Heart of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  What’s she done now?

  Should we grab her?

  Senior should have let her rot —

  Faster, she had to move faster. She risked one quick glance behind her, and saw no one, before colliding with the front of a horse.

  The stallion reared and sent her flying backwards, sprawling across the dirt. Swearing, she staggered to her feet, her forearms and palms stinging where the rough ground had shredded her skin. The stallion was huge, thick with muscle and well-bred, nothing like the usual shabby Angove mares. In one swift motion, the rider swung down from the saddle and landed deftly with a soft thud. He calmed the horse with a single touch.

  ‘Sorry,’ Bleak muttered and made to move past him and the horse.

  He put a firm hand on her shoulder. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘Sorry?’

  But then she saw – behind him were ten men on horses. She recognised none of them. They were dressed all in black, except for the two crossed axes circled with a crown of fire embroidered on their chests. Her stomach leapt up into her throat. The royal sigil.

  She turned to the man before her and squirmed. Although she’d never met him before, she knew who he was. Fierce and unflinching, with dark features and burnt-umber eyes to match. It was Commander Swinton of the King’s Army, the celebrated son of Sir Caleb Swinton. He was the leader of the King’s Army, and he was all the way out in Angove.

  He towered above her, lean and muscular beneath his uniform. His coal-coloured hair hung to his collarbone in waves, his cheekbones sharp above his hollowed-out cheeks. A trimmed black beard made his square jaw even more defined, highlighting a thin white scar running from his right cheek down to his chin. His pale lips were set in a mean line.

  What is he doing in Angove? And what —

  ‘You’re the one they call “Bleak”?’ he said, disgust etched on his face as he surveyed her ragged appearance, dirt-covered skin and odd eyes.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she said, glancing behind her, where she could see Maz and his lackeys reaching the edge of the town square.

  The jangle of metal sounded, and Bleak turned back to the commander to see him pull a pair of manacles from his belt.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ she demanded.

  ‘You’re under arrest. You’ve been summoned by the king.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For the illegal use of magic,’ he said, reaching out to grip her wrists. She stepped back.

  ‘Hold out your hands.’

  Ignoring the wild thumping in her chest, and every instinct that told her to run, Bleak lifted her chin in defiance. She was slammed down into the dirt, chest first. Pain bloomed across her breasts. A knee pinned her at the centre of her back. She groaned.

  ‘He said, hold out your hands, girl.’ One of the guards spat the last word as though it were vermin. ‘This is only going to go one way – his. The sooner you learn that, the easier this will be.’

  ‘Lennox,’ said Swinton, his voice laced with dark frustration, ‘just get her ready.’

  She was wrenched to her feet and the cool metal was fastened around her wrists. Her heart sank. She couldn’t con her way out of this one. There were too many of them, and the realm’s most skilled fighters at that.

  ‘We’re going to the capital?’ she asked.

  The commander nodded as his guard shoved her towards a horse.

  ‘On foot?’

  ‘Enough questions,’ the guard called Lennox snarled.

  ‘You can’t be serious, it’ll take weeks to get to Heathton —’

  That comment resulted in a swift knock to the back of her head. She flinched as the blow landed on her matted hair.

  ‘You have to tell me what’s going on,’ she said to Commander Swinton’s back.

  ‘I don’t have to do anything,’ he said.

  Bleak felt the panic rising in her chest as the guard lifted her up onto a horse, and tied her manacled hands to the saddle horn.

  ‘Bleak!’ a familiar voice called. ‘Bleak – hey! Where are you taking her?’ A head of fair hair came into view – Bren, with a box of fishing hooks under his arm.

  ‘Who are you?’ Swinton demanded.

  ‘Bren. My name’s Bren Clayton.’

  ‘Well, Mr Clayton. The girl has been summoned to the capital.’

  Bren looked from Swinton to Bleak. ‘What? What for? You can’t just take her …’

  ‘Watch me.’

