Dark Heart (Husk)

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  The Hegeoman made to reply, but Noetos found he really wasn’t concerned, and told them so.

  ‘You’ll ignore my advice anyway,’ he said. ‘You’ll have this man rule over you, despite the fact he cannot protect you and your children. Ask him how well he protected his own village! And one day—one day soon—the Neherians, or some other force, will appear and you won’t be able to run fast enough.’

  This is ridiculous, he told himself as he harangued them with his frightening words. No, not his words; his father the strategist’s. Words Noetos thought he’d paid no attention to; indeed, had been punished for not learning. Evidently he had learned them.

  But what he had not learned was to know when to keep those words to himself. These people were determined to rebuild; and, really, could he blame them? Could he do anything but admire their courage? Was what they intended any more dangerous than his stated goal of marching north to beard the Undying Man in his lair?

  Anomer was right. He needed to control his tongue.

  ‘Let us hope that day never comes,’ he said by way of apology. ‘Or, if it does, you have a plan prepared to deal with it. In the meantime, go with my blessing.’

  Lame, insincere, and Bregor would know it.

  Rather than thanking Noetos for his kind words, and with no recognition of what they had cost him, the Hegeoman glowered at him. ‘I don’t know what has possessed you of late,’ he said, ‘but you have even less tolerance than you once had. Rather than wishing a broken people well, you harangue them, frightening those who need assurance. Did you care that some of the men standing here have lost their wives or children today? Fisher, you are a poison. Take that mouth of yours away and use it on the Undying Man. Maybe after you’ve had your say to him you’ll be of some use to someone.’

  A dozen retorts filled his mouth. He hesitated a moment, purely through a desire to select the most incisive one.

  ‘My, your family has loud voices.’

  Noetos jumped: who was this? He had not heard the stranger come alongside him; the tall man who had emerged first from Lake Woe. With his white robe billowing in the rising afternoon breeze the man ought to have been visible from some distance away, but such had been Bregor’s and Noetos’s preoccupation, the tall figure had been able to drift, cloud-like, up to them.

  ‘Loud voice? It’s an open space, in case you hadn’t noticed. How else ought one to communicate?’ Noetos knew he sounded peevish, but he’d had enough of justifying himself. ‘Besides, if you have been observing us, as it appears you have, you will have noticed my daughter does not have a voice at all.’

  Appropriate rebuke selected, he turned back to Bregor, who awaited his reply with chin raised belligerently.

  ‘I’m not referring to your physical voice,’ the man said, and instantly Noetos sharpened his focus on the speaker, ignoring Bregor. ‘A number of your people use mind-voices in ways I have never before heard. I wish to talk with you about this. And before you object, there are dangers as well as benefits to using mind-speech of any kind. You really ought to hear what I have to say, unless you truly do not value the lives of those you speak with.’

  A sliver of fear worked its way into Noetos’s mind. A part of him had wondered whether what his children had done for him—through him—carried risks as well as rewards. What it might already have cost them. He had successfully suppressed his concern, but it was there. ‘Don’t use what you don’t understand,’ Cyclamere had told him once, when showing him a variety of weapons. He’d handed Noetos two sticks linked by a length of chain. ‘A very effective weapon, this.’ Noetos had grabbed hold of one of the sticks and swung the other, only to strike himself a stinging blow on the wrist. ‘Point demonstrated,’ his teacher had exclaimed with satisfaction.

  ‘I’ll hear you,’ Noetos said, his right hand unconsciously rubbing his left wrist. ‘After the evening meal. I’ll bring those who might profit from your words. But your people need to do some explaining. We’ll need your names at the least, and you’ll need to explain what you are doing here, and that trick with the fire and the lake. There’s a lot going on here that no one understands.’

  The tall man stared down at him. ‘And there you have our motivation,’ he said in a voice as smooth as oil. ‘We need to understand what is happening here as much as you do. We will meet you here at sunset.’

