Blood of the King

by Bruce Blake

  This is not my time to die.

  When his head finally broke the surface, he gasped a ragged breath. Never had air tasted so good. He grabbed the oar floating nearby, thankful for its aid in keeping him afloat, and kicked for the boat, limbs heavy with exhaustion. Hands grabbed him, helped him over the side.

  He lay in the bottom of the boat catching his breath and staring at the blue sky for several minutes before he realized the fog had dissipated. The sun shone bright, drying his soaking clothes.

  Chapter Forty

  Time slid by with the water beneath the boat’s hull but they made little progress toward shore. Shyn and Athryn pulled on the oars, sweat running off their chins, dripping from the ends of their noses as the sun beat down relentlessly, reflected and intensified by the lake’s glassy surface. Khirro’s clothes—long since dried under the sun’s heat—lay in a heap at the bottom of the boat with everyone else’s. They all wore only enough to keep their skin from frying and rowed in no more than ten minute shifts for fear of passing out.

  Elyea plunged her hand through the skim of green foam covering the water to cool herself then pulled it out quickly, a surprised look on her face.

  “It’s hot,” she said wiping scum off her hand.

  Khirro peered over the side of the boat, tempted to test the temperature himself, but he resisted. It would be a long time before he’d go in the water for anything other than bathing. In the distance, tendrils of vapor curled up from the lake, snaking toward the sky, disappearing before they became mist.

  The sun takes the lake. If we survive long enough, we might be able to walk ashore.

  Athryn stopped rowing, leaned over his oar to rest. In the heat, he had removed his mask and the scar on his face shone with sweat. Shyn stopped, too, and put his hand on Athryn’s shoulder.

  “We should make for the closest shore,” he said, voice rasping in his parched throat.

  The magician shook his head. “No. We are being tested. If we give up, we will never reach the Necromancer.”

  “To hell with the Necromancer,” Ghaul said from the front of the boat. “No matter how much we row, we go nowhere. If we don’t have rest and water soon, we’ll die.” He shifted to face them. “Why should he test us? How could he know we’re here?”

  “Darestat knows all,” Athryn replied through cracked lips, each word a struggle to find breath. “He does not want to be found. If any man could reach him, he would never have peace from those who want of him. Or those who want him dead.”

  They fell silent as the boat floated without drifting. Khirro hung his head, sweat trickling down his back. For the first time in his life he felt like he had a purpose, but he’d fail, boiled to death like a breakfast egg. His mind floated like the boat, drifting back through the line of failures marking his life: the slaughter of the Shaman and the others; the death of King Braymon; his laughable training as a soldier; his banishment by his parents; the disaster with Emeline; the accident that took his father’s arm, and on and on. A life of failure and disappointment. This was his last opportunity to redeem himself. He took the vial from the pocket of his tunic.

  “Give me the oar, Athryn,” he demanded, standing. The swaying boat sent ripples racing away to be swallowed up in the lake’s stillness. “Shyn, do you have anything left?”

  “I do,” Shyn replied despite the sweat soaking his thin cotton shirt.

  Khirro traded spots with Athryn, his knees brushing Elyea’s as he sat. He looked at her hair plastered to her forehead, at the way her sweat soaked shirt clung to her chest, outlining her breasts. She smiled weakly and brushed the stray strands of hair from her face. A warmth unrelated to the sun’s heat filled Khirro’s chest and, in that moment, he knew he loved her. He may never be able to tell her, or show her, but he was clear he did.

  Let’s go.” He pried his gaze from hers and turned to Shyn. “If you tire, trade with Ghaul.”

  They dipped their oars into the water and pulled. The vial pulsed against Khirro’s leg, throbbing in rhythm with their strokes. Water splashed and jumped from the blades each time they broke the surface, the ripples spreading farther and farther until a wake spread from the stern of the boat.

  “We’re moving,” Ghaul cried over his shoulder.

  They moved slowly at first, the trees on the bank crawling by, but their speed increased. The motion created a slight breeze that dried the sweat on their brows. The more Khirro rowed, the more energy flowed through his limbs. Shyn stroked beside him to the pace set by the blood of the king.

