The Bloodheart

by Steve Rzasa

  “They would not have hurt me. It is not my time. Soon. But not now.”

  “I see.” Not really. But the important thing is to get this lad off the street. “Come now. You should be indoors. Bristol-on-Sky is not a terrible place as far as port cities go, but it’s not a monastery either.”

  “I am safe. You’ll protect me, won’t you?”

  Won’t I? There’s a pressure in my head that grows, unpleasant, buzzing. It certainly encouraged me thus. “Ah… that is, I could certainly find you safe lodging.”

  “Oh, but I don’t need a place to rest. I’m going on a journey.”

  “A journey?” I laugh. “Paid for with what, the rocks in your tin? I’d wager you haven’t two coppers between your fingers.”

  Gridley glares at me. It’s a definite scolding. But I’ll take no backtalk from him. My head buzzes. Too much whiskey. And something else is going on, but what, I cannot pinpoint.

  A murmur?

  “I won’t need money. I’m going to Applemont.” The boy stands. His posture is firm, and belies the hunched urchin with whom I assume I’ve been conversing.

  Gridley sidles up to the boy and barks. His tail wags, thumps against the barrel. I tell you, there is no loyalty. Traitor.

  The buzzing clears from my head, a curtain of fog dissolving before the sun. Applemont? Has this boy been eavesdropping? Perhaps he somehow spotted he map I purchased. Or overheard my plans.

  No. The tavern was too noisy. I chose it for that reason. And if a mere boy had been inside, amongst the workers and ruffians, I surely would have noticed. Even after the whiskey.

  This boy makes me wary. Even more so than the four men who passed earlier.

  There’s a tingling in my hand as a result. It feels cold. Steady, now. Maintain control. “It’s not wise to venture there, lad. I hear tell the town has been sacked.”

  He looks at me with eyes so sad, yet his demeanor is utter calm. My mum was the same away. “I know. I was there. But they didn’t see me. It wasn’t my time. I hid.”

  “I’m flummoxed, then. Why in the name of the edge would you want to go back?”

  “Something was left behind. Something important. It must be kept from wrong hands.”

  He stares at me. The smile is gone. Chills skitter down my spine. The tingling in my hand worsens. Steady, Bowen. “What is it you seek?” I ask.

  “It is the Bloodheart,” he whispers. “And it is very dear to me.”

  The shivers throughout my body had nothing to do with the evening cold. “This is madness. There’s no way…what would make you think I am off to voyage anywhere near to Applemont? What tells you I have the transport to accomplish such a trek?”

  The boy reaches out for the edge of my cloak. He presses it to his nose. “You carry the smell of sea and sky. Tar. Hemp. Cotton. Wood. You have a ship.”

  Gridley makes no move to interpose himself between us. That mongrel trusts this lad as well as he does me. “How do you know I’ve not been merely a passenger?”

  “The way you speak. Only a captain of men has a voice like yours. I can hear the authority.”

  My laugh startles me. “You had best remind my crew. By thunder, lad, I don’t know what game you’re playing at, but it is a fine one.”

  “Will you take me to Applemont, then?”

  It’s a tricky business, this. Niall, Ariya, they know how to fight. Gridley, too. Our trip will not lack peril, with corsairs about in that region. But there is something about this child that urges me, compels me to take him under my wing. It is a nuisance and a comfort all at once. “You have no way to pay transport.”

  “I can work hard. My parents taught me how to be useful.”

  “Aboard a ship, though?”

  His smile is full of mischief. “How do you suppose I came to Bristol-on-Sky?”

  “You have a fire, that’s certain.” Niall will dislike this. Ariya will dislike this even more. Unfortunately for them I am still the captain, and equally as important, Sleet’s owner. “Very well then. Since you talk a good game and possess keen skills of observation, I welcome you aboard Sleet for its voyage to Applemont. You’ll work for a wage. We take no lounging passengers.”

  Gridley barks his approval. He rubs up against my leg with his head. I scratch him behind the ears. “Also, lad, I let you join us because Gridley’s taste in character is impeccable.”

  “I won’t disappoint you, sir.”

  “My name is Bowen. Bowen Cord. You may, and will, call me Captain.” There ought to be some semblance of order in these proceedings, after all.

