Dark Heart (Husk)

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  ‘Then why don’t you talk to your children?’

  The big man grunted, and Duon was glad he couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face. ‘I would have thought the answer self-evident,’ Noetos said. ‘I hoped to be back before they knew I had gone.’ Another grunt. ‘Though don’t put it to them like that.’

  ‘Why didn’t Arathé just listen to your mind, like she can mine?’

  ‘Because I have no magic,’ the bear replied. ‘Now, we must move on. The sky brightens as we have a conversation we could have had to the north of here with much less risk.’

  ‘Though with much less cause,’ Duon responded. The bear-man favoured him with another grunt.

  He has no magic? Is the reason I can hear his children, then, because I do have magic?

  It took them some time to thread their way down a narrow, debris-strewn street to the alley the big man had described as his goal. He had clearly underestimated the time it would take to gain his objective: by the time they drew near, the eastern rim of the world glowed yellow, rapidly driving the purple night away to the west. They would have a difficult task in extricating themselves from Raceme without being discovered by the Neherians.

  Duon found walking a little easier in the growing light. They were aided by the fact that someone had cleared a path through the rubble; obviously, this was a main thoroughfare. Something about that thought made Duon uneasy.

  ‘Here it is,’ the bear said, and turned towards a dark notch in the buildings to their left. He bent down to pick up something hidden in the shadows.

  ‘Noetos!’ Duon hissed, as he realised what had been bothering him. It’s a main thoroughfare, so where are the people?

  ‘Yours?’ a melodious, high-pitched voice asked, and a small man wearing what passed in the north for battle dress stepped forward from the deeper shadows of the alley. ‘Or are you engaging in some creative salvage?’

  Noetos’s hand halted a finger’s-width from the sword, then darted forward and grasped the hilt. Duon could see what the big man could not: at least two feet stood on the blade, their owners shrouded in shadow. Noetos tugged at the sword, then let go and stood back. The look in the baulked bear’s eye made all the skin on Duon’s body prickle, from the forehead down through neck, chest, hands, knees. Anger unfettered by sanity’s restraints.

  Someone will breathe their last here today, he thought.

  ‘Secure them,’ said the small man. A half-dozen men moved at the command.

  In the back of Duon’s mind a girl’s voice cried in anguish.

  I will try my best to ensure it is not your father, he reassured her. Though what he could do was not clear; and his options, such as they were, became further limited when hands grasped him from behind. He was relieved of his own blade and his hands were bound. Duon did not bother to struggle, nor did he even turn around to acknowledge his captors. All his attention was on the burly bear-man and the Neherian asking him questions.

  ‘That is my sword,’ was all Noetos said as his hands were tied.

  ‘Well, that saves a whole series of questions,’ the Neherian replied, and mimed rolling up a scroll and casting it to the ground. ‘I might as well not have bothered thinking them up. What is the point of an elaborate trap when the quarry locks the cage himself?’

  Laughter came from the shadows behind the Neherian, and from those standing behind Duon. At least twenty men, the captain estimated.

  ‘If it is yours,’ the effete Neherian continued inexorably, ‘then you must be the heir of Roudhos.’

  The bear’s anger rose another notch, if it were possible. Duon wondered how anyone could stand to look on him, so intense did it burn.

  ‘And if you know that, you must know why the sword is mine and not my father’s,’ came the words, falling like rocks torn from a bluff.

  ‘Aye, I’ve been told.’

  ‘Told? More than told, if memory serves. I remember a voice like yours in a certain clearing some years ago.’ The effort Noetos was exercising in restraint was obvious: his body shook, and his voice seemed to clamber up from a death-pit. He closed his eyes as though remembering. ‘“Not the boys! Leave the boys!” you said.’ The eyes opened. ‘Wanted my brothers for yourself, did you?’

  ‘I have no doubt the incident had an impact on you,’ the Neherian said, his features pinching together. ‘Yes, I was there. You were smaller, I recall.’

  ‘I was still bigger than you,’ Noetos sneered. ‘Do you think I would have forgotten you? I doubt there are many back-passagers even in the Neherian army.’

