Heart of the King kj-3

by Bruce Blake

  The red dragon passed twenty feet above Therrador’s head, the flap of its massive wings stirring the air with enough force to put them both off balance. The king gaped at it for a second; he’d never believed the legends that such beasts truly existed; he’d thought them the product of a fanciful imagination. Until now.

  More of the witch’s trickery.

  Without further thought to it, Therrador released Sir Matte to the fields of the dead with a swipe of his sword to the old knight’s neck. His head toppled off and his body hit the ground at the same instant the dragon touched down on the field ahead of them, its weight making the earth rumble.

  The beast reared back on its hind legs, threw its head up toward the sky and released a deafening roar before coming down on all four taloned feet. When it settled, Therrador saw the man seated on the dragon’s back. He wore no armor, only a white shirt, black breeches, and a dark cloak around his shoulders.

  A mirrored mask hid the dragonrider’s features.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  They’d found a horse large enough to accommodate both Khirro and Graymon, but the only other beast they’d located was the wayward donkey, and it struggled under Emeline and Iana’s weight. Graymon bounced in the saddle, his arms wrapped around Khirro’s waist, while the donkey followed behind, slowing them, its lead tethered to the horse.

  The battle will be done before we arrive.

  Under other circumstances, Khirro would have been glad to miss a battle. Too many times he’d come close to losing his life when sword play commenced, or seen his friends and companions fall. It started with Jowyn-the victim of Kanosee hellfire hurled over the fortress walls when their attack commenced so long ago-and Athryn and Lehgan were but the latest.

  Hasn’t there been enough death?

  It weighed on him, but he couldn’t give up now, even if he wanted to-the spirit inside drove him onward despite the fear and forebodings in his heart. No longer did the fate of the kingdom-of people unseen and unmet-rest on his shoulders; now, Emeline, Iana and Graymon gave faces to those in peril, and he knew he couldn’t let them down.

  As if she heard him thinking of her, Emeline urged the laboring donkey forward to ride beside him.

  “I’m sorry for what has happened to you, Khirro.”

  He looked at her, but she stared straight ahead at the path they rode instead of meeting his eyes.

  “The Shaman cursed this upon me, not you,” he said. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  She shook her head and looked at him. Graymon shifted in the saddle behind him.

  “Not this. Everything before.” She breathed deep as though preparing herself. Khirro tensed, readying himself to hear her words. “The ghost woman told me I needed to tell you all.”

  “Elyea.”

  “Yes.”

  Khirro looked down at his hands gripping the reins, at the horse’s mane moving gently with the animal’s gait. He missed Elyea and spent much of his time keeping her from his thoughts. It was too easy to get distracted from what needed to be done when she inhabited his mind, too easy to feel guilty for his role in her death. Deaths.

  “You don’t need to,” he said to avoid the pain of her memory.

  “I do. Not because she told me to, but because you need to know the truth.”

  They looked at each other. Iana snuggled in against Emeline’s breast; Graymon held tighter around Khirro’s waist and sighed, obviously not enjoying the conversation of adults, but keeping quiet nonetheless.

  “What I said happened never did.” Her gaze dropped from his.

  “So I didn’t rape you.”

  She shook her head.

  “And Iana is Lehgan’s.”

  When she raised her head to look upon him again, her eyes glistened with tears. “No, Khirro. Iana is yours.”

  Shock jolted through Khirro and he hauled back on the reins; the horse halted with a whinny of protest.

  “Mine? But you said-”

  “I said you didn’t rape me. I didn’t say we didn’t…” She glanced over his shoulder at Graymon instead of completing the sentence.

  Khirro stared down at his hands resting on the pommel of the saddle. Flakes of snow landed on his gauntlets and he saw their unique shapes and fragile beauty before they melted away.

  “But I don’t remember any of it. How could I not remember…that?”

