Blood of the King

by Bruce Blake

  “Too much time has passed,” Ghaul grumbled and began to rise, but sounds stopped him.

  First they heard Elyea’s voice—a moan that made Khirro’s heart jump into his throat. Ghaul reached for his sword but this time Shyn stopped him. The look of disdain Ghaul gave the border guard would have shivered Khirro’s spine had it been intended for him and he worried Shyn might take exception. After a second, Ghaul relented.

  They heard other sounds. The voices of the two men joined Elyea’s and they quickly realized they weren’t hearing the sounds of a struggle. Khirro blushed, embarrassed and angry.

  She’s a harlot. This is what she does.

  Still, he felt disappointed. In the weeks they’d traveled together, he came to see her as so much more than her profession.

  After a minute, the noises ceased, a fact that brought a quiet chuckle from Shyn. Ghaul favored him with a contemptuous look that the border guard ignored. Khirro strained to listen over the caress of water lapping against the dock and the creak of ropes and boards as boats floated nearby. It seemed to him he heard sounds of a scuffle, but he couldn’t be sure. Shyn didn’t react, so he assumed he must be wrong. Then one of the men cried out, a short bark of alarm quickly cut off. Shyn and Ghaul both came instantly to their feet, hands on weapons, but Athryn stopped them again, barring their way with his arm as he stood, too.

  Elyea emerged from behind the sacks, a sheen of sweat on her naked skin shining in the moonlight. Gazing at the hang of her breasts and the curve of her hip silhouetted against the night sky, Khirro forgot his worry. The feeling in his stomach remained, but he paid it no heed. When she bent to retrieve something from behind the sacks, he saw the dagger in her hand. She wiped it with the shirt she picked up, then bowed her legs and wiped herself. The action might have seemed rude to some, but Elyea made it appear natural and business-like, something she’d done many times before. She discarded the soiled shirt and disappeared behind the sacks, reappearing moments later, clothed. Khirro brushed his disappointment aside as she crossed the dock, gesturing with a sweep of her arm toward a small sloop.

  “Gentleman, your ride awaits.”

  She replaced the knife in her boot, then pulled the pouch from her belt and tossed it to Athryn. It jingled as he caught it.

  “And it cost them a lot more than it cost us.”

  “Are you all right?” Khirro stepped forward, but Ghaul spoke before she answered.

  “Never mind that now.” He pushed past Elyea toward the boat. “Others will come. We must leave now.”

  Shyn, Athryn and Maes followed Ghaul to the boat; when Khirro went to follow, Elyea caught his arm. He faced her, gazing into her green eyes.

  “I’m fine, Khirro. Thank you for your concern.” She smiled but he found he could only return it half-heartedly and she saw his unease. “It was business, nothing more. I did what needed to be done.”

  Khirro nodded and allowed her to take his hand and lead him to the boat where the others waited.

  “Now we’re here,” Shyn said, “does anyone know how to sail a boat?”

  Athryn nodded. “Yes. Climb aboard and I will cast off the line.”

  Ghaul boarded first. Shyn picked up Maes and passed him to Ghaul, then climbed on and offered Elyea his hand. Khirro came next, wavering unsteadily as he stood on the boat’s swaying deck. Athryn freed the line and pushed the boat from the dock, then jumped aboard, landing softly beside Khirro.

  “We must go quietly,” he said plucking an oar from the deck. He placed the tip against the dock and pushed them away. “We will drift with the tide until we are far enough away to put oar to water without raising alarm, but then we must cross the sea as quickly as possible. When they notice the boat missing and the men slain, they will look for us.”

  “I’ll take the first watch,” Shyn said before Ghaul could volunteer. “The rest of you get some sleep.”

  Athryn nodded. “Wake us when the city lights are distant.”

  Khirro gathered some empty sacks littering the deck to fashion a pillow and settled down beside a canvas tarp at the stern. He lay on his back, trying to find comfort in the stars peeking through wispy clouds, but irritation still churned his gut. His muscles tensed as Elyea lay close beside him.

  “You were very brave,” he whispered without taking his eyes from the sky. He felt her turn on her side, facing him.

