Blood of the King kj-1

by Bruce Blake

  “What of the dragon?”

  “We are far enough into the tunnel neither the dragon nor its fire can reach us,” the magician told him.

  “But it's perched on the exit,” Ghaul said, an edge to his voice. “We’re doomed to die here.”

  “There will be another way out,” Shyn snapped.

  Khirro brushed Athryn’s hand from his shoulder and pushed himself to a sitting position. It hurt. His skin felt as though it had shrunk two sizes. Elyea and Athryn each supported him under an arm and helped him to his feet.

  “Are you okay to move?” Elyea asked.

  “I have to be.”

  Athryn nodded. “Elyea, help Ghaul and Shyn get ready while I change Khirro’s dressings.”

  She kissed Khirro lightly on the cheek then went down the tunnel to join the two soldiers.

  “How long have we been down here?”

  Athryn shrugged as he unwound a bandage from Khirro’s chest. “It is hard to tell without the sun overhead. Perhaps two days.”

  Two days!

  Khirro wiped sweat from his brow though Athryn’s touch felt cool. He glanced down the tunnel at the others and saw they all wore their tunics.

  It’s the burns making me warm. Or fever.

  “How bad is it, Athryn?”

  The magician didn’t look up. “Your wounds are clean. They heal quickly, more quickly even than the blood of the king healed them before.”

  “No, I mean the burns. Do I…” He hesitated. “Do I look like you?”

  Athryn stopped, raised his eyes to meet Khirro’s. No tone of accusation or offence entered his voice.

  “No, Khirro. You are unscarred.”

  He moved his head so Khirro could see his own features reflected in the mask: hair singed, eyebrows gone, but no burns. He sighed with relief-hair would grow back. But there was still the heat.

  “I’m hot, Athryn. Do I have a fever?”

  Khirro had seen many people in his village succumb to fever after they thought their wounds healed. A chill shook his spine. What mockery it would be to survive a dragon only to die of infection.

  “You survived the dragon’s fire.” Athryn’s tone was hushed, his eyes gleamed behind his mask. “Not once, but twice.”

  “That’s why I’m warm?”

  Athryn tapped his finger against Khirro’s chest. “It gets inside and burns there.”

  Khirro stared, wide eyes reflected and distorted in the contoured silver mask as he remembered the dream tyger’s words.

  “What do you mean?”

  With a shrug, Athryn went back to changing Khirro’s bandages. “You saw what effect it had on my brother. We shall soon find out what it means to you.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The dragon landed heavily on the stone floor, teetered before toppling on its side; the impact snapped a wing from its body. It lay unmoving, feeling no pain, before small fingers wrapped around its middle and picked it up from the floor leaving the broken wing behind.

  Graymon held the wooden dragon up to examine the damage. He looked from the carved dragon to the wing lying on the floor and sadness welled in his eyes, but he bit his lip. How could Gorgo, king of the dragons, fly with only one wing? What good was a dragon who didn’t fly? He looked at the toy, sadness turning to disgust at the useless, broken thing. No good to him or anyone now. Angry, he threw the dragon to the floor. It bounced once, the other wing separating from the body, and smacked against the wall.

  The boy sank to the floor and sat cross-legged, head hung. If Da was here, he’d have fixed the king of the dragons.

  Why did he go?

  Nanny was no fun. She didn’t like to play and mostly left him alone-like now. Graymon rubbed at a smear of food caked on his trousers since lunchtime and wondered what to play now Gorgo was hurt. He got up and walked to the tapestry covering a hidden doorway and stood close, ear brushing the woven scene of wild horses galloping across the plain. No sounds.

  Maybe nanny left.

  She wasn’t very good company, but he didn’t want to be alone, either. He pushed the tapestry aside and peeked through the space between it and the wall. Nanny sat in Da’s chair snoring softly, feet up on the big red and white table.

  Graymon let the tapestry fall back into place, relieved he hadn’t been deserted, but still with no playmate. He retrieved one of Gorgo’s broken wings, then the other, then slumped cross-legged and picked up the carven dragon. He held a wing against the body, the splintered ends fitting together like a puzzle. When he let go, it stayed in place until he moved the toy, then tumbled to the floor.