  Emeline looked away again and Khirro waited for her to tell him more, his breath held. For almost a year, he’d debated with himself about what happened that night, felt ashamed of what he thought he’d done. Could the truth possibly be more difficult to bear?

  “We both drank that night, that much is true. And things led somewhere I didn’t expect them to go.” She lowered her voice. “You don’t remember because I drugged you.”

  Khirro stared at the side of her head for a second, expecting more, but when none came, he put his heels to his horse. The donkey hesitated, the lead pulling tight before the bedraggled animal followed. They rode in silence for a few minutes, Khirro’s lips pressed tight together as he tried to make sense of what Emeline had said. He didn’t want to ask, didn’t want for her to say more, but his head spun with it. He slowed his horse for the donkey to catch up.

  “I don’t understand. Why did you tell people what you did?”

  “I love Lehgan, Khirro.” She paused. “Loved, I mean. The plan arose when we heard news of the conscriptors were coming to the village. He and I couldn’t live without each other and we thought that, if your parents thought ill of you, and Lehgan and I told them of our love, they would keep him safe.”

  “But you could have drugged me and lied. We didn’t need to lay together.”

  “I know, and I didn’t plan to. But something happened, something unexplainable, and I was overcome. I felt as though I had no control over my actions.”

  Her words stirred pain in Khirro’s chest. I truly have a child, but not out of love.

  “I wanted to stop the conscriptors from taking you,” she said, and he heard the sorrow in her voice, the truth. “But how could I after what we said you did? How could I accuse you of…of rape and then ask for mercy on your behalf?”

  She began to cry and Khirro’s chest tightened, squeezing around his heart and making it difficult to breathe, difficult to speak, but there was still more to know.

  “But how do you know she is mine? Surely Lehgan is Iana’s father.”

  She shook her head slowly, still refusing to meet his eyes. “Lehgan and I didn’t take bed together until after we were married. He would have it no other way.”

  “Did he know?”

  “No. We married quickly and I couldn’t bear to tell him the truth of it. He died thinking Iana his child.”

  Emeline’s shoulders shook as she sobbed quietly and Khirro looked away lest the tears in her eyes bring some to his. He stared straight ahead and, through the falling snow, saw a horse approaching. With a battle ahead of them, he should have felt fear or trepidation; instead, a sense of relief spread through him.

  “Look,” he said reigning his horse to a halt.

  Emeline sniffled. “A rider? Who is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Wait here.”

  He untethered the donkey and held his hand out to help Graymon down.

  “I want to come with you.”

  “You need to stay here, Graymon. You need to protect the women.”

  The boy hesitated a second before assenting. He held Khirro’s hand, threw his leg over the horse and allowed himself to be lowered to the ground. Khirro leaned down and handed him the jeweled dagger that had belonged to Elyea.

  “Keep them safe, but don’t cut yourself with it.”

  Graymon’s eyes brightened and he nodded enthusiastically as he accepted the blade. He stepped in front of the donkey and held the knife in both hands, tip pointed toward the approaching rider. Khirro smiled and leaned down to ruffle the boy’s hair.

  “Good work.” He looked up at Emeline, whose tears had stopped.
“I’ll be right back. If anything happens, turn your steed around and head for the fortress.”

  She looked at him without responding and he wondered if she would do as he said. He felt as though he should say more, or ask to hold his child, but he didn’t. Instead, he pulled the Mourning Sword, felt the comfort of its hilt in his grip, and rode out to intercept the oncoming horse.

  ***

  It seemed that every time Sienhin struck down an attacker, living or dead, another rose to take its place. The green end of the staff flashed and glowed, its light strengthening and fading. The general realized its unearthly illumination was responsible for raising the dead but, without his sword, he possessed no other weapon with which to defend himself. If he kept it, the undead would eventually overrun them; if he disposed of it, he would be defenseless.

  But I have to.

