Dark Heart

by Tina Daniell

  Suddenly, Kitiara caught the sound of horses snuffling and snorting in the still morning air. Birds flew out from the underbrush on the opposite side of the valley, and a group of roughly forty barbarians filed out of the woods. They rode a high-strung breed of horses renowned for their speed. Kitiara wondered how the minotaurs, who were afoot, would fare against them.

  The barbarians sat easily in their saddles. From a distance, they looked to Kitiara to be wearing leather capes decorated with multicolored feathers. She thought she spied their chieftain, Swiftwater, trotting in the lead, stocky and arrogant. Then another of the horde caught her eye. He alone was shrouded like a wraith, his garb devoid of all decoration or color. From his saddle dangled a multitude of vials and potions. A magic-user, thought Kit.

  After more than a year of raiding the countryside virtually unchallenged, the barbarians were careless of any possible threat. Their horses seemed to float through the grass. The riders said little to each other as they rode, though the small dogs trotting alongside yapped and growled occasionally.

  As the party moved out into the open sweep of the meadow, Burek and his companions burst from the mists that still clung to the lower reaches of the valley. Their wild bellows caused several of the barbarians’ horses to rear up in fright, and at least two of the riders lost their purchase and were trampled in the ensuing confusion.

  One of the barbarians put a hollow gourd to his lips and sounded a shrill call for help. Already a few men were scrambling from the dense pine trees on top of the ridge behind the minotaurs, alerted by the commotion. Kitiara could see other fighters move to the edge of the trees and start fitting arrows in their bows, taking aim at Burek and his gallant troop.

  As the first arrows started flying, Kitiara heard a shout and saw a brigade of her father’s soldiers charge up along the sides of the ridge on horseback, forcing the archers to retreat. At the same time, reinforcements swung up on their horses from behind bushes and trees where they had been camouflaged, attacking the advance guard of barbarians from the front. Swiftwater’s men, neatly bisected, recoiled in surprise.

  Smoke and flame indicated that the magic-user had managed to cast a spell. Up above the melee rose a garish phantasm that dripped blood and flashed horrid yellow fangs. Kitiara knew that it was an illusion intended to paralyze nerves and terrorize opponents. Gregor, with his wisdom of many battles, had predicted this tactic. He and many of his men had rimmed their eyes with an ointment to counteract the spell.

  Fortunately, Kitiara had been forewarned. She, too, had protected her eyes. Otherwise, she would not have been able to fend off the panic she felt inside, even at this safe distance from the ghastly bloodthing.

  Dire screams could be heard. Whether emanating from the barbarians’ or Gregor’s side, Kit could not be sure. Everything was intermingled now.

  Kitiara saw one brave warrior—she thought it must be her father—plow into the vanguard and challenge a barbarian on a large horse, one wearing not only a leather cloak, but a mottled helmet covered with feathers. No, she was wrong before; the man Gregor faced, not the arrogant barbarian she had spied earlier, must be Swiftwater. The two men leaned over their mounts, lashing out with their swords.

  Kitiara locked her eyes on the two warriors. The smoke and noise were dense now. She willed herself not to lose sight of the pair, for Gregor was hard at it and Swiftwater was matching him blow for blow, giving good proof of himself. Around them, the battlefield was chaotic, full of harsh sound and movement and gore.

  Almost unconsciously, Kitiara pulled out her wooden sword and began thrusting and parrying in the thick summer air, imitating the combat on the field.…

  “Aha! Not bad for a skinny whelp using a wooden sword.”

  Kitiara was shaken from her daydream by the sound of a voice and a soft thud behind her. She whirled around to confront a tawny-haired man with glittering dark eyes. He wore brown leggings and a close-fitting tunic. One hand held a shiny red apple and the other rested easily on the handle of his sword. He looked like he knew how to use it.

  “Where did you come from?” she demanded, humiliated at her wooden weapon and angry at being caught off guard.

