by Bruce Blake
And then the world became white light.
Khirro knew instinctively it came from the Necromancer. The force of the light tossed him back and he hit the marble floor with a bone jarring thud that shot pain up his spine. The white light dissipated quickly and took all other light with it leaving the chamber in darkness. Khirro scrambled to his feet, feeling it would mean his life to remain on the floor. He drew the Mourning Sword and its blade glowed red as it thirsted for blood. The dark swallowed its light.
Khirro stared into the blackness waiting for his eyes to adjust. A leather sole whispered against stone, a dim blade came out of the dark toward him. He dodged and the sword tip caught his shoulder instead of the neck for which it was intended. It bit shallowly into his flesh, jarring his senses into action. He heard sounds all around him: Elyea’s breath, the scrape of cloth on Ghaul’s skin, three heartbeats plus his own. He heard more than he’d ever heard before, knew from where each tiny sound came.
Behind him, Athryn uttered a word and light filled the chamber. Khirro glanced about quickly. Athryn lay on the floor at the foot of the throne while Elyea crouched against the wall, blood dripping from her wound. He didn’t see the Necromancer.
Khirro’s distraction gave Ghaul the advantage.
He lunged and caught Khirro in the face with the pommel of his sword. His nose broke with a crunch and the blow sent Khirro to the floor, the Mourning Sword skittering from his grip. Before he recovered, Ghaul fell upon him, his foot on his chest, sword point at his throat. Khirro looked up half-expecting to see the face of an undead monster, but it was Ghaul. Hatred burned in his eyes.
Athryn moved, his sword rasping against its scabbard.
“Stay put, magician, and speak no words. If your lips so much as move, I’ll open his throat.”
Khirro stared at Ghaul, surprised at the detachment he felt. Fear didn’t freeze his limbs or steal his breath as before. Instead, a curious calm filled him. After facing death so many times, had he lost his fear of it?
“You can’t have what you came for,” Khirro said swallowing around the steel pressed to his windpipe. “Braymon will never serve Kanos.”
“You have the truth of it,” Ghaul said, a wry smile twisting his lips. “All I can do now is be sure he’ll serve no one.”
He drew his blade back for the final blow.
This is it: the end of the journey.
“No!”
Elyea grabbed Ghaul’s arm and spun him away from Khirro, throwing him off balance. Khirro jumped up to aid Elyea, but years of battles, of protecting his life, had honed Ghaul’s reflexes. He regained his balance, pushed away from her, and drew his blade across her from hip to shoulder.
Elyea’s eyes widened in surprise.
Khirro stared.
For a moment it looked like only her clothes were cut, but then the blood came, rushing from her body. She collapsed where she stood.
The peace and calm Khirro felt vanished, forced from him by rage like he’d never experienced. His muscles tensed and bunched, blood pounded at his temples and in his throat.
He burst into flames.
Khirro felt it, saw it enveloping him head to foot, but it didn’t burn. He lurched toward Ghaul as the warrior spun around and, for the first time in all the months of their journey, Khirro saw naked fear in the soldier’s eyes. He stepped back shaking his head. Khirro advanced, mouth open to voice his rage, but no cry of hatred issued from his throat. He roared instead. Khirro sprang at Ghaul, brushed aside his blade, and hit him hard in the chest, bearing him to the floor.
Khirro tore at his throat with his teeth and tasted warm, coppery blood. It splashed across his face and against whiskers not there before. Claws tore the flesh of Ghaul’s chest. The man screamed, the cry gurgling in his blood-filled throat. Khirro roared once more, raked Ghaul’s legs and groin with hind claws and the soldier writhed in agony, face streaked with sweat and blood and terror. Finally, Khirro’s fangs ripped into his chest, pulled free his still-pulsing heart. Ghaul’s screams and flailing ceased, his body went limp. Seconds later, Khirro found himself kneeling over the ruined body, flames flickering and dimming until they disappeared completely.
The blood in his mouth made him gag.