  “Rrrr,” he growled as he walked the wingless dragon across the stone floor. “Rrrr.”

  The half-hearted growl came out a shadow of its former self-the once ferocious beast would never be the same without wings. A dragon unable to fly was no more dangerous than a lion. Not that lions weren’t dangerous, he just already had a lion toy. Disappointed, he let go of the toy, leaving it standing on the floor, and glared at it.

  He wanted his dragon back.

  I want my Da.

  He closed his eyes and sighed, fought to keep tears at bay once more. He didn’t want nanny to come in and find him crying. She’d get mad if she found him crying. Nanny didn’t like tears.

  A scraping sound made Graymon forget his sadness. He opened his eyes expecting to see nanny or a guard standing in the doorway, but there was no one.

  The boy glanced around his chamber, from unmade bed draped with red bedclothes that matched the frilled canopy, to wooden shelves cluttered with carved animals and tops and intricate toy soldiers, and at the armoire, so tall he couldn’t reach the clothes hung inside without help. Everything looked as it always did.

  Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention: one of the broken-off wings skittered across the floor. Graymon stared. He reached to pick it up but it skirted his grasp and crossed to where the dragon stood. The other wing followed, sliding and bouncing along until it lay on the floor beside its former owner.

  Graymon opened his mouth, intending to call nanny, but giggled instead. What a wonderful trick the king of dragons had done. He leaned forward to examine the three pieces but they began to shudder, so he stopped. The wings rose from the floor, rotating and moving until their splintered ends lined up against the dragon’s body. The ends touched, glowed briefly with dim red light, and Gorgo, king of the dragons, became whole again.

  Graymon clapped his hands and laughed. He didn’t think to wonder how his favorite toy had healed itself, only felt elated the dragons would have their king again and he his toy. He rocked happily back and forth, excited to play once more, but stopped when the dragon's wings flapped.

  The wood creaked as the wings raised and lowered once. Graymon sucked in a sharp breath through his open mouth.

  The king of the dragons never did that before.

  The wings flapped a second time. Then again. The boy giggled. The dragon’s wings flapped harder and the toy rose from the floor, an inch at first, but its wings beat the air harder and it climbed higher.

  Graymon’s laughter stopped as nerves nibbled in his tummy. Having a flying dragon appealed to him, but he knew toys didn’t move by themselves, not without gears and strings and keys to wind them. He stared as it hovered level with his head. The toy maneuvered until their eyes met. The dragon’s eyes held the same red glow that had fused its wings back together.

  As he gawked at the dragon, Graymon noticed the figure standing on the bear skin rug by his bed. The person didn’t move. The hood of a black cloak was pulled down to cover its face while the cloak’s hem brushed the fur carpet; its hands were tucked into broad sleeves.

  Graymon forgot the dragon toy. Fear seized his chest, climbed into his throat, but he swallowed hard around it.

  Warriors don’t show others when they’re afraid, his father told him more than once. Not even little warriors like you.

  He wanted to be a brave little warrior like his Da wanted him to be, but it
was hard.

  “Who…who are you?” Graymon’s throat wanted him to cry instead of ask questions.

  “I’ll not hurt you, my prince,” the figure replied with the pleasant-sounding voice of a woman, one which would sound good if it took up a song. “The king sent me to take care of you.”

  “Da?”

  “Yes, your father.” Her tone soothed him, as though she crooned a lullaby. “He sent me to get you, to bring you to him.”

  Graymon tilted his head as he looked at the figure; she didn’t move as she spoke. Da had warned him to be careful of people he didn’t know, but the prospect of seeing his father sooner than expected made him excited.

  “But Da is far away,” Graymon said, excitement in his voice. “He went to where there’s a real war with real soldiers.”

  The person knelt in front of him, though he hadn’t seen her cross the room, startling Graymon. He noticed he needed to pee.

  “Your father wants me to take you to him right away.”

