by Bruce Blake
With one last look up and down the street, the man with the dead leg shuffled down the lane, grasped the door handle and opened it inward. The two of them disappeared inside, closing the door behind them.
Sienhin leaned forward, relieving the pressure on his numb leg, and stared at the closed door. Every second of his decades of soldiering made him want to rush into the room and bring an end to whatever the two undead soldiers pathetically called a life. But he stopped himself, realizing the stakes were much higher than just these two men.
“Gods curse you, Turesti,” Sienhin spat with soldiers safely out of earshot behind the heavy door. “Why would you turn on your kingdom?”
The general’s lips squeezed into a tight line, his unkempt mustache hanging down, hiding his lower lip. He felt the color rising in his cheeks, the anger building in his chest, but nothing could be done about it, not now. Turesti’s time of reckoning would come.
At least now he knew whom to trust.
***
The pain of the wound in his abdomen flowed up through Emon Turesti’s chest and along the length of his limbs. He strained to move and relieve the pain, to roll onto his back and remove his cheek from the dirt, but no strength remained in his body. Another wave of agony rolled through him, tensing his body and making him hold his breath behind clenched teeth. When it subsided, he released the air from his lungs in a puff that sent ripples across the thin pool of his own blood in which he lay.
“He didn’t show.”
Turesti directed his eyes toward the voice, but only saw the toes of Hahn Perdaro’s boots. The man stepped closer and tapped his foot impatiently, splashing blood on Turesti’s cheek.
“Did you lie to me, Smoke? Did you send my soldiers chasing wild fowl?”
“No.” The word squeaked in his throat.
“But Sienhin didn’t show.”
The boots turned and paced away; some of the tension in Turesti faded, but as he relaxed, another bolt of pain from his wound grabbed him. He may not be a soldier, but he knew enough about gut wounds to know his chances of surviving diminished with each drop of blood that flowed out of him. He closed his eyes and fought back tears threatening at their edges. For all these years, he’d wanted nothing but to serve his kingdom and whatever king sat the throne; now he would die forced to betray it.
“He told you the truth, Hahn.”
The sound of the woman’s voice snapped Turesti’s eyes open.
“How can you be sure? He’s loyal to the king.”
“I know.”
A pair of bare feet strode into his view, the red painted toe nails bright against alabaster skin. The woman walked toward him, stopping a few inches from his face. Turesti stared at his blood squeezing between her toes and the fear gripping his heart made him forget the pain in his abdomen.
The woman stepped back and kneeled in front of him, heedless of her white gown pressed into the muddy floor. When she realized he could only move his eyes and not his head, she put a finger to his cheek and pivoted his face toward her so their eyes met.
The Archon was smiling, but the expression held not a hint of happiness or humor. Instead, satisfaction and disgust in equal measure seemed to drip from her teeth.
This is the last thing I will ever see.
“Know this before you die,” the woman said leaning in close. “No matter what, your kingdom will not survive.”
Somewhere inside Emon Turesti, her words lit a spark of hope.
She’s afraid. Afraid and unsure.
The Archon shifted her hand until her fingers splayed across his face and her palm pressed against his nose. Then she squeezed. It only took a few seconds for his skull to give way, and all pain and fear and hope disappeared.
Chapter Fourteen
The first thing Khirro noticed was how much his head hurt. The second was the sun and the cloud-scudded sky above. A bolt of panic jolted his chest and he sat up abruptly, the pain in his head magnifying and sending a wave of nausea through his belly.
“It is all right, Khirro. Be calm.”
Khirro blinked hard against the throb in his temples and drew a dry tongue across his lips. “Where are we?”
“Not far from where we were, but far enough to be safe for the moment.”
He felt Athryn’s hand on his shoulder but needed to rotate his head to see the magician, an operation his beleaguered brain resisted. His companion came around to stand before him, then kneeled so their eyes were on the same level. Athryn wore the white cloth mask over his face and Khirro noticed a dark streak across one cheek that might have been either dirt or dried blood; he couldn’t remember if it was there the last time the magician wore it.
