The Blackest Heart Page 10

  Whatever, he’d died painlessly and fast. At the hand of Crystalwood. Few could ask for a more tranquil end. Black Dugal claimed speed was the key for a Bloodwood. Never let a fight last more than a few strokes of a blade. Never let a man who outweighs you get a firm hold on any part of your body. Even twenty extra pounds made a huge difference in a physical altercation. Speed and surprise are the only advantages you will ever have over a man, Krista Aulbrek, he’d once told her. Let speed and your weapons do the work for you. For secrecy’s sake, she’d learned to always stab for the eye or the heart. A quick punch of the dagger into the brain through the eye socket left few messes. And a stab directly into the heart stopped it cold. And a heart that had ceased its beating could pump scant little blood from a wound. She’d taken the time to experiment with both ways of killing during her Sacrament of Souls.

  Together she and Hans moved across the hallway to the gem-studded wooden door opposite Solvia’s room. It was Krista’s turn with the lock pick now. And as she set herself to the task, she quickly realized the locks and hinges in this place were well-oiled and silent.

  With a fleet pick of the lock, they entered the new room, not expecting anyone inside. They’d put to memory a map of every square foot of the building, every floor, every chamber, hall, and staircase. They knew it all, even where the guards were regularly stationed. This room was empty of people as planned, though spacious and dark, lit only from the distant hallway torches behind them.

  They left the door open and weaved their way through the dim room. It was grand in every way, heavy with the rich scent of pine incense and witch hazel, the aromatic combination well known to relieve many ailments. This chamber was also filled with all manner of fine sculptures and ornately carved furnishings. Along the walls were hung many mirrors and large woven tapestries and decorative weapons. Thick rugs of lustrous fur adorned the floor, pure and white as new-fallen snow. She’d heard of the great beasts of the Sør Sevier Nordland Highlands called blizzard bears, ferocious and huge. She figured the rugs under her feet were made of such creatures. Decorative swords and shields were set about in nooks and alcoves, and numerous painted vases rested atop stools. Cushioned benches lined the walls. Several iron braziers and thronelike chairs and couches were set about at haphazard angles. Everything was spotless and clean.

  Other than Queen Natalia Raijael’s own bedchambers in the king’s palace, Jö Reviens, or King Aevrett’s throne room in Rokenwalder Castle next to the palace, this chamber was the most opulent place Krista had ever seen. She hated to admit it, but she was easily impressed and taken in by finery such as this. Luxury. Her one vanity.

  “We’ve shared quite an adventure thus far, have we not?” Hans whispered as they reached their exit, another jewel-encrusted wooden door. “I say it’s definitely brought us closer together, no?”

  Krista put a gloved finger to her lips, her eyes narrowing. She was all business now, paying scant attention to his games, focusing rather on her surroundings. She listened at the door for movement coming from outside, then looked back into the room they’d just traversed, eyes scanning the many mirrors for flickers of light or shadow. She focused again on the fine furniture and decorated walls for dark shapes that might not belong. Every mission could be a test, after all, and who knew what Dugal might have planned for them. He favored surprises of the grotesque. She tried with all the will she could muster to slow her rapid-beating heart, but could only sense her own anxiety.

  Something felt off. As if her every movement were being tracked.

  She and Hans had been told the man they’d been sent to kill tonight had stolen vast sums of money from the poor and innocent. Investors he’d conned. Ill-gotten gains that he’d then used for his own enrichment. But she knew Black Dugal well enough. There were always multiple angles with her master, many reasons for the jobs he took. His motives were always many-faceted. The two Vallè, Silk and the Rose, had warned her to be wary of Dugal’s cruel games. Things were not always as they seemed, no matter what their mission.

  Hans listened at the door too. Then he slid the bolt back with ease and they both slipped out into the next passageway. It was empty as expected, carpeted and dimly lit. They turned immediately to their left, padding silently down the hall until they reached the final bend in the corridor they sought. Krista peered around the corner first. As expected, two mercenary guards were there, a short hundred paces away, both dressed like the ones she and Hans had just slain. They were stationed directly in front of another set of wooden doors. Krista turned and nodded to her partner.

