by Bruce Blake
“Day before yesterday.”
“Gods,” Lehgan interjected. “And the fire still burns?”
“It wasn’t the Kanosee what set that fire.”
Emeline stared at the man, waiting for him to explain and afraid he would. He looked away from the people moving into the street and back at her. Their eyes met for a few seconds before he averted his gaze back to the dirt between his knees.
“That’s the town burning the dead.”
Emeline gasped and clutched Iana closer to her chest. The baby cooed and blew a bubble with her nose.
“Burning the dead?” Lehgan said; the man didn’t respond.
“Lehgan?”
He looked over his shoulder at Emeline and she saw fear on his face before he caught his slip and replaced his expression with one more assuring. His gaze met her eyes, then scanned up and down the narrow lane.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said and spurred his horse on, guiding them toward the center of town.
Toward the smoke.
Emeline looked back at the man as they rode away. He continued staring at the ground and she noticed his shoulders shaking, as though he hung his head to hide his tears. Her chest tightened around her heart.
“Lehgan,” she said facing her husband, “do we have to go this way?”
“There is no other way.”
They rode past the old woman’s hut, but she’d disappeared inside. The two naked children stepped out of the way and one of them—a boy—stuck out his tongue as they passed, the small act of youthful defiance bringing a hesitant smile to Emeline’s lips. The limping man hobbled out of the path of their horses, then they rode by the younger woman, who stared at them, breast still exposed. Emeline gestured, encouraging her to cover herself, but she paid no attention. The woman’s vacant eyes stayed upon them, looked through them like she saw them but didn’t comprehend.
They left the woman behind as they continued down the dirt track toward the pillar of smoke sending murdered villagers to the fields of the dead. Emeline looked back at the woman. She stood in the same spot, breast exposed, staring after them, but when she saw Emeline looking at her, she grabbed the front of her dress and lifted it. Under the skirt, blood streaked the woman’s thighs.
“Beware the dead men,” she screeched.
Emeline averted her gaze and urged her horse faster to ride beside Lehgan, the increased pace bouncing her child against her chest. Iana hummed to herself.
“Lehgan, did you hear her? What did she mean?”
He shook his head, gaze fixed on the lane in front of them. “I don’t know.”
She opened her mouth to speak, to say words to ask him to comfort her without asking, but she stopped. As they neared the town center, she smelled the fire burning, tasted its acrid smoke on her tongue.
“Get us out of here, Lehgan. Please.”
He grunted in response and continued along the dirt path. Closer to the fire, the damage done to the huts and hovels increased. They passed one which had been burned to the ground, the heat of it leaving its neighbor charred. Another hut lay in ruins, either pulled or pushed over, all four walls lying on the ground, the roof spilling into the street forcing their horses to pick their way through the rubble.
Emeline pulled the bodice of her dress up over her nose to block the distasteful odor, then did the same for Iana with the edge of the sling. Each step closer to the funeral pyre mounted more distress in Emeline. She held Iana tighter against her chest, and squeezed the sides of her steed until her thighs ached.
Finally, as they rode close enough to see flames licking toward the sky, a second dirt lane opened on their right. Lehgan guided his horse down it and Emeline’s followed. Though she didn’t want to, Emeline’s gaze remained on the flames after they turned down the second lane. Two men approached the fire, a third person carried between them, one gripping the corpse’s arms, the other its legs. At the edge of the bonfire, they swung the body back and forth three times, then heaved it into the flames sending a swirl of sparks skyward. Emeline’s eyes followed their path toward the heavens, part of her disgusted and appalled at what happened here—at the smoke, at the smell—but another part of her hoped those tiny sparks really were pieces of someone’s life released from their earthly ties to spend eternity among the Gods.
A half-destroyed shack blocked her view of the fire and she turned her face to her husband riding slightly ahead of her, looked at his broad back. Finally, she looked down at Iana who had fallen back to sleep. Emeline closed her eyes, concentrated on keeping herself from breaking into tears.
