Of A Dark Heart: Legends of Nowhere, #1

By Chris Foster

A supernatural killer. A prophetic gargoyle. A tale of revenge.
Excalem wants vengeance.
His daughter lay cold upon the coroner’s slab. Someone had taken her from this world. Yet there was no trace of harm. There were no answers to the questions he asked. She was simply gone. Pale. Cold. Dead.
Excalem hands in what little morals he had in exchange for the sword.
Walking through the desert, cracked terracotta under his feet and endless blue above he thinks he has gone mad. Or died. He is out of water, out of place and feels out of time. This is a world he didn’t believe in not long ago. Nowhere both its name and description. He cannot stop, he is the cat after the rat but the dog is coming.
Both pursued and pursuing, he knows only one thing.
There will be vengeance.
The Gargoyle said so, and rocks don't lie.

Book One of the Legends of Nowhere Series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fantasy Fox Press
• Release date: Sep 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536503593

Book preview

"If you take a life do you know what you give?

Odds are you won’t like what it is."

-You Know My Name, Chris Cornell

Chapter One: Where There's Shade...

"Where you run is where you hide

Better hope you're hiding well

Cause when the angel catches you

You know you're damned to Hell"

-Damned to Hell, John Butler Trio

This far into the desert there was nothing but dry heat.

Every horizon was a bent unbroken line where cracked terracotta met faded blue sky. No longer an orb, the flat sun burnt hair into curly strings of ash. There was not a soul here except for the man.

To him, time had hollowed to the point of meaninglessness. His water canteens had run dry after the thirty seventh day. He didn't bother counting the days after that. Part of him wondered if he had died already. Still he knew he was followed, no matter how far he travelled The Demon would chase him. He was the cat after the rat, but the dog was coming.

Blinking, a lone eucalypt tree stood before him, bark bleached white and void of any leaves. Under it sat a man in a business suit, one arm hung limply over the back of a black rocking chair.

Another mirage. Damned place is full of mirages.

Can I get you anything?

The man in the business suit spoke as if he worked in a bank; dull, professional, predatory.

I'm just passing through.

Then you'll need some of my wares.

Rocking gently in his chair the man in the suit smiled a banker's smile; shark's teeth showing with a perfect white sparkle.

No thank you, I'm just passing.

Shrugging his shoulders the man in the suit tilted his head.

Maybe I'll sell to your friend then. Seems she's travelling faster than you are.

Spinning on the spot the Swordsworn looked far back from where he came. There was nothing, an empty canvas. This entire desert was empty for hundreds of kilometres.

Your eyes are better than mine.

Eyes have nothing to do with it.

Grunting the Swordsworn relented.

Play nice, he's a figment of your mind. Can't go crazy now, that would be pointless.

What are you offering?

The man removed his feet from the table and stood. An array of weapons lay upon the now full wooden top. There was also a very large carafe of water. His chair was no longer there, instead a blacksmith's fireplace.

Every fighter needs a weapon.

I have one.

Show me.

Grimacing at having to prove himself to a mirage in the desert, the Swordsworn moved his dust covered outer robe aside. Feeling at his hip he pulled his shortsword from its sheath.

Hmm. A little outdated aren't we? Perhaps a gun would be better?

I'm a Swordsworn.

Ah.

The two stared at each other for a moment.

A new sword then?

I vowed on this one.

What one?

Looking down the Swordsworn saw that his blade and sheath were no longer there.

I hate this place.

I hate my suit, but neither are of any consequence. Glass of water?

Nodding, the Swordsworn sipped it slowly. He felt the dust clogging his throat begin to slowly shift. He began swallowing mud.

How about this one?

The vendor pulled a clear crystal blade from its black sheath. It caught the sun and blinded the Swordsworn for a moment.

Nothin' better than a shiny sword to swear by.

Fine. How much?

Oh it's free. I only charge for directions.

Taking the blade the Swordsworn felt its weight and balance. It was perfect for him, as if specially designed. Attaching the sheath to his hip he noticed one of the many errors in what was happening. The vendor was fresh, clean. Not a speck of dust was on himself or his wares. The Swordsworn by comparison was coated in the orange excess. Every part of him weighed down by the floating dead particles of the land. It was the middle of the desert, a dead desert at that. There was no water. Cleanliness didn't exist.

I have to stop humouring myself, my madness can slow me down later.

