Heart of the King kj-3

by Bruce Blake

  The small building in which they'd taken refuge had been damaged during the Kanosee siege, and no door hung in the doorway. Lehgan stopped before crossing the threshold, leaned with one hand against the wall as though he needed its support to hold himself up. Emeline looked at his back, at the way his head hung forward, and thought about telling him it was all right, that everything would heal and life would return to normal. She didn’t, because she didn’t know if it would.

  Lehgan looked back over his shoulder and she saw his eyes had softened, his jaw relaxed. Their eyes met and sadness and regret hovered in the air between them. They both saw it, they both felt it, but neither acknowledged it to the other. Lehgan’s gaze dropped; he turned and strode away down the street.

  Emeline looked down at their baby sleeping in her arms. Iana’s lips moved, still suckling through her gentle snores; a line of milk-cloudy drool ran from the corner of her mouth across her cheek. Her hair-the chestnut brown of her father’s-had grown long enough to form a curl at the front of her head. Emeline reached out and smoothed it, the touch of her fingers on her baby’s skin soothing her, releasing the emotion pent up inside. Her lip quivered as she watched her daughter sleep, and the tears came.

  Emeline closed her eyes and lowered her head. She pursed her lips, attempting to hold back the sobs so she wouldn’t wake Iana, but her shoulders quaked as her breath escaped her lungs. The tattered blanket slipped off her back and she felt the cold of the evening, but she didn’t reach for it, holding Iana closer instead. A moment later, an unseen hand replaced the blanket on her shoulders. Emeline raised her head and wiped tears away on her forearm, happy for her husband’s return.

  “Lehgan, I-”

  It wasn’t Lehgan. Instead, a shadowy figure stood before Emeline. At first, she thought tears made her eyesight misty, but she quickly realized she was seeing the ghostly woman who visited her before.

  “You,” Emeline said.

  The ghost woman stood silently. An unfelt breeze moved her skirt, its hem hanging an inch above the ground; her hair stirred around her shoulders. Emeline sniffled and wiped her arm across her eyes again. Iana stretched, yawned, but didn’t wake.

  “Why are you here?”

  “You despair.”

  I was raped while my husband watched and did nothing. Now he’s gone and I’m left alone without so much as a door to protect me. I traveled all this way to help a man I betrayed and I’m visited by a ghost. Yes, I despair.

  All of this ran through her head, but she allowed none of it past her lips. She simply nodded. The ghost woman stroked her fingers across Emeline’s forehead, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

  “I know this is difficult, but you must stay true. Lehgan knows what he has done, how you have been hurt. He will be there for you when it matters. You need to stay strong. For your sake, and his, and Iana’s. And for the kingdom. You are more important than you can know.”

  Emeline sighed and swallowed around the hard knot in her throat. She didn’t feel important, not even to her husband, let alone the kingdom.

  “If I am so important,” she said, then paused to take a shuddering breath. “If I’m so important, why has all this happened to me?”

  “Child, there is no good reason for this to happen to you. To anybody. It just is, but you can choose to let it drive a wedge between you and your husband, allow it to defeat you, or you can find strength and determination in it. The choice is yours.”

  Emeline looked into the woman’s eyes, so green they might have held precious emeralds deep inside. Her cheeks were speckled alabaster and, if she didn’t hold Iana in her arms, Emeline might have reached out and touched one to see if she was possibly real instead of a ghost. If she did, she thought she’d find she and the woman had more in common than she might know. The ghostly woman nodded as though she heard Emeline’s thoughts.

  “There is not much longer to wait. Khirro approaches, and with him will come battle and bloodshed. You cannot avoid it. You will be part of it.”

  Emeline’s lip quivered as the ghost woman stepped away, her words echoing in Emeline’s ears.

  Battle and bloodshed. You will be part of it.

  The woman’s form faded and Emeline allowed her head to fall forward. She looked at Iana’s peaceful expression as the baby slept and seeing it brought sadness into her heart like it squeezed through her veins with her blood. Her eyes slid closed and fresh tears trickled down her cheeks. She breathed deep to calm herself, but the breath carried with it an unfamiliar odor, a mingling of tangy herbs and unpleasant smells best left unidentified.

