Black Stone Heart (The Obsidian Path Book 1) Read online

  “I’ll wash it before I return it,” I promised, knowing how filthy I was and how bad I must smell. “And thank you.”

  She shrugged. “Don’t want you freezing to death and leaving me to do the watch alone.”

  The next two hours passed in silence. When our replacements found us—two rough looking men with pale skin, shocks of bright yellow hair, and leather armour—Shalayn suggested we retire to one of the fires. The men watched us leave, lips curled in distaste.

  “Why don’t they like me?” I asked, once we were out of earshot.

  “Ignore them.”

  We sat at the fire the two men had left. Paulak came around with bowls of warm soup, a broth with chunks of vegetable matter and chewy goat. I devoured it like a dog terrified someone might take it.

  Shalayn watched. When I finished, she held out her bowl. “Here.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “But I’m fine.”

  “Eat it. You look like a starved rat.”

  I nodded acceptance and finished her soup.

  Paulak came around to collect the bowls. Seeing both in front of me, he grinned at Shalayn. “You softy,” he said, staying out of punching distance.

  She bared white teeth at him and he wandered away, laughing to himself.

  Sated, I curled up by the fire and slept. For a while I was dimly aware of Shalayn singing, a soft, throaty tune of incomprehensible syllables, heavy with mourning. The song was loss and regret, too deep for words.

  We rode south for days, the caravan moving at a slow but steady pace, oak wheels rumbling on the earth when it was hard and squelching through muck when it wasn’t. Stops were made each day to feed and water the oxen, and let the caravan guards stretch their legs and relieve themselves. Whatever was in the trees followed us, lurking in the shadows. When someone went to piss, they never went alone, and never beyond sight of the wagons.

  There was, I learned, something of a pecking order among the guards. Those at the top rode the front wagons, breathing fresh air and enjoying the view. Those at the bottom rode at the back, breathing road dust and enjoying the stench of ox dung. The beasts shat constantly as they walked. Shalayn and I rode the last wagon. Paulak didn’t assign it to us, but the other guards made it clear we wouldn’t be welcome elsewhere.

  In the evening I set my sleeping roll—Shalayn gave me one of hers when she realized I didn’t have my own—away from the others. While none of the light or heat from the fire reached me, I was tired of being stared at, tired of the whispered hate.

  Darker.

  Ebony soul.

  Stained heart.

  The last made me smile. If they knew the truth, they’d either run screaming or kill me. The way they watched through slitted eyes made me wonder if they planned that anyway.

  Shalayn wandered over and set her sleeping roll near mine. A minute later she was fast asleep and snoring quietly.

  It wasn’t until the third day that I realized I’d misread the situation. Shalayn they were fine with. It was me no one wanted on their wagon. She sat with me out of choice. Or maybe pity. While grateful for the company, anger built in me. This was wrong. I was no one’s dog.

  Shalayn acted like it was nothing, like she was unaware of the slight, didn’t notice the way the others stared at us.

  On the fourth day, we rode together in silence. I’d asked about her family, and she’d become quiet. Unsure what I said wrong, I watched the trees and the shapes moving within. While whatever followed us made no attempt to impede our slow progress, it also hadn’t given up.

  “Is it always like this?” I asked.

  “Stupid people fear the different,” she answered. “Ignore them.”

  “I meant things in the trees.”

  “Oh. Sorry. No, I’ve never seen anything like this. I’ve been on caravans attacked by Septks before, but whatever is in there isn’t human.”

  “Monsters?”

  She shrugged. “Whatever it is doesn’t want to be seen. Whenever someone heads towards the trees, it fades away.”

  “So, it’s intelligent?”

  “The little forest dragons can be pretty smart, but they don’t travel in packs.”

  For an instant I saw a dragon, colossal wings stretched wide, spewing great twisting sheets of blue flame as it flew low over a gathered host of grey-skinned giants. I blinked and the vision vanished.

  “When we stopped for lunch,” continued Shalayn, “I went to the edge to do my business. It stank like rotting meat.”

