Blood of the King kj-1

by Bruce Blake

  Khirro didn’t understand why, after all that had happened, he still didn’t trust Shyn. Perhaps they’d never get along.

  “There’s nothing to see. The forest is too dense.”

  “What use is a man who turns into a bird if he sees no more than a man who can’t?”

  “Perhaps you’d like to try?”

  “Enough,” Elyea snapped. “The two of you arguing like children doesn’t help us find our way.” She looked at Khirro sitting on a fallen cedar, Athryn silent beside him. He read the question on her face before words left her lips. “Think, Khirro. Which way do we go?”

  The forest around them was thicker and quieter than a forest should be. No bird calls shrilled the air, no animals foraged for food, not so much as a mosquito buzzed around their heads. In another place, under other circumstances, such quiet might be peaceful, refreshing, but not here. With every turn they took, every step they made, a sense of doom followed, closing in, attaching itself to their skin, filling their lungs with every breath. Khirro expelled some of the feeling from his lungs with a heavy sigh.

  “I don’t know, Elyea.” He didn’t look at her, didn’t want to see disappointment on her face.

  “I thought the Shaman showed you the way,” Ghaul said, redirecting his frustration from Shyn to Khirro.

  “He did.”

  “So get us where we need to go.”

  Khirro looked at his feet, frustrated and embarrassed. The Shaman showed him the way but he couldn’t remember it. Don’t stray from the path, the tyger had said. Now he understood the beast’s warning-once off the trail, you might not find your way back.

  “It is not that you cannot remember, Khirro,” Athryn said. Khirro looked at him, gaping. These were the first words he’d spoken since they cremated Maes’ body. “You have no reference. What is the first thing you remember Bale showed you of Lakesh?”

  They awaited his answer, blame in their eyes, and anger rose in his chest. He’d neither asked nor wanted to lead this expedition. The Shaman cursed him to it. Nor had he begged any of these people to join him, each had insisted. Did they not think there may be a danger this might happen? Yet there they stood, accusing him. In that moment, he didn’t want them there, didn’t need their so-called help.

  Then Elyea stood beside him, rested her hand gently on his shoulder, and the anger melted away.

  How could I think that about them? They’ve been there for me when I needed them. Saved my life. His cheeks flushed red with guilt.

  “What do you remember?” she asked, her voice soothing. He looked into her deep green eyes and nearly fell in.

  “A ruined village.” His hands fiddled in his lap; he made them stop. “It sits on the shore of an inland lagoon, south of where we landed on the beach, that much I know.”

  “South then,” Shyn said. He pulled his pack on and started out without waiting for the others.

  “He said south,” Ghaul called after him derisively. “That’s this way.”

  “I’m the one who flies above the trees.” Shyn laughed. “I know where the sun sits in the sky.”

  “You wouldn’t know where your ass sits without a map.”

  The soldiers closed on one another, both reaching for their swords. Before they got close, the ground shook beneath their feet, stopping them.

  “What was that?” Elyea asked, dagger already in hand. The ground shook again.

  “That way.” Shyn pointed the direction he’d already begun walking.

  They crept forward, Shyn and Ghaul in the lead. The forest heaved and swelled with hillocks and buried roots, forced them to clamor over fallen logs. They moved carefully, straining to be quiet as they climbed up a hill, then down the other side. The ground shook once more, this time accompanied by a low rumble like a boulder tumbling down a distant mountain.

  Cresting another hill, Ghaul stopped without warning, breath hissing through his teeth. Khirro crouched beside him peering down into the hollow at the bottom of the hill. Stumps crowded the forest floor, many of them wider across than a man is tall. Directly across from them, the next hill had been hollowed out into a man-made cave, snarled roots dangling from the ceiling.

  Khirro stared down the swell trying to make sense of what he saw. His mother’s stories of men bigger than nature should allow, as tall as three normal men, came to mind. These men made meals of any creature they got their hands on, devouring everything, even the bones. But surely they couldn’t be true, they were merely stories told to keep children from misbehaving.

  Like the stories of magicians and Necromancers and men who turned into animals.

  Suddenly, he understood why they hadn’t seen any animals or birds in the forest. The forest creatures knew better than to be here.

