by Bruce Blake
“Draw blood when I signal.”
Khirro’s dagger whispered out of its sheath as he drew it, then rolled up his left sleeve. He clenched his fist, watching the bandage already wrapped around his forearm shift with the movement of the muscle beneath the skin. A wash of sour-tasting saliva flooded his tongue.
What if it doesn’t work? Then his next thought: It will work.
He set the edge of the knife against his flesh, felt the coolness, the sharpness of it. His skin creased under its pressure, but he held back, waiting to make the cut when Athryn gave him the word. He breathed deep, inhaling the loamy smells of the near-winter forest at their back, but it brought him no solace, did nothing to quell his fear-forests had not been friendly places for him, of late.
What if he doesn’t tell me? What if he’s lying to protect me?
Nerves jumped in Khirro’s stomach and his eyes flickered from the knife against his arm to his companion. Athryn’s eyes were closed, his breathing measured. A second later, the chant began, and the strangely familiar archaic, foreign words muffled by the cloth covering Athryn’s face did what the forest’s aroma couldn’t-Khirro’s reticence eased. The words settled into a quiet rhythm, became the drone emanating from a nest of angry wasps or the thrum of wind through a field of corn.
Khirro glanced at the boy between them, still sleeping undisturbed, his splinted arm resting against his chest. Strain showed on his youthful face, as though he dreamed unpleasant dreams. Khirro understood unpleasant dreams.
A rustle of grass caught his attention and he looked away from the boy. He couldn’t see beyond the magician without stretching, so he did, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Ten yards behind Athryn, a soldier searched the tall grass bordering the thicket in which they hid.
Despite the dim light of the rising sun, Khirro saw the splash of red across the man’s black mail and held his breath as Athryn’s chant continued, rising in volume. He held himself back from warning the magician to be quiet for fear that interrupting his chant might ruin his spell.
The undead soldier turned toward them.
Khirro’s gaze snapped back to Athryn, afraid he’d miss the magician’s signal. Over his shoulder, he saw the soldier look away toward the dirt track, then back at Khirro. Nothing happened for a moment, and Khirro wondered if the thing saw him. Maybe if they stayed still, stayed quiet.
Hurry, Athryn.
“Here!”
The word hit Khirro like a rock to the chest and the undead soldier took a step toward them.
“Athryn,” he whispered.
The chant continued.
The soldier took another step and Khirro pressed the knife more firmly against his forearm, awaiting the signal.
A second soldier farther down the road called back to the first. “Have you found anything?”
Khirro knew by the rough tone of its voice that it was another of the undead.
“Athryn?”
“I think they’re here,” the thing grated.
Khirro’s gaze darted from soldier to magician in time to see Athryn nod. The knife bit into the flesh of his forearm and blood immediately welled to the surface, ran down the side of his arm. Khirro watched it flow, mesmerized by the deep red of fresh blood as the air wavered around him.
Don’t pass out.
Khirro raised his head and saw the Kanosee soldier approach, pushing into the thicket with his sword drawn. The undead thing’s footsteps sounded loud in his ears as it crashed through the brush; Khirro dimly felt the sticky trail of blood rolling down his forearm and into his hand as though it was a distant memory. In front of him, Athryn shook his head minutely, held his finger to his lips. It wasn’t until he saw the gesture that Khirro realized neither the pain of the fresh cut nor his fear of being found made the air waver before his eyes. It was the magician’s spell; it had manifested this way when he hid them before.
A small degree of tension released from Khirro’s limbs and he settled himself in place to watch the soldier hack at a twist of branches blocking his way.
What if he swings his sword where he thought he saw us?
He tightened his grip on the sword he'd taken from one of the undead soldiers, its edge chipped and worn, and wished he hadn’t lost the Mourning Sword.
The Kanosee soldier stopped five yards from their hiding spot and looked around, confused. Khirro clearly saw his features: this one wasn’t as decomposed as many of the others he’d seen. His face possessed the smooth skin and luster of a young man, with only a small amount of rot that looked like moss near his left ear. The red-splashed black mail labeled him as one of the undead-that and the gaping hole where his guts should have been.
Khirro shuddered.
“Where are they?” The second soldier had arrived and stood behind and to the right of the first.
“They were right here,” the first said pointing with the tip of his sword.
The second soldier’s gaze jerked side to side as he surveyed the area, his head wobbling on a neck half-cut-through and Khirro hoped the action might separate it from its body and save him the trouble. The undead man’s eyes swept over Khirro and his companions without recognition; he stepped forward, pushing brush aside with his sword.
“You might’ve been seeing things,” he said. “But we gotta look.”
The first soldier nodded and began poking and prodding through the thicket with the tip of his sword. Khirro drew a slow breath through his nose, trying not to make noise, and looked past the two Kanosee soldiers to see four more approaching along the dirt track. He held the air in his lungs a heartbeat longer before releasing it.
This better work.
The second man swung his sword side to side, cutting through clumps of bramble and fern with each stroke. Khirro tensed, watching him closely until he veered to the right, choosing a course that would take him wide of where the magician’s spell hid them. Meanwhile, the first soldier searched a spot to their left. He bent over, looking closely at something he’d seen lying on the ground. When he straightened, he held a large rock in his hand.