  The man coloured a little. ‘Your insults are worthless if they do not hit their mark,’ he said. ‘For what it is worth, I found the whole incident distasteful, and tried repeatedly to dissuade my commanding officer from following his orders with such vigour—at some risk to myself.’

  ‘Did you now? You found the incident distasteful? Such a slippery word to describe torture, rape and death, don’t you think?’ The big man breathed in a series of grunts, struggling with his emotions, but still made no effort to resist his captors.

  ‘I will discuss this no further here,’ said the Neherian. ‘You have a meeting with the general of our Army of Peace in his room at the Summer Palace. He will not appreciate being kept waiting.’

  Noetos moved suddenly, jerking forward towards the small Neherian, towing half a dozen soldiers who tried unsuccessfully to restrain him. Three soldiers with swords barred him from reaching his quarry.

  ‘I am going to kill you.’ The bear-man stared into the Neherian’s eyes as he spoke. ‘I will not make you suffer unnecessarily, but you will die at my hands. This I foretell on the life of my children.’

  Blood fled from the Neherian’s face. Something significant had just happened, but Duon did not know enough about northern culture to work out what. He remembered from his previous journey that the Neherians were very religious, believing in their own gods. Perhaps the bear had done something very clever.

  As the sun rose in flames above the harbour below, Noetos and Duon were led by their captors towards a large, low-slung stone building dominating the hill ahead. As they drew closer it was apparent that the building had suffered recent damage. Some force—it must have been the whirlwind—had plucked stones from the building’s walls. Duon’s keen eyes noted stony detritus at the base of the promontory that might well have come from the building. The magnitude of the destruction became clearer as they passed what could only be the remains of a building thrown down from above. Duon flicked his eyes upwards to where the shards of a tower protruded from the stone building like a broken tooth.

  He continues to ignore us, came Arathé’s desperate voice. Is he still alive?

  Yes, Duon sent back. But the Neherians have us. Your father will need help, I think. We are being taken to the Summer Palace.

  Thank you, friend, she said. We will do what we can.

  Duon thought that all very well, but who would help him?

  They were beaten before being taken into the presence of the Neherian general. The assault was all the more frightening for its perfunctoriness: Duon could tell the soldiers were not really trying, and were capable of much more. The Neherians gossiped amongst themselves as they laid in with fists and sticks. Duon had never suffered such a thing, his most painful prior experience having been an unfortunate boxing mismatch with an older man who had later revealed himself as a former champion. The helplessness and shame hurt far more than the blows.

  ‘Not a good idea of yours to follow me, eh?’ the bear said almost conversationally as they rolled together on the floor.

  ‘Be quiet,’ one of their captors said in a bored voice.

  ‘Don’t resist them,’ Noetos continued regardless. ‘They won’t do any serious damage before we get to meet the commander.’

  He received a blow in the mouth for that: Duon saw the man’s bottom lip spurt blood before a kick to his own back made him writhe away.

  He almost told the bear that his children were coming to
rescue him. The cynical voice saved him. Not wise, it said. Do you think the fool wants his children captured by the Neherians? Understand that this man wishes to suffer and die. He thinks it is what he deserves for his cowardice. But he wants his offspring to live. He will not react well if told his children are coming.

  So Duon kept quiet and waited until the beating ceased, hoping the pain would stop soon. The cynical voice chuckled, as though savouring his agony. My brave captain, he thought he heard it say, you do not know what pain is.

  He came to on his feet, swaying drunkenly, his eyes stinging and a ringing in his ears. He tried to rub his left eye, which seemed half-closed, and discovered his hands were still bound behind his back. He coughed and spat out something thick and wet; a tremendous clout to the back of his head sent him to his knees.

  ‘It is not a wise idea to show disrespect to the one who has your life in his hands,’ said a gentle voice some distance away. ‘Stand him up and wipe his face.’

  The soldiers did as they were bid. Duon turned towards the direction from which the voice had come: a man in his sixties sat on a makeshift wooden throne atop a dais, itself on a stone platform a step higher than the flagged floor. He and Noetos were led the twenty paces it took to have them standing directly in front of the man, then forced to kneel before the throne.