  Swinton glanced at Maz, who was now standing at the front of the crowd with a smirk across his face. Swinton took two long steps towards him and Bleak revelled quietly in the glimmer of fear that crossed Maz’s face, but Swinton simply flicked a silver coin at him.

  ‘As promised,’ he said.

  Bleak’s blood surged. That bastard. He sold me out. But how? No one knew about her magic, not even Bren.

  Bren swore, his box of fish hooks clattering to the ground as he threw himself at Maz. One of his brothers lunged and held him back, eyeing the battleaxes strapped to the commander’s back and the longsword at his hip.

  ‘You made up some horseshit about her and turned her in?’ Bren yelled.

  Maz rolled the coin between his fingers, saying nothing.

  The commander scratched the scar marring his stubble. There was no amusement on his face; his brow twitched in irritation. He mounted his horse in one smooth, effortless motion.

  ‘Move out,’ he told his men.

  The guard in front tugged Bleak’s horse along, and she twisted in the saddle to look back at the smouldering ruins of the warehouse, and at Bren. His eyes were wide with disbelief. He was still struggling to free himself from his brother’s grip. Bleak caught his eye and shook her head.

  Let me go, she tried to tell him. He was safer this way. And she couldn’t live with herself if he got into trouble with the king because of her. She turned away and focused on the back of the guard ahead of her. She had to use all her strength to stay atop the horse as her new company cantered away from the only place she’d ever called home. Below them, she could still see the waves spilling their foam across the golden sand and the fountain grass waving in the briny wind, as though Angove was saying its own goodbye.

  Chapter 3

  ‘If I’d known I’d be trekking across the country, I might have worn some shoes,’ Bleak said to Fiore, the man who was pulling her horse along. She’d never seen shoulders so broad and skin so deeply tanned. He ignored her. He had to be from Battalon, the neighbouring realm known for its red, sandy deserts and treacherous terrain. Many of its people had the same smooth, sun-kissed complexion. Unlike her, their skin never burned or freckled beneath the sun’s rays. Fiore’s hair was shaved short, unlike the others. He had to be from Battalon, perhaps even Belbarrow, that continent’s capital, if the black flames of the fire goddess tattooed on his forearm were anything to go by.

  They hadn’t taken long to leave Angove and cross the Bridge of Lamaka. Bleak wondered if she’d ever see the structure again, with its thick greying timber planks and immense wooden sculpture of its voluptuous goddess’s namesake. The King’s Army had no such appreciation for the landmark. They spouted rubbish about the supposed Angovian beauties they’d missed out on, while their horses’ hooves clopped loudly atop its surface. They rode south, towards Felder’s Bay. Having only ever visited the capital by sea, Bleak didn’t know much about horseback riding or their current journey, except for the fact that it was going to test her. She was itching to know why they weren’t travelling by sea, but the thoughts of the guards around her gave nothing away.

  Bleak’s backside was numb and her wrists ached from being bound to the saddle horn. She had only been riding for a few hours and was already dreading the days to come. No shoes, no coat, nothing for when they passed through the mountains or for when the night air became chilly. Just her, Commander Swinton and ten of the King’s Guard for company. Her he
art sank – Bleaker Senior’s coat had no doubt perished in the fire. It was the only belonging of his she’d been able to keep after his death. It had served her well on countless sea journeys, and she’d always felt comforted; a hint of his scent still clung to it. She felt the hot sting of tears, but blinked them back, steeling herself against the loss. Senior hadn’t really been one for keepsakes.

  Her head was pounding, throbbing insistently behind her eyes. Her headaches had got to the point where she didn’t know if they were caused by the drink or the lack of it. In any case, she hadn’t had a drink in what felt like ages, and the hum of voices around her was making her dizzy. She hadn’t done it in a while, but to distract herself from her discomfort, she dipped into their thoughts. She couldn’t control when she heard other people’s thoughts, but when they were out in the open, she could clumsily focus on one mind over others.

