Blood of the King

by Bruce Blake

  “Is it in there?” Ghaul asked, impatience obvious in his voice.

  “I don’t know. I can’t get it.”

  “What do you mean you can’t get it?”

  Ghaul pushed in beside him and bent to retrieve the pouch. His fingers brushed its surface as a ripple ran through the grass, moving it out of his reach. He cursed and reached again but the pouch jumped away as though tossed hand to hand.

  “By the Gods,” Shyn whispered. “This place is haunted.”

  Ghaul scoffed and drew his sword. “Weeds need to be cut, that’s all.”

  A breeze stirred the tall grass, calling the drooping tops to attention as they swayed with its touch. Khirro watched it move, unease growing. There was something about the wind, something unidentifable that brought cold sweat to his brow.

  “Hold, Ghaul.” Shyn touched the warrior’s forearm; Khirro wondered if he felt the same thing he did. “Let me try.”

  He pulled his gauntlet on firmly and reached for the pouch like a cat stalking a bird. Closer and closer he inched; the pouch didn’t move. As his fingers touched its drawstring, a blade of grass coiled and shifted, bouncing it away from his grasp.

  “Enough games,” Ghaul growled. Shyn stepped aside. “I’m in no mood for this. The sooner we’re away from here, the better.”

  He drew his sword back and the wind rose, shuddering through the tall glass, shifting it, swirling it. Khirro understood the source of his unease—the wind didn’t move his hair, he didn’t feel it against his cheek.

  “Wait, Ghaul. I think...”

  His words came too late. The sharp age of the soldier’s sword cut stalks of grass. The pouch toppled to the ground at Shyn’s feet. He snatched it before it bounced out of his reach.

  “Got it,” he said before a deafening wail rose about them.

  Shyn tore his sword from its scabbard, ready for attack from some unseen animal, but Khirro knew no beast hid in the grass. The grass was the beast. It whipped and whirled about them forcing them together, pushing them back toward the man’s emptied body.

  “We have to get out of here,” Khirro screamed. Ghaul and Shyn both looked at him; he didn’t know if they’d heard him. “Run!”

  He pushed his companions ahead of him, urging them down the path toward the forest and what he hoped would be safety. As he ran, he dared a look over his shoulder and saw the wall of grass at the end of the path slam down, missing his heels by inches. Six feet of grass came down on the path from all directions, engulfing the one-eyed man’s ravaged corpse. When it rose, the body was gone.

  They raced down the hewn trail but Khirro felt as though he ran in dream-time, his legs pumping but carrying him nowhere. Ahead, Shyn and Ghaul pulled away. He glanced down, thinking suck sand hidden beneath the grass slowed him, but it was the grass itself. Yellow blades reached from all sides, grasping at his arms and legs. He pulled away, but a few hung on, slowing him, and the slower he moved, the more blades that gained purchase. Panic flashed through his head as he realized exactly what had happened to their pursuer. If he didn’t free himself, the same fate awaited him.

  Khirro called for help, but the howling field drowned his cries. He reached for his sword knowing Ghaul’s blade brought this upon them, so the weapon likely wouldn’t help, but what else could he do? His fingertips grazed the polished pommel before the grass wrenched his arm away.

  He reached again, stretching as far as his bonds allowed, but his fingers only brushed it. Struggling and straining, Khirro stumbled on; a blade of grass finally broke giving him enough play to wrap his fingers around the grip. He drew the black blade, steel singing against leather above the grassy cacophony.

  The sword didn’t reflect sunlight the way a normal sword did, instead sucking in the light, feeding upon it. The red runes scrawling along the length of the blade crawled and flowed like blood in veins below the surface of the steel. Khirro brandished the weapon above his head, readying to cut himself free, when the grass released him. He stumbled to the ground, disappearing into the rusty grass, then clamored to his feet with the coppery smell of blood in his nostrils. Ahead, Shyn and Ghaul reached the edge of the field and gestured him on as Elyea joined them, the concern on her face plain even from this distance.

