Blood of the King

by Bruce Blake

  Khirro sat with his back against the rock, the Mourning Sword laid bare across his thighs. The expansive cavern filled his vision. He’d never have guessed a cave this size existed. The craggy floor ran level from end to distant end, broken only by the scattered fragments of ceiling and wall fallen upon it untold years or centuries ago. To his right, water droplets plummeted from high overhead, ending their journey of hundreds of feet with a plunk in a shallow puddle. Khirro went to it, skirting rocks the size of a man’s head, and knelt beside the pool, watched the rivulet of liquid snake away to disappear in a crack in the floor. The water took on the glow of the cavern, intensifying it to the brightest blue in a world of blue.

  Or perhaps it is the water which lights the cavern.

  He lay the Mourning Sword aside and pulled his gauntlet from his right hand. The air cooled his sweaty palm as he tossed the glove to the ground beside his weapon. He stretched his hand open and held it over the puddle to catch the next drop like a child awaiting a snowflake. A droplet fell, missed his hand, and sent tiny waves across the puddle’s surface reminding him of the lake. He shuddered and adjusted his position.

  The next drop spattered in the center of his palm, its coolness refreshing his warm skin. Another drop splashed on his hand, then another. The shallow bowl of his palm filled with water, glowing and shimmering against his pink flesh. Its wetness awakened him to the dryness in his throat, hidden from him like his hunger and by his hunger. He brought his hand to his lips and sucked the fluid greedily onto his tongue.

  It tasted fresh and clean, with a vague flavor Khirro couldn’t place, not earthy or dirty like so much of the water he’d consumed in the past months. Sipping it didn’t slake his thirst but made him more aware of it. He bent forward and put his lips into the puddle, slurped it like a man in a desert come upon an oasis. Drops rained on the back of his neck, slipped under his tunic, cooled his hot flesh.

  Khirro sucked and slurped, drank his fill until the hungry growl in his belly stopped. He pulled away from the puddle and leaned back, eyes closed. His belly felt full yet his throat and tongue remained unquenched. He dipped his hand into the water, splashed it across his face and rubbed his stubbly cheeks and chin. Breathing deeply through his nose, he opened his eyes.

  An angry red glow had replaced the luminescent blue light. It flickered around him, licking the walls like flames burning without heat. Khirro raised an eyebrow, ignoring the fear poking its way into his belly.

  A trick, that’s all.

  His sword and gauntlet were gone. He searched the ground and noted differences from what he’d seen before: no rocks or debris scattered around him, the floor rippled and sloped, no longer smooth and flat. The cavern had shrunk until the walls and ceiling were close enough he could stretch out and touch them.

  Khirro stood, knees quivering. As he straightened, the ground heaved. He pitched forward, chest slamming into the hard ground, and he lay there, nose inches from the floor, waiting to see if the earth would quake again. Under him, he saw the floor was no longer made of stone, but was translucent. Trough it, he saw a wooden stair winding away into darkness.

  The fear successfully quelled a moment before bubbled through, tingling his arms and fingers, clenching his groin and halting his breath. He rolled onto his back observing every detail. The light flickered red, orange and yellow as though he lay in the midst of a fire without flames or heat. He turned his gaze to the walls, squinting, straining to see. Shapes showed through it, ghosts in red.

  Trees covered in snow?

  Khirro jumped to his feet, knees bent and arms extended to keep his balance should the earth revolt against his movement. A shape above and to his left caught his attention and he turned his head to see. Hanging there, appearing suspended in mid-air, a giant ruby expanded and contracted rhythmically. He reached for it, stretching his arm, wiggling his fingers only inches from it.

  The ground shifted again sending Khirro skittering backward. On the other side of the translucent wall, a figure appeared. He squinted and moved toward it, forgetting caution. The man wore armor and a helm, an unmarked shield strapped to one arm, a blade in the other hand. A black blade.

  Recognition dawned. The color, the man’s position. Khirro understood where he was.

