Heart of the King

by Bruce Blake

  The Archon stopped again as she reached him; Emeline gasped.

  “No,” she whispered and took a step down the row toward her husband, but the man who had offered her his spot grabbed her, stopping her.

  “There’s nothing you can do, lass.”

  She watched in horror as the woman pointed at Lehgan and the soldier who raped her dismounted and drew his sword. Emeline pulled against the man’s grasp, attempting to break free and run to her husband’s aid.

  “Think of your child,” the man rasped in her ear as he encircled her waist with his arm.

  Hektor approached Lehgan, who didn’t move. Instead of fleeing, he stood his ground, rigid and erect, head held high. The rapist’s blade went in through his belly and came out his back. Lehgan lurched forward, then the soldier drew the blade upward.

  “No,” Emeline screamed. Iana woke with the sound and began to cry.

  Hektor jerked the blade upward again and Lehgan went limp. He yanked the blade free and let the body of Emeline’s husband tumble to the ground.

  The Archon shifted in her saddle to face the crowd and spoke, raising her voice for all to hear. “We ride to meet your army, on their way here from the capital.”

  A murmur rolled through the crowd, drowning the muffled sound of Emeline sobbing against the man’s arm.

  “The uprising will be squashed before it begins,” she continued and a smile crept across her face. “Do not think to aid them. I will leave enough soldiers here to kill you all if need be.”

  She surveyed the crowd, her expression seeming to dare them to defy her. No one did. The woman nodded toward Lehgan’s body.

  “Bring him. I may have use of him,” she said and urged her horse on.

  Hektor slipped his bloodied sword back into its scabbard, picked up Lehgan and threw him over his shoulder roughly, then grabbed his horse by the bridle and led it away, following the woman.

  “No,” Emeline said, the word shaken by sobs.

  Her legs gave way and the man holding her let her slip gently to the ground. She sat in the dirt sobbing with Iana held tight to her chest, the baby crying along with her, as the procession of soldiers continued past. She noticed none of them.

  When Emeline’s sobs finally waned and she looked up, the crowd had dispersed and the line of horsemen and the foot soldiers who’d followed them were gone but for a group of Kanosee who remained at the center of the courtyard, pikes and swords in hand. In Emeline’s arms, Iana gurgled and blew bubbles, the baby’s tears long since stopped. The young mother drew a shuddering sigh and struggled to her feet.

  She made her way down the courtyard on unsteady legs, heading toward the avenue that led to her dwelling, vaguely aware of the danger of the armed men at her back. A few yards from the street, she stopped and looked down at the muddied ground where her husband’s blood was spilled. It could as easily have been water as blood mixed with the dirt and churned to mud by stomping horses and marching feet, but she knew better. No matter how badly she wished it to be water, or ale, or wine—anything other than what it really was—it wasn’t going to change.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Iana cooed in response.

  She turned away and made her way down the avenue before the sobs took her again. As she walked, she felt not only the pain of losing her husband, but the Archon’s words rang in her head: ‘I feel you and I may meet again.’

  She hurried back to her hut, the tears of remorse and fear she held back forming a knot in her throat threatening to choke her. When she arrived, she collapsed on the bed and let it all free, sobbing to the world for her loss.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Khirro didn’t know how he knew Graymon was hiding behind the ferns, but he did. His boots had brought him through the forest unerringly to the fallen log, like they possessed special knowledge of the boy’s location that Khirro himself didn’t have. Once he’d found it, he watched the hiding spot for several minutes, debating how to get the boy out.

  Memory of his transformation into the tyger was hazy at best, but he remembered holding Graymon captive with a dagger to his throat. That would be enough to scare a young boy and lose his trust. What would seeing the tyger have done? How would he react to seeing him now?

  He decided on the gentle approach. If he went straight in after him first, the act couldn’t be undone, but if words didn’t work, he could still drag him out.

  Khirro crouched beside the curtain of ferns and took a breath, muscles tense. He needed to be ready in case the boy tried to run.

