The Bloodheart

by Steve Rzasa

  “Because we must replenish our numbers, Calder, and Bowen Cord, while untrained, has skill we can use. To harness it, the only leverage we need is those to whom is heart is closely knit.”

  Satara recovers next. I offer a hand to help her up, and she accepts. I tell her of Fantine and that familiar, wicked smile that allures me falls apart. “We must secure the Bloodheart,” she says.

  My back is to Calder and the others. He’s busy muttering as he binds our captives. I put my hand—the one of flesh, not metal—under her chin and gently lift.

  Half the smile returns. But she pulls away. Shakes her head.

  A shiver stabs through my chest. There’s not been such feeling for eons. Not since I left home. I gaze upon her and wish we had another place in another time. “You could be more than just my second, you know. There’s rewards the others would not—appreciate.”

  “Such generosity,” she murmurs. “Are you not afraid Calder will take even more offense? He does fancy me.”

  Not more than I. Not possible. “Help him with the prisoners, then, if you’re to be useful to me.”

  She scowls and storms off from me. So be it. If she’ll not return my offer in kind, she’s no more trustworthy than the rest.

  A cry echoes across the stone ramparts. Rostov, who is also now awake apparently, shakes his hands with vigor and swears in fluent Rus. Smoke curls from them, and they’re red with blisters.

  Not surprising. He’s touched the Bloodheart. There was about to be this sort of difficulty. I hadn’t a clue as to what kind. But the hands of a fire-summoner have just been burned. The impossible became reality.

  “What manner of sorcery is this, sire?” Calder lashes the arms and legs of the were-fox. His gesture brings a pair of soldiers clattering along with chains in hand.

  “We cannot touch the Bloodheart. Its power is too great. That’s what His Majesty warned me before we left Pons Aelius. So say his personal mages.”

  “What good is relic we cannot touch?” Rostov stares at his hands.

  “Oh, I suspect there’s a solution here,” Calder mutters. “You’d have it to yourself, wouldn’t you, Strathern. Use your metal hand and pluck our glory from our reach.”

  I stalk to where the Bloodheart sits discarded on the rampart, next to the bag which the boy carried. Metal fingers curl around and, without looking away from the Bloodheart’s silvery surface, I grasp it.

  The silver throbs a deep red. Smoke curls up from where the tips of my metal fingers touch. They glow white as the heat increases, intense enough to bake my face.

  After a moment I release it. Thrust fingertips, now molten as if fresh from the smithy, in Calder’s face. Bits of metal drip down and spatter on the concrete as the fingers cool. “You see?”

  Calder stares at the scorched fingertips. His anger has melted into frustration; I can see it plainly. He waves his arms. “But—that boy. He had it in his bag. He held it aloft and wielded magic against us! Without gaining a mark on himself.”

  I rub my chin, with my true hand of course. The boy is indeed uninjured, curled there near us as if asleep on the hay. How often I would do likewise with my siblings. There was no word of this boy having summoner potential. His kin were soul-mages, but that ability does not manifest until adulthood, or so the king’s mages told me.

  Satara shakes her head. “I’ve never seen nor heard of someone so young wielding magic with such skill. Not even in the training citadel at Madeira. And certainly not two elements at once.”

  Rostov nods. He still stares at his scorched palms. “Is not supposed to hurt. Never hurts.”

  “You are correct.”

  “What is your plan, then?” Calder tugs on the collar fitted to the were-fox’s neck. “Surely you know our next course.”

  I nod toward Fantine’s corpse. “Wind to carry it.”

  “Ah.”

  “But now I see another way. Satara?”

  She frowns. “Earth is my element, Strathern.”

  “Yes. Metal counts, last I studied.”

  “It is not the same. Metal like this is earth that has been fashioned by human hands, tampered with by mortal flesh. The spirit of it weakens. My magic cannot summon it as well as pure earth.”

  “I know this, too. Unfortunately, we don’t have another choice, Satara, so my order is for you to make the attempt.”

  She nods grimly, extends both her hands. The air between them churns, suffused with a pale green glow. The Bloodheart doesn’t so much as twitch.