  A gust of wind swirled about his limbs, pushed him against the wall. The reek of brimstone filled his nose and twisted his windpipe into a knot. The figure before him hid behind the shield as a column of flame engulfed him. Khirro glanced up at the underside of the dragon’s neck and chin, fire shooting from its mouth and nostrils. Somehow, he was inside the beast, watching his own battle from the dragon’s belly.

  The flame ceased, leaving shield and sword glowing red. He watched himself rush forward, swinging the Mourning Sword at the dragon, connecting against its chest. The creature roared—an earsplitting sound to a man inside it. He clamped his hands over his ears, still watching as the dragon’s head shot out, lightning quick, its jaws closing around the other Khirro’s head.

  Khirro gasped in surprise and horror as the beast drew upward, pulling his other self’s feet from the ground kicking and struggling before the head came off and the body fell convulsing to the muddy ground. Blood spouted from the severed neck, its color made invisible through the red chest of the dragon. Khirro stumbled backward in shock.

  This isn’t how it happened.

  The dragon reared on its hind legs throwing Khirro to his back. He closed his eyes against the pain, the scar this very dragon gave him pulsing and throbbing.

  Something changed.

  The smell of brimstone disappeared and a feeling of floating overcame him as the pressure of his back against the dragon’s belly melted away. He opened his eyes to murky water, silt stinging them. He didn’t have to guess where he was this time; he knew what hid somewhere in the tangled weeds. The surface of the lake moved above him, sunlight flashing on waves. He kicked his legs and stroked with his arms, struggling toward it.

  The serpent came at him out of nowhere, its nose slamming into his stomach, forcing out what little air his lungs struggled to hold. Its tail whipped his face sending him spinning, making it impossible to tell up from down. He fought to right himself without knowing where to find right. The surface winked at him and he stroked for it, lungs shrieking for air.

  The muscles in his limbs burned, tiring with the lack of oxygen, but instead of coming closer, the surface floated farther from his reach. A dark shadow cut between him and the distant surface, a long, slender body blocking what little light filtered through the murk.

  The light vanished. Khirro struggled, but his arms and legs gave out. His mouth opened involuntarily, desperate for air, and his lungs drew silty water, his mouth filling with the dirty taste. He sank, closing his eyes in the darkness of the lake’s depths.

  On hands and knees, he opened his eyes coughing imaginary water from his lungs, gasping for air. He looked down at brown pine needles and ancient moss under his hands as he panted, not daring to feel relieved. It was dark, though not dark like in the tunnel.

  A scream broke the still, a cry of terror Khirro recognized as Elyea’s. He scrambled to his feet and clamored to the crest of the hill, twigs and branches scratching his face and hands. A fire blazed in the small valley below; Elyea lay on the ground bound by thick hemp rope. Across the fire pit sat the giant, the tip of his spear resting amongst the flames. He pulled the weapon from the fire and jabbed it into her ribs provoking another shriek.

  Khirro called out but had no voice. He rushed down the slope and a root caught his foot, sending him tumbling. By the time he stopped himself, the giant had moved to Elyea. It grabbed a handful of rope, lifted her from the ground as though she weighed nothing, and shifted its grip on the spear. Righting himself, Khirro ran, shouting voicelessly, wishing he had the Mourning Sword he so carelessly laid aside.

  This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

  Real or not didn’t matter, he had to save Elyea. He loved her.

  The gi
ant smiled, lips curled back from rotted teeth as the tip of his spear penetrated between Elyea’s legs. She screamed. The beast pushed harder; blood pooled beneath her, turned the ground into a grisly mud. Khirro rushed on, though he knew it was too late. Rage boiled in him as the giant continued skewering Elyea like a turkey on a spit.

  Her screaming ceased.

  Khirro slammed into the beast, kicking and scratching, punching and biting. The giant grunted in surprise, then flicked him away with a backhand swing the way a man might shoo a fly. Khirro reeled backward, barely keeping his feet. When he looked up, he stared once more into Elyea’s wide green eyes. The head of the spear protruded from the top of her chest. As it pierced his throat, her face was in front of him, her lips touching his one last time.

