Blood of the King kj-1

by Bruce Blake

  “There’s one fallen soldier who won’t be among them,” Khirro said breaking the moment. “King Braymon.”

  Rudric half-smiled. “Only his body is lost. We will ensure Braymon’s return.”

  Khirro opened his mouth to ask a question but the Shaman spoke before the words cleared his lips.

  “Stealth is needed. Following the road or seawall will be risky. We cannot chance being stopped and interrogated. The fewer who know of our passing, the less perilous our journey will be.”

  “And how do you suggest we cross the plain without being seen?” Gendred asked appraising the area around them.

  At their backs, smoke rose skyward from cook fires and smithies of the village outside the fortress gates. The plain stretched on to farms on one side and to the seawall many leagues ahead-all of it would be patrolled.

  “There’s a drainage ditch ahead. It will provide us cover,” Rudric said. “The sun will have dried it by this time of year.”

  The Shaman nodded. “It is less than a league from here. We will stay close to the base of the wall until we reach the ditch. We cannot be seen or the alarm will be raised”

  Gendred grunted and immediately started for the wall without waiting for the others. The Shaman fell in with him, robe fluttering and waving as he moved. Rudric prompted Khirro forward and they followed, though the pace Gendred set once again proved quicker than he could comfortably maintain. Even though Rudric could likely match the Shadowman’s speed, he stayed with Khirro, whose respect and like for the man increased. As they walked, the question which had occurred to him a few minutes earlier returned to Khirro: if the king’s body is gone, but we restore his spirit, what body will he have? He decided to keep it to himself for the moment.

  They reached the foot of the wall and Khirro paused to take in its immensity. From its base, the wall seemed to go up forever, not stopping until it reached the Gods. It was obviously huge from inside, but buildings and stairways and towers divided its surface into smaller, less meaningful portions. Only from here could its size truly be appreciated.

  “Keep moving.” Rudric’s words jarred him from his thoughts. “We’ve no time to lose.”

  Khirro peered up the wall again and sighed. Soon it would be far behind and he’d likely never see it again. He hated the place, wanted only to be home every second he’d been behind the wall, but now wished he could stay.

  He followed Rudric. Gendred and the Shaman had gotten farther ahead, sometimes appearing at the top of a hillock, then disappearing down the other side, swallowed by the barrows.

  “How far is it, General?” Khirro asked after a while.

  “Not far. Beyond the next barrow. And, given our circumstances, I think it best you call me Rudric.”

  Khirro nodded, stifling a smile that one of the highest ranking men in the king’s army wanted him to call him by his first name. How different Rudric was from the Shadowman who accompanied them.

  “How come Gendred dislikes me so much, Rudric?” Khirro asked trying out the name. It felt odd in his mouth, but its use made him happy, proud.

  Rudric chuckled. “Gendred dislikes everyone. Don’t take it to heart, he’s harmless.” Khirro doubted that. “It took years before he and I-”

  Something cut Rudric’s words short and stopped him mid-step. Khirro halted, too, and looked into the general’s intense face.

  “What is it?”

  Rudric put his finger to his lips, silencing Khirro, who heard nothing for long seconds except the sound of his own blood pulsing in his ears as he held his breath. Then, ahead of them from the other side of the last large barrow, came a yell. The sound of metal contacting metal followed quickly, then silence again, the sound cut off like a hand clamped over a mouth.

  Rudric drew his sword and leaped forward. Left behind, Khirro drew the short sword Rudric had found him, the feel of it clumsy and uncomfortable in his hand. No sword ever sat comfortably in his grip, but this one was too light, its hilt smaller than what he used in practice. Khirro loped up the barrow feeling weighed down by his leather and light mail. Rudric quickly outdistanced him despite his much heavier plate, disappearing over the crest of a hill. Khirro reached the top seconds later and stopped to gaze incredulously at the sight at the foot of the hillock. The blood drained from his limbs.

  At the bottom of the slope, on the edge of the drainage ditch, eight Kanosee soldiers engaged Gendred while two others lay dead at his feet. A few yards away, the Shaman struggled with a huge fighter garbed in black mail splashed with red paint. A shimmering cloud distorted the figures and enveloped the area around them. Sparks flew as Gendred parried blows and struck his own, but Khirro heard nothing of the battle. Meadow birds sang, grasshoppers chirruped, his leather armor creaked as he drew breath, but no sounds emanated from the fight. Rudric skidded to a halt short of the haze.