  Noetos had nodded, turned and walked a dozen paces before he realised he had been commanded and dismissed by an experienced leader. He would think about this over whatever scraps the food-gatherers had been able to find.

  With the low overcast sky characteristic of northern Saros in early summer, the exact time of sunset was difficult to determine. So Noetos herded his people up the gully to the meeting place while there was still plenty of light. One or two of the southerners had not had the time to find something to eat, but this meeting, Noetos judged, was more important.

  The raw, stony gully gave way to the flat-bottomed depression in which Bregor had met with the men of Raceme that afternoon. In the fading light it looked a forlorn place. Scrubby thorn bushes obscured much of the human detritus, but enough of the gold workings remained visible for Noetos to judge it had once been an important site for the precious metal, and lucrative, at least for the few who had established themselves there first, if it was like most sites in this region. Lucrative, too, for the suppliers of food and liquor, and the moneylenders and whores. The way of things meant that most of the miners would have made little, if any, profit from all the days and months of hazardous, back-breaking work.

  There had once been a town here, Seren had told him, that went by the name of Knife In The Back. Noetos remembered coming across such a town on one of the old maps he’d pored over as a child, along with other names such as Last Chance, Stony Ground and Waste O’ Time. They evoked scenes of chaotic vigour in his mind: grizzled miners cheek by jowl with oily salesmen and others desiring to part the miners from their wealth.

  There was plenty of evidence to show the town’s existence. In the centre of the open space a lone chimney stood, but the foundations of other buildings could be discerned, overgrown as they were. Scratching in the dirt would reveal tools or other cast-offs: buckles, coins, scraps of cloth. And there were the workings themselves. The most obvious was the cliff behind where the town had stood, formed by the miners sluicing away the front half of the hill. Tailings of loose stone lay across the landscape. The effect was one of desolation.

  The sort of place Noetos would have loved to play in as a child; but as an adult it unsettled him, reminding him of the impermanence of human endeavour. The failure of plans and hopes. No doubt those who had founded this place were as dedicated as Bregor and his Racemen, or as Noetos himself in his plan to go north and expose Andratan for the place of evil it was.

  Well, at least I get to select the ground, he thought. Then realised he was treating the upcoming meeting as though it were a battle and he was identifying the most advantageous place for his army. Reacting to everything as though it was a threat. In this case I may well be justified. It was just a feeling, but it was strong. He would not ignore it.

  He chose a pile of sluice tailings—large, moss-covered stones embedded in crumbling dirt—and directed Anomer and Arathé to find a comfortable place to sit. From here they could see the entrance to the basin. Moreover, there were two other piles close by, larger but not as high. Small advantages, but who knew when such things might become important?

  The four southerners seated themselves on the tailings to Noetos’s right. A strange group, and one about which he had a number of questions. Why, for example, did they appear so different? Dark-skinned Captain Duon, his hair long and straight, beard dark and wild, the picture of an explorer. The mercenary Dryman, hair and beard trimmed, features broad, eyes deep and widely set apart, showing no traces of the fear that had overcome him when the newcomers had arrived in their firestorm. And the ill-matched couple—obviously a couple, though by their careful gestures it appeared they sought
to prevent others realising it. The cosmographer and the Omeran. The latter considered an animal in the south, apparently, though he looked human enough, despite extraordinary black skin and a powerful, thick-set body. And the former, a woman of considerable beauty, despite her lack of grooming. Certainly she was of northern stock, if her companions were anything to go by. She reminded him disconcertingly of Opuntia, actually. It was the eyes, he decided: piercingly direct, even more so than those of his wife. His former wife. But this woman’s whole being was marred by an intellectual lack, as though part of her brain had not grown, or had been removed. Not a woman he wanted to be near, but one—if Arathé was right—who might be necessary in understanding what was happening to them all.

