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    From Hell's Heart
    From Hell's Heart
    From Hell's Heart
    Ebook131 pages1 hour

    From Hell's Heart

    By Daniel R. Robichaud

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    When he was a young man, Laird strove to be the most savage killer who walked the world, a marauder who spoke with cold steel as often as with words. He earned his scars, trampling kingdoms into dust beneath his heels.

    Then, he met Trytessa, and she woke qualities he thought to be long dead. Conscience, regret, guilt. For her, Laird put aside his savage ways, tried to live a good life.

    Sometimes, the past returns hungry for vengeance.

    The riders stole everything. Old enemies rode out from misty memory, murdered Laird's wife, dispatched his daughter, and burned his home to cinders.

    Laird swore vengeance, never expecting to learn that the monsters who ruined his new life had sold his girl-child to devils.

    Sometimes, a father's love for his daughter is his only tie to sanity ...

    Now, Laird will stop at nothing to deliver her from darkness. He will call upon old allies, sworn enemies, and ancient magic to venture all the way to Hell's black heart to save his child.

    Daniel R. Robichaud delivers a sword and sorcery adventure overflowing with imagination and excitement, recalling the best works of Fritz Leiber, C. L. Moore, Roger Zelazny, and Robert E. Howard.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTwice Told Tales II
    Release dateSep 10, 2013
    ISBN9781301506651
    From Hell's Heart
    Author

    Daniel R. Robichaud

    Daniel R. Robichaud has lived in southeastern Michigan, central Massachusetts and southern Texas. He is a Rhysling Award nominated poet and the author of over one hundred stories, articles and poems, which have appeared in such markets as Shroud Magazine, Rogue Worlds, Goblin Fruit, Rage of the Behemoth, Green Prints, and WritersWeekly. Daniel holds degrees in both Physics and English, and his career path has reflected these passions. In addition to his numerous writing opportunities, he has been an Igor For Hire (aka a freelance research engineer), a substitute teacher, an automation engineer, and a neurophysiology lab manager. Daniel enjoys entertaining people with his words and stories. If you enjoy a good read, why not try one of his works? You might just love them.

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      Book preview

      From Hell's Heart - Daniel R. Robichaud

      From Hell's Heart

      A Fantasy Novel

      By: Daniel R. Robichaud

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

      Fiction © 2013 by Daniel R. Robichaud

      Cover Design © 2013 by Twice Told Tales

      Cover Artwork © Dusan Kostic | Dreamstime.com

      Smashwords Edition

      Published by Twice Told Tales

      All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

      Prologue

      A voice called through his nightmare: Wake, Gresham.

      Gresham's eyes opened on the darkness of his inn room. A shaft of moonlight spilled through the open window, barely illuminating the Spartan furnishings around him.

      The backsplash of light revealed a figure standing in the shadows beside his bed. Whipcord lean. Wearing dark clothes, a cuirass the color of fertile earth, one pair of bone-handled knives on his belt and another pair on his forearms.

      Gresham mumbled, What—?

      The figure clapped a hand across Gresham's mouth and leaned close, revealing a face filled with scars. The light caught the most prominent, a ragged gash that stretched across his forehead. This resembled nothing so much as a grinning mouth. Gresham's eyes widened. This man was death.

      Some time ago, the figure said, I would've cut your throat and watched you flail. Or bound and burned you 'pon this pallet. For what you've done, those punishments seem fitting.

      Gresham spoke four words in a conversational tone. The gagging hand made them unintelligible. When this vanished, Gresham repeated, Please kill me, Laird.

      The intruder paused.

      Do me the mercy. Gresham wet his lips. What evil you've done or deserved doesn't matter. Every time I close my eyes, I hear your woman's screams. Witness your daughter's fate—

      Do you expect me to believe you’ve grown a conscience?

      No, Laird. I expect nothing but death at your hands.

      You were not alone. Who aided you?

      Gresham did not hesitate. All your worst enemies. Wandirge. Kopfhalter. Czeny. We craved vengeance and bought damnation.

      Where are your friends now?

      Not my friends. I left their company twelve days ago. I could not look at them and hold back the urge to vomit.

      The intruder asked, Why?

      Because of what they let happen to your child, Gresham said. How could they stand mute, while—?

      What about my daughter?

      Gresham said, Before we came upon your farm, a fifth suitor to vengeance approached us. Palomer. We did not know him, yet he was like a mirror, perfectly reflecting our own hatred. He was the one to deal with your daughter.

      I did not find her in the wreckage.

      She did not lie in the farm we burned. Gresham trembled. Palomer was a sorcerer. He offered her up to his infernal lords. The demons took her whole and alive.

      The intruder’s voice lowered to a whisper sharp enough to cut. Where is this sorcerer? This Palomer? He spoke the name without a hint of recognition.

      I don’t know. Honesty showed in Gresham’s face. I fled from him, but ... There are some things you cannot outrun. Gresham closed his eyes and revisited the awful scene, once more.