  I hope he sees I’ve taken the initiative, the youngest guard, Stefan, was thinking, eyeing the back of Swinton.

  Ah – an ambitious foot soldier, Bleak thought. He rode beside Fiore and looked between the Battalonian and the commander, his expression equal parts admiration and envy. Another guard, to her left, was thinking of the yellow-haired beauty he’d left in his bed before they rode out. Bleak continued to sift through their minds.

  What’s she bloody looking at, scummy bitch.

  Did we bring enough wine? An excellent question.

  So we left a week and a half ago, but the girl is slow, so we might take longer to get back – gods, what I’d give for another piece of that pie from Willma’s.

  Commander never tells us squat. What’s this piece of trash done to warrant a full escort from Angove to Heathton?

  Women, gripes with each other, food and insults directed at her were the main topics of thought, and Bleak paid them about as much heed as she did the dirt beneath her fingernails. For most of her life she’d been spoken about this way, not to mention kicked around. She was nothing and belonged to no one. Stared down or avoided entirely, it was all the same to her. But it was intriguing that none of the guards knew why she was being summoned.

  She focused on Commander Swinton, noting the signature battleaxes strapped to his back. He, at least, would know why. Awkwardly, she drowned out the voices from the others and zeroed in on his mind and – nothing. She didn’t have much control over her magic. There had never been anyone to teach her how to use it, no one to guide her, thus her methods were unchecked, unpractised and unpredictable. But she could still get results, most of the time. Until now.

  She frowned. How is that possible? She tried again, and still – nothing. She cursed under her breath. The one time she actually wanted to use her ‘gift’ and it was useless. Gift – what a ridiculous notion that was. It had been Senior’s word for magic, not hers. Her ‘gift’ was one that just kept on giving, in the form of overheard insults and pity, constant questioning about her heritage and the permanent feeling of exile in her own home. Gift? Bleak didn’t think so.

  Still unable to read Swinton, she focused on the wineskin hanging from his saddlebag.

  What I wouldn’t give for a drink right now, she thought, pressing her cracked lips together.

  By the time the company stopped to set up camp, most of the beach was in the shadow of the Hawthorne Ranges. A chill rushed over Bleak’s clammy skin as she was untied and pulled from the saddle, her feet sinking into the cool, coarse sand.

  ‘Go clean yourself up if you want,’ said Fiore, his voice surprisingly gentle.

  Bleak looked to the rest of the men, unsure.

  ‘They’ll leave you be.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘Then stay covered in filth. Your choice.’

  Bleak ground her teeth. She could feel the layers of dirt, soot and sweat caked onto her skin, thick and greasy.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, and left the Battalonian standing by her horse.

  It was hard to stay upright in the dunes. She couldn’t hold out her manacled hands for balance as the sand shifted and slipped beneath her feet. But she managed. The crisp sea breeze tangled the stray strands of her hair and rushed through the thin material of her tunic. She walked towards the sigh of the waves lapping at the shore. As she got closer to the foamy water’s edge, she saw that the beach was littered with pieces of dry, dead coral, washed up from the depths of the sea, white as bones, bleached by the sun. They crunched and rattled under her weight, their blunt ends pressing into her tender soles. The turquoise water washed over the tops of her feet, cold and soothing. She hunched over and rolled up the legs of her pants to just above the knee, and moved further into the shallows. It had been a long time since she’d seen water this clear, probably not since she and Bren had ventured this far south over a year ago.

  Bleak looked out to the open water, the final rays of the day’s sun shimmering across its flat, seemingly infinite surface. She sighed heavily. She wished she could be out there. It was both liberating and crushingly desolate. Gazing at it, the depth of her despair, which she ordinarily fought so hard to suppress, would open up like a raging whirlpool, threatening to suck her in and pull her under. Other times, the solitude was freeing – her relief swelling, rising up within her like a wave. There were no voices out on the water, no one’s thoughts pummelling into her own.