  Khirro looked back. The grass which had been holding him had retreated from the path. At the far end, where the one-eyed man had been, the tall grass on either side crashed together like waves colliding where opposing currents met. The line of grass surged toward him and he turned and ran, sword in hand, breath shallow and quick. At the end of the path, his companions moved aside, making room. He didn’t dare look back. If he let fear slow him, it would mean his life.

  Thirty feet from safety, he felt a rush of air at his back as the wave of grass bore down on him. The sheer volume of air being moved pushed him off balance and he lunged forward, desperate to be free of the cursed field. His shoulder struck rocky earth and he rolled with the impact, coming to rest on his back, eyes closed tight, waiting to be crushed by the deadly grass.

  After a moment, he opened his eyes to see blue sky above, and then Elyea’s relieved face. Her mouth pulled into a strained smile and her lips moved, asking if he was all right. He nodded as best he could then she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

  Chapter Thirty

  Shyn stepped from behind the tree, fastening the final button of his tunic. He was self-conscious about transforming and had only allowed them to see it the one time.

  “Well?” Ghaul asked impatiently.

  Khirro didn’t understand why, after all that had happened, he still didn’t trust Shyn. Perhaps they’d never get along.

  “There’s nothing to see. The forest is too dense.”

  “What use is a man who turns into a bird if he sees no more than a man who can’t?”

  “Perhaps you’d like to try?”

  “Enough,” Elyea snapped. “The two of you arguing like children doesn’t help us find our way.” She looked at Khirro sitting on a fallen cedar, Athryn silent beside him. He read the question on her face before words left her lips. “Think, Khirro. Which way do we go?”

  The forest around them was thicker and quieter than a forest should be. No bird calls shrilled the air, no animals foraged for food, not so much as a mosquito buzzed around their heads. In another place, under other circumstances, such quiet might be peaceful, refreshing, but not here. With every turn they took, every step they made, a sense of doom followed, closing in, attaching itself to their skin, filling their lungs with every breath. Khirro expelled some of the feeling from his lungs with a heavy sigh.

  “I don’t know, Elyea.” He didn’t look at her, didn’t want to see disappointment on her face.

  “I thought the Shaman showed you the way,” Ghaul said, redirecting his frustration from Shyn to Khirro.

  “He did.”

  “So get us where we need to go.”

  Khirro looked at his feet, frustrated and embarrassed. The Shaman showed him the way but he couldn’t remember it. Don’t stray from the path, the tyger had said. Now he understood the beast’s warning—once off the trail, you might not find your way back.

  “It is not that you cannot remember, Khirro,” Athryn said. Khirro looked at him, gaping. These were the first words he’d spoken since they cremated Maes’ body. “You have no reference. What is the first thing you remember Bale showed you of Lakesh?”

  They awaited his answer, blame in their eyes, and anger rose in his chest. He’d neither asked nor wanted to lead this expedition. The Shaman cursed him to it. Nor had he begged any of these people to join him, each had insisted. Did they not think there may be a danger this might happen? Yet there they stood, accusing him. In that moment, he didn’t want them there, didn’t need their so-called help.

  Then Elyea stood beside him, rested her hand gently on his shoulder, and the anger melted away.

  How could I think that about them? They’ve been there for me when I needed them. Saved my life. His cheeks flushed red wit
h guilt.

  “What do you remember?” she asked, her voice soothing. He looked into her deep green eyes and nearly fell in.

  “A ruined village.” His hands fiddled in his lap; he made them stop. “It sits on the shore of an inland lagoon, south of where we landed on the beach, that much I know.”

  “South then,” Shyn said. He pulled his pack on and started out without waiting for the others.

  “He said south,” Ghaul called after him derisively. “That’s this way.”

  “I’m the one who flies above the trees.” Shyn laughed. “I know where the sun sits in the sky.”

  “You wouldn’t know where your ass sits without a map.”

  The soldiers closed on one another, both reaching for their swords. Before they got close, the ground shook beneath their feet, stopping them.

  “What was that?” Elyea asked, dagger already in hand. The ground shook again.

  “That way.” Shyn pointed the direction he’d already begun walking.

