Blood of the King

by Bruce Blake

  Did we take too long? Are the pursuers closing in?

  Ghaul didn’t seem concerned.

  “In my experience,” Elyea said loud enough to involve Khirro in the discussion, “two men wear arms and armor wandering alone in the forest is unusual. My guess would be they’re either deserters or in love with one another. Which are you?”

  Shocked by both allegations, Khirro opened his mouth to protest, but Ghaul’s snort of laughter cut him off.

  “Neither. We’re simply two men who lost their way.”

  “Um-hmm. And where were you going?”

  Panic flashed in Khirro as he thought Ghaul would reveal everything. Words jumped from his mouth unbidden. “We can’t say.”

  Elyea stopped and Khirro almost walked into her. She looked into his face and he turned away from her scrutiny, regretting his words. He didn’t look to Ghaul for help, he knew what kind of expression he’d find there.

  “What do you mean ‘you can’t tell me’?”

  “Yes, what do you mean, Khirro?”

  He felt their gazes on him, their questioning looks. Too many times he spoke without thinking; it always caused him trouble.

  “It’s just that—It’s because...” He chewed his bottom lip. “I can’t.”

  “Take no offence, Elyea. Khirro holds our journey as one of great importance and we don’t know you well.”

  “And I don’t know you, yet you want me to take you to my village. You could be deserters, or spies, or Kanosee.”

  “We’re not.” Khirro’s heart sank.

  Elyea crossed her arms; faint lines showed on the bridge of her nose as her brows turned down in anger.

  “Show us to the village.” Ghaul’s soothing tone surprised Khirro—he’d have expected a demand. “Where we’re headed after that isn’t your concern.”

  “Don’t tell me my concerns. I’m no strumpet swayed by your honey tones. You should be concerned. Finding yourself lost in the forest would be bad; being found by the garrison and branded deserters would be worse.”

  Ghaul’s demeanor changed instantly and he reached for his dagger. Elyea stepped back, body tense.

  Bad to worse.

  Khirro hadn’t wanted to help this woman only to have Ghaul kill her in a stupid dispute he caused. He rested his hand on his companion’s forearm.

  “We mean no harm,” Khirro said.

  “That’s not how it looks.” She tilted her head toward Ghaul. He released his knife.

  “I can’t tell you where we’re going. It would be very dangerous for us.”

  He wanted to tell her, to put an end to this stupidity, but the Shaman’s curse moved and roiled in his gut, keeping him from speaking the truth.

  “Then you’ll find your own way. And good luck to you.”

  “But you must—”

  “I must do nothing. If you want my assistance, you’ll tell me where you’re going.” Her eyes bore deep into him, unblinking, unrelenting. “And don’t lie to me, Khirro. My profession requires I know when a man lies to me.”

  Khirro looked to Ghaul for guidance, but he neither moved nor spoke. The soldier’s hand no longer rested on the knife hilt, but it looked like it could be there again in less than a blink. Khirro sighed, his shoulders slumped. The sensation in his belly intensified.

  “Look at me, Khirro, not him. He’d sooner slice me than tell the truth.”

  A bark of laughter erupted from Ghaul, startling Khirro. “Tell her, Khirro. We have no time for this.”

  Hesitantly, Khirro nodded.

  “What I tell you can never pass your lips to another.”

  Elyea rolled her eyes.

  “Promise.” Khirro was aware he must sound like a child preparing to tell a secret to a friend—'Cross your heart and hope to die'—but she seemed to hear the severity in his words.

  “I swear I’ll tell no one.”

  Khirro regarded her, searching her face for insincerity, deceit, and detected none, but wouldn’t someone who mastered detecting the lies of others be adept at hiding her own truths? He hesitated, unsure, until he imagined the beat of hooves closing in on them. He reached under his jerkin and removed the vial, holding it in his fist for a few seconds, not wanting to let it go. It felt like diving from a cliff—he’d committed and hoped nothing dangerous lay beneath the water. He released his grasp, offering the vial for her to see. Elyea uncrossed her arms and stood straighter.