  The deep laughs from the men back on the shore brought Bleak out of her reverie. She scooped up the water in her palms and splashed her face, rubbing vigorously.

  Gods, what I’d do for a bar of soap, she thought, realising she was likely just rubbing the grime further into her skin. Reluctantly, she turned and trudged back to where the men were assembling the commander’s tent. They had set up at the foot of the mountains. Before them, Felder’s Bay and the East Sea were calm and empty, but for a few clouds drifting on the horizon. The commander’s tent was the only one being pitched; the rest of them were to sleep under the stars. From the way he stalked around the camp, Bleak saw the discipline in the commander’s every action. He unsaddled and cooled down his stallion, waxing the tack and watering the horse himself in precise and considered motions. His features seemed to soften when he spoke to the beast, but those moments were few and far between. He didn’t join in the banter between the guards, and spoke to almost no one except Fiore, the two men standing side by side, conferring in inaudible voices.

  As soon as the sun dipped behind the mountains, Bleak began to shiver. But she didn’t ask for a cloak. Despite her growling stomach and dry throat, she said nothing and asked for nothing, though she edged as close to the fire as she could.

  She watched the men go about feeding the fire, pegging the commander’s tent and unravelling their bedrolls. Someone dropped a heavy blanket into her lap – Fiore. By the light of the fire, Bleak saw his face. His brows were raised in amusement, and his broad nose and round golden eyes made him the commander’s opposite – warm and kind. He rubbed the nape of his neck as he walked through the camp, chatting with the men, leaving them chuckling while they went about their chores.

  Bleak spent the next while scanning the ground for discarded weapons she might be able to steal. Her hands were still manacled, but she wanted something to protect herself. She spotted Fiore, who she now realised was the commander’s right-hand man, heading into the woods with Swinton to hunt game. Bleak frowned. They were odd companions to her, like light and shade. And didn’t one’s choice of companions speak volumes about a person? As soon as the thought entered her head, she pictured Bren. What did it say about him that he was friends with someone like her? She wouldn’t think on it now.

  After a time, the men emerged from the woods, Fiore with a small deer slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Never fails to amaze me, our commander,’ said Fiore with a grin, slinging the carcass onto the ground by the fire and slapping his superior on the back.

  Bleak could have sworn she’d seen the ghost of a smile on the commander’s face.

  ‘Stefan, you can do the honours,’ Fiore called, and
handed the foot soldier his hunting knife.

  ‘Has someone given the girl a drink?’ the commander asked.

  Bleak’s head snapped to attention.

  ‘No, Commander,’ said Stefan.

  Someone threw her the wineskin, but the commander caught it before it reached her.

  ‘Water only.’

  Bleak glared at him, yet took the canteen of water handed to her. It was still warm from the day’s travel, and it did nothing to quench her real thirst. The liquid sloshed around her empty belly, making her feel queasy. She moved back from the fire as Stefan skinned and carved the meat. Soon, it was roasting over the open flame, the smell making her mouth water. The men gathered around, passing the wineskin between them, telling stories of battle, as though she wasn’t there. And that was how she preferred it. Except the commander was watching her. With his dark eyes narrowed, he toyed with something on the end of a chain around his neck. From the movement in his sharp jawline, he was grinding his teeth. Bleak turned away and chewed on the meat she’d been given. He could stare all he liked. She finished eating, and when she finally turned back, he’d gone.

  Some of the men went down to wash in the low tide of the bay, including Fiore. They stripped off with no shame, and scrubbed at their naked bodies. Bleak looked at the dirt still lining her palms. She could only imagine how filthy the rest of her was, but she’d walk through fire before bathing in front of that lot.

  Most of the men tugged their pants and shirts back over their wet bodies down by the water, except for one man, who strode back to camp in the nude. Bleak looked away, only it was too late.