HEARTSONG

  A Dark Fantasy Adventure

  THE SPLINTERED LAND

  BOOK V

  RICHARD PARRY

  Contents

  You’re Awesome

  Stay Primed

  The Rising Sun

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  About the Author

  Also by Richard Parry

  The Hymn of All

  A Day Like Any Other

  Chapter 1

  Get The Hymn of All Today

  HEARTSONG copyright © 2024 Richard Parry.

  Cover design copyright © 2024 Richard Parry.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13 ebook: 978-0-9951419-9-5

  ISBN-13 paperback: 978-0-473-70547-3

  First printing.

  No parts of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission. Piracy, much as it sounds like a cool thing done at sea with a lot of, “Me hearties!” commentary, is a dick move. It gives nothing back to the people who made this book, so don’t do it. Support original works: purchase only authorised editions.

  While we’re here, what you’re holding is a work of fiction created by a professional liar. It is not done in an edgy documentary style with recovered footage. Pretty much everything in here was made up by the author so you could enjoy a story about the world being saved through action scenes and clever dialog. No people were used as templates, serial numbers filed off for anonymity. Any resemblance to humans you know (alive) or have known (dead) is coincidental.

  Published by Richard Parry, New Zealand.

  You’re Awesome

  You’ve helped a legion of people follow their dreams by buying this book. Cover designers, editors, audio coaches, and hack authors are just a few examples of people who earned coin because of your generosity.

  Thank you for supporting this independent work. You kick ass.

  Stay Primed

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  For my Rae, always.

  The Rising Sun

  It wasn’t the bee that investigated his ear, or the gentle whisper of wind against his nose. Despite the deep reach the People had into the world, it wasn’t the grass beneath him, nor the rock beneath the rich, loamy soil. The burbling of the brook didn’t wake him, nor the rain squall that came and went in the night, or perhaps the night before. Or the one before that.

  It wasn’t hunger, or fear. Anger didn’t make his heart beat hard, urgent, reminding him of tasks left undone. Much to his eternal chagrin, it wasn’t love either. He’d known it, felt it trickle through his fingers no matter how he held on. Lost it, to time, or to the blade, or to the world that tried to mill all like him into a more pliable meal.

  It was the call of the sky. It was the rising sun that woke him.

  He knew he’d slept for days. How many? Does it matter? He flicked an ear, waved the bee away, and stretched. His tail swish, swished, disturbing the grass beneath him. The bee became agitated, and he focused on it. It is very fuzzy. Brown and black stripes, cautious in its bumbling way. He held his hand up, and it landed on his palm. He wanted to say, See? We are not so different. Both are furred. You are lighter and darker than me, and it makes no difference. The dawn came for both of us, like she always does.

  But he couldn’t, because the People were voiceless. A hive of industrious servants made for a time before this one, when humans were more monstrous.

  Or, perhaps humans are as they’ve always been. He scratched his ear, worrying a burr from his fur, then rose. The bee alighted from his hand, trundling off to do whatever busyness the morning demanded. A quick pat down told him he had no weapons, not even the sliver of metal he’d made to keep him safe when a sharp wit or fast legs could do no more.

  I’m at the bottom of a ravine. There was a trickle of water that wound beside his feet, too modest to be called a stream. The grass here was rugged, as much of this world had to be. Soft enough bedding compared to the stone it struggled through, but he’d have kinks aplenty. I am far too old for this. He scanned the side of the ravine, marking the telltale scuffs where stone and shale gave way on his descent. I came down here the fast way, not the easy way.

  He scampered up the ravine wall because he had to find something. Or someone. It’s a someone. Definitely a someone. Atop the ravine, he could see just how far down it was. It’s a wonder he hadn’t broken his neck. Who put him there? A small stain of dried blood marked the edge, and he bent, touched it, and sniffed his fingers. Vhemin. Ancient enemy, but … not this one. This one was a friend. Odd, that a friend would throw me to my death.

  The sun touched his face, reminding him he had business to be about.

  The shale near the ravine’s edge gave way to earth, then to trees that agreed to be a sparse forest. He followed the tracks laid by the one who’d thrown him. Weird, because there were no footprints, just scuffed dirt and rock, like something had been dragged. Something like me! They dragged me. No, that wasn’t it, or at least not all of it. He felt his tail lash and grabbed it. It trembled in his grip, but he held it until it stilled. There. No need for that.

