by Bruce Blake
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’m on your side.”
Khirro looked at the man through a haze of pain. Did he speak the truth? Should he thank him or defend himself? He touched the hilt of the dagger hanging from his belt but didn’t draw it.
“Who are you?” Khirro rasped, his lungs thankful for air and not wanting to waste it on words. The man’s armor bore Erechanian markings.
“Are there any others?” The soldier looked around, then back at Khirro who shook his head. He switched his sword from his left hand to his right and offered to help Khirro up. “All right. Let’s see if anyone lives.”
Khirro stared at the man’s hand without accepting it, not knowing if he truly meant to help him.
What choice do I have?
Fresh blood ran down his thigh as the man pulled him to his feet. The muscles of his jaw bunched as he bit down against the pain.
“You’re wounded.”
He set his sword aside and pulled a long knife from his belt. With two strokes, he removed the fletching from the shaft.
“What are you—?”
“Brace yourself.”
Before Khirro could, he pulled the arrow through his thigh with one swift movement. Khirro cried out, swaying on rubbery legs, and the man caught him by the arm, steadying him. When he regained his balance, the man removed a pack from his back and drew a strip of cloth from it to wrap Khirro’s wound and stem the flow of blood.
“What’s your name? Why do you help me?”
“I’m called Ghaul.” The man pulled his pack back on. “I serve the king as you do, but there will be time for talk later. We should check your friends quickly, there may be more Kanosee about. I’ll check the robed man.”
“No,” Khirro responded without knowing why he objected.
Something inside him—perhaps something as simple as a sense of responsibility—told him to protect the Shaman and the item he carried. Ghaul shrugged and went to where Gendred lay amongst the tall grass burnt red with the Shadowman’s blood. Khirro’s leg pulsed with pain as he hobbled to the Shaman’s side.
Blood soaked the magic man’s cloak. Khirro stood over him, an unexpected sense of loss churning his gut, tightening his throat. The three men performed their heroics to save the king, he knew, but they also saved his life and for that he owed them.
If only I’d joined the fight sooner, maybe they’d still be alive. If only I’d been brave.
“Khirro.”
Little more than the sound of breath passing lips, the word startled Khirro and sent goose flesh crawling down his arms.
“Khirro. What’s happened?”
The Shaman coughed bloody spittle from the dark depths of his cowl. His hands shaking, Khirro reached out and pushed the hood back. The Shaman’s sallow skin stretched thin on his hairless skull, blue veins drawing a grim map of some unknown country. His open eyes stared skyward—one black with no pupil or iris, the other red. His purple lips quivered with each pained breath.
“Rudric and Gendred have fallen.”
The Shaman closed his eyes. He coughed again spattering bright blood across his pallid cheek. His head rocked back and forth slightly in protest or denial or both.
“Can you heal yourself?”
“No.”
Khirro looked up and down the healer’s prone form. “What can I do? How can I help?”
“You cannot help me.” As the Shaman spoke his face contorted and his body tensed then went limp.
“Where did they come from?”
“They found the tunnels, came out at the drainage ditch.”
Khirro glanced at the ditch and the small opening in the fortress wall feeding it. The iron gate that should have covered it hung from one hinge, canted at an awkward angle. Khirro’s breath shortened in realization there was nothing to stop more Kanosee coming through to kill them all.
“The entrance is sealed,” the Shaman said reading Khirro’s thoughts. He took a shuddering breath and air gurgled through the wound in his chest. “Take this.”
Khirro didn’t see the Shaman move his hand, yet he held the vial, arm shaking as his strength waned. Khirro stared, mesmerized by the crimson fluid ebbing and flowing inside with the quake of the magic man’s hand.
“No.” He shook his head as much to tear his eyes from the vial as to indicate dissent. “I can’t.”
“You must.”
“I’m not strong enough or brave enough. I’ll return to the fortress. I’ll get someone capable.”
Khirro went to stand, but the Shaman gripped his wrist. Khirro winced, surprised the injured man still had such strength.
