The King's Blood

by S. E. Zbasnik

  Aldrin looked over at Ciara, her dagger arm was drooping as she fought against her failing body for just one more burst of adrenaline. He took her free hand and, smiling grimly, pulled her after the assassin. The witch stood still, watching the corpse's twitching fingers rising towards her. She tried to breathe, but the oxygen was overpowered by the magic seeping from the still walking corpse's pores.

  "Isa, come on!" the prince's voice called, breaking her free from the spell. Snarling, she batted away the headless woman's arm and kicked the corpse in the knees, sending it flying backwards over broken ruins where it landed like a turtle on its back.

  The witch ran on, never looking back at the thirty other bodies beginning to move in the mist.

  Shoes better suited to a life of quiet contemplation, healing, and sanitation ripped to their final clinging shreds, exposing tender feet to the frozen rocks of the crumbling city. Kynton's comparably easy life of rising at dawn, scrubbing down blood, vomit, bile and other odious excretions of the human body from surfaces it shouldn't logically be able to reach, then breaking for lunch, prepared him poorly for his new found days of fleeing in terror from things that should remain in the ground.

  The plump witch, on the other hand, moved her stocky legs at such speeds it was difficult for the priest to keep her in sight. She'd long since surpassed him and was rounding on the black man who dropped from the sky. It must be magic. To move that much mass so quickly had to be breaking at least a few laws.

  Beside him remained only the boy prince and his servant? Concubine? Slave? Kynton hadn't seen that dusky of skin in his very sheltered life and was uncertain what one did with a Dunner girl. Maybe she told really enticing stories.

  The boy's hand clung to hers like a wealthy man staring down the dark tunnel of answering for his numerous life choices upon the deathbed. Kynton still sported a few scars on his knuckles from one particularly despicable War Lord who liked to use his servant's heads as cobblestones and never trimmed his nails.

  "How much more running do we need to do?" the priest wheezed, his breath fighting through the growing chilly air. The further they moved from the heart of the dead city, the more winter roared back. Even the Lady of Ice didn't like playing in Putras.

  The corpse defiler didn't hear his ragged plea, continuing his maddening rush out of danger. Or perhaps leading him onto it. Kynton's plans, well more like an idea -- half risen and with too much salt -- seemed to be crashing into a spectacular failure before him. A prince had seemed a smart ally at the time, but he may have waited for the next if he'd known running would be involved.

  The city that provided the backdrop for the moment his life went terribly wrong began to recede into the background. It became less crumbled buildings and half torn walls as they rushed from the center and more a tossed brick or handful of road hidden amongst the forest floor. Naked trees stood where once lived entire subdivisions of people very concerned with their neighbor's decision to put a statue of the goddess of debauchery on his front lawn. Pissing off a god was less of a concern to the decreasing property values and the wrath of the HOA.

  Kynton scrambled through bracken clawing its way across an old sign that proudly called this section of land "Elm Creek Colony," despite the fact there were neither elms nor creeks anywhere to be found. He glanced back to the prince, who paused as his darkie slowed, her feet catching on the stones.

  "Cia?" his small voice mumbled before her knees caught under her and she stumbled to the ground.

  "Stop!" Aldrin called out to the witch and assassin, days ahead of them now, as he crumbled under the added weight of a girl mid-faint.

  Kynton walked carefully over to them, broken twigs digging into his exposed feet. With the prince's floundering assistance, Ciara lay across the forest floor like a princess waiting for a kiss to wake her up. If you ignore the fact she was dressed in tattered rags, the remnants of snow littered the ground instead of wildflowers, and perspiration slicked her forehead. The priest pushed the boy back, placing his frozen hands against her forehead.

  "Yah!" Kynton shrieked as numb digits reacted to a burning fever. Yanking his hand away, he shook it, trying to reach a livable equilibrium.

  "What? What are you doing? Stop doing things!" Aldrin insisted, unused to a healing touch that didn't include a shave and a haircut.