  Satara mutters an incantation. Sweat beads on her brow, and her eyes are squeezed shut. Her face is a stone mask. Fingers tremble. The glow intensifies. A hum throbs, an obnoxious sound that vibrates the body.

  The Bloodheart scrapes against rock. Moves as far as my little finger. Satara twists her hands, palms down now. The stones underfoot shudder, grinding against each other. They push up against the relic, shoving at it, but it will not yield. One of the stones cracks, with bits sloughing off to either side.

  The Bloodheart suddenly glows bright red, as brilliant as the western sky at sunset. It slides back from Satara, right to its original position.

  She sags. The glow winks out. Stones settle into place. Satara gasps, reaches for the rock wall. I make no move to provide assistance or comfort. Such idiocy has cost me too much already.

  She looks at me, and shakes her head, wordless and sucking in breath.

  “A fine try,” Calder says sourly.

  “You’d do far worse,” I snap. “With your lack of focus.”

  In response he strikes with lightning, the bolts grasping for the Bloodheart. Yet they disappear in a hot white haze a hand’s breadth away. No matter the force with which he thunders at it, the relic steadfastly ignores his assault.

  Calder stops, his face red with shame, his expression stony.

  Dolt. “Rouse the boy.”

  He yanks Luc to his feet by the shirt and cuffs him. He starts awake with a cry like a bird’s alarm. He twists in Calder’s grasp, but is firmly ensnared. Finally, he stops, goes slack. Calm settles over his face.

  “Release him.”

  Calder complies. The boy stands still, not bothering to straighten his shirt. Instead dark, sorrowful eyes search the rampart around us, ignoring me and the summoners. His gaze settles on the inert forms of Sleet’s crew.

  “Not dead,” I say. “Not yet. They will be dark to us for a full day. In the meantime, I have use for you, boy. Luc, isn’t it?”

  He stares at me.

  I kneel before him and smile. “I came looking for you. The corsairs were enthusiastic but far from thorough about their task. Such as I warned His Majesty. You see, I know who you are—son of soulmages, kin to the keepers of the Bloodheart who were banished by their brethren and those who forswore magic. A clever place to hide a relic that will amplify the ability of one who carries it. Is that why it obeys you?”

  “It doesn’t.” His voice is steady as a stone citadel in the face of a tempest. Soft, it is, but no less stolid. “It doesn’t obey anyone.”

  “My man who summons fire begs to differ. I need your help, Luc. Help me carry the Bloodheart a little farther than you have.”

  “I don’t want to help you. You hurt and kill. Just like the corsairs.”

  A chuckle bursts from my chest. It rolls on and on like thunder. This boy thinks what he’s seen me done is vile. If he but knew of the full depravity of my sins, he’d see why I find it so amusing that he compares me to a simple corsair.

  “I won’t pick up the Bloodheart for you,” he says.

  “Do it for your captain, then. Satara, help me make my point.”

  She gestures with her right hand, lifting a jagged chunk of rock the size of a man’s chest into the air from the stacks of rubble around us. It hovers ten feet over Bowen Cord’s head.

  The boy shivers. His hands clench into tiny fists. Do you desire to pummel me, boy? To mete out justice on the bad man? There is a long line in which you must wait.

  I wil
l have the Bloodheart. I have set aside too much already to arrive where I stand. Too many people turned cold with death and too many places burned by fire for me to set my quest aside. If need be I will drench every land from the Atlan Reach to the Carpathians in death.

  “Luc. Let’s not see them hurt. Do me this good deed. The Bloodheart will be put to a powerful use that will benefit all the kingdoms of the world.”

  He looks at his people, the crew of Sleet, and I see tears brimming. They are more to him than the ship’s hands taking him from place to place. They are friends. Kin. The love is evident.

  Luc sits down. He weeps openly now, not bothering to wipe away the tears, as he reaches for the Bloodheart. Nothing happens. No scarring, no burning, no ill effects. He cradles it for a moment, and through his crying I glimpse defiance. Does he mean a strike against us?

  “Calder. Rostov. Dissuade our young friend from any rash action.”

  They poise themselves over Cord, and the Aevorn, with their weapons ready.

  The tension in the air passes. Luc stows the Bloodheart in his bag as easily as putting away a fruit. His sobbing subsides into infrequent sniffles.