  Perhaps both guards saw the two Bloodwood coming down the corridor, just gliding along, merely shadows moving in the dark. Perhaps. But neither would be able to tell anyone what they saw, for with fluid grace these two shades drifted up and stabbed them both in the eye. And easy as you please, they both dropped to the floor with a thud, not even having drawn their swords. Then, without stopping, their two Bloodwood killers kicked open the wooden double doors they’d been guarding and flew into the room.

  A large stone-sculpted hearth was afire in the wall opposite the door, eight men silhouetted before it. Six more mercenary guards, all afoot, all with the same silver-mail hauberks, leather greaves, riding boots, and half-helms of their dead companions, were gathered about a round wooden table crowded with rich cheeses, meats, and breads, backs turned to their attackers. One bald-headed manservant with an armful of copper goblets was standing just to the right of the table. And sitting behind the table directly in front of the blazing hearth was Ser Aulmut Klingande himself.

  The six guards whirled as one, well-worn broadswords at their hips ringing from their sheaths. One of the guards grunted in sudden alarm right before Krista’s black blade flicked and slashed his throat wide from ear to ear—blood gushed and spewed as he stumbled back against the table and slid to the floor.

  In an instant, Hans had two of the other guards clutching gruesome deep wounds in their own necks, which sprayed blood. Krista punched her next dagger straight up under the fourth guard’s chin, burying it hilt-deep, then raking the blade violently to the right, flinging bits of the man’s neck, jaw, and teeth, along with a good portion of his brain, onto the cushioned divan near the bald manservant, who shrieked an unholy shriek and scrambled under the table for cover.

  The two remaining mercenary guards had their swords at the ready position now, guarding Ser Aulmut, who was standing in wide-eyed astonishment. The blood and brutality now surrounding the nobleman was clearly a shock. For Krista and Hans had been given clear instruction to make the deaths in front of Aulmut’s own eyes exceptionally violent. And they had.

  A white cat darted from under the table where the manservant hid. It scurried between Krista and Hans and disappeared somewhere behind them.

  The guard nearest Krista backed up a step. Her dagger spun through the air and buried itself straight in his left eye. He fell face-forward to the floor, twitching.

  The last guard swung his broadsword at Hans with wild abandon. Hans deftly parried the blow with his dagger, and the heavier man’s follow-through staggered him to within Hans’ easy reach. A black blade was into the guard’s spine in a flash, severing it, then back out again. The man fell to the floor, half-helm tumbling away. But Hans wasn’t done, he latched on to the man’s hair and pulled his limp head from the floor. With one swift slice and pull, he cut the man’s neck clear through, severing the head completely. He held the bloody thing up by the hair, then slammed it down onto the round table in front of Aulmut with a wet thud, thick, ropy splatters of scarlet crisscrossing the food and finery of the table.

  Blood surrounded Krista, and like flowing red wine, it was intoxicating.

  The manservant crawled out from under the table and whimpered, “Please, I beseech you. Leave me be.” He held his hands out in surrender to Hans, eyes darting to his master. “Please, Ser Aulmut, don’t let them slay me.”

  But Ser Aulmut did not answer his manservant, just stared in horror at the gr
uesome severed head, the centerpiece of his dining table now. Klingande was a very fat man and wore an ankle-length robe of black trimmed in gold filigree, gray leggings, and a loose silk shirt with purple scrollwork stitching. His lumpy head, blushing in fear, was shaped much like a pumpkin, accentuated by a thin goatee and mustache. His thinning white hair was slicked back with oils. Beady eyes were buried in the puffy flesh of his ever-reddening face. “Bloodwoods,” he sneered, holding a serrated steak knife up, brandishing it in a shaky hand.

  “And what a mess we’ve made,” Hans answered with coyness, an underlying evilness fixed in his eyes as he looked around at the red carnage. The white cat, no longer behind Krista, was sniffing at the severed neck of the guard under Hans. “This your cat?” he asked the manservant.

  “What?” The bald man’s eyes were huge and round and beyond petrified, bouncing from the cat to Hans to Ser Aulmut and back.

  Hans held up his dagger, grinning wickedly. “Best leave here now or die.”

  The manservant darted from the room, slipping in pools of blood as he went.