  The giant withdrew the spear, taking her away from him, and Khirro fell to his knees. Air wheezed through the hole in his throat, blood flowed down his chest.

  Why is it different?

  The giant’s laughter rang in his ears as his eyelids slid closed and he slumped forward, his lifeblood pooling beneath him. Then cold dirt pressed against his cheek—not needles or moss or mulch, just dirt: a farmer’s nose knew the difference.

  Where am I now?

  He opened his eyes to dim light he didn’t recognize as the waning light of twilight or the sign of coming dawn. He rolled to his back, hand going to his throat where he found no wound, only stubble. Wiping dirt from his cheek, he peered about to determine where he’d ended up this time.

  Dried mud walls surrounded him, cracked and broken. Thatch covered half the roof, the rest open to the stars struggling to be seen in a washed-out sky. The haunted village. A shudder crawled along Khirro’s spine: the giant, the serpent, the dragon were all fearsome, but there was something horrific about the village and the children trapped inside its walls.

  He heard Elyea’s voice again, but not in a scream of terror. He sighed, relieved. His mind recognized this was a dream, or perhaps a vision manipulated by someone or something else, but he still worried for her safety.

  It seems so real.

  Standing on shaky legs, he crossed the dirt floor and pushed open the broken door hung askew in the doorway. Elyea lay naked on the ground in the middle of the clearing, writhing and moaning as a corpse lay atop her thrusting, grinding its hips into her. The dead man looked up at him, bleached white flesh pulled taut across his face, eyes glazed, but he still saw the face belonged to Ghaul.

  Something brushed Khirro’s ankle. He ignored it, enthralled and disgusted by the sight before him. He watched embarrassed, excited and angered but unable to avert his eyes.

  It’s not real, he told himself again. It’s not real.

  The thought didn’t ring with truth.

  The sun rose more quickly than it should, casting harsh light on the village, forcing night and shadow into hiding. With the sunlight, Khirro better saw the hideous coupling before him and realized it wasn’t Elyea lying on the ground grunting and moaning with pleasure. It was her voice but Emeline’s face peered lustily up at the waxen face above her. The corpse was no longer Ghaul, either, but Khirro’s brother.

  He stared at Khirro, a dead grin stretching his blue lips. Emeline’s swollen belly compressed and expanded beneath his weight, flattening and stretching with each thrust. His eyes met hers and they stared back at Khirro red and black and vacant, dead eyes perched above her mouth as it twisted and contorted in a mockery of pleasure. The urge to call out caught in Khirro’s throat.

  Something brushed Khirro’s calf again and he allowed his attention to shift from the hideous copulation twisting in the dirt. He looked down on a pale hand grasping his pant leg, dirt caked under its broken nails. Khirro jumped away.

  Bodies writhed on the floor of the hut: young and old, male and female. Their wrinkled, sagging flesh clung to the bones beneath, hanging in sheets with black, dirt-filled veins showing through. Khirro took a step away, hand reaching for the sword he knew lay on the ground of the cavern, wherever that may be.

  A figure separated itself from the others—a man whose flesh retained more color than the others, as though recently dead—and lurched toward him. It only took a second for Khirro to recognize Shyn.

  Blood trickled from a chest wound, leaving a trail down to his waist and staining his groin. Gray feathers poked through his skin in places, giving him the look of a man poorly tarred and feathered. He held a sword; his eyes gleamed. Khirro sucked a breath in through his teeth and took another step away. His foot hit something too soft to be rock, though there had been nothing on the ground in the clearing when last he looked. Of course, he hadn’t been killed by a dragon, a serpent or a giant, either. The thing against his foot twitched.

  And then it cried out.

  Tiny and high-pitched, the sound was unmistakable. Revulsion roiled in Khirro’s gut before he looked. With time to put thought to it, he might have expected the mud child—a dream within the dream—but when he looked down, he found the baby at his foot wasn’t the mud baby at all. Strings of dark blood shone against porcelain skin and blank, black eyes like pieces of coal against the snowy face stared up at him. Expectantly? Accusingly?