  We shake hands. His grip has surprising strength for his age and size, especially given his forlorn condition. This is part of his ruse, I suspect.

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  “What may I call you? ‘Boy’ or ‘lad’ has become tiresome.”

  “My name is Luc.”

  “Luc. No family name?”

  “I have no family anymore. So I don’t need it.” His voice is soft, but not sorrowful.

  “I’m sorry. Their lost must sadden you.”

  “It does. But I am sad now about the violence to come.”

  The what? “I don’t understand.”

  Gridley growls low.

  I spin around. The four men are back. Confound it. In all my yammering I had missed their return. The whiskey has dulled my senses and made me slow to react. I should know better.

  “You’ll give that boy up to us, mariner.” The man in front of the group is taller than me, as tall as Niall, and twice as wide. Like the rest, his hair is long and foul. He alone has no beard. All of them are blond Nordics, dour folk who prefer battle-axes. These four must be the kind to spurn tradition, for they all wield stilettos. The blades are as narrow as a pair of fingers and as long as my hand.

  “I think not. He’s bound to me now.” I draw my sword. Leave the wheellock under cover of the cloak and pray they’ve forgotten its existence.

  “We’ll have him and your guts in the gutter.”

  Gridley’s growling intensifies. The hair bristles on the back of his neck.

  Steady boy. Await my direction.

  They encircle us. I back away from the tavern wall. We’re in the midst of the road. Luc is pressed close to my side. I give him a gentle push to free up room for when I must draw my wheellock.

  “Hand him to us.” The leader waves his stiletto in a circle.

  “No. Be off.”

  He grins. It’s a hideous sight. Like looking into a dragon’s maw. His chin lifts.

  My blood is pounding in my ears, but even that does not disguise the scuffle of boots on dirt behind me and to my left.

  I pivot, and draw my weapon.

  Luc yells.

  I fire.

  THE THIRD CHAPTER

  ~

  THE NOISE IS EAR-SPLITTING. OUR assailant cries out, guttural and harsh. He could be a bull careening through the meadows. He tumbles, but there’s not much I can see. Smoke from the wheellock shrouds everything.

  Another man lunges. His form is shadowy through the smoke and the dark. The blade cuts through nothing but air above my head. Close enough I daresay I’ve a few trimmed hairs.

  I hunker and thrust upward with my sword. The impact is a wet, heavy sound, joined by tearing cloth. I turn and shove him off the blade. Warm liquid splashes down my cloak, onto my boots. It stains the ground in a dark puddle.

  Luc weeps.

  Gridley barks, loud and savage. He’s on top of one man, and clamps his jaws onto a flailing arm. The man’s scream makes the ringing in my ears worse.

  Luc cries out. I cannot hear the words. A warning? I react, turning enough so that the stiletto sails through the air, tearing my cloak. The leader is on me in a flash of metal. He has another blade, a longer one with a serrated edge. Goodness knows where he had that secreted.

  I parry the blow easily, without thought. Blades clang against each other, flashing in the dim light from the tavern’s windows. He’s a strong one, this beast, but
uses sloppy form. I use his lack of skill against him. Yet his blows drive me closer to the tavern wall. If he presses my back against it, I’ll have no room to maneuver. I need a distraction. “Gridley!”

  A roar rattles the glass panes of the tavern windows. That is decidedly not Gridley, who still has a mouthful of the other assailant’s arm. The door bangs open with such force that wood splinters and hinges made of rusting iron twist. There stands a fearsome creature, eight feet tall, wearing clothes that burst at the seams and a ruddy brown cloak. The beast is covered in red fur, except for its throat and chest, which are white as snow. Its eyes gleam green and its fangs drip saliva. The snarl rising from its throat startles even me.

  Thank heavens for you, Niall.

  He lunges at my assailant. The man yelps, slashes with the blade. Niall’s claws rake its surface with a terrible screeching that rends the night. The blade spins off into the night, a glittering pinwheel.

  Niall roars. Spittle sprays all over the leader’s face. Gone is the expression of the swaggering thug who boasted of my demise. I see only a scared bully stripped of his power. He bolts.

  I trip him.

  He skids along the dirt, coughs up dust. Niall seizes the back of his cloak and hauls him up, up, until he’s dangling a foot off the ground. He’s blubbering.

