Dark Heart

by Tina Daniell

  “I don’t know,” said Colo guardedly. “Maybe I’m wrong. I have a knack for getting names mixed up.”

  “Tell me what you know.” Kit pushed her.

  “I don’t know anything,” insisted Colo. She stood chin to chin with Kitiara, not in the least intimidated.

  Although Kit wanted to fight it out, she also had to admit that she trusted Colo, who had saved her life—twice so far. Perhaps Colo was honestly mistaken. Anyway, how could Ursa have ridden with her father and never mentioned it?

  “We don’t have time for this anyway,” Colo repeated.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They killed your horse, but not the others. That means three horses might be running free in the woods. We have to find at least one of them if we are going to stand a chance of catching up.”

  Kit thought a moment. “If the raiders didn’t take them, the horses would have followed our scent and ended by the waterfall and the slig’s cave. That means if we keep going in this direction we stand a good chance of running across them.”

  “Right,” said Colo, setting off again through the woods. Kit looked over her shoulder at Droopface and Cinnamon. Colo turned around. “Coming?”

  “Yes,” said Kit, hurrying after her.

  After another two hours of slowly making their way, they came upon the knoll within sight of the waterfall, the same spot where they had made camp, and been attacked, the night before.

  The sight that greeted them was even more eerie than the one in the other clearing. Trees were bent and twisted, even uprooted. The ground had been swept clean of rocks, leaves, and everything else. Over the site hung a strong, gassy odor.

  There was no evidence of Ursa or the slig’s head or the guard whom Colo had killed, no evidence of anyone or anything from the day before. The place looked not destroyed, but strangely emptied.

  “What does it mean?” asked Kit, unnerved.

  Colo was stomping around, trying to pick up a trail of something. “Powerful magic. Evil magic. I think they were after Ursa and, for some reason, you. When they captured him, they spirited him away—somewhere. That great cyclone was a magic wind. It took him and everything else away.”

  “A powerful mage must be his enemy,” said Kit wonderingly. She was thinking about what Colo said, and wondering why anyone would be after both her and Ursa.

  “Or somebody with enough money to hire a powerful mage,” added Colo thoughtfully. Suddenly she cocked her head. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” asked Kit.

  “There it is again!” shouted Colo and took off, sprinting through the forest. Kit had to run as fast as she could, leaping over branches and rocks, to keep her in sight. They burst into a clearing, and there was Droopface’s mule, calmly munching grass. The mule shied away from them, but Colo grabbed it. Stroking its head soothingly, she jumped on and then extended an arm down to Kit, pulling her up.

  It took them all afternoon, traveling in ever-widening circles, to pick up a trail, although they did not understand why there were signs of only two horses, heading west.

  After another hour it grew dark, but Kit and Colo kept going. They only had Beck’s sword between them, so Kitiara wondered not only who they were following, but what they would do when they caught up. Long past midnight they saw a campfire ahead. They dismounted and crept forward on their hands and knees.

  Once they got closer, Kit saw that it was the two dark elves, who were bickering. Closer still, Kit could make out some of the words. She realized they were arguing over her—“the shadow girl,” as one of them put it—and which of them was to blame that she had absconded.

  “If you had done it my way—”

  “You agreed!”

  “Well, it will be your job to explain.”

  Colo put a finger to her lips and circled to the right. Kit had no idea what her plan was, but she held the hilt of her sword firmly, waiting for some signal.

  Colo emerged from behind the elves, leaping at them with such breathtaking speed that Kit was taken aback. The tracker carried a big rock. She flung herself on the back of one of the dark elves, bringing her rock down on his head with a sickening crunch.

  Even as she did so, Kit sprang out of hiding and rushed ahead with an impromptu battle cry. The other elf had jumped up and grabbed a dagger. Now he rushed toward Kit, but she had the advantage of surprise and a longer reach. She knocked his blade out of his hand with one swipe of her arm, then plunged her weapon into his chest. He fell dead.

