Heartwood (Tricksters Game)

by Barbara Campbell

  It had taken him years to find a portal. In the space of—what? Two days? Three?—two had opened before him. Was Chaos gaining a hold on the world beyond? Or was it easier to detect the portals now that he possessed a living body? The first portal had only taken him to another part of Chaos. This one promised freedom.

  Morgath hesitated. To leave now meant relinquishing the exquisite pleasure of punishing the Hunter. The portal whined. The tree shivered. Go to safety or stay? Flee or force a confrontation?

  Morgath fell back on his haunches as the portal wavered and vanished. There would be other portals. He could have his pick. But he had only one chance to destroy the Hunter.

  Once again, he bellied up the rise. He watched the Hunter help the third man to his feet. He was much shorter than the Hunter, but his form looked just as real. That meant he was alive—and a potential threat. Was he only imagining the Hunter’s solicitude as he helped the small man to his feet or could the Hunter’s brother have come to Chaos in search of him?

  Even from this distance, it was clear that the boy limped badly. He clung to the Hunter as they made their slow way across the clearing. The Hunter settled him in the shade of a bush and squatted beside him, flexing his wounded arm.

  Morgath smiled. Ignoring his protesting back, he crouched low and crept down the slope.

  Darak eyed the spirit catcher resting in his palm. Despite its long contact with Cuillon’s body, the crystal felt cool. Its facets twinkled with the sickly ochre light of Chaos. Such a tiny thing for the task ahead, but better prepared than he was. He shook his head, wondering if his distrust of magic could be the answer to Fellgair’s riddle.

  Cuillon touched his sleeve. “When I first lay in your hut, Struath came with the others.”

  “The others?”

  “Yeorna. Gortin. And the girl like a sparrow in winter.”

  Darak had to smile; plump, brown-haired Lisula did look like a sparrow in winter. “Do you remember what they did?” he asked.

  “The others sang and burned weeds and Struath closed his eye and rocked back and forth for a long time.”

  “And then?”

  “Then he fell over.”

  Darak blew out his breath. Before Cuillon could apologize, he added, “Don’t be sorry. You’re no more a shaman than I am.”

  But Tinnean had been—was becoming one. How many times had he rushed into the hut last summer, face alight after a day spent with Struath? Too excited to sit, he’d stand over them, hands waving as he tried to describe what he had learned that day. His mam would ask questions, Maili would smile—and he would crouch by the fire, fletching an arrow or chipping a flint, until he could bear the flood of words no more and tell Tinnean to shut up about Struath and sit.

  If only he had listened, tried to understand what Tinnean meant when he talked about connecting with the eternal powers of earth and air, fire and water. All he could remember now was something about breathing and stillness.

  His body tensed. Breathing and stillness he understood. Those were the first lessons his father had taught him. Breathing. Stillness. Control.

  He walked to the tree and knelt before it.

  Merciful Maker, help me.

  He rested the fingertips of his left hand against the thorny trunk.

  Lord of the Forest, help me.

  He raised his right hand, spirit catcher clenched in his fist.

  Tinnean—if you are there—help me.

  He closed his eyes.

  Fear is the enemy. Control the fear. Control yourself.

  He breathed.

  Let go of the fear. Just breathe.

  He listened to his breathing, slow and even. To the scratch of the tree’s branches as they rubbed against each other in a faint breeze. To a rustling in the thicket behind him.

  He whirled around, hand on his dagger, as a yellow-winged bird shot out of the underbrush.

  “Never mind that, son. Let me be your eyes and ears.”

  He tried, but he kept losing his concentration each time a new sound reached him.

  “Just breathe, Darak.”

  “Damn it, don’t you think I’m trying?”

  “Try harder.”

  For a moment, they glared at each other. Unexpectedly, his father grinned and Darak found himself grinning back. His father squatted down beside him. “Don’t try and pretend you’re a shaman. You’re not. And you’ll not teach yourself in a few moments what it took Struath years to learn.” His father leaned closer, face intent. “But maybe if you imagined you were hunting. That Tinnean is the quarry.”