“I’m glad that place is behind us,” Lehgan said after a few minutes.
Emeline opened her eyes and looked up. They’d already passed out of the village and were riding through farmland toward a forest in the distance. The area looked not unlike their own home.
“Yes.”
She shifted in the saddle to look back at the village, at the smoke rising into the sky, and breathed deep, thankful for the fresh air.
‘The day before last,’ the man had said. Two days ago the Kanosee ransacked the village. If they were riding the direction from which she and Lehgan came, they would reach their town, their farm, her parents, in less than a week.
Emeline shifted in the saddle, facing forward again, and shook her head. They had seen no other sign of a raiding party’s passing before this, so she had no reason to believe danger would come to her parents. Then she remembered the woman’s cryptic words about dead men and shuddered.
We are all in danger.
Chapter Nine
The sliver-thin moon provided barely enough light for Khirro to see his hand in front of his face, certainly not enough to see his companion crouched beside him clothed in black and wearing a cloth mask the same color as the night. If not for the quiet sound of Athryn's shallow breaths, Khirro might have thought himself alone. He leaned toward his companion.
“Are you sure this is the right place? We haven’t missed them?”
Athryn turned his head, the wan light finding his eyes and making them twinkle.
“They are close.”
A simple plan: surprise the guards and rescue the boy.
Since they were in Kanos, his captors would have no reason to be on alert, so taking them unaware should be easy. Getting here, however, had been difficult; the nearer they got to the border, the more people and soldiers they’d seen on the road. To avoid them, they crept through fields and forests, forded streams instead of using bridges. The journey took twice as much time and effort as it might have.
Once, while hidden in the forest close enough to see the road, they’d watched a covered wagon pass. A soldier sat at the front of the wagon, guiding the horses while three others rode close behind. Khirro had wanted to attack, convinced the wagon held the boy, but Athryn insisted it didn’t. They remained in hiding and watched, a knot forming in Khirro’s belly as it disappeared in the distance. He didn’t usually have difficulty trusting Athryn but, on that occasion, he’d been unable to discern if the magician made his decision based on magical knowledge, intuition, or simply a hunch.
The longer they crouched in the forest, the more Khirro suspected his companion may have been wrong about the covered wagon. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, careful not to make too much noise, the empty scabbard where the Mourning Sword should have been scraping the ground. The sound reminded him of how woefully unprepared he was should the wagon they sought be well protected. He couldn’t imagine it would be anything but.
Beside him, Athryn stiffened and cocked his head to one side. Khirro reacted by holding his breath and listening to the quiet of the night. Trees creaked at their backs, their nearly-bare branches scraping against one another as an owl called out, waited for a response and got none. Khirro concentrated on listening, but heard nothing. Even when Athryn nodded, he still hadn’t heard anything other than the trees and the nocturnal bird-of-prey. Another thirty seconds passed before Khirro discerned the so
und of hooves. He leaned close to Athryn’s ear.
“Can you tell how many?”
“The sound of the wagon makes it difficult,” the magician replied in tones so quiet, it might have been a breeze rather than words. “Five, maybe more.”
Khirro gulped and unsheathed his dagger. He looked at it in his hand, the steel catching light from the shallow moon, and wondered how this small weapon would serve him against five Kanosee soldiers—or possibly more.
You don’t have to kill them all yourself. Stick to the plan.
He only needed to get close enough to kill one man, that would give Athryn the power and opportunity to call his magic into the fray.
All I have to do is get close enough to a group of mounted, trained soldiers to kill one of them. With no sword. That’s all.
He swallowed around the unbudging lump that had crawled out of his gut into his throat and glanced from his companion to the road. Still nothing to see. He heard the horses clearly now, and the rumble of the wagon wheels on the track, but a bend in the road kept them out of his sight.
Khirro shifted quietly, adjusted his grip on the dagger. It felt hard and out of place in his hand. Had he become so used to the Mourning Sword in so short a time? He supposed so. He’d come to feel the sword had chosen him to wield it, the thought making its loss more difficult. He bit down on a curse at himself for letting it go from his grasp; he’d never have such a sword again.
