Blood of the King kj-1

by Bruce Blake

  “What have you done?” Khirro demanded with shaking voice. “What have you done to me?”

  The Shaman’s eyes slipped shut. Only his lips moved as he spoke. “He who seeks entrance to the keep must face the keeper alone.”

  Khirro shook his head. “What have you done?”

  “I’ve shown you the way to Darestat the Necromancer.”

  “I won’t go,” he insisted, voice louder. He glanced over his shoulder-Ghaul continued his search of a fallen Kanosee soldier, unaware of the exchange. “I told you I won’t. I’ll find someone else.”

  A pinched smile contorted the Shaman’s lips into an ugly purple gash across his face. “You have no choice, Khirro.”

  He stared at the magic man, wanting to believe he hadn’t heard his words. He crawled closer to the Shaman again. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re bound to save your king.” The Shaman coughed another gout of blood.

  “No. This can’t be.”

  Breath rattled from the Shaman’s throat, the gurgling in his chest ceased. Khirro looked past the fallen man, his attention drawn away as the shimmering curtain of air surrounding them faded. Meadow sparrows chirped, but, to Khirro’s ears, it wasn’t the happy sound that makes one glad to be alive, not now. Perhaps not ever again.

  “Your friends are dead.”

  Khirro whirled at the sound of the man’s voice, grabbing for his dirk. Ghaul took a step back, holding his hands up defensively.

  “Whoa! Hold on, friend. What’s the matter?”

  Khirro’s strength fled and he fell to his side on the grass, hand contacting the warm glass vial. Ghaul rushed to his side.

  “Are you all right?”

  Against every feeling in his body and thought in his head, Khirro closed his hand around the glass vessel containing the king’s blood. He’d rather have gotten up and run from it, or hurled it as far as he could, but something made him tuck it under his tunic.

  “I’m cursed,” he said in a voice so calm it surprised him. “The Shaman has sentenced me to death.”

  Chapter Seven

  Khirro sat cross-legged in the grass by the Shaman’s body watching the blood within the vial move as he rolled it back and forth on flattened palm. The urge to squeeze his fingers around it, choke it, throw it away had diminished to an almost forgotten thought in the wake of an inexplicable desire to protect it. The Shaman’s curse had done this to him.

  “What’s that?”

  He closed his fingers around the vessel, hiding it close to his chest. “Nothing. A bauble.”

  “Is this thing the reason you traipsed about the meadow with a Shaman and two warriors?”

  Khirro’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m from a village to the north, near the mountains. When the king’s men came to collect men to defend the fortress, I was ill with fever, so they left me behind. When the fever broke, I donned my armor, mounted my horse and came to fight for king and country. Only by the will of the Gods did I come upon you with a Kanosee arrow shoved up your nose. A little more gratitude might be in order.”

  “I know a man from the mountains,” Khirro said recalling Tandel’s brogue, absent from this man’s voice. “What village?”

  “Epoli.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “I’ve probably never heard of yours, either.”

  “What of your horse?” Khirro snapped. He stood, hugging the king’s blood to his chest.

  “Perhaps the Shaman’s spell scared him off. Magic will do that to some beasts.”

  “Quite a coincidence you came to this place the same time as the enemy.”

  “Do you think me an agent of those Kanosee dogs?” Ghaul drew his sword and Khirro shrank back, but instead of the threatening, he dropped the blade at Khirro’s feet. “If I’m a soldier of Kanos, why didn’t I let him kill you? Then I’d have taken your bauble and anything else I wanted.”

  Khirro opened his mouth but found nothing to say. Could it be coincidence this man happened across a fight while thousands inside the fortress knew nothing of it? He felt his cheeks turn red, embarrassed by his suspicion. Sunlight glinted off the steel of Ghaul’s blade; seeing it lying there convinced him. If he undertook this journey-and, truthfully, he had no choice in the matter-the aid of someone deft with a sword would be invaluable.

