All Things Impossible: Heartstealer

  * * *

  All Things Impossible

  Heartstealer

  * * *

  This book is dedicated to Mike.

  * * *

  Author: Dalton K Reed

  Editor: Thomas Szott

  Cover Art: Ashlee Barkley

  and Skye F Saldana

  * * *

  Copyright 2009. Dalton K Reed.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This work's copyright has been

  registered with the US Copyright Office.

  ISBN: 978-0-578-04721-8

  First Edition, printed December 2009

  www.allthingsimpossible.com

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is the fair use doctrine. (My not legal advice: If you don't know what the fair use doctrine is, don't copy the book or parts of the book.)

  * * *

  Just so everyone knows: This is a work of fiction. None of it is real or based on real persons, with the single exception that one of the characters is named after a dearly departed friend of mine. Other than that, there is no intentional correlation between what is written here and any other works of fiction or events and persons in the real world.

  * * *

  "She's dying, Erastus."

  The elderly man's legs creaked like an old door as he sat on the edge of the pallet. Sorrow scarred his wizened features. Methodically, he put his head in his hands. Each finger touched his face one at a time until all ten digits dug in. "She's only seven summers old."

  The village healer tapped his chin. "We could bleed her."

  Erastus scowled. "What do you mean?"

  The healer thrust his hands deep into his canvas bag. "We only do this these days when we don't think that... It's just the last chance..." A wooden bowl and a slender, sheathed knife emerged from the bag.

  The old man felt his skin tighten at the sight of the knife. "Don't you dare!" His hand shot forward for the blade, slid beyond it, but managed to bat the bowl across the room.

  The healer recoiled away from the old man and lifted the knife out of reach. "Then there's nothing I can do. I've already done everything I know! She's just getting worse, man."

  Erastus turned back to the child and tucked the coarse blanket under her chin. Gently, he ran a wrinkled hand over her forehead. Her feverish skin seared his fingers. The fair hair, as yellow as a flower, stuck damply to the straw pillow. Her eyes remained closed.

  The old man whispered, "I wish I could save her." The sweat instantly felt cold on his fingertips as he withdrew his hand.

  "I know." The healer dragged a hand through his own chestnut hair. He glanced around the single room, bare-bones cabin. "You're doing everything yourself around here. I could send one of my sons to help you."

  The old man shook his head. "No, no, I've already stocked up."

  "I saw the firewood outside. You're old, Erastus, you shouldn't do that yourself."

  The grandfather grunted in reply.

  The healer fought against a shiver at the sound. "I also don't think you should live out here all alone. I know she's here with you, but she's too young to do much, and now she's deathly ill. You should move into the village."

  "No, no, I can't." His voice rasped as dryly as if it had arisen from an abandoned well.

  The healer sighed loudly. "How did you even get this cabin built at your age? I remember, it was exactly seven years ago, when she was brought to you after her parents died. You weren't young seven years ago, and you ain't younger now."

  The old man sat motionlessly. The purple canyons under his eyes seemed to darken further.

  On the bed, the girl coughed desperately. The men rushed to her, tripping over the floorboards and each other to reach her. She never truly woke, but her brown eyes flashed open for the briefest of seconds. The healer forced a waterskin against her lips when the coughs subsided.

  Erastus shuffled to the back of the room. "Her shirt's all damp again from the sweat. Time to change it."

  " 'Tis about all we can do." The healer pulled the waterskin back. "Damn, man, I don't even know what she's dying of."

  Erastus's face hardened, and he looked away.

  "Magic!" the healer burst out. The air around him thickened at the word, and shadows seemed to lengthen out from the corners. He scrambled away from the bed and made a warding symbol with his fingers. "So, that's why you wouldn't say!"

  This time, the old man's shoulders drooped.

  The healer began to pace, and he wiped the sudden, cold sweat from his forehead. "I'll write to Second Acron, perhaps get a wizard."

  "No! I couldn't afford one anyway."

  "Right. What about Ahtome's temple? They don't charge for healings."

  "No. They could do nothing."

  "But if it's a magical ailment..." The healer shivered. "Oh, why didn't you tell me before, Erastus?"

  The old man looked away. "It is a secret."

  "Tell me. I might be able to do something, or, at least write a letter to someone who can. Somebody must know something!"

  "There is one." Erastus's voice darkened like an oncoming storm. "He's gone for help. He's out there tonight, traveling by starlight."

  "Who? Hired help? I didn't think you had any."

  "No. No one you know."

  "In this village? We know everyone."

  "Not him." The grandfather buried his head in his hands again. "If he returns and if she's cured, we're leaving this place. Somewhere he can't find us. I pray such a place exists."

  The healer retreated a step. "Who is this man?"

  Erastus inhaled deeply. "He's not a man."

  * * *

  "I know they said this place was small, but I'm feeling claustrophobic." The red knight passed through the propped open gates of the village on his massive jet black warhorse. The horse had to be at least twenty five hands, if only to carry this huge armored knight. The mount also boasted tree trunks for legs and his glossy coat stretched tightly over colossal muscles. The rider pushed up the visor of his helmet and looked around.