Months ago, I wouldn’t have cared. I’d have rather had a shovel, rake or hoe. How things change.
The sound of wagon and riders neared and Khirro shook the thought from his mind. A moment later, the first rider came into view.
The muscles in Khirro’s arms and shoulders, in his legs, tensed. Two more riders followed, then the wagon, the reins of its horses tended by a single soldier. Another three riders followed the wagon and, a few paces behind them, slowing the procession, two more followed on foot. Khirro held his breath waiting to see if more would follow them around the bend in the road. None did.
Nine.
Athryn looked toward Khirro and their eyes met. The magician nodded slightly, a gesture asking if he was ready, and Khirro nodded back. He readjusted his grip and gave silent thanks the last two soldiers were afoot—it would be easier to steal the life from one of them than to kill a mounted man.
As the lead rider drew even with them, Khirro saw he wore full armor and helm, his face hidden, any distinctions impossible to identify in the dim moonlight. The man could have as easily been Erechanian as Kanosee. The second and third mounted men passed, then the wagon was rattling by their hiding spot. Watching the wooden wheel spokes turning, the dull gray cloth jouncing, Khirro wondered how Athryn knew this to be the right wagon. What if he was wrong?
Too late to worry.
The wagon rumbled by, followed by the last riders. The muscles in Khirro’s thighs burned; he tensed further, coiling back to spring at the closest soldier, and time seemed to slow. The wagon’s clatter and the beat of hooves grew loud in his ears. His vision narrowed to the men approaching on foot, the wagon and his companion beside him dimming to blurs.
The foot soldiers passed and Khirro crept out of the brush onto the dirt track, emerging three yards behind them. He rushed the closest one, grabbed him around the shoulders and slashed his dagger across the man’s throat. The soldier grasped and grabbed at his attacker’s arm, but Khirro held on another few seconds before letting go. He expected the limp body to sink to the ground, blood fountaining from the wound and life draining from the Kanosee to provide Athryn the power he needed.
The man didn’t fall. Instead, he turned.
Khirro realized he should have struck again to protect himself, but a chill took hold of him upon seeing the sheet of skin hanging from the soldier’s throat where his knife sliced through papyrus-like flesh. No blood flowed. The man stared at Khirro, one eye regarding him, the other canted at an odd angle, looking toward the moon. His cheeks were sallow, his thin lips drawn up in a dead smile; a hollow laugh rattled and died against the sides of his open throat.
Khirro gasped and stumbled back as the dead man drew his sword and approached; a sliver of moonlight illuminated the splash of red across his armor. The first time he’d seen the armor of the dead men, Khirro didn’t know whether the red splash was paint or blood, but now he was convinced it was sacrificial blood.
The undead warrior brandished his sword and Khirro could only stare, limbs frozen by the memory of the dead soldier who came so close to taking his life at the Isthmus Fortress. Then, the Shaman saved him with his magic, but Bale died along with the king, and Athryn’s magic couldn’t save him this time.
So many have died.
Khirro could do nothing but clamp his jaw tight and brace himself for the killing blow. But it didn’t come. Instead, Athryn’s sword slashed through the soldier’s neck, finishing the job Khirro’s dagger started. The half-rotted head tumbled off the man’s shoulders, bounced once as it hit the road, then rolled away. The limp body followed it to the ground.
“Khirro,” Athryn cried. “Move!”
Athryn’s words released Khirro’s limbs from the spell of the memory binding them. He lurched to his left, narrowly avoiding a strike he hadn’t seen coming from the second foot soldier. The tip of the dead man’s sword hit the dirt an inch from Khirro, flicked dirt onto his foot. The miss threw him off balance and allowed Khirro to dance away and strike a blow. His dagger sank deep into the soldier’s shoulder but didn’t slow him. His sword swung in an upward arc missing Khirro close enough he felt air gust against his face.