  “Bale has cast a spell of silence,” he called over his shoulder. “There will be no aid from the fortress. Hurry.”

  He sprang through the undulating gleam of the Shaman’s spell without slowing, and slammed into the undead soldier gripping the Shaman’s wrists. The three of them tumbled to the ground, but Rudric darted up in an instant and brought his heavy sword down across the creature’s neck. Its head rolled across a narrow band of grass and over the edge into the ditch beyond.

  Khirro scudded down the hill. Behind the diaphanous curtain, he saw Rudric say something to the Shaman, then rush to Gendred’s aid. When Khirro reached the edge of the spell, he hesitated. Only five Kanosee soldiers remained.

  They have things under control.

  Haltingly, Khirro put his hand through the shimmering air, steeling himself for pain, but there was not so much as a tickle. He let out his breath and shivered. The Shaman’s hands danced and moved, readying a spell and he remembered how his pursuer had fallen dead in the courtyard.

  I’ll wait for him to cast his spell. I’d only be in the way. Whatever spell he casts will end the fight.

  A Kanosee soldier stumbled out of the fray and nearly tripped over one of his fallen comrades. He stopped, wiped blood from his face, then bent and plucked a bow from the dead soldier’s hand, an arrow from the quiver on his back, and faced the Shaman. Khirro called a warning but his words bounced back from the hazy invocation and died in the summer air as the enemy soldier sited the Shaman. The weapon in Khirro’s hand felt suddenly foreign, the weight of the short sword great. He looked toward the others.

  What if the Kanosee prevail? The thought made him both fearful and morbidly hopeful. If they all die, there’s no reason for me to go to the haunted land.

  He shook his head, dispelling the thought, and reached a hand through the glistening shell, staring at it as it penetrated. If nothing else, he owed the king his life.

  Too late.

  A flash of movement caught his eye. He looked up and saw the Shaman’s incantation die on his lips, his hands cease moving as he slumped forward, falling awkwardly around the arrow piercing his chest. Khirro gaped at the Shaman lying in a heap on the grass.

  The Kanosee soldier nocked another arrow. Gendred saw him and shouted-Khirro saw his mouth move-but in the instant of distraction another Kanosee soldier’s sword glanced off Gendred’s parry, the edge finding a sliver of flesh between epaulet and helm. Blood squirted, but Gendred fought on, impaling the man. He wrenched his sword free of the enemy’s belly and lurched toward the bowman.

  Three wobbling strides passed beneath his feet before one of the two Kanosee remaining in close combat cut him down. Gendred stumbled, sword falling from his hand, his balance holding for an instant before he pitched face first to the blood stained grass.

  The archer loosed his arrow. It struck Rudric in the shoulder, piercing his plate mail and knocking him back a step. With a grimace of pain and effort, he chopped down the man who felled Gendred leaving one Kanosee soldier in close combat with him as the bowman drew another arrow.

  Thoughts of home and safety fled Khirro’s mind. If Rudric died, he’d be
left alone with the enemy and the Kanosee surely wouldn’t let him live. He burst through the spell’s shimmering veil, swapping gentle bird song, rustling grass and the sound of his pulse beating in his ears for the biting clang of steel on steel, the howl of a battle cry.

  It took an instant to realize the scream of rage belonged to him.

  He rushed at the bowman, who spun toward his cry, startled. The Kanosee archer nocked his arrow quickly and released without benefit of aim, acting purely out of self-preservation.

  Pain seared Khirro’s thigh and he pitched forward. His shoulder struck the ground, jolting more agony through his body. He lay on the grass, teeth clenched, hand going unconsciously to the wound in his leg. The arrow had pierced the fleshy outside of his right thigh, just missing bone; the head protruded through the back with the shaft buried to the flights at the front. He cringed, stomach roiling.

  This must be how father felt when he lost his arm.

  Pain filled his body, pounding and pulsing through his veins, the sound of it clouding his mind. He might have cried out, but couldn’t be sure. For a moment, his world was only the wound in his leg and the misery it inflicted. Slowly, the blood-colored cloud receded from his eyes, from his ears-like a blanket pulled back from a child to wake him-and the world returned.

