Dark Heart (Husk)

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  The Neherians were more disciplined than that. And, he guessed, no one would want to be the man returning to Aneheri to answer the hard questions that might well attend this debacle. The public would demand blood, and the hanging trees would be full for weeks. So here came the army. Part of it, Neotos judged; but the longer they waited, the more he mistrusted that judgment. Eventually they turned their backs on the distant view of the city, from where soldiers still issued like ants from a damaged hill.

  The army might not be following them, of course. It might well be continuing the Neherian march northward. But Noetos considered this highly unlikely.

  He had found Duon lying unmoving on the rocks below the Summer Palace. His own leap had nearly foundered: he had plunged into the water with a breath-loosening smack, and a moment later scraped his elbows on the rocky seabed. How had he ever made this leap as a child? He had avoided hitting a rocky outcrop—the Thinking Seat, the local lads had called it; he’d sat on it many times—by less than an armspan. Had forgotten it was there. Duon, however, must have struck it with his trailing leg.

  Should have made the leap a few paces to the right, he’d thought as he examined the whey-faced man. Duon tried to lie still, tried to keep quiet, but his injuries were serious. If it had been the man’s own fault Noetos would have left him there. No question. Especially when it became clear that Duon’s magician would not—or could not—offer healing.

  Noetos was an excellent swimmer, unlike most fishermen he knew. Had learned in these very waters as a child. He had never tried to drag someone else though, and even finding a relatively efficient method—on his back, Duon’s head on his chest—did not make it easy. The Raceme children had measured the distance to Rings Beach in minutes, but it took Noetos hours.

  For every moment of those endless hours he fretted over swords and sharks. So far to come for the damnable Heirsword, and it threatened to drag him down into the black depths, along with Duon’s blade. The shark-patrolled depths. The port always used to attract wideheads and bigmouths, especially in spring and autumn, but the fishing fleet was out somewhere, hopefully having dragged the sharks with them. He thought of dropping the swords, but it would be then, of course, that the sharks would come to inspect the taste of blood Duon’s leg offered them. So he kept them, though they impeded his progress.

  There ought to have been a detachment of Neherian soldiers waiting on the beach to take them into custody. He would have ordered it. Perhaps the absence of such a detachment spoke much for the disorganisation in the palace. Certainly they had heard intermittent shouting echoing down the cliffs. Chaos, Noetos hoped.

  He hauled the waterlogged southerner onto the stony beach and inspected the leg by feel. Broken. He didn’t need Duon’s gasps to confirm that. An interminable time to find suitable pieces of driftwood in almost complete darkness, to splint and to use as a cane; then, just as they readied themselves for the long journey north, the moon came out from behind thick clouds.

  Oh, thanks.

  Noetos had tried bespeaking his children, but they were no doubt asleep, exhausted from the drain on their energies. He had not believed such power was possible: it had lasted far longer than during his original attempt to escape. None available now, however. Duon’s benefactor was still not responding, probably also asleep.

  Their initial progress northward was frantic, far too fast to be sustainable, but they had no choice, had to be well away from Raceme by first light. By the time they called a halt Duon was bleeding from the armpit, and Noetos was forced to remove his shirt and tear strips from it to make a pad to support the cane. More time wasted.

  Noon had come and gone, and now Noetos’s head was filled with calculations.

  Somewhere north of Buntha, a mile or so perhaps. The army will halt for water at Buntha. An hour or so at the longest and they will be on the move again. Six, maybe seven, hours until sunset. The Racemen fugitives are… he thought carefully…inland of Porasen, maybe as far north as Regar’s farm. We can’t make it ahead of the army.

  Yes, you can, came his daughter’s cool voice. We’ve been helping you since soon after dawn. How far have you come?

  Maybe twelve miles.

  More like fifteen, we think. In seven hours, along a hilly road, with only three good legs. We can speed things up a little more, but it will cost us.

  Is this a good idea? We are bringing the Neherian army down on top of you.

