Blood of the King

by Bruce Blake

  Who could blame them?

  He dismissed the thought. Both Shaman and tyger wanted him to succeed. They probably didn’t know what to expect after the dragon. When was the last time anyone had passed the guardian to chart what lay beyond?

  They pressed on in the saturnine dark, moving slowly to avoid walking into each other until their eyes became accustomed to the constant night inside the tunnel. Even then, they could see only a few paces ahead. When they stopped to rest and sleep, they took turns at what they insisted on calling ‘watch’ though they watched nothing but blackness.

  No dreams disturbed Khirro’s sleep—no Shaman to guide him, no tyger encouraging him, nor dragon to kill him, or women to tempt him. The same darkness that permeated his waking accompanied his sleep.

  Khirro thought it must have been the second day of groping along the benighted passage when they arrived at a fork in their path. Before this, they’d passed no side tunnels or openings to confuse the path they should follow.

  “Which way?” Ghaul asked. Khirro barely saw his features in the dark, but knew his jaw would be set, eyes hard.

  “I don’t know.”

  He regretted his honesty immediately as the shadow of Ghaul’s face turned to a scowl. The warrior slammed his gauntleted hand against the tunnel wall, the sound echoing away until lost in the dark like themselves.

  “How in the name of your Gods are we going to get out of here?” He stepped closer to Khirro, hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Calm yourself, Ghaul,” Shyn said, voice more commanding than calming. “The best way to find our way is to keep our heads. Figuratively as well as literally.”

  Ghaul’s glare slid from Khirro to the border guard. “What do you propose we do, birdman?”

  The air in the tunnel gathered around them, pressing in like a bloodthirsty audience awaiting the outcome of the warriors’ standoff. Khirro’s skin still felt as though it belonged to someone smaller than himself and he shifted in a vain effort to loosen it.

  “A breeze blows from the tunnel on the right,” Shyn said finally. “It’s slight, but might lead us to the surface.”

  They gathered around the opening to feel the wind. If it was there, Khirro didn’t detect it.

  “All right. Shyn and I will investigate, the rest of you wait here. Don’t move until we say.” The anger in Ghaul’s voice had been replaced by satisfaction at having a soldierly task. He leaned toward Elyea and said: “I’ll be back soon,” then moved to kiss her but she turned her head so his lips brushed her cheek.

  “Do not stray from the path,” Athryn said as they took their first step into the opening. “If there are other tunnels, stay on the straight path or come back. We do not want to lose you.”

  “Could we be more lost?” Ghaul sneered.

  Shyn slapped him hard on the shoulder. “One can always be more lost.”

  They pulled their swords and stalked into the tunnel, disappearing from sight immediately. Khirro thought that Shyn's voice didn't sound as confident as usual; he sighed and wondered if this was the right thing to do.

  Minutes dragged by, their languid pace agonizing. Khirro sat with his back pressed against the wall searching for a position to best alleviate the pain crawling beneath his skin. He healed quickly, as Athryn said, but pain still nagged him. The gashes inflicted by the dragon were deep and likely would have killed him if not for the protection afforded by the blood of the king. As he shifted, Elyea lifted her head from his shoulder.

  How brave she’s been.

  The Mourning Sword lay balanced across his lap in the hope its glow would provide them with some illumination, but the red runes didn’t glow in the darkness of the tunnel—a trick of the light, then. Athryn stood at the mouth of the left tunnel, dagger in hand, invisible to Khirro. He couldn’t remember if the magician still bothered to wear his silvered mask—even it couldn’t be seen in the impenetrable dark.

  They’re all brave. They gave up so much to accompany me on this voyage that didn’t belong to them. Without them, I’d be long dead. Like Maes.

  Thinking of the little man squeezed Khirro’s heart. He couldn’t imagine how Athryn felt losing his brother, especially the way it came to pass. Yet the magician continued, driven more by the hope the Necromancer would raise Maes than by Khirro’s task. He suspected the magician was prepared to give his life to bring his brother back.

  What irony that would be, like a song a troubadour might sing.