  “When preparing for battle, never forget to look up to the gods for a blessing, and while your eyes are thus occupied, to check for enemies hidden in the trees. It’s an old Solamnic saying. I’m surprised such a stouthearted warrior as yourself isn’t familiar with it,” said the stranger with mock seriousness. At that he sat down, crossed his legs, and took a hungry bite out of his apple. He flashed her a teasing smile.

  In no mood to be ridiculed, however mildly, Kitiara flushed with annoyance before pointing her sword in his direction. “Then, if you are trained in Solamnic traditions, you must know you cannot refuse my challenge to a match without seriously compromising your honor.”

  “That would presume I have some honor left to be compromised,” he said indifferently, taking another eager bite.

  With a precocity remarkable for a child of eight, Kitiara stepped up and deftly knocked the stranger’s apple from his hand by slapping the flat of her sword against his knuckles. His smile vanished, replaced by stern, pursed lips. He stood up to face her.

  “I am sorry that you are so disrespectful of your elders,” he said ruefully. “Someone has neglected to teach you your manners. I shall endeavor to fill the void.”

  He moved toward her, but Kit scuttled to the left, her sword point outstretched, keeping him at bay. He circled around, a look on his face every bit as resolute as Kitiara’s. Though only slightly more than half his size, she was determined to run him through, wooden sword or not.

  The stranger dropped his shoulder and made suddenly as if to reach for his sheathed weapon, at which point Kitiara lunged toward him. Unexpectedly, he dropped to the ground and rolled directly toward her, grabbing her by her ankles before she could make a move with her sword. In another instant he had vaulted to a standing position and hoisted her, kicking and screaming, over his shoulders. Her wooden blade fell to the ground.

  Carrying her easily, the stranger walked to a stand of trees and gave her a tremendous heave skyward. Much to her astonishment Kitiara found herself tossed like a leaf high up into the air. She landed in the twisted branches of an apple tree, high above the ground. It took a few moments before she got her breath back. Then she looked down to see the stranger peering up at her with an implacable expression.

  “Pick out a nice juicy one, if you please,” the stranger said.

  “I’d sooner die!” she shouted back defiantly.

  In a movement so quick that it seemed a blur, the stranger unleashed his sword and thrust it upward, toward Kitiara. Even with his height and long reach, the sword just barely reached her, its tip scraping her bottomside. She scurried to escape its touch, but these were mere apple trees, not mighty vallenwoods, and there were no sturdy branches above her offering an escape route.

  Coiling as tightly as she could, Kitiara retreated against the tree trunk. The stranger merely reached a couple of inches higher and flicked his sword point, ripping her leggings.

  “Tch tch,” he said. “Pants need mending.”

  She set her chin and determined to say nothing. He stretched a little higher, and she felt the sword point flick again.

  “Ouch!”

  “First blood,” said the stranger merrily. Then his tone altered. “Don’t tempt me, little one. Krynn is lousy with children, orphans especially. One less would be a blessing.”

  A brief, tense silence ensued. There was a rustling of branches, and Kitiara dropped to the ground, holding a ripe apple. Her eyes averted, she held it out to the stranger, who stuck his sword in the ground triumphantly and reached to grab the fruit.

  Before he knew it her teeth had sunk into his wrist.

  “Ouch!” he yelled and, with a furious oath, cuffed Kit across the face, knocking her roughly to the ground.

  She got up very slowly. Rubbing the side of her face, Kitiara looked down at the g
round and fought back her tears. She wouldn’t cry in front of a stranger.

  As for the stranger, he too was nursing his wound, rubbing his wrist with a betrayed air. He looked up and caught Kitiara’s eye. To the girl’s dismay, the situation suddenly became hilarious. The stranger’s face broke into an engaging grin, and rich, throaty laughter began to pour from his mouth.

  Kit couldn’t help but notice that this curious fellow had an altogether different, more congenial look about him when he smiled. He was like her father in that respect: one way when fighting, another way when at peace. However, she didn’t feel the slightest compulsion to laugh with him. She was still smarting with resentment.

  With some effort the stranger brought his laughter under control. “Say, at first I thought you were a boy or I wouldn’t have hit you. You fight like one. Some day, perhaps, you’ll fight like a man.”