  They crept forward, Shyn and Ghaul in the lead. The forest heaved and swelled with hillocks and buried roots, forced them to clamor over fallen logs. They moved carefully, straining to be quiet as they climbed up a hill, then down the other side. The ground shook once more, this time accompanied by a low rumble like a boulder tumbling down a distant mountain.

  Cresting another hill, Ghaul stopped without warning, breath hissing through his teeth. Khirro crouched beside him peering down into the hollow at the bottom of the hill. Stumps crowded the forest floor, many of them wider across than a man is tall. Directly across from them, the next hill had been hollowed out into a man-made cave, snarled roots dangling from the ceiling.

  Khirro stared down the swell trying to make sense of what he saw. His mother’s stories of men bigger than nature should allow, as tall as three normal men, came to mind. These men made meals of any creature they got their hands on, devouring everything, even the bones. But surely they couldn’t be true, they were merely stories told to keep children from misbehaving.

  Like the stories of magicians and Necromancers and men who turned into animals.

  Suddenly, he understood why they hadn’t seen any animals or birds in the forest. The forest creatures knew better than to be here.

  None of them wanted to be food for a giant.

  The smell of dirt and peat filled Khirro’s nostrils as they lay atop the ridge watching, waiting. The earth here smelled different than on his farm., altered by the detritus from the trees. Still, it was the earth’s aroma and it provided him some comfort. He shook his head at the thought.

  How does one feel comfort while spying on a giant?

  Athryn lay beside him, breathing quietly. Somewhere above the trees, Shyn’s wings caught air as he scouted a path past the giant. Disagreeing with Shyn as always, Ghaul took Elyea to find a way around the encampment from ground level. Khirro didn’t like the idea but, in their effort to stay quiet, he had no chance to voice his opinion.

  They watched the giant making ready for the night. The huge man stood at least the height of three tall men, his head dominated by a sloping forehead flowing straight into his twisted nose. Cracked, puffy lips parted on gapped teeth as it pulled small trees out of the ground by their roots like a child might pluck dandelions for amusement. These logs—branches in the giant’s hands—it snapped in two over its knee and piled beside a well-used fire pit.

  Khirro looked on, fascinated and horrified, at this creature from his bedtime stories. He’d never believed in them—or so he told himself—but they’d kept him from wandering into the forest alone, made him go to bed when told. When he grew older, he saw the stories for what they were: untrue lessons meant to frighten, to teach, to warn. Or so he believed until an undead soldier pulled helmet from head, ready to strike him dead. Dead men walking, magic, a man who became a bird, malevolent grass, a giant: if all these things existed, did it make dragons, ghosts, demons and Gods real, too?

  A rustle of leaves pulled Khirro from his musings. He rolled to his back, brandishing his dagger, and saw Shyn standing on the hill, naked and haggard like a man who’d worked for days without sleep. Athryn gathered the border guard’s clothes he’d kept with him and crept down to meet him, Khirro close behind.

  “Anything?” Khirro whispered as Shyn pulled his breeches on.

  The bird man shot him a glance telling him not to speak, then shook his head. The forest was thicker than any he’d seen, Shyn had told them before, its canopy so dense he couldn’t fly through it. They waited while he donned his clothes, then crept to the crest of the hill again, bellies to the ground. When they reached the top of the rise, Khirro’s blood chilled in his veins.

  The giant was gone.

  Khirro’s eyes darted across the clearing. No sign of the creature. Shyn looked behind them and Khirro’s throat clogged with fear. Had the giant seen them? Scented them? Surely something that size couldn’t sneak up on them.

  “Where is it?” Khirro’s whisper was barely more than a breath.

  Neither man responded. Minutes passed as they scanned the forest. Somewhere amongst the trees lurked a creature who could crush them in its hand, split their bones for the marrow like a normal man snapping a twig. A shudder shook Khirro’s body and Athryn gestured for him to remain still.

  It felt to Khirro like they lay there a very long time before they heard Elyea cry out. Instinctively, Khirro moved to get to his feet, hand reaching for his sword, but Shyn’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. He settled back, body tense.