  None of them wanted to be food for a giant.

  The smell of dirt and peat filled Khirro’s nostrils as they lay atop the ridge watching, waiting. The earth here smelled different than on his farm., altered by the detritus from the trees. Still, it was the earth’s aroma and it provided him some comfort. He shook his head at the thought.

  How does one feel comfort while spying on a giant?

  Athryn lay beside him, breathing quietly. Somewhere above the trees, Shyn’s wings caught air as he scouted a path past the giant. Disagreeing with Shyn as always, Ghaul took Elyea to find a way around the encampment from ground level. Khirro didn’t like the idea but, in their effort to stay quiet, he had no chance to voice his opinion.

  They watched the giant making ready for the night. The huge man stood at least the height of three tall men, his head dominated by a sloping forehead flowing straight into his twisted nose. Cracked, puffy lips parted on gapped teeth as it pulled small trees out of the ground by their roots like a child might pluck dandelions for amusement. These logs-branches in the giant’s hands-it snapped in two over its knee and piled beside a well-used fire pit.

  Khirro looked on, fascinated and horrified, at this creature from his bedtime stories. He’d never believed in them-or so he told himself-but they’d kept him from wandering into the forest alone, made him go to bed when told. When he grew older, he saw the stories for what they were: untrue lessons meant to frighten, to teach, to warn. Or so he believed until an undead soldier pulled helmet from head, ready to strike him dead. Dead men walking, magic, a man who became a bird, malevolent grass, a giant: if all these things existed, did it make dragons, ghosts, demons and Gods real, too?

  A rustle of leaves pulled Khirro from his musings. He rolled to his back, brandishing his dagger, and saw Shyn standing on the hill, naked and haggard like a man who’d worked for days without sleep. Athryn gathered the border guard’s clothes he’d kept with him and crept down to meet him, Khirro close behind.

  “Anything?” Khirro whispered as Shyn pulled his breeches on.

  The bird man shot him a glance telling him not to speak, then shook his head. The forest was thicker than any he’d seen, Shyn had told them before, its canopy so dense he couldn’t fly through it. They waited while he donned his clothes, then crept to the crest of the hill again, bellies to the ground. When they reached the top of the rise, Khirro’s blood chilled in his veins.

  The giant was gone.

  Khirro’s eyes darted across the clearing. No sign of the creature. Shyn looked behind them and Khirro’s throat clogged with fear. Had the giant seen them? Scented them? Surely something that size couldn’t sneak up on them.

  “Where is it?” Khirro’s whisper was barely more than a breath.

  Neither man responded. Minutes passed as they scanned the forest. Somewhere amongst the trees lurked a creature who could crush them in its hand, split their bones for the marrow like a normal man snapping a twig. A shudder shook Khirro’s body and Athryn gestured for him to remain still.

  It felt to Khirro like they lay there a very long time before they heard Elyea cry out. Instinctively, Khirro moved to get to his feet, hand reaching for his sword, but Shyn’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. He settled back, body tense.
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  Another shout sounded through the trees, this time Ghaul’s voice, followed closely by a deep throated roar sounding more beast than man. Trees groaned and brush shook, then all noise ceased. A minute passed, two. Khirro’s muscles tensed, nearly tying themselves in knots as he readied to rush to his friends’ aid though; with time to think about it, the thought of such action became more difficult, foolhardy. He looked at Shyn; the border guard thankfully gestured for him to wait.

  The ground shook with the giant’s footsteps. Khirro wondered how this creature could possibly have been quiet enough to sneak away without their knowledge.

  Elyea called out again, closer this time. The trees beside the dugout-cave shook, then parted, and the giant emerged, a crooked grin marring its flat face. It carried Elyea under one arm, her arms pinned at her sides, legs flailing uselessly. The giant’s other arm hung at its side. Fingers the thickness of tree branches gripped the back of Ghaul’s tunic as it dragged the warrior through the brush.

