Blood of the King

by Bruce Blake

  “Please, Graymon. Da needs to speak with Uncle Hanh.” His soothing tones had little effect on the boy’s quivering lip. Therrador stroked his cheek. “The nice man will get you a treat. I bet there’s cookies.”

  Graymon’s face brightened like a cloud passing from the sun. He jumped up and ran to the door guard while Gorgo, king of the dragons, lay forgotten on the floor. Therrador watched him leave, then returned to the table and motioned for Perdaro to sit.

  “What’s on your mind, Hanh?”

  The Voice of the People took a seat directly across from Therrador, taking a moment to straighten his tunic and smooth his sparse hair before speaking.

  “There are rumors,” he began. Therrador tensed at the words—Hanh Perdaro didn’t tend toward dramatics. “I have heard whispers the blood of the king is bound for Lakesh, Therrador.”

  The king’s advisor stiffened at the sound of his own name; he’d become used to being addressed as ‘my Lord’ and the like. The day the entire country referred to him as ‘my liege’, ‘your highness’ or ‘your grace’ couldn’t come soon enough. But first these whispers needed to be dealt with.

  “I have already told you , Hanh,” Therrador said carefully controlling his voice. “Bale is dead, as are Rudric and Gendred. None escaped. You saw the empty vial. The king’s blood fed the parched earth at the foot of the Isthmus fortress.”

  “It’s not I who disbelieves. My opinion is inconsequential. I speak for the people. If not quelled, whispers and rumors become rumblings, and nothing good comes of rumblings.” He paused to glance over first one shoulder, then the other—a habit born of listening to and re-telling whispers. “It’s also said the Mourning Sword was not with Bale’s body. Some see it as an ill omen.”

  Therrador harrumphed. “Pillaged, that’s all. What man wouldn’t want such a sword for their own, whether they knew what it was or not.”

  “But the people say—”

  The slap of Therrador’s open hand on the smooth granite table top echoed across the chamber. He glared at Perdaro and surreptitiously rubbed his stinging palm against his thigh. For this man, he had more patience for conversation than most, but he found his patience easily worn thin these days.

  “There is a war being fought,” he snapped. “Do the people whisper about that? The kingdom needs a king, or all will be lost. What do their rumors say about that?” He glared at the Voice of the People, scrutinizing his expression, but it betrayed nothing of his own thoughts. “That’s where my priorities must lie, not in chasing a hope we know false. Braymon’s dead and gone and I’m the one he named to take his place if exactly this came to pass. The sooner the people stop their whisperings and accept their new king, the easier life will be for all.”

  They looked across the table at each other, neither speaking for a minute. Therrador wondered if he’d allowed his anger to make him say too much, but Perdaro’s face showed nothing. The things this man must have heard through the years—some of them enough to make most men cringe, or cry, but the Voice of the People couldn’t afford such luxuries. He spoke little, listened much, and reacted not at all.

  “What does my Lord wish to do?”

  Therrador drummed his fingers on the table, acting as though his palm didn’t still hurt. He stopped and rubbed his chin.

  “Start your own rumors, Hanh,” he said finally. “Tell the people what they want to hear. Whisper that we caught a Kanosee who survived the fight outside the fortress walls. With his capture imminent, he emptied Braymon’s blood from the vial. Tell them we recovered the Mourning Sword from his butchered corpse and it’s secreted away until there is a Shaman to replace Bale.” He stared at Perdaro, looking past him, through him. “Tell them Braymon is dead, he won’t be coming back, and his dying wish was for Therrador to be king in his stead.”

  Hanh Perdaro nodded, unspeaking. His face remained an emotionless mask. When Therrador said no more, he stood, bowed at the waist and went to leave. As his hand touched the brass knob on the oaken door, Therrador spoke again.

  “And Hanh, tell Sir Alton I need to see him. There’s a one-eyed man who must not enter the kingdom alive.”

  Perdaro nodded and left the throne room, closing the door behind him. Therrador leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands across his stomach. He glanced at the wall hangings, imagining them depicting his own acts of heroism. Perhaps one of them would show Gorgo, king of the dragons. Graymon would like that.

