Spirit of the King kj-2

by Bruce Blake

  Spirit of the King

  ( Khirro's Joyrney - 2 )

  Bruce Blake

  Bruce Blake

  Spirit of the King

  Chapter One

  I saw verdant fields stretching horizon to horizon, endless as far as vision reached. A tender breeze pushed waves across flowers of red and blue and yellow and more. No clouds crowded the bright, sunless sky and the lone sound of delicate birdsong was the only thing disturbing the silent calm.

  Paradise.

  But it’s all gone now, replaced by darkness. No song of birds. No flowery perfume. No indescribable colors. No sky. I can’t tell if I’m awake and blind, asleep and dreaming, or dead yet somehow aware. My arms and legs feel nothing, as though they may not even exist. My mouth makes no sounds, if I have a mouth. I do not breathe. There are only these words in my head and the longing to return to that infinite field.

  The blackness is complete. It surrounds me and fills me, holds me fast, floating in nothing, like a leaf fallen on a lake and frozen in place by a winter wind. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what I am.

  I don’t know who I am.

  All I remember is lush grass, azure sky, the fragrance of blossoms. Nothing before that perfect place, and after it is only this nothing. I feel there’s more, though, important things I didn’t want to forget. People, places, events-the things that make a life. They’re all gone. If I have eyes, I close them, concentrating my thoughts to discover what more there might have been. But are they my thoughts?

  I float in the blackness for a second or an eternity; they’re the same to me. Nothing changes. Eyes open or closed, alive or dead, awake or asleep, the dark-my only companion-refusing to answer my questions.

  After some time, or perhaps no time at all, the shadow lightens. The change is almost imperceptible at first; a lighter black, if that’s possible, until my world slowly becomes gray. I try to blink the eyes I don’t have, move the arms I don’t know exist; still, nothing happens. I am only my thoughts floating in a lighter colored nothing.

  My surroundings go from iron gray to silver, and finally white, but this is not the white of noonday sun on the sail of a ship. It is snow too long on the ground, a dress washed too many times. There is nothing bright to this white. It is flat and dead, without color or warmth. It is more nothing. If I could sigh, I would use the breath to release my frustration. What did I do to deserve having the glorious world of green and blue, of flowers and grass and sky, taken from me? Could there be worse punishment than being ripped from that and banished to this?

  Black spots appear before me, around me. I reach out to them without reaching out. I don’t know what it is, but it is finally something. The first something in…how long? The spots swirl and spin like birds wheeling across a distant blank sky, or perhaps they collect like a cloud of black flies waiting to feed. Either is welcome relief. They make me feel like I have eyes again, like I can see. If I do, I have not the lids to allow me to blink.

  The spots collide, whirlpooling against the white background and sticking to each other to make larger patches of black. More bits of dark nothing are absorbed by the bigger pieces, expanding it, spreading. My fascination turns to apprehension as the bigger patches of black carry with them a feeling of dread.

  The last few pieces come together in unspectacular fashion leaving a single patch of black before me. It ebbs and flows, a blackened glob that might be tiny as a flea or bigger than the world, for I have no frame of comparison to know which it is or where in between it may fall. Its agitation slows and a shape forms.

  At first I don’t recognize it; I don’t remember shapes, only the field and the heavens. When it’s done, it dawns on me what it is: the shape of a person clad in black cloak and cowl. Or perhaps a cloak shaped like a person. It lifts an arm toward me and the sleeve falls away to reveal a white hand, though not so white as my world. I gasp if I can gasp and feel something I recognize as hope.

  There is color at the end of the fingers.

  I cannot name the colors, but they are such contrast to where I have been. A tear spills from my eye leaving a trail down my cheek. It touches my lip, my tongue, and I taste the saltiness of my joy. This brings more tears.

  I am again.

  The figure floats closer as I smile and cry and laugh without sound. Maybe this thing, this person, was sent to take me back to my perfect expanse, or to whatever came before. I reach toward it, wanting to touch the cloth of its cloak, wanting to feel something, but I am still without arms, without body, despite the feel of the tear on my cheek, the taste of it on my tongue.