  They were coming anyway. How could they have known which way you would travel, except they already knew roughly where we were? They expect to find you here, with us. Whether you are actually here or not is irrelevant.

  So how is Cohamma preparing?

  He is not. He doesn’t believe us.

  What?

  He’s not even here. Anomer’s voice. He’s just left on horseback with a few of his cronies, off to ‘requisition supplies from Porasen’ as he puts it.

  Wait. We’re doing this wrong. Noetos thought a moment, his stomach sinking. Idiot! he told himself. Then to Anomer: Why can’t we send Seren and the others south with their donkeys?

  Oh, his children both said.

  Half a day lost through his foolishness. So dependent so quickly on his children’s magic, he’d forgotten he had sworn men. Seren, Tumar and Dagla from Eisarn Pit, and their donkeys. They still have their donkeys?

  I’ll ask, Anomer sent. A few minutes later he returned to Noetos’s mind: No donkeys. They were stabled behind the inn in Raceme and likely taken by the storm. But there are three perfectly good animals here with the refugees, and two of their owners are willing to lend them. Keep coming north. Seren will be with you soon.

  By mid-afternoon Duon had been secured to a travois ingeniously constructed by Seren and Noetos’s two remaining sworn men, and the fisherman listened with half his mind’s ear as his son berated him for continually ignoring the talents of others. Well-reasoned, with the best of intentions. You don’t understand, Noetos wanted to say in response. Trust leads to betrayal.

  Anomer must have been able to read the thought, but said nothing in response. Wisely, Noetos considered.

  The Neherians overtook them just before dusk.

  The signs of the approaching army were manifold. Thousands afoot—Noetos had no real idea how many, but that seemed as good a guess as any—attracted scavenging birds and created dust clouds on dry roads. Noetos used these signs to tell how fast the army travelled in relation to his own men, and took his group off the road and into shelter amidst thick bracken well before the Neherians caught them.

  The army had scouts foraging ahead, but they seemed more interested in finding a campsite with convenient access to water than in uncovering spies.

  About fifteen hundred, Noetos reported to Anomer as the last of them, the old and footsore, trailed past under the baleful eye of a sergeant obviously tasked with keeping any recalcitrant soldiers up to task. Has Seren arrived yet?

  The canny mining foreman and he had spent a fruitful hour chatting, and as a result Seren had left the others behind and jogged back towards the Racemen camp.

  He needs to get there soon, Noetos added on hearing the negative response. Are you on the move?

  I don’t like your plan, Anomer said. It’s no better than your ambush at Saros Rake.

  It’s not my plan, son, and you know it. I described the location and Seren filled in the details. It is his plan. Time you overcame your bitterness, Anomer.

  Noetos had wondered if non-verbal communication could come through the mind-link, and his suspicions were confirmed by the wordless anger that flooded his mind. So the ocean calls the river wet!

  You’re barely a brook, lad, much less a river. Come, suggest a viable alternative that confronts the certainty of contact with the Neherians and protects our vulnerable women and children. I’ll listen.

  That’s just it, Father. There is no alternative to flight. Our trick works against a few. But we cannot oppose a thousand.

  If all goes well, we won’t have to. Just
concentrate on getting the refugees moving.

  Very well. And Cohamma? What if he has betrayed us?

  That, Noetos admitted, I have no plan to deal with.

  The moon had risen behind a thin wash of cloud by the time Noetos gained the relocated refugee camp. A cheer went up from around a few of the hearths as he strode past, leading the donkey, whose ears twitched at the noise. Arathé hugged him, then explained what they had done for him during his slaughter of the Neherian court, and what it had cost the Racemen.

  ‘You drew on their essenza? A thousand and more?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it being done on such a scale,’ his daughter signed. ‘I am not experienced in magic, but I thought the principle should hold. If a magician can draw a great deal from a few, why not draw a little from a great many?’

  ‘We did not expect such widespread symptoms,’ Anomer said, describing the superficial cuts and bleeding suffered by many of the refugees. ‘Our reading is, the more wholly someone gave of themselves, the more seriously they were affected. We think there are a few here with genuine water magic abilities, and they suffered most. One elderly woman near bled to death from a cut to her arm, and we have half-a-dozen neck wounds being tended to.’