  I considered several jokes but kept them to myself.

  “Really?” she said. “Nothing? I drop a line like that and you just sit there staring at me?” She shook her head in disgust. “Whatever is in there, let’s hope it stays there.”

  That night, I once again set my sleeping roll away from the fire. Without a word, Shalayn set hers up beside me. For an hour she told stories of various caravan routes she’d worked. Most were up here in the north, but occasionally she did the southern routes, guarding wagons hauling goods north from the coast. She talked about fighting Septks, finding her fellow guards skinned alive and partially eaten. She once saw the site of an ancient battlefield, the earth ravaged and bent like it had been liquefied and then turned to stone. The corpses of giants and dragons and all manner of strange creatures were trapped in there, sheathed in rock, forever frozen in their moment of torment. She spoke of boulders the size of castles wandering the foothills of the Deredi Mountains, awakened thousands of years ago by elementalists, and now unable to find peace.

  I woke with a hand clamped over my mouth and a figure kneeling at my side. For an instant I thought I’d been stabbed before I realized I’d fallen asleep against a cold rock.

  “Quiet,” breathed Shalayn. She removed her hand. “There’s something in camp.”

  Something, not someone?

  Still kneeling, she drew her sword, steel sliding from scabbard like a lover’s sigh.

  I wanted a sword. I wanted my sword.

  My sword?

  Rolling over, I pushed myself into a crouch.

  Clouds must have scudded in during the night. The moon and stars were gone, the sky an impenetrable dome of black. The campfire had been allowed to dwindle down to dull, throbbing embers. No doubt Paulak would be yelling at someone come morning.

  Something moved in the dark, low and menacing. I squinted, but lost the shape. “Wild dogs?” I whispered. “Wolves?”

  “I don’t think so,” Shalayn hissed back, eyes scouring the night. “Too many people. Watch my back.” She rose. “Stay close.”

  Drawing my hatchet, I nodded. Another shape slunk past, a sinuous shadow in a world of night. I caught the brief glint of firelight reflected in predator eyes, and a foul stench washed over us.

  “That smells like—”

  “Death,” said Shalayn. “Bad. Very bad.” Her head swivelled, pale eyes searching.

  Rotting meat. Liquefying brains and decaying fur. A miasma of gut-churning putrescence enveloped us.

  “We have to get to the fire,” whispered Shalayn, “build it up. Follow.”

  She moved like a stalking cat, coiled muscle, low and deadly, balance perfect, weight centred. I felt like a lumbering oaf in comparison.

  Something leapt out of the dark, long and lean. It looked like a mountain lion and stank like the grave. Shalayn rolled under it, slashing with her sword, as it passed above her. Guts spilled and the stench got worse. The cat disappeared into the night, its organs trailing along behind. Other than guts dragging in dirt, it never made a sound.

  Shalayn swore, something in a language I didn’t understand. The meaning was clear enough. “Necromancer,” she said, again moving. “Somewhere, out there in the dark, is a damned necromancer.”

  A scream shredded the night air, a pure note of terror and agony. The wail choked to silence with the wet crunch of bone.

  Movement, all around. The fire, only twenty paces away, seemed unreachably distant. The north wind gusted and flames danced, turning e
verything into a menacing nightmare. Every stunted tree was the corpse of a hunting cat. Every rock was a crouched wolf, ready to pounce.

  “We have to kill the necromancer,” I said. “To end the spell.”

  Would that work? I wasn’t at all sure.

  Even in the dark I saw Shalayn’s look of incredulous disbelief. “Are you insane? At the fire, we can hold them off; we can see them coming.”

  Something slunk past, the reek of death wafting in its steps.

  “Follow!” she commanded, setting off.

  For a moment I stared at her retreating shape, anger flashing through me. No one ordered me around!

  An ear-splitting roar rent the air, guttural and deep. It shook me to my bones. I knew that sound. Anyone who lived in a shack of mud and sticks had quaked in fear at that sound.

  Grizzly bear.

  No. Undead grizzly bear.