  Emeline raised her head and opened her eyes, suddenly feeling as though someone watched her. She looked toward the doorway and found it empty but for a wisp of twilight mist that disappeared so quickly, she couldn’t be sure it existed in the first place. Her shoulders relaxed and the feeling faded. When she looked around the room at the cracked walls and the dirt floor, the ghostly woman was gone.

  Iana cooed in her mother’s arms and Emeline looked down into the babe's face, at her pursed lips and drooping lids, and tried not to think about the woman’s words.

  ***

  Elyea backed away from Emeline, let her relax and be with her daughter. Things would be more difficult for her soon-they would be for everyone-so best to let her have these moments when the opportunity arose. Despite her past with Khirro, this woman didn’t deserve what had happened to her.

  The world lightened around Elyea as the call of the fields pulled her back, her work done for the night. She felt her surroundings begin to fade and relished the thought of returning to jade grass and azure sky, but as the broken-down shack started to dim, a feeling jolted her.

  She looked first to Emeline and her child, worried for their safety. They remained as she’d left them seconds before, until Emeline raised her head and looked toward the doorway. Elyea followed her gaze.

  A wisp of mist sat on the threshold, a faint red tint to the vapor. The sight of it brought a bolt of distress to Elyea, and she felt herself drawn back to the world by the out-of-place mist. It swirled along the ground for a second, as though staring back at the young mother and her child before the small animal-sized bank of fog snaked its way down the avenue like a thing alive.

  Elyea immediately started after it, her own feet gliding above the floor as she passed silently across the room to the door without Emeline’s notice. The vapor continued down the street until it came to a closed door set with a rusted iron ring. It paused as though distracted by the light shining through the crack beneath the door.

  Elyea hovered above the cobblestones, a debate of logic and emotion raging within her ghostly form. She knew who was behind the door, and what they plotted. The success of their plans was vital to the safety of the kingdom and she wanted to rush forward to stomp the mist into oblivion before its presence fouled them. At the same time, she knew the vapor was more than the mist brought on by twilight, that the person behind it wielded more power than she could handle and interfering would be the end of her and perhaps those behind the door. She hoped it would move on without divining what went on inside.

  Elyea gasped and her hope disappeared as the mist slithered beneath the door.

  Now she knows.

  A noise behind her caught her attention-the small sound of the baby waking. Elyea glanced over her shoulder at Emeline loving her daughter, then she moved down the avenue away from the mist that wasn’t simply mist.

  Returning to the fields of the dead would have to wait.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sir Alton Sienhin shifted uncomfortably at the lack of weight on his shoulders. It was a rare occurrence for him to be without armor, but haste was needed in reaching Achtindel, so he’d dispensed with his normal attire in favor of faster travel.

  “Probably for the best,” he mumbled to the empty tunnel. “I’d likely fall in this filthy water and drown with it on.”

  “Did you say something, Sienhin?”

  He looked up at
Therrador standing a few feet away, torch in hand. The king wore a black cloak, black shirt and black breeches to accompany his general to the tunnel in the hopes of escorting him unnoticed. So far, it had worked.

  “Nothing,” Sienhin said.

  He looked down at the water oozing past a foot below where he stood. The torch light reflected on its black surface and he saw things floating past on a mild current. He struggled to keep himself from wondering what they were-some things one doesn’t need to know.

  “Step down, then I’ll hand you the torch.”

  The general nodded and drew a deep breath in through flared nostrils, a breath he quickly regretted. The smell was ghastly: dead and rotten and earthy, garbage and feces and worse. He let the foul air out of his lungs in a puff that stirred the hairs of his long mustache, clenched his fists in determination, and stepped carefully off the stone stair and into the foul runoff.

  He didn’t know how deep the water went, so the general held Therrador’s hand for support while his foot sought the bottom. It struck solid but slippery stone with the water level at his knee. Sienhin grunted and lowered his other foot into the water and transferred his left hand from the king’s grip to the step.

