Black Stone Heart (The Obsidian Path Book 1)

by Michael R. Fletcher

  She said something, lips clicking. I had to lean close, ear against her mouth, before I heard the words, “I’m still here.”

  Henka was right. I hadn’t lost everything. Not yet.

  “Can your necromancy repair this much damage?”

  I hated asking, feared the answer.

  She hesitated, examining me with her own desperate fear. Finally, closing her eyes, she nodded once.

  Relief surged through me. “You’ll need some blood?”

  She nodded, a near imperceptible movement of her head. But her eyes remained closed. She wouldn’t look at me.

  “A lot?” I asked. “How much?”

  She opened her eyes but turned her head, facing away. Her lips moved, dry clacking.

  Again, I leaned close. “I couldn’t hear.”

  “You’ll hate me,” she whispered, attention locked on the wall.

  “I won’t. I could never hate you.”

  “You will. I’ll lose you.”

  “This is my fault,” I said, desperate. “All my fault. You have to let me help you.”

  Meeting my eyes, she seemed to cave in on herself. “To repair. Not just blood.” Voice barely a breath. This close, the stench of charred flesh, rotting meat, and burnt hair overwhelmed my sense of smell.

  Not just blood? “What else do you need?”

  She hesitated. Finally, “Parts.”

  That one word connected the last piece of the puzzle that was Henka. I remembered how she’d changed as we travelled south, the way her flesh became a patchwork of pink and white.

  ‘Would you like me to have dark eyes again?’ she asked at the Willow’s Inn.

  The man at the bar told her about someone’s beautiful daughter. He hadn’t just brought that up, she’d asked. The next morning, she had dark eyes.

  Parts.

  She harvested people to repair herself. No, more than that. She harvested people to remake herself for me.

  Every time she changed, every time she became more beautiful, more flawless, more the woman I wanted her to be, someone died.

  She’d taken some girl’s beautiful eyes.

  Parts.

  She harvested flesh from gods knew who.

  No, I knew who. That flesh had been smooth and perfect. She must have carved it from young women.

  How many had she killed? How many flayed and dismembered corpses did we leave behind us?

  Parts.

  And now she lay here, utterly helpless, a charred ruin, because of my stupidity. The only way I could have her back was if I got her the parts she needed. I’d have to harvest them for her. It was that, or abandon her.

  She stared up at me, watching, waiting, no doubt seeing my thoughts writ plain on my face. The horror. She knew me too well.

  “I promised I would never abandon you,” I said.

  She didn’t move, didn’t blink.

  I swallowed my revulsion. “Tell me what you need.”

  I went to that town to take people, to harvest them for their souls so I could summon demons. I was going to give their blood to Henka. How was this different? How was this any more evil than what I already planned?

  “Tell me what you need,” I repeated, voice steady this time. “I’ll get you everything you want.”

  This was all my fault. She suffered this horrible damage protecting me. She saved me from the wizard’s fire

  Henka flashed a wan smile full of heart-breaking misery. “Full body,” she whispered.

  “What’s better, alive or recently deceased?”

  “Fresh dead. Fresher better.”

  “I’ll find you a girl, a woman,” I corrected, though I wasn’t sure why. “I’ll bring her back here for you.”

  “You’ll have to kill her for me,” she breathed into my ear.

  “I will.” My stomach churned.

  “I need at least two,” she whispered. Dark eyes bore into me. “Beautiful. Young. Perfect.”

  I swallowed. Kidnap two or three young women and bring them back here to be slaughtered. Why should it make any different that these would be pretty girls? Why was I hesitating?

  I was a fool, letting my conscience get in the way of what I wanted. I wanted Henka, whole and unharmed. I wanted her beautiful and warm. I did this to her. She was damaged protecting me. I owed her this, and so much more.

  Conscience. The Emperor of PalTaq would never hesitate, of that I was sure.

  I needed Henka. My plan, vague as it was, depended entirely upon her necromantic skills.