  That was no compliment to her. But when the stranger proffered his hand in the Solamnic clasp, she smiled tentatively despite herself. She gripped his hand firmly in response.

  He laughed again, sat down, and took a bite out of the apple Kitiara had picked. From a fold in his cloak, he produced another apple and offered it to her with a mischievous smirk.

  She frowned in irritation.

  “Oh, don’t let it bother you,” said the stranger soothingly. “What’s your name, half-pint?”

  With a show of reluctance she took the apple. “Kitiara Uth Matar,” she said proudly.

  Was it her imagination, or did some recognition flicker across the stranger’s face? Some emotion had registered, some inscrutable reaction.

  “Any relation to Gregor Uth Matar?” he asked, keeping a smile on his face.

  “Do you know him?” She leaned forward excitedly.

  “No, no,” he said hastily, shifting his tone. “Heard of him, of course. Heard of him.” He seemed to look at Kit differently, more intently, appraising her face. “I’d like to meet a man of such stature—if he happened to be in these parts.”

  All at once, Kitiara was blinking back tears. “My father doesn’t live in Solace anymore,” she said stoically after a few moments. “He left home not long after we returned from a battle with some barbarians. That was over a year ago.”

  Kitiara would never forget that unhappy morning. For once, her father had not been there, smiling at her, when she woke up. There had been no true warning of his departure; he hadn’t been getting along with Rosamun, but that was nothing new. And the note he left hardly offered an adequate explanation:

  Good-bye for now. Take care of Cinnamon. She’s yours. Know that your father loves you. Think of me. Gregor.

  He had left behind his favorite horse and ridden off on a freshly bartered one. Kitiara had crumpled the paper and cried intermittently for days, even weeks. Now she wished she still had the note, if only as a memento.

  Nobody in Solace could say for sure which way Gregor had gone, on which road in which direction.

  “Have you heard news of him?” she asked the stranger eagerly.

  “Hmmm. I seem to remember hearing something about some escapades in the North,” he replied vaguely, preoccupied now with standing up and slipping his sword into its scabbard.

  “His family hails from the North,” Kit said, keenly interested.

  “Or maybe it was in the wilds of Khur to the east. I’m not certain.”

  “Oh.” Kit’s voice fell.

  “A man like that would never stay in one place for long,” he continued.

  “What do you mean?” Kit asked a little defensively, “ ‘a man like that’?”

  Looking up, he saw the apprehension that animated Kitiara’s face. “I have to be on my way, little one. If I run into your father, can I give him a message?” he inquired, not unkindly.

  Kitiara weighed what she could tell this stranger who in some ways reminded her of Gregor, though he was neither as tall nor as handsome. “Just tell him that I’ve been practicing,” she said finally. “And that I’m ready.”

  They were standing just out of sight of Kit’s home, in a clearing below the elevated walkways between the vallenwoods where Kit often came to practice her swordplay. The stranger was preparing to take his leave when Kit thought to ask his name.

  “Ursa Il Kinth, but you can call me Ursa if our paths cross again.”

  “Wait!” Kit cried out almost in desperation as he turned to go. “Take me with you, Ursa. All I need is a real sword or dagger, and I could help protect you during your travels. I wouldn’t be any trouble. I have relatives in the North, and they can help me find my father. Oh, please, please, take me with you!”

  “You, protect me?” Ursa snorted. “I should hope it would be a few years before I need the protection of a child!”

  Again he erupted into laughter, this time more derisively. “If it would be any child it would be you, little Miss Kitiara,” Ursa said over his shoulder as he took a few steps away from her. He gave a sharp whistle between his teeth, and a muscular gray steed burst from the woods. In a minute he had mounted her and was riding off, still chuckling.

  A fiercely determined Kitiara had started to run after him when she heard sharp cries from the direction of her home.

  “Kitiara! Kitiara! Come home! I need help!”

  Kit stopped and looked resentfully in the direction of the summons.

  “My labor has begun! Hurry!”

  Sighing, with one last look at Ursa’s back, Kitiara clambered up the nearest vallenwood. Halfway up the tree, she climbed onto the walkway that would take her home, where her mother was ready to give birth.