  “What you do is important. The fate of the kingdom is at stake. That makes me braver than I truly am.”

  Khirro sighed. Why doesn’t it make me feel braver than I truly am?

  Water lapped rhythmically against the side of the boat as the tide slid them silently away from the port town. Elyea settled in, resting her head on his shoulder, and his body tensed. He didn’t touch her, but he didn’t move away. Her touch made him feel warm, safe; it blocked the uncomfortable feeling in his midsection, but it also stirred up guilt and longing.

  Khirro closed his eyes and willed thoughts of Emeline to mind as he dozed. He saw her standing before the farmhouse that would one day be his if he lived to return, her stomach swollen with child. Her sad expression turned to anger and he tried to comfort her, but she turned away. Grabbing her gently by the arm, he spun her toward him and took a step back. Emeline no longer stood before him, but Elyea instead, her strawberry hair lit by the sun. Khirro looked at her, at the way her bosom stretched the bodice of her white dress. Sun shone through the thin, summery skirt, outlining her shapely legs. She bent at the waist, grasped the hem of her skirt and pulled it up to exposes the patch of red hair between her legs.

  Khirro’s eyes snapped open, his body starting. Elyea stirred beside him.

  “Is all well?”

  “Yes,” he answered too quickly, but she didn’t notice, instead wriggling in closer, laying her hand on his chest. He looked down at the top of her head, his breath short, tempted to stroke her hair, but he didn’t allow himself.

  Sleep hadn’t come when Shyn roused them to take up the oars.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  As the day wore on, the heat grew, intensifying the stench of moldering canvas. Sweat streamed down Suath’s forehead, soaked his underclothes, but he remained motionless, dirk in hand. He listened to the choppy sounds of oars striking water and knew his quarry had little experience navigating a boat. His opinion of their skills meant nothing, he had a job to do and nothing else mattered.

  When he came across their steeds milling about at the edge of the forest, he knew he’d nearly caught them. And he knew why they came this way. He had needed boats in the past, too; it was the only reason to come to Sheldive.

  He crept aboard the sloop while they busied themselves leering at the whore as she fucked them a boat, forgetting to watch the prize for which they’d come. He hid under the tarp, lying in wait, not troubling a moment over why this odd group should be headed to Lakesh. Experience had taught him people’s reasons can be unfathomable. He’d also learned to attack when he had the best chance for survival and escape. In Vendaria, a fight may have called attention—the militia would be on high alert with a war to the north—and he wouldn’t be able to navigate the boat by himself if he killed them on the open water, so he waited. Once he killed them, he’d head up the coast and hire a boat to take him back. Or maybe he’d go to Kanos to see what price might be paid there for whatever he was retrieving. Maybe they’d pay more than Therrador.

  A sliver of sunlight stole under the tarp from a spot where the rope had loosened. Suath kept his gaze on it, watching for movement. A shadow blocked the mute illumination and he tensed, ready to attack if the need occurred.

  “We should send the others back,” a man’s voice said in hushed tones Suath almost couldn’t hear. “Two of us would move more swiftly. And the journey will be perilous. You wouldn’t want their deaths on your head, would you?”

  A pause before a second man’s voice answered.

  “No,” he said. Suath heard hesitancy in his voice. “It would be as dangerous for them in Vendaria, though.”<
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  “They could go north, to the sea wall,” the first voice urged.

  “Not with the war. They’d destroy the boat before it came within shouting distance. It’s best this way. We’ll need every sword, every bit of cunning. And everything Athryn has to offer.”

  Another slight pause. “Watch the magician, Khirro, he has his own agenda for seeking the Necromancer, and it has nothing to do with the blood of the king you carry in that vial.”

  Suath smiled.

  Braymon’s blood.

  No wonder Therrador wanted the vial so badly. The Kanosee would likely pay a great deal for this. He’d have to be careful with a magic user amongst them, but magicians bled like any man, the key was to keep them from speaking.

  Suath knew how to do that.

  The woman called to them from the bow of the boat but the lapping of the waves swallowed her words.

