Hearts of Fire

by Michael Jason Brandt

  With some relief, he watched Yohan reach an opening in the crumbling wall. Sword drawn, the soldier ducked through, leaving Patrik alone to ponder his next movements. I’ve come this far, he told himself, and followed into blackness.

  It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust from sunshine to dusk and shadow. During that time he remained completely motionless, focusing on his ears to warn him to danger, fingers tight on the string. He made out motion, then discerned Yohan cautiously creeping along the far wall toward an open doorway. Their eyes met, and the harpa was struck by the calmness on his companion’s face. The man might have been searching for breakfast.

  On a second glance, Patrik revised his impression. It was less calm than determined. The soldier expected to confront evil, and wanted to get it over with.

  Looking around, Patrik noticed a fireplace. No fire was lit, but there was wood inside, and a thick pile of ashes beneath. Recently used, clearly. Just beyond, hidden in a deeper shroud of shadow, was the top of a narrow stairway down.

  Patrik remained stationary. His own ears could register every sound he made, all the way to the slightest movement, which meant that staying motionless was the only way to be sure the enemy could not hear him. He watched Yohan pass through the doorway into greater darkness, leaving him alone again. A quick swallow and slow steps to the other side, then the harpa entered that darkness himself.

  A thin beam of light from outside was all that illuminated this smaller chamber, forcing his eyes to adjust still more. Now his nose detected a subtle change, the stale air picking up a distinctive but unidentifiable addition. The outlines of shapes began to form. One long table, a cupboard against a wall, two chairs pushed into a corner. Then more details, things he wished to unsee. A ribcage on the table, and a thick sheet of coagulated liquid that looked deceptively black in the darkness.

  Was the ribcage human? It was about the size of a small person, but Patrik was no expert. He wanted to believe it was not.

  Then his eyes made out the rags of a garment where the floor met wall—the remains of a dress, recognizably harpa even without seeing the bright colors. That explained the fate of his harpa sister, and probably the Vilnian princess, as well.

  He felt an onrush of sympathy and remorse, until realizing his own fate could be the same. Every moment inside this deathtrap made that outcome more likely. Patrik could not shake the prospect from his mind, nor pretend it was not terrifying.

  He sighed audibly, and Yohan’s face flashed an angry warning. Patrik swallowed his breath and castigated himself. He had made a mistake coming inside, that much was certain. The soldier was right, this was no place for traders. Best for them both that he go back.

  Patrik calmed his mind, then his pulse. He was in this to the end.

  Yohan paused a moment, listening. Then he stepped to the table and dipped a finger into the blood.

  How fresh? Patrik wondered, but the other did not so much as look his way. Instead he moved toward a corridor, and beyond it to the base of a stairway.

  Yohan was halfway up by the time Patrik reached the bottom. He aimed the bow at the upper landing, saw no targets, then followed.

  They crept cautiously up the stairs, the growing whipping of wind disguising their footfalls. Bow raised and ready, Patrik reached the landing at Yohan’s side. A violent gust dislodged the arrow and forced the trader to turn his face away until it subsided.

  Their vision cleared, revealing more of nothing. There were two rooms upstairs, one containing steps into the tower. But the two men did not make any move to explore them, for the ruined state of everything made this level uninhabitable.

  Yohan looked at Patrik blankly, then whispered so softly it was barely audible over the whistle of swirling drafts. “Another way?”

  “A basement...” Another frigid blast stung his cheek. “Where they can stay out of the elements.”

  “Where?”

  “Where we came in.”

  Those intense eyes stared back. “Show me.”

  As they retraced their steps, Patrik felt guilty for regretting that he had mentioned it.

  Stopping at the fireplace, Yohan extracted a length of wood, then took a minute to pull flint and tinder from his backpack. Thankful to be able to help, Patrik crept back to the kitchen where the dress lay discarded. Cringing at the sound, he tore off a strip of cloth, then brought it to Yohan. The soldier looked at him, nodded, and wrapped the top of the makeshift torch before lighting it.

