Dark Heart (Husk)

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  ‘Fisher.’

  Someone called out to a fisherman, a meaningless cry barely noticed in the midst of battle. Nothing to do with him.

  The dark figure in front of him waved his sword with energy but little skill. Did these fighters represent the best of Neherius? If so, how had that mighty army fallen so far? An inside cut, a swift withdrawal, then a low flick, hamstringing the man. Let the Neherian grunt his pain on the wooden planks of the wharf, let him spill his blood over the timbers of the town he sought to take.

  ‘Fisher!’

  No one in front of him. A meaty hand slapped him on his shoulder.

  ‘Come, Noetos,’ said a voice. Mustar. ‘There is nothing more we can do here.’

  The fisherman blinked. Death lay scattered all about him. Ten bodies, more, a dozen. His gaze took in the ships—a score or more now filling the harbour, a number of them aflame—and the hundreds of armed men leaping into the water and wading for the shore. But not in panic. This was planned. There was no urgency to douse the flames. The Neherians were intent on taking the town.

  Perhaps the storm would save their ships for them. It had begun to rain while Noetos fought; large, cold drops, not that he had realised. Well, his dispassionate mind had factored in the sudden slipperiness underfoot, so he must have noticed. The rain slashed at them, stinging his face. How had he been able to fight this? What had his children done to him?

  ‘Captain Cohamma wants us up on Broad Way behind the barricades. Come on.’

  He turned to follow Mustar, his mind still fogged by events. Fogged, in fact, since Saros Rake. Why else, he asked himself, would he be following the most junior

  of the fishermen he employed?

  Once employed, he corrected himself.

  Belatedly he tried to clear his thoughts. ‘Broad Way? What use is that?’ he asked. ‘We have to keep the Neherians outside the walls.’

  ‘Too late for that, Fisher.’

  The lad was right. A hundred or more Neherians had formed up on Red Duke Wharf, now off to his left as he faced the city, and were marching unhurriedly towards the Summer Palace, where no doubt the governor cowered in disbelief and fear. The governor was right to fear the Neherians. Much of Wharf Street was burning. Fire had taken hold of a tavern: Bottom O’ The Barrel it had been called in Noetos’s day. Men were trying to break into Crow Tower, the tallest building on the wharf. The docks were lost.

  ‘We have to go. We’ll be trapped here otherwise.’

  Again, the lad was right. Where are your wits, fisherman? Did you leave them at the bottom of the harbour? Broad Way would not make much of a defence, but it was clear the Warehouse District could not be saved. They had to make a stand somewhere.

  ‘This way, Mustar,’ Noetos cried, and led the youth along Wharf Street, past Red Duke Wharf and then up Summer Way, away from the harbour. Behind them the Neherian regiment passed the Summer Flame, the enormous bowl-shaped symbol of Roudhos sovereignty appropriated by Raceme many years since. A great gust of wind roared past the Summer Palace, flattening the flame, all but extinguishing it. Noetos sighed. The sight had all the hallmarks of an omen.

  ‘Where are my men?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you mean the miners?’ Mustar said.

  ‘Aye, they are pledged to me.’

  Mustar seemed already to know about them. ‘Dead or fled.’

  ‘They abandoned me?’

  ‘They had no choice. None could stand with you. Fisher, where did you learn to fight with such speed and skill? Why did you waste your life in Fossa? You could have earned a princely living serving any master you wished.’ There was more than a hint of hero worship in the boy’s voice.

  ‘Hush,’ Noetos said, too late. Their conversation, half-shouted because of the wind and rain, had attracted attention. Two Neherians emerged from an alley, dragging a woman by her legs. At the sight of the two fishermen they dropped their burden and drew their blades.

  ‘It’s not skill,’ Noetos said as he reached past his anger and shame. Yes, his children still waited for him, ready to supply him strength. Thank you, he whispered.

  Three swift steps forward, one to the left, then a transfer of weight to his right leg accompanied by an upward swing, fierce enough to knock the sword out of one man’s grasp and still have enough momentum to take him in the throat. Fall back, two defensive parries. The second man threw his sword down and fell to one knee, ready to sue for peace.