  Khirro heard his name shouted and remembered where he was, what was happening. He struggled to his knees and searched for his one remaining ally, saw the fallen Shaman, the dead soldiers. Sweat streamed from under Rudric’s helm as he fought a Kanosee soldier clad in the black-and-red mail of the undead; the general’s left arm dangled uselessly as he wielded his huge broad sword with the other hand. To Khirro’s right, the archer nocked an arrow and sited Rudric, awaiting his opportunity to let fly and end the fray. Khirro struggled toward him on hands and knees. Everything happened at once.

  The undead monster swung his sword.

  Rudric dodged and returned a blow, catching the Kanosee across the neck, sending his head tumbling from his shoulders.

  The bowman drew back as Khirro lunged forward, swinging his short sword in a frantic arc. He missed by a foot and tumbled to the grass at the archer’s feet, breath knocked from his chest.

  The Kanosee archer loosed his arrow as Rudric took a step toward him.

  The arrow pierced Rudric's throat, stopping him mid-stride. He wobbled like a man spun around and made dizzy, then his knees buckled and he folded to the ground, dead.

  Struggling to draw air, Khirro scrambled to his knees, eyes wide, heart racing. The enemy kicked him in the chest and sent him reeling onto his back. His head hit the ground knocking his helm free. The sky loomed above him, bluer than he remembered it ever being. No clouds marred its smoothness as it stretched on forever, leading to the fields of the dead where he would soon go.

  The sky disappeared as the shadow of the Kanosee soldier fell across him. Khirro squinted but couldn’t see the face of the silhouette standing against that beautiful sky, an inky shape with nocked arrow and drawn bow.

  “Death be yours, Erechanian pig,” the bowman growled as he straddled Khirro. He drew the bowstring to its fullest. Khirro raised his arms knowing the attempt to defend himself would prove futile.

  A second passed. In that small space-more time than Khirro thought left in his life-he heard a sound like a stone thrown against leather followed by a splash of dirt against his cheek, then a gurgling from the archer’s lips.

  Khirro lowered his arms.

  The bow hung limply at the side of the black silhouette and a new appendage had grown from the man’s chest. The archer lurched to one side and Khirro could see again. It wasn’t a new arm sprouting from his chest, but a sword penetrating from behind. The bow fell from his hand, his body thrown roughly aside as the sword pulled free. Khirro expected Rudric or Gendred, even King Braymon, miraculously coming to his rescue, but the man standing over him was none of them.

  Khirro gasped in as much air as his lungs could take as breath finally returned. He stared up at the man standing over him. His clean shaven face looked back impassively, blood dripped from his sword.

  Khirro scrambled away, the arrow protruding from his thigh catching the ground and sending a fresh wave of pain coursing along his leg. He fell back, face pinched with agony. The man-his rescuer? his killer? — took a step toward him.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’m on your side.”

  Khirro looked at the man through a haze of pain. Did he speak the truth? Should he thank him or defend himself? He touched the hilt of the dagger hanging from his belt but didn’t draw it.

  “Who are you?” Khirro rasped, his lungs thankful for air and not wanting to waste it on words. The man’s armor bore Erechanian markings.

  “Are there any others?” The soldier looked around, then back at Khirro who shook his head. He switched his sword from his left hand to his right and offered to help Khirro up. “All right. Let’s see if anyone lives.”

  Khirro stared at the man’s hand without accepting it, not knowing if he truly meant to help him.

  What choice do I have?

  Fresh blood ran down his thigh as the man pulled him to his feet. The muscles of his jaw bunched as he bit down against the pain.

  “You’re wounded.”

  He set his sword aside and pulled a long knife from his belt. With two strokes, he removed the fletching from the shaft.

  “What are you-?”

  “Brace yourself.”

  Before Khirro could, he pulled the arrow through his thigh with one swift movement. Khirro cried out, swaying on rubbery legs, and the man caught him by the arm, steadying him. When he regained his balance, the man removed a pack from his back and drew a strip of cloth from it to wrap Khirro’s wound and stem the flow of blood.

  “What’s your name? Why do you help me?”