  Darak nodded. Again, he raised the spirit catcher and closed his eyes.

  He was the hunter. His muscles loose, his head clear.

  In. Out. Breathe.

  He was the hunter. Moving through the trees. Tracking the quarry.

  Silent. Cautious. Alert.

  Instead of a bow, he held a crystal.

  Hard. Round. Smooth.

  Instead of a stag, he sought Tinnean.

  Helpless. Unconscious …

  Not that trail. Choose another. Find the one that leads to Tinnean’s spirit.

  His eagerness to learn. His wonder at the world beyond this world. His stubbornness to choose his own path, no matter where it led, no matter how I warned him …

  Go back. Find the place where the trail branched. Start again.

  The child’s arms, skinny as snakes. “Look, Darak. Look at that muscle.” Knobby knees peeking out from under his tunic. “I can too run faster than you.” The sweet smile. “Listen, Darak. I can almost play the song now.” The high-pitched squeal. “I caught one, Darak! I caught a fish!”

  He’s there.

  Tinnean?

  Waiting.

  It’s Darak.

  Just out of reach.

  I’ve come to take you home.

  Slow. Move too fast and the quarry will elude you.

  Come out of the Oak, lad.

  Close now. Almost close enough to touch.

  I’ll keep you safe. Just come to the crystal.

  Fingertips tingling.

  You want to go home, don’t you?

  Pain lancing through his hand.

  Tinnean. Come to me. Now.

  Fire racing up his arm.

  Damn it, Tinnean, listen to me!

  The scream exploded inside of him, Tinnean’s scream tearing them both apart. Darak flung himself away from the tree. The spirit catcher fell to the ground.

  “Darak? Son? Are you all right?”

  He stared down at his shaking hands.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  I failed.

  “You can try again.”

  I nearly destroyed him.

  “You must not lose hope.”

  I’ve lost him.

  Darak picked up the spirit catcher and thrust it into his bag of charms. He forced himself to stand. He willed his eyes to meet his father’s, braced for the inevitable look of disapproval. The desperate longing nearly unmanned him.

  Abruptly, his father stiffened. His gaze darted around the glade, fixed on the bushes behind Cuillon. Darak surged forward, shouting at Cuillon to move, move fast. Cuillon was still struggling to rise when the golden-haired figure emerged behind him and seized him by the hair.

  Chapter 39

  DARAK RIPPED THE DAGGER from his sheath and fell into a crouch. Morgath yanked Cuillon’s head back, baring his neck to the dagger. Only days ago, it had been Morgath on his knees while he wielded the dagger. Morgath smiled; he remembered, too.

  “We meet again, Hunter.”

  He could go for the shoulder or the arm, but if he missed, even by inches, he could kill Cuillon.

  “Drop the dagger.”

  He let his shoulders sag, then came up fast. He hurled the dagger at Morgath’s face and charged. Morgath flinched. The dagger flew past his ear. Darak raced forward, praying he could reach him, knowing he would not, even before Morgath brandished his dagger and screamed at him to stop.

  Cuill
on’s eyes were glazed with shock. Blood stained his throat, but it was the slow ooze of a shallow gash, not the rhythmic spurting that indicated a fatal wound.

  “Step back. Now. Or your brother dies.”

  Very slowly, he backed away. Morgath didn’t know he had the Holly-Lord at his mercy. Maybe he wouldn’t care. From the little Darak knew of him, Morgath sought personal vengeance. But it would mean the destruction of the world if Cuillon died.

  Morgath stroked Cuillon’s cheek with the flat of the dagger. Back and forth, very slowly, like a lover’s caress. “You’ve lost your hunting instincts. Else I could never have taken the boy.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Darak saw his father’s form tremble, then reassert itself. Let me be your eyes and ears, he had said. Had his failure at the tree distracted him?

  “What were you doing when I arrived? Praying?”

  “Aye.”

  “Painful business. But I liked seeing you on your knees.”

  “Let the boy go and you can see it again.” Morgath’s lips twisted in a hideous parody of Yeorna’s smile. “Tempting. But killing him would hurt you much more.” He raised the dagger until the point hovered a finger’s width from Cuillon’s eye.