  Ghaul’s arms and legs hung limp.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Therrador shifted, seeking comfort on the uncomfortable seat. The throne wasn’t designed for relaxation, but he was confident he’d get used to it. He glanced around the throne room, unconsciously noting where he’d make changes: Braymon’s coat-of-arms would have to go, of course, replaced by his own-a crossed sword and staff. And the tapestries would be supplanted. He and Braymon always had dissimilar tastes-in decoration, in clothes-in everything except women. He scowled at the thought and put it immediately out of his head.

  Leaning back in the hard seat, Therrador wondered how the mercenary fared. He knew the man was a ruthless killer-there was no man alive more likely to follow a grisly task to its end-but could he be trusted? A man willing to sell his sword to the highest bidder didn’t instill confidence in his employer. Suath would probably try to sell the vial elsewhere, even without knowing its contents, to see if he could get more than Therrador offered. Most wouldn’t be interested in a vial of unidentified blood, but some might guess its contents, perhaps Suath himself. Better not to take any chances.

  Hanh Perdaro’s network learned of two Vendarians found dead on the dock near a slip that shouldn’t have been empty. They must have made it to Lakesh, or tried to, if the Small Sea didn’t claim them. Therrador never expected they’d make it as far as the haunted land-Suath would be penalized, if he returned.

  The king’s advisor fidgeted again. The mercenary would follow his quarry to the cursed earth. If he took the vial from them there, it was an easy trip up the coast to Kanos where a man with a vial of blood and a taste for money would have more luck finding a buyer than in Vendaria. As soon as he heard about the stolen boat, Therrador sent more soldiers after them-both the man carrying the vial and the mercenary. It didn’t calm his nerves, however.

  He glanced at Graymon playing near the foot of the throne-knights and dragons, as usual. The sight of his son brought a pained smile to his lips.

  He looks so much like his mother.

  A knock on the throne room door brought him to his feet. It was best he not be seen sitting upon the throne-not yet. He descended the three short steps from the dais and took a seat at the granite table set to the side.

  “Enter.”

  The thick oaken doors swung inward and Hanh Perdaro, Voice of the People, entered. He crossed halfway to where Therrador sat, then stopped and bowed shallowly at the waist.

  “My Lord.”

  “Perdaro,” Therrador replied with a nod. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I need your ear, my Lord.” He glanced at Graymon knocking over knights with the wooden dragon-in his games, the dragon always won. “Alone.”

  Therrador looked at his son again, then motioned for the door guard.

  “Graymon, Daddy needs to speak to Uncle Hanh alone. Go with the young man, he’ll get you a treat from the kitchen.”

  Graymon looked up, waving the carved dragon defiantly at the guard. “No,” he cried. “No one can capture Gorgo, king of the dragons.”

  Shaking his head apologetically at Perdaro, Therrador rose and went to his son, crouched in front of him. Before opening his mouth to speak, Graymon lashed out with the dragon and struck Therrador’s forearm painfully with its wooden teeth. Therrador’s combat reflexes responded automatically. He grabbed the boy’s wrist, making him drop the toy. Graymon’s face turned instantly from joy to hurt, his eyes watering, mouth drooping. Therrador released his arm, regretting his reaction.

  “Please, Graymon. Da needs to speak with Uncle Hanh.” His soothing tones had little effect on the boy’s quivering lip. Therrador stroked his cheek. “The nice man will get you a treat. I bet there’s cookies.”

  Graymon’s face brightened like a cloud passing from the sun. He jumped up and ran to the door guard while Gorgo, king of the dragons, lay forgotten on the floor. Therrador watched him leave, then returned to the table and motioned for Perdaro to sit.

  “What’s on your mind, Hanh?”

  The Voice of the People took a seat directly across from Therrador, taking a moment to straighten his tunic and smooth his sparse hair before speaking.

  “There are rumors,” he began. Therrador tensed at the words-Hanh Perdaro didn’t tend toward dramatics. “I have heard whispers the blood of the king is bound for Lakesh, Therrador.”

  The king’s advisor stiffened at the sound of his own name; he’d become used to being addressed as ‘my Lord’ and the like. The day the entire country referred to him as ‘my liege’, ‘your highness’ or ‘your grace’ couldn’t come soon enough. But first these whispers needed to be dealt with.