  What if we were both dragged? It made a certain kind of sense, being the only answer that fit the facts. A dragger taking a draggee on a journey would take a lot of strength and a level of orneriness the People didn’t possess. So, definitely Vhemin.

  I know one of their kind. A brother, a friend, a strong stone wall at my back. But he wasn’t here. He … fell? That didn’t seem quite right, but it would do for now. This one who’d dragged him had history with his brother. They’d known each other before the Knight with the hair like platinum metal had stolen his brother’s heart.

  No, he stole hers. That is the way it happened, I’m sure of it.

  When he found the camp, he was surprised only at how ruined it was. Bedding, torn. Their metal cookware was bent, the wooden spoons broken. Even the small hut that stood for hundreds of years was smashed down, the bees who’d nested inside scattered on the wind.

  The sun urged him on. He thought it said, You’ve no time for that. You’ve got to find what you’ve forgotten.

  So, he picked through the camp. A bent knife lay beside a huge footprint. He puzzled over it, then looked up, following other prints through the smashed trees. A machine did this. His eyes rested on a small bedroll tucked out of the way. Unused, forgotten.

  He hurried to it, lifting the bedroll. He smelled it and remembered.

  Rust locks. A crooked smile, sharp teeth, but kind words behind them. A heart that wasn’t strong enough, and that’s why he’d given her a guitar—so she could make music instead of war.

  Evanne. I remember you.

  With her name and face came a rush of other memories, rattled free from the fog of his stubborn skull. How she’d tricked him—him!—by leaving him on watch and skiving off. How he’d heard the Artifices coming for them, and how Barret had said, Well, I guess you’ll have to get her after the rest of us are dead, and knocked him out.

  He had no memories after that because the matriarch had thrown him into a ravine. He couldn’t imagine how she’d made the decision to die, just as she’d made the decision to save him. He, furred, not scaled. He, who’d lost a child, and couldn’t be relied on to save another.

  Sight of Day looked at the sun, then brought his hands between them. He pressed them together in supplication. {Don’t ask this of me. I’m not made well enough.}

  The sun watched him. He felt it, a burning glare that made a mockery of his Handspeak. And one more memory came, the key to the lock inside him. The sun gave him back his name.

  Roars Like the Singing Sun.

  Ah. Well, if you’re going to be like that, I’d better get to work.

  Chapter One

  The lands breathed a story of loss and betrayal. A city, vanished. A people, murdered. War between thos
e who had, and those who wanted.

  “I’m not buying any of it,” Evanne said. “You’re telling me there’s a mystical fairy fortress that someone buried under a pile of rock and water?”

  “All know the tale.” Heser the Cheg didn’t face her, casting his glance out over a long, narrow valley. Below sat a small township that struggled with airs of grandeur: a crenelated keep stood amid the squalor of ramshackle wooden buildings in a lean workman’s district. The workman’s district would smell; that heady aroma abetted only marginally by the river that flowed freely into the Burroughs, and somewhat more sluggishly out, laden with all manner of vileness that promised a bad time for anyone foolish enough to try bathing in it. Drinking it was out of the question. “It is famous in Ravenswall. M’lady’s father tried to make amends and found naught but misery and hardship.”

  “It’s true.” Morgan sat cross-legged, apart, her back to Heser the Cheg, but still quite close. Her spine was straight as a mast, chin high, the slightest hint of grey about her raven locks. That’s new, Evanne thought. I wonder if being used as a bonfire to heat the fires of a demon gate takes it out of you? “My father heard the drums of war and looked to broker peace. By the time he made it here, there was little left but ashes.”

  “Was it ashes or hardship?” Tarragon fluttered to land on Evanne’s shoulder. Evanne lent her a warm smile, leaning her cheek against the fairy, who leaned right back, if but for a moment. “Or ashy hardship? Hard ashes?” She glimmered. “Can ashes be hard?”

  Heser the Cheg sighed as if the world were suddenly a hundred times as heavy, and he was the one doing all the lifting. “The tale involves love and loss.” Did he look at Morgan for a moment? “The fairies held themselves aloft⁠—”

  “That’s because we have wings,” Tarragon purred.

  “A flying city,” Morgan murmured. “It was no standard keep. A relic of a bygone age, kept high by their magics. The city soared in the clouds but didn’t move. It stayed up there,” she pointed to the north and west, “never descending to where people suffered. It was said riches stayed with them, a magnificence of wonder. Ovens that made cakes without the need for chefs, or even flour. The weather… it was always spring, even when sleet coated the ground below. I heard tell that dragons once roosted there, but there were none by the time I was a little girl.” She chewed a lock of raven-black hair, as if forgetting she was the queen of Or’sen.