  Khirro’s body trembled. The baby was boy and girl, both tiny sex organs fighting for space between its skinny legs. The umbilical cord, still attached, trailed onto the ground and across the clearing, dirt clinging to its shiny wetness. Khirro traced its path with his eyes, already knowing where it would end.

  Emeline stood at the center of the clearing, the flesh of her empty belly hanging loose like a sail awaiting the wind. The cord snaked between her legs, still attached to a dead placenta awaiting its own birth. She swayed side to side as she stared and raised her arm to point a finger at him as if saying this was his fault. Her lips parted but no moan of pleasure came from them this time, only a lifeless, soul-less croak. Khirro wanted to say something, to apologize. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped when he realized the corpse with his brother’s face had disappeared, then he remembered the dead Shyn creeping up behind him.

  The sword pierced Khirro’s side before he turned. He looked down at the blade inserted between his ribs, saw the blood oozing around the steel, then glanced up into the face of the sword-wielding corpse. He expected Shyn, or his brother, but the face belonged to neither.

  The look on the corpse-Ghaul’s face might have been comical under other circumstances: unseeing eyes, leering grin, sagging cheeks. Blood flowed down Khirro’s side, soaked his clothes. He felt it pulse out if him with each beat of his heart. Ghaul’s gnarled hand reached beneath his tunic, pulled the vial of king’s blood from its hiding place.

  “Mine,” the Ghaul-corpse croaked through purple lips and yellow teeth.

  It withdrew the blade from Khirro’s side and his strength went along with it. His knees buckled and his head hit the ground, bounced, came to rest facing the unnaturally pale baby. Its cold, black eyes stared at him. Even as he felt his own breath fade, he knew the baby also ceased drawing air.

  A tear rolled down Khirro’s cheek as his eyes slid closed.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Therrador emerged from the tunnel into the wan light of the new moon, the fortress wall looming at his back like a huge beast ready to pounce. He controlled his breathing, taking quiet, shallow breaths that wouldn’t be heard should anyone be nearby; he’d called off the skirmishers tonight, but one could never be too careful.

  He pulled the black cloak close about his chest and crept away from the fortress. With no cover, stealth would be necessary to keep from the notice of the patrols atop the wall. Chunks of stone from catapult fire interspersed with the bodies of both Kanosee and Erechanian soldiers littered the base of the wall, making the footing treacherous as he moved toward the salt flats. Therrador had been a soldier too long for the sight of dead men to affect him, so he ignored the corpses and concentrated on picking his way through the clutter.

  Little wind rolled in from the Bay of Tears, leaving the water smooth and gl
assy; a coolness had come to the air, removing any doubt summer was waning, autumn coming to the land. This business would be done before the first snowfall. As Therrador crept forward, a chill gripped him and he clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

  He stopped.

  Still no wind to set him shivering. He glanced around and wasn’t surprised when he saw a black-cloaked figure nearby, a vague silhouette against the dark sky. They faced each other, neither speaking nor moving, but he knew who this person was. Therrador finally broke the silence.

  “Why did you summon me?” They were far enough from the fortress there was no chance any might hear, but he still kept his voice hushed.

  “You think to cheat me.” The voice might as easily have emanated from the sea as from the silhouette.

  A woman.

  He hadn’t been in the presence of the Archon before, only communicated in other, more mysterious ways.

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “Do not lie to me.” She moved closer.

  Therrador’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword as he searched the dark around them, wondering if soldiers hid in the night.

  “I know your thoughts. You think Braymon’s blood is lost and you have no more need of me or our agreement.”

  He gripped the hilt more tightly, shuffled his feet. “It’s not true,” he said knowing his words wouldn’t convince this woman, Archon or not. If she wasn't the Archon, why send a woman against him?

  “We have an agreement. The kingship will be yours tomorrow. You must pay what you owe.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  He tensed as he spoke, expecting one of the hideous undead to leap out of the darkness and put a blade to his throat, but only the figure before him moved as she removed her hands from her sleeves. In the dim moonlight he could make out long nails at the end of slender fingers. She didn’t respond, instead gesturing curtly with her hands.