  Another shout sounded through the trees, this time Ghaul’s voice, followed closely by a deep throated roar sounding more beast than man. Trees groaned and brush shook, then all noise ceased. A minute passed, two. Khirro’s muscles tensed, nearly tying themselves in knots as he readied to rush to his friends’ aid though; with time to think about it, the thought of such action became more difficult, foolhardy. He looked at Shyn; the border guard thankfully gestured for him to wait.

  The ground shook with the giant’s footsteps. Khirro wondered how this creature could possibly have been quiet enough to sneak away without their knowledge.

  Elyea called out again, closer this time. The trees beside the dugout-cave shook, then parted, and the giant emerged, a crooked grin marring its flat face. It carried Elyea under one arm, her arms pinned at her sides, legs flailing uselessly. The giant’s other arm hung at its side. Fingers the thickness of tree branches gripped the back of Ghaul’s tunic as it dragged the warrior through the brush.

  Ghaul’s arms and legs hung limp.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Therrador shifted, seeking comfort on the uncomfortable seat. The throne wasn’t designed for relaxation, but he was confident he’d get used to it. He glanced around the throne room, unconsciously noting where he’d make changes: Braymon’s coat-of-arms would have to go, of course, replaced by his own—a crossed sword and staff. And the tapestries would be supplanted. He and Braymon always had dissimilar tastes—in decoration, in clothes—in everything except women. He scowled at the thought and put it immediately out of his head.

  Leaning back in the hard seat, Therrador wondered how the mercenary fared. He knew the man was a ruthless killer—there was no man alive more likely to follow a grisly task to its end—but could he be trusted? A man willing to sell his sword to the highest bidder didn’t instill confidence in his employer. Suath would probably try to sell the vial elsewhere, even without knowing its contents, to see if he could get more than Therrador offered. Most wouldn’t be interested in a vial of unidentified blood, but some might guess its contents, perhaps Suath himself. Better not to take any chances.

  Hanh Perdaro’s network learned of two Vendarians found dead on the dock near a slip that shouldn’t have been empty. They must have made it to Lakesh, or tried to, if the Small Sea didn’t claim them. Therrador never expected they’d make it as far as the haunted land—Suath would be penalized, if he returned.

  The king’s advisor fidgeted again. The mercen
ary would follow his quarry to the cursed earth. If he took the vial from them there, it was an easy trip up the coast to Kanos where a man with a vial of blood and a taste for money would have more luck finding a buyer than in Vendaria. As soon as he heard about the stolen boat, Therrador sent more soldiers after them—both the man carrying the vial and the mercenary. It didn’t calm his nerves, however.

  He glanced at Graymon playing near the foot of the throne—knights and dragons, as usual. The sight of his son brought a pained smile to his lips.

  He looks so much like his mother.

  A knock on the throne room door brought him to his feet. It was best he not be seen sitting upon the throne—not yet. He descended the three short steps from the dais and took a seat at the granite table set to the side.

  “Enter.”

  The thick oaken doors swung inward and Hanh Perdaro, Voice of the People, entered. He crossed halfway to where Therrador sat, then stopped and bowed shallowly at the waist.

  “My Lord.”

  “Perdaro,” Therrador replied with a nod. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I need your ear, my Lord.” He glanced at Graymon knocking over knights with the wooden dragon—in his games, the dragon always won. “Alone.”

  Therrador looked at his son again, then motioned for the door guard.

  “Graymon, Daddy needs to speak to Uncle Hanh alone. Go with the young man, he’ll get you a treat from the kitchen.”

  Graymon looked up, waving the carved dragon defiantly at the guard. “No,” he cried. “No one can capture Gorgo, king of the dragons.”

  Shaking his head apologetically at Perdaro, Therrador rose and went to his son, crouched in front of him. Before opening his mouth to speak, Graymon lashed out with the dragon and struck Therrador’s forearm painfully with its wooden teeth. Therrador’s combat reflexes responded automatically. He grabbed the boy’s wrist, making him drop the toy. Graymon’s face turned instantly from joy to hurt, his eyes watering, mouth drooping. Therrador released his arm, regretting his reaction.