  The forest, the boy chattering beside him, even the sound of approaching footsteps all vanished as Kynton's mind switched from reckless vagabond to a priest of Hospar. His fingers lifted her eyelids, checking the membranes for lack of air. A more prepared hand lay across the forehead to catalog fever, dangerous but not yet deadly. It was when his head moved to her chest, an ear placed upon her sternum, that the prince pushed the priest out of a sense of chivalry so stupid only a bunch of men in tin cans could come up with it.

  Kynton landed hard onto an old stump, the bark's edge tearing a hole in his robes. The haze of diagnosis broken, he staggered to his knees and poked Aldrin in his sternum, not to check for a pulse. "What are you doing?"

  "I could ask the same of you, you pervert," the boy stuttered.

  Kynton rolled his eyes dramatically. This was why the Order insisted any visitors remain outside, preferably beyond the city gates. The locals could get testy about such things. And he hadn't even pricked her finger to test the consistency of her blood yet. That one always went over real well when the townies were in a vampire mood.

  The assassin appeared with the witch in tow, her chest heaving mightily in exertion, reminding Kynton of all the things he had to make up for. Taban glanced towards the girl lying strewn across the ground and grabbed the priest by the collar, "What have you done?"

  Kynton was only an inch or so shorter than the man, but struggled as his feet left the ground,33 "Why does everyone accuse me? I haven't done a thing."

  The witch's own icy fingers approached the girl's head but never quite touched it, "It's a fever."

  The assassin glared upon the priest's struggling face, air becoming a growing necessity as the leathered fist clenched upon his windpipe. He released his grip, sending Kynton back to the ground who'd been expecting a much longer fall.

  Coughing through the burning in his throat, the priest commented, "Amaranthine fever, to be precise. There was a rash of it a few months back." He looked around at the faces, stony with worry. "Get it. A rash..." his allies remained unimpressed. "Churls," he muttered to himself.

  "How do you combat it?" the prince asked measuredly, looking like he was about to steal the assassin's sword and go to town on Kynton's liver.

  "Search their body for loose change and dig a shallow grave, usually," he muttered under his breath. "I mean, um," an addlepated mind flipped past old scrolls, a few lectures he doodled through, and one very loud reprimanding session. "Get the fever reduced as quickly as possible, keep the subject fed with a light broth, and pray. A lot?"

  "Isa?" Aldrin asked the witch, turning from Kynton who threw up his hands. Why even bother asking if no one was going to take his professional advice?

  The witch's pale eyes betrayed a quell of concern. She'd seen this fever sweep through entire villages; it left little in its wake. "We need to steel ourselves," the witch said evenly, "protection is key against this disease. There are herbs that will..." her voice trailed off as the prince glared.

  "How can you help, Ciara?" It was probably the waning light bouncing across the flailing mists but the Prince's low growl struck the chord of 'I will gut you if you do not give me the correct answer,' upon each of their spines.

  Isa mumbled something, for once shrinking upon herself. Kynton began to chuckle, but looked away as the withering glare of royalty fell upon him. Finally, Taban pushed the two aside.

  "Yolumdan, çocuk," he muttered in his foreign tongue as his fingers extracted a tiny red vial from his overstuffed coat's pocket. The assassin bent over the girl about six dwarves into her eternal fairytale. Scarred fingers worked open an old stopper, sealed in wax before any of their father's fathers learne
d to walk.

  Carefully pulling open Ciara's jaw, which trembled from a new touch, he poured the entire contents down her throat. While his back was turned, the little pipsqueak finally made a grab for his sword and held the point against the assassin's back.

  "What are you doing?" Aldrin demanded, stabbing the sword point into a rather bruised vertebra. Sleeping in the trees wasn't all that much fun at his age.

  "Careful," the priest warned, "he's been asking that all day."

  "I," Taban said smoothly, rising and turning to look the armed prince in the eye, "am saving her. With medicine that costs more than your entire kingdom, no less," His hand reached out, waiting for Aldrin to return the sword to its proper master.