  “We’re almost there,” the second man’s voice said with a note of resignation. No warrior, this one. “Everyone comes with us unless they choose otherwise. We’ll need them all.”

  Footsteps sounded on the wooden deck, vibrating against Suath’s chest, as someone else approached.

  “We should rest when we arrive, get our bearings,” the new voice said in deep, melodic tones, undoubtedly the voice of a magic user. “None will follow us to the haunted land, but the journey will be difficult. We should regain our energy before we continue.”

  The other voices agreed, then two sets of boots clomped away. Shadow still blocked the sun. Suath blinked sweat from his eye, straining his gaze, but saw only a bit of brown leather boot—the first man still stood nearby. It would not be enough to identify the man when the time came, but he would recognize his voice. If any amongst them might be tempted to turn to his side, this would be the one.

  Or he could be dangerous.

  Again, footsteps clopped on the deck and sun found its way through the opening. Sweat covered every inch of Suath’s exposed skin, drenched his clothes. He’d survived the sweat boxes of Estycia and the deserts of the south, as well as more wounds and tortures than most men knew existed. Discomfort meant nothing to him, he’d be paid with more than enough gold to compensate.

  Half an hour passed before the ship’s bow crunched against the rocky beach of the Lakesh shore. A few more hours of heat and discomfort and they’d be asleep, then he’d make his move.

  It pleased Suath they made his task so easy.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Therrador leaned back in his seat, steepled fingers resting against his lips as he regarded the other men sitting around the marble table. For the better part of an hour, they’d argued on the same subject and he found it hard to hide his annoyance, but he controlled himself. How he acted now would insure things came out the way he planned.

  “But we don’t know for certain the king has perished.”

  A tall wisp of a man, Lord Emon Turesti’s gray hair lay limp against his narrow shoulders; his impossibly long fingers fidgeted constantly. The High Chancellor never stopped moving and all these characteristics combined to give him the nickname Smoke, though few dared say it to his face.

  “In the name of the four Gods, do you suppose he unarmored himself to take up a mallet and play a quick game of roque?” Sir Alton Sienhin’s droopy jowls shook as he blustered, his face a startling red behind his huge black mustache. The head of the king’s army had made the trip from the Isthmus Fortress to Achtindel in order to sit with the high council. “You haven’t seen the king fight, Smoke. A warrior like King Braymon would not be relieved of his armor whilst life still coursed through his veins.”

  How appropriate, Therrador thought, that they speak of what runs through his veins.

  The other men at the table—Hu Dondon, the Lord Chamberlain, and Hanh Perdaro, Voice of the People—nodded at Sir Alton’s words.

  Turesti’s lips tightened to a pale line at the use of the nickname. “Sir Alton, with no body, we cannot presume—”

  “What of the Shaman?” Hu Dondon interrupted.

  The oldest man sitting on the King’s High Council, Dondon didn’t look any more aged than his fellows. His full head of black hair showed no gray, his posture remained straight; only the droop at the corners of his eyes gave any inkling of the years he’d seen pass.

  “The Shaman is dead. He—” Sir Alton began.

  “Yes, we know,” Dondon interrupted again, a habit those who knew him had to live with. “Found him dead outside the walls. Makes him look a traitor. What of his sworn mission?”

  Sir Alton’s face grew more red. “Bale died valiantly at the foot of the fortress wall,” he sputtered barely controlling his rage at Dondon’s inference. “Rudric and Gendred fell by his side, the bodies of eight Kanosee pigs rotting around them. Do not speak ill of brave men.”

  Dondon waved a dismissive hand at the general. “Yes, died for his country. And his mission?”

  “There was no sign of it.” Sir Alton leaned back, arms crossed against his barrel chest. “We have no reason to think they had it.”

  “Then why were they outside the fortress?” Hanh Perdaro asked.

  Though youthful, little hair grew on the head of the man known as the Voice of the People. Thoughtful and sparse of words, Therrador treasured these traits and liked the man best of the King’s High Council. There would be a position for Perdaro in the future if he wanted it.

  “We cannot know,” Lord Turesti said. “Perhaps the king was captured and they gave pursuit.”

