by Bruce Blake
The wind snapped Therrador’s cloak. Sir Alton shuffled his feet. Men and horses and things which once were men continued to shift and flow in the distance. Finally, riders separated from the host. A dozen men on fully armored horses trotted across the plain, the standard of Kanos snapping on a staff above them. A flag of truce flew below the country’s colors.
“We didn’t have to wait long to see what they were up to, did we, Sir Alton?” Therrador pointed out the riders while keeping his hand from shaking. The old knight moved to his side.
“What trickery is this?” He turned to his king, concern plain on his face. “Send them away, your highness. The Kanosee are not known for their diplomacy.”
“But we are,” Therrador said. Sienhin spoke truth and, under other circumstances when he didn’t already know the outcome, he might have taken the knight’s advice. “They fly a flag of truce. Come, Sir Alton. Let’s hear what they have to say.”
“But, your highness-”
Therrador silenced him with a scowl. The knight bowed his head in acquiescence and followed as Therrador swept by, hurrying down the steps.
“Assemble the generals, Sir Alton. We ride to meet them. I’ll speak with their leader myself.”
Sienhin nodded and excused himself. Alone, Therrador leaned against the wall for support as the strength in his legs waned. He filled his lungs with a long breath, hoping the air would force dread from his chest. It didn’t. He collected himself and continued down the stairs.
“Ready my horse, boy,” Therrador barked as he reached the stable. “And make it quick.”
He inhaled the sweet smell of hay and manure. His head spun and he put his hand against a post, supporting himself as the stable boy readied his steed.
Oh, Graymon. I’m so sorry.
Therrador bounced gently in the saddle, purple cloak swirling behind him as he rode. A short distance ahead, he saw Sir Alton and the others where he’d left them. They didn’t allow their mounts to wander or graze, instead standing ready to attack, or retreat; to do whatever their king commanded.
Are they also ready to be surprised?
Sir Alton spurred forward to meet him, halting as their horses came alongside. The old knight bowed his head without taking his eyes from the Kanosee party turning back toward their camp.
“My liege,” he said, his voice quieter than Therrador had ever heard it to keep the conversation between the two of them. “What did the dogs have to say? Did they truly offer their surrender?”
Therrador’s face remained grim despite his effort to relax.
“No, they do not surrender,” he said loud enough for all to hear. He urged his horse on forcing Sir Alton to follow.
“Then what, highness?”
Therrador rode through the cluster of knights, allowing them to fall in behind him before he answered.
“An accord has been struck,” he said finally, thankful to be riding ahead so they didn’t see the strain in his features. “There shall be no more war.”
A mumble rolled through the generals.
“When will the curs be retreating from our land, your grace?” Sir Alton asked on their behalf.
“They won’t be.”
Silence. None of the generals spoke: no murmur, no whisper, no grumbles. Shock or surprise stilled their tongues, but only for a few seconds before Sienhin voiced the question surely on all their minds.
“What do you mean, your highness?”
Therrador ground his teeth and forced a breath out through his nose.
“We will open our gates and welcome our new friends.”
A clamor of protest arose amongst the men. Therrador steeled himself and thought of Graymon. The muscles in his cheek bunched and flexed as he clenched his jaw.
“Why, my king? There’s no reason to give the fortress to these dogs. We’re not beaten.”
Therrador reined his horse to a stop so suddenly the others nearly rode into each other to avoid hitting him. He turned in his saddle to face Sir Alton.
“Do you question your king?” he roared, spittle flying from his lips.
His anger wasn’t really for this man but at the distress of having no control. He’d planned to keep this from happening, but the Archon outmaneuvered him. His only hope was to sway them to what must be to save Graymon.
“N-no, your grace,” Sir Alton stammered. “We were wondering why-?”
Therrador’s blade rang against leather as he pulled his sword free and placed the tip to the old knight’s throat. No one made a move for their weapons as they stared in shock.
“Treason,” Therrador said, his voice loud and firm to hide his true feelings. Sienhin’s mouth fell agape, his eyes opened wide. “I should kill you myself for the treachery of questioning your king.”
Sweat broke out on Sir Alton’s brow, but he didn’t reach for his sword, doing so would mean his life. The other generals wouldn’t stand with him against the king, no matter the circumstances. If he so much as moved toward it, the entire kingdom would call for his head.
“Do you wish to die, Sir Alton?”
“No, your highness.” Sienhin’s voice was a whisper for once.
Therrador settled back into his saddle and removed his blade from the knight’s throat.
“I’ll deal with your treachery later. For now, ride ahead. Have them open the gates, tell them to make ready. The generals of Kanos will join us before nightfall.”
“Yes, my liege.”
Sir Alton launched his horse into a gallop toward the fortress. Therrador guessed he moved quickly more to get away than in haste to obey the order. A proud man, the old knight. His family had served kings for as long as anyone remembered. This would damage his pride, something Therrador didn’t want to do, but it would be for the best. With this, Therrador could remove him from the council and replace him with someone of his own choosing.
Of the Archon’s choosing.
He’d have to keep an eye on Sir Alton, though. He could prove a dangerous man or a great ally.
With a click of his tongue and prod of his heels, Therrador urged his steed toward the fortress. The generals fell in behind, silent but for the creak of saddles, the clank of armor and the beat of hooves. Therrador sighed, mouth pulled down in a frown. He’d hoped for happiness once crowned, as though a title would take away the wrongs done him. But there was always someone else to wrong you. His gut knotted.
It will soon be over. For better or for worse.