“Find something?”
“No. A rock.”
He tossed the stone aside and Khirro watched it arc through the air toward them, willing it to fall short. It didn’t.
The stone landed on the boy’s leg, startling him awake. It wasn’t a big enough rock to cause any real pain, but the surprise of it hitting him and waking him caused him to cry out.
At first, Khirro thought to reach down and cover the boy’s mouth, keep him from making more noise, but the immediate reaction of the soldiers dispelled any possibility they hadn’t heard him.
“Here!” the second soldier bellowed, already moving toward the sound. “They are hidden by magic. Chop it all down!”
The other dead man paused to relay their discovery to the soldiers searching farther down the road and Khirro knew he needed to act. He leaped over the scared boy and through the shimmering morning air at the closest Kanosee soldier.
“Khirro! No!”
Khirro heard Athryn’s words, but it was too late to stop. He rushed the undead warrior, catching him off guard before he had time to react as the sword he'd liberated from one of this soldier's fellows sliced what remained of his neck, completing the job begun on some other battlefield. Its head toppled, the body crumpled; Khirro spun toward the other soldier.
The undead Kanosee soldier waited, poised to spring, but made no immediate move. Between them, Athryn crouched on the ground with his arms wrapped around the boy. The magician’s lips moved, though he made no sound.
Khirro took a step and the soldier tensed, but didn’t advance. The feel of a sword in his hand energized him more than he ever would have imagined; he stalked forward, his gaze on the undead soldier who fell back with his advance. The one-time farmer’s heart swell with guilty pride as, finally, someone was afraid of him.
No, he’s waiting for the others.
The clank of armor as the other four soldiers
ran down the dirt track to their compatriot’s aid made Khirro realize the truth of it, and the realization squeezed pride from him.
I have to kill him before they get here.
He tensed to leap at his enemy, but Athryn’s voice interrupted.
“Khirro,” the magician said, quiet and breathless. “Blood.”
Khirro’s eyes darted toward his companion seated on the grass behind him, eyes closed, arms around the boy. For a second, Khirro wasn’t completely sure he’d spoken.
“Now, Khirro.”
He waited a fraction of a second before dragging his forearm across the edge of the sword’s blade and, in that hesitation, the Kanosee soldier realized what was happening. He leaped for the magician and Khirro’s legs tensed to launch him to Athryn’s defence.
The world went black.
Chapter Twelve
Her eyes flickered open, a disturbance in the energy flowing about her inexplicably drawing her out of her meditation.
Sheyndust sat upright, then stood, the surface of her bare flesh prickling, all her nerves alert. She glanced around her chambers but knew she wouldn’t find anyone within; her sharp senses would have warned her if someone had entered, and the fierce guard outside the door would keep anyone out. No, something else had disturbed her.
The Archon looked toward the window.
The shutter was open, as she’d left it, a breeze billowing the sheer curtains inward. She moved toward it noticing the softness of the bearskin rug between her toes without enjoying it, and retrieved her robe from the arm of the divan on her way. She pulled it over her bare shoulders and cringed at its feel-she despised the touch of cloth on her flesh, even the robe’s smooth purple silk, but convention demanded it. At least, until it was she who determined what convention was.
Clouds hid the sun, giving the air more chill as the days crept closer to winter. The Archon breathed a deep breath, hoping the feel of the cold air would calm the feeling that pulled her out of meditation, but it didn’t. She gazed across the courtyard at the familiar sight of Kanosee soldiers moving about the fortress. Some of them moved purposefully, with places to go and jobs to perform, but many of them appeared to be drunk, though the sun hadn’t yet reached its zenith.
I will have to deal with that.
With nothing seeming out of the ordinary, she turned back to the room, ready to dismiss the odd impression and remove the uncomfortable clothes, but a group of men on horseback caught her eye before she did. She returned to the window and leaned out, hands resting on the cold stone casement.
On the avenue below, six Kanosee soldiers rode by-a unit returning from routine patrol. Nothing unusual about them, except the extra horses they led and their two prisoners: a man and a woman. Each was bound at the wrists and tethered to a saddle of one of the riders.
Sheyndust leaned farther out the window to examine the captives: Kanosee farmers from the look of them. As she looked closer, she realized only one of the woman’s wrists was bound, the other one left free to clutch her child to her chest.
Is this what disturbed my meditation?
Her eyes narrowed, searching the woman’s face as they passed close under her window, but she recognized neither her nor the man. Clearly not the reason she was drawn from her trance.
Sheyndust opened her mouth to enquire of the patrol who these people were and where they came from when a knock at the door interrupted her. Her lips pressed together in a tight line, jaw muscles flexing beneath her cheeks in irritation at another disturbance. She took mental note of the captives’ faces, leaned away from the window and faced the door.
“Enter.”
The door swung open and Hahn Perdaro stepped across the threshold.
“Your excellence,” he said and bowed at the waist.
His eyes remained on her, trailing down her front and she looked down to see her robe had fallen open. He was eyeing her breast, her belly and below. She yanked the fabric closed.