  She took one hand from a sleeve and placed it on Graymon’s knee. He looked down and saw slender fingers ending in long nails painted many colors. Tiny pictures adorned each one. On one: a bunny; on another a fox was painted, then a flower and a sun. As Graymon looked at them, the bunny jumped from one nail to the next and the fox took up the chase, leaping in front of the sun, chasing the bunny past the flower. The boy gasped and giggled.

  The black cloaked woman reached out a finger and placed it under his chin, raised his eyes to peer toward where hers would be if he could see beneath the hood. As if hearing his thoughts, she reached up and pulled the cowl back.

  Graymon cringed, expecting something dead and decayed to appear from under the black cloth. Instead, long hair so yellow it appeared golden spilled from the woman’s head, cascaded over her pleasant face. Painted lips curled in a warm smile that reflected in her dark brown eyes.

  “We must go.” She put her hand on Graymon’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. He pivoted his head, trying to see the pictures on her nails. “Your father wants to see you.”

  “What about nanny?”

  Graymon allowed the woman to help him to his feet. The king of the dragons flapped its wings and climbed higher until it came to rest on his shoulder. He smiled as the toy nuzzled his neck.

  “Nanny is sleeping.” She took Graymon’s hand. “There is no reason to wake her. She will know you have gone to your father.”

  Graymon stroked the wooden dragon’s ridged neck; it nipped playfully at his fingers. He didn’t know who this woman was, but he liked what was happening with her around. It would be all right to go with her-Da sent her, after all.

  “Will we be riding horses?” He liked horses, they were more fun than riding in a carriage. Warriors rode horses.

  “No, I have a quicker way for us to get there, but you have to promise you won’t be frightened.”

  Graymon looked into her brown eyes and smiled involuntarily.

  “I promise.”

  “Good. And you must be quiet so we do not wake nanny.”

  He nodded, being quiet like she wanted. The dragon hissed near his ear and the boy stifled a giggle. This would be an adventure like a real warrior would have. His Da would be proud of how bravely he acted. Smiling, he looked down at his hand in the woman’s. Figures still danced across her painted nails, but the fox and bunny were gone. Instead, twisted men with skeleton faces and creatures he didn’t want to see writhed from nail to nail. He looked away, suddenly regretting his promise not to be scared, and glanced toward the woman. He wanted to tell her he’d changed his mind about going but the black cloak whirled about him, fell over his head, leaving him in darkness.

  Graymon began to cry, the black cloak swallowing his sobs as easily as it swallowed the light.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Once the torch burned down to nothing, guttering and spitting its last bit of light, the darkness stretched on without respite. The tunnel twisted and turned, throwing off Khirro’s sense of what direction they traveled and how far they went. Against reason, it angled ever downward, away from the keep they thought their goal.

  “Are you sure this is the right way?” Ghaul asked more than once, his tone becoming more angered each time he heard Khirro’s response: “I don’t know.”

  He didn’t know. The Shaman showed him the way to the tower, no farther. The dream tyger told him it was he who had to get past the guardian, but no more. Perhaps neither of them expected a simple farmer to make it this far.

  Who could blame them?

  He dismissed the thought. Both Shaman and tyger wanted him to succeed. They probably didn’t know what to expect after the dragon. When was the last time anyone had passed the guardian to chart what lay beyond?

  They pressed on in the saturnine dark, moving slowly to avoid walking into each other until their eyes became accustomed to the constant night inside the tunnel. Even then, they could see only a few paces ahead. When they stopped to rest and sleep, they took turns at what they insisted on calling ‘watch’ though they watched nothing but blackness.

  No dreams disturbed Khirro’s sleep-no Shaman to guide him, no tyger encouraging him, nor dragon to kill him, or women to tempt him. The same darkness that permeated his waking accompanied his sleep.

  Khirro thought it must have been the second day of groping along the benighted passage when they arrived at a fork in their path. Before this, they’d passed no side tunnels or openings to confuse the path they should follow.

  “Which way?” Ghaul asked. Khirro barely saw his features in the dark, but knew his jaw would be set, eyes hard.