  “What is it?” She reached out to touch it; he drew his hand away. “Wine?”

  “No. Not wine.”

  “What then?” She didn’t look displeased by his refusal, but stepped closer for a better look. She squinted at the vial rolling on his palm, its contents lapping the sides. She looked up at Khirro. “Blood?”

  He nodded.

  “Whose?”

  He fought the urge to look to Ghaul for advice—this choice was his to make. The Shaman bonded him to this journey, not Ghaul. It should never have been Ghaul’s decision.

  “It’s the blood of the king.”

  Birds chirped, the stream gurgled, but three people stood in silence staring at the vial in Khirro’s hand. Then the words came tumbling forth in an unstoppable torrent. It felt right to tell.

  “We’re bound for Lakesh—the keep of the Necromancer, Darestat. A Shaman’s curse made this journey mine, to bring the blood so the king might be raised from the dead to lead Erechania to victory.”

  He told her of Braymon’s fall and his escape, of the escape through the tunnel, the fight in the meadow and his flight with Ghaul.

  “Braymon has fallen?”

  He nodded, wondering if she’d heard all he said. “Yes.”

  She pushed through a shrub and slumped down on a log as though her legs refused to bear the weight of his news. Khirro moved toward her but stopped at the sight of tears gleaming on her cheek. A woman’s tears were foreign things to him; his mother never shed a tear where he could see, perhaps never did at all. Not until the day with Emeline had he seen, and been the cause of, a woman’s tears. Only once, on the day Emeline told what had happened that night.

  “Why does a harlot care so much for a king?”

  Ghaul’s tone held no tenderness or understanding. Khirro shook thoughts of Emeline from his mind and followed his companion to Elyea’s side. The woman didn’t answer at first, instead drawing a shuddering breath and wiping her eyes on her arm, composing herself. She looked up, green eyes rimmed red, gazing into the sun-dappled forest.

  “I owe Braymon my life.” Her voice trembled. “I’d seen eight summers when he took the throne. His first act was to release those forced into servitude. His ascension meant I no longer had to serve as concubine to a tyrant.”

  Khirro’s breath stopped half-drawn. “Eight years old?”

  “I’d been there three years when Braymon rescued me. I owe him everything.” She bowed her head.

  A child of five. Khirro saw the horrible memories on her face, could only imagine what she must have endured. How terrible it must have been for her.

  “He rescued you from a life as concubine to the king so you could be courtesan to the common man?”

  The lack of empathy in Ghaul’s voice turned Khirro’s head; Elyea’s reaction was similar, but more extreme. She stood abruptly, face to face with the soldier, her expression hard.

  “He did terrible things to me,” she snarled. “Don’t you see the difference between being forced into something and choosing it? Are you a soldier because you chose it, or because you were told to be one?”

  Ghaul stood straighter. “I was born a soldier.”

  His words further enraged her. “And what of you?” she snapped at Khirro.

  “I’m no warrior,” he responded quietly, not knowing how to calm her.

  “Do you enjoy being forced to be one?”

  “No. I’ve already seen things no man should have to see in his lifetime. I’d rather be home with Emeline, tending my farm. But it’s my duty to be here.”

  “At six years
I was fucked by the king and told it was my duty.”

  Khirro stared. He had no answer to such atrocity. The inhumanity of it didn’t enervate Ghaul.

  “And now?” the soldier asked.

  For a moment Khirro thought she’d strike Ghaul, but the anger drained from her limbs. Perhaps the burden of her memories wore her down. How could they not?

  “Now I make a living I enjoy with customers of my own choosing.”

  Ghaul’s mouth curled into a smirk. “You didn’t choose so well last time.”

  “That’s what I get for offering my services to wanderers.”

  A look passed between them that Khirro didn’t understand and the last of her fury fell away. Ghaul opened his mouth to say something else, but this time it was Khirro’s turn to cut him short.

  “I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he said, knowing it could never be enough. “But we must be going. There are men following us.”

  Elyea’s eyes met his, thanked him for the sentiment.

