Dark Heart (Husk)

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  He placed his hand on his belt.

  Bregor saw the fingers approaching, as did the panic-stricken citizens of Raceme. Suggate was simply not wide enough to let them all through in time, especially since a number of fools were still trying to get into the city.

  ‘Mustar!’ he cried to the figure standing atop the gate. ‘Stop anyone entering Suggate from the outside!’

  The youngster nodded and hobbled to the far side of the structure.

  ‘People! Listen!’ Bregor could make his voice carry if he desired, and he gave thanks for the trick now. All around him, heads spun in his direction. ‘Pull back from the gate. Make two orderly lines. Walk briskly, no pushing, children first. You, you and you’—he pointed to three solid-looking men—‘make sure no one steps out of line.’

  He repeated his instructions incessantly, his voice the bark of a dog chivvying sheep into line. ‘Make two lines. No pushing. Keep in your lines. Come on now, I said no pushing! Children first.’

  ‘Where do we go?’ a woman called to him. Unafraid, bright-eyed, waiting patiently for her chance to walk through Suggate.

  Bregor thought a moment. ‘Gather on the hill beside the southern path.’ He thought of the road they’d taken down to Raceme: would a hill be a safer place than a valley? He had no idea. No matter. The important thing was to keep people believing in his authority. ‘Pass it on to the others,’ he commanded. ‘We’re gathering on the hill beside the southern path.’

  There had been only one hill, off to their left, when they’d first seen Raceme. He must have got it right, as no one questioned him. ‘The hill beside the southern path’ went the message up and down the lines, soon changed to ‘Gather on Shambles Hill’. The local name for it, apparently.

  The lines had become noticeably shorter. Though not short enough, thought Bregor as he looked back over his shoulder. The black cloud wall was almost on top of them; its fingers and thumb roughly combed the buildings below Suggate. He desperately wanted to flee. If he ordered it, the lines would part for him, and he could be out of this city and on the road to safety.

  Just like travelling north with Noetos while behind him his village burned.

  He remained where he was.

  Soldiers came running up the main road, hale and injured men in two ragged groups. Captain Cohamma led them past the Money Exchange.

  ‘Who’s in charge ’ere?’ the captain demanded.

  ‘He is,’ said the bright-eyed woman, pointing at Bregor.

  ‘One o’ the southerners?’ Cohamma asked Bregor. Before the Hegeoman could answer, the captain continued. ‘Aye, you would be. None here would listen t’a Raceman. All for hisself.’

  ‘Will you help me?’ Bregor asked.

  Cohamma took a look over his shoulder. ‘You don’t need help. Nuffin’ we c’n do t’ protect you from yonder death-storm. We’ve spent near an hour searchin’ for survivors in the storm’s cast-offs, and now we’re leavin’. Best we get away, so we c’n come back ’n’ save you from the Neherians.’

  ‘But if we don’t get out of the city, there will be no one left for you to save,’ said a woman.

  ‘Aye, well, I’m not leavin’ none o’ my men behind.’

  The second group arrived, with Seren and Tumar bearing Dagla between them. Sautea was with them, but looked no worse than winded.

  ‘Any sign of Noetos?’ the old seaman gasped.

  ‘None,’ said Bregor. ‘Nor of his children.’

  ‘We’ll wait here a moment then.’

  Captain Cohamma pushed between the lines of people patiently waiting at Suggate, leading his men through the gate.

  ‘Oy, that’s not fair,’ one man cried, and received a cuff for his trouble.

  ‘Fair or no, do you fancy explaining to a man with a sword why he has to wait?’ Bregor replied.

  The man nodded, apparently satisfied by this pragmatic answer, then resumed his nervous study of the rapidly closing wind funnels.

  Bregor watched with him. He’d earlier estimated perhaps two hundred people would remain this side of Suggate when the whirlwinds arrived—which they would, and soon, if they continued their present heading. Maybe only one hundred, he thought hopefully. The winds had slowed down, as though they searched…No, the fisherman was the one who always seemed to come up with a supernatural explanation for events. It’s a spring storm, that’s all. An enormous storm. No, an unheard-of storm. One that had chosen—no, not chosen, surely—had come ashore coincidentally at the same time as an invading Neherian fleet. One that had spawned five whirlwinds—four slender fingers and one enormous thumb—that searched the city, looking for…well, by all evidence, looking for Noetos.