  The air grew cool—cooler than should be caused by the boat’s movement. Khirro watched Athryn and Elyea pull on clothes they’d removed in the heat. The hair on Khirro’s forearms prickled, but he welcomed the feel of a little goose flesh after the searing heat.

  Minutes later, Elyea breathed out a cloud of mist. High above, billowy white clouds painted gray on their flat bottoms gathered, blotting out the sun, throwing a shadow across the lake. The welcome goose flesh on Khirro’s arm became an unwelcome chill. They stopped rowing a moment so he and Shyn could reclothe. Less than ten minutes later, Elyea let out a surprised gasp as the first flake of snow landed on her nose.

  “How is this possible?” she asked turning to Athryn.

  The magician shrugged. “I told you: Darestat does not want to be found.”

  Snow fell steadily. Elyea moved closer to Athryn, using their combined bodies to create warmth. Khirro ignored the twinge of jealousy poking his ribs and felt thankful to be rowing, creating his own heat.

  “Let me take over,” Ghaul offered, apparently having the same thought.

  “I’m fine,” Shyn replied continuing to stroke the oar through the water.

  Khirro wanted to say the same thing, to keep the activity and warmth to himself, but that wouldn’t be fair. If they took turns when rowing was hard, they should do the same when it was desirable. Besides, he didn’t really want to watch Elyea snuggled up to Athryn, for warmth or otherwise.

  “You can take my place.”

  He pulled his oar from the lake and balanced it across the boat. Shyn stopped rowing and gripped the oar being exchanged as Khirro and Ghaul completed the awkward dance of trading places on the unsteady boat.

  Khirro settled into place on his knees at the bow. No longer rowing, he noticed his muscles aching from exertion. He swung his arm in a circle, stretching the muscles as the rhythmic splash of oars dipping into water resumed. A smile no one else saw wrinkled the corners of his mouth—when Shyn and Ghaul rowed together, it was the only time they worked toward a common goal.

  The snow fell harder, swirling around them. Khirro pulled his tunic tight under his chin, squinting and blinking as flakes the size of a copper piece flew at his eyes. The shifting white curtain obscured the shore ahead, but it was growing closer.

  Snow gathered on the edge of the boat and on the shoulders of Khirro’s tunic. He brushed it away, but it took little time to gather again. The green algae coloring the surface of the lake disappeared, seeking warmth in deeper water. A shiver shook Khirro as he saw the scum replaced by a rime of snow. He looked at the water directly in front of the boat; the prow pushed aside a thin layer of ice as they advanced.

  “The lake freezes,” he called over his shoulder, teeth chattering.

  Snow collected in the bottom of the boat, dusted the surface of the lake. The trees on the approaching shore wore the same white cloak. The ice grew thicker until it began to impede their progress, slowing them, making Shyn and Ghaul pull harder and harder on the oars. With the shore tantalizingly close, the blade of Shyn’s oar glanced off the ice instead of finding water. He tried again and failed to penetrate it. The same happened to Ghaul. The rowing stopped and soon after the boat did, too.

  “What now?” Ghaul threw his oar to the bottom of the boat. Khirro turned toward the others, knees creaking and aching from kneeling in the cold.

  “The shore isn’t too far,” he said, though it had been a while since he could see land clearly
through the veil of heavy flakes.

  “How can you be sure?” Athryn asked. In the frigid weather, Khirro found himself envying the magician’s mask. “Shyn, can you take to the air and see?”

  The border guard shook his head. “It would be suicide to fly in this.”

  “So what’s the hold up,” Ghaul said half under his breath. Shyn glowered at him.

  “We have no choice,” Khirro interjected. “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

  “I..is the ice th...thick enough?” Elyea asked.

  As if in answer, the ice around them crunched and creaked, squeezing against the hull of the boat. Khirro stood, knees popping, but the boat didn’t move. He swayed from side to side, gently first, then more aggressively. Ice held the boat fast.

  “It’s freezing quickly.” Shyn thumped the blade of his oar on the ice. “Perhaps we should wait to be sure it will hold us.”

  “We freeze quickly, too,” Athryn said, his words carried on a plume of mist; a ring of frost encircled the mouth hole of his black mask.