  But the boy didn't flinch. He should have backed down. With nothing but scoundrels, thieves, and Taban around, things could turn south very quickly for a prince who began to insist things go only his way. Despite himself, the assassin was impressed. He'd expected the Ostero blood to be as hard as melting snow.

  "The sword, boy, before you hurt yourself."

  "I can handle the blade just fine," Aldrin lied.

  "Did I say you'd be doing the hurting?" the assassin responded, his glibness turning to ice as the child held his own weapon against him.

  In the midst of the Waston standoff, a gasp broke from the ground. Aldrin's steel grip wavered as the only strength he needed in the world came back to life. Taban scooped up his sword before it hit the ground while pushing the prince off. He rolled back, subservient as a kicked dog once again.

  Taban dropped to his knees and scooped the girl into his arms. She was lighter than he expected, as her social armor slipped away in the grips of the fever. Without looking back at the Prince he was ordered to keep alive, the assassin continued his trek into the safety of the wilds.

  Kynton picked up the discarded medicine vial and sniffed it. A pungent scent of cloves, anise and ethanol tingled his nose. Shrugging, he pocketed it. Fill it with some raspberry jam, rewax it, and he could make a good five Eagles easy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Consciousness is a wonderful idea in theory, to be awake to experience the world as it shapes and molds around you. In practice, it's a reminder of every failure, a twisted knee for every missed step, a cry for every misplaced word, a pounding in your head for every poorly executed drinking session. Ciara approached consciousness as if it were a wounded animal, shivering in the corner.

  Slowly one dark eye slid open, taking in her world. Nothing swooped out to attack her, but a burning from inside her brain suggested it might be best if she closed her eyes tight to forget the world. It felt like hours passed before she tried again, this time her morning punctuated with the all too familiar sounds of bickering in the distance. A grandfatherly hand came down upon her forehead and she tried to bolt upright. This threw her mending brain into her stomach and she staggered up into a sitting position; a familiar blanket slipping off her night gowned shoulders.

  "She is awake," Medwin said calmly, belying the joy running through his soul at her unexpected movement.

  The distant bickering continued for a moment, "...turn you into a frog!"

  "I would give good coin to see that."

  "And only a kiss would bring me back."

  "Wag your face caterpillars at me once more and I shall singe them off!"

  Medwin coughed and announced louder through the open window, "I say, she is awake."

  The historian's words swept up through the open window to a surprisingly warm, late winter day. It was nice to finally get the musty smell of molding mittens and sweaty boots out of the caravans.

  Ciara touched her forehead, no longer on fire but still slick with perspiration. She had no memory of traveling the days long journey back to the caravans. Or of who dressed her in the floor length gown she had to trade two tales of Humphrey's Pet Dragon for. That last thought drifted from her mind as Aldrin burst in, followed quickly by Isa. The boy's grin was in danger of claiming the entire territory on his face. He touched his recently sheared forelock, looking more the spawn of a king than the wandering vagabond of the past few months.

  Isa; however, looked the exact same as she scowled and advanced on the patient struggling to piece together the days. "How does your liver feel? Have you seen any small birds or yellow stars floating about your head? Can you only speak in Elvish?"

  "Oy!" Bits started to fall back into place as that priest appeared, still in his blue robe but with a pair of necessary pants added to the mix. An entire wardrobe change was hard to find in the woods. "Leave her be. The humors have to reset."

  "I'm fine," Ciara tried to croak out but it became little more than the gasp of a rock rubbed against a washtub.

  The patient forgotten, the witch rounded on her mortal enemy, "She could have vital information, it's been centuries since anyone has been administered an elven health potion. This..."

  "Is a series of questions that can wait," Medwin said calmly, trying to take stock of the newest additions to their little family. "For now give the dear some space to recoup and revive."

  Kynton lowered a small butter knife he pulled from one of his pockets and glanced sheepishly at the witch, who folded her arms. "After you, oh lumpy lotus of my heart."

  Isa scowled, weary of the priest's near constant flirting. His freedom opened up not just the floodgate, but placed charges all around the religious dam, forcing anything with a XX chromosome into a courting flood. With Ciara out, that pretty much left the witch his only victim.