  Of course it’s not a natural storm.

  Noetos put his hand on his belt and discovered the huanu stone was gone, along with his sword.

  Belatedly, he realised what some part of his mind had been trying to tell him. The stone and the sword have been missing for some time. At least since…since when? When had he lost the stone? A wave of nausea washed over him. He’d fallen in the water. No doubt the stone now rested at the bottom of the muddy harbour.

  Find it, Noetos told himself. Find it or die.

  There had been so many other times it might have been shaken loose: diving for cover when the lightning struck; during his swordplay with the Neherians; even wading Lecita Stream. He’d done that last twice. Ought he track every move he’d made in this cursed city?

  He was forgetting something, he knew it, but he had no idea what it was. Curse his fogged mind!

  The Oligarchs District obscured his view of the harbour. Half an hour there and back at a brisk walk, the best he could manage. Half an hour for Anomer and Arathé to survive the attentions of their unnatural stalkers. And this took no account of the time it would take to dive and recover the stone. Given he could find it, given he had the energy to make the dive, given no Neherians remained by the wharf to resist him. Every moment he hesitated added to the time his children would have to dodge the whirlwinds.

  His feet made the decision for him. The shortest route and hang the whirlwinds, they told him, and bore him along Artisans Way towards Midtown Bridge. The bridge will have been destroyed by the finger that chased us, his mind said, but his feet didn’t listen. They had chosen their path.

  But as the wreck of the Man-o’-War inn came into view, both mind and feet slowed him to a stumbling shuffle. Again his feet led the way, taking him from the wide roadway, its cobbles strewn either side of the whirlwind’s path, and into a narrow, debris-choked alley that led behind the inn.

  A memory had arisen in his mind, a remembrance of glancing around the bedroom he’d taken, checking no one was watching, then removing the huanu stone from his belt and placing it behind the mirror leaning against the wall. Of placing his belongings beside his pallet, of making his way to the taproom. Of seeing Omiy the faithless alchemist from the taproom window. Then witnessing the Neherian fleet and the storm. The alarm had sounded, he and his men had grabbed their swords from their rooms and run out into the street.

  Leaving the stone behind.

  He remembered. That was why he’d been able to touch his daughter on the dock.

  He’d left the stone to be…to be what? Taken by the whirlwind? Could the fingers touch the huanu stone? He was gambling that they could not.

  A swift glance over his shoulder confirmed what his ears were telling him: the fingers of Alkuon were busy razing the Artisans District, their attention drawn away from him for the moment. Drawn away by his children, he reminded himself.

  To his right the rear of the inn seemed relatively undamaged. A rickety stairway led upwards to the fire doors every building in Raceme was required to have. He placed a hand on the stair, gave it a shake, and leapt back when a crack was followed by a series of shudders. Through the rising dust he watched the stairway settle.

  He turned and left the alley, as there seemed no point in risking the climb. Even were the stairs to hold his weight, the door might�
�would—be barred from the inside. He had hoped the wind might have provided a way in.

  Well, of course, it had, after a fashion. The entire front of the inn was open to the skies, but the stairway from the tavern to the private taproom above had been set against the front wall; and wall and stairway both had been swallowed by the whirlwind. Standing back from the remains of the inn, he could see into the taproom. The bedrooms behind appeared more or less intact.

  Hauling himself up to the second floor taxed his aching muscles to their limits. He made use of dangling beams, sheets of metal, ropes and cords—anything that would give him a hand- or foothold. By the time he scrambled onto the creaking taproom floor, both his hands were bleeding and he had the beginnings of a bruise forming on his right leg, just below the knee.

  ‘Oh my,’ a familiar voice said as he pushed himself to his feet. ‘My, my, here’s the brave fisherman, yes indeed, come to pick up the stone he so carelessly left lying in his room, yes.’