  Chapter 2

  THE BIRTH OF THE TWINS

  ———

  Running in from the sun-dappled walkways, Kit momentarily lost her bearings as she plunged into the cottage. It was midday, but almost no light penetrated through the shutters. Rosamun had managed to close them somehow, in the interest of modesty, when she went into labor.

  As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Kit heard more than saw her mother, who was breathing heavily. Rosamun was squatting on the floor to one side of the common room, next to the big bed. She looked up frantically when she heard Kit enter.

  “Oh, Kitiara! I … I didn’t want to keep Gilon from his day’s work this morning, but—” Here Rosamun stopped. She fixed her eyes on a point somewhere over Kit’s head, twisted the bedclothes in her hands, and started a low moan that built to an unholy screech. Kit was already backing up toward the door when the sound ebbed and Rosamun slumped against the side of the bed.

  “Please, please, get Minna,” Rosamun gasped.

  Terrified, Kit bolted out the door and raced along the elevated walkways between the giant vallenwoods toward a local midwife’s house, heedless of the people she jostled. Her encounter with the roguish stranger and thirst for adventure momentarily forgotten, Kit felt suddenly not a moment older than her eight years. Oh, if only Gilon hadn’t gone off to chop wood today … If only Rosamun could manage on her own … If only there were someone else to help besides Minna!

  Kit paused to catch her breath for a second before opening the gate to the midwife’s front walk. Kit thought, as she always did when passing Minna’s house, how the elaborate gingerbread cottage nestled between two giant vallenwood limbs resembled its owner—prim and haughty.

  Kit knocked on the door. The moment Minna opened it, Kit grabbed her arm and started tugging her outside. The short, plump midwife was wearing her trademark muslin apron that, if it were not always so clean and starched, Kit would suspect she wore even to bed. Her wispy auburn hair was elaborately coif fed and beribboned.

  “Hurry up! We have to hurry! It’s my mother, she’s gone into labor. You must come right away,” Kit said as she pulled.

  Minna tugged right back, easily freeing her arm from the child’s grasp. The midwife paused and collected her dignity around her. As Kit stood by the front door, shifting impatiently from foot to foot, Minna busied herself around her home, gathering potions, herbs, and vials, which she pla
ced carefully in a large leather sack while nattering away at Kit.

  “My dear, you look flushed. Catch your breath. I must find my aspen leaves. Aspen leaf juice really makes the best clotting drink, you know. It’s quite rare in these parts. I have Asa—you know Asa, that funny, black-haired kender who appears in town every now and then?—I have Asa collect the leaves for me specially whenever he is near Qualinesti or Silvanesti. Of course, he’s not all that reliable as a gatherer. Although I’m sure if he says they are aspenwood leaves, then they probably are.…”

  Glancing in a mirror as she patted her hair in place, Minna caught a tense look from Kitiara, who was barely able to keep from shouting at the midwife to shut up and get out the door.

  “Is anything wrong dear?” Minna asked, peering at Kit concernedly with her small, olive eyes.

  “Yes, yes!” Kit declared, stamping her foot. “I told you! My mother has started having her baby. She needs you!”

  “Well, there’s no need to be rude, I’m sure. There’s enough of that in Krynn these days,” Minna said with an injured air. “People have been having babies since the beginning of time. I’m sure your mother is doing just fine,” she added, checking her leather rucksack full of whatnot one more time before pulling it closed. “Ah, here are the aspen leaves. I shouldn’t worry. I suppose your father is home with Rosamun?”

  The query seemed innocent enough, but Kit, always thin-skinned when it came to questions about fathers, mistrusted Minna’s reasons for asking. The midwife made it her business to know all the gossip there was to know in Solace, and everything she discovered through her snooping she passed on to dozens of acquaintances at the morning market. Kit knew that Rosamun was one of her favorite topics.

  Rosamun intermittently suffered strange trances and was chronically abed with fever and imagined ills. After Gregor had left her, things had only grown worse. Kitiara supposed Rosamun blamed herself for Gregor’s going. Well, she should. She had practically driven him away with her homebody concerns.