Blood of the King kj-1

by Bruce Blake

  Khirro’s eyes snapped open, his body starting. Elyea stirred beside him.

  “Is all well?”

  “Yes,” he answered too quickly, but she didn’t notice, instead wriggling in closer, laying her hand on his chest. He looked down at the top of her head, his breath short, tempted to stroke her hair, but he didn’t allow himself.

  Sleep hadn’t come when Shyn roused them to take up the oars.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  As the day wore on, the heat grew, intensifying the stench of moldering canvas. Sweat streamed down Suath’s forehead, soaked his underclothes, but he remained motionless, dirk in hand. He listened to the choppy sounds of oars striking water and knew his quarry had little experience navigating a boat. His opinion of their skills meant nothing, he had a job to do and nothing else mattered.

  When he came across their steeds milling about at the edge of the forest, he knew he’d nearly caught them. And he knew why they came this way. He had needed boats in the past, too; it was the only reason to come to Sheldive.

  He crept aboard the sloop while they busied themselves leering at the whore as she fucked them a boat, forgetting to watch the prize for which they’d come. He hid under the tarp, lying in wait, not troubling a moment over why this odd group should be headed to Lakesh. Experience had taught him people’s reasons can be unfathomable. He’d also learned to attack when he had the best chance for survival and escape. In Vendaria, a fight may have called attention-the militia would be on high alert with a war to the north-and he wouldn’t be able to navigate the boat by himself if he killed them on the open water, so he waited. Once he killed them, he’d head up the coast and hire a boat to take him back. Or maybe he’d go to Kanos to see what price might be paid there for whatever he was retrieving. Maybe they’d pay more than Therrador.

  A sliver of sunlight stole under the tarp from a spot where the rope had loosened. Suath kept his gaze on it, watching for movement. A shadow blocked the mute illumination and he tensed, ready to attack if the need occurred.

  “We should send the others back,” a man’s voice said in hushed tones Suath almost couldn’t hear. “Two of us would move more swiftly. And the journey will be perilous. You wouldn’t want their deaths on your head, would you?”

  A pause before a second man’s voice answered.

  “No,” he said. Suath heard hesitancy in his voice. “It would be as dangerous for them in Vendaria, though.”

  “They could go north, to the sea wall,” the first voice urged.

  “Not with the war. They’d destroy the boat before it came within shouting distance. It’s best this way. We’ll need every sword, every bit of cunning. And everything Athryn has to offer.”

  Another slight pause. “Watch the magician, Khirro, he has his own agenda for seeking the Necromancer, and it has nothing to do with the blood of the king you carry in that vial.”

  Suath smiled.

  Braymon’s blood.

  No wonder Therrador wanted the vial so badly. The Kanosee would likely pay a great deal for this. He’d have to be careful with a magic user amongst them, but magicians bled like any man, the key was to keep them from speaking.

  Suath knew how to do that.

  The woman called to them from the bow of the boat but the lapping of the waves swallowed her words.

  “We’re almost there,” the second man’s voice said with a note of resignation. No warrior, this one. “Everyone comes with us unless they choose otherwise. We’ll need them all.”

  Footsteps sounded on the wooden deck, vibrating against Suath’s chest, as someone else approached.

  “We should rest when we arrive, get our bearings,” the new voice said in deep, melodic tones, undoubtedly the voice of a magic user. “None will follow us to the haunted land, but the journey will be difficult. We should regain our energy before we continue.”

  The other voices agreed, then two sets of boots clomped away. Shadow still blocked the sun. Suath blinked sweat from his eye, straining his gaze, but saw only a bit of brown leather boot-the first man still stood nearby. It would not be enough to identify the man when the time came, but he would recognize his voice. If any amongst them might be tempted to turn to his side, this would be the one.

  Or he could be dangerous.

  Again, footsteps clopped on the deck and sun found its way through the opening. Sweat covered every inch of Suath’s exposed skin, drenched his clothes. He’d survived the sweat boxes of Estycia and the deserts of the south, as well as more wounds and tortures than most men knew existed. Discomfort meant nothing to him, he’d be paid with more than enough gold to compensate.