  Ser Aulmut cowered behind the round table, steak knife still in hand. “Who does Dugal think he is, to do this to me in my home?” He was focused on Krista now, staring at her, almost in some form of recognition. “King Aevrett will hear of this and be most displeased.” His brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Do I know you, girl?”

  Hans Rake regarded her too with smoldering red eyes, eyes that now burned with a passion, an almost sexual energy that was startling. Krista could sense her partner wasn’t rational anymore. This killing had sparked something in him. Something she’d hoped she’d never see. Something she knew was always buried there within him, within her, too. Does he also see it in my eyes? The intoxication of murder. Together they had executed pure perfection tonight.

  “Do I know you?” Ser Aulmut again asked her.

  She pulled her gaze from Hans and back to Klingande, saying, “All you need know is that this right now is the moment your nightmare begins.”

  “For my part”—Hans circled the table toward Aulmut—“I feel Dugal’s letting you off with less than you deserve. But alas, I do as my master bids.” Aulmut backed away, trembling.

  “You see,” Hans continued, “I’ve more respect for the thief on the street who can look his victim in the eyes as he steals.” With a quick strike he knocked the steak knife from Aulmut’s hand. It spun to the carpeted floor. Hans pressed forward. “But you. You take from the innocent, using subtle tricks and devious cons and promises of repayment that you never aim to fulfill.” Aulmut stumbled over a chair, landing hard on his back with a tremendous thud.

  “You are the most cowardly of all types.” Hans knelt on the man’s heaving chest. “For you steal blindly.” He struck twice, precisely, once per eye, blade slicing each eyeball in twain with one swift inch-deep puncture.

  Aulmut clutched at his now bleeding face, screaming, frantic, his great bulk squirming. Hans repositioned himself over the man, black dagger still at work. He cut open the man’s robe and tore the silk shirt away. From the breastbone downward, Hans’ dagger sliced along the bulking curve of Aulmut’s rib cage to the left, expertly sweeping below the belly button in a flawless arc. A perfect incision, exact, deep enough to cut through the skin and massive amounts of fat along with the membranelike sack that encased the entrails, yet not so deep as to disturb the guts beneath.

  Yes, Hans had learned a few things in their Sacrament of Souls. Of their own volition, Aulmut’s intestines ruptured out of his abdominal cavity in a wave, piling up on the carpet beside him. Hans looked unashamedly pleased with himself as he calmly cleaned his dagger on Klingande’s robes. Aulmut’s wobbly, red-stained hand traveled from his bloody face to the wound in his stomach and the pile of steaming guts beside him. “What is it?” His hand flailed, frantic, trying to figure out what he was touching.

  “Your own rank vitals.” Hans stood. “In your own rank hand. You can try stuffing them back in if you’d like.” He backed away. “Enjoy the rest of your life.”

  But Ser Aulmut was no longer listening, out cold from shock. The white cat slunk forward and sniffed at Klingande’s purple entrails curiously, then began licking with pleasure. Hans’ smile was dry as he looked over at Krista. Together they exited the room to the soft, blood-dripping silence of death.

  †  †  †  †  †

  On a remote rocky outcrop ten miles north of Rokenwalder, the two Bloodwoods awaited Black Dugal. The grass at their feet was dewy and lush, a deep subdued green in the morning fog. Boulders were scattered in all directions, each cloaked in white lichen, some thick and squat as seals lazing on a beach, others thin and towering and jutting toward the sky. The icy waters of the Straits of Sevier could be heard clapping against the breakers far below.

  Hans put a black whistle to his lips. A moment later a black kestrel swooped from the misty morning air and landed on his outstretched arm. He placed the bird on the nearest lichen-covered rock, pulled a dead mouse from his satchel by the tail, and dangled it before the kestrel. The bird snatched the rodent from his fingers and tore into it.

  Hans’ Bloodeye horse, Kill, gusted thick puffs of breath into the foggy atmosphere just to the left of Krista. Her own Bloodeye, Dread, stood silently to her right. She held the reins of both and leaned into Dread, nuzzling her mount’s neck with the side of her face, feeling the warmth that was always there, feeling the calm spread over her.