  And Elyea. She snuggled closer against his side seeking the warmth he radiated. He didn’t pretend to understand her life, couldn’t fathom living it and being happy, but she seemed content. Yet she left behind her friends and all she knew without pause. Warmth unrelated to the dragon’s breath filled his chest. If someone told him a few months ago love for a harlot would fade the image of Emeline from his mind, he’d have thought them crazy.

  Finally, his mind strayed to Ghaul and Shyn—both warriors, and brave, but so different. He admired Shyn, a man ostracized by his peers for being different, though how different, Khirro didn’t think he’d yet learned. Through it all he remained of good spirit, caring for those about him. Ghaul, on the other hand, was more what he’d have expected from a life-soldier: hardened, tough, uncompromising. He wondered about Ghaul’s motivations. Was he here out of loyalty to the crown? A glory seeker? Or something else? His joy in killing appalled Khirro at first, but it was his profession, something for which he’d been bred and trained his whole life. It didn’t matter why Ghaul was there, only that he was with them, helping accomplish their goal.

  But he’s been so different since Shyn joined us.

  Khirro thought back to when he and Ghaul had eluded their pursuers, scrambling along the bottom of the drainage ditch. So long ago. Ghaul hadn’t been so angry before there was another soldier in their company.

  Athryn shifted, his cloak brushing against his breeches, unnaturally loud as the darkness amplified it. They all sat with their thoughts, waiting, listening for a sign of their friends returning. Or something else.

  It was hard to tell how much time had passed when the sound of metal clanging against metal echoed down the tunnel. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. Khirro leaped to his feet, Elyea close behind.

  “Athryn, where did that come from?”

  “I do not know.” The magician moved to his side, looking first down one tunnel then the other. The darkness revealed nothing.

  “Shyn,” Khirro yelled. It was impossible to know if his companions were the source of the noise, but he had to assume they were and they might need help. “Ghaul! Where are you?”

  Khirro’s voice reverberated down the tunnels, bouncing from wall to wall, finally swallowed up by distance. No answer came. The clash of steel ceased. Breathless minutes passed. Khirro raised the Mourning Sword, ready for anything, and was startled to see the runes glowing a deep red, reflecting swirls of crimson in Athryn’s metal mask.

  There’s blood in the air.

  The thought fled as the sound of footsteps echoed down the passage, growing louder. And closer.

  But from which way do they come?

  Shyn strode along the passage as quickly as he dared, his senses tingling. He felt feathers bristling just below the surface of his skin and struggled to keep them at bay. A falcon would be of no use in an underground tunnel.

  The tunnel ran fairly straight, but even Shyn's heightened vision couldn’t penetrate far, and he didn’t want to walk into the wall—or anything else. The farther they advanced, the stronger the breeze felt on his face. He knew the others hadn’t felt it—skin used to judging wind velocity and direction based on the movement of feathers was more sensitive than the average man’s flesh. As minute as the movement of air was, he relished the feel of it against his cheek, allowed it to distract him from the knot in his belly.

  “It grows stronger,” he whispered over his shoulder. Ghaul grunted.

  They walked on, their footsteps disturbing silence unbroken for centuries. Shy
n probed ahead with his sword, the tip occasionally scraping the wall as the tunnel veered a little left or right. The sound of leather scraping against stone followed him as Ghaul dragged his hand along the passage wall looking for side tunnels. After a few minutes, Shyn saw a little farther, his sensitive eyes detecting a change in the level of light. Hope quelled the bird beneath his skin.

  “Can you see the light, Ghaul?”

  “No.”

  “Up ahead. It’s dim, but grows brighter.”

  The wan light allowed Shyn to see several paces ahead. A wall soon loomed, ending the passageway.

  “We’ve reached the end.” Shyn halted. “This is where the tunnel stops.”

  He touched the wall and looked up along its surface. At the top was a slit smaller than a man’s little finger. The tiny opening—an air hole—was responsible for the light and the movement of air only Shyn felt. He couldn’t tell whether moonlight or sunlight shone through—they must be a long way underground for it to be so diffuse. The hope that had calmed him disappeared; the short hairs on the back of his neck stirred, his flesh prickled.

