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The Heart of the Fallen – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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The Heart of the Fallen

Sarah Cawkwell

For two days he had tracked the meat across the poisonous plains. He had kept a wise distance, but he suspected it knew he followed. On more than one occasion, he had seen the barbed snout rise and inhale deeply of the dusty, acrid air. It was no great hardship to keep downwind of it and although the distance was lessening, he was confident the tempestuous gales and frequent storms would cover his approach.

The meat moved with purpose and he followed it. ‘It will be glorious. This will be the greatest kill the tribe has ever seen!’ he had boasted when he’d left. Losing the prey now and returning empty-handed would end in him becoming the next meal. Hunting down this creature, bringing back its flesh for his tribe, would be the mark of his ascension. Its bones would be his weapons and its pelt his armour.

Onwards went the meat, and the hunter went with it.

Your enemies will kill you given the chance, my daughter. So run. They cannot kill what they cannot catch.

So she ran, just as her mother had instructed. She was a wonder when she did so, swift and tireless, and her skill had earned Anari Fleet-foot the name by which her tribe, the Untamed Beasts, had come to know her. As she ran now across the shattered wasteland, the hot wind in her face, Fleet-foot was truly in her element. Her brothers were some distance behind her; they could not keep up with the pace she had set. That was precisely why she was running so fast. It would do no harm for her companions to remember that she had offered to lead the way on this expedition.

After a time, she slowed her pace enough that they caught up. Open Skies was pink in the face and struggling to catch his breath, but Dhyer was looking as though the run hadn’t fazed him at all. She was pleased. There was hope for him yet.

‘We’re losing the light,’ observed Open Skies when he’d recovered. ‘Still no sign.’

‘We just haven’t found him yet.’ Fleet-foot stretched her calf up behind her, pulling the hamstring tight and releasing. ‘Give up, big brother?’ He was the older warrior with more trophies to his name. He visibly prickled at her comment.

‘No!’ Open Skies could not hide the irritation he clearly felt at his sister’s words and he glowered at her. The better part of a head taller than she was, he knew that she was smarter and above all else faster than he was. ‘But darkness comes. Better not to be out in the open.’

That was reasonable enough. When darkness fell, the heat would drain out of the plains faster than blood from a wound. If they weren’t holed up against it, there was a very real chance they would freeze. In the wastes, even the cold was a predator.

Fleet-foot shrugged one shoulder to indicate she was indifferent to her brother’s suggestion. Wouldn’t do him any good to think he’d won her approval.

‘Too afraid of the dark, Open Skies? Then stay here and cower like prey.’ She sneered at him. ‘Dhyer and I will track his brother or find shelter.’

‘Do not bring me into your blood-bond rivalry,’ said the youngest warrior with an easy shrug. Although he was not directly related to Fleet-foot and Open Skies, he was of the tribe and of their age and that was enough for them to call him brother. Fleet-foot deeply respected Dhyer’s skills as a tracker while maintaining the correct level of aloofness due her slightly senior station. He had yet to undergo the blooding and had not yet performed the deed that would earn him his true name, his spirit name that the Eater of Worlds would come to know him by. She appreciated his talents and admired how he strove to make an impression.

‘See what you can locate, Dhyer,’ she said, half suggesting, half ordering. With a sharp nod, he turned his attentions to their immediate surroundings.

She watched as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. It was a technique they all employed; by shutting off one of the senses, it was possible to keenly sharpen the others. She did the same. The air was hot and dry and tasted of ash, smoke and scorched bone.

They were tracking Dhyer’s older blood brother, who had left the tribe two turns of the light previously. At least as far as they could tell; the passage of time in the Bloodwind Spoil was erratic at best. The young hunter had left on a boast and Dhyer, although he would never openly admit to such weakness, had concerns for his brother’s safety. When he had announced his plans to track Sharp Tongue, Open Skies had eagerly offered his assistance. Fleet-foot always went where her brother went, so that had been a given. Given her speed and stamina, they were lucky to have her. She knew she had the others’ respect for that alone.

All the hunters had learned the savage ways of the Bloodwind Spoil – it was adapt or die when you lived on broken plains that could strip years from your flesh. Where there were ruins of glass that would rob you of your soul. There were the eerie towers of the winged furies. Every inch of the Bloodwind Spoil was marked by death, whether it walked or crawled across the blighted land.

Dhyer’s brow furrowed briefly. ‘There is… something subtle,’ he murmured and Fleet-foot turned her attentions back to him. She drew a deep breath and concentrated more intently. Yes. There it was, drifting on the hot breeze. Blood, but not the stink of old blood that always permeated the Spoil; this was fresh, coppery, recently let from a body.

She nodded. ‘I smell it.’ She glanced at Open Skies to see if he was also engaged in this process. Any hint of childish rivalry melted away and all three of the warriors unified – a cohesive and alert entity.

‘Fresh,’ observed Open Skies, confirming to Fleet-foot that he also engaged in the hunt.

‘Close,’ added Dhyer.

‘That way,’ finished Fleet-foot and without waiting for the others, set off at a light run, keeping a pace that they could easily match.

Perhaps he had grown too sure of his own ability. Somehow the meat had managed to extend the gap between them. But the hunter was not perturbed, and he did not fret. He was young, but he was wise enough to know that he had limits. He needed to rest, to recuperate and regain his strength. The fight would be soon, and he anticipated it with a keen hunger.

His mind ran wild with visions of the hero’s welcome that would be his and more – with such a mighty prize he would challenge for the title of Heart-eater. The tribe would feast for days. The skin and feathers would be his mantle, and its spines would tip his spear. He did not fear the challenge to come. He was the hunter and the meat was his prey, there was no other truth.

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