  ‘Peace? After what you have done?’

  Noetos had once been told by an experienced swordsman that there was in these days neither sword sharp enough nor arm strong enough to decapitate a man with one blow. Now he would find out. He swung before the Neherian had a chance to beg.

  Cyclamere, you were wrong, he thought as the head bounced and rolled. Though, to be fair, there were three arms in that blow.

  ‘Not skill?’ Mustar said, panting, his shellfish knife wet with blood and rainwater. ‘Then you are not human.’

  ‘Most likely not,’ Noetos agreed without rancour. He laid his sword down at the mouth of the alley, then bent over with Mustar to examine the woman for signs of life.

  The youngster swallowed. ‘Bastards.’ Her womanhood was a red mess. ‘Alkuon-forsaken bastards. They must have used their swords on her.’

  ‘Say “Neherians” and nothing more need be said,’ Noetos growled, his stomach turning over. ‘They must have been disposing of the evidence. The Neherian commanders would not object to such behaviour, but they would insist on securing the city first.’ He sighed. ‘Come, there is nothing to be done for her. We have to get to Broad Way, and the storm is getting worse.’

  The black clouds squatted overhead, filling Noetos’s mind with unpleasant imagery. Rain pounded ferociously, hissing in sheets across the paved streets, and darkness closed in around them like a besieging army. Thunder rolled, or perhaps it was an explosion. Orange light flickered away to their right, painting the underside of the clouds a dun colour.

  He turned to Mustar who, for all the circumstances, still looked the same lad who had worked on Noetos’s boat. ‘Some of my men are dead?’ he asked him.

  ‘Don’t know. They fought beside you for a few minutes, then were driven back by the Neherians. At least one was injured that I saw. Young fellow.’

  ‘And you?’

  Mustar smiled. ‘Give me a gaff and I could do some damage, but I barely know which end of a sword to hold. That Captain Cohamma tried to press a sword on me, but in the end I helped shift stuff about while others did the hard work.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed then.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking.’ Mustar laughed, but there was no real humour in it.

  They walked uphill along Summer Way for a few minutes, keeping to the darkness under the warehouse eaves. Apart from a single body lying in a doorway, the street seemed deserted. Rain sizzled as it pelted the timbers of the warehouses and the cobbles of Summer Way; at either side of the street water collected in runnels and ran foaming down towards the harbour, as though gathering to repel the Neherians.

  Mustar said something to him. Noetos didn’t catch it, the words blurred by the whistling wind and a low growl of thunder.

  A score or more soldiers appeared at the far end of Summer Way, a few hundred paces away and well above them, at the crest of a steep slope. Mustar seized Noetos’s arm and hauled him into an alley, not much more than a narrow gap between warehouses.

  ‘I couldn’t tell whether they were Neherians or Racemen,’ the young man said. He poked his head cautiously into the street, then drew it back quickly. ‘Did you hear what I asked you? I said, were you responsible for what happened at Fossa?’

  ‘Fossa? That depends on what happened.’

  Noetos wasn’t sure he wanted to be told, but he knew he’d hear the story eventually. Like all the stories these days it’d likely be a terrible one. Yet he wanted to hear how his daughter had cheated death. And, despite how the village had treated him the night the Recruiters were there, he su
pposed he wanted to know if Fossa had survived the Neherians.

  ‘Well, this is the short of it,’ Mustar said, his eyes darkening as he drew on his memories. ‘It started with the business of Anomer and the Recruiters, and the disturbance up at Fisher House. You know more of that than me, and no doubt things happened differently than the Hegeoman let out.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Noetos said quickly. He had not thought to ask Bregor this.

  ‘Just that you’d gone crazy and assaulted the Recruiters when they came to collect your son to take him to Andratan. Seemed you’d thought twice about having allowed Anomer to take part in the trials that morning, and you’d decided you didn’t want to lose both your children, so you opposed the Recruiters with your sword.’

  ‘You believe it?’

  ‘Ah, well, the part about you changing your mind I believed,’ Mustar said. ‘Forgive me, Fisher, but you’d been hard to work with those last few weeks. Didn’t take a genius to figure you were doubtful about sending Anomer north to Andratan.’