Which way is out?

Do you have a coin?

Flicking a dulled silver piece to the vendor provided an answer.

Anyway. But you'll want to go that way, because that way is where the dead refuse to rest. You want to talk to the dead, don't you?

Yes.

Nodding the vendor sat down again, his wares disappearing and the fire becoming his chair once again.

Well you'd better be along then. I have to prepare my stock for your companion.

Why are you here?

Because of the shade.

Looking at the tree, the Swordsworn saw no shade. The all encompassing sun cast no shadows here.

"Oh, it's not here now. But when I came there was shade. So I stopped."

The Swordsworn looked at the merchant and considered killing the man. His pursuer would find only a dead man, or perhaps a wisp of an illusion. Neither would be of any aid to her.

Killing me won't help. You'll just meet me again.

Why? Is this Heaven or Hell?

Nothing so religious. But I guess it's closest to Limbo, the nowhere in between. Feel free to take the horse.

The Swordsworn looked up to see a sickly pale horse, its eyes sunken deep into its head.

It's free too. All my wares are. I only charge for directions...oh, he's gone.

The Swordsworn was far into the horizon.

* * *

The Swordsworn waited.

Watching the sky burn deep pink and red hues, he counted the moments. The horse had died after carrying him for many days. Now he waited, hand over his blade. Just as the sun met the horizon there was a strange wind and the Swordsworn saw the man hidden in a cowl of white. He wasted no time, drawing his blade and resting the point upon the newcomer's chin.

Are you Death?

Death has already been. The horse is dead. I'm just here to collect it.

Where are the restless dead?

Beyond, back in my realm.

Take me.

You must be dead for me to take you.

I thought I was already.

No.

Then the man in white was gone, the horse too. Alone again, the Swordsworn marched towards the fading trail of the sun.  It had been thirty days since he met the vendor. With seven days of water left he considered leaving the desert. How? He didn't know.

Day became night in that instance and the cold fell upon him like a vampire. He wouldn't leave until he found her. He had to know what had happened. If he knew, then he might be able to turn back the clock. Or, at the very least, break the hourglass of whoever was responsible. Somewhere behind him he felt The Demon's eyes watching him. Perhaps it was only his pride, or maybe the cold, but something kept him walking throughout the night. He refused to be the first caught.

* * *

His boots had worn away their soles, becoming little more than leather ankle warmers. His feet were left to walk directly on the simmering ground. His eyes struggled to look up, instead seeking refuge in the deep cracks of the earth. Each jagged cut through the dust covered land was like a guiding track for his eyes to follow.

Then it stopped.

He stopped.

It took a few moments for his mind to realise he could continue walking without the guiding tracks of broken soil. Raising his head he registered the sight before him.

There was a girl no older than five staring at him. She looked very pretty in her pink polka dot white dress. He looked at her. She burst into tears and ran away. Shaking his head he raised a hand against the sun and looked more closely. A knee high picket fence stood before him. On the other side of it appeared to be a town.

Nothing more than a couple of sandstone buildings. Judging by the smell there was a pub and maybe some sort of enforcement agency. Enforcing what would be an interesting question.

Stepping over the knee high gates he shuffled down the main street, blisters on his feet bursting and scarring. There were locals going about their business, discussing other locals. In the centre of the road was a sign post, its worn wood scratched with the word LAST.

Leaning against the post was a portly man with mutton chops. He stood in boots made from snake's skin. A bowler's hat couldn't quite contain his curly ginger hair. A large sunburnt nose was supported either side by wobbly cheeks of economic size. Wearing an old Victorian suit, the man was chewing on a greasy leg of lamb roast. Fat was dribbling down across his face, his cheeks wet with the greasy film. An enthusiastic bite caused a large squirt of liquid lard to cover his monocle. Removing it with his free hand, the man was about to rub it against his shirt when he saw the Swordsworn.

Well, I do say, if I was a bettin' man, I'd say ya'll be a new face in town. Yessir that would be them there words I would say. I'd bet the last of my here lamb roast on it. But a bettin' man needs a bettin' man, so are you a bettin' man, John?

The Swordsworn stared at the man. His feet were burnt and his stomach empty. At least his mind showed intelligence in its hallucinations. It knew what he needed.

Where is this place?

Whistling the man jerked his thumb at the sign above his head.

"Can't ya read, Johnny boy? Sign says FIRST, so I'd wager this here town be called FIRST!"