  “Kill him and you die.” Darak held up his hands. “Dagger or no, I’ll break your neck before his lifeblood stops pumping.”

  “So. We appear to be at an impasse.” Morgath’s teeth gleamed in a quick, feral smile. “Unless you have a suggestion?”

  Morgath was only using Cuillon as bait. The shaman wanted him. Judging from the madness in his eyes, he was willing to risk his life for the pleasure of hurting him. Darak hesitated. Attack Morgath and Cuillon would die. Offer the shaman what he really wanted and risk death himself. He would willingly exchange his life for Cuillon’s, but if he died, who would free Tinnean and the Oak?

  Praying he was making the right choice, Darak said, “Take me.”

  He heard his father’s gasp, saw Cuillon’s body jerk in surprise. A single drop of blood welled up on his cheek, bright and round as a holly berry.

  “What’s to keep you from breaking my neck as soon as I release him?” Morgath sounded bored, but his breath had quickened.

  “You have my word.”

  Morgath snorted in derision.

  “Bind me if you like. I won’t resist you.” Morgath wet his lips, as if savoring the thought of a victim at once unwilling yet compliant.

  “You can do what you want to me.” Recalling Struath’s words, he added, “Take as much time as you want.”

  The longer Morgath postponed the kill, the more time he would have to free himself.

  “As long as the boy is in sight, I won’t fight you. But once the boy is safe, you’re mine.”

  He waited, scarcely breathing. When Morgath smiled, he knew the bargain was made.

  “Your word, Morgath. That the boy goes free. That it’ll be just you and me.”

  Morgath’s smile widened. “Just you and me, Hunter.”

  “Let the boy go.”

  “You’re giving me orders?”

  “Please.”

  “Better. Better still if you made the request on your knees.”

  His nails dug into his palms as his fingers clenched. The Trickster had warned him that he would only defeat Morgath by humbling himself. Slowly, he fell to his knees.

  “Good, Hunter. Now try begging.”

  “Nay.” His father’s voice sounded calm, but the mist swirled dangerously. “He is on his knees. That is enough.”

  “Hold your tongue, Reinek, or I’ll make you beg as well.”

  “Please,” Darak said. “Let my brother go. I … I beg you.”

  “Very nice. If I free your brother, will you promise to beg some more before you die?”

  Darak swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. “Aye.”

  “Very good. Now strip.”

  “What?”

  “Take off your clothes,” Morgath said, with the patient voice of a teacher.

  Numbly, Darak obeyed. He knew doeskin couldn’t repel Morgath’s dagger, yet standing naked in front of his enemy made him feel horribly vulnerable. Of course, that’s what Morgath wanted. He kept his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to cover himself, but he could not control his shiver of dread when Morgath inspected him.

  “You haven’t been eating enough. Still, the musculature is lovely. I’ve always enjoyed a well-made man.” Morgath’s gaze lingered on his genitals. The heat rose in Darak’s face. Morgath’s giggle only made it worse, as did the knowledge that his father was witnessing this.

  Morgath jerked his head toward the tree. “Over there, Hunter.”

  He walked to the tree, resisting the urge to squeeze his bag of charms and give Morgath proof of his fear.

  “Face me.”

  Morgath sheathed his dagger and ripped Cuillon’s free. Keeping a firm grip on his arm, he pushed him forward.

  Cuillon’s eyes met his. Darak shook his head. The Holly-Lord was no fighter and he was weak from shock and pain. Morgath might wear a woman’s body now, but he was still far stronger.

  “Pick up your brother’s belt. Tie his left wrist to that branch.”

  Darak followed Morgath’s gaze, taking in the tiny thorns studding the branch. The dagger appeared below Cuillon’s ear.

  “Do it.”

  He nodded, willing Cuillon to obey. Only by standing on his toes did his arm reach the branch. He managed to smile at Cuillon, but couldn’t hold it when the thorns pierced him.

  “Does it hurt, Hunter?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. Tighter, boy.”

  Darak closed his eyes.

  The pain isn’t so bad. The humiliation doesn’t matter. Let it go.