  “Tell them the king is dead,” he said to the empty room. “Tell them ‘long live the king’.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Night fell but the forest remained illuminated by the flames from the giant’s fire reaching toward the boughs high overhead, flickering and dancing higher than the height of the giant. The creature squatted at the edge of the fire pit, staring mesmerized into its depths, occasionally poking a burning log with the tip of a spear longer than any Khirro had ever seen. Several yards from where it crouched, Elyea and Ghaul sat back to back, a thick rope woven of green vines looped around them. Their chins drooped forward, touching their chests, so Khirro couldn’t tell whether they were conscious or not.

  Overhead, Shyn-as-falcon perched on a limb, awaiting the signal. Khirro and Athryn crept around the giant’s encampment, painstakingly picking their way to a spot close to their captive companions. As the moment for action drew near, Khirro’s gut twisted. He touched the vial tucked inside his tunic, seeking comfort and courage from it, but found only cool glass. Over the past weeks, he’d tasted fear like he’d never experienced. This was worse. Anticipation multiplied fear exponentially, growing it beyond the bounds he thought possible. Athryn dug an elbow into his side, urging him forward. Khirro drew a deep, slow breath, preparing to move.

  Nothing happened.

  He tried again, struggling to make his limbs carry him forward to rescue his friends, but they’d have nothing of it. Fear paralyzed him, froze him to the ground with his face in the dirt like the snake it made him feel.

  He cursed his stubborn muscles. Both Elyea and Ghaul gave up everything to aid him on a journey not their own, risking their lives for him, yet here he lay, unable to propel himself to rescue them. Disgust and self-loathing coiled in his belly. Hadn’t enough people died because of him, because of his fear? He wouldn’t be able to live knowing these two perished because of his cowardice.

  He was gathering his strength, focusing on one limb at a time, when the giant pulled his spear from the fire and gazed at the glowing tip. A homely grin twisted the giant’s lips as it looked from spear to prisoners, a low chuckle rolling through its yellow-brown teeth. The creature extended the weapon, the glowing tip leaving a ribbon of gray smoke trailing behind, until it hovered a few inches from Elyea’s cheek.

  The heat brought her from her daze, wrenching her mind back from wherever it had gone to escape. She raised her head, eyes widening when she saw the glowing spear head—leaf-shaped and the length of a short sword—pressing close to her flesh. She leaned away, feet scrabbling against the forest floor sending dirt and decayed evergreen needles spraying away, but Ghaul’s limp form lashed to her back held her from moving. The giant laughed at the high-pitched squeaks of fear escaping her throat and flicked the tip toward her. She flinched and the beast laughed louder.

  Khirro’s teeth clenched watching the giant play his game over and over: threaten her, watch her cringe, laugh aloud. Not until the orange glow faded did the giant lose interest. Khirro let out his breath as the creature drew the weapon away. Tears ran down Elyea’s face leaving clean tracks on her dirty cheeks.

  The giant thrust the spear once more; Elyea dodged but the point continued past her ear and brushed Ghaul’s cheek—Khirro heard the sizzle of hot metal on flesh. Ghaul’s head jerked up; he yelped with pain and twisted away, his weight shifting enough to tumble them on their sides. Elyea struggled against the rope and freed one hand—she must have been working the knot while she feigned unconsciousness. The giant grunted a curse and slammed his spear to t
he ground in disgust.

  As Ghaul writhed on the ground beside her struggling to loose himself, Elyea freed her other hand. The giant reached for her but she avoided his clutch. The huge man ignored her as she scrambled away, concerning himself with the most dangerous threat first. He sat Ghaul up like a child playing with a doll and hit him open-handed across the face, knocking him unconscious. Khirro tensed. This was the time to act, but he did nothing as the giant closed the distance to Elyea in two strides, wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted her from the ground. The creature laughed as he brought her back to his seat by the fire. He pulled her face close to his, his tongue snaking from his mouth and up Elyea’s cheek. She cringed, struggling to pull away, her face screwed up in disgust.