“No time,” the Shaman rasped. “You’re the only hope.”
“I can’t do it.”
Khirro’s head sagged, unable to meet the Shaman’s mismatched eyes. Another gurgling breath shuddered the man’s body. His strength flagged and the hand holding the vial slumped to the grass, though he maintained his grip on Khirro’s wrist with the other. The vial rolled from his fingertips and came to rest against Khirro’s boot with a soft clink.
“Come close.”
Khirro hesitated, worried the man might still be dangerous.
It wouldn’t make sense for him to harm me.
He chastised himself. This man kept him alive when Gendred would have killed him.
Khirro leaned close to the magic man’s swollen lips, close enough they brushed his ear as the fallen healer whispered non-sensical words. Khirro listened, brow furrowed, attempting to hear the quiet voice, comprehend the words. It took only a few seconds for him to understand why the Shaman beckoned him.
“Gods!”
Khirro pulled away, but the healer grasped him by the back of his neck, pulled him close with strength impossible for a dying man. Unintelligible words flowed from the Shaman’s lips as Khirro struggled to get free and images flashed through his mind: a wizened old man, an ancient stone keep, a ruby dragon, vast forests, uncountable hills, windswept waters, unknown towns, and finally the meadow outside the fortress walls. Vivid and real, it seemed as though he saw them right here, right now. Sweat beaded Khirro’s brow, his hands shook. The Shaman completed the incantation and released him. Khirro fell back.
“What have you done?” Khirro demanded with shaking voice. “What have you done to me?”
The Shaman’s eyes slipped shut. Only his lips moved as he spoke. “He who seeks entrance to the keep must face the keeper alone.”
Khirro shook his head. “What have you done?”
“I’ve shown you the way to Darestat the Necromancer.”
“I won’t go,” he insisted, voice louder. He glanced over his shoulder—Ghaul continued his search of a fallen Kanosee soldier, unaware of the exchange. “I told you I won’t. I’ll find someone else.”
A pinched smile contorted the Shaman’s lips into an ugly purple gash across his face. “You have no choice, Khirro.”
He stared at the magic man, wanting to believe he hadn’t heard his words. He crawled closer to the Shaman again. “What do you mean?”
“You’re bound to save your king.” The Shaman coughed another gout of blood.
“No. This can’t be.”
Breath rattled from the Shaman’s throat, the gurgling in his chest ceased. Khirro looked past the fallen man, his attention drawn away as the shimmering curtain of air surrounding them faded. Meadow sparrows chirped, but, to Khirro’s ears, it wasn’t the happy sound that makes one glad to be alive, not now. Perhaps not ever again.
“Your friends are dead.”
Khirro whirled at the sound of the man’s voice, grabbing for his dirk. Ghaul took a step back, holding his hands up defensively.
“Whoa! Hold on, friend. What’s the matter?”
Khirro’s strength fled and he fell to his side on the grass, hand contacting the warm glass vial. Ghaul rushed to his side.
“Are you all right?”
Against every feeling in his body and thought in his head, Khirro closed his hand around the glass v
essel containing the king’s blood. He’d rather have gotten up and run from it, or hurled it as far as he could, but something made him tuck it under his tunic.
“I’m cursed,” he said in a voice so calm it surprised him. “The Shaman has sentenced me to death.”
Chapter Seven
Khirro sat cross-legged in the grass by the Shaman’s body watching the blood within the vial move as he rolled it back and forth on flattened palm. The urge to squeeze his fingers around it, choke it, throw it away had diminished to an almost forgotten thought in the wake of an inexplicable desire to protect it. The Shaman’s curse had done this to him.
“What’s that?”
He closed his fingers around the vessel, hiding it close to his chest. “Nothing. A bauble.”
“Is this thing the reason you traipsed about the meadow with a Shaman and two warriors?”