  “You obey orders well. You must get that from your brother. Now you may bid him farewell.”

  Darak opened his eyes to find tears welling up in Cuillon’s. He shook his head fiercely and Cuillon blinked them back.

  “Forgive me, Darak.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “Enough. Back away.”

  For the first time, Darak looked at his father. “Go with him.”

  “Nay.”

  “Please. Keep him safe.”

  Their eyes locked. His father gave him a curt nod. “I will come back for you.” That cold gray gaze swept over Morgath. “And for you.”

  Morgath laughed. “Oh, I hope so. I’ll enjoy your expression when you see what’s left of your firstborn son.”

  With a visible effort, his father controlled the mist that threatened to obliterate him. Gods, he was strong. Darak hoped he possessed a small measure of that strength. He would need it to survive what was to come.

  His father’s eyes bored into his. Then he turned on his heel and glided after Cuillon.

  “Oh. One more thing.”

  Morgath seized his wrist and shoved his right arm against another branch. He bit his lip, tasting the salty warmth of blood.

  “Just to see if you’ll keep your word, Hunter …”

  Darak flinched, waiting for Morgath to plunge the dagger into his chest. Instead, he carefully folded three fingers over his thumb. Their eyes met. Morgath nodded politely as if they had just been introduced. Then he sawed off his forefinger.

  Cuillon screamed and lurched forward. His father’s shout drowned out Darak’s strangled gasp. Cuillon stopped, a handspan from the dagger’s point. Morgath tossed the finger at his feet. “Something to remember him by.”

  Through the haze of shock and pain, Darak watched Cuillon bend down and pick up the severed finger. He cradled it in his palms, tears streaking his dirty cheeks white. His hands shook as he opened Struath’s pouch and placed the finger inside, but his voice still held the Holly-Lord’s enduring calm when he finally looked up at Morgath.

  “I understand now why Struath sent you here. You are evil.”

  The dagger in Morgath’s hand trembled slightly. “So I have been told. And by better men than you. But I p
romised to free you and I will. When your brother’s body is rotting on that tree, look for me. For I will find you and make you pay for those words.”

  Cuillon’s eyes—Tinnean’s eyes—met his one last time. “I will wait for you in the grove, Darak. I know you will not fail us. And I will not fail you.” He spat into his hand and laid it atop the pouch. Then he turned abruptly and limped away. With one final glance, his father followed.

  Darak was still watching them when Morgath’s fingers encircled his wrist again. The shaman held his arm against the branch, this time twisting it slowly. Sweat broke out on his forehead as the thorns gouged long gashes around his forearm and punctured the flesh of his palm.

  Morgath smiled and raised the dagger. He was still smiling when he drove the blade through the back of Darak’s hand.

  Morgath stroked his hair while he waited for the scream to die. “Now we’re ready to begin.”

  Chapter 40

  GRIANE SCRAMBLED UP the embankment to the cave, cold and exhaustion forgotten. For three days, she had followed the river north. For three nights, she had snatched fitful periods of sleep, huddled in shallow depressions among tree roots, in tiny grottos created by overhanging slabs of rock. The Summerlands sustained her. A few bites of berry or mushroom lent new strength to tired legs. A few sips of the water warmed her as well as any fire. And the fragrance of Rowan’s fading blossoms reminded her of the unexpected friends she had left behind her—and those to whom she was returning.

  Each night before she slept, she’d imagined their expressions. Yeorna, blinking back tears. The Tree-Father, his hand half raised to make the sign against evil, staring at her in wonderment. Cuillon’s sweet smile. And Darak. He would gape at her, then frown, then hug her so hard her bones would creak. And then he’d threaten to wallop her for scaring them all so, but his grin would belie the words. They would gather around the fire and she would show them her treasures and tell them the story and, just for a little while, Darak’s fears for Tinnean would ease and the shadows under his eyes would fade.

  She slipped in the new-fallen snow, gasping as she righted her precious basket. The last part of the journey was always the hardest, they said, but it only made arriving that much better. Panting, she reached the top of the embankment and shouted Darak’s name.