  “Of course. It does us no good to tarry. Let’s get to the village for supplies, take some rest, then we’ll make for the Vendarian border at first light.”

  Ghaul caught her by the elbow as she went to leave. “What do you mean we? The only we is Khirro and I.”

  “You’ll need my help.”

  Ghaul snorted. “We need no help.”

  “The journey will be dangerous,” Khirro added. “No place for a woman.”

  He regretted his words the second they left his mouth.

  “I’m no mere woman.” She scowled and pulled her arm from Ghaul’s grasp. “And I’m not giving you a choice. You’ll need all the help you can get. And I know someone else who would be interested in your journey.”

  She looked at them defiantly, daring them to contradict her. Neither did. She picked her way nimbly through the brush as Ghaul shot Khirro a derisive look. They said nothing. Khirro purposely didn’t look at his companion as they followed the woman, knowing he should feel that telling her of their journey was a mistake, but he didn’t. Surprise, fear and exhilaration mixed into a muddle in his mind, but no regret. It felt right, but only time would tell. Amongst all the confusion, one question declared itself in his mind above all others:

  Who did she intend to tell?

  Chapter Eleven

  Therrador rested his chin on his fist, elbows propped on the marble table; veins of red ran through the white surface of the table’s twenty foot length. In the centuries it had sat in the council room at the palace of Achtindel, much had been discussed and decided at this table: wars declared, lives forfeit and spared, plots plotted and taxes declared. Stroking his braided beard, Therrador wondered if the ancient marble had ever seen a conversation as was about to take place. Had it seen the kingdom betrayed? History suggested not.

  Only hours earlier, a rider reached the capital bearing the tale of a dead Shaman, empty armor and a missing king. Concern bordering on panic had shown on the messenger’s face and in his words, so Therrador sent him to a cell rather than risk his knowledge spilled over too many pints of ale. The king’s discarded armor suggested Braymon’s fall. Bale’s body, along with Rudric and Gendred’s, found outside the fortress walls told him they collected the king’s blood, as Braymon planned. Such information made public would lead to panic, and panic would hinder everything.

  But what of the Kanosee who was supposed to see to Braymon’s death? What became of him?

  They’d found dead Kanosee soldiers with Rudric and the others, but he couldn’t know if any of them were the man—he didn’t know who he was. Those arrangements had been left to others.

  Therrador sighed. He’d miss Rudric; they’d spent much time together over the years and Therrador found him a pleasing conversation. The world would be a better place without that bastard Gendred.

  “What happened?” he whispered aloud. “Where is the vial?”

  “Did you say somethin’ Da?”

  Therrador looked up at the five-year-old boy peering from behind the tapestry hung to hide his private antechamber. His expression softened and a sad smile nearly won its way onto his lips.

  He looks so much like his mother.

  “Dada was talking to himself, Graymon.” He spread his arms and the boy ran into his embrace. “I thought I told you to wait in the other room for me.”

  The boy waved his carved wooden dragon near his father’s head, acting as though he didn’t hear him, pretending the toy flew like a real dragon.

  “Graymon?”

  “I bored, Da.” The toy dragon attacked his father’s arm; a wooden tooth dug into Therrador’s skin. “Play with me.”

  Therrador grasped the boy’s shoulders, held him at arm’s length and spoke gently. “Da is busy, we can play when I’m done. Can you go back into the other room for me?”

  “Rrraaarrr.”

  The toy dragon flew out of his hands in the direction of the tapestry. Therrador spun him around, sending him on his way with a tap on the bum.

  “That’s my boy.”

  As the boy disappeared behind the velvet arras, Therrador’s smile disappeared, too. All that had been put in motion brought the taste of bile to the back of his throat, but it must be done. Erechania would always remember Braymon the Brave and one day they would exult Graymon the Great; he only hoped they would eventually forgive or forget Therrador the Traitor. He lowered his eyes back to the marble table top shot with red, lost in his thoughts until a sound made him look up.