Khirro’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m from a village to the north, near the mountains. When the king’s men came to collect men to defend the fortress, I was ill with fever, so they left me behind. When the fever broke, I donned my armor, mounted my horse and came to fight for king and country. Only by the will of the Gods did I come upon you with a Kanosee arrow shoved up your nose. A little more gratitude might be in order.”
“I know a man from the mountains,” Khirro said recalling Tandel’s brogue, absent from this man’s voice. “What village?”
“Epoli.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I’ve probably never heard of yours, either.”
“What of your horse?” Khirro snapped. He stood, hugging the king’s blood to his chest.
“Perhaps the Shaman’s spell scared him off. Magic will do that to some beasts.”
“Quite a coincidence you came to this place the same time as the enemy.”
“Do you think me an agent of those Kanosee dogs?” Ghaul drew his sword and Khirro shrank back, but instead of the threatening, he dropped the blade at Khirro’s feet. “If I’m a soldier of Kanos, why didn’t I let him kill you? Then I’d have taken your bauble and anything else I wanted.”
Khirro opened his mouth but found nothing to say. Could it be coincidence this man happened across a fight while thousands inside the fortress knew nothing of it? He felt his cheeks turn red, embarrassed by his suspicion. Sunlight glinted off the steel of Ghaul’s blade; seeing it lying there convinced him. If he undertook this journey—and, truthfully, he had no choice in the matter—the aid of someone deft with a sword would be invaluable.
“I’m sorry. I should be thanking you for saving my life, not questioning your loyalty. It’s just... I don’t want to go to Lakesh.”
Ghaul’s eyebrows dropped, fashioning a frown. “Lakesh? Why would you go there?”
“The Shaman cursed me to complete the task he set out to accomplish. I’m the only one left.”
“What are you talking about? You make no sense.”
Uncurling his fingers, Khirro extended his palm. The dark red liquid shifted inside the vial with the shake of his unsteady hand.
“So?” Ghaul shrugged.
“It’s blood.”
“Whose?”
Khirro hesitated. “The king’s.”
Ghaul’s eyes widened. “Braymon?”
Khirro nodded.
“The king fell in battle.” Khirro’s gut twinged as he said it, but he didn’t elaborate. No one needed to know more than that. “The Shaman extracted his blood. I was to accompany them to Lakesh, to Darestat the Necromancer.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He can bring the king back. He’s the only one who can.”
Ghaul sucked air in sharply through his teeth. “Raise the king.”
The soldier shook his head and moved away, pacing to the nearby body of a Kanosee soldier clad in black and red mail. With a flick of his toe he sent the helm rolling from the rotted head.
“But what of this? The Kanosee fight alongside an army of the dead. Who but the Necromancer could raise such soldiers?”
Khirro forced wobbly legs to carry him to Ghaul’s side, to look at the severed head. One vacant eye socket stared skyward, its jaw hung askew. It hadn’t occurred to Khirro to wonder from where these living corpses had come. He’d been too worried about his own skin to ponder why theirs was decomposed.
“Maybe someone else has discovered the secret of recreating life,” he ventured without conviction. He didn’t need to look up to know Ghaul shook his head. Khirro said nothing for a time, afraid his tightening throat would choke his words.
Ghaul broke the silence, restating the Shaman’s words. “Legend says there can be only one Necromancer.”
Khirro took a slow, deep breath and released it. “The man who is supposed to be the savior of the kingdom is in league with the enemy and I’m cursed to journey into his grasp.”
“Don’t go.”
“I have no choice.”
Khirro stared at the undead soldier’s head, imagining his own face there instead. Ghaul put his hand on Khirro’s shoulder reassuringly, startling him.
“I’ll come with you.”
Relief and confusion furrowed Khirro’s brow as he turned toward the stranger and saw the determination on his face.
“But why? There is nothing to gain, only danger and death.”
“It isn’t coincidence that brought me here at this time—the Gods have intervened. I came to serve my king and this may be the only way.”
“We may never return to Erechania. Not alive.” Why am I arguing with him? Let him come.
“A warrior expects neither life nor death, only to serve.”