  It was over in a matter of seconds. Kit saw that Colo was stripping the weapons off her unconscious victim, attaching a knife and various pouches to her belt. She looked up at Kitiara with a confident grin.

  “What now?” asked Kit, wiping her sword blade.

  Colo sat down on a log and took a bite out of the haunch of venison that was roasting over the fire.

  “We wait,” she said, gesturing to the elf she had downed, “until this one wakes up.”

  Eventually, the dark elf groggily came to. His expression hardened when he saw Kit and Colo standing over him. He squirmed to sit up. Colo had bound his hands and feet, and tied a rope around his neck, then to a tree branch, so that he could not move very far without cutting off his breath.

  It was the elf Kitiara remembered from the Silver Gar. For the first time Kit could see him close up, with his almond-shaped face, large, pointed ears, and haughty expression. The dark elf refused to show any fear and, struggling to stand, stared at them insolently.

  Colo matter-of-factly hit him across the face, drawing a streak of blood from his lip. There was a long pause, and the dark elf slowly bared his teeth in a bitter smile. Colo hit him again.

  “Where is he? Where did they go?” she demanded.

  “Far away from here,” he answered tightly.

  “How?” she asked.

  “Magic wind.”

  Colo nodded to Kit.

  “Why didn’t you go with them?” she asked.

  “Because we lost the girl,” he said, indicating Kit.

  Kit’s eyes widened. “You were following me on the boat, weren’t you?” she probed.

  “No,” he said. “That was accidental. I wasn’t following anyone. Then I noticed the sword that Patric was carrying.”

  “You killed him!” Kit said fiercely.

  Now Colo was listening with wide eyes, trying to add it all up.

  “I killed him,” the dark elf said, “and I was going to steal the sword, but I was interrupted. The sword disappeared, and I realized you had taken it. I thought you had drowned, but after your horse was stolen, I began to figure it all out. It wasn’t Patric I should have killed, it was you. Who are you anyway?”

  “Kitiara Uth Matar,” she said proudly. “What is that to you?”

  His face showed that it was nothing to him. He had never heard her name before.

  “What do you want with Ursa?” Colo took up the questioning again.

  “It is not personal with me,” the elf said arrogantly. “My mistress has paid well for him. She would pay more for you.”

  “Who is she?” Kitiara demanded.

  “Luz Mantilla. A lady who wants revenge on the persons who murdered her beloved.”

  “Lady Mantilla!” exclaimed Kit.

  “You have heard of her,” the elf said with satisfaction. “She is a crazed person who has the money to employ the services of dozens of mages, spies, and assassins. Her life is devoted to finding the mercenaries who waylaid and murdered her fiancee, an innocent nobleman. There were five of them. We have only ever been able to name four. We don’t dare return without the fifth—and that is you, Kitiara Uth Matar.”

  “Return where?” asked Colo.

  The dark elf spoke with an almost sinister glee. “To a small, once-thriving kingdom on the other side of the Eastwall Mountains, now a land of rubble and death and dark magic. A hellish place. I have never been there. Kraven there—” he indicated the dead elf with an unsentimental nod “—he was the con
tact and the purser.”

  There was a long, heavy silence.

  “I think I know where,” said Kit to Colo.

  Colo pulled her aside so that they could speak out of range of the elf. They squatted in the moonlight, speaking in low tones. Colo’s face was serious. “So you know something about this, after all?”

  Kit waited a moment before speaking. “It was one of Ursa’s jobs. I tagged along and played a part to trick the pursuers. From what he told me, the job was botched and this Beck, a young nobleman, was killed.”

  For an instant Kitiara flashed on that night—the memory of Beck, his lifeless face and mutilated body.

  “You didn’t get the money?” asked Colo.

  “Well, I didn’t get the money,” said Kit with wry bitterness, “but the others did, Radisson, Droopface, Ursa and—” her voice faltered “—El-Navar. They cut me out of the payoff and rode off without me. Ursa gave me this sword as a ‘reward,’ Beck’s sword.” She indicated the sword in her hand, whose tip was restlessly prodding the ground.

  “Then?” asked Colo.

