by Bruce Blake
“This is it,” Athryn whispered pointing to the far corner of the chamber.
A marble throne carved from the wall and stretching from floor to ceiling fifteen feet above sat empty. Pools of light ebbed and flowed about its base. Khirro blinked, unable to tell if the floor near the seat was solid.
“There’s no one here,” Elyea whispered.
Featureless except for the carven throne, no corner of the room was hidden from their view. One by one they stepped across the threshold. Mist swirled about their ankles like a living creature investigating their presence. Khirro looked around but saw no cracks or openings in the smooth walls, no place where the mist might enter the room. The floor, visible in spots through the moving fog, was the same polished marble as the walls. Nature had no hand in the design or building of such a chamber.
Khirro entered the room last and halted behind his companions. His breath came in short, sharp bursts as though the room sucked the air from his lungs before he had the chance to let it out. The Mourning Sword’s glow brightened to a rich golden light as the mist twisted through Khirro’s legs and up his body leaving the floor in the room laid bare as it swirled about him. His head felt light and the blade glowed brighter still. Athryn turned to him, asked if he was all right and the radiance from the sword washed over him. Khirro’s breath caught in his throat.
Maes stood at his brother’s side.
Khirro knew it for a vision immediately. The figure of the little man shimmered, flickering in and out of view before steadying. Khirro watched, mesmerized, as a younger version of Athryn joined him. A bandage covered half the magician’s face, hiding what Khirro knew to be a fresh burn, cracked and oozing, healing itself into the scar Athryn tried so hard to disguise.
The two figures knelt together at the real Athryn’s side, but he didn’t notice. Maes’ mouth moved forming words, teaching his brother an ancient language intended for only one use: magic. Khirro watched, agape, as he saw the little man speak.
A knife appeared in Athryn’s hand and the brothers looked the same direction, reacting to someone outside Khirro’s view. Athryn dropped the knife and held his hands up in protest before something knocked Maes violently to the floor, bloodying his nose. Begrudgingly, Athryn retrieved the knife, moving awkwardly as though forced by an unseen hand. Maes sat upright.
Khirro tried to look away when Athryn removed the tip of his brothers tongue, but he couldn’t. Tears flowed from Athryn’s unbandaged eye.
The scene shifted to Maes teaching Athryn again, a red froth of words and blood bubbling from his lips. The blade appeared in Athryn’s hand again. More blood. More tears. More tongue left Maes’ head. Khirro stumbled back a step, blinking, and the vision disappeared.
“What’s wrong, Khirro?” Elyea caught him under one arm as Ghaul grabbed the other.
“I... I saw Maes.” He looked up at Athryn staring at him, eyes wide beneath his mask. “I saw you take his tongue from his head.”
“You could not know. No one knows.” The mask on his face hid the sorrow evident in his voice. “But that is what happened.”
“But how could I—?”
“The light of truth shines from the Mourning Sword. Secrets are revealed in its glow.”
Khirro stared at the blade in his hand, then looked at Elyea standing beside him. At her feet, a girl of perhaps five years lay on a bed of straw; tears flowed down her cheeks but no sound gave away her lament. A man appeared beside her, huge and threatening, and Khirro knew the man as her father.
The man moved toward her, pulled his shirt over his head. There was a familiarity to the act, like this wasn’t his first visit like this. He knelt beside the young girl, grabbed her shoulder and flipped her onto her back. The dagger she had hidden beneath her slashed out, opened his throat. Warm blood rained down on the girl, absolving her of her sins, of his sins. The man grasped at the wound in his throat, curses gurgling at his lips as he toppled to the dirt floor. The young girl stood and ran from Khirro’s sight but, as she did, Khirro saw the dagger in her hand, its hilt adorned with jewels. The same dagger Elyea still carried.
Khirro gagged. The urge to throw the Mourning Sword from his hand nearly overwhelmed him, but one more truth still needed to be uncovered, one more secret revealed.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Graymon stared at the tent flap expecting someone or something to pull it aside but dreading who or what might come through. The lady had treated him nice so far—animals and sunshine graced the pictures on her fingernails again—but he didn’t like being in a strange place. He missed his Da, he even missed nanny. Men who smelled like dead things and had no faces haunted his dreams each night. Every time he woke, he woke scared and shivering, wanting to call out for comfort but knowing no one would give it to him.