  “This is where it ends,” Ghaul said, voice low and husky.

  Ghaul's tone set Shyn's nerves screaming of danger. He gripped his sword with both hands and turned, blade held before him.

  Ghaul stood waiting, sword raised. He swung it down savagely, catching Shyn half by surprise, but the tip scraped the stone ceiling showering sparks twinkling into the dark. The brief flash lit the hatred on Ghaul’s face like a torch to Shyn’s keen eyes, and the instant of pause as steel struck stone gave him time to parry the blow from his face. He countered, their swords sparking. Shyn wondered if the meager light allowed Ghaul to see him, too.

  Ghaul took the offensive, raining blows at Shyn, kicking him, driving him back against the end wall. Another thrust. Shyn parried, elbow slamming the wall. Ghaul’s blade glanced off his forearm and blood filled the border guard’s gauntlet. Survival instinct took over and he began to change as he dodged another blow.

  Is there enough room?

  He couldn’t control the transformation in such situations so set his jaw and concentrated on defense until the change finished. Ghaul’s next strike hit full force against his sword’s guard, tearing it from his hand. There wouldn’t be time to change.

  Or anything else.

  He crossed his arms in front of himself, leather and mail deflecting Ghaul’s blows for a moment, but only for a moment. The steel finally slid through leather and mail, flesh and organs, not stopping until the tip touched stone behind him. Shyn sucked air in through his teeth, burning in his pierced lung. Ghaul loomed close, the hate in his eyes glowing in the darkness.

  “Why?” Shyn whispered.

  “I need the farmer to carry it,” he said drawing his blade upward, slicing through more organs. “The others are nothing. You’re the only one who can stop me.”

  Shyn’s mouth moved as he formed another question, but only blood bubbled from his lips. The dim light of the tiny shaft overhead began to fade, but Shyn saw the blue sky and bright sun far above, felt the wind whisk through his feathers, and smiled.

  Darkness pressed around Khirro like a cloak of fear and dread spread across his shoulders, wrapped about his body. At his elbow, Elyea’s breath came short and sharp. To his left, Athryn waited at the mouth of the other tunnel, guarding against whatever might emerge. The clatter of metal striking metal died away, followed by silence. Khirro dared not call out again as he struggled to keep his hand holding the Mourning Sword from shaking.

  An ache knotted Khirro’s shoulder, tension burning his muscle with the weight of the sword. He wanted to stretch his pained muscles, but was afraid any movement would give him away. If he let his guard down, that would be the moment something leaped from the darkness. The discomfort had become almost unbearable when they heard noises.

  At first Khirro couldn’t distinguish the nature of the sound or where it came from, but it soon resolved into footsteps. Hard leather slapped against stone floor, moving quickly, sending echoes bouncing down the long passageways making it impossible to tell how many feet made the sound.

  The noise grew louder.

  Khirro’s muscles tensed further. He scanned the darkness trying to see Athryn.

  Where is it coming from? In front? Behind?

  The runes running up the blade of the Mourning Sword cast a mute light like the dim red embers of a dying fire. Khirro saw Elyea’s strained features painted with blood by the faint glow, her jeweled dagger in hand. She didn’t look away from the tunnel.

  The echoes intensified, tangling upon one another until it seemed an army approached. At the last second, Khirro realized the sound emanated from the tunnel before him, the one down which Shyn and Ghaul had gone. He drew back his blade, the runes brightening at the prospect of blood like an animal salivating before it eats.

  Ghaul must have seen the runes as he skidded to a halt out of sword’s reach. The soldier held his own blade in his hand, the steel marked by dark patches along its edge which could only be blood.

  “What happened?” Khirro asked dropping his blade to his side.

  Ghaul bent at the waist and gulped air in ragged breaths. Visions of monsters or undead Kanosee soldiers dogged Khirro’s thoughts as he waited for him to recover.

  “We must go,” Ghaul panted, gasping more of the stale tunnel air. “Death lies down that tunnel. Shyn is lost.”

  Elyea gasped. “What?”

  Athryn joined them, the Mourning Sword casting swirling fire in his silvered mask.