He sat straight in the saddle, intending to look the part of the conquering hero he wanted and deserved to be if not for the Archon. The ripe plum hanging from the tree of life waiting for him to pluck had shriveled to a prune, wrinkled and uninviting. He closed his eyes and thought of Graymon, but even that did nothing to make him feel better.
Chapter Fifty-Six
A thin haze obscured everything. It was a dream, Khirro knew, but it didn’t look like any of the dreams he’d had in the past months. No tyger, no lake; all that was behind him now, he supposed. What lay ahead?
The cool mist attached itself to his skin, dampening it as he surveyed the nothing around him. He took a step, then another. The mist swirled away from his feet only to rush back in as the air settled. His breath stirred the tiny droplets, sending them spinning in kaleidoscopic patterns of white and gray. There were no sounds. Khirro halted, worried he might plunge from a dream-cliff, or be attacked by Gods-only-knew what. He waited, expecting the dream to resolve itself into something more than damp, eddying fog.
Then the glow began.
It took Khirro a minute to realize it came from him. A dim light which strengthened and brightened, burning away the mist before him without causing him the slightest discomfort. Yellowed grass, dry and dead, appeared beneath his feet. The view before his eyes cleared to reveal a green wall undulating at the whim of the wind.
A tent. I’m in a tent.
The green canvas flapped more violently and sound came to Khirro’s dream: the snap of the wind against the tent
, men shouting somewhere outside, and a whimper. He turned his head toward the last noise, not knowing whether he should expect man or beast, or which he’d prefer.
The boy lay curled on a bed of straw, shivering each time the wind shook the tent walls. He glanced at the door flap like he expected someone to come through at any moment and Khirro realized it wasn’t the wind that scared the lad. Khirro stepped toward him and the boy pulled himself into a tighter ball, gripping the wooden dragon he held closer to his chest.
“Can you see me?” Khirro asked.
The boy froze, eyes darting about the tent, but they held no recognition, as though he’d heard something but couldn’t discern where it came from or what it was. Khirro crossed the dry grass and knelt on the straw beside the boy.
“Who are you?” he said, a breath of wind against the boys cheek that only made him cringe the way the wind shaking the tent did. “What are you doing in my dream?”
Abruptly, inexplicably, the boy’s shivering ceased. He sat up and looked directly into Khirro’s eyes, stared right through them. Seconds passed. Khirro didn’t breathe. The boy hugged the toy dragon tight, then held it out before him, offering it. Khirro took it. He knew he held the toy but couldn’t see his hand. He was invisible to himself, so he must be to the boy, too. A smile tugged at the lad’s lips, but it quickly faltered.
“Please help me,” the boy said, his voice a whimper, and Khirro knew that was what he had to do. He stared into the boy’s sad eyes, wishing there was something he could do for him now, in the dream, but knowing it was only that.
The temperature in the tent dropped suddenly. The boy grabbed the wooden dragon from Khirro’s invisible grasp, fell back onto the straw mattress and curled into the fetal position, eyes clamped shut. Khirro straightened, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He stood and turned to face the tent flap and whoever or whatever had come through.
The first thing that struck him was the woman’s beauty. Her golden hair cascaded over her black cloak almost to her waist, a startling contrast to her dark brown eyes. But there was something un-beautiful about her eyes: a hardness, a cruelty. They were the eyes of someone who’d watch death without flinching, and they bore into Khirro, searching him.
“You do not belong here.”
He stared at her, chills crawling up his spine. It seemed as though her words weren’t meant for him but for that which dwelled within him. He didn’t move as she approached, couldn’t.
“Your time has passed. Do not interfere.”
The flesh on Khirro’s arm tingled as he felt the flame begin. The tent brightened as the sensation grew. The boy moaned on the bed behind him and the woman’s lips became a taut red line across her stern face, stealing her beauty. Darkness collected behind her and the green wall of the tent disappeared.
As Khirro’s incandescence grew, so too did the woman’s blackness until the two pressed against each other like beasts locked in a mortal struggle. Khirro spread his legs, pushing against the pressure compressing his chest and threatening to force him back. His glow grew to a blaze as the darkness emanating from her expanded until there was nothing in the dream but him and her, light and dark.
“Leave this place,” she said, her voice more a growl than the words of a woman. “Leave this place and do not come back.”
Sweat streamed down Khirro’s face, ran down his neck and under his shirt. His jaw muscles knotted, his lips pulled back from his teeth with the effort, but the darkness pushed forward, expelling his fire before it. The woman stepped forward until they were inches apart and spread her arms. Night flowed from her cloak, encircling Khirro, sucking the fire from his soul and the energy from his limbs. His knees gave out and the darkness took him.
Stars twinkled down from the sky as Khirro awoke, a knot clogging his throat. He clenched his fists, his fingers dug into the loamy earth upon which he lay.
Who was she?
He glanced at the trees pressing in around him. Athryn should be somewhere close, but he didn’t know where. They’d chosen not to light a fire, and now Khirro regretted the decision. Having the flames to show him that light always conquered night would have been reassuring. He sat up and breathed out a slow sigh through tight lips.
“Graymon,” he said, not sure where the name came from but knowing it was the boy in the dream. Thankfulness and fear mixed in his mind as he realized the dream had shown him what he needed to do next, where he needed to go.
“Graymon.”
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-83742e-e937-cf48-b58f-450a-1d6f-95dd27
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 10.09.2013
Created using: calibre 1.1.0, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Bruce Blake
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