He tip-toed to the door of the tent and stopped before it, hand outstretched. He hoped he’d move the flap aside and find his father waiting to tell him that this whole thing had been a dream, but he knew that wouldn’t happen. His throat squeaked as he drew a shuddering breath; his fingers brushed the green canvas. He grasped the edge of the flap and pulled it aside slowly. The woman stood as though she’d been waiting for him for a long time. Graymon dropped the flap and jumped back with a screech as she entered.
“You were not leaving, were you?” Her voice sounded sweet as it had when she collected him from the palace, but he no longer wanted to hear a lullaby from those lips.
“Where’s my Da?” he demanded, anger giving him courage. “You said you take me to my Da.”
The woman’s smile showed white teeth; Graymon thought they looked pointier than they should. He backed away a step.
“I will, love. You must be patient, though. There are things your Da must do for me first, then you can be with him.”
Someone stepped through the flap behind her and Graymon strained to see around her. He hoped it was his Dad coming to reassure him everything would be all right, telling him to be a brave little soldier, but the man was not his father. The man was not a man. The rotten-faced monster glowered at him, sending a shiver down his spine.
“If you want to see your Da, you have to do something for me, too.” She put her hand on his shoulder and he looked sideways at her fingers, wondering what scenes danced and played across them today. “Do you remember what it is you have to do for me?”
Graymon hung his head.
“Stay in the tent,” he mumbled, purposely indecipherable, but she didn’t make him repeat himself like nanny would have. He liked nanny better anyway, he decided.
“Now, are you going to do that for me, or do I have to have him stay with you?”
She gestured over her shoulder at the thing by the door and he tried not to look but couldn’t help himself. The dead thing smiled at him with yellow teeth. Graymon looked away quickly, retreating another step from the door, from her hand.
“I’ll stay.”
“Good. Good boy.”
A wave of her hand sent the creature from the tent, but Graymon knew it would be close enough to return and stay with him if he tried to leave again. He didn’t want that thing staying with him. Anything but that. He sat down heavily on the straw mattress.
“I want my Da.”
“Soon, love. You will be with him soon.”
She turned to leave, her long black cloak swirling around her legs, and Graymon stuck out his tongue. She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. Graymon sucked his tongue back into his mouth and curled into a ball on the mattress.
“I want my Da,” he said again as tears began to flow down his cheeks. The dead men scared him, but there was something even worse about the woman. She left the tent and Graymon drifted into fitful sleep.
That was the first time he dreamed of the tyger.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Khirro’s eyes locked on Ghaul and shadowy figures jumped into view around him, men in full armor laughing and jesting with one another, comrades who fought and died together. None looked familiar,
though Khirro felt he should recognize something about them. The edges of the vision were ragged and vague enough to hide what he might normally see.
The scene changed to a battlefield littered with hundreds of corpses. A figure cloaked in black cape and cowl walked amongst them accompanied by Ghaul. The figure gestured and each corpse in turn rose like a marionette whose strings were jerked into place at the start of the puppet show. Death masks of pain and suffering contorted the men’s faces, puss and blood dried in cracked scabs on their cheeks and foreheads, and Khirro knew what he saw was the undead soldiers of Kanos.
But who stalks between them, turning them from men to monsters? The Necromancer?
Dread crept into Khirro’s limbs, but the vision faded, replaced by another. The figures of Ghaul and Shyn stood before him, clashing swords sending sparks about their heads. The tips of gray feathers poked through Shyn’s flesh as he defended himself, but he was trapped against the tunnel wall. The tip of Ghaul’s blade found his belly and cut upward. Shyn slumped, his expression a mix of pain and relief. Ghaul laughed and Khirro saw the crest of Kanos come into view on his chest as the vision disappeared. The real Ghaul stood facing Khirro, sword in hand, his face hard and knowing.