  And as the third group strode into the clearing, their white robes dull now in the fading light, Noetos could sense something gathering, a faint thrumming on the connection between himself and his daughter, as though someone plucked it with a giant finger. As Noetos had planned, the newcomers seated themselves atop the third and least significant of the three tailings mounds. Five of them had elected to come: the two tall men, who looked like brothers; the young woman, her black hair and deep eyes shining; the soldier, who sat with his weight on his feet, as though ready to spring into action; and the short, stout man who had collapsed when they had emerged from the lake.

  ‘Well we are met,’ the tallest of the strangers said in perfect, cultured Bhrudwan, instantly taking control of proceedings. ‘I will speak in the language of this land, as I know it well. Please feel free to translate my words for those who do not speak it.’ His clear gaze held them all. ‘There are stories to be told, warnings to be issued and statements to be made. Let the first statement be made now.’

  Noetos opened his mouth to speak—to take the initiative now or lose it forever—and then realised he would never have it, not in this company. Another faint plucking, and the scraggly bushes between the three mounds burst into flame.

  ‘We will need light,’ the tall man said by way of explanation, as the blue flames crackled in the thorn bushes without appearing to consume them. ‘And, later, warmth. Should anyone wish to take over the provision of light and heat, please let me know.’

  He is fishing, Noetos realised. Trying to find out if anyone else has the sorcery he does.

  ‘Tell us about yourselves,’ he asked the man, civilly enough, he thought. ‘Your names, your home towns, your abilities, and what brings you here.’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ the man responded, as though sanctioning it with his agreement. ‘With your permission, then?’

  With or without your permission, he means, and everyone here knows it.

  ‘I am Heredrew, an adventurer and sorcerer from Haurn, a small country in the land of Faltha. My companions are Phemanderac, a scholar of Dhauria; Bandy of Instruere; her guardsman Robal, also of Instruere; and the smaller man, who might consider himself fortunate to be alive, is Conal of Yossa, a priest of the Koinobia, also known as the Halites. Some of us are widely travelled, hence our familiarity with the language here.’

  No hint in his inflections as to truth and falsity, but the southern girl began shaking her head.

  The man naming himself Heredrew saw the movement. ‘You suspect I do not tell all the truth? You are right. But we are hard pressed: there is less time available to us than you yet know, and it would not be wise for us to tell everything we know. Some of you have already sensed a gathering of power, which, whatever our stories as to how we came to this place, is the real reason we are here. Where there is power, there is a wielder of power. I would prefer that power-wielder to remain ignorant until we have determined the extent of that power and whether it is benign or malignant.’

  ‘We might say the same of you,’ Noetos said.

  ‘If you were a fool, which I doubt, you might,’ said Heredrew. ‘But we were drawn here, and while we have power, as I have manifested, we were clearly subjected to a power far greater. Hear our account, then decide whether to share your own.’

  ‘I don’t like lies,’ the girl Lenares shouted. ‘You lie with your words and you lie with your body. Your numbers are all lies and deceit. Tell the truth or be quiet!’

  The tall man stood and stepped forward until he reached the base of his mound. ‘If you were held captive in a dungeon, girl, would you tell your jailer about the knife in your boot? Wouldn’t you instead pool resources with all the other captives so you could overwhelm the jailer and escape?’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ Noetos asked. ‘That we are imprisoned?’

  The man smiled, a thin affair more menacing than reassuring. ‘That is exactly what I think,’ he said.

  Lenares leaned forward. ‘Truth is more powerful than lies,’ she insisted. ‘I have things to tell you all that will help you to understand what is happening. No one else knows them. If no one else will, at least I will tell the truth.’

  ‘You will wait for your turn to speak,’ Heredrew said, his voice so commanding it set everyone back. ‘And if what you are saying will aid our enemy, we will request you to be silent.’

  Somehow the word request sounded like compel in the tall man’s mouth. Lenares’ mouth snapped shut, but her knife-edge frown remained directed at the tall man as he continued talking.

  ‘We are a diverse group, drawn together, I think, because the world has suddenly begun to change. Perhaps at some other time we will tell you how we all met, but suffice it to say I had prepared a method—risky, but necessary—to travel from Dhauria in Faltha to Andratan in Bhrudwo, as a number of us wished to consult with the ruler of Bhrudwo. Unfortunately, one of us interfered with the process and made us vulnerable as we travelled using the blue fire.’ He waved a hand at the burning bush between them, while the stout priest bowed his head.