Khirro sighed and felt as though a weight lifted from his shoulders, though a wisp of suspicion still tickled the back of his mind. He set it aside in favor of self-preservation.
“Thank you.”
“All there is left is finding this Necromancer.”
“The Shaman showed me the way.”
“A map?”
“No. He put it in my mind when he cursed me.”
“I guess that makes you invaluable to the success of this task.” He slapped Khirro on the shoulder and smiled, but Khirro couldn’t find it in himself to return the gesture. “We should go or we’ll soon be discovered.” Ghaul bent over the nearest corpse, searching the body. “We’ll need supplies. Take anything we can use.”
“We were going to follow the drainage ditch. It’ll take us to the forest and then Vendaria.”
“Fine.” Ghaul removed the quiver from the Kanosee archer. “Search the Shaman, he may carry something useful.”
Khirro went to the magician lying on his side, the thought of searching him sitting cold and uncomfortable in his head. His attempt to open the magician’s robe failed as the arrow which had penetrated his chest held it fast. He groaned realizing he’d have to remove it.
Remembering what Ghaul had done to pull the arrow from his leg, Khirro unsheathed his dirk and sheared the flights from the shaft. He moved behind the Shaman and grasped the end protruding from between his shoulder blades with both hands but quickly let go, his fingers sticky with drying blood. He stared at them, partly numb, partly repulsed. The blood smear left the lines of his palms white. A hand reader would easily read his future and probably tell him more blood was to come.
My life has suddenly become all about blood.
Khirro wiped his palms on his breeches, flinching at the pain in his leg, then gripped the shaft again, throat clenched to quell his rising gorge. He pulled, moving the arrow only little, then tried again with little success. With a shuddering breath, he jammed his foot against the small of the Shaman’s back and yanked. The arrow came free with a wet sucking noise. Khirro threw the shaft aside and fell to his knees, retching. When he looked up, Ghaul was staring at him. Khirro waved dismissively and turned back to the magician.
The Shaman’s robe hid no armor beneath, only under clothes soaked with enough blood, Khirro couldn’t guess what color they�
��d been. There were no pockets sewn in the robe and nothing hung around his neck. He pulled the edge of the robe back and was surprised to find a belt around his waist, a scabbard hung from it. The black leather case wasn’t embossed or decorated. Fine work, if plain. He undid the buckle, careful not to touch the bloody clothes or cooling flesh, and pulled it free. Standing, he removed his own sword belt and replaced it with the Shaman’s.
The belt sat comfortably at his hip, reassuring, but wearing it felt wrong. He loosed the long sword from its sheath and pulled clear a few inches of blade unlike any he’d ever seen—black steel highlighted by red scrollwork. He unsheathed more of the blade—the runes ran the length of the blade.
“Anything?” Ghaul asked.
Khirro dropped the sword back into the scabbard and whirled to face him like a man caught stealing.
“Just his sword,” he said defensively.
Why did he feel like a thief? The Shaman wouldn’t miss it. In fact, if it helped complete his cursed task, he’d probably want him to have it. He put his hand on its hilt, more to keep it from leaping from its place than with any intent to draw it.
“Good. That will do you better than a short sword. Here.”
He tossed him a sheathed dagger and Khirro barely released the sword in time to catch it. Gendred’s dagger felt heavy in his hand, not comfortable like the sword. Guilt made the weapon feel weighty.
“We shouldn’t take these. They’re not ours.”
Ghaul shook his head. “This a matter of survival, not personal gain.”
“But I—”
“They gave their lives for their king and country, for this journey. Certainly they wouldn’t hesitate to give a few of their belongings.”
Khirro sighed and tucked the dagger into his belt. Ghaul was right—he shouldn’t feel bad pilfering from his dead fellows. They’d have given everything for their king. In fact, they had.
“Now this he might not have wanted to give up to me,” Ghaul said with a laugh as he brandished the fallen Kanosee archer’s bow. He slung it over his shoulder and spat on the corpse. “I hope the shithawks have a good meal of your balls, pig.”