  The ramparts around us are silent again. I rise from beside Luc. “You’ve done well, boy. You will be rewarded.”

  My lieutenant arrives. His armor is blood-stained and smoke-smudged. He walks with a slight limp, and his expression is haggard. “Sire. We have control over the area. No further signs of the dragon. Our scouts say he has fled south.”

  “Good. That will teach the beast to meddle in the affairs of men.” I gesture about us. “Get these prisoners aboard Sleet. Transfer yourself and a dozen men from Inexorable for crew.”

  “Sire?”

  If the questioning of my orders would simply cease… “Do not deprive me of my prize, Lieutenant. Carry out your orders.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Amidst the clinking of chains from the rounding up of the prisoners I lean in and whisper to Luc, “Come along, boy. We’ll get you safe and sound to your ship.”

  ~

  It’s been a long time since I was at a ship’s wheels. There is no comparable feeling of liberty. The wood is cold and rough against my hand, but the wind invigorates me.

  It’s enough to make a man forget that he hates to fly. But then, all things are in my control. They have not been so for a very long time.

  Sleet responds well to my touch. No hint of jealousy that another captain is steering. Cautiously, yes, because we have been foes, but a ship as proud and lovely as this will not fail to proclaim her talents because of petty human enmity. She cuts clouds with fervor.

  “Sire? Captain Cord demands to see you.” So my lieutenant informs me. I’m pleased to see that, this many days out of Jasna Góra, his wounds are healing. His armor is cleansed of all but the worst stains, and he wears a new crimson cloak.

  “Very good. Have Calder bring him to me.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  We should make our port of destination soon. The winds have been at our backs ever since we left Jasna Góra on that dark day. The prisoners awoke nearly three days ago, and aside from the were-fox attempting to bash through his chains—unsuccessfully—the ride has been quiet.

  Far below, we leave behind the eastern arm of Northamber, my home isle. At this altitude, Pons Aelius is a mere white speck on a jagged line of gray hemmed in by rolling hills of green.

  When I next set foot on its streets, it shall be as a conqueror of lands and peoples.

  I sweep my gaze around the fleet, ignoring the shouts of crewmen as they adjust the rigging and continue repairs on the hull. Rattler and Encampment have taken up positions a thousand feet below and two miles away, white sails jewel-like over the dark seas. Inexorable is four miles behind us, with the dark armored warships my summoners brought escorting it to port and starboard. Sleet is by far the swiftest. The skies are a brilliant blue and studded with herds of thick white clouds. The breezes are biting, getting colder by the mile, but with my cloak cinched about my neck I invite the chill on my face.

  Such calm.

  Luc stands at the bowsprit, under guard—Rostov and Taran. They stand a healthy distance from him, Taran favoring the leg not wrapped in a splint. Luc has the bag hanging from his shoulder, the bulge of the Bloodheart plain to all.

  “Port ho!” The youth aloft on the rigging points up and to starboard.

  Yes. There it is. A mere black speck on the horizon. Five thousand feet in the air. A smile spreads to the corners of my mouth.

  Chains clang behind me. Cord is bound with manacles on his ankles and wrists. Dark circles drag at his eyes. His clothes rumpled and dirty. But the defiance is there in his posture—shoulders back, chin up, jaw set.

  Calder bows and smirks. “Your prisoner, sire.”

  Insolent dog. “You’re dismissed.”

  He leaves, but not before bashing his shoulder against Cord’s.

  “Welcome topside, Captain.”

  Cord glares at me. “Funny you’d call me that when you have your hands on my ship.”

  “On the contrary, Captain, this is my ship. The cutter Sleet is now property of His Majesty the king of Northamber, as is my prerogative under the writ His Majesty issued me. She’s a fine vessel and worthy as a scout in our navy.” I smile. “I address you as ‘captain’ as a courtesy only.”

  “Where is Luc? You have my people chained below. I demand to know what’s become of him.”

  “Such hostility. One would think I hadn’t let you enjoy their company, with your cohort bound together in such cozy confines amongst your cargo hold. Your cabin, by the way, is quite comfortable for a small ship such as this.” I gesture forward. “The boy serves us as well as your ship does.”