  Noetos drew a deep breath. Olifa the alchemist, he whom his fellow miners called Omiy. ‘I have no doubt it’s no longer where I put it,’ Noetos said, breathing out in a long hiss.

  ‘No, indeed.’

  Omiy held out his hand, which cradled the huanu stone. Noetos looked at the man’s fingers wrapped around his daughter’s carved neck. He went for his sword—and then remembered, of course, that he didn’t have it.

  ‘My, my, my, you must be more careful with the contents of that belt,’ the alchemist said, his grin wide and taunting. ‘Do you think I would have made myself known, yes, taken this risk, if I’d seen your sword in its scabbard? Oh my, no!’

  In his pursuit of the stone, Noetos had forgotten the loss of his sword. In one sense he’d known it was missing: a sword thumps against the leg when a person runs, it rubs against the stomach when he bends over, it has a weight about it. His mind had simply slipped into old habits. And where had it gone? He’d fought the Neherians with it, then had fled with Mustar; together they’d disturbed two red-bibbed soldiers despoiling a woman; he’d taken the head of one of them, and, and…he had left his sword on the Summer Way, laid it aside to tend the woman who, it had turned out, was past any care he could offer.

  Clearly not so used to the weight of the blade that you’d notice if it were mislaid, aye?

  ‘Do you not think I can force you to surrender the stone using my hands alone?’ he said. The words were not convincing even to his ears.

  Omiy barked a laugh. ‘I note you have no thought of merely persuading me to hand it over, oh no. Not a man with any trust in his wits. No! Trusts his fists over his tongue, he does. Then let him use his fists—and fight this!’

  The alchemist reached over to the taproom’s small bar, snatched a bottle by its neck and broke it against the bar’s leading edge. The jagged edges of the broken pottery looked sharp enough to inflict serious damage.

  ‘I cannot let you live, my friend,’ the alchemist said as he took a careful step forward, the tip of his impromptu weapon steady in the air before his face. ‘Oh my, no. Can’t have someone dogging my trail, turning up unexpectedly at the most inconvenient times, ha!’

  Noetos had no weapon, and the alchemist clearly knew how to handle himself, but the fisherman found himself struggling to take the man seriously. An irritant, yes. But a killer?

  Yes. Omiy had used much more explosive than necessary on the slope of Saros Rake, and the trap meant to frighten the Recruiters who had taken Noetos’s family had engulfed captor and captive alike.

  The back of his head buzzed. Father, are you all right? What is happening? The words were a little blurry, as though something interfered with them. Father, can you hear me?

  ‘You don’t think I can use this, no, you do not,’ Omiy said. ‘You think I am a fool, oh yes, you do. You would do well to ask yourself how I survived amidst the miners of Eisarn Pit, yes, oh my, yes.’

  Father, speak quickly! Do you need help?

  Noetos’s first instinct was to shut Anomer’s voice out of his head. He needed to focus on the alchemist. He needed to keep the whirlwinds away from the inn…

  Keep talking to me, he thought at his son. Are you both safe?

  So far. One of the fingers came close, too close, but Arathé made herself small, somehow, in her mind and the wind turned away. Father, they turn away now, even as we speak. Where are you?

  Man-o’-War.

  In front of Noetos, Omiy had begun to look inquisitive. ‘Forgotten something, fisherman?’

  That’s where they are turning towards. Arathé!

  No, son. Let them come.

  ‘Don’t hurt me, Olifa,’ Noetos said, his arms outstretched. He edged to his right, aware of the drop to the street below somewhere behind him. ‘You can have the stone. It means nothing to me now I have rescued my son. There’s no need to kill me.’

  Who are you talking to? Who needs to kill you?

  Omiy hesitated. Noetos could almost see the alchemist’s thoughts written on his thin face. This man is a killer. I must be careful.

  ‘I am sorry, fisherman, I am, yes, for I recognise your good works. You saved many of my countrymen, oh my, so selfless you were, a hero. But this stone is a prize beyond your understanding, so it is, and you are not worthy to have your coarse fish-stained hands on it. Better it goes to someone with intelligence, someone who will not leave it lying in his room like some unregarded bauble—oh my…’

  His voice tailed off, his gaze drawn to something beyond the fisherman. Noetos felt the first stirring of wind behind him and heard the growl rise in volume.