  Half an hour passed before the ship’s bow crunched against the rocky beach of the Lakesh shore. A few more hours of heat and discomfort and they’d be asleep, then he’d make his move.

  It pleased Suath they made his task so easy.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Therrador leaned back in his seat, steepled fingers resting against his lips as he regarded the other men sitting around the marble table. For the better part of an hour, they’d argued on the same subject and he found it hard to hide his annoyance, but he controlled himself. How he acted now would insure things came out the way he planned.

  “But we don’t know for certain the king has perished.”

  A tall wisp of a man, Lord Emon Turesti’s gray hair lay limp against his narrow shoulders; his impossibly long fingers fidgeted constantly. The High Chancellor never stopped moving and all these characteristics combined to give him the nickname Smoke, though few dared say it to his face.

  “In the name of the four Gods, do you suppose he unarmored himself to take up a mallet and play a quick game of roque?” Sir Alton Sienhin’s droopy jowls shook as he blustered, his face a startling red behind his huge black mustache. The head of the king’s army had made the trip from the Isthmus Fortress to Achtindel in order to sit with the high council. “You haven’t seen the king fight, Smoke. A warrior like King Braymon would not be relieved of his armor whilst life still coursed through his veins.”

  How appropriate, Therrador thought, that they speak of what runs through his veins.

  The other men at the table-Hu Dondon, the Lord Chamberlain, and Hanh Perdaro, Voice of the People-nodded at Sir Alton’s words.

  Turesti’s lips tightened to a pale line at the use of the nickname. “Sir Alton, with no body, we cannot presume-”

  “What of the Shaman?” Hu Dondon interrupted.

  The oldest man sitting on the King’s High Council, Dondon didn’t look any more aged than his fellows. His full head of black hair showed no gray, his posture remained straight; only the droop at the corners of his eyes gave any inkling of the years he’d seen pass.

  “The Shaman is dead. He-” Sir Alton began.

  “Yes, we know,” Dondon interrupted again, a habit those who knew him had to live with. “Found him dead outside the walls. Makes him look a traitor. What of his sworn mission?”

  Sir Alton’s face grew more red. “Bale died valiantly at the foot of the fortress wall,” he sputtered barely controlling his rage at Dondon’s inference. “Rudric and Gendred fell by his side, the bodies of eight Kanosee pigs rotting around them. Do not speak ill of brave men.”

  Dondon waved a dismissive hand at the general. “Yes, died for his country. And his mission?”

  “There was no sign of it.” Sir Alton leaned back, arms crossed against his barrel chest. “We have no reason to think they had it.”

  “Then why were they outside the fortress?” Hanh Perdaro asked.

  Though youthful, little hair grew on the head of the man known as the Voice of the People. Thoughtful and sparse of words, Therrador treasured these traits and liked the man best of the King’s High Council. There would be a position for Perdaro in the future if he wanted it.

  “We cannot know,” Lord Turesti said. “Perhaps the king was captured and they gave pursuit.”

  “And suppose I shat a donkey,” Sir Alton blurted. “If they were
in pursuit of the king’s captors, there would have been a damn sight more than three of them.”

  “In either case,” Turesti continued, his mouth a taut line of disgust at Sir Alton’s words. “We should keep things quiet. It will do no good for the army to think they fight without a king and for the people to mourn their regent in the middle of a war.”

  “I fear it’s already too late,” Hanh Perdaro said stroking the thin line of beard cupping his chin. “Whispers of Braymon’s death already cross the land. The people grow nervous.”

  “Aye, as do the king’s soldiers,” Sir Alton added, his cheeks fading pink. “Not only do they fear the loss of their king, but Rudric and Gendred-”

  Dondon cut him off. “Yes, yes. But the blood. What of the king’s blood?”

  Therrador leaned forward resting his elbows on the table top, and the others looked toward him, waiting to hear the words of the king’s advisor who had remained silent as they discussed the situation. He looked from one to the next, drawing the pause out deliberately, taking in their anxious looks.

  This is what it will be like when I’m king.

  “There is no blood.”

