Heart of the King kj-3

by Bruce Blake

  Heart of the King

  ( Khirro's joyrney - 3 )

  Bruce Blake

  Bruce Blake

  Heart of the King

  Chapter One

  “They’re coming.”

  Therrador sat on the pile of dirty straw, elbows on his knees, head hung. He didn’t raise his head when he heard the words.

  Enough days had passed for him to lose track of their number; the guards had woken him every time he appeared to doze, and brought only water enough to keep him alive, nothing more. No food, no change of clothes, no medicine. The filthy bandage wrapped around his hand reeked of infection and the stump of thumb hidden beneath ached with numb pain, though not so much as the untended wound in his thigh.

  “They’re coming.”

  A woman’s voice spoke the words, so he knew it to be either hallucination or the Archon toying with him. He had no interest in either.

  “They still carry the essence of the king.”

  The muscles in Therrador’s back and shoulders went rigid at the last words.

  “Leave me be, witch. Haven’t you punished me enough?” His voice cracked in his parched throat and its tone of defeat surprised and embarrassed him.

  The temperature in the cell dropped and the feeling of a presence beside him brought goose flesh to Therrador’s arms. He looked up into the burning green eyes of a young woman, her freckled cheeks framed by red curls, and thought she might be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  A trick.

  “I am Elyea. I’m here to help you.”

  “You’re not real,” Therrador croaked. “You’re another of the Archon’s tortures.”

  “I’m not.”

  She crouched in front of him and held her hand out to him. In the dim light cast by the torch in the passage outside the cell, and with his lack of strength and focus, it took a minute for Therrador to realize she held a cup.

  Hallucinating like a dying man in the desert.

  He stared at it but made no move to accept it. The woman didn’t move, either.

  “Take it.”

  Therrador considered for another moment before reaching out a weak and shaking hand. His fingers brushed the side of the clay mug, felt its solidity, its realness. Saliva rushed into his mouth at the thought the cup may contain relief from the thirst burning at the back of his throat, but he kept his eagerness carefully hidden. His fingers wrapped around the vessel’s cool surface and brought it close to his face; he peered over the lip at the liquid inside.

  It looked like water.

  He leaned closer to it and sniffed deeply.

  No odor.

  The edge of the cup touched his mouth and a splash of water lapped against his lips. Cool, tasteless. He slurped a little onto his tongue, the promise it held making his parched throat howl for more and, before he could stop himself, Therrador quaffed the water as fast as his mouth would take it. Water spilled over his chin, ran down his neck into his shirt. The cup’s supply never seemed to end allowing him to drink and drink and drink.

  He drank until his belly hurt.

  Energy flowed back into the king’s limbs. He pulled his mouth away from the rim of the cup and tilted his head back, drawing a satisfied breath in through his nose before gazing at the woman’s face. Her full lips tilted up at the corners in a gentle smile, her eyes shone. He didn’t know her, had never seen her before, but inexplicably felt he should trust her.

  “Elyea, is it?” he whispered. “Who is coming?”

  “You’ll know him when he comes, but he’ll need your help.”

  Therrador scratched his stubbled cheek, felt the heat of fever burning in his head, and wondered if this woman and her words could be real. He turned the clay cup between his fingers; it felt real enough.

  If the man bearing the king’s blood was coming, and he aided him, perhaps the Archon might be defeated. But this knowledge of her enemy’s inevitable arrival might also be the bargaining chip he needed to get his son back. He looked toward the cell door and saw the shadow of his undead guard beyond, so leaned toward the woman. She smelled of roses.

  “When will he come?”

  “Soon, and there will be a battle. That is where your help will be needed. Not even the king’s spirit can defeat the army of Kanos without help.”

  Therrador nodded and stroked the long beard trailing from his chin, the braid which normally held it in place abandoned soon after he landed in the dungeon cell.

  “I’ll need out of here.”

  “I can’t help with that, it’s up to you. But I can help with this.”

  The tips of her fingers brushed his wounded thigh. Pain flared along Therrador’s leg as if she’d touched him with a lit torch, and he sucked a breath between his clenched teeth, biting down against the agonized cry in his throat. The wound throbbed and burned, his body tensed. She pressed her palm flat against it and, a minute later, the pain settled to a tingling sensation, then finally disappeared.

  The woman removed her hand and Therrador replaced her touch with his own. The flesh felt tender and sore, but the wound was gone. He raised his right hand wrapped in the stinking bandage, hoping she would do the same for the wound beneath the gray cloth. She looked at it and shook her head, then stood, and Therrador saw her form was translucent.

  “You have some time, but not much.”

  The imprisoned king stared as she seemed to float across the cell toward the door, feet hidden beneath her long white gown. She didn’t pause when she reached the bars, but passed through and faded from sight like a morning mist burned away by midday sun.

  A ghost?

  Therrador touched the back of his hand to his forehead and found his fever had broken, disappeared along with the wound to his leg. Perhaps sickness and hallucination weren’t to blame. The king had never believed in apparitions, but neither did he believe in men brought back from the dead until they laid siege to the fortress. It had been a season of oddities: the king’s blood, undead soldiers, and now a spirit come to his aid.