  Together, she and Hans had ridden to this spot in silence, the import of the night’s events heavy on both of their minds. They had been instructed by Dugal never to speak of any kill after the deed was done, not even to each other, ever. Silence in matters of murder was paramount to success.

  Silence was the second rule of the Bloodwoods, right after beauty.

  Hans looked at Krista in seemingly lazy regard. But she knew he was as tightly wound as herself. She wasn’t nervous or scared. And she harbored no qualms about killing. Holding the power over who lived and who died, how they died, when they died: that power was intoxicating and never grew old. Dealing in death just kept one widely alert. Neither of them had slept in more than twenty-four hours. Hypervigilance was a hard habit to break.

  And that was how she heard the approaching stranger over the heavy breathing of the two Bloodeye horses. They were expecting Dugal, but the sounds of the person’s movements did not match those of her master. She let go the reins of the horses and pulled a dagger from her armor, then nodded to Hans, who produced a blade of his own, eyes roaming the fog. Krista felt something like dread ooze up her spine. Whoever was out there in the mist was using stealth in their approach, which meant they were up to no good. The kestrel on the rock stopped picking at the mouse and cocked its head, alert to the danger too. Krista slowly moved out from between the horses, wary.

  The kestrel flew up into the fog with a flutter.

  Then, to the left, in the direction of the ocean, Krista saw Ser Aulmut Klingande’s manservant slip out from behind a leaning boulder. The bald man, in a dark cloak with the hood thrown back, took naught but half a step before both Krista and Hans let throw their Bloodwood blades.

  The manservant snatched both daggers out of the air by the hilts mere inches from his face and sent them hurtling straight back at Krista and Hans. They both ducked their own blades, which sailed into the fog somewhere behind them. Then both lunged to the fight.

  “Stop!” Black Dugal’s voice commanded.

  So used to obeying the charge of her master’s voice, Krista stopped midstep. Hans paused too, eyes roving the mists, searching for Dugal.

  “A fatal error, the two of you,” Dugal’s voice said from the fog. “Hesitating.”

  Hans leaped toward the bald man, his second dagger lashing out, a blade of black that sliced through the fog. In one fluid movement, the manservant caught Hans by the wrist, and with a swift twist of the arm threw the young Bloodwood to the ground, disarming him, holding the blade to his throat. Krista w
atched, unmoving. Hans was on the ground about to die. Then the man standing over Hans looked up at her expectantly.

  “Master Dugal.” Krista bowed to Ser Aulmut Klingande’s bald manservant. “As you see, we await you at the appropriate place.”

  Hans’ startled eyes flew up to the strange fellow standing over him. The manservant eased his grip on Hans’ wrist and helped the young Bloodwood stand.

  “Dugal?” Hans muttered as he gained his feet, frowning his displeasure at having been not only fooled, but also so easily thrown to the turf.

  “Aye.” The bald man pulled the cowl of his cloak up over his head and turned away. When he turned back around and slowly dropped the hood, it was no longer the thin face and beady eyes of Ser Aulmut’s bald manservant before them. It was Black Dugal, with his recognizable gray-shot beard and black hair cropped short. His thin lips smiled at them. His veined red eyes were lit with cold amusement. The perfect lines of his nose and cheekbones combined with the many scars on his face made him look at all times, even here in the pale fog, cruel, striking, and tortured.

  “So soon you forget your lessons.” Dugal’s voice was smooth and sinuous as always. “People are less wary in the light of day. Something that should always be exploited. Same with subterfuge and disguise: they, too, should be used to your advantage. You’ve been taught the usefulness of such tricks, how to travel as another person, how to mask the red eyes of your mounts. Riding about in black leather on black horses with glowing eyes after a kill has its advantages. But also its disadvantages. The best assassin is everyone’s friend, not the quiet shade lurking in dark places.”

  Krista’s heart always seemed to thump just a smidge faster whenever Dugal was near. He had a way of creating a nervousness and anxiety in her like no other human could. Especially when he spoke. “You will both learn that not everyone is who they seem to be. People wear many disguises, for many reasons. Especially our king, Aevrett Raijael, and his five Knights Chivalric.” His cold eyes bit into Krista. “You will soon learn, everything our king says is a lie. Especially in regard to his kin.”