  “I’m called Ghaul.” The man pulled his pack back on. “I serve the king as you do, but there will be time for talk later. We should check your friends quickly, there may be more Kanosee about. I’ll check the robed man.”

  “No,” Khirro responded without knowing why he objected.

  Something inside him-perhaps something as simple as a sense of responsibility-told him to protect the Shaman and the item he carried. Ghaul shrugged and went to where Gendred lay amongst the tall grass burnt red with the Shadowman’s blood. Khirro’s leg pulsed with pain as he hobbled to the Shaman’s side.

  Blood soaked the magic man’s cloak. Khirro stood over him, an unexpected sense of loss churning his gut, tightening his throat. The three men performed their heroics to save the king, he knew, but they also saved his life and for that he owed them.

  If only I’d joined the fight sooner, maybe they’d still be alive. If only I’d been brave.

  “Khirro.”

  Little more than the sound of breath passing lips, the word startled Khirro and sent goose flesh crawling down his arms.

  “Khirro. What’s happened?”

  The Shaman coughed bloody spittle from the dark depths of his cowl. His hands shaking, Khirro reached out and pushed the hood back. The Shaman’s sallow skin stretched thin on his hairless skull, blue veins drawing a grim map of some unknown country. His open eyes stared skyward-one black with no pupil or iris, the other red. His purple lips quivered with each pained breath.

  “Rudric and Gendred have fallen.”

  The Shaman closed his eyes. He coughed again spattering bright blood across his pallid cheek. His head rocked back and forth slightly in protest or denial or both.

  “Can you heal yourself?”

  “No.”

  Khirro looked up and down the healer’s prone form. “What can I do? How can I help?”

  “You cannot help me.” As the Shaman spoke his face contorted and his body tensed then went limp.

  “Where did they come from?”

  “They found the tunnels, came out at the drainage ditch.”

  Khirro glanced at the ditch and the small opening in the fortress wall feeding it. T
he iron gate that should have covered it hung from one hinge, canted at an awkward angle. Khirro’s breath shortened in realization there was nothing to stop more Kanosee coming through to kill them all.

  “The entrance is sealed,” the Shaman said reading Khirro’s thoughts. He took a shuddering breath and air gurgled through the wound in his chest. “Take this.”

  Khirro didn’t see the Shaman move his hand, yet he held the vial, arm shaking as his strength waned. Khirro stared, mesmerized by the crimson fluid ebbing and flowing inside with the quake of the magic man’s hand.

  “No.” He shook his head as much to tear his eyes from the vial as to indicate dissent. “I can’t.”

  “You must.”

  “I’m not strong enough or brave enough. I’ll return to the fortress. I’ll get someone capable.”

  Khirro went to stand, but the Shaman gripped his wrist. Khirro winced, surprised the injured man still had such strength.

  “No time,” the Shaman rasped. “You’re the only hope.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  Khirro’s head sagged, unable to meet the Shaman’s mismatched eyes. Another gurgling breath shuddered the man’s body. His strength flagged and the hand holding the vial slumped to the grass, though he maintained his grip on Khirro’s wrist with the other. The vial rolled from his fingertips and came to rest against Khirro’s boot with a soft clink.

  “Come close.”

  Khirro hesitated, worried the man might still be dangerous.

  It wouldn’t make sense for him to harm me.

  He chastised himself. This man kept him alive when Gendred would have killed him.

  Khirro leaned close to the magic man’s swollen lips, close enough they brushed his ear as the fallen healer whispered non-sensical words. Khirro listened, brow furrowed, attempting to hear the quiet voice, comprehend the words. It took only a few seconds for him to understand why the Shaman beckoned him.

  “Gods!”

  Khirro pulled away, but the healer grasped him by the back of his neck, pulled him close with strength impossible for a dying man. Unintelligible words flowed from the Shaman’s lips as Khirro struggled to get free and images flashed through his mind: a wizened old man, an ancient stone keep, a ruby dragon, vast forests, uncountable hills, windswept waters, unknown towns, and finally the meadow outside the fortress walls. Vivid and real, it seemed as though he saw them right here, right now. Sweat beaded Khirro’s brow, his hands shook. The Shaman completed the incantation and released him. Khirro fell back.