  “I’m sorry. I should be thanking you for saving my life, not questioning your loyalty. It’s just… I don’t want to go to Lakesh.”

  Ghaul’s eyebrows dropped, fashioning a frown. “Lakesh? Why would you go there?”

  “The Shaman cursed me to complete the task he set out to accomplish. I’m the only one left.”

  “What are you talking about? You make no sense.”

  Uncurling his fingers, Khirro extended his palm. The dark red liquid shifted inside the vial with the shake of his unsteady hand.

  “So?” Ghaul shrugged.

  “It’s blood.”

  “Whose?”

  Khirro hesitated. “The king’s.”

  Ghaul’s eyes widened. “Braymon?”

  Khirro nodded.

  “The king fell in battle.” Khirro’s gut twinged as he said it, but he didn’t elaborate. No one needed to know more than that. “The Shaman extracted his blood. I was to accompany them to Lakesh, to Darestat the Necromancer.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He can bring the king back. He’s the only one who can.”

  Ghaul sucked air in sharply through his teeth. “Raise the king.”

  The soldier shook his head and moved away, pacing to the nearby body of a Kanosee soldier clad in black and red mail. With a flick of his toe he sent the helm rolling from the rotted head.

  “But what of this? The Kanosee fight alongside an army of the dead. Who but the Necromancer could raise such soldiers?”

  Khirro forced wobbly legs to carry him to Ghaul’s side, to look at the severed head. One vacant eye socket stared skyward, its jaw hung askew. It hadn’t occurred to Khirro to wonder from where these living corpses had come. He’d been too worried about his own skin to ponder why theirs was decomposed.

  “Maybe someone else has discovered the secret of recreating life,” he ventured without conviction. He didn’t need to look up to know Ghaul shook his head. Khirro said nothing for a time, afraid his tightening throat would choke his words.

  Ghaul broke the silence, restating the Shaman’s words. “Legend says there can be only one Necromancer.”

  Khirro took a slow, deep breath and released it. “The man who is supposed to be the savior of the kingdom is in league with the enemy and I’m cursed to journey into his grasp.”

  “Don’t go.”

  “I have no choice.”

  Khirro stared at the undead soldier’s head, imagining his own face there instead. Ghaul put his hand on Khirro’s shoulder reassuringly, startling him.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  Relief and confusion furrowed Khirro’s brow as he turned toward the stranger and saw the determination on his face.

  “But why? There is nothing to gain, only danger and death.”

  “It isn’t coincidence that brought me here at this time-the Gods have intervened. I came to serve my king and this may be the only way.”

  “We may never return to Erechania. Not alive.” Why am I arguing with him? Let him come.

  “A warrior expects neither life nor death, only to serve.”

  Khirro sighed and felt as though a weight lifted from his shoulders, though a wisp of suspicion still tickled the back of his mind. He set it aside in favor of self-preservation.

  “Thank you.”

  “All there is left is finding this Necromancer.”

  “The Shaman showed me the way.”

  “A map?”

  “No. He put it in my mind when he cursed me.”

  “I guess that makes you invaluable to the success of this task.” He slapped Khirro on the shoulder and smiled, but Khirro couldn’t fin
d it in himself to return the gesture. “We should go or we’ll soon be discovered.” Ghaul bent over the nearest corpse, searching the body. “We’ll need supplies. Take anything we can use.”

  “We were going to follow the drainage ditch. It’ll take us to the forest and then Vendaria.”

  “Fine.” Ghaul removed the quiver from the Kanosee archer. “Search the Shaman, he may carry something useful.”

  Khirro went to the magician lying on his side, the thought of searching him sitting cold and uncomfortable in his head. His attempt to open the magician’s robe failed as the arrow which had penetrated his chest held it fast. He groaned realizing he’d have to remove it.

  Remembering what Ghaul had done to pull the arrow from his leg, Khirro unsheathed his dirk and sheared the flights from the shaft. He moved behind the Shaman and grasped the end protruding from between his shoulder blades with both hands but quickly let go, his fingers sticky with drying blood. He stared at them, partly numb, partly repulsed. The blood smear left the lines of his palms white. A hand reader would easily read his future and probably tell him more blood was to come.