  The black apparition comes closer. I search beneath its hood, my new found vision blurred by welcome tears, but see nothing. My blessed eyes find the fingertips instead, the color, and I recognize what I see. On each fingernail is painted a tiny picture of my paradise-emerald grass on one, cobalt sky on another, flowers of many colors on the rest, their petals stirred by an unfelt breeze. More tears flow, some in sadness, some happiness, the rest relief and fear. I still don’t know where or who I am, or what’s happened to me, but I’m no longer alone.

  The painted fingertips touch where my shoulder would be. I feel it. The figure makes a sound.

  “Shhhhh.”

  It’s not the sibilance of a snake, but the sound a parent might make to calm a child. It works. I sigh a chest-full of air-I breathe-and finally feel alive. I can see, feel. It still may be a dream, but I’m glad to know I’m not blind, that I don’t feel dead, at least.

  “Shhhhh.”

  The final piece falls into place and I find a voice. The voice of a woman.

  “Who am I?”

  The figure grasps my almost-shoulder in a gesture of comfort, its grip cold. A shred of apprehension shivers through my core, but disperses quickly like mist before the wind, replaced again by hope.

  “Who am I?” I ask again. “Where are we?”

  The figure tightens its grip on my shoulder but doesn’t respond. I smile and cry anew.

  Chapter Two

  The earth trembled beneath Khirro’s feet.

  Somewhere behind them, he heard the snap and pop of a tree broken in two, the thump of its trunk hitting the ground. In his mind, he could see the beast’s over-muscled shoulder striking the tree, snapping it like Khirro himself might snap a sapling; he imagined what a creature with that kind of strength could do to their bones.

  Khirro leaped over a tangle of roots and brush, pushing himself to go faster; his foot landed on a rock, dangerously close to turning his ankle. He stumbled but kept his balance despite the earth’s shaking and dared a glance over his shoulder. Trees shook, leaves flew. He pushed on.

  It’s gaining.

  Five yards ahead, Athryn darted through the bushes with the lithe grace and ease he always had, branches plucking at his cloak as it swirled behind him. Leaves slapped Khirro’s face, roots and runners grabbed at his ankles, attempting to slow him, throw him off balance. He wished he could move like the magician.

  “Hurry,” Athryn called over his shoulder. “The beach.”

  In his panic to escape their pursuer, Khirro hadn’t noticed the brackish smell of salt water on the breeze; his companion’s words filled him with both relief and apprehension. Being free of the forest’s impediments would be good, but could they hope to outrun a giant, even without fallen trees, stumps and stones to slow them? With the Small Sea before them, would there be anywhere else to run, or would they be trapped between the beast and the briny deep?

  Athryn leaped through a bush and disappeared from Khirro’s view. With no way to tell what lay beyond-life or death, escape or capture-Khirro’s heart jumped into his throat, blocking the breath that already struggled to enter his sore lungs. The s
mell of the sea ahead and the sound of the giant behind urged him on, and he plunged through the foliage. Thorns tore his clothes and scratched his face. His feet tangled and he spilled headlong through the other side of the bushes, losing his feet from under him.

  Warm sand touched his cheek. With no branches slapping his armor or leaves brushing his ears, he heard the waves rolling onto the beach. Somehow, Athryn had known where they were, though Khirro had felt lost since the day they left the Necromancer’s keep.

  Athryn grabbed Khirro under his arm and pulled him up. The sand under their feet muted the rumble of the giant’s massive strides behind them, but it was still there, getting closer. They rushed toward the water.

  Shells and sun-dried seaweed crunched under Khirro’s boot as he navigated around driftwood strewn across the wide swath of beach stretching to the Small Sea. Sand shimmered wetly under the bright midday sun; a cool wind gusted off the water, rustling the sail of the boat lying on its side a few yards from the water’s edge.

  “A boat,” Khirro yelled, pointing.

  “Our boat.”