  He watched hope drain from their faces. Hu Dondon sucked breath in through his teeth; Sir Alton Sienhin smacked a gauntleted fist on the white and red marble table.

  “I have sent men searching, and they’ve turned up nothing. No one survived the fight beneath the walls of the fortress.”

  “But why were they-” Dondon began, but Therrador cut him off, taking great pleasure in doing so. He pulled a vial from his belt and tossed it onto the table to roll across the smooth surface. Four pairs of eyes followed the empty glass as it skittered to the middle of the table.

  “The blood was spilled,” Therrador said.

  “Then all is lost.” Lord Turesti said voicing what must have been on all their minds. “What will happen with no heir to the throne?”

  “Civil war,” Dondon said. “The kingdom will be plunged into turmoil.”

  “You belly-dragging son of a rabid weasel!” Sir Alton Sienhin stood so suddenly his chair teetered. “Would you have us roll over and wet on ourselves? Hand our country to the Kanosee and save them the trouble of dirtying their boots?”

  “Sit down, you fool,” Hu Dondon sneered. “If you and that so-called royal guard had done your jobs, perhaps we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “How dare you. We lost three-”

  “You lost the king,” Dondon snapped. “Nothing else matters.”

  “You are nothing but a-”

  “Enough!”

  Therrador slammed his hand on the table; the men turned their attention to him, their expressions ranging from despair to rage. As they stared, he pulled a rolled parchment from his belt and tossed it onto the table. It spun a few times, rolling to a stop against the empty vial.

  “That letter contains the king’s wishes if he were to fall and not be raised.” He looked at them, gauging their reactions. “And the solution to our problem.”

  They stared at the paper, none of them speaking or reaching for it. Even the normally verbose Hu Dondon remained speechless. Finally, Hanh Perdaro looked up from the parchment, meeting Therrador’s eyes.

  “Why did you not tell us of this sooner, Therrador?”

  “I held hope of discovering what happened, as you did. I hoped beyond hope, prayed to the four Gods our king would be returned, but time has passed. The likelihood of my prayers being answered, my hopes coming true, grows dimmer every day. It’s time something is done to save our kingdom.”

  “What does it say?” Lord Turesti asked.

  Therrador breathed deep. “It says I’m to carry on King Braymon’s legacy as regent and protector of the realm, and my heir after me.”

  “Yes, yes. But how do we know this to be true?”

  If Hu Dondon didn’t realize the mistake he’d made in asking as the words passed his lips, Therrador’s sudden rage made it clear.

  “How dare you!” Therrador yelled. “I became friends with Braymon suckling side by side at our mothers’ teats. I served our king before he became king, while the likes of you rooted at the feet of the man who held his rightful throne.”

  Dondon hung his head. “Apologies, Lord.”

  Sir Alton looked across the table at Dondon, disgust and pleasure mixing plainly in his eyes. “It bears the unbroken seal of the king,” he said pointing at the roll, his mustache quivering as his camouflaged lips moved behind it. “It is the wish of the king.”

  Seconds passed as they stared at the king’s mark. Hanh Perdaro picked up the letter, broke the seal and unrolled it. He read its words while the others held their breath, awaiting confirmation. Therrador fought to keep his rebel lips from breaking into an inappropriate smile. When Perdaro finished, he set the letter back on the table.

  “It is as he says.” He pushed his chair away, moved to Therrador’s side and dropped to one knee. “I pledge fealty to you, my Lord. My life is yours, King Therrador.”

  Only the briefest moment of pause passed before Sir Alton’s voice bellowed out across the chamber.

  “Long live King Therrador!” The others joined in, thrusting their fists in the air. “Long live the king!”

  Therrador sat back in his chair and allowed the smallest of smiles to curl the corners of his mouth.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The white tyger squatted on its haunches, silent but for its breath. Khirro stared into its golden eyes, unsuccessfully attempting to fathom who or what lay behind them. They sat for some time-how much, Khirro didn’t know: a minute in a dream could be hours, or hours but a minute. He shifted, moving to his left, and the tyger growled deep in the back of its throat, startling him. He settled back and the beast quieted. Each time he moved, the tyger growled again, fixing Khirro in place.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  In the other dreams, the tyger seemed helpful, friendly. Not so this time. This time it acted as jailer or guard, keeping him from leaving. Khirro scanned the forest surrounding them without recognition. This was not the place of the lake and the moon. He breathed deep and leaned to his left. The tyger growled, but he ignored it this time, leaning farther. The beast bared its teeth. Khirro quickly moved back and the rumble in the tyger’s throat ceased.

