Heart of the King kj-3

by Bruce Blake

  Emeline flinched away, though it didn’t escape her notice that Lehgan again made no move to protect her. The soldier brandished the knife between them, holding it close enough to her to ensure she saw it. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed he wouldn’t hurt Iana.

  The pressure of the cord around her wrist increased as though someone cinched it tighter, then it disappeared. Emeline opened her eyes and looked at her wrist; the soldier had cut the cord tethering her to his horse and had turned the blade to freeing Lehgan.

  “You can go,” the soldier said.

  Lehgan took a step away, but Emeline didn’t move immediately. She stared at the man, disbelieving that he would let them go like this. Surely, after all he’d put her through, this must be some sort of trick. She took a tentative half-step away and he moved forward. Emeline froze as the soldier leaned toward her until his face was only inches from hers.

  “I’ll miss you,” he whispered. She felt his breath on her cheek, smelled the rank odor of the dried pork he’d eaten for lunch. “My name is Hektor. Remember it; maybe we’ll see each other again some time.”

  She stepped away from him, her eyes wide. The soldier smiled and his companions laughed. Emeline felt a sickness in her stomach, but not just for what these men did to her.

  This is what people think Khirro is. Because of me.

  Lehgan’s touch on her arm startled her out of her stupor; she hurried away down the boulevard without him, leaving her tormentors behind and her husband to catch up. He did after a moment and walked beside her, silent at first. When they were around a corner, out of sight of their captors, he grabbed Emeline by the arm, forcing her to stop.

  “Emeline, I-”

  “No.” She jerked her arm from his grasp and stepped away a pace. Their eyes met and she glared, neither of them speaking for a few seconds. “We have to find Khirro.”

  Lehgan looked surprised. “What? Why should we find Khirro? No. I need to talk to you.”

  She shook her head.

  “Emeline.”

  “You could have done something.”

  He looked at her, his shoulders sagging, eyes turning watery. When he spoke, he did so in a whisper filled with emotion she didn’t trust to be real.

  “I should have.”

  “We have to find Khirro.”

  She walked away, Iana gurgling and cooing against her chest.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Emon Turesti watched the man emerge from the lane, look both directions like he had something to hide, then scurry down the boulevard toward him. Turesti shrank back into the shadows and waited for the man to pass, catching a look at him as he did. Dark, scraggly hair; down-turned eyes.

  Hu Dondon.

  Sir Alton Sienhin had summoned the Lord Chamberlain as well, though he met with them separately. Why would he not meet them together? Turesti shook his head and peered after Dondon, realizing he would never completely understand the military mind of a man like the general. He’d spent his life in the service of the king-no matter whose ass polished the throne-and sat in on innumerable strategy meetings and war councils, but his role in those was limited to note-taking and nodding agreement, his opinion neither asked for nor wanted. He’d learned much over the years, but many things still remained unclear.

  Turesti stepped out of the shadows and hurried to the mouth of the lane, where he stopped and looked back over his shoulder, aware his action bore a striking resemblance to Hu Dondon’s a few minutes before. His limp gray hair brushed the shoulders of his robe as he glanced the other direction to ensure it was also clear of curious eyes. No one followed him. He darted down the narrow lane, sandals scuffing through garbage strewn across the brief path leading to the plain wooden door at the end: his destination.

  “Gods,” he murmured, wishing he’d chosen to wear breeches and boots, as the cold weather demanded.

  He hiked up the bottom of his robe to prevent it from trailing through the trash, and picked his way toward the door, pausing when he reached it. A rime of frost glittered on the door’s handle and he felt the chill of it melting under his fingers as he grasped the handle, wondering if the door would be locked.

  It wasn’t.

  Turesti pushed the door open, stepped across the threshold, and quickly swung it closed behind him to shut out the cold and any prying eyes.

  “Ah, I see you received my invitation, Smoke.”

  He spun around, instinct throwing his hands up defensively. The light of a taper sitting on a shelf mounted high on the left wall illuminated the bushy mustache and ruddy face of Sir Alton Sienhin, commander of the king’s army.