  The large chamber in which they knelt was open to the cool morning wind: the windows, once stained glass by the look of the few fragments remaining, had been destroyed either by the storm or by the Neherians. If there was a difference. Duon wondered if the Neherians had a magician capable of such things. He wondered if the magician sat on the throne before him. He wondered if he himself was a magician, and how he might find out.

  ‘You are uglier than I remember,’ Noetos said hoarsely beside him. ‘And before your smallbrains beat me for not adding whatever honorific you insist on, allow me to thank you for granting my life’s most ferocious wish.’

  ‘One to the head,’ the man said. ‘Every time he addresses me without the correct appellation, give him another. At some point he’ll start guessing. Roget, you can open a book on the matter.’

  One of the soldiers approached, swung his staff and cracked the bear on the side of the head. Down the man went in a heap, legs and arms twitching.

  ‘I will break my fast while we wait,’ said the man on the throne. ‘Bring me bread and wine.’

  Someone scurried off, his boots echoing across the stone chamber. All was quiet save the ragged breathing of the man on the floor.

  ‘Douse him with water,’ the enthroned man commanded, and it was done. ‘Haul him to his feet.’ Noetos drooped between two soldiers, who grunted as they tried to keep him upright. ‘Slap his face.’ This had the desired effect.

  ‘So, Noetos, son of Demios, son of cursed Baran, last Red Duke of Roudhos, it is pleasure and pain to see you again. Pleasure for me, pain for you.’ No change in expression accompanied the man’s words.

  Ah, said the cynical voice at the back of Duon’s head. Ah!

  ‘Your family has not had much luck, has it,’ the man continued. ‘Your grandfather was staked and burned for disobeying the Undying Man during the Falthan War. Your father made a bid for the vacant Roudhos throne, in direct disobedience of the Edict of Andratan, and the last I saw of him, his head was some distance from his body and still bouncing. That was the sword involved, as I recall.’ He extended a hand towards a sword propped up against the throne. ‘And now you, in which the saddest of Fisher Coast tales is about to come to an end. I should have struck off your head as well, but my second-in-command persuaded me otherwise. To this day I don’t know what I was thinking.’ He smiled, and Duon wished he had not. ‘Perhaps I was distracted by the sweet smell of your sisters on me, or the sight of your brothers being torn apart by my dogs. No, I remember what it was. The knowledge that you would wander the world, beggared, knowing what you had lost, added savour to my every memory of the day I all but extinguished the line of Roudhos.’

  ‘You are not as strong as you make out,’ the bear said, his words slurred, blood in his mouth. ‘You are a weakling with no feel for real cruelty. I will die happy in the knowledge that because Neherius is ruled by fools like you, it will not survive.’

  ‘Not so hard this time,’ said the man on the throne.

  The staff swished through the air, took Noetos above the ear and dropped him to the floor.

  ‘I apologise, Majestic One,’ the soldier said, then put a hand to his mouth.

  ‘No matter.’ Whether a response to the blow or to revealing the man’s appellation, Duon could not tell. ‘I have questions for this other one.’

  The throne’s gaze settled on Duon. ‘Your name?’

  ‘Duon, Majestic One.’

  The man expelled air from his mouth; Duon supposed it was a laugh. ‘A quick study, I see. Very good. Why are you here in the company of this fool?’

  Duon repeated the words the cynical voice fed him. ‘I am a thief-taker, Majestic One,’ he said. ‘For some months I have been searching for a man suspected of selling his catch direct to the Tocharan market without going through the Fishmongers Guild. This is without doubt the man I am seeking. With your permission, Majestic One, I will take custody of him and present him to the Tocharan authorities.’

  The man laughed economically; a word that seemed to summarise everything he did. The laughter suggested to Duon his gambit had not worked.

  ‘Where are you from, thief-taker?’

  ‘Jalbeth in the Jasweyan Mountains, Majestic One.’

  ‘I know it well. You would know, then, the name of the most famous man to emerge from that village?’

  ‘Majestic One, you can only mean Deorc, the right hand of the Undying Man, who was lost in the Falthan War.’