Khirro looked away at the thin, leafless trees surrounding them. The smell of earth filled his nostrils, but not the odor of fresh-turned soil like on the farm, this was the old dirt of loam and decayed leaves. He shifted right, wincing at the pain it shot through his temples, then looked to the left. Something felt missing, but it took a few seconds for him to realize what.
“Where’s the boy?”
Athryn raised his arm and pointed over Khirro’s shoulder. With a deep breath in his lungs to protect against the coming discomfort, Khirro struggled to his feet and looked to where he indicated. The boy was sitting on a fallen log, feet dangling, swinging above the ground, as he fiddled idly with a leaf, rolling it and unrolling it between his fingers. He no longer wore the splint on his arm, nor did he look like a boy who’d been kidnapped by undead soldiers anymore; he simply looked like a boy out for a walk in the woods.
Athryn healed him.
“Safe for now, you said. How are we going to get off this cursed land bridge?”
Khirro didn’t look away from the child as he awaited his companion’s response. When it didn’t come immediately, he knew the magician didn’t have a plan. Khirro raised his head toward the sky, squinting at the sun half-hidden behind horsetail clouds. This same sky hung above his parents’ farm many leagues to the south and east. Had the Kanosee army of undead soldiers advanced that far yet? Could they still see this sky?
“I do not know, Khirro. They are searching for us, or perhaps for the child.”
“Both.”
Khirro looked back to the boy who’d raised his head to regard the two of them as they spoke, his lips tilted in a nervous half-smile, the kind a child offers in an attempt to quell an angry parent. It made Khirro want to go to him and tell him they would keep him safe, but in that moment, he wasn’t sure they could.
“How long do we have before they find us again?”
“I cannot be sure,” Athryn replied. “Not long.”
“We can’t stay here.”
“That much is certain.”
Khirro faced his companion, looked at his blue eyes peering from behind the white cloth mask. It troubled him that the magician couldn’t provide answers; he had come to depend on him.
“We’ll find one of those undead bastards and you can transport us again,” Khirro said, his fingers wrapping around his dagger’s jeweled grip. “Take us all the way to the fortress.”
Athryn shook his head slowly, as tough he performed the difficult act of moving a great weight.
“Why not? Does the magic drain you? Hurt you?”
“It is not me I am worried about.” He stepped forward and put his hand on Khirro’s shoulder. “You do not respond well. I think the blood loss and the burden of carrying the spirit of the king within you makes it too much to risk.”
Khirro sighed and his shoulders sagged; he looked away from Athryn, directing his eyes toward the ground. Before, when they first began this journey, his lack of bravery and soldier skills constantly held them back; now it was his physical limitations. Would he ever be man enough to fulfill the destiny placed upon him by the Shaman? Could he ever be a worthy soldier?
Can I ever be a hero?
A leaf moved beside Khirro’s foot, distracting him. At first he thought a gentle gust of wind must have disturbed it, but it mov
ed again, slowly and steadily scuttling across the grass away from him. He crouched and reached for the leaf, his hand hovering above it for a second, then he plucked it off the ground. Beneath it he found a caterpillar, its green skin marked with black dots noticeable against the yellowed grass and brown leaves.
Using the leaf as a disguise.
Khirro looked up at Athryn, held the leaf out for him to see. “I have an idea.”
***
They moved slowly and carefully, not knowing when or where they might run into a Kanosee patrol searching for them. The pain in Khirro’s head eventually dulled to an aching numbness as they scoured the area around them for the items they needed to put his plan into play.
“Can’t we rest? I’m tired.”
Khirro looked back to see the boy had stopped walking and stood looking down at his feet, hands held behind his back, a pout on his face. Athryn moved toward Graymon, but Khirro stopped him and went himself.