  Is this an opportunity to save my son, or is my mind finally snapping in two?

  If the ghost’s words were true, he had little time to decide which was the case and how to best use it to his advantage.

  He rose from the filthy straw, joints creaking with disuse, and brushed dirt from the seat of his breeches before taking an unsteady step toward the cell door. When his previously injured leg didn’t falter beneath him, he strode across the floor, energized by the ghostly woman’s water. He reached the bars and wrapped the fingers of his good hand around the cold steel, pulled his face close. A short way down the hall, his undead guard stood motionless, staring at the blank wall ahead, as always.

  It didn’t see the woman.

  “Guard,” he called, his voice strong and filled with the authority bred of years commanding men. “I need to see the Archon. Now.”

  ***

  “This ghost woman will alert you to the king-carrier’s arrival?”

  The Archon watched Therrador’s expression closely for any hint he told her untruths. She knew at least elements of his story were truthful: her assassin, Shariel, had failed to kill the bearer, and the traitor-king’s description too closely matched that of the woman Elyea to have been fabricated.

  Damn your meddling, Darestat.

  “That’s what she said. He hasn’t arrived yet, but he’ll be here soon.”

  Therrador shifted on the uncomfortable wooden chair and the Archon suppressed a grin because she knew her translucent gown caused his discomfort, not the furniture. When the king had demanded an audience, she’d chosen her clothing purposely, knowing her body was as useful a tool as her magic. More than once during their conversation, Therrador’s gaze strayed to the c
urve of her hip and to her dark nipples showing through the pink gown, despite his efforts to hold her eyes.

  She rose from the purple velvet divan and his eyes dropped from her face once again to a spot below her waist before he shook his head and returned his gaze to hers. This time she smiled.

  “And in exchange for your freedom, you will advise me when she contacts you.”

  He nodded, this time finding success at keeping his eyes on hers.

  “How do I know you will be true to your word?”

  “You have my son.”

  She stopped a few feet from where he sat, her breasts at the same level as his eyes. Rather than battle temptation, he stood.

  “Indeed. Why are you not asking for his release in exchange for this information?”

  “Because I know you wouldn’t grant it.”

  “True.”

  She took a step toward him, grasped his bound hands in hers. Black dirt and dried brown blood discolored the bandage on his right hand; the smell of infection wafted from it.

  “We will have to take care of this or you will not be with us long enough to betray your friend a second time.”

  She saw the muscles in Therrador’s jaw flex at her words and her smile widened.

  “Yes. Perhaps you’d consider returning my thumb.”

  “I will consider it, but let us see what the maggots can do for you first.” She snapped her fingers and a guard appeared in the doorway. “Fetch the surgeon. Tell him to bring his maggots to clean King Therrador’s wound.”

  The soldier bowed at the waist and disappeared out the door. When he was gone, she faced Therrador again. His eyes were still fixed on hers, his jaw set, and she felt anger build in her gut at his resistance of her.

  So be it.

  She turned abruptly and strode away, the gown flowing around her.

  “So tell me, Therrador,” she said, her voice gone icy. “When will you be asking me to return your son?”

  He didn’t answer at first and she looked back over her shoulder to see if he’d succumbed to the translucence of the gown, the curve of her buttocks. He hadn’t. Instead, he stared out the window at the courtyard beyond. She seethed at the slight but kept her anger buried within-it would serve her well on another occasion.

  “I’ll ask for his return,” Therrador said, his voice quiet, his tone controlled, “when I’ve killed the bearer for you.”

  Chapter Two

  Khirro splashed water on his face and cleansed the wounds left on his arm and leg by the jaws of the feral dogs. The cold water stung, but the bites weren’t deep, certainly not as bad as they might have been. The moment of the dogs’ attack had been the ideal time to work out how to control the fire contained within him.

  Or did I?

  He looked at the backs of his hands, at the water dripping from the tips of his fingers, before turning them over to trace the lines of his palms with his gaze. His eyes narrowed in concentration and he imagined flames engulfing his open hands. He thought of heat. He pictured fire burning and flickering.

  Nothing happened.

  How did I do it?

  He thought of the times the flames had come and realized it only happened when danger threatened, and inconsistently then. Crouching by the edge of the stream with morning air drying the water on his skin, he felt no threat, no danger. Khirro sighed, put his hands on his knees and stood. The scabbard of the Mourning Sword banged against his leg and he put his hand on the hilt to steady it. Over the past months, there were times he’d been happy for taking the Shaman’s weapon but, at other times, it still felt awkward dangling at his side.

  No matter how much time passes, no matter how many killings happen, I will never truly be a soldier.

  He wiped his hands on his breeches and headed back through the brush to the lean-to he and Athryn built the night before to keep curious animals away and morning dew off themselves. As he walked, he thought of Shyn and, grudgingly, Ghaul. They were soldiers, real warriors, battle hardened and ready for a fight. Although Ghaul had turned out a traitor, the man knew the ways of steel. He’d have been a useful ally at a time like this. Too bad they were both gone, their bodies left rotting in the Necromancer’s underground hideaway.