  “I have already told you, Hanh,” Therrador said carefully controlling his voice. “Bale is dead, as are Rudric and Gendred. None escaped. You saw the empty vial. The king’s blood fed the parched earth at the foot of the Isthmus fortress.”

  “It’s not I who disbelieves. My opinion is inconsequential. I speak for the people. If not quelled, whispers and rumors become rumblings, and nothing good comes of rumblings.” He paused to glance over first one shoulder, then the other-a habit born of listening to and re-telling whispers. “It’s also said the Mourning Sword was not with Bale’s body. Some see it as an ill omen.”

  Therrador harrumphed. “Pillaged, that’s all. What man wouldn’t want such a sword for their own, whether they knew what it was or not.”

  “But the people say-”

  The slap of Therrador’s open hand on the smooth granite table top echoed across the chamber. He glared at Perdaro and surreptitiously rubbed his stinging palm against his thigh. For this man, he had more patience for conversation than most, but he found his patience easily worn thin these days.

  “There is a war being fought,” he snapped. “Do the people whisper about that? The kingdom needs a king, or all will be lost. What do their rumors say about that?” He glared at the Voice of the People, scrutinizing his expression, but it betrayed nothing of his own thoughts. “That’s where my priorities must lie, not in chasing a hope we know false. Braymon’s dead and gone and I’m the one he named to take his place if exactly this came to pass. The sooner the people stop their whisperings and accept their new king, the easier life will be for all.”

  They looked across the table at each other, neither speaking for a minute. Therrador wondered if he’d allowed his anger to make him say too much, but Perdaro’s face showed nothing. The things this man must have heard through the years-some of them enough to make most men cringe, or cry, but the Voice of the People couldn’t afford such luxuries. He spoke little, listened much, and reacted not at all.

  “What does my Lord wish to do?”

  Therrador drummed his fingers on the table, acting as though his palm didn’t still hurt. He stopped and rubbed his chin.

  “Start your own rumors, Hanh,” he said finally. “Tell the people what they want to hear. Whisper that we caught a Kanosee who survived the fight outside the fortress walls. With his capture imminent, he emptied
Braymon’s blood from the vial. Tell them we recovered the Mourning Sword from his butchered corpse and it’s secreted away until there is a Shaman to replace Bale.” He stared at Perdaro, looking past him, through him. “Tell them Braymon is dead, he won’t be coming back, and his dying wish was for Therrador to be king in his stead.”

  Hanh Perdaro nodded, unspeaking. His face remained an emotionless mask. When Therrador said no more, he stood, bowed at the waist and went to leave. As his hand touched the brass knob on the oaken door, Therrador spoke again.

  “And Hanh, tell Sir Alton I need to see him. There’s a one-eyed man who must not enter the kingdom alive.”

  Perdaro nodded and left the throne room, closing the door behind him. Therrador leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands across his stomach. He glanced at the wall hangings, imagining them depicting his own acts of heroism. Perhaps one of them would show Gorgo, king of the dragons. Graymon would like that.

  “Tell them the king is dead,” he said to the empty room. “Tell them ‘long live the king’.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Night fell but the forest remained illuminated by the flames from the giant’s fire reaching toward the boughs high overhead, flickering and dancing higher than the height of the giant. The creature squatted at the edge of the fire pit, staring mesmerized into its depths, occasionally poking a burning log with the tip of a spear longer than any Khirro had ever seen. Several yards from where it crouched, Elyea and Ghaul sat back to back, a thick rope woven of green vines looped around them. Their chins drooped forward, touching their chests, so Khirro couldn’t tell whether they were conscious or not.

  Overhead, Shyn-as-falcon perched on a limb, awaiting the signal. Khirro and Athryn crept around the giant’s encampment, painstakingly picking their way to a spot close to their captive companions. As the moment for action drew near, Khirro’s gut twisted. He touched the vial tucked inside his tunic, seeking comfort and courage from it, but found only cool glass. Over the past weeks, he’d tasted fear like he’d never experienced. This was worse. Anticipation multiplied fear exponentially, growing it beyond the bounds he thought possible. Athryn dug an elbow into his side, urging him forward. Khirro drew a deep, slow breath, preparing to move.