      The sorcerer's incantations filled the air with frenzying intoxicants. Czeny was the last to break Laird's wife, and he cut off her hands and feet before he finished.

      The woman pounded her bloody stumps against the ground and cursed them all as she died.

      A putrid reek mingled with the burning farmhouse and blazing wheat, when the sorcerer's fiends arrived. Impossible to see them fully through the smoke, and that was best, for the features Gresham could discern were terrible enough.

      Arms that moved like snakes. Horrible, yellow eyes that gleamed with pure malevolence.

      The sorcerer offered them Laird's two-year old child. She shrieked for Mommy! and Daddy! when they took her.

      Was everyone insane?

      Gresham shouted a defiance, but his companions restrained him. Be silent. The voice could have been any of them or all. Do not call their attention to us.

      Silent, indeed.

      I last saw them entering the Potlock Tavern in Jurton, said Gresham. Well, butcher. Be about your work.

      The killing blow did not fall. Four minutes stretched into an eternity. When Gresham finally opened his eyes, the shadows along his bedside were empty. The ones behind his eyelids, however, remained as full as ever.

      Chapter One

      When the scarred man entered the smoke and noise heavy common room of the Potlock Tavern, Timothy Bastion felt ice water flood his heart. After so many years, why had Ruin Personified now chosen to return to Bastion's business? He approached with a false grin to find out.

      When he was in earshot, Timothy said, In all my years, I never thought to lay eyes on you, again. Apparently my luck is out. Well, Laird, whomever you’ve come here to kill, they left hours ago. Have a drink on me and then do likewise.

      I don’t want trouble—

      Glad to hear it, Timothy said. You’ll pardon me if I don’t believe a word you say.

      Truthfully, Laird said, I come for you. Timothy’s eyes widened. But only to talk. I can disarm, if you prefer.

      Men like you always conceal, Timothy said. Well, you’ve found me. Out with it.

      Laird's eyes took in the surroundings. He must have found them adequate for parley because he said I want you to tell me about a man named Palomer. A sorcerer.

      What’s your business with him?

      Laird did not smile when he said, That would be my business.

      Sorry, Timothy said, I cannot help you.

      How about Wandirge? Kopfhalter? Czeny?

      That last one’s easy enough. He’s rotting in Hell. Jurton’s Watch branded him a murderer and robber. Hanged him in the Dancing Yard. Kept him there until his flesh started dripping, then took him to the Unhallowed Pit for a final brush with lye.

      What about the others? Laird asked.

      Wouldn't be surprised if Kopfhalter found a similar fate in another town. Men like you do not have long life expectancies. As for Wandirge ... You’ll probably try looking for him in Dieterschloss. It’s a small vineyard shire in the Weingardtlund.

      Why there?

      Timothy’s lips split in a mean spirited grin. "You have gone to ground for some time, eh?"

      Laird did not respond.

      Well, Timothy said, after Wandirge’s brother died from ... Shall we say 'bad grapes'? Wandirge used some of his ill gotten coin to buy the station. These days, that vineyard shire is his. He is law and lord there. Good luck trying to kill him.

      I only want to question him.

      Is that what you call it, these days? Timothy read Laird’s silence as assent. Are you finished with me?

      Is Sasha still in Jurton?

      Whatever did he do to you?

      Answer me. Please.

      Timothy squinted at the scarred man, as though reappraising him. That ... That sounded like a real request, Laird. After a moment’s consideration, Timothy shook his head. I’ve known you too long to believe this ruse. No one can—

      One of a trio of drunkards stumbled into the scarred man on his way out the door. He mumbled apologies and staggered on.

      Timothy froze, waiting for a savage retaliation, which did not come. The Potlock's master said, Sasha’s transgression must be great indeed for you to remain so focused, but you’ll find no help here.

      I only wish to know if—

      I won’t tell you, Timothy’s face burned a brilliant, angry scarlet. As vile as I know you are, as much pain as I know you can inflict, I’ll still tell you nothing. I will not help you. Go bargain with the Rat King, if you will but go.

      You won't see me again, Laird said and then walked out.

      For the rest of the night and the following day, Timothy startled at shadows, fully expecting to find a waiting blade or garrote. Laird made no such efforts.

      That bastard, Timothy thought, making me torture myself. I refuse to be a victim of his wickedness. He told himself lies about the murderously effective actions he would take against that fiend-in-man’s-flesh when next he saw him.

      As it turned out, the proprietor of the Potlock Tavern never saw the scarred murderer, again. He did not count this as a great loss.

      ****

      In any social gathering, there are always quiet folk who take pains to notice all comers and attendees. At Jurton’s most popular tavern, Timothy Bastion filled that role ably—as well he should—but he did not do so alone.

      Amalidia kept close tabs on who was in attendance and what they were wearing. As the Tavern’s unofficial mistress, she refused to let her continually refreshing roster of employees be seen with someone whose wardrobe was not up to standards. She could tell a braggart at two dozen paces and

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