  If I wasn’t quite lying to myself, I wasn’t being entirely honest either. I needed her beyond my plans for an undead army. I needed her. Her strength. Her support. Without her, I was alone. Khraen, the Emperor, had been alone. And he fell alone.

  Except that ghost of a memory, a face seen and forgotten. Pale skin. Dark eyes. Black hair. Perhaps he too had known love. I couldn’t imagine it, this man capable of cutting thousands of throats, sharing a tender moment with a lover.

  Maybe even the worst people need someone, need to know they aren’t alone in this world.

  “This isn’t going to be easy,” I told Henka.

  No horses. No demon. Even her undead were gone, dismantled by Valcarb as they filled Khraen with arrows. As I recently visited the nearest village and attacked a mage, returning there would be stupid.

  “Damn. The village. The mage.”

  Henka stared up at me.

  “I don’t know if Valcarb managed to kill the wizard. Did they both die, or did the mage survive? She may have reported the attack and called for more wizards.”

  I thought it through. There was nothing like Valcarb natural to this world. The mage would know she’d been attacked by a demon. Where, then, would such a demon come from? The nearest demon-infested ruins seemed a safe bet.

  “Oh hell.”

  The more I thought about it, the worse my situation looked. Assuming the mage I attacked survived, she’d definitely return with backup, and they’d definitely come looking here in case there were more. Would they dare enter the village? Would they search every house, or settle for patrolling the perimeter? Were we safe here, under the church?

  “We should run,” I said, then glanced guiltily at Henka’s charred legs. My stupidity did this to her.

  Felkrish, the portal demon, I could use it to get us out of here! I considered my options.

  The floating mountains? We might be trapped there if the Soul Stone ran out of souls. There was no food. The place was a potential grave. Henka would be trapped there forever with Nhil and my own corpse. She’d likely raise me from the dead, if possible, if only for the company. We’d fall apart together, slowly decaying. I wasn’t ready for that.

  The Dripping Bucket in Taramlae? Tien lied about burning it down, but what were the odds the room would be as I remembered it? And last time I’d used several souls before succeeding.

  My mud shack in the far north? Back where it all began. The thought of returning there hurt my heart. No one would be looking for us there. It might work, if the hut hadn’t fallen in by now. And there were plenty of towns I could raid for parts.

  Parts? People, I corrected. I’d turn them into parts. People like the woman who fed me in spite of her husband’s distrust. People like Shalayn who talked to me in spite of the fact everyone loathed me for the colour of my skin. I remembered the smell of her, the blue of her eyes, and the way she flushed pink when orgasming.

  “I’m going to get us out of here,” I told Henka. “I can take us back to the north.”

  She shook her head, eyes wide with fear. “No!” Though almost inaudible, I heard the vehement denial.

  “I can do it, I think. I have a portal demon.”

  “No!”

  I didn’t understand. Sure, it would delay us, but it wasn’t like we were working to a plan or a schedule.

  “We can be back in the south by next spring.”

  “No!” she croaked.

  I wanted to ask why, but that single word tore what remain
ed of her voice. She watched me, eyes pleading.

  “You want to stay here?”

  She nodded.

  “I suppose we can hide in the church.”

  Again, she nodded. The effort cost her, ashen flesh and bone flaking away with every movement.

  I swore. In truth, I didn’t want to flee to the north any more than she.

  “We’ll stay,” I said.

  Relief and gratitude poured from still beautiful eyes. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

  After making sure she was comfortable—a useless effort, but it made me feel better—I hurried about the abandoned town gathering what supplies I could. I found several loaves of stale bread that the other me must have made in the bakery. It felt so strange that he’d stayed here, learning to harvest wheat and bake bread, instead of searching out the shards of his heart. I tasted one, tearing off a corner, and it was terrible. There was also a small garden that offered up a selection of carrots and potatoes. They grew in orderly lines, carefully weeded. I couldn’t imagine myself kneeling in the dirt.

  Once I had an armful of vegetables and hard bread, I returned to the church’s basement. Water wouldn’t be a problem as the same water system that fed the town serviced the church.