  Niall puts his fangs close to the man’s ear. His voice is a vicious, rumbling distortion of my first mate’s cheery tone. “Run along, worm, afore I sate my hunger.”

  With that Niall flings the man aside. He slams against a house on the other side of the road and slides down, a sodden lump. He scrambles to his feet, cradling his left arm, and runs.

  “Gridley!” I bound toward my faithful companion but he’s already released his plaything. The other assailant takes off after his leader.

  Gridley barks in triumph. I holster my wheellock and rough the fur behind his ears. “That’s a good boy. You did well.”

  Niall laughs. It’s a ghoulish sound. “Will you scratch behind my ears as well? I am the hero of the hour.”

  “That you are. But you’ll have to get Ariya to reach up there if you desire a loving touch.”

  “Loving indeed. She’d just as soon put a knife to my fur.”

  I sheath my sword. There’s blood on my shirt from the first assailant slain. “You can put your claws away now, methinks.”

  Niall’s body contorts. Red fur shortens, fades to flesh. Clothes loosen to baggy again. He grins. The fangs shorten into teeth, albeit sharp ones. He’s again a vulpex in the state of a man. “Were you going to leave me out of the revelry, Captain? It’s a good thing I retain my outstanding hearing when not dressed as a beast.”

  “I thought about knocking on the door to see if you were asleep or in the arms of a comely barmaid, but I was otherwise occupied.” I glance about. Two assailants lay dead in the street. There is no sign of the others. Nor have any guardsmen come a’running. Though I suspect at this time of night in Bristol-on-Sky they have other matters to attend than a brawl.

  “And who’s the lad?”

  I had nearly forgotten the newest addition to the crew. Luc is behind the barrel again, standing there with his hands on Gridley’s head and a mournful frown on his face.

  “This is Luc. He’s working for passage to Applemont.”

  “Applemont?” Niall’s eyebrows rise. “A happy coincidence.”

  “Indeed.” I hold out my hand. “Come along, Luc, we must make for the ship.”

  He shakes his head. “You are like them. You hurt and kill, just like a corsair.”

  My hand tingles. The cold gnaws at the bones in my palm. Pain fueled by adrenaline pushes me to anger. “If I had not acted you’d be abducted or dead. You’d have me stand by and not resist? I won’t lay down my arms for the likes of them, the filth of the skies. I’d rather cut out my own entrails.”

  This life is all I have. Once, there was a great deal more. Her eyes still haunt my dreams. But that is done Lost. All that is left is my ship, and my soul.

  When I need to fight, my heart ices over. It goes as numb as my hand when the ice summoning beckons.

  “Easy, Bowen.” Niall’s hands press down upon my shoulders. “He must be scared, is all.”

  Luc does not look scared. He looks sad, and perhaps a touch angry. His glare cools only when Gridley nuzzles against his side and gives me a glance as if to say, You are the grown man, aren’t you?

  “You have little choice, lad. If you’re bound for Applemont, your best chance is with us,” Niall says.

  “I know. I don’t like it, but I will sail with you,” Luc whispers. “Know that your ways are wrong.”

  He walks off down the street, in the direction of the wharf. Gridley lopes alongside, leading him—or does he follow the boy? Gridley looks back at me and barks. I’d not be surprised if they get to Sleet just fine without my guidance.

  “Well, now. How did you find that fox’s burrow?” Niall shakes his head.

  “Do not ask. Let’s be off.”

  The icy tingles lance through my hand. The temptation is there, to freeze these hooligans until their blood thickens in their hearts. Yet the fear and anger overwhelm such. The last I made use of magic, it failed me terribly.

  It is a curse that cost me my world.

  ~

  We make it to the docks without further difficulty. The sight of the cloudships lifts my spirits in a way that has naught to do with the whiskey.

  Eighteen ships are berthed here tonight. A few are the huge, lumbering carracks laden with cargoes of the Far East. Most have the sleek hulls of schooners and sloops and barques. They all hang in the air, sails rustling in the night winds, trailing pennants of red, green, tan and white, depending upon which master flies his colors.

  Mine is the vessel third from the right end, a cutter sixty feet from stem to stern, bearing a white pennant striped with pale blue. My Sleet.