  “You know I hate it when you call me that, Sir Alton.”

  “Yes. Yes I do.”

  Turesti surveyed the small room. Mostly empty shelves stood against three of the walls: a store room, picked clean by the war effort and not yet restocked. He’d have to poke fun at Hu Dondon, the Lord Chamberlain, the next time he saw him.

  The next time I see him when the two of us aren’t skulking about.

  Sir Alton sat on a foot stool in the far corner of the room, but rose when his guest entered. He wore a full set of leather and chain mail; his ever-present sword hung on one hip, a dagger on the other side, and Turesti wondered why he would be clad thus. Sienhin took a step toward him and the High Chancellor tensed involuntarily.

  “The kingdom has gone for a shit.”

  The knight’s choice of words caught him off-guard and Turesti stifled a laugh. Though true and obvious, the general’s flair for the melodramatic often struck him as funny.

  “Sir Alton,” Turesti said, relaxing a little, “this is not news. We are-”

  “Perdaro is in league with the Archon.”

  The robe around Turesti’s shoulders suddenly felt as though an alchemist had transformed its gold threads into lead. His shoulders sagged and his gaze slid toward the floor.

  “Hahn? It can’t be. I’ve known him since he was a child. I-”

  “Nothing is as we think, Smoke. The king has opened the gates to the enemy and the Archon holds his son captive. One of his most trusted advisors plots against the kingdom. Sir Matte is dead. These are desperate times and I need to know if you are worthy of my trust.”

  “Of course,” Turesti said looking up into Sienhin’s gauging eyes. “I’ve lived my entire life for the kingdom.”

  Sir Alton regarded him; a minute passed in silence. Finally, the general nodded once. Turesti’s shoulders relaxed and he released his held breath.

  “I will leave in two hours to go to Achtindel, and I will return with an army.”

  “You’ll be seen leaving,” Turesti said, surprised. “You won’t get through the guards at the gate.”

  “I’ll not be going out the gates.”

  Turesti’s eyes narrowed, his head tilted slightly to the right. The general looked at him without speaking.

  “The tunnels?” Turesti finally asked.

  “Aye. There’s one from this very room that will lead me straight outside the walls. There I’ll get a horse and be in the capital in a few days.”

  A thought occurred to Turesti and he suppressed a shudder. “And you’re telling me because you want me to accompany you?”

  A laugh burst out of the general hard enough to make his mustache quiver. He slapped Turesti on the shoulder.

  “No offence, Smoke, but if I’m taking anyone, it wouldn’t be you.”

  “Hu, then?”

  “No, not him, either.” Sir Alton’s eyes narrowed, his hand dropped off Turesti’s shoulder and his cheeks took on the pink hue they acquired whenever he became deadly serious, which was often. “Don’t tell Dondon what we spoke of. It’s best not to trust anyone.”

  Turesti’s eyes widened. “But I saw him leaving. You already spoke to him.”

  The knight’s glare bore into the older man, making him want to shrink away, but he held his ground. Turesti imagined that, if Sienhin’s mustache didn’t hide the majority of his jaw, he’d see the general grinding
his teeth.

  “For the sake of the kingdom, keep our conversation to yourself.”

  Turesti nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

  “Good. Be off with you then. Go about your duties like nothing is any different, but watch for a messenger in less than a week’s time. We will need someone trustworthy to open the gate so we may take back our kingdom. That will be your role.”

  “I will, Sir Alton. I will.”

  Turesti opened the door, stepped halfway through, then paused and looked back at the knight. Sir Alton Sienhin offered a half smile-denoted by a slight movement in the bushy ends of his mustache-then waved him to go. Turesti did, shutting the door behind him.

  He picked his way through the lane’s detritus, then strode down the boulevard, a lopsided smile on his face. It surprised him how good he felt knowing the general trusted him with such a pivotal task. After so many years in the service of more than one king, he’d been trusted with much, but this felt different, more important than anything he’d ever done. Never were the threats to the kingdom like this before, never this severe.

