by Bruce Blake
I thought I was compelled to come.
He knew he hadn’t been, perhaps always knew. So why? To prove himself more than a cowardly farmer? Or to escape a life which hadn’t gone the way he wanted? Both held the ring of truth.
“This is no small thing I ask,” the Necromancer warned Athryn. “Your life—your lives, you and your brother—will belong to me. Living with me, learning from me, you will never return to your home. The rest of your days will be spent at my side. What say you to that?”
Athryn went to one knee, bowed his head.
“We are yours, master. Do with us as you will.”
Darestat nodded, a satisfied look crossing his face. Elyea spoke to Ghaul, telling him not to move; Khirro resisted the urge to turn and make sure she was still all right.
She has everything well in hand.
“Then it shall be done.” The old man moved toward Khirro, his face looking younger than moments before. “Put the Mourning Sword away, Khirro.”
The blade flashed and flickered in the glow of the chamber, the runes first crawling red up and down the length of the sword then fading to black before springing to orange light as though drawn from the blacksmith’s fire. Khirro regarded it a moment before sliding it into its sheath, steel whispering against leather, and hoped he wouldn’t have to give it up. He turned his attention to the vial in his other hand and held it out to the Necromancer. The thought of giving it up gnawed his gut.
“You are the bearer, Khirro. You must be so until it is done.”
Khirro nodded and took the vial between thumb and index finger, holding it before him like something fragile, or something likely to bite. His head felt light with a mix of fear and anxiety, excitement and happiness, disappointment, sadness. So long he carried this living piece of the king next to his heart, he’d begun to feel it a part of him. What a triumph to actually complete this journey, and to live, yet a sad thing, too. His life had meant something these last months, but soon he’d be Khirro the farmer again, only after this he’d be unable to return to his farm.
Darestat closed his eyes, lips moving slightly as he chanted. A throb filled the chamber, pulsing the air in rhythm with the Necromancer’s words. His voice rose and fell, a deep drone filling the space, penetrating the corners, nearly forcing the air from Khirro’s lungs. Warmth radiated from the vial; the air moved about him, caressing him as though touched by a thousand unseen hands. Athryn remained on his knee, head bent, unaffected.
The colors in the chamber changed rapidly; pink then yellow, blue then green then red. The colors of the rainbow flashed in Khirro’s vision, and colors never imagined. He wanted to be fascinated by them, intrigued enough to divine their origin or purpose, but he couldn’t take his eyes or thoughts from the Necromancer. The old man’s lips moved without slowing, speaking words Khirro didn’t know in a language he’d never heard, yet somehow he knew what he said.
He beckoned Braymon’s soul, entreating it to rejoin the world of the living.
The blood bubbled within the vial like a liquid at the boil. Khirro’s hand quivered against his will and a low mist rose, swirling about their feet. The walls and ceiling of the chamber shimmered and swam.
Elyea’s cry stilled the mist and solidified the walls.
At first, Khirro didn’t know what the sound was or from where it came. The sound of steel rattling against stone followed and he knew what happened without looking. Alarm knotted his throat as he jerked his gaze from the still-chanting Necromancer’s trance.
First Khirro saw the dagger protruding from Elyea’s leg, then the blood flowing down her thigh. Too late, he saw the bow in Ghaul’s hand and the arrow loaded against the taut string. The arrow pierced his hand as though it was paper, tearing completely through to clatter against the marble wall. His fingers opened involuntarily and the vial tumbled from his grasp, end over end toward the floor while the blood continued to roil and bubble inside.
“No!”
The vial struck the floor and shattered.
All that time, all that struggle and death. For nothing. A journey ending in spilled blood.
But instead of blood splashing across the floor and spattering his boots, red mist puffed from the broken vial, mixed with the other mist. It rolled and moved, formed a shape Khirro recognized immediately from his dreams as a tyger made of mist stood before him.