“Do you want to quit the game?” Khirro asked kneeling in front of the boy. “Do you want to stop playing before it’s done?”
Graymon looked up, his eyes widening. “Game? I didn’t know it was a game. What game are we playing?”
“It’s a scavenger hunt.”
“A scav-jur hunt? What’s that?”
Khirro nodded and smiled at the boy. “You’ve never been on a scavenger hunt?”
Graymon shook his head. A smile touched his lips and Khirro saw the enthusiasm building inside him; it showed in the gleam in his eyes and the color of his cheeks.
“A scavenger hunt is when you have to find things. The first one to find them wins.”
“Really? What do we have to find?”
“Some red berries. Dark mud. Green moss. Charcoal would be ideal.” Khirro ticked each one off on a finger as he spoke.
“Charcoal?”
“A burnt piece of wood.”
“Okay. Berries--”
“Red berries. They have to be red.”
“Red berries, green moss, mud and a burnt stick.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And if I find them first, I win?”
Before Khirro finished nodding, Graymon took off past him, racing into the woods. Khirro watched him pick his way around piles of deadfall and past prickled bushes, pausing at each, searching for berries, then looking at the ground, and the trees. Athryn caught his eyes and nodded once. Khirro stood and sighed.
If things were different, I’d one day have been playing this game with my own child.
Graymon disappeared behind a tree and Khirro and Athryn started after him. A few seconds later, they heard the boy whoop with joy.
“I found some moss,” the boy hollered.
Khirro fought back a smile. “It worked,” he said to Athryn. “But we best find a way to keep him quiet.”
Athryn nodded and they hurried after the excited boy.
***
Khirro looked down at himself, felt the mud on his face crack like a second skin pulled too tight across his cheeks. The charred remains of a Kanosee campfire—the last of the scavenged items they’d found—darkened his leather armor and would make do as a substitute for black mail, but he couldn’t see if the berry juice they’d streaked across it would pass for the red spatters on the Kanosee undead.
“How do I look?”
“Funny,” Graymon said from behind Athryn’s black cloth mask. He was equally as pleased with playing dress-up as he’d been with winning the scavenger hunt.
“Great, thanks. Athryn?”
The magician, who’d removed his own mask, looked him up and down for a few seconds, then he looked at the boy. He shook his head.
“Not good enough.”
Khirro raised his hands, then let them drop in frustration. “What else can we do? Kill me and bring me back?”
Athryn raised an eyebrow and Khirro worried for a second that he considered exactly that, but the magician shook his head. Instead, he rolled up his sleeve, traced his finger along the cursive lines etched in his flesh. Khirro waited until Athryn looked up again.
“You will need your dagger.”
Khirro’s heart jumped, then settled.
He doesn’t want my life, just my blood.
“What are you going to do?”
Khirro pulled the dagger from his belt, rolled up his sleeve, and rested the edge of the blade on his flesh next to the last cut he’d made to enable Athryn to cast a spell. A scab covered the straight mark across his arm but it looked a long way from being healed.
“With just your blood, I should be able to do a little magic to aid with our disguises. It should not harm you.”
He closed his eyes and began his chant, its rhythmic ebb and flow threatening to mesmerize Khirro as he held the cold steel against his arm awaiting his companion’s signal. When the magician nodded, he hesitated a second, then dragged the sharp edge across his forearm. Khirro watched the blood well up, then flow down his arm in a red trail, along the lines of his palm and finally down his finger to form drops that plummeted to the ground. As he watched, he thought of Maes and the scars that had covered the little man’s body.
Will I end up like him?
Khirro raised his eyes from the cut and the blood, looked over Athryn’s shoulder at Graymon sitting on the ground drawing in the dirt with the end of a stick, the magician’s black mask hanging loose over his face. Every few seconds, he reached up to adjust it to keep the eye holes in the right place. The action made Khirro smile. When he did, his face felt different. He no longer felt dried mud crusted on his cheeks. Only then did he realize Athryn’s chanting had ceased. Khirro looked at the magician.