The soldier attacked again and again, forcing Khirro back and keeping his meager weapon at a distance. Khirro knew he needed to counter attack, but the man’s sword kept him wary. He eluded yet another slice and dared a look past his adversary at Athryn engaged with two undead Kanosee soldiers.
His magic is our only hope.
Khirro ducked under the Kanosee’s sword and lunged forward, hitting him in the midsection. If he’d been alive, the tackle would have knocked the breath out of him, but instead it made a crumpling noise and threw him off balance enough for Khirro to put the thing down to the ground. He wrested the sword out of the undead soldier’s grip and separated its head from its body. Khirro straightened, his breath coming hard and fast, and located Athryn again.
“Athryn,” he cried rushing toward his companion.
One undead soldier lay at the magician’s feet while he engaged two others. Khirro looked beyond him and saw the wagon had stopped; the soldier driving it peered around its edge to watch the fight. One mounted Kanosee remained by the wagon, horse prancing in place, as another urged its steed toward the fray. A third horse stood idle on the other side of the wagon, its saddle empty.
“Khirro! I must ready my spell.”
The magician glanced at him as he joined the fight, surprising one of the undead soldiers and knocking him to the ground. He finished him with a flick of his commandeered sword and turned to engage the other soldier.
“But there’s no one to kill.”
“Just be ready. I need your blood.”
Athryn felled the second soldier and Khirro attacked the undead warrior who had slid from his horse’s saddle to engage him. He rained blows down on the enemy soldier, forcing him back a step to allow Athryn to retreat from the fight. The other two continued watching but neither moved to help.
The undead Kanosee recovered quickly and counter-attacked, thrusting at Khirro’s belly, following up with an upward swipe. Khirro fell back, parried, danced away. This dead man was better with a sword than the others. They circled each other and, over the man’s shoulder, Khirro saw Athryn had removed his tunic and was searching his tattoos for the words he needed.
Hurry, Athryn.
Steel rang against steel, the power of the dead man’s blows vibrating up Khirro’s arms. Dimly, he thought he heard the sound of Athryn chanting between the clang of weapons, but couldn’t be sure it wasn’t hopeful imagin
ation tricking him. The fight settled into a back and forth rhythm until Khirro’s arms began to tire. The same couldn’t be said of his adversary. Khirro wanted to ask Athryn for help or beg him to hurry, but he worried that, if he did, it would interrupt the magician in the midst of his spell and doom them.
I can do this. The enemy doesn’t even draw breath.
A growl rumbled in Khirro’s throat. He pressed forward, turned his thoughts away from the magician and toward the boy hidden in the covered wagon and what the poor child must have been through. The thought steeled him, forced the fatigue out of his arms.
The undead soldier parried and blocked; Khirro’s blade caught flesh and separated an ear that looked more like a rotted leaf than an instrument for hearing. The contact threw the soldier off balance and Khirro followed the ear severing with a slash across the thing’s throat. It staggered him but didn’t stop it. A second slash and its head toppled. The body lurched on unsteady legs, sword swinging wildly in the thing’s blind hands, before slumping to the ground.
Khirro watched it fall and a short-lived wave of relief washed through him. He looked up from the rotted, lifeless body to see the other three Kanosee soldiers standing before him, two of them with weapons drawn, the third holding a boy in front of him, arm around his neck. The boy’s expression looked equal parts fear and disgust.
“Infidels,” the one holding the boy grated, his voice like a stiff wind rattling dried reeds. “I’ll kill the boy before you take him.”
No one moved for several seconds. Khirro heard the mutter of Athryn’s chant but it would be ineffective without blood to power it. He peeked over his shoulder, not wanting to take his gaze off his adversaries for more than a fraction of a second, and saw Athryn kneeling a few yards behind him. His mask lay on the ground with his tunic. When he looked back, the two Kanosee with their weapons drawn had taken a step forward.
“Athryn?”
The magician continued chanting. The undead holding the boy smiled, his wizened lips opening to show rotten teeth.