  The flame made more sound by itself than their footfalls combined. The harpa could only assume Yohan knew what he was doing as he descended, torch in one hand, sword in the other, ignoring the shadowy shapes formed on every surface by the flickering light.

  Patrik followed, bow drawn, ready to fire at anything that attacked. Hoping for a target, wanting to fire, desperate to fight back against the never-ending fear.

  The stairs curved, the bottom as yet unseen, and the two men moved even more cautiously than before. Drawing strength from his companion’s steady demeanor, Patrik felt his own nerves settle. The fort was cold, dark, and sinister, yet he became slightly more hopeful. They had discovered only one body so far, suggesting that the princess may be alive, after all. Patrik mourned for his sister, but one victim was not so bad.

  They reached the bottom landing and the opening to a larger chamber. Yohan raised the torch, and Patrik’s hopes sank.

  Giant shadows danced on every wall of the large room, and his eyes hurriedly tried to make sense of them all. A surge of panic clouded his mind, then realization slowly calmed it. All the movement stemmed from the torch’s own agitation, all the shapes from a half-dozen thin, papery objects hanging on hooks dangling from the ceiling.

  One wall was blocked off by rows of vertical bars. Inside those bars, shackles were suspended from the stone by rusted chains similar to those that hung from the ceiling.

  The two men were the only ones present. Alive, at least. Bones lay all about the floor, strewn inside and out of the cells. More discarded clothing, tattered and stained, lay piled in one dank corner.

  This was not a basement, Patrik realized. It was a dungeon. And those who had died within numbered too many to count.

  The stench was overwhelming. It reached his nose only after his eyes took in the sights, but lingered even more powerfully. He grimaced to stop from coughing, looked at his companion, and wondered how the other man managed to look so unperturbed.

  Yohan stepped into the room, avoiding objects both hanging and underfoot, briefly glanced at the rags, and headed toward an open doorway in the center of the wall opposite the stairs.

  He took the light with him, leaving Patrik no choice but to follow. Already the area around him was falling back to shadow, and his first step came down on one of the bones that littered the floor. He yanked his foot back as he heard the snap, then felt one of the papery objects hanging from the ceiling brush against his shoulder and cheek. It was cold and wet, and his contact set it in a gentle motion that nonetheless creaked loud in the unpleasant silence.

  Patrik stopped its swing with his hand, then caught a better look at the clammy surface, covered in a thin lair of hair and marred by moles and blemishes.

  He recoiled in disgust, kicking another bone in the process. His bow shot up, ready to fire should the commotion bring these savages out of their hiding place. Yohan was nearly across the room, but Patrik lingered a moment longer, certain an attack was imminent. He felt a prickling sensation all over his skin. Skin that was soon to be flayed off and hung by hook in this chill, damp abyss.

  Something tapped his knee, freezing him in place. Resisting the instinct to cry out, Patrik forced himself to look down, only to see the lower limb of the bow tap his leg again. He was unsure exactly when his hands had started shaking this badly.

  The light was nearly gone, for Yohan had not stopped to wait. Patrik hurried after, catching up to the soldier halfway down a long, downward sloping passageway. They reached a corner and Yohan swung the t
orch from side to side, revealing only more tunnel. This one took them a few hundred steps farther from the fort and dungeon, and deeper underground. Closer to hell, with less chance of ever coming back.

  They moved on, a little more urgency entering their pace.

  The passageway turned again, descending ever further. Now Patrik had to stow the bow to keep up with Yohan’s quickening strides. The soldier was racing toward damnation, so why did Patrik blindly follow along?

  At last they saw a closed door blocking the hall. It was wooden and damaged, with signs of recent repair. There was a lock, but the whole frame barely looked stable enough to stay upright.

  Patrik took a deep breath as he stared at it, certain they had reached the culmination of their search. How many enemies were on the other side, and how many more dead innocents?