  “Let me guess.” Evanne joined Heser the Cheg on his small hillock outlook, visoring her eyes to stare into the valley. “They didn’t share their toys, and so a mighty force embarked upon a quest to take back the forgotten riches of a bygone age. Share, and share alike! There would be plenty for all, if only the fairies didn’t control it.”

  “Are you telling this story, or am I?” Heser the Cheg gave her a little side eye. Evanne admitted it looked good on him, because his eyes didn’t so much crinkle as crease at the edges.

  “Morgan said⁠—”

  “My lady can say as she pleases,” the big man rumbled.

  Evanne snorted. “If you say so.”

  The side-eye turned to a glare, but Morgan tinkled a laugh. “She’s right, Heser the Cheg. I rule no kingdom. Not anymore.” She stood, the length of her gown teased by the breeze to flutter eastward. “Where’s that useless cat?”

  “Here.” Pakhet sat behind Evanne, tail curled about her forepaws as if she’d been there for hours. A small buck, neck at an unwholesome angle, lay before her. The grey-striped tiger looked pleased with herself, and if cats could smile, this one grinned ear to ear. “I brought breakfast. What have you done to earn your keep, hmm?” She leaned down, her sheer size the kind of thing that would stop the heart.

  Morgan bunched fists onto hips and glared at the cat. “You call that breakfast? The way you eat, it’s barely a snack.”

  “How does she do that?” Tarragon whispered into Evanne’s ear. “You know. When she’s done something wrong, she makes it someone else’s fault?”

  “Leadership,” Evanne hazarded. “I’m more interested in how a cat the size of a Clydesdale snuck up on us without anyone noticing.”

  “It is because you’re blind, stupid, and possibly incompetent,” Pakhet rumbled, her grin not dimming a mote.

  “At least I’ve got fingers.” Evanne turned from the cat to stare into the valley again. “So, down there are a mess of people who felled a flying city? And we want, what, directions?”

  “We want to know what really happened.” Heser the Cheg held up a hand. “Aye, quit your sniping. I know I said all know that tale. But it doesn’t mean that’s what happened, just what’s remembered. The town below holds a secret or two. Near as we know, the city fell with the old world. Perhaps the people’s names in the story changed so it could keep pace with time. Mist descended on the facts and there’s no knowing the truth of things. If Queen Morgan’s father found no trace of the city, it likely fell…” He trailed off, looking at Tarragon. The fairy’s wings wilted further with each word. “It is but a story. I mean to say, I’m sure there are fairies left.”

  “The story was true, to a point. There was a city. I’ve been there! It was around here somewhere. You can’t just lose a city! If nothing else, the town below may also hold a map.” Tarragon turned away from Heser the Cheg, and clambered up Evanne’s hair, perching atop her head. “I want to know where they think the entrance to my home is.”

  “Because you don’t remember,” Evanne said.

  “I remember, sort of,” Tarragon countered. “The thing is, I remember the city flying. If it’s no longer flying, things will be quite different. The kinds of inbreds who’d crash someone’s home into the ground probably have a map.”

  “They might know why there’s a lake there now too.” Evanne pulled out her knife. “I guess it’s breakfast then a bit of old-fashioned spying, no?”

  Evanne pulled up her hood. It was a nice hood, attached to a cloak she’d liberated before leaving the strange temple that was supposed to heal people, but hurt them instead. The deep grey material was soft, as if it was made of pressed angel’s wings, and warm as anything she’d owned, but a third the weight. It didn’t get dirty, and water beaded right off it.

  For all that, it didn’t seem to draw the eye. She’d been concerned people might want to take it from her, but when she wore it, eyes slid right past her. The seam about the collar had runes stitched into it she didn’t recognise, but Tarragon didn’t either. The fairy had huffed something about exams and fluttered off in a disconsolate way only those of very small stature could manage.

  The runes didn’t glow, itch, or call to her soul. They did something, and that was good enough for a Vhemin going into human lands. Her face wasn’t scaled like her father’s, but her teeth and eyes set her apart enough for the obvious mistake to be made.

  It’s not a mistake. I am Vhemin!

  Except, of course, she wasn’t. She was half one thing, half another, and those two parts didn’t quite make a whole. At least my heart works right now. Evanne rubbed the ribbon of scar above it, remembering how Requiem had slid through her ribcage. Remembering the hand that held the magic blade, and the eyes above that gave nothing but hate.