  ‘Was it that obvious?’ Noetos was unable to keep a plaintive note from entering his voice.

  Mustar shrugged politely. ‘Best we continue,’ he said.

  Unsure whether the lad meant him to continue the conversation or to resume walking towards Broad Way, Noetos turned and checked to see if Summer Way was clear, then stepped out into the street.

  ‘Don’t you want to talk about it?’ The youth’s voice behind him sounded accusing.

  ‘You talk. I’ll listen. Might be I’ll have something to say later.’

  ‘As you will.’

  Mustar caught up with Noetos. They walked close together so they could hear each other above the storm.

  ‘I have to say, at the time I didn’t believe the part about you fighting off the Recruiters with your sword. We Old Fossans don’t exactly get offered the best seats at the Recruiters’ trial, but I got close enough that morning to see their skill. No way an old fisherman could stand up to them. Forgive me, Noetos, but that’s how I thought.’

  Noetos nodded. He would have thought the same.

  ‘But seeing you today, well, maybe I was wrong. I’ve never heard of anyone being able to do what you did. You killed a dozen of them; you moved so fast it was as though they threw themselves on your sword. You reminded me of the Maghdi Dasht in the story about the Fall of Jasweyah, when it says, “No matter where they went, there his blade lay in wait.”’

  A distant rumble interrupted Mustar’s speculations. An explosion, thought Noetos, not thunder, somewhere off to their right. It was followed by faint shouts.

  ‘So you went back on your agreement with the Recruiters,’ Mustar continued. ‘It came to blows, and you ran. Most of the village spent that evening looking for you. Where did you hide?’

  ‘I spent the afternoon out to sea,’ Noetos said. ‘Came back near dusk and hid in the chandler’s shed out near Dog Head. I’m surprised no one thought to look for me there.’ He sniffed. ‘And while you’re right to say I reneged on our bargain with Andratan, it was because one of the Recruiters’ party was my own daughter. Andratan had damaged her. You must know this, since you brought her north with you.’

  Mustar frowned. ‘So she said. I am still confused by this. She looks little like the Arathé I knew. It took some time, and much questioning, before I believed her. What they did to her, taking her tongue, draining her magic—I can understand why you were angry.’

  ‘Why I am angry. There’s something badly wrong with Andratan, and I need to find out what it is. What are they doing to our children?’

  Mustar turned to stare Noetos full in the face. His hard-edged features were framed by black hair plastered to his head by the driving rain. ‘There’s also something badly wrong with you, if I understand things rightly,’ he said. ‘Hear me out. This is what Sautea thinks happened: early that next morning you set your own boats on fire in order to signal the Neherians to invade Fossa. Sautea saw the fire first. He banged on my door on his way to the beach. I was out of bed and into my clothes before I realised it was too early for work, but then I saw the smoke and ran.’

  Noetos wanted to take the youth by the throat and shake him. Anything to make him stop talking. To stop repeating a story that was so wrong, so unjust. He, signal the Neherians by burning his own boats? With difficulty he held on to his temper. Listen first.

  ‘We were partway through putting out the fire when we noticed the Neherian fleet. Sautea counted a hundred sails before he gave up. Some of the villagers fled into the fields, but most of us stayed. We couldn’t leave our village to them. Yes, I know you’ve told us stories of how cruel the Neherians can be, but we thought you were exaggerating.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘You have no idea, Fisher, what those ships looked like as they anchored in our harbour. Glorious sight, they were, even though we suspected the Neherians didn’t mean us well.

  ‘They herded us together at sword point, then asked the leaders to step to one side. That’s when Sautea and I realised the Hegeoman was missing. His wife had no idea where he was. They were rough with her, thinking she was protecting him.’

  ‘How rough?’ Noetos asked wearily, though he anticipated the answer.

  ‘They killed her eventually. A mercy. Don’t ask me to tell you what they did.’

  ‘I see.’ Poor Bregor. Does he know?

  ‘Do you? Do you really? Can you imagine what happened when the killing started? Some of the lads put up a fight. Arnessan and a few of the Cadere Row lot knocked down one of the Neherian leaders, then got stuck into him with fists and boots. Did him some serious damage, from what I saw, before they were dragged off him. They were slit and pegged out on the beach for the crabs to play with.’