  “Beck Gwathmey was pledged to be married to a gentlewoman on the other side of the mountain,” Kit continued. “A road was being built to seal the marriage. When he died, everything fell apart. I got stuck in a place called Stumptown for several months and heard a lot of gossip about what happened. Luz Mantilla went insane, people said, and murdered her own father. He had planned the ambush to prevent the marriage. She vowed to track down the hired killers. Nobody ever knew I was part of that business.”

  “Except the other four,” Colo said.

  “Radisson must have died before telling,” Kitiara mused. “Nobody knows what happened to the Karnuthian. And now Luz has Ursa.…”

  “Where is this place?” asked Colo.

  “Across the channel, then a week’s ride, hundreds of miles, through not one but several mountainous areas.”

  “The magic wind must have taken them there.”

  Kit said nothing. Both of them glanced over their shoulders at the dark elf. He stood there, knotted in rope with a tight loop around his neck, staring hatefully.

  “They don’t know your name yet, that you were part of it,” mused Colo.

  “Unless Ursa tells them.”

  “If he is still alive.”

  “That was so long ago,” mused Kitiara. “Three years. I had almost forgotten. Except …”

  “Except what?” Colo looked deeply into her eyes.

  Kitiara averted her glance. “Nothing,” she said.

  Colo got up and took a long draw of water out of a tin cup by the campfire, watching the dark elf. He laughed and spat in her direction. She went to their two horses and meticulously riffled the saddlebags, pulling out a few precious items—a heavy purse, some dried food, and a crumpled map that she held up with satisfaction for Kit to examine.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Kit.

  “What do you think?” replied Colo with annoyance. “I’m going to ride after Ursa. What about you?”

  “I—I don’t know,” said Kitiara.

  “Don’t you owe that to a man who made love to you?”

  “What do you mean?” said Kit, flushed.

  “Ursa,” said Colo. “I owe him that much. Don’t you?”

  “I never made love to Ursa,” declared Kitiara angrily.

  “You’re lying.”

  “No.”

  Kit met her eyes. Long seconds passed. Colo had just started to turn away when Kit made up her mind.

  “I’ll come,” she declared.

  Colo pulled out the dagger she had taken from the dead dark elf and handed it over to Kit. “What about that one?” asked Colo pointedly. “He knows your identity now.”

  Kitiara hesitated just a moment before taking the dagger and walking to the prisoner. The tall dark elf stared at her, his eyes sour. “Don’t expect me to beg,” he said coldly.

  Kit grabbed him by the hair, yanked his head back, and slit him across the throat. He died without another word.

  “That’s for Cinnamon,” she murmured. And for Patric, she added to herself.

  She pulled the knife out and wiped it on her leggings, then handed it back to Colo, meeting her eyes. Kit chose one of the two elven steeds, Colo the other. Both were strong black animals. Droopface’s mule, which had served them well, was set free.

  In spite of the late hour they bounded onto their horses and rode off.

  With feverish speed they headed south and east toward one of the seacoast villages north of Vocalion, where Kit would not be recognized. The dark elf’s crude map showed them the most direct route back to the deep valley stronghold of the Mantilla family in the Eastwall Mountains. But first they had to make the crossing of the channel to Abanasinia.

  Reaching the coast in the morning, they settled in a sleepy town named Conover, whose harbor was filled with vessels of all types. Taking care not to call attention to themselves, Kit and Colo climbed the gangplanks of a dozen ships, trying to book passage for themselves and their horses. But sea travel slowed during cold months, so most of the ships were moored for the season. And no captain was willing to carry them for the amount of money they could spare.

  At the end of a frustrating day on the waterfront, Kit spotted a broad-bottomed cargo ship anchored out in the harbor, away from the dock. They rowed out to speak to the captain, a barrel-chested seaman who was in transit with a delivery of furs and wool. He agreed to take them on condition they pitch in as deck hands, for he was short one sailor, and reckoned two females might make up one man.

  Colo was ready to grab him by the throat, but Kit acted first. “Done,” she agreed, shaking his hand on the bargain.