  Henka watched as I sorted my supplies.

  “I don’t have any meat,” I told her.

  After my time in the north, and trapped in the floating mountain, I was damned tired of starvation. The thought of wizards causing me even the slightest inconvenience filled me with a deep anger. They took my world and now I cowered in a basement.

  How long would it take the wizards to get here? Would they come cautiously, in force?

  They were cowards, I decided. They’d be days getting here. First, they’d search the town where Valcarb fought the wizard. Only when they were sure there weren’t more demons, would they come.

  Collecting my bow and arrows, I returned to Henka. “I’m going hunting. I won’t be long.”

  Killing a goat or two should be easy.

  “Be careful,” she mouthed.

  Leaning forward, I kissed her cold lips.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The goats frolicked about the field, ears flapping as they jumped, calling ‘Maaaaah! Maaaaaaaaah!’ When they spotted me, they stopped playing and gathered around to examine me. I remembered Valcarb saying she’d done the hunting. Apparently, they hadn’t seen enough of the other Khraen to learn to fear men.

  Nocking an arrow, I drew back and shot one of the goats. At this range, I couldn’t miss. The goat stared at me, blinking in shock. The rest wandered over to sniff at the arrow protruding from behind its left shoulder. As its legs gave I shot a second. For an instant they turned looks of hurt reproach in my direction, appalled at my betrayal, and then all was chaos. Goats scampered, bleating, in every direction. Next time it wouldn’t be so easy.

  Movement in the air caught my attention and I dropped into the long clover. Distance made it impossible to judge size, but a tiny dot floated toward the demon village from the direction of the town we visited. Staying hidden, I watched it grow in size until I saw it was a man in white robes, standing upright, floating through the air. I hated him instantly, his superior ‘arms crossed over chest’ pose. His perfect goatee, long and braided with some trinket dangling at the end. His hair was blond, shot through with hints of red. His eyes, blue like the deepest lake, scanned the ground.

  Crouched in the clover, I studied my enemy. His gaze slid past me, slowing as he spotted the fleeing goats, and then moving on. Had he been a hunter, he’d have wondered what spooked them and come looking. Instead, he didn’t appear to give them a second thought. Fool.

  After hovering for a few minutes, a dozen paces in the air, a hundred paces from the edge of town, he flew in a slow arc, circumnavigating the village. I watched him disappear from sight behind the church. Should I chance a run for the nearest building? While the clover offered cover, beyond that lay fifty strides of open ground. Perhaps, if I stayed here, stayed hidden, he’d see the town as empty and go back to report the lack of activity. It wasn’t until he appeared at the far end of town, that I realized his path would take him directly over top of me. While his focus appeared to be on the village, only an idiot would miss a man and two dead goats in the grass

  Unless… I watched for a moment, trying to judge his speed. He was taking his time, studying the houses.

  Working quickly, I tore up fistfuls of clover and tossed it over the goats. Then I tore up some more and covered myself as best I could. Lying in the dirt, covered with sparse camouflage, I watched his approach through the grass. The bow I kept clutched in my left hand, an arrow in the right. If he spotted me, I’d take a shot, pointless as it likely was.

  His hovering flight bothered me, niggled at my mind. The woman I’d loosed an arrow at in that village possessed some kind of protective shield, and yet her feet touched the ground. Did that mean the shield ended there, that she wasn’t protected from beneath? This man flew. Would his shield, if he had one, now encompass him, or would he be vulnerable from below? If the hovering spell exerted some force on the ground to keep him airborne, then surely any shield must not interfere with that.

  I cursed my ignorance.

  The wizard flew closer.

  An all-encompassing shield would make a lot of sense for someone flying.

  The mage passed overhead and I learned, too late, just how difficult it is to draw a bowstring when you’re lying flat on your back. My movement must have alerted him, because he glanced down, eyes wide and startled.

  My half-drawn arrow took him awkwardly in the thigh. He screamed, wobbled, and plummeted to the earth with a flailing crash.