  He looked at his companion, ready to ask how they should prepare, and saw that the soldier already had his leg raised. The foot shot forward, hard against the wood, and whatever held it in place snapped with a crash. The hinges creaked and twisted, and the door flung open in a surge of sudden light. They turned away, momentarily blinded.

  It was sunlight, reflected from snowy ground. They stepped outside, recognized the depression they found themselves in, and looked back up a slope toward the fort. The empty fort.

  At last, the imperturbable expression on Yohan’s face showed signs of strain. The soldier looked south, in the direction they had come.

  Patrik lacked Summer’s gifts of empathy and cheerfulness, but even he could see the despair growing inside his companion, and felt the compulsion to be reassuring. “They cannot have gone far. The storm just ended.”

  “They haven’t been here for a while.” Once again, Yohan did not bother looking back as he replied, but Patrik was less annoyed than disturbed by the soldier’s thoughts. “Why would he lead us back this way? This feels very wrong to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Yohan only shook his head.

  A terrible thought occurred to Patrik, alongside a growing revival of the fear that had just subsided. “Should I be worried about the others?”

  “I am.”

  Meadow, Silvo… Summer.

  “Come on. Let’s hurry back.” Yohan set off at a brisk run, back to the road. Patrik hurried behind.

  * *

  The footprints showed that the attack had come from the east. Clearly, the enemy had moved from the old fort to a new base.

  There were twelve bodies in total, not including the dead oxen and dogs. Four were barbarian tribesmen, all succumbing to stabs and slashes. Judging by proximity, two of them had fallen to Brody—for his body lay nearby, between them and Meadow.

  The other two tribesmen were interspersed among the rest of the Vilnian contingent: Ledo, Kelsey, Duffey, Krisa, and Mercer.

  Silvo’s body was near his wagon, lying on top of his shattered lute, not far from the stashed bow that he had been unable to reach. His corpse—like Brody’s and Meadow’s—still bore the crossbow bolts that killed him.

  Yohan felt surprisingly little emotion. Instead, he felt dead inside.

  Marek’s company. Jena’s squad. And now this. Far too much to be coincidence.

  Those bolts particularly bothered him. Captain Marek had been killed and Jena wounded by crossbows, and Yohan had yet to see a single tribesman use one.

  There had been other signs, if he had only paid attention. But he had been too deep in self-pity to notice.

  “Summer isn’t the only one missing,” Patrik said, able to form coherent sentences again. The utter terror that had overwhelmed the trader was subsiding, Yohan noted.

  “Nay.”

  “Your bearded friend…”

  “Redjack,” Yohan affirmed. “Not a friend at all, it appears.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “He led us into a trap. It wasn’t the first time.” Yohan sat on a broken wagon wheel, allowing his tired legs to rest. A very brief rest.

  They would pursue, of course. He and this harpa civilian, for whatever that was worth. Whether they ever caught up remained to be seen, but they would certainly follow. And the sooner, the better.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked impatiently.

  Patrik was searching Summer’s wagon. She was gone, clearly. Taken, most definitely. There was still a chance to rescue her and Jena both. But that chance was already minuscule, and every delay made it shrink still more.

  “She had a giant blue sapphire,” Patrik said. “A gemstone, uncut. She loved it. She wouldn’t want it left behind.”

  Yohan stood, reaching into his pocket. At least he could give his last remaining companion some consolation. She had said it bestowed hope. May it work for Patrik better than he.

  The trader’s voice was near tears. “She said it was her heart. That she would give it to me when we were finally married. I…can’t leave it behind.”

  Yohan froze. Oh, Summer.

  I can’t show him this. It would only hurt the man, and he is in enough pain already.

  His legs felt weak, so he sat back down.

  “Don’t you even care?” Patrik accused. “She risked everything to help you.”

  More than you know, Yohan thought. And more than I realized. But showing his feelings was not going to help. It might have before, but not now.