He rolled from Ghaul onto his hands and knees and his stomach emptied what little it held, strings of thick blood hanging from his lips. He spit, clearing the taste from his tongue. Head hung, panting, he knelt there until he heard Elyea call to him, her voice tiny and afraid. He wiped blood from his mouth with his sleeve and crawled across the cold floor to her.
“Elyea.”
Blood flowed freely from the wound running up her abdomen and across her chest; entrails showed through the split skin. Her eyes were glassy, her face pale but peaceful.
“Khirro.” Her voice held little strength. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
“No,” he said brushing stray hairs from her sweaty forehead.
She nodded slightly. “Good. And the king?”
“I think he is within me.”
“Two great men in one.” She smiled as best she could and drew a shuddering breath. Khirro heard it bubble in her chest. Blood ran from her nose into her mouth and the smile vanished. A shiver wracked her body. “I’m cold, Khirro.”
He removed his tunic and laid it across her but she continued to shiver.
“Athryn,” he called over his shoulder. He felt the magician’s presence close beside him. “Help us.”
Athryn knelt beside Elyea and took her hand in both of his. Khirro looked at him and saw the scar was gone from his face. The magician said nothing, only squeezed her hand.
“Thank you,” Elyea said and closed her eyes.
Khirro felt his heart skip. He reached out and took her other hand, ignoring the sticky blood covering it.
“Do something, Athryn.” There was a tone of command in his voice he’d never heard there before, but the magician didn’t move. “Save her.”
Athryn shook his head. “There is nothing I can do. Only the Necromancer-”
“The Necromancer’s dead,” Khirro shouted, cutting him off. “You’re the only one.” The magician continued to shake his head without meeting Khirro’s eyes. “Damn you, Athryn. You can-”
Elyea squeezed his hand, her grip so weak he barely felt it, but it stopped him mid-sentence. He looked into her green eyes, the glimmer they normally held all but gone. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“No, Khirro. It’s all right.” She forced a smile that quickly became a cringe. “This is why I came.”
Her labored breathing made every word a struggle. Khirro wanted to make her stop, to tell her she’d be all right, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie to her.
“My whole life I’ve done what was easiest with no thought of myself or others. Finally, I’ve done something because it was the right thing to do. Please remember me that way. Let me take that with me to the fields of the dead. And the memory of you.”
Khirro stroked the back of her hand. “But you could be with me. We could have a life for both of us, leave the old ones behind.”
“I’d like that, but I think the future has more in store for you than making a life with a whore.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s what I am. What I was.” A cough shook her and sent fresh blood flowing from her chest and mouth. “The fate of the kingdom is within you now.”
“You are brave,” Athryn said. “There is a special place waiting for you on the other side. Give Maes my love.”
She tried to turn her head toward him but failed.
“You’re whole again.” He lifted her hand and stroked her fingers across his now smooth cheek. “More than whole. Don’t underestimate who you are, Athryn.”
He nodded, lay her hand gently on Khirro’s and rose, leaving them alone. Elyea’s eyes moved back to Khirro and the smile struggled back to her lips.
“You will have a great life, Khirro. I’m honored to have loved you.”
; The smile faded and her eyelids drooped, then closed. The bubbling sound from her chest stopped.
“It’s I who am honored,” Khirro whispered. He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead then bowed his head.
The low mist appeared again, tendrils of it twisted along the floor like a translucent white snake. It swirled about them, licked at Khirro’s knees and crawled up Elyea’s body. Cool dew formed on his skin, caressing him, comforting him. When it cleared, Elyea’s corpse still lay before him, her hands in his, but he knew the part that made her Elyea had gone with it, whisked away on misty wings to a place where she’d finally be happy.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Night time.
They didn’t know what time of day it was until they reached the foot of the creaky wooden stairs and saw stars shining down, clear and bright, unobscured by a dragon’s belly. They struggled up the stairs carrying Elyea’s body between them and emerged into a cool autumn evening.