  His ship, the Fleury, left early the next day. The week’s sail was an agony to Kit and Colo—not the hard work, which at least used up the time, but the slowness. When not occupied with duties, they paced the desk ceaselessly, saying little, finding it difficult to sleep.

  When the Fleury finally reached the coast, the crew lowered them and their mounts into the waves. Rather than wait to be ferried, one by one, on the loading barge, they swam ashore.

  They were at the far edge of Abanasinia and knew from the map that they had to travel west and north, around the spur of the Kharolis, before turning south toward the peaks of Eastwall.

  For six days and six nights Kit and Colo rode, sleeping for only an hour or two each night, then rising before dawn to take the saddle again. Stopping periodically only to gulp strong tea and gobble down some dried fruit, they made good time, driving their horses hard. Colo set the pace. She was a natural rider and perhaps had the strongest animal at the outset; but Kitiara was never far behind.

  On the third afternoon Kit’s horse collapsed at full gallop, and by the time Kit had staggered to her feet, the animal was in its death throes. They had to double up for a few miles and then stop to buy another horse from a farmer.

  On the fourth morning, Colo’s horse was not able to get up, and she had to put the sword to it. Again they doubled up until a few hours later when they stopped at a roadside smithy to buy another steed.

  As they made distance the sky turned gray and the cold alternated with drizzle and fog. In the morning, patches of ice dotted the ground and, as they moved away from the coast to higher elevations, a light carpet of snow. At times the snow covered the ice, making treacherous going for the horses.

  The weather seemed intent on breaking their speed. When it wasn’t snowing or drizzling, it was foggy. The damp seeped into their bones. On top of being exhausted and saddle-sore, almost numb from the exertion, they could not rid themselves of the constant chill, even in the sunlight.

  Kit had never been this far north and seen this vantage of the Kharolis. She was in awe of the peaks that stretched on for miles in the distance, filling the horizon—great, jagged ribs of brown and purple clumped with snow.

  By the sixth day the landscape had become more familiar as they entered the northwest slopes of the Eastwall
range. According to the elven map, they could follow an elusive course here, winding through trails and ravines and small valleys, into the fiefdom that was Mantilla Vale.

  The way was quite treacherous, slicing up rocky country around big, toothy peaks and steep gorges, through hewn foot trails and barely passable areas, at times doubling back and rounding on itself. The horses had to pick their way slowly at times. Other times, Kit and Colo had to dismount and walk alongside their jittery steeds. Still, the map was precise, and they ate up ground.

  Eventually the twisting rocky ground took its toll on one of their horses, which stumbled and ruined a foreleg. They had no choice but to finish off the suffering animal and share a single horse again. Kit and Colo were close enough to their destination now that, if necessary, they could travel the final miles down into Mantilla Vale on foot.

  On the afternoon of the seventh day, they came to a snowy crest with a ribbonlike waterfall. The crest overlooked a deep, irregular valley that, from the distance, was obscured by a thick, yellow mist. Charted on the map was a narrow trail down the gentle slope.

  Kit had never felt more drained. Every bone ached, her eyes were bleary, her clothes torn and dirty. Colo, standing beside her, gazing out over Mantilla Vale, looked no stronger. Indeed, as they stood there, without making a move toward their destination, Colo slumped to her knees.

  Realizing they needed to rest and regain some of their strength, Kit and Colo decided to camp for the night on the ledge. As it was not yet dark, they had a leisurely amount of time in which to tether their horse and make camp. They oiled and dried and laid out their weapons. With melted ice and snow, they managed to clean up a little, which helped them to feel refreshed.

  Colo built a small fire behind some rocks so that its glow could not be seen even from the valley. When night fell, they could glimpse nothing in the valley below and, even stranger, nothing in the sky above. It was a night for neither moons nor stars. Only empty darkness.

  At first the two companions spoke little to each other. Weary but thoughtful, they sensed they were on the verge of something—something that they might or might not live through. With food cadged along the trail, Kit prepared a meal, but hungry as they were, they were too wrought up to eat much.