  I watched Shalayn head for the fire. Against a pack of undead wolves and a mountain lion, perhaps we stood a chance. Maybe enough of their old lives remained, they’d avoid the flames. I had doubts. If it came to a fight, maybe we could immobilize them, break their legs. Even that seemed a weak hope.

  But an undead grizzly bear? It would smash us, tear us apart. Our knives and swords would be useless.

  Turning, I ran into the dark.

  This was a terrible plan. A stupid plan. It wasn’t a damned plan at all. It was suicide.

  Putting more distance between myself and the fire, I crouched low, knife and hatchet ready for violence. To preserve my night vision, I faced away from the light. Another man screamed and I heard the grunting and swearing of pitched battle, steel on flesh and bone. I hoped Shalayn was safe.

  The dark beckoned. Escape. Leave the camp behind. Abandon Shalayn and Paulak, and the men and women who loathed me. Head south. Run.

  I couldn’t imagine this necromancer had any interest in me. Most likely he was after the goods on the caravan. One man running away was one man he wouldn’t have to worry about.

  Shalayn. I didn’t know her, not really. I owed her nothing.

  That wasn’t quite true. She gave me a shirt and a sleeping roll, shared food. She showed kindness. So had Paulak.

  I hesitated.

  Shalayn would be at the fire by now. I heard her calling out to me. There were others there too. They’d die. They’d all die.

  I remembered stumbling upon a pack of timber wolves while checking my traps. They were dead, broken and bloody, scattered across the snow. Claw marks ripped them to the bone. I saw the tracks. They’d been desperate, starving, and attacked a grizzly.

  The bear Shalayn faced was dead. It felt no pain, knew no fear. Wounds wouldn’t slow it unless you broke bones. She was going to die here.

  “I don’t know you,” I whispered, unsure if I meant me or her.

  I took a step into the dark.

  Run away.

  Save yourself.

  Who was I? The kind of person who thought only of themselves? The kind of person who abandoned those in need?

  I realized I’d asked the wrong question. Why let my unknown past define me?

  It wasn’t, ‘Who was I?’ but rather, ‘Who am I?’

  And still, I hesitated.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The wolves decided me.

  Not the ones here, dead and lurking in the dark, prowling just beyond the desperate light of the fire. It was those wolves I found in the snow, shattered and bloody, bodies riven. Life torn from them by dagger-like claws.

  Imagining Shalayn like that kicked me into motion.

  I crept through the night, relying more on my hearing than sight. My black skin would hide me, unlike these pale people who stood out like beacons in the dark. Those skills I’d learned hunting from my mud shack would serve well. Move slow. Stop. Listen.

  A living animal might catch my scent, depending on the wind, but I suspected these dead creatures lived in a world of muted senses. If they felt no pain, what were the chances they could taste or smell? Slim, I hoped.

  I moved, careful with the placement of each foot, bringing it down slowly, lest there be a twig to snap or a rock to twist my ankle. I stopped often, listening, doing my best to filter out the sounds of those by the fire. If I rushed to their aid, we’d all die.

  I had to find the necromancer.

  Why was I so sure his magic would end when I killed him? The thought paralysed me for a moment. I knew nothing of necromancy! What if I killed him, and the undead creatures remained? Would they continue following his last command, or would they revert to more animal behaviour and flee?

  I pushed my fear away. Doubt achieved nothing. Fear achieved nothing.

  Only violence.

  The reek of death grew stronger and I followed it.

  I heard muttering in the inky black. The voice, soft and gentle, was higher pitched than I expected. Feminine. A sliver of moon breached the clouds and I saw the outline of a petite woman, slim, shoulders hunched. Black hair, tangled and greasy, hung to her waist, concealing her face.

  Not a man after all. I don’t know why I’d expected one. It didn’t matter. I had her.

  The all-pervading stench of rot filled me, became my world. Death surrounded me, polluted everything. For an insane instant, I had this thought: I’d have to apologize to Shalayn for the smell of her shirt when I returned it. No way my clothes could ever not stink. I tasted decay, it filled my lungs with every breath.