  “Athryn’s right. My toes already lose feeling. If we wait too long, we may not be able to walk.” No surprise Ghaul’s words contradicted Shyn’s.

  “I’ll go first,” Khirro said, surprising himself. A gentle warmth spilled through his chest—the vial tucked into its place at his breast.

  Is it the king’s blood itself giving me warmth and courage, or the spell keeping it alive?

  He strapped on his sword belt, threw his pack over one shoulder and the shield Athryn and Maes conjured him over the other. The boat didn’t bob or sway or quiver—frozen solid. He went to step on to the ice but Shyn stopped him.

  “Take this,” he said handing him the oar. “Test the ice with it.”

  Khirro nodded and extended the blade over the side of the boat, prodding the ice. The tip touched and slipped to the side, twisting in his grip. He recovered and poked again. The ice proved solid.

  “Let me get twenty paces before you follow.” Khirro threw his leg over the side, shifting his weight carefully. “Come one at a time, ten paces between you. Follow my tracks.” He looked at them and forced a smile. “Go no farther if you come upon a big hole in the ice.”

  “Be cautious,” Athryn said.

  Elyea stood and leaned between Shyn and Ghaul to hug him and kiss him on the cheek. Her body shivered with the cold, but the kiss spread warmth across Khirro’s face. She sat back down, saying nothing as Khirro brought his other leg over the side.

  A layer of snow more than an inch deep crunched beneath his boot; the ice creaked but held. He took one small step, then another, creeping forward, prodding the ice before him with the tip of the oar. A cold wind whipped across the lake throwing snow in his face, flapping his tunic as though the air wanted to tear it from his shoulders.

  Khirro counted off step after tentative step, his jaw aching from clenching his teeth. At his twentieth step, he looked back to see who they’d send next, but the blizzard concealed the boat from sight. Likely Athryn would follow next, then Elyea, leaving Shyn and Ghaul to argue over who’d do the soldierly thing and bring up the rear.

  Khirro turned his attention back to the expanse of snowy ice before him.

  One foot in front of the other. Almost there.

  “Almost there,” he repeated aloud, his words whipped away on the howling wind’s response.

  He stared ahead at where he thought the shore should be, the blowing flakes dizzying him as they spun about his head. The blizzard quickly filled in the bare streaks left in the snow by his shuffling gait. He advanced carefully, distributing his weight equally between both feet, and soon saw shapes of jagged boulders lining the shore.

  The snow is abating.

  He moved forward more quickly. Twenty yards from shore, the ice cracked beneath his feet, loud as a thunderbolt to Khirro’s ears. He halted, dispersing his mass equally. The sound ceased, the ice held. He looked at his feet, then at the shore. A tentative step forward brought more reaction from the ice, a sound like thick cloth tearing. Khirro hesitated, fear knotting his gut. The vial radiated warmly against his chest, fortifying him, prompting him on. The ice creaked again, forcing his decision.

  Khirro dropped the oar and broke into a run, feet slipping in the snow and on the ice it covered; his legs pumped but carried him nowhere. The deep-throated groan of the ice grew in volume and he wondered if he was destined to drown after all when his feet gained purchase and he bolted forward. Snow pelted his face as the wind attempted to push him back. His hands curled into awkward fists, contorting his frozen fingers inside his gloves. The cold air burned his ears.

  He reached the shore and clamored up a boulder, feet slipping on its frosted surface. The ice’s growl stopped, like an animal giving up the chase. Khirro spun around, safe atop the rock, breathing heavy mist into the waning flakes of snow and saw his companions crossing the frozen lake. He waved his arms, directed them around the cracked ice. Ten minutes later, they stood safely ashore catching their breath. Khirro hugged Elyea close, felt her body quiver against his.

  “Where do we go from here?” Shyn cleared snow from a rock and sat. His cheeks were red from the cold, his gray stubble frosted.

  “In my dream, the keep could be seen from the shore of the lake.” Khirro scratched the sparse beard on his cheeks, scanned the area, then pointed. “That way.”

  “We should hurry,” Athryn said. “We do not want to lose any lead we gained on our pursuers.”

  Ghaul snorted. “I doubt we’re any farther ahead after that cursed lake,” he said. “We would have been better off going through the forest.”