  He had only a moment, and it was barely enough. His hand shot out and grasped the alchemist’s wrist below the sleeve of the man’s tunic and twisted hard. Omiy squealed, but did not let the broken bottle go. Instead, he tried to cut at the hand holding him. Fool. Noetos could have told him his best chance was to throw his weight behind the weapon in an attempt to skewer his opponent.

  He twisted Omiy’s wrist again, this time with both hands, and felt the man’s skin abrade beneath his rough palms. Blood welled between Noetos’s fingers. Omiy screamed and let the bottle drop.

  ‘No, fisherman!’ he cried. ‘You’ll not have it, no, you won’t!’ And he threw the carving as hard as he could in the direction of the approaching whirlwind.

  Noetos heard it crack against the cobbles below. He released Omiy, ducked under the man’s feeble swing, turned and threw himself after it.

  The huanu stone was unharmed: had he really expected anything else? That a stone capable of resisting magic could be broken by throwing it out of an inn and onto the street?

  As for Noetos, he was harmed by the fall. He landed on the balls of his feet and rolled sideways to dissipate the energy, as he’d been taught, but his left arm caught a pile of rubble and immediately went numb. He barely gave it a thought as he grabbed for the stone.

  Panic had made Omiy throw too soon. Had he been given time to think, Noetos judged, the alchemist would not have thrown the stone at all. Or perhaps Omiy didn’t know the storm was unnatural. Either way, Noetos was able to gather the carven head of his daughter, stuff it in his belt and set off at a hobbling run towards safety, shouting for Anomer to break the link between them as he ran. He received no reply; the link was already gone.

  Behind him, Omiy gave a great shriek as the whirlwind bore down on the shattered remains of the inn.

  Bregor tried to deal with his mounting fear, but it seemed repeated exposure to terror did little to dampen its effects. Where was that fool fisherman? As the thought crossed his mind, Noetos appeared as if conjured, hobbling up the road past the Money Exchange, one arm held closely against his body. Arathé followed close behind him. Just as Bregor wondered where Anomer was, the boy darted out from behind the stables to Bregor’s right and ran towards Suggate along the city wall.

  ‘Bregor,’ the Fisher cried, ‘get as many as you can through the gate, would you?’

  ‘We’re going as fast as we can already,’ Bregor told him.
‘Shouting at us won’t make things go any more quickly.’

  ‘Why is it taking so long?’ Noetos kept turning and glancing behind him.

  ‘What have you done, Fisher?’

  ‘You don’t have the right to know,’ was the retort.

  Fair enough, but not helpful. ‘You’re drawing those whirlwinds this way, aren’t you?’

  ‘You still haven’t told me why it’s taken so long to get these people through the gate.’

  ‘Because these people aren’t the ones you saw when you were here last. People keep emerging from all over the place. The line’s getting longer. And these are the less able-bodied, those who can’t scale the wall.’

  ‘Uh,’ the man grunted. ‘Get them through anyway. This won’t be a safe place to be in a few minutes.’ Noetos drew closer to him, still breathing heavily, one hand absently rubbing his left knee. ‘I’m going to try something. If it doesn’t work, and the storm takes me, Anomer and Arathé have to lead the whirlwinds away from the city. Therefore they will need to pass through that gate—so be ready to let them through. Or does everyone here want to die?’ The last question made it clear he knew he was talking to all who awaited passage through Suggate.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ he called again. ‘If I die, let these two pass. The whirlwinds will follow them.’

  ‘Then let them follow back in the city,’ a woman said. ‘We don’t want the fingers of the gods coming near us.’

  Noetos growled in frustration, and called his children over to him.

  ‘You’re certain of this?’ he asked them. Both nodded, eyes too bright.

  Bregor wondered how the Fisher had persuaded, or threatened, them in order to gain their cooperation, and how he might undo it. He had been as much a father to them as this boorish man. They were her children, far more so than his.

  ‘Find shelter,’ the fisherman growled at the crowd. ‘We’re making our stand here.’