  “Graymon? Are you in there? It’s Khirro.”

  He paused and listened, but heard no response at first, no indication the boy hid within. After a few seconds, the gentle rustle of disturbed leaves confirmed what he already knew. Khirro continued to wait, but heard nothing more.

  “It’s me, Graymon. I’m alone. It’s safe to come out.”

  The boy exploded out of his hiding place and jumped into Khirro’s arms in a storm of desiccated fern leaves and joyous cries. Caught off guard, Khirro lost his balance and toppled backward, the giggling boy on top of him.

  Not the reaction I expected.

  Khirro hugged the boy around his shoulders, his chest aching with the knowledge he would likely not ever hold a child of his own, then Graymon wiggled away.

  “Where’s Af...Af...your friend?” he asked.

  Khirro sat up and brushed leaves off his tunic. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  Graymon shrugged. “He told me to run, so I did.”

  “Good. Good boy.”

  “Should we look for him?”

  He stood and put his hand on Graymon’s shoulder, paused before answering in a solemn tone.

  “I went back to where it happened. He wasn’t there. I hoped he was with you.”

  Khirro thought back to his trek through the woods. After washing the blood off his face and arms in the sea, he’d made his way back to the place he’d changed into the tyger without knowing how he’d found it. Beside the tree, he found the undead monster and the body of the other Kanosee soldier, but no sign of Athryn—no body, no trail, no sign anyone else had been there. The scene provided no explanation for where the magician had gone, and he didn’t know whether to think his absence a good thing or bad.

  “He must have been captured again.”

  “Then let’s rescue him.” Graymon ran a few steps, stopped and looked back to see if Khirro followed. “Come on.”

  Khirro smiled. “Aren’t you afraid?”

  The boy shook his head, his brown locks flying around his head like a halo.

  “Why not?”

  “The tyger told me.”

  Khirro raised an eyebrow. “The tyger?”

  “I dream about him. And the ghost woman. They said not to be afraid of you. They said you won’t hurt me.”

  Khirro kneeled in front of him, grasped him gently by the arms.

  “Of course I wouldn’t. Never. But you should know something about me.”

  Graymon’s face broke into the kind of unbridled smile only a child can wear. “You’re the tyger!”

  The boy shook off Khirro’s hold and bounced away into the forest, leaving him crouching by the log where Graymon had hidden, wondering how the tyger kept appearing in the boy’s dreams.

  “I’m the tyger,” he said as he stood and followed the boy into the forest.

  ***

  Therrador kicked at the rat, catching it in the side and sending it squeaking across the floor. “Get away from me, vermin.”

  “Shh.”

  He looked across the room at the ghost woman standing watch by the door. She’d done as promised, supplying him with sword and armor and a place to hide, but he didn’t know how they wouldn’t be discovered hiding practically in plain sight. The store room wasn’t used, but neither was it hidden.

  He moved closer to speak more quietly.

  “Why did you bring me here? We’ll certainly be discovered.”

  She turned from the do
or and looked at him for a moment, her piercing green eyes holding him as surely as if they were shackles. After a few seconds, she raised her hand and pointed to the center of the room.

  “That,” she said, “is where Braymon died.”

  Therrador took three slow, measured strides to the spot she indicated and stood staring down at the dirt floor for a minute before he crouched. He reached out and touched the soil with the tips of his fingers.

  “I’m sorry, my friend.”

  “I didn’t bring you here to be sorry, Therrador. The Shaman protected this place with his magic while drawing the blood of the king. Remnants of his protection spell still remain.”

  Therrador first nodded, then shook his head as he looked back to the place where his friend’s life ended because of him. “There’s no reason to be sorry. No one will forgive me, anyway.”

  Elyea didn’t reply. Therrador watched her staring at the door as though she saw right through it.

  Maybe she can.