  Cord lurches as if he’s going to join Luc, but the chains arrest his progress.

  “No, let’s not.” I send a jolt of lightning from my metal fingertips into the chains binding him.

  He staggers, teeth grit, but doesn’t fall. Instead he glares at me and stands firm.

  “Luc was kind enough to carry the Bloodheart for us,” I say. “He’s done a fine job. Not a hint of mutiny. Of course, he is operating under the threat of your imminent death should he rebel.”

  “Where are you taking us? Why take us anywhere?”

  “Because you have value to me as a summoner, Cord. You are untrained, but I have seen your potential. Your people, too, would be welcome mercenaries to the King’s forces. Northamber is not picky about from which corners of the skies she gathers her servants.”

  “I’ll not serve you or any other king. I am a free man.”

  “You are bound to magic. That makes you a slave. And like any slave, you must first be broken before you are of any worth.”

  Cord does not reply. Instead he stares off onto the horizon. “We’re near an isle. I see it there. Our destination?”

  “Oh, yes.” I hand him the spyglass perched behind the wheels. The speck is a dark splotch on the sky, surrounded by a cloud of tinier spots hovering around it.

  Cord maneuvers the spyglass, and I hear the sharp intake of breath among the rattle of chains. He has no comment now.

  “This is our home, Cord. Navio Mons.”

  The shapes grow clearer as we approach. Ships of all sizes crowd the sky, fifty of them, including eight men-of-war the same size and make as Inexorable, plus twenty of the armored warships of the newer classes. The rest are frigates and scouts of varying age. The tonnage and armament exceeds any gathered by another nation for centuries. My heart pounds. Such power.

  Navio Mons is the jewel on that crown. The isle is a thousand feet across and again a thousand feet from the top of the citadel to the tip of the underside. The bottom is a long, jagged clump of gray and tan rock that reaches down toward the sea. Even in daylight copious aethershards give it an otherworldly shine. The top of the islet has been hewn into a massive fortress, walls sheer and impenetrable. Cannon ports open on all six sides of the hexagonal tower that looms four hundred
feet tall, and is topped by a second, smaller tower armored with stone and metal.

  “This is our future, Cord, and the future of all the world. Navio Mons will give Northamber rule over the skies and seas,” I whisper.

  Cord finds his voice, but it has little in the way of confidence. “Your enemies will find it. It will be besieged.”

  I sneer at him. “Only if they can follow her.”

  THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

  ~

  Bowen

  It is an impregnable fortress. I’ve never seen the likes of it.

  My neck aches from craning to view the top of the walls. They are thick stone, towering far above us. Iron gratings too new to have accumulated rust secure every opening. Soldiers are everywhere, more than a dozen dozens by the time I cease counting, bedecked in the red and black insignia of Northamber. Their ranks are swollen by foul goblins, swarms of them skittering just out of reach, leering and screeching at us, flashes of fangs in the shadows.

  We’re marched in under guard—four soldiers at the rear, three on each side, and four in the lead. Through the gaping maw of the open portcullis, beyond the deep dark of a narrow corridor, and into the wide open center of the main tower. It is hollow as a rotted log. A circular wooden ramp spirals up the edges, with black chains as railings from the posts set every ten feet. Every so often rooms are set into the walls—some full of barrels, some full of gleaming pikes and axes, some full of men. Far below, shapes shift in the twilight of distant torches at the base of this hollow tower. A cacophony of fiendish shrieks echoes off the walls. I recall the sound, though it is a hundred times worse here: the same as the creature that attacked us at the Everflame. A valkiro, Tereth called it.

  Niall glances over the edge. “There must be a hundred of them. And they’re big. Bigger than the lizard we skinned.”

  I nod numbly. So much power accumulated here. Weapons and soldiers and foul creatures. They now have the Bloodheart on their side.

  On mine? A beaten crew, and lost hopes.

  Niall’s neck is bound by an iron collar clamped so tight about him, he’d choke to death if he shifted form. He carries twice the chains we do. Blood stains his shirt from days old wounds, and his complexion is pale, but his face—his face has lost none of the sneer. Ariya’s wings are bound behind her. She watches everything, and there’s murmured words passed between her and Niall. Plans? A scheme for escape?