  The docks reach out from Bristol-on-Sky to the ships like a crone’s fingers, dark and spindly. Above them is the night sky, and two thousand feet below, the deep black of the ocean. A soft green glow pervades the air between us and the sea. If you were stout of heart enough to chance a climb on the underside of Bristol-on-Sky, you’d touch the aethershards embedded in the rock, the green crystals brimming with magic that keep two thousand souls aloft. Yes, this is one of the five hundred floating cities of the North. Magic is strong here, as the tingling in my hands reminds me.

  There’s an old man tending the port shack by the fence lining the city’s edge. He waves his lantern in a bright yellow arc. “Ho, there, Captain. Ye’ve come home with a full complement, I sees.”

  “Without a doubt, Danny. How’s things about the docks this fine night?”

  He grins, flashing two gold teeth in the lamplight. His hair, the straggly bits not secured under his hood, shines white. I pray he doesn’t see the blood. More questions are unwelcome at this point. “It’d be a fine night if that winged wench o’ yours would mind her business and leave the rest of the mates to theyselves.”

  Niall shoulders by me. “You’ll not call her a wench again,” he grumbles.

  “Steady.” I press him back gently and favor Danny with my broadest smile. “Come now, Ariya doubtless ran into the wrong folk.”

  “Oh aye. A few of the boys found themselves pining for company of the softer variety, and she was the prettiest sight around.” Danny cackles. “They dinnae find her so willing as the maids in the town, I tell ye. She’d have sent ‘em off the edge if I’d not lent the edge of my whip to discipline their hides.”

  “We’d best not keep her waiting,” Niall says. He breezes past us without a how-do-you-do.

  “What’s eatin’ him?” Danny scowls.

  “I think he doesn’t appreciate your humor.” I pass Danny two bits of silver and pat his shoulder. “We’re to cast off early. Take good care and mind the edge.”

  “Fair air for you, Captain.” Danny saunters off, a tune whistling from his lips and coin jingling in his pock
ets.

  Ariya Stormquill awaits us.

  She swoops down from the rigging and lands at our feet. Her wings are a pearly orange in the dim light from Danny’s lantern. Silver flashes around the pale blue irises of her eyes, like summer lightning glimpsed behind clouds. She’s lithe and graceful, her shape complemented by the shape of brown trousers and a white blouse. Three purple slashes are tattooed to her left cheek. Ariya is a heavenly sight with long blond hair.

  But her attitude is decidedly of this world. “Where have you been? You were due back aboard ship long ago.”

  “Forgive me, Ariya, but I was under the impression I was the captain of this vessel and so it must await my return before it sails.”

  She frowns, yet it does nothing to diminish her cold beauty. “Of course, Captain. I did not mean to imply otherwise.”

  Niall snorts. “Whoever said the Aevorn have no sense of humor never met our dear Ariya. Come on, lass, we had ourselves a bit of fun in the old town. Picked up a passenger too.”

  “The boy?” Ariya folds her arms, crossing leather gauntlets. The effect is altogether imperious. I feel the urge to bow. “He looks weak. Too young for our travels.”

  “Nonsense. He’s a sturdy lad.” I have no notion as to whether this is true even as the words leave my lips.

  Ariya’s gaze fixes on Luc. I’ve seen men bigger than the hooligans who accosted us quail under just such a look. But the lad stands there, smiles that enigmatic smile of his, and pats Gridley atop the head.

  “Very well. I expect he can be of some use to me.” She turns to Niall. “Supplies are all loaded. Water, powder, food—”

  “Pork?” The saliva glistens on Niall’s teeth.

  Ariya rolls her eyes. “I procured a dozen pounds. Consider yourself fortunate, savage.”

  “Ah, under your capable wings I remain an ever grateful fox.” Niall saunters past her and swings himself aboard Sleet. She glares after him.

  “Well let’s not keep the dawn waiting, shall we? Ready us to cast off.” I direct Luc up the gangplank. Gridley shepherds the boy.

  “Captain. What happened in town?”

  Ah, Ariya. Senses trouble as easily as some men can sense a change in weather. “I found all we needed to know. We sail for Applemont. I have the chart here.” I pat my chest.