  My life has suddenly become all about blood.

  Khirro wiped his palms on his breeches, flinching at the pain in his leg, then gripped the shaft again, throat clenched to quell his rising gorge. He pulled, moving the arrow only little, then tried again with little success. With a shuddering breath, he jammed his foot against the small of the Shaman’s back and yanked. The arrow came free with a wet sucking noise. Khirro threw the shaft aside and fell to his knees, retching. When he looked up, Ghaul was staring at him. Khirro waved dismissively and turned back to the magician.

  The Shaman’s robe hid no armor beneath, only under clothes soaked with enough blood, Khirro couldn’t guess what color they’d been. There were no pockets sewn in the robe and nothing hung around his neck. He pulled the edge of the robe back and was surprised to find a belt around his waist, a scabbard hung from it. The black leather case wasn’t embossed or decorated. Fine work, if plain. He undid the buckle, careful not to touch the bloody clothes or cooling flesh, and pulled it free. Standing, he removed his own sword belt and replaced it with the Shaman’s.

  The belt sat comfortably at his hip, reassuring, but wearing it felt wrong. He loosed the long sword from its sheath and pulled clear a few inches of blade unlike any he’d ever seen-black steel highlighted by red scrollwork. He unsheathed more of the blade-the runes ran the length of the blade.

  “Anything?” Ghaul asked.

  Khirro dropped the sword back into the scabbard and whirled to face him like a man caught stealing.

  “Just his sword,” he said defensively.

  Why did he feel like a thief? The Shaman wouldn’t miss it. In fact, if it helped complete his cursed task, he’d probably want him to have it. He put his hand on its hilt, more to keep it from leaping from its place than with any intent to draw it.

  “Good. That will do you better than a short sword. Here.”

  He tossed him a sheathed dagger and Khirro barely released the sword in time to catch it. Gendred’s dagger felt heavy in his hand, not comfortable like the sword. Guilt made the weapon feel weighty.

  “We shouldn’t take these. They’re not ours.”

  Ghaul shook his head. “This a matter of survival, not personal gain.”

  “But I-”

  “They gave their lives for their king and country, for this journey. Certainly they wouldn’t hesitate to give a few of their belongings.”

  Khirro sighed and tucked the dagger into his belt. Ghaul was right-he shouldn’t feel bad pilfering from his dead fellows. They’d have given everything for their king. In fact, they had.

  “Now this he might not have wanted to give up to me,” Ghaul said with a laugh as he brandished the fallen Kanosee archer’s bow. He slung it over his shoulder and spat on the corpse. “I hope the shithawks have a good meal of your balls, pig.”

  High overhead, two dark shapes circled. The smell of blood had already attracted carrion feeders, and the birds would eventually attract attention from the fortress.

  “Let’s go before they swoop down and take our eyes by mistake.”

  Ghaul climbed down into the ditch first, moving with the athleticism of a practiced soldier. Khirro slid down the side painfully, skidding against the dirt side and coming to a jarring stop at the bottom. He gritted his teeth, determined not to cry out.

  The trench’s earthy odor reminded Khirro of home where the aroma of turned dirt was a constant in his life. His family would be readying for the summer harvest, storing some away and taking the rest to market to trade for meats and staples they’d need for winter. The thought made his heart ache. Emeline would be with her parents doing the same. He longed to be there, to tend to her while her belly swelled. At least she’d be safe.

  I hope.

  Khirro breathed in the normally comforting smell but it offered no solace this time. He swayed on his injured leg, grappling for balance, then started after Ghaul.

  Don’t dwell on the past, it holds only sadness now.

  Easy to think, difficult to do.