  “Okay?” Therrador leaned toward him holding the torch at arm’s length to allow the general to see his surroundings.

  “It’s damned slippery.” Sienhin shuffled his feet, stirring up the black water around his knees. The soles of his boots broke through the slime and found purchase on the stone floor. “How far does the tunnel run?”

  “Not too far. It runs straight to the outer wall.”

  “Hmph.” Sienhin stared at a lump floating near his leg, bobbing toward him like a living thing drawn to his scent. He kicked at it, sending waves across the water’s greasy surface, then turned to the king without waiting to see if he’d successfully shooed it away.

  Therrador crouched and held the torch out to his general; Sienhin reached up and took it. Their gazes met.

  “I know you are unhappy with decisions I’ve made, Sir Alton. If I could change what happened, know that I would. But it isn’t possible, and I will do whatever I can to make amends.”

  Sienhin looked at him for a moment, grinding his teeth so that his jaw muscles flexed beneath his ruddy cheeks. Flickering torchlight reflected in the king’s eyes and lent a swarthiness to his face it didn’t usually have; his black, braided beard trailed from his chin to disappear against the black of his cloak. Sir Alton Sienhin had known this man for decades and never found reason to distrust him until he’d partaken in the ultimate treachery. Could he trust him now?

  What choice do I have?

  The general nodded. “I’ll do whatever needs to be done to save the kingdom.”

  A shadow of a smile flickered across Therrador’s face; seeing it caused a twist in Sienhin’s gut. What did it mean? Before he could divine its origin, it disappeared and the king was extending his hand toward him. The general looked at it for a second, then grasped it.

  “Good luck, my friend. The Gods be with you.”

  Sienhin nodded once, pulled his hand from the king’s, and started down the tunnel without a word.

  ***

  The going was slow.

  Sir Alton shuffled his feet along the bottom of the channel, dragging his boots through the slime as he went to keep from slipping and ending up in the putrid water. He held the torch in his left hand and his right rested on the hilt of his sword, both to be ready in case he needed it, as well as to angle it and keep the tip of the scabbard out of the water.

  The tunnel was wide enough for six men to stand shoulder to shoulder between its stone walls; when he raised the torch over his head, the general saw the curving stone ceiling just above the flickering flames. It was too high for him to reach, but he wouldn’t want to. Black-looking mold and moss covered most of it, with gray stone showing through occasionally. The growth spilled part way down the walls, but ceased before it reached a level even with Sienhin’s head. Side channels-grated and too small for a man to crawl through-opened on to the main tunnel at regular intervals a foot above water level. Water trickled through some, but dark sludge that made his stomach churn dripped from most.

  “Curse this place,” Sienhin muttered, the words echoing and bouncing from the walls to be squelched by the moss-moldy ceiling. Amongst the reverberating words, he thought he heard a splash not made by himself.

  Sienhin stopped and held his breath, listening. He heard nothing but the sound of the torch’s flame crackling in his ear and a trickle of water from a grate ahead on the left. He waited another few seconds, then carried on, moving more slowly, wary. Ripples on the surface of the black water carried the torchlight away to disappear in the dark tunnel. He squinted, straining to see beyond the few yards of sight afforded by the torch. A chunk of debris vaguely the shape of a finger floated past his leg.

  He moved steadily forward until he noticed the ripples he created clashing with wavelets rolling back toward him.

  Sir Alton stopped, his gaze fixed on the water as the ripples created by his movement subsided. The water smoothed, then a series of small waves washed toward the general. He clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on his sword’s hilt.

  “Who’s there?”

  He barked the words, hoping to scare off any creature which might lurk in the dark. With practiced skill, he loosened the first few inches of his blade.

  No reply came at first, but then, yards farther down the tunnel, he saw a green spark of light. Tiny at first, like an ember cast into the sky by some eldritch fire, the spark grew larger and brighter until it rivaled his own torch. Then he saw the light’s wielder.