Darestat’s voice grew louder, its pitch higher as his chant quickened. The mist tyger loomed before Khirro and Ghaul’s bowstring twanged again. An arrow flew past slowly enough he could count the feathers on its shaft, but he moved equally as slowly, rendering him agonizingly unable to react as he watched its path.
Time sped up again, folding in on itself as everything happened at once: the Necromancer’s words ceased as the arrow entered his mouth; the mist tyger roared, pouncing at Khirro, engulfing him in red mist; visions of battles he didn’t fight and men he didn’t recognize swirled about him then disappeared. The mist penetrated him, crawled into his body through his eyes, nose, ears, every pore in his skin, paralyzing him. Powerless, it overtook his limbs and muscles, overflowed his heart and lungs.
And then the world became white light.
Khirro knew instinctively it came from the Necromancer. The force of the light tossed him back and he hit the marble floor with a bone jarring thud that shot pain up his spine. The white light dissipated quickly and took all other light with it leaving the chamber in darkness. Khirro scrambled to his feet, feeling it would mean his life to remain on the floor. He drew the Mourning Sword and its blade glowed red as it thirsted for blood. The dark swallowed its light.
Khirro stared into the blackness waiting for his eyes to adjust. A leather sole whispered against stone, a dim blade came out of the dark toward him. He dodged and the sword tip caught his shoulder instead of the neck for which it was intended. It bit shallowly into his flesh, jarring his senses into action. He heard sounds all around him: Elyea’s breath, the scrape of cloth on Ghaul’s skin, three heartbeats plus his own. He heard more than he’d ever heard before, knew from where each tiny sound came.
Behind him, Athryn uttered a word and light filled the chamber. Khirro glanced about quickly. Athryn lay on the floor at the foot of the throne while Elyea crouched against the wall, blood dripping from her wound. He didn’t see the Necromancer.
Khirro’s distraction gave Ghaul the advantage.
He lunged and caught Khirro in the face with the pommel of his sword. His nose broke with a crunch and the blow sent Khirro to the floor, the Mourning Sword skittering from his grip. Before he recovered, Ghaul fell upon him, his foot on his chest, sword point at his throat. Khirro looked up half-expecting to see the face of an undead monster, but it was Ghaul. Hatred burned in his eyes.
Athryn moved, his sword rasping against its scabbard.
“Stay put, magician, and speak no words. If your lips so much as move, I’ll open his throat.”
Khirro stared at Ghaul, surprised at the detachment he felt. Fear didn’t freeze his limbs or steal his breath as before. Instead, a curious calm filled him. After facing death so many times, had he lost his fear of it?
“You can’t have what you came for,” Khirro said swallowing around the steel pressed to his windpipe. “Braymon will never serve Kanos.”
“You have the truth of it,” Ghaul said, a wry smile twisting his lips. “All I can do now is be sure he’ll serve no one.”
He drew his blade back for the final blow.
This is it: the end of the journey.
“No!”
Elyea grabbed Ghaul’s arm and spun him away from Khirro, throwing him off balance. Khirro jumped up to aid Elyea, but years of battles, of protecting his life, had honed Ghaul’s reflexes. He regained his balance, pushed away from her, and drew his blade across her from hip to shoulder.
Elyea’s eyes widened in surprise.
Khirro stared.
For a moment it looked like only her clothes were cut, but then the blood came, rushing from her bod
y. She collapsed where she stood.
The peace and calm Khirro felt vanished, forced from him by rage like he’d never experienced. His muscles tensed and bunched, blood pounded at his temples and in his throat.
He burst into flames.
Khirro felt it, saw it enveloping him head to foot, but it didn’t burn. He lurched toward Ghaul as the warrior spun around and, for the first time in all the months of their journey, Khirro saw naked fear in the soldier’s eyes. He stepped back shaking his head. Khirro advanced, mouth open to voice his rage, but no cry of hatred issued from his throat. He roared instead. Khirro sprang at Ghaul, brushed aside his blade, and hit him hard in the chest, bearing him to the floor.