  Creeping closer, I paused, alert. This necromancer would have something nearby, something protecting her.

  A sound. Guts dragging in dirt.

  I dropped, rolling away as the mountain lion passed above. Its spilled organs slapped across me, wet and bloody. The blade of my hatchet caught in a loop of intestine and was yanked from my hand. I thought I’d escaped, unharmed. Then, agony lit my back. It felt like I’d been opened to the spine, cool night air on bone.

  Move. Keep moving. I would not become the next victim of this necromancer. The thought of existing in service to another—being a slave—terrified and enraged me. That would not be my fate!

  Driven by fear, I rushed the necromancer. She glanced up as I tackled her and I caught a glimpse of ashen features, delicate and porcelain pale, black eyes rimmed in shadow. She was beautiful, heartbreakingly vulnerable.

  I crashed into her, smashing her to the dirt. She hissed and clawed, fingernails raking my face. I punched her, snapping her head hard to the side. She fought with wild strength, bucking and kicking. I hit her again, and it felt like I was beating a side of raw beef. My hand ached.

  Her eyes locked on my face and widened. She went limp, staring up at me. Beautiful eyes, calm, and unafraid.

  “Call off your creatures,” I said. “Or I’ll kill you.”

  She laughed. With her free hand she pulled open the wretched ruin of her black robes to expose pale, perfect breasts. And the jagged wound between them, stapled closed with twists of rusting wire. I saw white bone where our struggles had opened her.

  “The dead fear no death,” she said.

  Remembering my knives, I drew one and held it aloft. “Do they fear being hacked to pieces and scattered about the land?” The threat bothered me, struck too close to home.

  She examined me. Under all that filth, beneath the stench of death, she was gorgeous. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t find the memory.

  “Yes,” she said, eyes flinching away, showing fear for the first time.

  Her vulnerability stabbed me.

  “If I hear one of your beasts come at me, I’ll take your head off.” I had no idea if I was capable of such a blow, but prayed she didn’t either.

  The night fell silent. All sounds of battle faded to nothing. What the hell was I going to do now?

  Hell? A thought for later, I decided.

  Facing her from my position atop this dead girl, seeing terror in those dark eyes, robes still open exposing her, my plan suddenly felt foul.

  “You’re dead,” I said, struggling to fo
rmulate a new plan. I knew nothing.

  “Yes.”

  “Are all necromancers dead?”

  She stared at me until I lifted the knife in threat.

  “Yes. It’s part of the ceremony that creates us. Our master cuts our heart out during the casting of the creation spell.”

  I glanced at the scar on her chest, eyes lingering. “Your heart?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “My master has it. A means of control. As long as he has it in his possession, he can command me.” She looked up at me, dark eyes terrified. “I am his slave.”

  She was like me, her heart stolen. I couldn’t wrap my head around this moment, the similarities in our situations. Nothing made sense. “Why did you attack us? Do you sell the goods?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated.

  “And?”

  She hid her face behind a pale hand, struggling to turn away. I held her trapped, easily overpowering her slight frame. Broken bone showed through the torn flesh where one of her fingers had snapped.

  “And?” I said again.

  “I’m so alone,” she said in a small voice. “For so long, alone.” But there was still some hesitation.

  “Tell me the truth,” I demanded, pulling her hand away.

  Sagging beneath me, she met my gaze with purest heart-rending misery. “I can’t go into town. I can’t buy supplies. I can’t…” She closed her eyes.

  I thought I understood. This lonely girl craved companionship, but no doubt the locals knew her. They probably hunted her, hoping to destroy this fragile beauty. Beyond that, she needed someone who could venture into the nearest town to purchase whatever supplies she required. She needed someone she could trust, someone who wouldn’t betray her.

  No. Someone who couldn’t betray her. An important distinction, and one I understood on a deep, primal level.

  Had I been like that, distrusting and desperate for control, in my relationships?

  “If I let you up,” I said, “if I let you have one of the dead…” Gorgeous eyes lit with desperate hope. “You can use him to get whatever you need from town?”