“Did it work?” he asked, resisting the urge to touch his face for fear of what he might find.
Athryn said nothing , his expression remaining unchanged. In answer, he reached into his pack and pulled out the mirrored mask, holding it up for Khirro, who hesitated at looking into it. After a few seconds, curiosity got the better of him.
Khirro leaned forward to look at his face reflected in the mask. Seeing the way the curves of the mask’s cheeks and nose pulled his image into distorted caricatures always disturbed him, but this time, the face he saw wasn’t his. He saw enough to know that, even without the mirror’s distorting qualities, he would look hideous.
The mud they’d smeared on his cheeks had become black decay, the moss by his ears green mold. Athryn shifted the angle of the mask for Khirro to see the front of his armor streaked with red that would pass for blood instead of the berry juice he knew it to be. Part of Khirro wanted to smile and laugh with satisfaction at the magician’s work, but the part of him he held from recoiling in fear prevented it. He nodded once and looked away from the mask as Athryn returned it to the pack.
Now for the real test.
Khirro took a breath and stepped past Athryn, moving toward the distracted boy etching shapes and figures in the dirt.
“Graymon?” Though his appearance had altered, Khirro’s voice sounded his own. “Look at me, Graymon.”
The boy looked up halfway through drawing a line. The stick stopped moving; his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.
Graymon screamed.
***
They walked along the dirt road in silence, Khirro leading Athryn and Graymon by a short rope loosely binding their hands. It had taken half an hour to convince the boy that the undead soldier was actually Khirro, and that the disguise was part of another game—a game in which Graymon had to pretend to be a captive again, although the knot holding his wrists was loose enough to free himself if he wanted. After that, they had to convince him part of the game was not to giggle every time he heard Khirro’s voice come from the undead face.
They’d been walking for less than half-an-hour when Khirro saw a Kanosee patrol approaching. There were three of them, but others might be hidden, searching the scrub at the sides of the road. At a distance, he couldn’t discern if they were undead soldiers or men, but the prospect of encounterin
g them made Khirro’s flesh prickle despite the disguises provided by Athryn’s magic.
“Are you sure this will work?” he asked over his shoulder with the patrol still too far away to hear.
“As long as you do not panic, Khirro. Stay calm.”
A twinge of anger disturbed Khirro’s gut.
Does he expect me to panic?
He gritted his teeth rather than reply. Surely Athryn didn’t mean anything by it. During their trip, Khirro had certainly let fear rule him at times, but he thought enough time and events had passed to dispel such an expectation.
He breathed deep, inhaling the briny smell of the sea; the salt flats must be close. On them they would find the entire Kanosee army, and beyond, the Isthmus Fortress.
If I can’t get us past three soldiers, how will I get us by an army?
Khirro cleared his throat. He’d seen his reflection in the mask and knew Athryn’s magic provided him an adequate disguise, but it left him with his own voice. If anything would give him away, speaking with the voice of the living would. He growled to himself in the back of his throat, coughed. He gurgled a word through his lips and cleared his throat again. What did the words formed by a rotted tongue sound like?
The group of soldiers drew close enough for Khirro to see that two of them were living men and the third wore the red splashed mail of the undead. He clenched his free hand into a fist, felt the tendons stretch, the tips of his fingers dig into his palm. His grip on the rope tightened and he glanced over his shoulder.
The magician’s black mask still covered Graymon’s face, but the boy’s eyes darted nervously behind it. Athryn, his face bare, sensed Graymon’s distress and moved closer beside him to comfort him. Khirro turned back to the road ahead. The Kanosee were close enough he heard them speaking to each other. He lowered his eyes, staring at the dirt road in front of his feet, hoping they would let him pass.
Uncomfortable seconds dragged by as Khirro played in his head what might happen, carefully keeping his hand near, but not touching, the hilt of his sword.