  ‘That’s sore news, for all I couldn’t stomach that lot.’

  ‘Aye. But the Neherians became very angry when you couldn’t be found. Seems they wanted you more than anyone else. Why, Fisher? What’s so special about you that the salties would wipe out Fossa to find you?’

  ‘Wipe out? Fossa was wiped out?’

  Before Mustar could resume his tale he and Noetos emerged onto Broad Way. The deserted street stretched left and right; to the right, in the distance, Noetos could make out activity. People running, but not towards them.

  ‘Where is Cohamma?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mustar said miserably. ‘He said I should bring you to Broad Way, and he would meet us there behind the barricades. The sign there—’ he pointed to the side of a building—‘says this is Broad Way, but where’s the captain?’

  ‘Probably on Broad Way West,’ he said. ‘The street is split in two by the Lecita Stream. Makes sense, actually: the more defensible part of town is to the west, away from the sea. Higher ground.’ He sighed. ‘Well, we’ll just have to find a way across the stream.’

  The two men hurried across the exposed width of Broad Way and continued up Summer Way. After fifty or so paces they crested a hill, the street narrowed and they began to descend towards a grassy-banked stream. The hairs on the back of Noetos’s neck rose. Something…

  A sudden flash blinded them both. A fraction of a second later the air around them roared, searing their senses. Noetos found his nostrils filled with astringent air. Lightning, his mind belatedly told him. Close.

  Just how close was obvious after he blinked the jagged lights from his eyes. A small building no more than ten paces to their left, some oligarch’s gatehouse perhaps, lay in ruins. A scorched smell filled the air.

  Mustar swallowed visibly. ‘That was too close.’

  Another flash, further away but still within the walls of the city, induced flinches from both of them, then sheepish grins.

  Noetos grunted. ‘Reminds me of the time we were stuck outside The Rhoos while a storm played in Fossa harbour—’

  This time there was no separation between flash and roar. The violence of the lightning strike knocked him to the ground, holding him there while the air rumbled and the cobbles shook.

 
‘Mustar? Mustar!’

  ‘Here, Fisher.’ The boy seemed to be shouting, but Noetos could barely hear him. ‘Are you all right? My head aches.’

  ‘I’ll be all right when I open my eyes,’ Noetos said.

  They’re hunting Father, said a voice. Anomer’s voice, deep in his brain. He eased his eyes open to find he lay in a drain. Mustar was sitting on his haunches, peering at him with a look of concern.

  The voice spoke again. Because it’s our combined strength in his mind. They seem to be able to hunt him that way. They may be attuned to you, sister.

  ‘Hunting? What do you mean, hunting?’ Noetos asked.

  ‘What?’ Mustar said, a puzzled look on his face.

  ‘Shh. Anomer, who is hunting me?’

  We are not yet sure, Father. But Arathé has somehow drawn the attention of…of a power, that’s how best she can describe it. A pause. She says it tracked her north—’

  Noetos sensed something, a wilful force gathering itself. He screamed to Mustar, leapt to his feet and threw himself towards the shelter of the nearest building. The bolt hit behind him. He knew without looking that it had struck exactly where he had been lying.

  Keep moving, Anomer said. We must break our link to you. It may be tracking you because it thinks you are Arathé.

  Mustar was already twenty paces further down the street, running hard though unevenly. ‘Come on, Fisher,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I don’t need an explanation to know when something uncanny is happening.’

  As Noetos regained his feet the connection between himself and his children disappeared. He almost collapsed as the weariness and pain, kept at bay until now, flooded in. Arathé will be all right, he told himself, as long as she doesn’t use her power…

  ‘Come on!’

  ‘I…yes,’ he said. Tottering on legs that felt like tree stumps, he tried to catch Mustar.

  ‘Maybe I should keep my distance,’ he said when finally he stood beside the young man. ‘Safer for you.’

  ‘Oh? And how will I find my way to Captain Cohamma without your help?’

  ‘Maybe you don’t want to stay with the betrayer of Fossa,’ Noetos said bitterly.