  Nocking another arrow, I ran to where he fell. I found him clutching his ribs, teeth gritted in pain. Only now did I realize how young he was. He couldn’t have been much more than a year or two older than I. Seeing me, he screamed and held out a hand. Thinking he was about to blast me with fire, I kicked it away. Nothing happened, and he hugged the kicked hand against his chest with a wail of pain. One of the fingers jutted at an odd angle.

  “No!” he screamed as I stood over him, drawing back another arrow. “I don’t care if you’re working these fields! I’m looking for demons!”

  Working the fields? Did the wizards have some law against people getting too close to the abandoned demon villages? Could I use this?

  His eyes widened as he focussed passed the tip of the arrow and saw me clearly. Darker. Ebony soul. Stained. I remembered all the hateful words they called me.

  Mouth opening, he raised his other hand. I put an arrow in his chest. He grunted, blinking. Again, he lifted that hand. As I’d left my other arrows lying in the grass, I grabbed the one in his chest. Twisting it, I drove it deeper.

  The young wizard coughed blood.

  He stared past me, at nothing, mouth slightly open. Not blinking. No movement. Perfect stillness.

  I twisted the arrow and he didn’t react. In case he hadn’t been alone, I searched the skies, finding them empty.

  Pulling the arrow free, I watched the wound for a moment to make sure it didn’t suddenly start healing. Nothing happened.

  “Dead,” I whispered.

  My breath caught. Maybe I wouldn’t have to kill two young women. At the very least, this might postpone the need for murder. Grabbing him by the ankles, I dragged him back to the church.

  Henka watched me, dark eyes bright, an eyebrow raised, as I lugged the dead wizard down the steps. His skull bounced off each step with a dull thonk.

  “It’s a mage,” I said, dropping his legs to leave him on the floor by her bed. “What do you think?”

  Eyes narrowed, she examined me.

  “We need to get out of here and we need to move fast. When he doesn’t return, they’ll send more. I got lucky this time.”

  She darted a glance at the corpse.

  “I see two options. Either you raise him and he flies us out of here.”

  She shook her head,
just the slightest movement, and I guessed she wasn’t capable in her current state.

  “Or you use him for parts, repair yourself enough we can run.”

  Henka closed her eyes.

  “He’s not that bad,” I said. Looking him over, I added, “Maybe a little hairier than you’d like—”

  Her eyes flashed open.

  “Not in the mood for jokes, fine. We need to move.”

  She stared at the dead wizard for a long time before finally nodding.

  “You’re going to need help, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she mouthed.

  First, she had me drain the wizard of blood, collecting it in buckets I found elsewhere in the village. I then spent hours carving him like an uncooked roast. Starting at the legs, I peeled away flesh and then muscle. Draping them over the charred remains of Henka’s legs and dribbling the gathered blood on them, I watched in amazement as she closed her eyes and focussed her power. Her mouth moved continually, singing whispered enchantments. The end result wasn’t pretty, but she could walk.

  Next, I cut the mage’s arm off at the elbow, careful not to damage the bone. Holding it against the stump of her charred arm and pouring more blood on the joint, I watched flesh, muscle, and sinew fuse together as she sang. After harvesting the upper arm for what it had to offer, she now had one working arm. Muscled and hairy, it looked out of place, clashed jarringly with the lithe body of my memories.

  Twice, I went outside to vomit, excusing myself, and dashing up the steps. I felt her eyes on me each time, and apologized for my weakness upon my return.

  By late afternoon Henka had four working limbs and I’d peeled the young man to replace the skin on her back. I decided not to tell her just how dark and curly the wizard’s back-hair was. With his flesh flayed away and added to her own, covering her burnt skull and torso, she could now pass for a living being. Albeit one with a strange haircut.

  She couldn’t, however, speak yet. The wizard’s fire had burned her organs and damaged her lungs.

  “Can we harvest those too?” I asked. “So you can speak?”

  She pointed at the hole in the mage’s chest where I’d pulled the arrow free.

  “One of the lungs is ruined,” I agreed. “But the other—”