Khirro tore at his throat with his teeth and tasted warm, coppery blood. It splashed across his face and against whiskers not there before. Claws tore the flesh of Ghaul’s chest. The man screamed, the cry gurgling in his blood-filled throat. Khirro roared once more, raked Ghaul’s legs and groin with hind claws and the soldier writhed in agony, face streaked with sweat and blood and terror. Finally, Khirro’s fangs ripped into his chest, pulled free his still-pulsing heart. Ghaul’s screams and flailing ceased, his body went limp. Seconds later, Khirro found himself kneeling over the ruined body, flames flickering and dimming until they disappeared completely.
The blood in his mouth made him gag.
He rolled from Ghaul onto his hands and knees and his stomach emptied what little it held, strings of thick blood hanging from his lips. He spit, clearing the taste from his tongue. Head hung, panting, he knelt there until he heard Elyea call to him, her voice tiny and afraid. He wiped blood from his mouth with his sleeve and crawled across the cold floor to her.
“Elyea.”
Blood flowed freely from the wound running up her abdomen and across her chest; entrails showed through the split skin. Her eyes were glassy, her face pale but peaceful.
“Khirro.” Her voice held little strength. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
“No,” he said brushing stray hairs from her sweaty forehead.
She nodded slightly. “Good. And the king?”
“I think he is within me.”
“Two great men in one.” She smiled as best she could and drew a shuddering breath. Khirro heard it bubble in her chest. Blood ran from her nose into her mouth and the smile vanished. A shiver wracked her body. “I’m cold, Khirro.”
He removed his tunic and laid it across her but she continued to shiver.
“Athryn,” he called over his shoulder. He felt the magician’s presence close beside him. “Help us.”
Athryn knelt beside Elyea and took her hand in both of his. Khirro looked at him and saw the scar was gone from his face. The magician said nothing, only squeezed her hand.
“Thank you,” Elyea said and closed her eyes.
Khirro felt his heart skip. He reached out and took her other hand, ignoring the sticky blood covering it.
“Do something, Athryn.” There was a tone of command in his voice he’d never heard there before, but the magician didn’t move. “Save her.”
Athryn shook his head. “There is nothing I can do. Only the Necromancer—”
“The Necromancer’s dead,” Khirro shouted, cutting him off. “You’re the only one.” The magician continued to shake his head without meeting Khirro’s eyes. “Damn you, Athryn. You can—”
Elyea squeezed his hand, her grip so weak he barely felt it, but it stopped him mid-sentence. He looked into her green eyes, the glimmer they normally held all but gone. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“No, Khirro. It’s all right.” She forced a smile that quickly became a cringe. “This is why I came.”
Her labored breathing made every word a struggle. Khirro wanted to make her stop, to tell her she’d be all right, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie to her.
“My whole life I’ve done what was easiest with no thought of myself or others. Finally, I’ve done something because it was the right thing to do. Please remember me that way. Let me take that with me to the fields of the dead. And the memory of you.”
Khirro stroked the back of her hand. “But you could be with me. We could have a life for both of us, leave the old ones behind.”
“I’d like that, but I think the future has more in store for you than making a life with a whore.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s what I am. What I was.” A cough shook her and sent fresh blood flowing from her chest and mouth. “The fate of the kingdom is within you now.”
“You are brave,” Athryn said. “There is a special place waiting for you on the other side. Give Maes my love.”
She tried to turn her head toward him but failed.
“You’re whole again.” He lifted her hand and stroked her fingers across his now smooth cheek. “More than whole. Don’t underestimate who you are, Athryn.”
He nodded, lay her hand gently on Khirro’s and rose, leaving them alone. Elyea’s eyes moved back to Khirro and the smile struggled back to her lips.
“You will have a great life, Khirro. I’m honored to have loved you.”
The smile faded and her eyelids drooped, then closed. The bubbling sound from her chest stopped.