“Traitor,” Khirro growled. “Kanosee dog. You killed Shyn.”
Ghaul brought his sword up in front of him, threatening, and chuckled.
“It took you long enough, dirt monger.” He held his empty hand out expectantly. “Give me the vial.”
Khirro shook his head.
“Don’t be foolish, Khirro. We both know you’re no match for my sword. Give me the king’s blood and I may spare your life.”
Khirro gritted his teeth. Ghaul’s skill with a sword was much greater, but he’d come too far and been through too much to give the vial to the enemy. He wouldn’t let Maes and Shyn die in vain.
The Mourning Sword sliced toward Ghaul, jumping in Khirro’s hand on its own. Ghaul deflected the blow and countered with his own. The swords clanged sending a quiver up Khirro’s arm. Ghaul struck blow after blow and each time, Khirro managed to dodge or parry, but he knew he couldn’t repel him indefinitely. Ghaul deftly maneuvered himself away from Athryn and Elyea, keeping Khirro between them so they couldn’t aid him.
Khirro focused on the fight, pouring his energy into each stroke and thrust, each parry, but still noticed the cold wind rise within the chamber, prickling his arms with goose flesh and standing the hairs on the back of his neck on end. The flat of Ghaul’s sword struck Khirro’s shoulder and the soldier laughed, toying with him. The stark realization he was no match for Ghaul bore into Khirro’s gut and he struggled to fight back the panic rising in his throat. He dodged another blow, steel caressing his sleeve. The cool breeze gusted again.
Then Ghaul disappeared. Everything disappeared.
Thick mist filled the chamber as completely as if it had always been there. A sword slashed the fog, missing him by inches. He jumped away and his back pressed against the chamber wall.
Khirro’s eyes flickered, searching for his foe, for Elyea or Athryn, but he saw nothing but the wall of mist. The temperature dropped rapidly; a rime of frost appeared on his gauntlets. No sound. He called out, but his voice died at his lips, smothered by the fog. He held the Mourning Sword in front of him defensively, waiting to be attacked.
The mist swirled as though stirred by some unseen hand, then pulled itself into one twisting pillar centered over the marble seat and formed the shape of a man whose head brushed the ceiling fifteen feet above. A long, misty beard and thick white arms became distinct, a hazy sword hung at his side. A face twisted into being with angry, swirling eyes.
“Who dares disturb me?” The voice boomed across the chamber, amplified by the smooth walls. Khirro stared, forgetting the fight. “Who dares disturb Darestat?”
“I come to resurrect a king.”
Khirro looked at Ghaul, surprised to have heard the soldier respond. He breathed in a short, sharp breath at what he saw. In the confusion and the cover of the mist, Ghaul had grabbed Elyea.
She struggled against the arm about her waist and the sharp edge at her throat, showing no fear, only determination. Khirro touched his chest unconsciously and felt the hard shape of the vial through his tunic.
Shyn’s dead. Maes is dead. Is this worth her life, too?
“Give me the vial, Khirro.”
He pulled it out and rolled it back and forth on his flat palm. Its deep red glow lit his glove, attracting the mist-man’s attention.
“What is this?” His voice was a low rumble, though his words were as clear as the peal of a bell on a summer eve.
“The blood of the king, Braymon of Erechania, slain in battle by the walking dead of Kanos.” Khirro managed to keep the quiver in his knees from shaking his voice.
He took a step toward Ghaul, hand tight on the hilt of his sword. Elyea shook her head and a drop of blood rolled down her smooth throat where Ghaul’s blade pressed against her skin.
“Why do you bring this blood to me? I care not for the doings of mortals.”
“The Shaman, Bale, enchanted me to bring the vial here and see the king restored.”
The swirling mist halted, falling away to leave a bent old man standing where the giant had been. His scraggly white hair fell past his shoulders framing a face wizened by more years than Khirro could comprehend. Despite his age, his eyes shone with vigor and knowledge.
“Bale?” The old man’s voice was quieter but still unshaken and sure. “Bale sent you?”
“Yes.” Khirro looked from Darestat to Ghaul. He didn’t think he’d hurt Elyea, not until he got what he wanted. “He enchanted me to bear the vial to you.”