  The wooden palisade was a laughable defense. If marauders ever did attack, the villagers could hope it was a rainy day. As it currently stood, the whole village could be burned out like ants. Once through the gate, the knight saw an ancient stone bridge straddling a fat river. A mill's waterwheel lazily rolled through the high brown water. Just like the thin trail leading here, the dirt of the town was churned and outlined with puddles. It had obviously been an extremely wet summer. That much, at the very least, was evident on his horse's legs.

  The bridle-less horse snorted and rolled his eyes. He pawed the ground with his shoeless hooves and stirred up a deeper layer of mud.

  "Now, Spike, just because I'm tall doesn't mean I'm afraid of small spaces!"

  The horse named Spike shook his head and shoved his nose into an errant patch of grass poking out of the mud.

  "Look, I'm just saying this village is miniscule."

  The horse spat out the grass and then tried to nibble on the wall of a nearby house.

  "I'm sorry, but it's not like this place is on any map."

  Now the horse began to wander further into town.

  "No, I did not need a map to get here!"

  Finally, the horse locked his knees and rolled his eyes again.

  "Fine, fine." The knight disengaged himself from the high war saddle and dismounted lightly, despite the incredibly heavy looking plate mail he wore. He looked around the village again. Sighing, he left the horse to explore alone as he headed toward the in
n. He noted there was no sign painted on its front, but inns and taverns looked the same the world over. The knight literally ducked through the door into the common room. He felt the helmet slide against the top of the frame.

  His pale blue eyes adjusted quickly to the dim room. A few small round tables and simple wooden chairs decorated the space. Two men sat in the center table. Several empty mugs clustered in front of the scrawnier of the two. The other man, who was much broader across the shoulders, carefully sipped his only tankard.

  Their conversation evaporated when the knight entered. He smiled through his open visor.

  The scrawny one hopped to his feet, fumbling his mug and spilling some beer on his tunic. "Sir knight! In Riversbridge!" He laughed nervously and smiled wildly. "Welcome to my town. I'm Oric Halvorson, the lord mayor."

  The knight nodded once.

  "Uh, fine day, isn't it?" the mayor persisted jovially.

  The knight nodded again.

  "Um." Oric licked his lips loudly in the empty silence. "Been rainy this past season. Little flooding here and there."

  "So I've seen." The knight eyed the second man, who was watching him just as intently. There was something familiar about him.

  "Er. Sir knight," the mayor began, but petered out. "And you are?"

  "A dragoon knight." The second man set his mug on the table and watched him intently.

  "Aye, I am. Sir Jakkobb, knight-captain of the Silver Dawn Dragoons."

  "What business have you in this village?"

  Jakkobb pulled off his helmet, neatly clipped blond hair fell into place around his pointed ears. "I'm looking for someone. An inn's usually the best place to start in a small town."

  "An elf! But, elves aren't that...big..." Oric paled and spilled a little more beer. He set the mug down with an unsteady hand. "Who, sir knight?"

  "Girl of about eighteen summers, Derora Saxen."

  The mayor laughed anxiously again. "Oh, yes, lass has a lot of spunk indeed."

  "Why?" the second man's tone was level.

  Jakkobb raised an eyebrow. "What's it to you, sir?"

  "Fair enough." He stood and dusted his trousers. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Riodan Saxen, and I would like to know what trouble my daughter has caused this time that the legendary dragoon knights are searching for her." His face remained stern, but there might have been a twinkle in his eyes.

  The knight grinned. "Ah." He chuckled and looked again at the man. Now, the familiarity was obvious. "To be honest, quite a lot of trouble, but I'm just here to speak with her, this time."

  "Uh, trouble?" Oric asked.

  "I'm sure you've heard the stories. I don't think the bards stayed away."

  "The elves!"

  Jakkobb nodded slowly. "Yes, the elvish bards." He glanced around the common room, noting some of the iron items above the bar. "I see the dwarves have been by too. Clan Heavyaxe, by the design."

  "Oh! Oh! The caravan!"

  Riodan glanced pityingly at the mayor. "They were quite a surprise. Somehow, I knew my daughter was involved."

  "The trade's good for the town!" Oric blurted.

  Riodan smiled, but it was forced and fragile. "Yes, it is. We don't quite know how to deal with this rather abrupt explosion of trade, but we're adapting. Some of us aren't as ready as others for our sudden outside contact." He glanced at the mayor again.

  "Good, good," Jakkobb said, avoiding eye contact with Oric.

  "If you're looking for her now, sir, she's out training with the militia in the meadow south of town."

  "Thank you, sir." The captain nodded and ducked under the door again. He walked past his horse, who was now experimenting with the door latch on Oric's house.

  The meadow wasn't hard to find. The knight just followed the well worn - and muddy - path going south. He slid the helmet back on his head, for comfort's sake if nothing else. Before he even came to the field, he heard Der shouting.

  "Hold 'em straight! They're spears! Like this, rigidly! Ivis, I see you rolling your eyes!"

  Jakkobb grinned beneath his helmet. Der, dare, it was no longer a wonder to him why they were pronounced the same.