“It’s I who am honored,” Khirro whispered. He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead then bowed his head.
The low mist appeared again, tendrils of it twisted along the floor like a translucent white snake. It swirled about them, licked at Khirro’s knees and crawled up Elyea’s body. Cool dew formed on his skin, caressing him, comforting him. When it cleared, Elyea’s corpse still lay before him, her hands in his, but he knew the part that made her Elyea had gone with it, whisked away on misty wings to a place where she’d finally be happy.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Night time.
They didn’t know what time of day it was until they reached the foot of the creaky wooden stairs and saw stars shining down, clear and bright, unobscured by a dragon’s belly. They struggled up the stairs carrying Elyea’s body between them and emerged into a cool autumn evening.
The snow which covered the ground when they entered the catacombs was gone along with the ruby sentinel. As they set her body down, the ground shook briefly, sending Khirro and Athryn’s hands to the hilts of their swords and their gazes scanning the woods. No giant shook the earth this time, no dragon. Instead, the hole in the ground closed behind them like a rapidly healing wound, sealing in its secrets and its dead.
It took them far less time to find their way out of the tunnels than it had to reach their destination despite the grim weight they carried. A dim glow radiated from Khirro like an ember in a dying fire, so they could see better, but the tunnels and the chamber had changed, too. Instead of a huge subterranean room filled with blue light, the chamber was only a widening in the tunnel which ran straighter than before. Khirro wondered how it could be but dismissed the thought quickly. Elyea had been taken from him, there was nothing more to understand.
Khirro and Athryn carefully searched the area around the keep but two lifeless giants, their charred flesh picked at by unseen forest denizens, were the only sign of the ruby dragon. No dragon, no third giant. Under other circumstances, Khirro would have worried, but he felt danger had passed. With no Necromancer, what need was there for a guardian anymore?
They gathered wood for a pyre and lay Elyea and her belongings atop it. Khirro kept one thing aside as a reminder: her dagger. The knife had set her down her life’s path when she stood against her father years ago; a symbol of the strength Khirro admired in her. Perhaps it would lend him some of her strength in the days to come.
Flames danced into the night sky, sparks swirled and twisted into the dark like lightning bugs at play. Khirro couldn’t take his eyes from the body prone at the center of the blaze as wood crackled and spat, her clothing charred and her hair melted. The fire engulfed her, flickering over her skin, and Khirro heaved a shuddering sigh.
It’s only her earthly body. S
he’s already gone.
He stared at the flames, wondered how he looked when he was aflame and if she carried the memory of Khirro as a burning tyger to the fields of the dead. He hoped not.
Despite how close he stood, Khirro’s body didn’t register the funeral pyre’s heat while Athryn stood behind him to avoid being burned. With his scar healed, Khirro supposed the magician would go to great lengths to keep from being burned again. Would that be possible? They were linked now and a fire burned within Khirro. Could he keep it from engulfing Athryn and anyone else around him?
Could he keep from succumbing to it himself?
When Elyea’s body was reduced to ash and bone and the fire burned down to glowing embers, Athryn put his hand on Khirro’s shoulder.
“We should go.” He wore his mirrored mask despite his face being healed. Khirro wondered why but didn’t ask. “A long journey still lies ahead.”
Khirro didn’t respond, only stared at the remains of the fire. A bone poked out of the ash and he fought the urge to pluck it out, hold it close and cry over it. Such actions wouldn’t bring her back. Nothing would.
“Where will we go?” Khirro asked finally. “I’ve failed. The king is dead. There’s no hope for Erechania.”
“There is hope, Khirro,” Athryn said squeezing his shoulder. “There is you.”
Khirro snorted a laugh lacking humor. “What good to a war is a simple farmer? What good to a kingdom is a man who couldn’t keep his friends alive?” He gestured toward the pile of bone and ash.
“The king is within you. You are much more than you know.”
“I’m not the king. No one would believe our tale, they’d throw us both in the dungeon and think us insane.”