“Why are you bothering me? Did I not leave word to be left alone?”
“Yes, of course, but I thought you’d-”
“I neither expect nor want you to think. You are employed to tell me what you know, nothing more.”
Disappointment caused the councilor’s face to sag, and the hurt evident in his visage brought some satisfaction to the Archon, though it was short lived; she knew he would not have disturbed her without reason. The feel of her flesh, the scent of her body insured he would always do what she asked.
“Yes. That’s why I’m here. I’ve heard rumors I thought…whispers you will want to know.”
She crossed the room toward him angrily, this time without noticing the fur of the bearskin rug, then her bare feet slapped the stone floor, carrying her to stand before the so-called Voice of the People. The corner of his mouth twitched, as though her proximity made him want to smile but he held himself in check. The Archon kept her expression stern and unhappy, but did not let on the true loathing she was beginning to feel for this man, for who he was and for the things she made herself do with him in service of furthering her goals.
“What is it?”
“The boy,” he said, his eyes flickering away from her gaze and back. “Graymon.”
The Archon felt her stomach lurch, though her outward appearance showed no reaction. “What about him?”
“They’ve taken him.”
“Taken him?” This time, she spoke the words between clenched teeth as she imagined Therrador going against her wishes, slipping out of the fortress with a band of mounted men intent on rescuing his son. “Who has taken him?”
“The king-bearer and the magician.”
“Impossible,” she snapped. “They should be dead by now. I have set much against them.”
“Apparently they are not so easily killed.”
She glared at him, feeling sure he meant the smile tilting the corner of his lips to mock her. The Archon clenched her fist, struggling to keep herself from slapping the expression off his face. She turned and paced back to the window, felt the rough stone hammering against her feet, the silk robe sandpapering her shoulders and back, the soft fabric tearing at her flesh and adding to her anger until she tore it off, shredding the material and throwing the remnants to the floor. She whirled around to find Perdaro staring at her with lust in his eyes, and her anger multiplied, exploding.
“Find them,” she screamed, her voice reverberating against the walls and startling the man. His dumfounded expression disappeared and his eyes filled with fear. His fear satisfied her.
“Yes, your Grace,” he said bowing shallowly and averting his eyes before hurrying out of the room.
The door creaked closed behind him and the Archon remained standing at the edge of the bearskin rug, staring at the closed door as she seethed. After a minute, she returned to the window, skirting the soft touch of the rug, and looked out across the courtyard again, uncaring who saw her nakedness. The chill air touched her, hardening her nipples and cooling her temper.
Her gaze scanned the area, passing over the soldiers without noticing either them or the citizens of the fortress. Did the boy really matter anymore? She needed him to ensure Therrador’s acquiescence, but he wouldn’t know the boy had been rescued. Truthfully, if she killed him now, the king wouldn’t know until it was too late.
That is it, then. I will kill him when we have him back.
No, it troubled her more to find out the bearer and his magician friend yet lived. How had she not known? After Shariel, she’d trusted they wouldn’t survive Poltghasa and Kanos instead of taking care of things herself; she’d been too distracted with Therrador and other matters to concentrate on them.
“What threat is a dead king to me, anyway?” she said aloud.
No, they weren’t worthy of her concern, not when she still controlled Therrador and they would have to face the entire army of Kanos to reach her or use the boy to manipulate the king.
She smiled to herself, satisfied things were going the way she wanted des
pite these small setbacks. Her vision would not be denied by anyone, certainly not a farmer and a dead king. She leaned out the window and filled her lungs with cold air.
At the edge of her vision, the Archon caught sight of the six riders and their prisoners again. She leaned father out the window, following their ride through narrowed eyes until they disappeared around a corner and out of sight.
What is it about them?
She continued to stare until a drunken voice distracted her.
“Lookit ‘em teats, Rawl!”
She glared at the men standing below the window looking up at her. The man who had spoken grinned, his eyelids drooping with too much drink, a line of saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth. His companion seemed more sober, his face taut with an expression that suggested he wished he was anywhere else in the world.
The Archon smiled and held her hand out toward the men, like she would wave to them. The drunken letch raised his hand in return and his companion fell back a step. A grim smile pulled at the Archon’s mouth as she snapped her hand into a fist and jerked it toward her chest. The drunken man spasmed once and fell twitching to the ground.
With a smile on her lips, the Archon spun from the window and walked across the room.
***
Emeline hugged Iana tight to her chest, grateful they’d arrived at the fortress and the end of their arduous journey, but worried at what might happen next. The one soldier-the leader of the band of Kanosee-had had his way with her every night of their trek while the others left her alone, but she didn’t know what he’d expect of her now their trip was done.
“Everything will be all right,” Lehgan whispered leaning toward her. Emeline didn’t respond or even raise her eyes to look at her husband.
The lead rider slid out of his saddle and Emeline tensed. At times, he’d treated her almost tenderly, but she also bore not-yet faded bruises as a result of his passion. As he approached, she looked down at her daughter, avoiding his eyes. He stood before her, hands on his hips, regarding her for a few seconds before he drew his knife from the sheath on his belt.