  He took a left down a narrower street that passed between the stores buildings on the way to his quarters, his footsteps echoing, his mind racing. The kidnapping of the king’s son explained much. Turesti didn’t have children himself for he never cared to take a wife-his tastes leaned toward decidedly different things than those of the average man-but he’d seen the bond between Therrador and Graymon.

  But what made Hahn turn his back on the kingdom?

  Perhaps King Braymon’s fall made him lose faith; it had shaken many, to be sure. And was it possible that Hu Dondon couldn’t be trusted, either? He’d been in service of the kingdom almost as long as himself.

  Emon Turesti shook his head as he walked, struggling to understand, trying to discern what to believe. At the end of the avenue, he turned right onto a narrow lane, at the end of which lay his quarters.

  “Smoke. What’s a man of your stature doing out so late at night?”

  The familiar voice startled Turesti and he stopped suddenly with an audible gasp. Even with his face hidden in shadow, he knew it was Hahn Perdaro standing before him.

  “H-Hahn,” Turesti said, failing in his effort to keep fear from his voice. “I’m just on my way to my quarters to call it a night.”

  “Hmm. More likely out buggering someone’s son, I suppose.”

  Turesti felt his cheeks flush; he shook his head. “No, I…I’m going home, nothing more.”

  Perdaro stepped out of the deep shadow into the street and Turesti took a step back.

  “What are you doing here, Hahn?”

  “Looking for you, of course. Why else would I be here at this time of night?”

  “L-looking for me? What ever could you want with me?”

  “I heard you had a clandestine meeting with Sir Alton. I need you to tell me what you spoke of.”

  “Sir Alton? Why no, I’ve not seen the general.” Turesti peered over his shoulder then back at Perdaro. “Why would you think I’ve seen him?”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Do you forget with whom you speak, Smoke? I am not just the Voice of the People, I am also their ears. Little happens that I don’t hear.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen the general.”

  “Liar,” Perdaro barked. “It will do you no good, Smoke. I’ll have the truth from you one way or another. Which way is up to you.”

  Turesti’s thoughts spun. Hahn Perdaro wasn’t a soldier, but he was younger and stronger. Turesti knew he wouldn’t fare well against him should he choose to fight, but perhaps the general was still where he left him. Maybe he could make it back to him ahead of Hahn.

  Perdaro smiled, eyes gleaming. Turesti stutter-stepped back, then spun around and ran directly into a soldier standing behind him. His head stuck hard against something solid, sending him stumbling, dazed. It took a second for his vision to refocus but when it did, he clearly saw the splash of red across a background of black chain mail. He raised his eyes and gazed upon rheumy eyes and cheeks black with rot. The undead soldier stepped toward him.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me, Smoke?”

  Emon Turesti parted his lips to scream, but Hahn Perdaro’s hand over his mouth stopped him.

  ***

  Sir Alton heaved a sigh and sagged down on the stool.

  Well, that’s done. Now let’s see what happens.

  He sat for a minute before blowing out the candle on the shelf and leaving the musty-smelling store room.

  He’d chosen this spot to meet the councilors because the building across the boulevard offered an ideal hiding spot from which to watch over it. After a quick check to be sure no one was around, he hurried across the street, unlocked the door and stole inside. He knew the room to be empty, but he stood by the door for a minute, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. Once they did, he crossed the room and crept up the creaky wooden steps to the second floor.

  An hour and a half later, hidden in shadow by the second story window, Sir Alton Sienhin shifted his weight carefully to keep his armor from making noise. As he got older, laying in wait wasn’t as easy, or as comfortable, as it had once been.

  The time he’d told Hu Dondon had come and gone, and no one came to ambush him or stop him. It seemed the Lord Chamberlain could be trusted; it wouldn’t be long before he found out whether he’d be able to say the same of Emon Turesti.