  He felled two men with a single stroke, and two more climbed out of the slurry of blood and flesh and dirt. Most of those attacking him now were the undead, their faces smeared with gore, some of them missing ears or limbs, and all of them with blank, staring eyes and an indefatigable desire to kill.

  Trying to kill them is going to be the death of me.

  He put his heels into his horse and the destrier surged forward, crashing through a wall of dead Kanosee and Erechanians alike. Fortified by the movement, the general urged his steed on; it trod a Kanosee soldier with a long wound across his face into the sod, then bowled over another. This man screamed.

  A minute later, Sienhin found himself clear of the fighting. He reined his horse around and looked back at the ebb and flow of the battle. His insides ached at seeing it-he’d never in his life deserted a fight, but what choice did he have? He looked at the staff in his hand, then looked around him, ready to toss it aside and find himself another weapon.

  No, that’s not enough. I have to destroy it.

  “Hmph.”

  Sienhin tucked the staff under his arm and slid awkwardly out of the saddle. His feet sank through the thin layer of snow and half an inch deep in mud, the bloody earth squelching under the soles of his boots. Breathing deep to prepare for the coming pain, the cold tang of winter burned his nostrils as he swung his near-useless right arm around to grab the end of the staff. He intended to lift his knee and break the cursed stick, but quickly realized the grip of his injured arm was too weak; if he attempted it, he wouldn’t be able to hold on.

  “Gods curse me,” he muttered and put the end of the staff to the ground instead.

  The general stomped the butt end into the dirt, then readjusted his grip on the other end. Satisfied his hold was solid, he raised his right boot and slammed his foot down on the staff.

  The impact vibrated up the staff and through his arm, across his chest and into his injured shoulder. Sienhin closed his eyes and cried out in pain.

  “Perhaps you should not attempt to destroy that which is not yours.”

  The woman’s voice sliced through both the din of battle and the general’s pain, startling him. His eyes snapped open to find her standing five paces in front of him, flakes of snow clinging to her hair sparkling green in the staff’s light. The Archon wore no armor to protect her from the fight, no cape or cloak to keep the cold from her shoulders. She titled her head to the side and smiled the way an adult might do to a child, or a pet; her expression lit a fuse in the general.

  “It’s not really the staff I seek to destroy, is it?” His eyes narrowed as he forced the words through clenched teeth. “A staff is but a staff, only as dangerous as its wielder.”

  She laughed, the sound rolling out of her mouth and across the space between them, touching him with the power of a slap to the face.

  “And who has been wielding it, Sir Alton Sienhin, general of the king’s army of Erechania? Not I.”

  Sir Alton growled in the back of his throat, felt rage and hatred bubble in his chest. He knew better than to let anger take him, but here stood the woman threatening the destruction of his home, the end of his people. His forehead furrowed, bushy brows nearly blocking his vision; the muscles in his arms and chest tensed shooting more pain through his body, but he ignored it.

  “It ends here,” he said and whipped the staff above his head to strike a killing blow.

  “No, it does not,” the woman said, pointing at him.

  The general froze. He struggled to move, but to no avail. His eyes flickered to the nail at the end of her finger, painted the deep red of blood, and she strode closer until it was only an inch from his face. He watched the color run to form a drop that fell to the ground.

  He grunted with strain, but for his effort got only a droplet of sweat that rolled between his eyes and down the bridge of his nose. It hung from the tip for a second, and the general watched with crossed eyes until he felt it plummet to splatter on the top of his boot. When he looked up again, the woman’s fingernail had changed.

  Instead of the red of blood, a picture was painted on the nail. Sienhin squinted to better see the depiction. It was a man-not just any man, Sienhin saw, but himself-his body folded and broken, a look of death on his face as a horse dragged him amongst corpses.

  The general’s breath caught in his throat at a touch on his right wrist.

  He forced himself to look and glimpsed his horse’s reins snaking their way around his wrist, encircling his forearm. His eyes widened and flickered back to the woman.

  “Damn your magic, witch. Fight me like a man.”