  No one responded as they reslung packs and shields. Silently, they picked their way from the shore, over icy rocks and through banks of snow, Khirro leading the way, following the memory of a dream.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The keep stood a hundred feet high, and nearly as wide—a squat sentinel standing alone in the woods—yet they almost walked past it.

  “More sorcerer’s trickery,” Ghaul grumbled.

  Devoid of doors and windows, the tower appeared much like Khirro dreamt it. The stone comprising it was black instead of gray, the glittering a result of hoarfrost. Despite its stature, the ancient cedars and redwoods surrounding it dwarfed its size.

  Shyn placed a gauntleted hand against the wall, brushed away frost. “There are no lines of mortar.” He looked up the tower’s face to the gray sky above; the snow had ceased. Khirro didn’t know if it was daytime dimmed by clouds or night brightened by snow. “It’s like someone carved the keep rather than built it.”

  “Impossible,” Ghaul said.

  “Nothing is impossible,” Athryn said. “Not for the Necromancer. How did you get into the keep in your dream, Khirro?”

  “I didn’t.” Khirro glanced away from the others. If his cheeks weren’t already reddened from the cold, embarrassment would have accomplished the task. “The dragon attacked before I entered.”

  Ghaul looked at Khirro. “Dragon? You said nothing of a dragon.”

  “It meant nothing. A dragon statue that came to life in my dream.”

  “The rest of your dream has proven true,” Elyea said. “The lake, the keep, everything.”

  “I didn’t dream the giants, or the serpent. I didn’t foresee the heat or the cold.”

  “It makes no difference. There is no dragon now,” Athryn said. “Had we found out a day ago makes no matter. We must find the entrance quickly.”

  Shyn nodded. “I’ll go up to the roof,” he said unbuckling his belt. “You search the wall for a secret opening. There’s a way in somewhere.”

  He strode away removing his armor as the others split into pairs. Khirro and Elyea followed the curve of the tower to the left, Athryn and Ghaul to the right. They groped along the wall’s surface searching for any hint of an opening or hidden switch. Khirro glanced back and saw Shyn at the edge of the trees naked, gray feathers pushing through his skin and looked quickly away from Shyn’s st
omach-turning transformation. The change back to human form was worse—feathers, talons and beak fell to the ground, rejected by his man-form. When complete, it looked as though a huge bird had been savaged by a beast.

  “You should have said something about the dragon,” Elyea said scrutinizing the wall above her head, scouring it with her fingers.

  “It would have made our journey more difficult.” Khirro thought of the tyger’s words: your perils are only beginning. “You wouldn’t have been pleased at the prospect of rushing into the jaws of a dragon.”

  “I’m not pleased about rushing into the grasp of a man who can raise the dead.” She paused and looked at him. “But I’m here.”

  “You are.”

  They returned their attention to the wall, inching their way along its curve. His dream and Shyn’s comments had been accurate: no individual bricks, no mortar. Whoever built the tower did so with incredible skill. Or magic.

  Wings beat the air. Khirro whirled, expecting a dragon attack, but caught a glimpse of gray wings. Shyn landed beside his heap of clothes, then disappeared from sight as they advanced around the keep. Khirro nearly walked into Elyea—she’d stopped prodding the wall and stood staring toward the trees on her left.

  “What’s wrong?” Khirro asked.

  Elyea extended a shaking finger. Khirro stepped from behind her to see what she pointed at.

  The dragon was like the tower—the same as in his dream, but different. It stood the same size as he dreamed, towering over him with wings half-spread behind it, but was also hewn of a different material than the dream dragon. Instead of gray granite flecked with black, its surface was translucent red stone—garnet or ruby. Black veins ran beneath the surface. No snow or frost rested on the statue’s surface.

  “Is that your dragon?” Elyea asked, voice quieted with fear or wonder. He nodded.

  Elyea padded across the snow toward the dragon, forgetting the wall at her back. Khirro watched, awed by the sight. What would even a small piece of such a statue be worth? Dreams of decadence and opulence filled his head; castles and servants and land swam through his mind, dreams of wealth and lordships. Elyea paced slowly away as his mind wandered. The warmth of the vial flaring at his chest startled him from the daydream and he realized the thoughts didn’t come from within.