  From above, a shriek rang through the night—Shyn had waited long enough. The gray bird swooped from the dark, talons raking the giant’s head. The creature bellowed, swung its free arm wildly, but Shyn avoided the blow. Athryn jumped to his feet and pulled his sword. Khirro didn’t take the time to consider his options, leaping up alongside the magician, thankful his limbs did as he asked. He drew the Mourning Sword, vaguely noticing the blade looked blacker, the red runes glowing fiercely in the firelight.

  Shyn swooped again as Elyea fought the giant’s grip, but there was no element of surprise this time. His fist looped at Shyn; the falcon dodged, but the blow caught him mid-wing, spinning him away. In the moment of distraction, Athryn rushed the giant, sword raised to strike.

  The giant saw him at the last second and brought his arm down to block the sweep of Athryn’s sword; his blade separated the giant’s meaty finger from his hand. The monster howled in pain and rage, nearly deafening them, but reacted immediately catching Athryn’s hip with its hair-covered foot. The magician spun away and fell to the ground beside Ghaul. Khirro stepped up in the magician’s place, the Mourning Sword raised above his head.

  The giant’s eyes locked on Khirro’s, fury burning in his gaze, freezing Khirro’s hand. The beast reached toward the fire, blood dripping from the stump of his finger, sizzling on the hot rocks at the fire’s edge. Elyea struggled, her strength waning as the creature’s grip tightened.

  If I don’t do something, she won’t survive his grasp.

  He took a tentative step forward as the giant’s remaining fingers closed around a log, grasping it and swinging it in one motion, spilling the fire out of its pit. Khirro ducked as a small tree engulfed in flame passed over his head close enough to singe his hair. He stumbled back, dodging the giant’s back swing, mind searching for a way to counter-strike that wouldn’t be suicide.

  How will I reach him?

  The answer came on the voice of a falcon. Shyn dove at the giant’s face, a talon raking his cheek. Khirro lunged, the Mourning Sword a black and red streak cutting the air, but the tip only grazed his foe’s stomach opening little more than a scratch. He dove away from the giant’s retaliatory blow, sprawling on the ground. In the flicker of a second he rolled across the ground, Khirro saw Ghaul had regained consciousness and Athryn was crawling toward the fray, favoring his injured hip.

  The giant brought the flaming log down in an overhead blow, its flaming end brushing the tree boughs above. Khirro rolled away as it slammed the ground, sparks exploding into the air. He caught sight of Elyea. She’d pulled a blade from her boot and was attempting to manipulate the point into the giant’s ribs. Panic rushed into Khirro’s chest—if she knifed the brute, he’d crush her for her troubles.

  “No!”

  Khirro struggled to his knees as Elyea pushed the blade with all her remaining strength. The small knife must have felt no more than a pinprick to the beast’s thickly muscled ribs, but it surprised him, sent him reeling back. When his foot came down on a smoldering chunk of wood, sending him off balance, Shyn dove in. Khirro lunged, rolling under the log as the giant flailed, and swung the Mourning Sword, a prayer on his lips—if he missed, it would be his life, and the lives of his friends.

  He didn’t.

  The Mourning Sword’s impossibly sharp edge cut the flesh at the back of the giant’s ankle, severing flesh and muscle and tendon. The moment blood touched the sword, the glowing runes spilled out, covering the blade, turning the length of the sword red.

  The beast put weight on his wounded leg and howled when he found he couldn’t, then lifted the injured foot, hopping as he raised the burning club to vanquish the foe on the ground at his feet. Khirro gritted his teeth awaiting the blow as he had lying on the dirt of the Isthmus Fortress’s courtyard an eternity ago.

  If I’d died then, everyone else would be alive.

  Before the giant struck, Shyn swooped in and buried his talons in the giant’s shoulder. The creature bellowed and Khirro swung the Mourning Sword again, its blade having returned to its normal red and black. When it contacted the back of the giant’s other ankle, it again blazed red as though the taste of blood lit a fire inside the steel.

  The beast tottered, gravity working against him, a look of astonishment replacing the rage on its face. The giant swayed, then fell like a cut tree; Elyea tumbled from his grasp as he threw out his arms to lessen the pain of the fall. Khirro scrambled out of reach.