  Noetos had trouble interpreting the stare that accompanied these words. His son wanted some kind of response from him…

  ‘You might want to thank these people,’ Anomer said eventually, his voice carrying more than a hint of condemnation.

  ‘Of course,’ Noetos replied, but in truth the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Why not? Have you become so fixated on your goal you’ve forgotten people? That was what his children would say.

  There would be plenty of time later to thank those who had suffered for him. Once they were safe. Right now he had to check on Seren’s progress; the Neherians would be here soon after dawn.

  A disturbance some way off drew his worried attention. Has the camp been found by a scout? He forced himself to relax. The Neherians would know where they were by the same signs he used to track them. Nothing to be done for it.

  A moment later Captain Cohamma and a couple of his soldiers came stumbling across their cooling hearth. ‘What yer bin up to?’ the captain asked, leaning forward. ‘Don’t recall y’ bein’ here when we d’cided t’ make camp back there. Cain’t camp here. The lake’s poison.’

  ‘I haven’t got time to argue, Captain,’ Noetos replied. ‘Seren, hold him.’

  ‘Whaa?’ The captain opened his toothless mouth in surprise as Noetos’s sworn men secured him and his soldiers, tying ropes around their wrists and ankles. ‘You gunna leave us here fer the ’herians to make sport wiv?’

  ‘No. Anomer here will explain to you what we’re doing. I have more important business to attend to.’ He turned on his heel and walked off.

  ‘High ’n’ mighty one, isn’t he,’ he heard the captain say. He waited for his children to contradict Cohamma, but either their reply was too quiet for him to hear or they chose not to answer. He’d heard nothing further by the time he was out of earshot and it did little to improve his mood.

  A pale dawn revealed the Neherians marching through the notch in the hills surrounding the lake. Lake Woe it was known as by the locals, but marked as Turtle Lake on the maps of the Roudhos dukedom. Noetos was gambling a considerable amount on those old maps being the source of Neherian knowledge.

  Lake Woe had no outlet. It was set among rocky gold-bearing hills, with the one relatively flat area, on the northern shore, occupied by the refugees. Perhaps half a mile across, the lake was fed by ten or so small streams, some of which flowed only in the rainy season of late autumn and early winter. As Noetos watched the Neherians file down towards the opposite shore, a gentle breeze stirred the thin mist draped across the surface of the water.

  ‘Looks enticing,’ Anomer said, grimacing.

  Noetos grunted a reply. ‘You sure you found all the warning signs?’ he asked one of the locals they had rounded up during the night.

  ‘Yar.’ The man was actually chewing on a straw, Noetos noted. A walking cliché. At least he was relaxed, which was more than could be said for most of those gathered here.

  ‘Go,’ Noetos said to Cohamma. Against Noetos’s better judgment the man had been restored to command over a hundred or so guardsmen and soldiers, all that had survived from the Neherian attack and subsequent whirlwinds. He had needed the captain’s men, needed every man he could get, and therefore needed the captain, as nervous as he made Noetos feel.

  The order made its way down the chain, and the soldiers burst out from the refugee camp in an untidy wave, making for the ridge above them. Feigning panic.

  The Neherians will sound a trumpet. The excited baying of what sounded like a dozen trumpeters echoed around the basin as he finished the thought. Predictable thus far.

  But they did not remain so. Some stupid commander barked an order audible across the lake, and the Neherian forces split in two. Half the army set off in a westward direction around the shore, half eastward. As easily as that, the plan foundered.

  ‘No, no, what are they doing?’ Noetos shook his head. ‘Neherians never split their forces. Arathé, we’re going to need your help after all. Anomer, your sword.’ Brusque orders, positioning his loved ones like pieces in a game.

  Around the lake the Neherians came, silent save for the tramp of steel-shod boots on stone.

  ‘Could they have guessed what I planned?’ he wondered aloud.

