The Heart

Darma was extremely nervous. There was no worse feeling for him than being trapped in a dark, cramped space. He was used to the vastness of the sky, to feeling his wings stretch. He hated dungeons, especially when they were so narrow. With his hand on the wall, he slowly made his way down the stairs. His eyes were gradually getting used to the darkness. The smells of mold, earth, and dampness reached his nostrils. When he reached the bottom floor, he began to feel along the wall towards the door. His hand made contact with one of the tentacles. Immediately, he jerked back; there was something repulsive about the touch.

"Fuck," he said and forced himself to continue. He traced the tentacle's path with his fingers and soon felt more joining together, their surfaces growing thicker and thicker. They were warm to the touch, alive, and a faint pulse made them vibrate strangely. At some point, his hand reached the center where the root was.

Darma pulled his hand away immediately. Something was stuck to the wall, and it had a strong, steady pulse. His hand was wet, and he was really starting to get scared. He took a few steps back clumsily and stumbled over the first step. His head hit the wall, the thump echoing in the room.

"Shit!" he shouted again in anger and stood still for a moment.

"God damn it."

He decided to risk a little light. With trembling hands, he turned on his lantern, and the place was bathed in warm light. Mice moved swiftly at different angles, their red eyes glowing in the darkness.

"Get the fuck away from me, you fuckers," he said, kicking.

Ahead of him, he saw something otherworldly. There was a heart pinned to the wall, covered in blood. It was beating with a pulse. Above it, tentacles sprouted and wrapped around the walls and the door. It was the sickest thing he had ever seen. Beyond it, there was a chest. He decided to go there first, his eyes always fixed on the heart. From inside the chest protruded a red cloth. It looked like a cloak of exceptional quality. Darma realized the chest wasn't even locked, pushed the lid aside, and looked inside. In front of him, he saw an impressive sword with a red hilt and a beautifully made steel blade, gleaming in the candlelight. Beneath it were a chain mail, a red cloak, and at the bottom, gold!

"Here we are," he said, and began putting coins into his pocket greedily. When some fell to the ground, the noise reminded him where he was. He turned again to the heart. He stared at it in disgust. Whatever this thing was, it was unnatural, and nothing good would come of it. For a moment, he wondered if this heart was related to Ian. If he killed it, would anything happen to the old man's son? Darmakaya was not a creature of great questions and certainly not of great scruples. His patience had run out. He grasped the heart with his hand and thrust his nails in deep. Blood began to flow, and the tentacles around it began to move violently. Voices could be heard from outside, but the tower's walls were too thick. He kept pushing; the blood flowing was unnaturally copious, or rather, it was as much as there would be in a heart. At some point, the heart succumbed to the pressure. A horrible noise followed, and the mass of it lay dead in Darma's hand. He immediately shook it off in disgust, the tentacles gathering abruptly as if something had called them back. A moment later, Darma pushed open the door. Moonlight bathed him; across from him, eyes glowing with surprise, were Barhed and Maynar. They saw a gargoyle come out, bathed in blood—an eerie sight.

"He's not here. Let's go back to the temple," he said and sat down on the hill to catch his breath.

"Where's all this blood from?" Barhed asked.

"From the tentacles. The roots—I don't know what the hell it was."

Darmakaya refrained from mentioning the heart. No one could figure out exactly what had happened in the darkness. There was only a pool of blood at the entrance, and the tentacles were now dead on the ground as well.

"There's a chest in there," he said and stood up again to see it clearly.

"Any sign of Ian?" Barhed asked, ignoring the rest.

"No. But this whole thing isn't an accident. Something happened here. Some kind of ceremony. Something tells me your son was part of it."

"Ceremony?"

Maynar leaned into the chest. He blew off the dust and read the inscription. "Megar the Red."

"Who?"

"Megar! Why, of course!"

He raised the sword. "Unbelievable," he said. "Megar's weapons. They're heirlooms."

"Who was Megar?"

"Megar the Red was a local hero from hundreds of years ago. There are references to him in various texts. It is said that he fought off many hordes of the dead that arrived here."

"Take the sword and armor; you might need them," Darma said.

"Me? No way. They'd be wasted on me. They belong in a museum. They belong on the island. What am I saying? They belong to the queen."

"They belong to a good merchant," added Darma, "and the money from them belongs to me."

Maynar was stunned.

"No. It wouldn't be right. They are of value to the place."

"Enough of this!" Barhed shouted in exasperation. "Ian is out there somewhere and you're arguing over relics? That's it, I'm going alone."

He set off for the forest. Darma looked at Maynar. "Let's go. We'll think about it later; the old man is eager to die."

Maynar looked at the chest with longing. Finally, he grabbed the red cloak and put it in his sack. Then he followed the others.