  She lowered her finger and leaned forward, bringing her face close to his. Her breath caressed his face; it smelled of herbs and mint and another, more unpleasant odor beneath-the stench of death.

  “Why would I do that, Sir Alton?” She moved closer, pressed her body against his. “I am not a man.”

  Her chest pressed against him hard enough he felt the shape of her breasts through his mail shirt. A vision of her naked and sprawled across a bed jumped to his mind; he blinked hard to clear the vision and spat in her face.

  The woman took a step back, her expression hardening as she wiped his spittle off her cheek.

  “Give me the staff.”

  Her tone held no more hint of jest, no gentleness or playfulness. Instead, her words dripped hatred and threat. Sienhin stared at her, satisfied he’d gotten to her, no matter how little. He narrowed his eyes in defiance despite the feel of the lead tightening around his arm.

  The woman grabbed the staff, yanked it, but Sienhin’s grip held firm. He chuckled at the back of his throat, a sound that brought a touch of red to the woman’s white cheeks. Her lips curled back from her teeth in a snarl; he smiled behind his mustache, defiant.

  The woman tugged on the staff again, this time slowly exerting force to pull it out of his hand, but she stopped at the sound of a roar rolling across the battlefield. Her gaze shifted away from the general, her eyes grew wide. With his back to the fight, he didn’t know what made the sound, but it didn’t matter as long as the witch stood in front of him. He tried to jar the staff out of her hand, intending to crack her about the head with it, but the grip of her magic continued to hold him from moving.

  “No,” she whispered and, with one solid yank, wrenched the staff out of the general’s grip and used it to slap his horse across its hind flank.

  The horse bolted; the reins went tight immediately, pulling Sienhin off his feet. His injured shoulder pulled from its socket and he screamed in agony. As the horse fled, the general bounced over the ground, hitting corpses and bowling over men. Before he disappeared amongst the throng of fighting soldiers, he caught a glimpse of a red dragon rearing up to breathe a column of flame.

  ***

  Khirro approached the rider cautiously, the Mourning Sword held at the ready. He clearly saw the man on the horse, recognized the white shirt, the black cloak, the silvered mask. A sense of excitement and relief roiled in his belly, but it was tempered by apprehension and fear-the purpose of a mask is to hide a face, deceive people.

  With five yards between them, Khirro reined
his horse to a stop. The other rider did the same. A minute passed and neither moved. In the distance, Khirro heard the sounds of battle crossing the plains on snow-filled winds.

  “Who are you?” Khirro asked turning his horse to make sure the rider saw the sword in his hand.

  The man reached up, threw back the hood of his cloak and pulled the mask off his face. Khirro’s eyes went wide and he found himself unable to say anything for a few second, then he found his voice.

  “Athryn!” He urged his horse forward, unable to keep a smile from is face despite the battle in front of him and Emeline’s revelation behind. The magician’s lips tilted in a reserved smile, his eyes remained serious.

  “It is good to see you, my friend.”

  “I thought you dead.”

  “As did I,” Athryn said. “But there were yet other plans for me.”

  “Plans? What do you mean?” He pulled up beside his friend.

  “We do not have time now, Khirro. The battle does not go well. I have intervened, but you are needed.”

  A shiver crawled up Khirro’s spine and his smile fled. “But I have Emeline with me, and Graymon, and…” He paused. “And my daughter.”

  “I will see to them.”

  “But I-”

  “Khirro.” Athryn’s voice carried a commanding tone that brooked no argument. “This is your time. This is why you have come all this way.”

  “I don’t think I can. Something has changed, Athryn.”

  The magician leaned toward him, looked deep into his eyes. Khirro didn’t want to look back at him, but felt unable to move his gaze away.

  “Yes, something has changed: now you have a child to fight for.”

  He knows. Has he always known?

  Khirro’s lips twitched with the question, but Athryn slapped his hand on his shoulder and spoke again.