  Isa pulled an ornamental robe closer to her shoulders, despising what still remained of the waning cold and stomped out of the smallest of the caravans, Kynton hot on her heels. Aldrin grinned at the patient struggling to sit fully up, and ran his hand through his cropped hair. A few stragglers from his "presentable to an army" haircut clung to his palm, which he then wiped across a weary jaw.

  "I was, I didn't, you were..." he spent stolen moments, when not worrying, working on his speech upon her rejoining the living, typically while Isa shot sparks at the priest's ass (which only encouraged the man). There'd been flowery scripts, and heartfelt comparisons to just how accurately he couldn't survive without her.34

  As the girl's bemused eyes, straining from the lingering coils of fever, fell upon him, all his hard work transformed into, "You got better."

  Medwin snorted, but tried to pass it off as a cough, which was joined by a true one from Ciara complete with phlegm. "Boy," the chancellor said quietly, "it would be best if you join your colleagues, as well."

  "Oh, yes, of course," his head nodded and he turned towards the door.

  "Hey," Ciara called back hoarsely from her sick bed. As the prince glanced over his shoulder at her, she said sincerely, "Thanks, for not letting go."

  The edges of her mouth picked up lightly, but it was enough to make Aldrin grin like a loon who found his favorite invisible spoon. With his eyes locked on the girl, the future king of Ostero walked right into the wall. Medwin rubbed his temples as the boy scrambled for the door, embarrassment burning up his freshly exposed neck.

  With his home back to the acceptable two, Medwin clucked and rose, hunting for a pot of warm water, "For the entire time you were out, the prince hardly left your side."

  "That's...nice?" Ciara said measuredly.

  Medwin smiled as he handed the girl his patented anti-cough concoction, proud of her lukewarm reaction to such undying loyalty it'd cause most dogs to declare it "a bit much." Ciara drank down the liquid honey spiked with "the really good stuff we don't tell Mitrione about."

  Her head felt like she rose too quickly after hanging it upside down over long. The edges of her vision were a little out of focus, but rubbing her encrusted eyes seemed to help. "What happened?"

  The chancellor returned to his seat, worn deep from long nights as he'd pass his hand over her nose checking for breath. "That depends upon which tale you'd wish to hear."

  "The truth?" Ciara suggested, "seems easier to start with that, then
add the lies in later."

  Medwin laughed a bit, "Ah, what is the truth but the faulty memories of the person telling the tale? We have a new addition to the caravan."

  "The priest," memories of them fleeing from that insane dead city floated back, as well as a few nightmares involving a rotting woman dressed like a grandmother getting her undead head sliced off.

  "He has proved an...interesting inclusion to the Historians."

  "He joined your order?" Ciara knew almost nothing of Kynton, only exchanged a handful of words, but found it difficult to believe a man would give up one life devoted to an unseeable ideal for another.

  "No, we are not bedfellows with the priests. Some of the brothers have expressed personal outrage that any such gods could exist."

  "Sounds like a good way to test if you could survive a lightning strike," Ciara said.

  Medwin nodded curtly. They'd had to pull more than a few of their fellow brothers from tall trees in the midst of a storm as they called upon a god, any god, to strike them dead. It mostly ended in soggy robes and a nasty case of pneumonia. "But he is a surprisingly learned man of letters, and in exchange for room and board, he has agreed to work for us."

  "Oh," her voice fell a bit, a conflicting fear that she'd lost her only place in this entourage to a man she'd willingly dragged along.

  "Kaltar's had him transcribing the lost poems of Sidar the Long Winded and his 9,000 stanza ode to Scepticar."

  Ciara laughed through her bristly throat, "How's that going?"

  "Made it past page three, I hear. Kaltar grumbles that if he doesn't get another 5,000 words before sundown, the priest will be towing the caravans."

  "All of them by himself? I hope there is oxen in his bloodline," Ciara said.

  Medwin's tone grew cold as he shifted the conversation to disappointment, "And we also seem to have an assassin in our midst."