  The cynical voice buzzed angrily in the back of Duon’s head. Duon ignored it.

  ‘You are a strange colour for a Jasweyan.’

  ‘That I am, Majestic One,’ said Duon, thinking quickly; the cynical voice had gone silent. ‘My parents came from a land far to the south, or so they said, though I never believed much of what they told me. There all men were dark of skin like me.’

  ‘Enough,’ the Neherian said. ‘You would have been more convincing had you confined yourself to the truth. Still, all families mask their true origins with deceit. This one, for example,’ he said, gesturing towards Noetos, who struggled to rise from the floor, ‘claimed to be descended from the most ancient line of southern kings. The only problem was that after his grandsire’s traitorous actions, it was a claim best forgotten.’ He sighed, as if genuinely regretful. ‘And now this man returns to recover the Sword of Roudhos he’d so carelessly left lying on the street. Did he think we would not have noticed it? Or that he could sneak into our city unseen? All we had to do was watch and wait. He would do well to look upon that blade, for it will be by this sword his life ends.’

  ‘And me, Majestic One?’ Duon could not help asking. ‘How will my life end?’

  ‘Who knows? At the end of a blade like this one perhaps, or lying screaming in bed, the victim of some whore’s pox. What I do know is that you have volunteered for the Army of Peace. Neherius thanks you, soldier. Galter here will give you the necessary equipment—though not a blade, not yet.’

  With a roar, Noetos exploded into life. Duon had no time to contemplate his intended fate, no time to summon outrage or to generate fear. He turned just in time to see the bear-man break his bonds with a twitch of his wrists—bonds Duon would have sworn were unbreakable. Blood from his wrists spattered the floor.

  A blade flashed. It should have taken Noetos’s head, but the man darted forward with impossible speed. Behind him the sword bit air. The sound turned Duon’s head, an instinctive reaction; he turned back to see Noetos already in possession of his father’s sword. He held it to the neck of the man on the throne.

  Apart from the one soldier who had loosed his sword, no one else had done more than begin to move. The echoes from the bear’s roar
still reverberated around the stone chamber.

  Duon realised the back of his head was uncannily warm.

  A thought came to him: what if the Neherians decided to use him as a bargaining piece, his life to be traded against that of their Majestic One? He tried to move, but his wrists were held firmly by the soldiers behind him. His head grew hotter still, to the point where he wondered if his hair had caught fire.

  ‘Now, Noetos—’ the man on the throne began.

  ‘Those were your last words,’ the bear growled. ‘I grant you no final speeches, no chance to deny what you are or what you have done. I want to hear none of it.’

  Before anyone could react he slid his blade across the man’s neck.

  ‘Die like a dog,’ he said as the man’s hands sprang towards his opened throat.

  Neherians from all sides leapt at Noetos, but before they could reach him he…wasn’t there. Duon had caught a flicker of movement, no more. Shouting erupted across the chamber. Steel clashed with steel. Duon waited to be cut down.

  Go!

  The pain at the back of his head had become agonising. He raised his hands to his hair, then stopped, frozen with surprise that he had been able to do so. His hands were unbound, though the marks of the rope were visible as he examined them.

  Did I do that? he asked stupidly.

  The cynical voice sighed, a sound like the collapse of a furnace.

  A hand on his shoulder. ‘Take this.’ The bear stood beside him, pressing a blade into his hand. ‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘I’ll protect you.’

  Three of the Neherians were down, but the rest—at least twenty, with more coming judging by the shouts and sounds of slapping feet—had them surrounded.

  Duon wondered what would kill him first: the blade of a Neherian or the fire in his brain.

  Noetos stepped forward, then blurred. A soldier to their right fell, his head exploding with redness. He had not reached the flagstones before two more fell back, clutching at their chests.

  He’ll not be able to keep this up. Help him!

  Duon turned and raised his sword, barely meeting the unseen curved blade descending towards his head. Absurdly, he had time enough to notice the exquisite scroll pattern adorning the leading edge of the man’s sword. Were those winged fish flying amongst the scrolls? He knocked the blade out of the way with surprising ease, then stepped sideways and inside the guard of another Neherian.