Reading the sign again the Swordsworn clearly saw the word LAST. Grunting he stared at the food.

What's your name and how did you get a roast here?

Wagging a fat, grease covered finger at him, the man then smacked his forehead. The sound was far louder than expected, echoing down the street.

Why, my manners have gone a runnin' it seems. My name's Willy Wilson. And you'd be Johnny, am I right, or am I right, or am I so wrong I've actually made it all the way back to right again?

Shaking his head the Swordsworn grunted.

My name's Excalem.

Willy Wilson went quiet at that. His jovial face sunk.

I wish you hadn't said that.

His voice had lost all excitement. Raising his hand like a reluctant student in class, Willy gave a sharp two blast whistle. Then his hand, still raised, fell limp, his pudgy index finger pointing at Excalem. A low whistle could be heard, coming from far away like a train on the tracks coming at speed.

Turning around Excalem looked out into the empty desert. Just below the horizon he had left behind, dust was rising. Something was on its way. Something fast.

Well, ya'll be going now. It's a cryin' shame, for sure, for sure. We could'a been great buddies, ol'pal o'mine. But ya'll not Johnny, so ya'll gotta go. She said so, and if she said so there ain't no other way. Praise be to the Maker with the broken tools, amen, awomen, achildren, yessir.

The whistling was increasing in pitch, the sun glinting off the metallic streak heading towards him. Excalem stumbled back, away from the incoming object.

That's the wrong way, not John. She'll be wantin' you back out there. But you be careful now, a man could die out there of thirst, or hunger, or something worse.

Grabbing Willy, Excalem held him as a living shield.

Now hold on a moment, ya'll not allowed to do that! She'll take me, godblind, and I can't last out there! I swore, yes I did, and if I step outside those gates I'll turn to dust. This is my home now, cause there ain't no home unless your heart is there, and my heart sits in a jar in old Betty's cupboard.

Who is She!

Betty? She's a nice gal...

No! The Demon! Who is She!

Willy wriggled and squirmed but couldn't break free.

She's an Ark!

Anything else that may have been said was lost. A grappling hook slammed into Willy, its point punching through his chest. Excalem felt the sharpened metal punch his own chest, drawing a thin line of blood and sure to leave a bruise. Three small metallic arms sprung open. The hook pulled back and embedded into Willy's shoulderblade. A moment later the man was dragged off his feet, soaring through the air as if there was no gravity. It was so quick he was pulled clean out of his boots.

As his body passed over the picket fence, a screaming wind started. Tornadoes of sand spun towards him, figures moving within the funnels. Clawed hands reached out, claiming him. His body burst, the grappling hook disappearing back from where it came. A howling scream rang out and blood soaked the land. Sand poured into a pile, a shape, a figure. Willy stood again, sand falling from his new form. Then, he was gone.

The Swordsworn stared into the desert, before he bent down and picked up the snakeskin boots.

Chapter Two: There Are Those Who Wait...

Excalem wasn't welcomed.

Strangers out here were stranger than most. LAST, or FIRST depending on who you spoke to, was a town beyond the known world. To make it here wasn't natural. Sand Shades haunted the desert and the only way to survive them was to make a pact. Stay here forever or become one of them. It wasn't a choice.

Stumbling through the doors of the pub, the weary Swordsworn collapsed against the wall. To be inside, away from the sun, blinded him. Everything was bright green in his vision, his eyes unable to adjust to the sudden dark. His body tortured him, burning from the sun, ice in his blood from the shade. He had come all this way and still the gates were beyond his reach. His prey was escaping but now he had an idea of the one hunting him.

She was an Ark! The Demon was a bloody Ark! She would be unstoppable. And she had been here already. Had she past him in the desert, somehow missing him? No, that would be impossible. An Ark was never lost. She had been able to fire a grappling hook hundreds of kilometres to where he was standing. Whatever powers she had, they were powerful. So how did she reach here first? And why not wait for him?

I liked Willy. He was my friend.

Rolling his head around until his vision cleared enough for him to see, he saw a middle aged woman with a rolling pin.

Of course he was, we're all friends here buddy o' pal o'mine. But Willy wasn't real, and neither are you and neither am I. Not anymore. I am dead, and you are dead, and Willy's dead and She's an Ark.

I am sorry for your loss.