  The fifteen-foot high cedar doors swung inward with a belabored creak and a guard in shining silver chain mail and green-and-gold cape entered, ornamental pole axe in hand. He opened his mouth to pardon the interruption but the man he led in pushed past him, sending him off balance and interrupting the act. The guard recovered, grasped his weapon with both hands and advanced on the intruder but Therrador rose, stopping him with a gesture.

  “Leave us.”

  He waved his hand and the guardsman bowed at the waist, eyes steady on the other man, and backed out, closing the door with a soft thud. The intruder stopped a yard shy of Therrador, removed his helm and nodded instead of bowing. He didn’t speak. His close-cropped gray hair couldn’t hide the scars criss-crossing his scalp, spilling down his face over the deep wrinkles earned through decades spent fighting in the name of whoever paid him the most. His lone granite-colored eye stared unwavering while the other socket sat empty for all to see. Plain gray armor, as pitted and worn as his face, but fitting him as comfortably as if he’d been born in it, completed his drab yet menacing appearance. Everything about him spoke of business, and his business was death.

  “Suath,” Therrador said forcing a welcoming smile. “How long has it been?”

  The man didn’t answer. No surprise—Therrador expected no reply. More than a man of few words, the mercenary only spoke when absolutely necessary.

  “Too long, I guess, but I need of your services.”

  Suath nodded, remained silent.

  “Someone has something which belongs to me. I want it back.”

  The man’s presence brought a sheen of sweat to Therrador’s palms. He wanted to look away, to turn his gaze on anything but the uncaring gray eye and the pink, puckered flesh of the mercenary’s empty socket. Legend said he’d lost the eye while being tortured and, when he won his freedom, Suath took both the torturer’s eyes before killing him. People whispered that he carried all three eyes—his one and the torturer’s two—as good luck charms. Therrador suppressed a shudder.

  “I have good men on the trail already, but this task is of the utmost importance. I need you to retrieve this item and bring it back. No questions asked.”

  “At what cost?” the mercenary asked, his voice deep, grating—a voice that made Therrador wish he didn’t speak at all.

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “What is it?”

  “A vial.”

  Therrador waited for the next, obvious question, but Suath didn’t seem to care what the vial contain
ed.

  “How much?”

  “This is why I sent for you: you only care about the money.”

  Therrador nodded with satisfaction and used the opportunity to break from Suath’s gaze. He cast a glance toward the tapestry hiding the ante-room’s entrance. It hadn’t moved. Good boy.

  “And the killing. How much?”

  “Thirty gold now.” He pulled a leather pouch from his belt and tossed it onto the marble table with a clink. Two gold coins rolled out onto the white and red surface. “Fifty more when the vial is in my hands.”

  Suath nodded. His head moved so slightly, Therrador didn’t know he’d agreed until he retrieved the pouch and stray coins from the table. The mercenary tucked it into his jerkin without counting the coins then waited for Therrador to say more.

  “You can pick up their trail in Inehsul.”

  The man answered with a blink, then turned and strode toward the carven doors. Therrador felt a vice release from his head when their gazes finally parted.

  “Another ten coins if you bring me the head of the thief.”

  Suath stopped halfway to the door and replied without turning: “Heads are poor company.”

  “Twenty coins, then,” Therrador said annoyed to be speaking to the man’s back. Would he treat the king thus? Probably. “But no one can know of your task.”

  The mercenary slid his helm on, hiding scars and hair and wrinkles, and continued toward the door. The room seemed to sigh its relief at his leaving, along with Therrador.

  “Don’t fail me, Suath.”

  The mercenary stopped, hand on the door handle, and pivoted toward Therrador, his one eye blazing. He stared a moment before his laughter boomed down the hall, deep and echoing, a chilling sound Therrador hadn’t thought the man capable of creating.

  “I won’t fail you. Your killing will be done,” he growled and then nodded past Therrador. “And I see the child hidden behind the curtain, so don’t you be failing me, neither.”

  Therrador’s heart jumped in his chest and he spun to look at the tapestry. The edge swung ever so slightly, like someone had just left. He faced the mercenary, a threat ready on his lips, but by then Suath was gone, the door left open behind him. The guard peered in.