The snow which covered the ground when they entered the catacombs was gone along with the ruby sentinel. As they set her body down, the ground shook briefly, sending Khirro and Athryn’s hands to the hilts of their swords and their gazes scanning the woods. No giant shook the earth this time, no dragon. Instead, the hole in the ground closed behind them like a rapidly healing wound, sealing in its secrets and its dead.
It took them far less time to find their way out of the tunnels than it had to reach their destination despite the grim weight they carried. A dim glow radiated from Khirro like an ember in a dying fire, so they could see better, but the tunnels and the chamber had changed, too. Instead of a huge subterranean room filled with blue light, the chamber was only a widening in the tunnel which ran straighter than before. Khirro wondered how it could be but dismissed the thought quickly. Elyea had been taken from him, there was nothing more to understand.
Khirro and Athryn carefully searched the area around the keep but two lifeless giants, their charred flesh picked at by unseen forest denizens, were the only sign of the ruby dragon. No dragon, no third giant. Under other circumstances, Khirro would have worried, but he felt danger had passed. With no Necromancer, what need was there for a guardian anymore?
They gathered wood for a pyre and lay Elyea and her belongings atop it. Khirro kept one thing aside as a reminder: her dagger. The knife had set her down her life’s path when she stood against her father years ago; a symbol of the strength Khirro admired in her. Perhaps it would lend him some of her strength in the days to come.
Flames danced into the night sky, sparks swirled and twisted into the dark like lightning bugs at play. Khirro couldn’t take his eyes from the body prone at the center of the blaze as wood crackled and spat, her clothing charred and her hair melted. The fire engulfed her, flickering over her skin, and Khirro heaved a shuddering sigh.
It’s only her earthly body. She’s already gone.
He stared at the flames, wondered how he looked when he was aflame and if she carried the memory of Khirro as a burning tyger to the fields of the dead. He hoped not.
Despite how close he stood, Khirro’s body didn’t register the funeral pyre’s heat while Athryn stood behind him to avoid being burned. With his scar healed, Khirro supposed the magician would go to great lengths to keep from being burned again. Would that be possible? They were linked now and a fire burned within Khirro. Could he keep it from engulfing Athryn and anyone else around him?
Could he keep from succumbing to it himself?
When Elyea’s body was reduced to ash and bone and the fire burned down to glowing embers, Athryn put his hand on Khirro’s shoulder.
“We should go.” He wore his mirrored mask despite his face being healed. Khirro wondered why but didn’t ask. “A long journey still lies ahead.”
Khirro didn’t respond, only stared at the remains of the fire. A bone poked out of the ash and he fought the urge to pluck it out, hold it close and cry over it. Such actions wouldn’t bring her back. Nothing would.
“Where will we go?” Khirro asked finally. “I’ve failed. The king is dead. There’s no hope for Erechania.”
“There is hope, Khirro,” Athryn said squeezing his shoulder. “There is you.”
Khirro snorted a laugh lacking humor. “What good to a war is a simple farmer? What good to a kingdom is a man who couldn’t keep his friends alive?” He gestured toward the pile of bone and ash.
“The king is within you. You are much more than you know.”
“I’m not the king. No one would believe our tale, they’d throw us both in the dungeon and think us insane.”
Athryn sighed. “They will know you by what you do, not who you are. The kingdom needs you.”
“What can I do for the kingdom?”
“Maybe nothing,” Athryn said with a shrug. “But someone has to do something. And what else is there for you? Return to your farm?”
Khirro smiled in spite of himself. “No. I guess I’m no farmer anymore, am I?”
“No. And I am no performer of illusions.”
They stood a while in silence. A cool breeze moved the trees and brushed Khirro’s cheek, refreshing him.
So much time has passed, so many things have changed. I can never go back to my old life. My old life doesn’t want me. But what new life lies ahead?
Khirro breathed deeply of the chill night air, strong with the aroma of pine and cedar. It smelled good after being under the ground. He had no nose for the smell of dirt anymore.
“I’ll miss Elyea,” he said and the weight compressing his chest dispelled with the words. “I loved her.”