The Necromancer made a clicking sound with his tongue.
“He did not enchant you, Khirro. No man can be made to do that which they would not do themselves, not even by magic. If such was possible, magicians would rule the world, not kings.”
Khirro stared at the old man, his jaw hanging open.
Not enchanted? How is that possible?
He opened his mouth to ask so many questions—what about the feeling in his chest? Why did he feel the compulsion to complete the journey?—but the Necromancer spoke again, cutting off his thoughts.
“Why did Bale not bring it himself?”
“He’s dead.”
The old man’s face sagged, sadness dimming the blaze of his eyes. “That is too bad. He was a good student, and a fine son.”
“Son?” Athryn said, his voice a whisper. Khirro had forgotten Athryn was there.
“Enough sentiment,” Ghaul said firmly. “Give me the vial or the whore dies. Braymon will lead the dead army of Kanos.”
Khirro tensed but the Necromancer continued as though Ghaul had not spoken.
“How did my son die?”
Hope sparked in Khirro. He raised his sword arm and pointed at Ghaul. “He’s responsible.”
The light in the chamber faded to dull pink as Darestat straightened and gestured, conjuring a vision for all of them to see. The images shifted and changed quickly. First it showed Ghaul dressed in Kanosee armor fighting, training, receiving orders from a figure in cloak and cowl. Khirro shivered. Then Ghaul wearing the cloak of a king’s guard, running Braymon through as the face of an undead soldier leered on, laughing.
The light shifted and they saw Ghaul lead an Erechanian soldier into a tunnel, slit his throat and emerge in a field wearing the man’s armor. The same armor he now wore. Then they saw the battle at the foot of the fortress, the Kanosee lying in wait to ambush their party and Ghaul coming upon the fight, nocking an arrow and slaying the Shaman.
They knew. Somehow, they knew about Braymon’s plan. They were after us because they knew we carried the king’s blood.
“It’s a lie,” Ghaul protested, his voice lacking its usual surety. “He killed Bale, not me. He wanted the glory for himself.”
“Silence!” Darestat’s voice became the voice of the mist giant again, filling the room and
dispersing the vision. “The light does not lie.”
“No. I—”
The Necromancer’s eyes narrowed, his face became stern. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, ominous, but tinted with grief.
“You killed my son.”
Light flashed like a stroke of lightning, blinding Khirro. He gripped his sword tight and bent his knees to spring or defend but when his vision cleared Ghaul lay dazed on his back, his sword on the ground at Elyea’s feet. Khirro blinked, returning his vision to normal as Elyea retrieved Ghaul’s blade and placed the tip against his throat.
“Come forth, bearer of the blood. If you wish a life restored, there is a cost to be paid.”
Cost? What does he mean?
Khirro stepped forward tentatively. Athryn walked beside him, pulling the mask from his face. They stopped a few strides from the Necromancer standing before the marble throne and awaited his terms. Darestat appraised them, his look betraying nothing of his thoughts or intent. A minute passed. Ghaul groaned, regaining consciousness; Elyea kept the sword pressed to his throat.
“I have lost my son,” the old man said, his words measured. “The last of my line. If you wish me to resurrect your king, then I ask a son in return, someone whose life will become mine. To live with me, to learn from me.”
Khirro felt Athryn straighten beside him. This was exactly what Athryn wanted.
Does the Necromancer know?
“The fire of the dragon touched my brother,” Athryn said, emotion straining his words. “He gave his life for me, his blood courses through my veins. His soul rests with my soul.” He stopped, drew a shuddering breath. “Our lives will be yours.”
Elyea made a sound of protest but stopped short of speaking. This was why Athryn joined this fool’s journey. Over time, it became easy to trick oneself into believing they were all there for each other, for the good of the kingdom, but in truth, none were. They all had their own selfish reasons, as did Khirro. Athryn came to advance his skills at the foot of the master; Shyn to prove an outsider, a freak, had value. Ghaul’s motives were treacherous; Elyea saw it as an opportunity to atone for what others looked upon as her sins.