  “Hahn? What in the name of the Gods are you…”

  Sienhin took a few sloshing strides toward him, then stopped, both at the memory of what Therrador told him about the Voice of the People, and as the other figures standing behind Hahn Perdaro came into view.

  “Hello, General.” Perdaro smiled and gestured at the men standing behind him. “We’re glad you could make it.”

  Without the sickly green glow at the end of the staff in Hahn Perdaro’s hand, the six creatures standing with him would have been hideous. The light, however, turned them into monsters, deepening the hole in one’s throat, making the other’s sunken eyes sink farther into its skull. Parchment thin skin pulled tight across a dented skull took on an amphibious hue appropriate for the damp tunnel surroundings. Sienhin lowered his brows and pulled his sword.

  “What is this, Hahn?”

  The Voice of the People smiled crookedly. “Exactly what it looks like, General. We’re here to stop you.”

  “Traitor. How could you do this to your king? To your kingdom?”

  Perdaro’s laughter echoed down the tunnel and Sienhin felt heat rise in his cheeks. He concentrated to keep anger from quaking his sword hand.

  “This kingdom was lost long ago-long before Braymon ever fell. It just didn’t know it yet.” He brandished the glowing end of his staff toward the general. “Do you see this? That’s not flame, old friend, it’s magic. How can you fight it? And them.” He gestured again at the undead soldiers.

  “I care not for your magic and your dead men, Hahn.” Sienhin took a step forward, closing the distance between himself and his adversaries, and felt a familiar calmness descend on his mind despite his outward bluster. It was ever this way with a fight imminent. “I care only for my homeland.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Sir Alton. This is a battle you cannot win. Lay down your sword and join me. I have the Archon’s ear, and I’ll make sure she knows of your cooperation. You will be compensated.”

  “You can have that whore’s ear. I’ll not lay my sword down until I have her head.”

  “As you like.”

  Perdaro stepped back and swept his arms forward. With the gesture, the five undead soldiers advanced, chipped swords and rusted axes in hand.

  The general’s muscles tensed, ready to accept their attack, but his gaze flicke
red away at the feel of a cold touch around his knees. A billowy white mist had crept into the drainage tunnel from one of the side ducts. It resembled a mist that might collect in a meadow with the dawn of a springtime sun, and it floated past him as though it moved with a purpose, collecting in the space between him and the dead men. Sienhin’s legs and sword arm strained to the point of pain.

  What manner of deviltry is this?

  The Kanosee dead men halted at the sight of it, seemingly unwilling to let their lifeless flesh contact the vapor. It swirled a slow, gentle circle, then extended upward into a slender column.

  “What are you waiting for?” Perdaro screeched. “Kill him!”

  The Kanosee soldiers looked at each other with dead eyes and hesitated a second longer. In that instant, the column of mist rectified itself into the shape of a ghostly woman. Sienhin gasped a half-breath in surprise but stopped himself for fear inhaling the mist might prove deadly.

  “Whore,” he muttered raising his sword.

  The translucent woman advanced on him before the soldiers did and, before she made contact with him, he saw it wasn’t the Archon, but a face he didn’t know. Then the ghostly woman’s hands touched his chest and, instead of passing through him or wrapping around him as a mist should have done, her palms hit him like a mace, knocking his wind free of his lungs and sending him from his feet.

  The general tumbled backward, arms thrashing for balance. The torch hit the murky water first, hissing as it extinguished and throwing the tunnel into the sickly green glow of Hahn Perdaro’s staff, but Sienhin’s experience of it was short-lived. His back hit the water, then his head. In an instant, the sludgy liquid surrounded him, covered him.

  Foul fluid touched his tongue, rubbed against his eyes. The black water muted the light of Perdaro’s staff to a far-off turquoise tint, but Sienhin paid it little attention, for in a matter of seconds the undead soldiers, or the ghost woman, or both, would be on him. He fought his throat’s urge to gag the squalid water from his mouth and attempted to sit up and remove himself from its depths, to bring his sword to bear in defense, but it felt as though a weight sat atop his chest, holding him below the surface.