the gaps.

  “Why haven’t they been buried?” he demanded.

  Zaynorth looked over, his own face a mask of rage.

  “It would appear things have changed since I left my homeland.”

  Besmir looked at the set of the mage’s jaw, tense beneath his beard, the deep lines furrowed at the apex of his nose and how stiffly he walked.

  “This manner of sacrilege would have never been endured before,” he grunted. “This is an affront to Mraginar,” Zaynorth spat, invoking the goddess of love and family. “I cannot believe things have devolved so far.”

  Zaynorth led them through the vile streets from the somewhat civilized waterfront into the darker backstreets. Citizens here were even more secretive, shutting doors and ducking into alleyways as soon as the small company approached. As they came to what had once been a busy market, now abandoned, stall frames broken and canvas flapping in the breeze, a group of armed men filtered in from the far side. Besmir saw they wore uniforms which, although unkempt and dirty, identified them as soldiers of the watch, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Hold!” the obvious leader ordered. “Prepare to be searched.”

  “On what authority?” Zaynorth demanded rudely.

  The one who had spoken stepped over to Zaynorth, hand on the hilt of his sword, as his men loosened their own weapons. Besmir and Ranyor stepped closer to each other, in front of Keluse. Besmir laid his fingers on the hilt of his hunting knife, the only weapon he had apart from the bow which would be useless at such close range.

  “Captain Lefruse,” the soldier said. Someone had snapped his nose at one point. Poorly set, it pointed off to his left as his red-rimmed eyes locked onto Zaynorth. “And on my authority. What have you got to pay for passage?”

  Besmir could feel Keluse shaking beside him, her fear obvious. Determination hardened in his chest as he stared at Lefruse. There was no way he was about to let these men intimidate her.

  “Since when did the city watch demand payment for passage?” Zaynorth asked.

  “Since I decided so and since no one cares if a few strangers go missing,” Lefruse said with a dismissive gesture. “So I will have a look through those pac
ks and relieve you of some valuables, or my men will be forced to relieve you of your lives.”

  Besmir tensed, a ball of hot acid growing in his chest at the threat. Zaynorth laid a gentle hand on his arm when he noticed. Lefruse saw the gesture and grinned, revealing blackened teeth as he turned to Besmir.

  “Fancy yourself, do you, boy?” he growled.

  “Against a drunken waste like you?” Besmir spat. “There’s no competition.” Ranyor tutted beside him as Lefruse’s grin faded.

  “As you wish,” the captain said. “You have chosen death and I am more than happy to oblige.”

  He stepped back, dragging his sword from its scabbard awkwardly, and Besmir smiled. Years of brawling with the other orphans, fighting off more than one assailant at a time, had hardened Besmir’s muscles, and further years of hunting had kept him lean and fast. He snapped forward, grabbing Lefruse’s wrist and twisting it savagely. The captain yelped as his fingers jerked open, dropping the poorly maintained sword with a clatter. His eyes widened when he felt the kiss of cold steel against his neck, and they could all see the muscles in his throat working as he swallowed.

  “Call off your dogs,” Besmir growled into the other man’s face. “Or draw your last breath.”

  He kept hold of Lefruse’s wrist, squeezing and twisting it so the bones ground against each other painfully until beads of sweat formed on the soldier’s forehead.

  Around them, Lefruse’s six men finally reacted, pulling out swords and springing clumsily into action as Ranyor pulled his own sword to meet them. Two fell back within the first few seconds, clutching the bloodied faces the warrior slammed his fist into. The remaining four slowed, their eyes flicking between Ranyor and their two companions, one of whom spat a tooth onto the street.

  “Wait! Wait!” Lefruse cried in a panic as Besmir lifted his blade, forcing his lead back and drawing a single drop of blood.