  “Stray not from the path, Khirro.” The tyger’s voice rang in his head. “Danger lies on all sides.”

  Khirro moved directly toward the tyger. It didn’t react.

  “Who are you?”

  “You will be safe if you follow the path. Stray not.”

  Without knowing why he took the chance, Khirro reached out and touched the tyger’s nose. The big cat neither flinched nor moved away. His fingers brushed the soft fur between its eyes, felt the moistness of its nose. He only had a moment to notice these sensations before the animal rose abruptly and leaped away into the forest. Khirro stood, staring after it as a chill ran down his spine.

  And then Khirro was walking, though he didn’t remember wanting to walk or starting to do so. Trees and brush slid past and he realized where he was, where he had to go. The Shaman had shown him the path to Darestat’s keep when he cursed him with this burden and he saw it clearly now, knew he walked it.

  South. The path lay south. There he’d find an inland lagoon fed by a towering waterfall, beside it a ruined village. There the journey through Lakesh would start.

  The trail ahead of Khirro disappeared, foliage and brush enveloping it, and a feeling he was no longer alone overwhelmed him. He scanned the thick brush hoping the tyger had returned to guide him but saw only leaves and branches. He swung back to the path and before him, where there had been only forest a moment before, was the lagoon and the abandoned village, the waterfall cascading soundlessly into a clear pool. Under other circumstances, the scene might have been beautiful, but the feeling of being stalked pressed in, brushing Khirro’s cheek, filling his lungs. Everything dimmed. The huts, the lagoon, the trees, everything faded int
o darkness. Everything disappeared.

  Khirro opened his eyes.

  With the dream still fresh in his mind, he didn’t understand what his eyes saw at first. Darkness, but not dark like at the end of the dream. He knew he was awake. He blinked to clear his head and focus his eyes.

  Scars criss-crossed the face looking down on him. One eye glared at him menacingly, the other socket empty and pink.

  The one-eyed man.

  Khirro pushed himself to his elbows, sucking air in noisily. He opened his mouth to call out, but a dirk to his throat stopped him.

  “The vial,” the man whispered.

  How can he be here?

  Mind reeling, Khirro stared into the man’s craggy face. Pursuers couldn’t have arrived already, couldn’t know where they’d land, even if they knew they sought the Necromancer. The one-eyed man pushed the blade painfully against his throat.

  “Give it to me.”

  Khirro’s eyes flickered side to side.

  Where are the others? Did he kill them?

  Another cry for help stuck in his throat. He had no doubt this man would slit his throat and find the vial himself, would likely kill him once he had it. Khirro moved his hand toward the opening of his jerkin and the vial it hid, and the stiletto secreted beside it.

  “I’ll get that.”

  The man pushed Khirro’s hand away and reached roughly beneath his shirt, searching with his fingers until he found the glass container. He pulled it out and tucked it beneath his own tunic without moving his gaze from Khirro to look at his prize, then held up the stiletto he’d retrieved at the same time.

  “And just what did you think to do with this?”

  Something moved behind the man. Khirro glanced away to see Athryn creeping up behind him, then quickly brought his eyes back to the one-eyed man. A smile twisted the man’s scarred features and Khirro realized his mistake.

  “Athryn,” he called out too late. The mercenary whirled, blade flashing moonlight as it opened a gash across the magician’s belly. Khirro scrambled away as he saw the dagger Athryn held fall to the sand, his body collapsing close beside it. The man turned back to Khirro, but everyone else had wakened. Shyn and Ghaul called out, rushing to them with steel in hand. The one-eyed man cursed and hurled the stiletto at Khirro before leaping away into the forest. Khirro rolled on his side and the slender blade sank hilt deep in the sand inches from his head.