  “They surprised us,” Ghaul said finding his breath. “Came from nowhere in the dark. We fought, but they killed Shyn. I slew them, but there may be more. We can’t stay here. The other tunnel is the only way.”

  The runes’ glow faded and blackness crept back in around them. Khirro reached forward tentatively, resting his hand on Ghaul’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But we can’t leave Shyn,” Elyea protested.

  “Shyn’s dead. The rest of us need not die, too.”

  “But we can take him to the Necromancer. He can bring him back.”

  “He cannot be raised,” Athryn intoned solemnly. “Only living blood can be resurrected. If his heart has stopped, it is too late.”

  “It might not be,” Elyea said clutching Khirro’s sleeve, looking to him for support. He wanted to give it, wanted Shyn to be alive, but every nerve in him said it was too late. “We have to be sure.”

  “No,” Ghaul said firmly. “There is death for all of us down that passage. We have to go. Now!”

  They stood in silence, each invisible with their thoughts and emotions before Ghaul pushed past, moving to the left tunnel. Athryn’s cloak stirred as he followed. Elyea’s ragged breath stayed at Khirro’s side. He reached his arm around her shoulders, careful not to stick himself on her dagger, and guided her toward the opening. At first her legs were stubborn, her feet dragging against the floor, but she soon followed, moving down the tunnel away from one unknown danger toward another, their companion left behind.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  It would have taken hours to climb to the cavern’s ceiling, half a day to reach the far end. A cobalt glow emanated from everything; it lit the entire area leaving no corner or crevice in darkness. They’d seen the light seeping down the tunnel and hurried forward, anxious for their journey’s end, but they found no Necromancer—not here, not yet.

  The cavern was empty except for stalactites hanging from the high ceiling, large enough they’d impale a man if they fell. Many became stalagmites halfway to the floor, joining top to bottom. Water dripped lazily from most of them, plopping into shallow puddles that trickled away to nowhere.

  They stood at the entrance, awed and disappointed. The torpid blue light reflected in Athryn’s mirrored mask, changing it from silver to azure, the same color as his eyes.

  “Where now?”

  The dried blood on the edge of the s
word Ghaul still grasped looked gray in the cavern’s glow and Khirro cringed as he posed the all-too-familiar question. Khirro opened his mouth to answer the same way he did every time the question was asked, but Athryn spoke first.

  “We should rest. We are tired and it will be easy to keep watch here.” The magician’s tone was solemn. Ghaul grunted in response.

  They kept the wall at their backs as they entered the cavern and picked their way through scree, fallen stalactites and puddles glowing a luminescent blue more dazzling than the rest of the cavern. Ghaul called a halt when they found a spot partially hidden by a boulder.

  “I’ll take first watch,” Khirro volunteered and received no argument from the others.

  Ghaul cast his pack on the ground, cleared an area of loose pebbles and stones, and lay down with his back to them, sword within easy reach at his side. Athryn removed his metal mask, stored it in his pack, and pulled on his black sleeping mask.

  “We have no more food,” he said pulling the cloth over his scarred face.

  Khirro nodded. “At least there’s water here.”

  His belly growled a complaint as he spoke. Water wouldn’t be enough for long. In the darkness of the tunnel, shrouded in fear and danger as they fled first the dragon, then whatever killed Shyn, he hadn’t noticed the hunger burning deep in his belly. Now, in the light and the open, it twisted his gut, wringing aches and groans from it.

  Elyea sat on a smooth-topped rock watching Athryn make himself a place to rest, then she looked at Khirro. He smiled half-heartedly; her lip twitched like she wanted to return the same but failed. Kneeling beside her, Khirro touched her arm lightly.

  “Get some sleep. You’ll feel better.”

  She nodded and looked to where Ghaul lay. Khirro leaned in and kissed her cheek, suddenly aware of the rough texture of his stubbled face, but she didn’t react disagreeably. Instead, the failed smile finally broke on her lips, though her eyes remained sad and wary. He left her clearing a spot for sleep and went to the other side of the boulder, away from his companions, where he’d have a clear view of the cavern.