  A minute passed in silence. Therrador looked from the ghost woman back to the dirt floor at his feet and imagined he saw a stain where Braymon’s final blood flowed. He placed his palm over it and closed his eyes in silent prayer for the safety of the king’s spirit, no matter whether it resided with the bearer or had moved on to the fields of the dead.

  His eyes snapped open when he felt the ground shake beneath his hand.

  “Horses,” he said, standing. “Many of them.”

  Hope bloomed in his chest until he realized Sir Alton had not been gone long enough to be back with troops yet. He suppressed the feeling.

  “Yes. The Archon moves her army in preparation for the general’s return.”

  “Damn! So she knows he made it out.”

  The ghost nodded. “He tried to fool her, but she saw through it.”

  “Sir Alton tried to fool her?”

  “Our friend did.”

  Therrador’s lips parted to ask her once again to whom she referred, but he stopped himself. It didn’t matter. For centuries, the impenetrable Isthmus Fortress with its solid wall and formidable defenses always kept the kingdom safe. Not this time. This time, the kingdom had to rely on its people, so the more on their side, the better, no matter who they were.

  I gave away our only hope.

  Therrador left the center of the room with its stain of king’s blood and strode to the back wall, leaning against it, then sliding down to sit with his back against the stone.

  This is all because of me. Had I approached Braymon, my friend, instead of assuming the worst, none of this would have happened. The witch couldn’t have manipulated me.

  He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his head sagging forward. The deep breath he drew into his lungs tasted of must and dirt. Death and hopelessness.

  “Do not give up hope, Therrador.”

  He looked up to see the ghost woman standing in front of him. She kneeled and put a hand on each side of his head, palms on his cheeks, fingers aside his head. They felt surprisingly warm and solid for a ghost. Energy flowed through them.

  “Sir Alton is coming. Your son yet lives. The bearer is near. There is much still at work for us, and much you don’t know.”

  “I have to warn them. Get me out of here so I can warn Sir Alton. One man moves faster than an army.”

  “No, Therrador. Your place is here. Those left behind need you.”

  Therrador pursed his lips and nodded once. The woman’s energy flowed into him, redirecting his thoughts; he couldn’t give up, not while his son and his kingdom still needed him. She let go and backed away as the king pushed himself to his feet and drew his sword awkwardly with his left hand.

  “The battle is not lost,” he said, resolve adding steel to his voice. “It has not yet begun.”

  He faced away from her to practice parries and thrusts with his weapon in a hand still unaccustomed to wielding a sword. His right hand throbbed with each swing and swipe, as though aching to be used, as though it meant to remind him of the things the Archon had done to him. In his mind, he imagined each strike slicing the witch open, removing her head, running her through.

  The battle has not yet begun.

  ***

  During the journey back to the Isthmus from Achtindel, the numbers of Sienhin’s force had grown with Erechanian soldiers who’d found their way out of the fortress, many disguised as civilians. Individual men, groups of two, three and four, but never more. Two days’ ride from the fortress, the army encountered the first wave of civilians fleeing the stronghold: a group of thirty tattered souls too tired to flee but pushing on, anyway. When Sir Alton Sienhin saw them from afar, he raised the staff held in his left hand—his right lay useless in his lap—halting his troops, and signaled the three closest riders to accompany him.

  The first person the smaller party encountered was a woman. Her dark hair hung ragged at her shoulders, dirt stained her frock, and she wore nothing on her feet despite the travel and the cold. It took a moment for Sienhin to recognize her: one of the harlots who followed the army, making her living providing company for lonely soldiers. The general had employed her more than once himself, but he didn’t remember her name, or perhaps he never knew it.

  “Wench, what’s happened?”

  He cringed at the pain speaking caused in his shoulder despite the ointments smeared on his flesh and the elixirs the healer made him imbibe. Still, it was much better than it had been.

  The woman looked up at him with hollow eyes, her mouth pulled down in perpetual despair. She glanced from him to the other riders with him, then past them at the army following and her expression brightened, looked almost hopeful.

