Dark Heart by Russell Kirkpatrick Page B

turning up unexpectedly at the most inconvenient times, ha!’
    Noetos had no weapon, and the alchemist clearly knew how to handle himself, but the fisherman found himself struggling to take the man seriously. An irritant, yes. But a killer?
    Yes. Omiy had used much more explosive than necessary on the slope of Saros Rake, and the trap meant to frighten the Recruiters who had taken Noetos’s family had engulfed captor and captive alike.
    The back of his head buzzed. Father, are you all right? What is happening? The words were a little blurry, as though something interfered with them. Father, can you hear me?
    ‘You don’t think I can use this, no, you do not,’ Omiy said. ‘You think I am a fool, oh yes, you do. You would do well to ask yourself how I survived amidst the miners of Eisarn Pit, yes, oh my, yes.’
    Father, speak quickly! Do you need help?
    Noetos’s first instinct was to shut Anomer’s voice out of his head. He needed to focus on the alchemist. He needed to keep the whirlwinds away from the inn…
    Keep talking to me, he thought at his son. Are you both safe?
    So far. One of the fingers came close, too close, but Arathé made herself small, somehow, in her mind and the wind turned away. Father, they turn away now, even as we speak. Where are you?
    Man-o’-War.
    In front of Noetos, Omiy had begun to look inquisitive. ‘Forgotten something, fisherman?’
    That’s where they are turning towards. Arathé!
    No, son. Let them come.
    ‘Don’t hurt me, Olifa,’ Noetos said, his arms outstretched. He edged to his right, aware of the drop to the street below somewhere behind him. ‘You can have the stone. It means nothing to me now I have rescued my son. There’s no need to kill me.’
    Who are you talking to? Who needs to kill you?
    Omiy hesitated. Noetos could almost see the alchemist’s thoughts written on his thin face. This man is a killer. I must be careful.
    ‘I am sorry, fisherman, I am, yes, for I recognise your good works. You saved many of my countrymen, oh my, so selfless you were, a hero. But this stone is a prize beyond your understanding, so it is, and you are not worthy to have your coarse fish-stained hands on it. Better it goes to someone with intelligence, someone who will not leave it lying in his room like some unregarded bauble—oh my…’
    His voice tailed off, his gaze drawn to something beyond the fisherman. Noetos felt the first stirring of wind behind him and heard the growl rise in volume.
    He had only a moment, and it was barely enough. His hand shot out and grasped the alchemist’s wrist below the sleeve of the man’s tunic and twisted hard. Omiy squealed, but did not let the broken bottle go. Instead, he tried to cut at the hand holding him. Fool. Noetos could have told him his best chance was to throw his weight behind the weapon in an attempt to skewer his opponent.
    He twisted Omiy’s wrist again, this time with both hands, and felt the man’s skin abrade beneath his rough palms. Blood welled between Noetos’s fingers. Omiy screamed and let the bottle drop.
    ‘No, fisherman!’ he cried. ‘You’ll not have it, no, you won’t!’ And he threw the carving as hard as he could in the direction of the approaching whirlwind.
    Noetos heard it crack against the cobbles below. He released Omiy, ducked under the man’s feeble swing, turned and threw himself after it.
    The huanu stone was unharmed: had he really expected anything else? That a stone capable of resisting magic could be broken by throwing it out of an inn and onto the street?
    As for Noetos, he was harmed by the fall. He landed on the balls of his feet and rolled sideways to dissipate the energy, as he’d been taught, but his left arm caught a pile of rubble and immediately went numb. He barely gave it a thought as he grabbed for the stone.
    Panic had made Omiy throw too soon. Had he been given time to think, Noetos judged, the alchemist would not have thrown the stone at all. Or perhaps Omiy didn’t know