The words burnt at his throat. The mud had dried again and he could do nothing more than spit orange dust. She merely shrugged. He waited. She said nothing else. Slowly his eyes were letting him see again. The woman continued to stand over him.

How much for a roast?

We don't get paid to roast. We just stand outside.

I meant the leg of lamb.

No roast lamb. Only Willy can ask for a roast like that. But he's gone now. Bye-bye.

Excalem closed his eyes and let himself blackout. If his mind was kind he would wake up in the hospital, back home. The doctors would say his fever broke and he's on the mend. His daughter would be by his side. He would make the local news for surviving the worst form of his disease and everyone would send him Get Well Soon! cards. No conspiracy, no murder, no vengeance, no talk of angels, no demons, no men with latex gloves, no pain.

Excalem knew his mind was cruel, knew the reason it was cruel was because life had been cruel. Life, and possibly Death, and men in white surgeons' masks.

When he opened his eyes he wasn't surprised to find the middle aged woman with a face like an old leather bag still standing in front of his slumped body, rolling pin in hand.

How long was I out?

You never left. You were on the floor the whole time.

Sighing, Excalem stood groggily to his feet. The inside of the pub stunk of beer and sweat, both fresh and recycled.

How far is it to the restless dead?

The populace of the pub, consisted of people wearing singlets and shorts, flannelette shirts and jeans, beers in one hand, the counter in the other, all stopped. The Publican shrugged, his wide and heavy shoulders rising and falling like the tide.

Why don't you tell me why you want to go there and then perhaps I'll tell you.

How many reasons are there?

Too many for fools. One for honest men.

Excalem considered drawing his blade. He had learnt how to use it well, a far cry from when he first held a sword and almost lost his fingers with a bad grip. Back in the normal world such a thought wouldn't have crossed his mind. A car would make a better weapon. A car and a good lawyer. Yet this far into the desert the world changed. Each step turned back the clock. He wondered if these people even knew what a car was.

He gave his answer. The Publican stared at him blankly. Turning to the brass pipe next to him he turned the tap. Clunking and whirling could be heard, like an old air conditioner stuttering in its dying days. Picking up a spanner The Publican slammed it against the pipe. Red dust puffed out. A frothy brew the colour of oil followed. Passing the drink to Excalem he spoke.

Then you have come to the wrong place.

* * *

The Swordsworn stood at the edge of the town.

Old white paint flaked from the knee high picket fence, falling onto his boots. Some of the locals had stepped outside to watch him leave. He felt their eyes on him like a gladiator entering an arena, felt their conflicting emotions. If he survived there was hope for them. If he didn't it would be a spectacular show. Somewhere behind him, trailing his every step was the Ark. It was a thought that had him moving.

One small step for man, one bottomless chasm for the mind.

Finally he took the step. Treading over the fence felt strange. There was no lightning, no screams, no instantaneous combustion of his soul. There wasn't even a breeze. He had at least expected Willy to materialise, speaking some old rabble of a curse, flanked by the tortured creatures that had claimed him as one of their own. Yet it was empty. He was an astronaut in space, aware he was not where man was meant to be and that somewhere around him were dangers that dwarfed his mind's conceptions.

He took another step. Again, nothing. Grunting he began to walk away from the town. Behind him he heard the girl in the pink polka dot white dress trying to say something between her sobbing. Finally, he understood her. Glancing over his shoulder he saw her pointing at him.

"Bad man."

She was wrong. The Swordsworn was a good man. He was on a quest to right a horrible crime. He was a knight without shiny armour. Yet, when Excalem looked in her eyes he saw a flash of a memory. Before he was the Swordsworn he had been someone else, and out here in the recess of his madness he couldn't help thinking the person he had once been had known her. How he wasn't sure.

Glancing back a second time the town was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

The Surgeon walked through the corridor with his hands up and elbows locked at ninety degrees. A horrid yellow colour had stained his skin from sterilising his hands in preparation for surgery. As he pushed open a door with his hip the patient stirred. Looking around the room there were no staff. Most likely they were lying in their beds, a self prescribed coma from sleeping tablets letting their overtired bodies finally rest. He didn't judge them, he had done it himself once upon a time. They weren't even due to start for another five hours. No operations were scheduled for three am. The only exception was an emergency. This was more... practice. Those in the lofty ranks of management would never condone it. They had passed down their ruling for operation times thinking they knew best.

They