Athryn nodded. “I will miss her, too.”
“Do you miss Maes?” Khirro looked at his distorted reflection in the magician’s silvered mask. The image looked older, tired.
“Maes is alive within me, as the spirit of the king dwells within you. It is a gift the Necromancer gave me before he left.”
“Before he died,” Khirro corrected.
“Darestat is not dead. He is gone from the world of the living for now, but he has not perished.”
“But I saw Ghaul’s arrow. No one could survive.”
“It takes more than a mortal’s arrow to slay the Necromancer. This world is very different than you know.”
“I guess it is.”
In the distance, a wolf howled and another answered a moment later. They were the first sounds of animal life they’d heard since entering Lakesh. Khirro didn’t pause to ponder why they heard them now.
The world is different than I know.
“Where will we go?”
“We must return the king to his kingdom.”
The words hung in the air between them on the mist of Athryn’s breath until Khirro nodded. He knelt and placed his hand on the knob of bone protruding from the pile of ash.
“We’ve lost so much, haven’t we?” He expected no answer from Athryn and received none. “Good bye, Shyn. Good bye, Elyea. Thank you. We’ll all meet again one day.”
He stood and turned to Athryn. The magician removed his mask, baring the smooth new skin of his cheek. Their eyes met and something unspoken passed between them-a vow, an oath, a bond.
They strode away from the heap of ash Khirro once loved, left behind their dead companions, monsters, dragons, heroes and traitors. The Mourning Sword bounced reassuringly against Khirro’s thigh as he walked, spreading through him a sense of peace. He didn’t know what the future held-adventure or boredom, friends or enemies, life or death. He knew only one thing:
He did not fear.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Figures bustled across the salt flats like bees buzzing around pollen-laden flowers. Craters pock-marked the ground where boulders had struck, but the fortress’s catapults and the Kanosee trebuchets had been quiet in the week since Therrador’s coronation. His long purple cloak streamed behind him in the brisk ocean breeze as he stood atop the wall observing the activity below.
“We should attack, your highness,” Sir Alton Sienhin urged,
his voice loud and forceful. Therrador wondered if the man knew how to speak at a normal volume. “They haven’t moved on us in a week. They can’t starve us out, they know that, so they must be up to something. I say we catch them unawares. Crush them while we have the chance.”
“There are still too many.” Therrador crossed his arms to keep his hands from fidgeting, betraying his nerves. Sir Alton stood behind him and probably couldn’t see, but better not to take the chance. No one could know about Graymon. “Don’t doubt me, Sir Alton. Haven’t things been better since I’ve been king?”
“Yes. Of course, my Liege,” Sir Alton blustered. Therrador imagined his chubby cheeks reddening, his mustache quivering. “But we should-”
“Enough.” Therrador silenced the knight with a wave of his hand. Any time now they should see riders. “I’ll hear no more. We’ll wait to see their next move. We have them right where we want them.”
“Yes, your highness.”
Therrador squinted out at the plains.
Where in the name of the Gods are they?
She said it would happen before the sun reached its zenith yet the sun showed midday. He felt Sienhin standing behind him, likely seething at the slight handed him, but Therrador had little concern for niceties and formalities. Only his son mattered. And he was king, it was the old knight’s duty to obey.
Tendrils of gray smoke curled into the sky from cook fires scattered throughout the enemy camp. The days were cooler since they first occupied the land bridge and the salt flats, and the breeze off the Sea of Linghala could be biting. Cold wind had driven more than one army from the wall of the fortress in the past. But it would be two months before it became the weapon it could be, and Therrador didn’t have that kind of time.
Graymon didn’t have that kind of time.
Watching, waiting, Therrador wondered how Suath and the others fared at their task. Months would pass before he knew, but what little he heard before they disappeared into Lakesh was encouraging. It would be a relief when the vial reached his hands, then he’d smash it on the stones, ensuring his kingship. But all would be for naught if he didn’t get Graymon back.