  The useless search went on for a few more minutes. “Not here,” Patrik cried in frustration. “The thieves found it.” He stared eastward, after the footprints. “We’re going to chase them, right? And kill them all.”

  “Aye. Get whatever you need. We’re leaving in five minutes.” Yohan stood again, taking his turn to contemplate the footprints leading away. Dozens of them. The odds kept getting worse.

  What had she told him? I believe that when love is before you, you have an obligation to take it. But what if you do not see it until too late?

  I will never understand why people behave in a manner so clearly against their own interest, she also said, yet had done everything in her power to help him go after Jena. Had, in fact, risked the entire caravan to do so. Why?

  Because she wanted him to be happy. Happiness was important to these harpa, a lesson he had begun to learn before turning away.

  He raised his eyes from the marks in the snow, his gaze continuing on into the distance. Toward the enemy’s homeland, where prisoners—those who were not summarily eaten—were likely to be taken, and the mountains that stood in the way. The Stormeres—those old familiar friends. He had the feeling he was going back.

  Circumstances would be different this time, however. Yohan could already feel the change in the air, born from a shift in purpose. For as long as he could remember, he had tried to protect others from the omnipresent dangers that hunted them. Now that need to protect was gone, for those dangers had finally materialized, closed in, and taken everything. He had been as powerless to stop them as a goat stalked by wolves.

  The helplessness ended now. There was nothing he could do to change what had happened, but he would do everything in his power to end these misfortunes. The wolves would come to know the hunt from a new viewpoint, for he was the tiger, and he smelled blood.

  Epilogue

  Neublusten

  FROM HIS PERCH on the balcony, Hermann watched the small line of soldiers file through the front gate of the castle. All of them familiar, the one in the lead most of all. His son, Nicolas, heir and acting commander of Neublusten. The dour boy and crippled girl with whom he always surrounded himself. General Freilenn was a surprise, and Captain Reikmann even more so. They gave the group an extra air of authority, of legitimacy.

  Their purpose was written clearly enough on their faces, visible to an old man’s eyes even at this distance. And so he waited those last moments with a mix of emotions. He could not help but feel a sense of regret, even a little fear. Surprise, of course, at how quickly the wheel turned. And somewhere, deep inside, a sliver of pride.

  He heard a commotion in the antechamber. His
chamberlain, performing the useless duties of office. Demanding respect or requesting leniency, it mattered not which. It was merely one last pointless service at the end of a lifetime’s worth. Hermann regretted the delay, for he was ready to get this over with.

  At last the door opened, and his remaining son strode into the august chamber, leaving the others behind to have a moment alone with the king. Trusting in the forbearance of a known manipulator, or simply in his own capability to handle himself. Either way, it was another foolish error by a staggeringly naive child.

  How much does the prince know, I wonder? Best just to assume the answer to that was everything. That way there would be no surprises.

  Nicolas opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. Hesitant, unsure how to begin. Not a good sign, for any of them. Despite all that had happened, the boy still showed irresolution. Weakness.

  Well, there was one last lesson Hermann could provide.

  “You should have known what you were going to say before ever you entered,” he rebuked.

  Nico’s shoulders stiffened. “I did. I’m giving you an opportunity to speak your piece first.”

  Hermann shook his head. “Unnecessary. You spoke to General Cottzer. You know where the ground lays.”

  “You deny none of his story?”

  “I do not. Even you will have seen the truth in things, regardless. It was a fair plan, save for the treachery of others.”

  “You know treachery when you see it, Father.”

  “A good king should.”

  Nico glared back, and the level of hatred contained within that stare made Hermann shiver. Or perhaps that was merely the chill breeze blowing in from the open balcony.

  “Your betrayal of me means not half so much as your murder of Arturo,” Nico said calmly. The rage had been contained. It was still there, but the boy spoke without its controlling him. That, at least, was a good sign.