  The thought hadn’t finished forming when the sound of boots scraping on stone came to Sienhin’s attention. He shrank farther into the shadows, his back pressed against the wall, his hand on the hilt of his sword, both in readiness and to keep it from making noise and revealing him. A moment later, two undead Kanosee soldiers came into view.

  One of the soldiers walked normally enough that Sienhin wouldn’t have known he wasn’t a living man but for the red paint splashed across his chest. The second man’s leg dragged behind him like a dead thing, the side of his boot scraping the cobblestones as he hobbled along.

  They stopped at the entrance of the lane and looked up and down the avenue. Sienhin gritted his teeth. Were they here by coincidence, perhaps on a regular patrol of the fortress’ streets? Or had his plan revealed another rat? Of the two council members, he would have preferred to find the oft-interrupting Dondon the traitor if one of them had to be.

  The soldiers stood for a minute with their backs to the lane, neither of them speaking.

  I don’t even know if the beasts can speak, Sienhin realized.

  Two minutes passed. Three. Their eyes passed over Sienhin’s location more than once, but they must not have seen him hidden by the window. The general’s leg began to numb and he fought the urge to shift his weight for fear of giving himself away. If these two saw him, he wouldn’t know for sure whether to trust Turesti or not. He took a slow, deep breath and concentrated on holding his position. Luckily, he didn’t have much longer to wait; unluckily, the two undead men confirmed his worry.

  With one last look up and down the street, the man with the dead leg shuffled down the lane, grasped the door handle and opened it inward. The two of them disappeared inside, closing the door behind them.

  Sienhin leaned forward, relieving the pressure on his numb leg, and stared at the closed door. Every second of his decades of soldiering made him want to rush into the room and bring an end to whatever the two undead soldiers pathetically called a life. But he stopped himself, realizing the stakes were much higher than just these two men.

  “Gods curse you, Turesti,” Sienhin spat with soldiers safely out of earshot behind the heavy door. “Why would you turn on your kingdom?”

  The general’s lips squeezed into a tight line, his unkempt mustache hanging down, hiding his lower lip. He felt the color rising in his cheeks, the anger building in his chest, but nothing could be done about it, not now. Turesti’s time of reckoning would come.

  At least now he knew whom to trust.

  ***


  The pain of the wound in his abdomen flowed up through Emon Turesti’s chest and along the length of his limbs. He strained to move and relieve the pain, to roll onto his back and remove his cheek from the dirt, but no strength remained in his body. Another wave of agony rolled through him, tensing his body and making him hold his breath behind clenched teeth. When it subsided, he released the air from his lungs in a puff that sent ripples across the thin pool of his own blood in which he lay.

  “He didn’t show.”

  Turesti directed his eyes toward the voice, but only saw the toes of Hahn Perdaro’s boots. The man stepped closer and tapped his foot impatiently, splashing blood on Turesti’s cheek.

  “Did you lie to me, Smoke? Did you send my soldiers chasing wild fowl?”

  “No.” The word squeaked in his throat.

  “But Sienhin didn’t show.”

  The boots turned and paced away; some of the tension in Turesti faded, but as he relaxed, another bolt of pain from his wound grabbed him. He may not be a soldier, but he knew enough about gut wounds to know his chances of surviving diminished with each drop of blood that flowed out of him. He closed his eyes and fought back tears threatening at their edges. For all these years, he’d wanted nothing but to serve his kingdom and whatever king sat the throne; now he would die forced to betray it.

  “He told you the truth, Hahn.”

  The sound of the woman’s voice snapped Turesti’s eyes open.

  “How can you be sure? He’s loyal to the king.”

  “I know.”

  A pair of bare feet strode into his view, the red painted toe nails bright against alabaster skin. The woman walked toward him, stopping a few inches from his face. Turesti stared at his blood squeezing between her toes and the fear gripping his heart made him forget the pain in his abdomen.

  The woman stepped back and kneeled in front of him, heedless of her white gown pressed into the muddy floor. When she realized he could only move his eyes and not his head, she put a finger to his cheek and pivoted his face toward her so their eyes met.