  Khirro squinted at the vessel and saw his companion was right. He recognized the markings on its side, identifying it as the same craft that brought them to the haunted land, the one Elyea paid for in a way only a woman could. Khirro’s lips squeezed to a thin line at the thought of her and how much she’d sacrificed.

  “We won’t have time to get it into the water,” he said, pulling his mind from his loss.

  “We will do what we can with the time we have.”

  As they reached the stranded boat, a tree crashed to the ground behind them. They spun and saw the beast come through the brush, giving them their first clear view of the giant since stumbling into his path.

  He was taller and broader than the others of his kind they’d encountered, his flat face looming fifteen feet above the ground. What little skin showed through the thick black hair carpeting his barrel chest was burned brown by the sun; his matted beard hung to his filth-filled navel. Blood seeped from a dozen cuts and scrapes scattered across his trunk and arms, likely inflicted by tree branches big enough to knock a normal man out, but his rage seemed to keep him from noticing them. He opened a mouth full of yellowed teeth and roared, a belching sound that sent birds fleeing from nearby trees; the beast brandished a club bigger than an average man.

  Khirro stared. They’d come upon the creature foraging for food a half hour before and quickly decided not to risk confronting it, but the thing caught their scent and took up the chase. They hadn’t counted on him deciding to forage for humans instead of berries.

  “You will have to distract it while I free the boat,” Athryn said slipping his cloak off his shoulders.

  Khirro looked at the white cloth mask covering the magician’s face, at the smears of dirt angling across the cheek and nose, and almost laughed. Why Athryn chose to wear the mask now, after the Necromancer healed his scars, Khirro didn’t know, but even with the cloth hiding his expression, he saw the seriousness in the magician’s eyes. Khirro breathed deep, still recovering from the run.

  “All right, but keep an eye on me.”

  Khirro pulled his shield off his back, its edges charred by dragonfire, and drew the Mourning Sword. After another breath, he stalked across the sand toward the giant.

  What am I doing?

  The giant roared again-a challenge, a taunt to dissuade him-and even from a distance, Khirro smelled the beast’s foul breath. He gritted his teeth and kept moving. Over the past months, he’d helped slay one giant, faced a dragon, and killed a water serpent; certainly he could hold this fellow off while Athryn launched the boat.

  A year ago, I was a farmer. I didn’t even own a sword.

  The giant stooped and used one hand to pick up a boulder two men couldn't have lifted. Khirro stopped, waiting to see what the beast would do. It hefted the rock to shoulder height, cocked its arm and bent at the knees. Lips pulled back in a twisted, effort-filled sneer, the creature heaved the stone.

  Khirro watched in awe for a second as the stone hurtled toward him, reminding him of the ball of hellfire that had taken his friend Jowyn’s life. At the last instant, Khirro forced his legs into action and jumped to his left. The stone landed close enough he felt the thump of it hitting the ground through the soles of his feet; the impact sent a spray of sand against his leg.

  He looked at the stone for a moment, marveling at its size as he let a shuddering breath free of his lungs. The ground trembled again, again, and Khirro jerked his gaze away from the stone, thinking the giant was tossing more projectiles his way, but found the beast had intended only to distract him.

  The huge creature was only ten yards away, rushing toward him, brandishing the huge club in both hands.

  Khirro lurched away from the giant’s weapon as it arced down toward him. The tree trunk-sized club thumped into the sand, leaving behind a hole big enough to trip a horse; the beast lifted it again and aimed a blow at his head. Khirro dove right, the gust of air created by the club’s passing touching his cheek.

  Khirro swung the Mourning Sword but the giant’s arms were too long and the blade missed by more than a foot. The sharp teeth of doubt bit hard at the back of Khirro’s mind; the club whistling through the air nearly knocked it free, along with his head. Khirro rolled across the sand, righted himself and darted inside the arc of the giant’s club, Mourning Sword cocked to strike, but the creature’s fingers grasped for his tunic and he abandoned the attack to keep out of its grip.

  He’s too big. Too fast.