  The trees thinned and opened into a well trampled meadow where several lines of ragged teenage boys moved more awkwardly than when they first learned to walk. The non-uniform poles that were supposed to represent spears quivered and tilted randomly.

  The dark haired teenage warrior yelling at them whipped her head in his direction. It was rather hard to miss shining red plate mail in the sun. "Corporal Donley! Take over!"

  She jogged up the hill toward him. Derora stopped between the knight and Riversbridge's militia to block his view. The effort was in vain since he was a foot and a half taller.

  Jakkobb stared over her head and put on his best officer face, blank and deathly stern. "So, you're training them."

  "Yes, sir. Good to see you too, sir."

  "Even though you've never had training yourself." She opened her mouth, but he was quicker. "Oh, you've had survival training and sword drill, but not formation drill. And you've only trained with highly experienced warriors, not novices."

  She scratched her head and glanced back at them. "Well, it's all common sense, really."

  "Right." He folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. "You're figuring out all the secrets of warfare just by thinking about them."

  "No, sir. Just the obvious things."

  "They say the Blackhound taught himself warfare too."

  She balled her fists at her side and stamped her foot. "I am not teaching myself warfare, sir!"

  He pointed. "Then what's that? I personally know you've never been trained with spears, and now you're instructing?"

  Der crossed her arms. "I could have last winter."

  He chuckled. "Yes, you could have. But you didn't. Otherwise, you would've just said you did, right now."

  "Damn. Am I truly that obvious?"

  He fought against a laugh bubbling up. "Bluffing is not one of your skills."

  She glanced over her shoulder again. "Honestly, how bad are they?"

  "They need professional help."

  She frowned for an instant, and then a wicked grin materialized. "You're a dragoon!"

  He backed up a step. "Oh no. I'm not here to teach a bunch of infants how to march."

  "So, when brigands come sweeping through this area, and everyone here gets killed because no one could stand up to defend themselves..." she said with a smile that completely clashed against her actual words.

  "Alright!" He caught her shoulder and steered her toward the ranks. "Don't think you get to sit down and watch. Get yourself and your corporal in line too. Be in the back."

  She ran ahead of him. He waited for a twenty count, and then strode into the meadow like a red thunderstorm. The loose formation backpedaled away from him, but Der was already behind them, yelling them in the opposite direction.

  "RIP THOSE SKIRTS OFF AND PUT ON SOME TROUSERS!" The captain's voice was louder than a deity's from the sky.

  The militia stumbled and jumped and scrambled for some sort of line. Except for one. His hands reacted directly to the voice of command and bypassed his mind completely. He jerked his trousers down to his ankles.

  The wind was the only sound across the meadow for an endless second. Jakkobb blinked a few times. "That is, if you're not already wearing trousers." He slapped the visor down over his face.

  The boy was turning as red as a cherry as he struggled to raise his trousers. The rest of the unit was choking on their guffaws.

  The captain coughed. "Good man! You know how to take orders!" He clamped his mouth shut again before anything else could escape. The laughter was creeping up his spine, and soon his shoulders began to shake with suppression.

  He didn't allow the others time to tease the boy, nor did he allow the boy time to think about what he did. He drilled them into the mud. Their faces glistened like many suns. He marched them, with and without their makeshift polearms, until their minds shut
down and their bodies learned to move at his voice.

  Finally, when dusk blanketed the land, he called them to a halt. Their bodies froze instantly. He stared at the tenfold improved troupe. They stared wordlessly back.

  "Very well! Dismissed!"

  The Riversbridge militia ran for it, despite the intense leaden sensation in their muscles. They didn't dare chance getting trapped out there all night. Der grinned as she trudged up to the knight. She panted and rested her hands on her knees. "They'll be talking about this for years, training from a dragoon knight! And Ivis's trousers."

  "At least they learned something." He tucked his helmet under one arm.

  "I was training them," she muttered as they started to walk toward the village.

  "And you weren't doing a bad job," he paused, "for someone who has never had training herself."

  Der narrowed her eyes. "Why are you here, sir?"

  "About that proper training of yours." He moved fast, and hit her on top of the head with a white tube and a loud thwap.

  She ducked far too late.

  "Your reaction time needs work."

  "Do it again!"

  He smacked her with the hollow tube again, but along the side of her head, instead of the top again. She failed to block again, but this time she reached up and punched him in the chin.

  "Ow." He rubbed his face. "Better."

  "A scroll?" She snatched it out of his hand, and twisted it toward the dying sunlight.

  "We're supposed to meet Kelin in Malfax. Well, at least I am, but I'm assuming you'll be coming too."

  "I haven't seen Kelin since he left with the dwarves and Thistle and Thalon last winter. But, that doesn't answer why you've suddenly shown up here."

  He grinned. "Have you read that scroll yet?"

  She diverted her attention back to the document. "It's official. I'm... what! I'm accepted into the Silver Dawn Dragoons!"

  Jakkobb held up a finger. "No, you're accepted for an interview with the knight-commander to see if he'll accept you for training. It's the first step."

  "Huh." She mashed the scroll back together while staring into the setting sun. "You mean that's it? After all I've been through? This is trading a chicken for an egg."