  ‘Someone or something took advantage of our vulnerability. We were pulled—or pushed, it is not certain—from our intended path, and ended up here, in the middle of a poisonous lake. It took a great deal of sorcery to preserve our lives—power which I drew from the closest source at hand, which turned out to be a Neherian army, I am gratified to discover. It left them somewhat worse off, which apparently worked in your interests, though only coincidentally.

  ‘We wish to resume our journey to Andratan as soon as possible. However, I am concerned that any attempt to use the blue fire to travel will again expose us to the power that almost destroyed us today. Until we have identified and removed this threat, we are limited to non-magical ways of travelling.’ He pointed at his feet, shod in mud-spattered boots.

  ‘Very well,’ Noetos said, trying to bring the gathering back under his control. ‘We have heard you. I have no doubt there are those here who have questions for you, specifically concerning the nature and extent of your power, but you will now hear our stories.’

  With that, he launched into an abridged account of his family’s adventures. He watched the newcomers’ faces as he told his tale, and noticed the tall man Heredrew’s features tighten as he spoke of the unnatural storm and whirlwind. He showed no such emotion on hearing of the destruction of the Neherian court and, though Noetos was vague in the telling—he did not want to reveal the extent of his own power—the defeat of the Neherians prompted no questions.

  He knows far more than he is telling. The girl Lenares is right.

  And speaking of Lenares: ‘Captain Duon, would you tell of events in the southlands?’ Noetos said.

  ‘But, the girl…Certainly, Noetos,’ said the soldier, slightly slow on the uptake as usual.

  Duon told the southerners’ story simply, but it took far longer as so many of the places and characters were unfamiliar to his listeners. He explained what a cosmographer was, detailed the purposes of the Emperor as he knew them—though Noetos suspected he dissembled somewhat—and told of Lenares’ encounters with what she called the ‘hole in the world’. His description of their encounter with the hole in Nomansland, and their subsequent arrival in Raceme at the height of the storm, made for an interesting
tale. The man was a natural storyteller.

  Beside him Lenares fiddled with her hair, looping strands around her nose or biting on them in obvious agitation. She wanted the chance to speak, to tell them all how important she was. That she would not do, not while Noetos was in charge.

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he said as soon as the tale was told. ‘Now, before we interrogate each other to no purpose, has anyone observed any patterns?’

  Lenares opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘We will come to you later, Lenares,’ Noetos said, cutting her off. ‘Let’s hear from us lesser thinkers first.’ He gave what he supposed was an indulgent smile to the others.

  ‘No,’ said a new voice. ‘We will hear from the cosmographer now.’

  The speaker was another of the southerners, the mercenary Dryman. He had said very little in the two days since Noetos had first encountered him, his typical pose being seated, head bowed, staring upwards out of heavy-lidded eyes. But now he sat erect, and his eyes were wide open as he made his demand. In fluent Bhrudwan, which he had given absolutely no previous indication of understanding. And there was something else: Noetos felt a weight pressing in on him as the man said his few words, as though some enormous being leaned close to listen.

  The cosmographer stood up, scrambled down from her perch on the pile of tailings, stood where everyone could see her and opened her mouth. But what came out was not speech, but a sudden shriek.

  She howled and screeched, a sound louder than a human throat ought to be able to make. Her hands were on either side of her head and she knelt, seemingly driven to her knees by whatever troubled her. By whatever internal workings had gone awry, Noetos thought, as he reluctantly stepped forward to deal with her.

  The curly-haired black man was already at her side. ‘Lenares! Lenares!’ he cried. Then followed it with an explosion of the southern language. Dryman cracked a sharp response in the same language, and the man dropped his head, but did not otherwise move. Some sort of power struggle, Noetos guessed as he approached the screaming girl.