  “And suppose I shat a donkey,” Sir Alton blurted. “If they were in pursuit of the king’s captors, there would have been a damn sight more than three of them.”

  “In either case,” Turesti continued, his mouth a taut line of disgust at Sir Alton’s words. “We should keep things quiet. It will do no good for the army to think they fight without a king and for the people to mourn their regent in the middle of a war.”

  “I fear it’s already too late,” Hanh Perdaro said stroking the thin line of beard cupping his chin. “Whispers of Braymon’s death already cross the land. The people grow nervous.”

  “Aye, as do the king’s soldiers,” Sir Alton added, his cheeks fading pink. “Not only do they fear the loss of their king, but Rudric and Gendred—”

  Dondon cut him off. “Yes, yes. But the blood. What of the king’s blood?”

  Therrador leaned forward resting his elbows on the table top, and the others looked toward him, waiting to hear the words of the king’s advisor who had remained silent as they discussed the situation. He looked from one to the next, drawing the pause out deliberately, taking in their anxious looks.

  This is what it will be like when I’m king.

  “There is no blood.”

  He watched hope drain from their faces. Hu Dondon sucked breath in through his teeth; Sir Alton Sienhin smacked a gauntleted fist on the white and red marble table.

  “I have sent men searching, and they’ve turned up nothing. No one survived the fight beneath the walls of the fortress.”

  “But why were they—” Dondon began, but Therrador cut him off, taking great pleasure in doing so. He pulled a vial from his belt and tossed it onto the table to roll across the smooth surface. Four pairs of eyes followed the empty glass as it skittered to the middle of the table.

  “The blood was spilled,” Therrador said.

  “Then all is lost.” Lord Turesti said voicing what must have been on all their minds. “What will happen with no heir to the throne?”

  “Civil war,” Dondon said. “The kingdom will be plunged into turmoil.”

  “You belly-dragging son of a rabid weasel!” Sir Alton Sienhin stood so suddenly his chair teetered. “Would you have us roll over and wet on ourselves? Hand our country to the Kanosee and save them the trouble of dirtying their boots?”

  “Sit down, you fool,” Hu Dondon sneered. “If you and that so-called royal guard had done your jobs, perhaps we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “How dare you.
We lost three—”

  “You lost the king,” Dondon snapped. “Nothing else matters.”

  “You are nothing but a—”

  “Enough!”

  Therrador slammed his hand on the table; the men turned their attention to him, their expressions ranging from despair to rage. As they stared, he pulled a rolled parchment from his belt and tossed it onto the table. It spun a few times, rolling to a stop against the empty vial.

  “That letter contains the king’s wishes if he were to fall and not be raised.” He looked at them, gauging their reactions. “And the solution to our problem.”

  They stared at the paper, none of them speaking or reaching for it. Even the normally verbose Hu Dondon remained speechless. Finally, Hanh Perdaro looked up from the parchment, meeting Therrador’s eyes.

  “Why did you not tell us of this sooner, Therrador?”

  “I held hope of discovering what happened, as you did. I hoped beyond hope, prayed to the four Gods our king would be returned, but time has passed. The likelihood of my prayers being answered, my hopes coming true, grows dimmer every day. It’s time something is done to save our kingdom.”

  “What does it say?” Lord Turesti asked.

  Therrador breathed deep. “It says I’m to carry on King Braymon’s legacy as regent and protector of the realm, and my heir after me.”

  “Yes, yes. But how do we know this to be true?”

  If Hu Dondon didn’t realize the mistake he’d made in asking as the words passed his lips, Therrador’s sudden rage made it clear.

  “How dare you!” Therrador yelled. “I became friends with Braymon suckling side by side at our mothers’ teats. I served our king before he became king, while the likes of you rooted at the feet of the man who held his rightful throne.”

  Dondon hung his head. “Apologies, Lord.”

  Sir Alton looked across the table at Dondon, disgust and pleasure mixing plainly in his eyes. “It bears the unbroken seal of the king,” he said pointing at the roll, his mustache quivering as his camouflaged lips moved behind it. “It is the wish of the king.”