  ‘Seren,’ Anomer said shortly. Noetos turned to him quizzically. ‘What Seren planned.’

  ‘Aye.’

  The creeks came down from gold claims up in the notched and ragged hills. Noetos had been here a few times as a child, the guest of his father’s castellan, whose own grandfather had been the first to discover gold in recoverable quantities in these hills. Most of the profit had been taken quickly, but some miners had stayed on, eking out an existence of sorts from what remained. Such work required creative extraction methods, and Noetos remembered an intricate system at the head of one of these creeks: water races and wooden aqueducts supplying a sluicing operation with water. A dam had been built to hold the water until it was required. The locals had confirmed its existence and good repair. Late in his sleepless night, Noetos had been escorted a mile up the wide eastern valley to see the dam, and pronounced himself satisfied.

  Seren and the Eisarn miners were up there now. Their lookout would give them the signal when the Neherians passed a predetermined spot.

  Noetos left them to it. He had to. A wooden bridge spanned the largest of the western creeks. Deep but narrow, the creek could perhaps be leapt by a determined man, but such a man would need to divest himself of armour and sword, and would take a moment to recover. The Neherians would try the bridge, at least until Noetos and his son made them fear it.

  ‘It’s a holding action at best,’ Noetos told Anomer as they ran for the bridge. ‘I don’t like our odds. What possessed them to split their forces?’

  A loud boom echoed around the hills. For a minute or so the Neherians halted, both parts of their army trying to see what had caused the noise. Come on, don’t wait too long. Noetos willed the eastern half of the army to move. The western half, of course, could remain there all day and make him happy doing so. Of course, the western army moved first.

  The refugees moved towards the eastern side of the lake, as though in a panic. They might well be in a panic.

  Noetos himself felt nauseous. There seemed so little chance of success now, and their flea-bites on the Neherian hides would serve only to anger them. The refugees would be slaughtered, and the blame would be his.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he said, willing the Neherians on the far shore to move forward, while at the same time wishing he could discourage those on his side of the lake.

  The first Neherians eased themselves down into the eastern creek bed. Perhaps a hundred paces away the refugees waited.

  It had been a good plan. No, Noetos admitted. It had sounded
like a good plan. But no plan involving vastly inferior forces had much chance of succeeding. Not if the enemy avoided the subterfuge.

  The Neherians to the east had begun clambering out of the creek. What has happened to the flood? At least fifty of them were already up on the flat land and advancing towards the refugees, who now backed away in terror, knowing something had gone wrong.

  Damn, Cohamma, release your soldiers!

  He could spare no further thought for the eastern shore. The other half of the army now approached the wooden bridge. With a sigh, Noetos stepped out from behind a rock and strode to the middle of the bridge.

  Eager shouts told him he had been seen. Fearful shouts followed, indicating he’d been recognised. Good. A last glance behind: the eastern creek was finally filling up, but far too slowly. And not with the rush of water Seren had promised. A few Neherians lost their footing, but in nowhere near sufficient numbers to create the chaos he’d hoped for.

  And still Cohamma held his soldiers back. An awful suspicion began to form in Noetos’s mind. Cohamma has fled, taking his soldiers with him. Or worse, he has betrayed us to the Neherians. Where did he go this afternoon?

  The soldiers on this side of the lake were behaving cautiously. Clearly the stories had circulated throughout the army; even more clearly, they had been exaggerated. Not that they needed much exaggeration. Noetos imagined the effect that ballroom would have had on anyone seeing it.

  A shouted command. The front rank knelt, and archers emerged from behind them. They drew and fired in a moment.

  ‘Anomer! Can you do anything?’

  From the buzzing in Noetos’s head, the boy and Arathé were already acting. Arrows began to clatter around them, but those coming too close caught fire. The arrowheads dropped to the ground short of their target. A second volley was dealt with in the same way, but Noetos noticed some untouched arrows landed extremely close. One thunked into the wood two paces from him.

  ‘That’s all we can raise, Father,’ Anomer said.