  The ground shook as the giant crashed into the fire pit, flames melting hair and burning flesh, the smell ghastly as the creature rolled off the embers, back smoldering. Khirro stood, knowing but dreading what must happen next. In spite of the giant’s intentions, he had no stomach for killing the beast, not like this. He stepped forward and stopped, surprised to see Ghaul standing by the giant’s head, Athryn’s sword in hand.

  “Bastard,” he hissed through clenched teeth, blood trickling from his nose and ear.

  The warrior grasped the sword’s hilt with both hands, raised it above his head, measuring his blow. Something told Khirro nothing good would come of ending the creature’s life but he didn’t try to stop Ghaul. The giant’s eyelids fluttered, recognition flickering in its rheumy eyes, but it made no attempt to protect itself. The blade came down across its throat.

  Blood fountained from the wound, spraying as high as Ghaul’s head. He pulled the sword free and brought it down again, again, grunting with the effort of each blow. Khirro stood limply, watching, aghast at the sight, but did nothing, said nothing. With the fifth swing, the giant’s head came free from its body. Its arms twitched twice, then the once mighty beast lay still. Ghaul stood over it, lips pulled back in what might have been grin or grimace. The blood spattering his face and up the front of his clothes made his white teeth stand out against the red background.

  Khirro thought if he ever saw a demon from the hells, this would surely be how it looked.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The few snatches of sleep Khirro managed that night were brief, full of nightmares.

  They’d argued about staying the night at the giant’s encampment or moving on. Ghaul insisted they go because there might be more of the beasts but, when Shyn found a cache of meat, they finally agreed to stay. Despite not knowing what kind of meat it was, Khirro’s growling stomach convinced him to eat.

  Athryn lay near the fire, the vial of king’s blood pressed against his injured hip. As Khirro tossed and turned searching for a comfortable position, he thought the absence of the vial against his chest might be what kept him from sleep. He’d gotten used to it being there, drew comfort from it. When he rolled to his other side, he saw Ghaul keeping watch. He’d offered the vial to him, too, but he refused. A real warrior didn’t need magic to heal, he said. Shyn kept watch from the branches above.

  “Thank you.”

  Elyea’s words startled Khirro; lost in pondering Ghaul’s attitude and searching for sleep, he hadn’t noticed her come to squat beside him. He propped himself on his elbows and looked into her freckled face. She’d used water from one of the skins to wash the tear stains from her cheeks.

  “No need.”

  She stretched out on the ground beside him, face to face, close enough he felt her warmth.

 
“If not for you, that thing would have squeezed me in half.” She nodded toward the giant’s body still lying opposite Athryn. They weren’t strong enough to move it, even with all of them helping.

  “Not just me.” Khirro felt blood filling his cheeks, adding to his warmth. “Shyn, Athryn and Ghaul are as much responsible.”

  “It was you,” she whispered wriggling closer, breath touching his face.

  Her eyelids fluttered and she leaned forward until her lips brushed his, the touch making his limbs tingle. He looked at her closed eyes as she kissed him. It had been so long. It felt so good. He closed his eyes, enjoying the moment, and a flood of memories surprised him: Emeline’s face, his parents, his brother; how he and Ghaul found Elyea in the forest, what she did for a living. He pulled his lips away.

  “I... I can’t.”

  “Of course you can.”

  She shifted her hips forward so their bodies came together. He moved away to keep the hardness creeping into his breeches from encouraging her, but she pressed insistently.

  “Please,” he said, breathing the word. “Emeline...”

  “Enough games, Khirro. You may never see this Emeline again, even if we survive.”

  Khirro’s brow creased. “What do you mean?”

  “When you’re asked to leave, people don’t want you to come back.”

  Her tone wasn’t spiteful, but the words stung. He saw she was trying to make him understand the truth, and he knew she was right, but it didn’t make the revelation any less painful.

  “But she... I... I have to make things right again.”

  The tingle of desire disappeared, replaced by hurt and disappointment.

  “I see your longing and sadness when you talk about her. I understand your feelings, but when she became pregnant, they forced you into the king’s army. Did your parents or hers banish you?”

  Khirro averted his eyes. “Both.”