  The beast smiled crookedly and laughed, a sound more threatening and danger-filled than its angry roar.

  He’s toying with me.

  Khirro thought about how he’d become the flame tyger when he fought Ghaul in the Necromancer’s keep, using the fiery claws to defeat his one time friend. Could he do it again? He thought about fire, pictured flames melding into the shape of the tyger.

  Nothing happened.

  The giant kicked a sheet of sand at his face; Khirro averted his eyes and dove aside, concentration broken by the club thumping the sand where he’d just stood.

  “I need help here, Athryn!”

  The magician answered, but Khirro didn’t hear his words as the wooden club scraped across his breast piece. He ducked and dodged. Sweat ran down his face as he searched for an opening to get to the beast without forfeiting his life in the process. The Mourning Sword cut the air with no more success than the first time, but the giant hesitated, giving Khirro a second’s respite from attack. He struck a third time, blade glancing ineffectively off the giant’s weapon, but it gave him a moment’s satisfaction for his steel having touched something.

  The giant roared its ear-splitting war belch and renewed its attack, spinning Khirro about and forcing him back toward the edge of the forest. Beyond the creature and its swirling club, he glimpsed Athryn stripped to the waist, gesturing and chanting before the giant’s massive body blocked his view.

  “Athryn!”

  Another barely-avoided blow sent Khirro to the sand. He held the Mourning Sword up knowing he wouldn’t be able to deflect a blow, and that one direct hit would be enough to end the fight, likely his life. The giant was too strong. What a fool he’d been to think he could hold off the beast on his own.

  Why isn’t Athryn helping?

  The giant loomed beyond his sword’s reach, a string of saliva hanging from its lips like a dog left unfed for weeks. Khirro tensed, hoping to somehow survive the attack, but instead of raining another blow down on him, the giant stopped, listened.

  Foreign words floated to Khirro on the sea breeze, words he didn’t recognize but he knew meant Athryn was casting a spell. The giant also seemed to realize what the words were for.

  Khirro scrambled to stand, feet slipping in the loose sand, but the creature pushed him back with the tip of his club, knocking breath from his lungs in the process and leaving him no choice but to watch the giant set his club aside and pick up a boulder
bigger than the first. It hoisted the stone above its head, bending its elbows like a living catapult.

  “No,” Khirro wheezed. “Athryn.”

  After all that had happened during their journey, and despite being a soldier in the King’s Army, Khirro still didn’t considered himself a warrior or think he possessed a killer’s instinct, but he realized this might be his last chance to prove to himself he could be.

  As the giant heaved the boulder, Khirro leaped up, lungs desperate for air. The Mourning Sword glowed red in anticipation of the blood to come, the radiance brightening as Khirro sank the blade’s tip into the beast’s lower back. The giant howled and jerked away, sending Khirro tumbling back, but not before he’d embedded the sword to its hilt, skewering kidney and lung and heart.

  Khirro dug his hands into the sand and pulled himself out of the thrashing beast’s path. The giant stumbled, reaching around in an attempt to grasp the sword’s hilt, its fingers brushing it without finding a hold. It spun a circle like a dog chasing its tail, but the damage proved too much, and the beast dropped to his knees. The ground shuddered under its weight when it pitched forward, face first into the sand, a trickle of blood seeping from the wound in its back.

  So little blood.

  Khirro watched the blood flow down the giant’s side for only a second before remembering his companion. He spun toward the beach, laboring for air and half-expecting to see the magician crushed beneath the boulder, his hopes of returning to the kingdom with the king’s blood flowing in his veins dead along with his companion.

  Athryn knelt in the sand near the boat, dagger in hand, head hung. The black lines of his tattoos swept across his back, over his shoulders and down his arms, the letters foreign and unfamiliar, words to cast spells inscribed in his flesh by his brother, Maes, when he was no longer able to speak them himself. Khirro approached slowly, his breath returning in ragged gasps, relief that his companion appeared unhurt swirling with anger as he wondered why the magician hadn’t aided him.