  “I don’t know.”

  He regretted his honesty immediately as the shadow of Ghaul’s face turned to a scowl. The warrior slammed his gauntleted hand against the tunnel wall, the sound echoing away until lost in the dark like themselves.

  “How in the name of your Gods are we going to get out of here?” He stepped closer to Khirro, hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Calm yourself, Ghaul,” Shyn said, voice more commanding than calming. “The best way to find our way is to keep our heads. Figuratively as well as literally.”

  Ghaul’s glare slid from Khirro to the border guard. “What do you propose we do, birdman?”

  The air in the tunnel gathered around them, pressing in like a bloodthirsty audience awaiting the outcome of the warriors’ standoff. Khirro’s skin still felt as though it belonged to someone smaller than himself and he shifted in a vain effort to loosen it.

  “A breeze blows from the tunnel on the right,” Shyn said finally. “It’s slight, but might lead us to the surface.”

  They gathered around the opening to feel the wind. If it was there, Khirro didn’t detect it.

  “All right. Shyn and I will investigate, the rest of you wait here. Don’t move until we say.” The anger in Ghaul’s voice had been replaced by satisfaction at having a soldierly task. He leaned toward Elyea and said: “I’ll be back soon,” then moved to kiss her but she turned her head so his lips brushed her cheek.

  “Do not stray from the path,” Athryn said as they took their first step into the opening. “If there are other tunnels, stay on the straight path or come back. We do not want to lose you.”

  “Could we be more lost?” Ghaul sneered.

  Shyn slapped him hard on the shoulder. “One can always be more lost.”

  They pulled their swords and stalked into the tunnel, disappearing from sight immediately. Khirro thought that Shyn's voice didn't sound as confident as usual; he sighed and wondered if this was the right thing to do.

  Minutes dragged by, their languid pace agonizing. Khirro sat with his back pressed against the wall searching for a position to best alleviate the pain crawling beneath his skin. He healed quickly, as Athryn said, but pain still nagged him. The gashes inflicted by the dragon were deep and likely would have killed him if not for the protection afforded by the blood of the king. As he shifted, Elyea lifted her head from his shoulder.


  How brave she’s been.

  The Mourning Sword lay balanced across his lap in the hope its glow would provide them with some illumination, but the red runes didn’t glow in the darkness of the tunnel-a trick of the light, then. Athryn stood at the mouth of the left tunnel, dagger in hand, invisible to Khirro. He couldn’t remember if the magician still bothered to wear his silvered mask-even it couldn’t be seen in the impenetrable dark.

  They’re all brave. They gave up so much to accompany me on this voyage that didn’t belong to them. Without them, I’d be long dead. Like Maes.

  Thinking of the little man squeezed Khirro’s heart. He couldn’t imagine how Athryn felt losing his brother, especially the way it came to pass. Yet the magician continued, driven more by the hope the Necromancer would raise Maes than by Khirro’s task. He suspected the magician was prepared to give his life to bring his brother back.

  What irony that would be, like a song a troubadour might sing.

  And Elyea. She snuggled closer against his side seeking the warmth he radiated. He didn’t pretend to understand her life, couldn’t fathom living it and being happy, but she seemed content. Yet she left behind her friends and all she knew without pause. Warmth unrelated to the dragon’s breath filled his chest. If someone told him a few months ago love for a harlot would fade the image of Emeline from his mind, he’d have thought them crazy.

  Finally, his mind strayed to Ghaul and Shyn-both warriors, and brave, but so different. He admired Shyn, a man ostracized by his peers for being different, though how different, Khirro didn’t think he’d yet learned. Through it all he remained of good spirit, caring for those about him. Ghaul, on the other hand, was more what he’d have expected from a life-soldier: hardened, tough, uncompromising. He wondered about Ghaul’s motivations. Was he here out of loyalty to the crown? A glory seeker? Or something else? His joy in killing appalled Khirro at first, but it was his profession, something for which he’d been bred and trained his whole life. It didn’t matter why Ghaul was there, only that he was with them, helping accomplish their goal.