  Khirro shook his head at the thought and stepped over a fallen branch. His footstep crunched among drying leaves, the sound stirring him from his thoughts, and he halted straddling the limb. He listened. Had he heard another sound disguised by his own footstep?

  A real soldier wouldn’t have made such a sound.

  He pushed the admonition out of his mind and waited to see if the sound repeated or if he’d imagined it. Thirty seconds passed before he heard it again: the murmur of a man’s whispered voice.

  Khirro’s hand returned to the hilt of the Mourning Sword, this time with neither thought of appreciation nor distaste. He loosened the blade in its scabbard and stepped the rest of the way over the limb, choosing his footing carefully among the scatter of leaves.

  A second whispered voice added itself to the first. Khirro pulled his weapon free and increased his pace.

  Athryn might be in danger.

  If something happened to the magician, he didn’t know how he would complete the task given him when the Shaman died. Truthfully, without Athryn to prod him on, he wasn’t sure he’d bother continuing.

  Khirro stopped at the edge of the clearing where they’d constructed the lean-to and peered through the wilted autumn foliage.

  Athryn sat on the ground in front of the shelter, legs crossed and arms resting on his thighs, his face up-turned and eyes closed. Khirro scanned the area, straining to see through the brush, but saw no one else. He paused, breath held, as Athryn’s lips moved with a whispered rush of words Khirro didn’t understand. When he finished speaking, another voice answered.

  Khirro shook his head, confused. His gaze flickered around the clearing until he saw a disturbance in the air a couple of yards from the magician, a shimmering he'd missed when he first looked.

  Khirro squinted, trying to make out a shape, a form, but he saw no more substance to it than to that of a misty sigh breathed on winter’s chill. He stepped into the clearing, sword clenched in his tightened fist, though he didn’t know what good the weapon would do against vapor.

  “Athryn?”

  The magician jumped, startled by Khirro’s voice, and the disturbance in the air evaporated. Athryn looked at his companion, then back at the spot where the shimmering had been; his expression sagged with disappointment.

  “Are you all right?”

  The magician nodded and looked at the ground in front of him. Khirro stepped into the clearing, lowering his sword but not yet ready to put it away.

  “What was that?”

  Athryn looked up, met Khirro’s gaze. “Darestat.”

  For a moment, Khirro thought he must have misheard. He’d seen Ghaul’s arrow pierce the Necromancer’s throat, watched the man turn to mist. Surely Athryn must have said something else and Khirro’s brain twisted it.

  “The Necromancer?”

  “Yes.”

  “But how?”

  Athryn had recovered from his disappointment and pushed himself up to stand. He brushed dirt and twigs off his breeches and straightened his tunic before answering.

  “A magician as powerful as the Necromancer can never truly die, not unless he wishes it.”

  “And he doesn’t wish it?”

  Athryn shook his head. “Not yet. There is much for him to teach me.”

  Khirro stared at his companion, watching him collect his gear. He moved as easily and gracefully as always, as though his words were no more unusual than if he’d wished his friend a good morning. With everything packed, Athryn pulled the silvered mask over his face.

  “Teach you?”

  The magician faced him and Khirro saw his face reflected in the mirrored mask. He hated the way its curved surface distorted his features when he looked at his friend, the way it lengthened and changed his face, transforming him
into a silvered monster. After some of the things he’d done over the past months, he already felt enough like a monster, he didn’t want to look like one, too.

  “A magician seeks knowledge wherever he can find it.”

  “Even from a dead wizard?”

  Athryn shrugged.

  “Do you have to wear that mask?”

  “Does it bother you?”

  Khirro shifted from one foot to the other and, realizing he still held the Mourning Sword unnecessarily, he slid the weapon back into its scabbard. What did it say about him that he had found the ability to forget he held a sword in his hand?

  “A little. Why do you still wear it?”

  “Anonymity is a provocative habit.”

  Khirro strode across the small clearing to where his backpack lay already packed and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Who do you have to be anonymous from?”

  “One never knows. We are in Kanos now.” Athryn took the mask off and stowed it under his cloak. “Better?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Then we should be off.”

  The magician grabbed a handful of boughs from their lean-to and distributed them around the area, tossing them on the ground and into the brush. Khirro helped, the two of them doing their best to hide evidence of their presence. When they finished, he surveyed the clearing; the lean-to was gone, but anyone with half an eye would see the beaten-down grass, the broken-off limbs. Even Khirro could tell they’d been there, but it would have to do.

  He harbored no suspicion anyone followed them. The residents of Poltghasa likely wouldn’t bother with them, were probably happy to be rid of them after seeing the flaming tyger. The lack of pursuers was small consolation, however, considering they made their way through Kanos, the very country at war with Erechania.

  Khirro swallowed hard and followed the magician out of the clearing. The day was cool and sunny, a good day for traveling. As they left the camp, Khirro peered back over his shoulder again. For a second, he thought he saw a shimmering in the air, a distortion as if something was at the edge of his vision but disappeared upon his notice. He blinked and checked again but saw nothing unusual.