  He didn’t want to think of his future, either, for the complete unknown of it held only dread. As the fortress wall receded behind, his boots splashed in a trickle of water snaking down the middle of the trench. He tottered along the bottom of the ditch trying to calm his spinning head and a sound came to his ears, a rumble as if distant thunder spoke to him. He glanced up at the cloudless sky, confused for a moment before he identified the sound as hooves beating dry ground.

  “They’re coming,” Ghaul said.

  Chapter Eight

  The sounds were small and far away. Khirro stopped to listen while his companion continued along the dusty path, pace unchanged. Sunlight streamed over the edge of the ditch though they walked in shadow. Early evening. They had a head start on their pursuers.

  King’s soldiers or Kanosee?

  The death birds might have drawn their attention, but more likely one of the regular patrols discovered the battleground. Or maybe the Kanosee come through the drainage system again without the Shaman’s magic to hold them back.

  No, too much noise to be the enemy.

  Khirro scrambled up the side of the ditch, careful of his aching leg, and hoisted himself above the edge. He heard shouts and the sound of horses, but the tall grass blocked his view. He pushed himself up farther, straining to see. Another inch higher and his eyes would be clear of the grass.

  A hand gripped his belt, yanked him back and brought him tumbling from his perch. His back slammed against the ground, leaving him gazing again at the clear blue sky. He wished he could float away into it, leave behind the pain in his leg, the fear of the curse, flee from the vial at his breast and the pool of water collecting at his shoulder. Then Ghaul’s silhouette blocked his freedom.

  “Are you trying to get us killed? We’ll be easy enough to track in this dirt. Would you make their task easier by signaling them?”

  Khirro shook his head as the water soaking his breeches and the fresh pain in his tail bone erased thoughts of a better place. This was the only place for him, the only place he could be. And Ghaul was right-had Khirro seen them, then they might have seen him, too.

  Why can’t I think more like a soldier? More like Ghaul.

  “I wanted to see who it is.”

  “King’s soldiers. They’ll be on our trail soon. We mustn’t waste our lead.”

  Ghaul offered his hand and Khirro took it. The warrior hoisted him to his feet, spun on his heel and continued without waiting.

  “How much farther before the ditch ends?” Khirro brushed dirt from his breeches, grimacing at the pain in his rump and his leg as he hurried to catch up.

  “Not far. The sides are not so steep anymore.”

  The yellow grass-trimmed edge-well above their heads when they entered the ditch-had dipped to Ghaul’s height. Khirro shook his head, frustrated he hadn’t noticed the change. He’d been trained as a
soldier of the king, endured the same hardships as other recruits, even as Ghaul had at some point, yet still couldn’t make his head work in the manner of a soldier. How far apart to plant corn or when to harvest crops he knew without putting thought to it, but observing his surroundings or remembering not to reveal his location were things yet beyond him. He hoped time would improve his skills, but there wasn’t time for practice, not when everything was life or death. If a crop languished in the ground too long, there would be other crops and other years, other farmers from whom to purchase food. The same couldn’t be said of a soldier. One mistake could end everything.

  Why did the Shaman think I could do this?

  As Gendred said: a dirt farmer would do nothing but get in the way. If he could release himself from this curse, pass it on to someone else, he’d do so without second thought. A real warrior like Ghaul would be better suited.

  Khirro reached beneath his jerkin and brought the vial from its hiding place, held it up toward the sky. The sun shone through it, turning it into a glowing liquid ruby.

  The king’s blood. The fate of a kingdom in a small glass vial.

  “Ghaul?” His companion responded with a grunt but neither stopped nor turned toward him. “How long have you been a soldier?”

  “I am the son of a soldier’s son. Ten summers had tanned my skin when I joined the town garrison.”

  “I’m not a soldier. My place is digging in the earth, providing for my family, selling my crops at market.” He rolled the vial in his fingers watching the blood ebb and flow.

  “A noble profession when there’s no war.” With Ghaul’s back to him, Khirro couldn’t gauge the sincerity of his words. “But these are dark times, the darkest you or I have seen. I was barely out of swaddling clothes when Braymon took the crown.”