  “The enemy’s moved, general,” she said. “A bunch of them overrun our camp and one of them drank too much and told me the witch is moving their army for the capital. I had to leave before another stinking Kanosee put his cock in me.”

  Sienhin grunted. “So they know we’re coming.”

  He nodded to the man on his right and the young officer—a soldier whose name he didn’t know and probably never would—immediately reined his horse around and took the news back to the other officers waiting with their platoons.

  “Did everyone make it out?”

  Her eyes clouded and her expression sagged. “I don’t know. The piss tank said they were leaving some soldiers behind to make sure they wouldn’t.”

  Sienhin looked at her for a minute, anger brewing in his chest. He felt his cheeks go red.

  “And what of the king?”

  “Dead,” she said and Sienhin’s breath caught in his throat. “He died in the first battle.”

  The general let out his breath. “Not Braymon. Therrador. Know you any news of Therrador?”

  She shook her head and looked at her filthy feet. “No. None. Therra...the king disappeared. Some think he’s deserted.” She looked up again and the general saw tears in her eyes. “What hope is there for any with a king like that?”

  “Don’t you worry, lass, the king is not gone,” he said leaning toward her in the saddle. “And we intend to make the Kanosee pay.”

  He sat upright and signaled to the troops, then prompted his horse on, determination furrowing his brow. He wanted to coax the horse to a gallop, to meet the enemy more quickly, but doing so would leave the foot soldiers behind and give the enemy the advantage.

  Sienhin gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, set his jaw, and pressed on toward the waiting battle.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Where is everyone?” Graymon asked.

  Tugg and Mandich had been wrong about how far the camp was—it took them nine days to arrive at the salt flats, not the week the soldiers had estimated. They’d crossed the brief grassland separating forest from flatland with as much stealth as possible with a six year old involved, wary of patrols and sentries, but they saw no one. They crept up on the camp and found only long dead cook fires and the detritus of a camp deserted by its army.

  “I don’t kno
w, Graymon. Moved on to overthrow the rest of the kingdom, I suppose.”

  They picked their way through the empty camp, passing over ground beaten flat and hard by the trample of thousands of feet, saw bones tossed aside and latrines left unfilled. Here and there, they found discarded bodies, all of them stripped of their clothes and belongings; Khirro couldn’t tell if they were Erechanian or Kanosee.

  In death, when we have nothing, we are all the same.

  Graymon held Khirro’s hand as they crossed the salt flats toward the Isthmus Fortress. The feel of the boy’s hand in his squeezed his heart, and he thought of all the horrible experiences he’d had around children in the past months: being forced to leave a pregnant Emeline; the dead children that made up the walls in the deserted village; the mud baby in his dream. The thoughts made him stop and turn to the boy.

  I’m bad luck for children.

  “Graymon.” He kneeled to look into the boy’s eyes. “If we can get into the fortress, we will find a safe hiding place for you.”

  The boy’s eyes widened and he shook his head vehemently. “No. I want to stay with you.”

  Khirro touched his hand against Graymon’s cheek; the boy leaned his head into his palm, tears threatening in his eyes. His lip quivered.

  “It won’t be safe with me.” It’s not safe with me. “There will be fighting. And the monsters.”

  “Oh.” Graymon shivered at the mention of the undead soldiers, but said no more.

  Khirro looked at him a moment longer, wondered if there was something else he should say. But what to say to a boy who’d been taken from his father and put through all that Graymon had? How do words make that better?

  They don’t. Actions do.

  Khirro stood and took the boy’s hand again, leading him on through the camp toward the fortress wall looming before them. If Athryn was with them, he would already have considered how to enter the fortress, but he wasn’t. They still didn’t know what had happened to the magician, and Khirro purposely kept his mind from thoughts of his lost friend—he had Graymon to worry about before he could allow himself concern or grief. His first priority was getting them into the fortress, his second: finding safety for the boy. All else would come after that.