by Bruce Blake
The sword dropped from her hand and she crumpled after it, falling to her knees as sobs tore from her throat. Khirro stepped toward her.
“Emeline?”
He threw the Mourning Sword aside and dropped to his knees beside her, reaching out to touch her back as it heaved with sobs, but he didn’t touch her. She cried and held the baby tight to her chest, and the baby cried, too. Khirro took his hand back and waited, recognizing this was likely the second time she lamented Lehgan’s death.
Lehgan is dead.
He felt numb, as though he’d been submerged in snow and all his nerves were frozen. His brother was dead, and he’d come to the fortress with the woman Khirro once thought the only woman he’d ever love. The two of them, together.
But you knew, didn’t you?
He had. Somewhere deep inside him, he’d known from the start. And after the passing of time, and the things he’d been through, she was no longer the only woman he’d ever loved, for he’d also loved Elyea.
“Khirro?”
This time, the voice unmistakably belonged to Graymon. Khirro twisted around so quickly, he nearly toppled over. Graymon stood a few yards away, arms dangling by his sides, a look of fear and desperation on his face. Tears streaked his cheeks.
“Graymon.” Khirro held his arms out for the boy to come to him. “I thought I told you to run.”
The boy shuffled toward him, in no hurry to reach him. When he did, he remained outside of Khirro’s reach, avoiding his embrace.
“Who're they?”
Khirro looked toward the others.
“That,” he said pointing at Lehgan, “was my brother. Once. Before the bad lady made him into a monster. And this is my friend, Emeline. I don’t know the baby.”
Emeline raised her head and sniffled deeply. “Iana,” she said and sobbed again. “You...I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Khirro nodded. “I know, Emeline.” He allowed himself to touch her back and found no urgency in the touch like he might, no sense of connection or longing. Instead, it felt like the touch of a man consoling a friend.
They stayed that way for a while—her crying and calming the baby, him with his hand on her back. He thought about his brother, and Elyea, and all the other people he’d lost since his cursed journey began. Brave people who didn’t deserve their fates.
Graymon wandered a short way away and plunked himself down on the ground, collecting rocks and building one of his little stone pyramids. Khirro glanced over at him periodically to ensure he was safe, and looked around the courtyard, but it seemed they were alone.
“What happened here?”
Emeline looked up and wiped her tears away on her sleeve.
“The Archon took her troops to intercept the army coming from Achtindel.” A deep breath shuddered into her chest and out again. “She left some behind, but Therrador raised what soldiers were left in the fortress and--”
“My da?” Graymon scuffled over to them on his hands and knees. “My da is okay?”
Wide-eyed, Emeline looked at the boy, then at Khirro.
He nodded, answering her unasked question. “He is Therrador’s son.”
She bowed her head. “My prince. Your father fought bravely and triumphed over our enemies.”
Graymon stood a little straighter and a smile struggled its way onto his face.
“My da is a brave hero.”
Khirro regarded the corpses strewn across the courtyard and saw equal numbers of headless Erechanians as he did Kanosee.
This is triumph?
A heat started inside him, flowing out of his chest and into his limbs, and he felt the spirit of the king angered by the fall of so many of his people. Khirro struggled to keep the tyger at bay.
“Where is Therrador now?” he asked.
“He took what soldiers remained and went after the Archon’s army.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long?” The question came out with more force than he intended; Emeline flinched and shook her head.
“Two days, maybe three.”
Khirro stood and retrieved the Mourning Sword. “I have to go. It may already be too late.”
He unslung the sword’s scabbard from his back and replaced the short sword’s with it on his hip. When he slid the sword back into its place, it felt familiar, comforting; a feeling he never expected to have from a sword hanging on his belt. He beckoned Graymon to him and this time the boy allowed him to place his arm around his shoulders.
“Graymon, you will stay here with Emeline. She’ll take care of you.”
“But I want to see my da.”
Khirro crouched to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, Graymon, but seeing your father must wait. Your safety is most important. Emeline will--”
“I’m not staying.”
The resolve in her voice made Khirro cock his head. The skin over her pronounced cheek bones looked tight with dried tears, but her eyes shone with bright determination. Khirro sucked on his bottom lip, deciding how to tell her she wouldn’t be accompanying him.
“I head into battle, Emeline, and that is no place for a woman and a child. Certainly no place for a baby.”
“A fortress where my dead husband attacked you, where monsters might lurk in the shadows is no place for us.”
Graymon shifted out from under Khirro’s arm and went to Emeline’s side. She put her arm around him and he rested his head on her shoulder.
“Emeline, I--”
“We are going with you, Khirro. You can hide us somewhere when we get close if you want, but we’re not staying here.”
Her unwavering gaze held his and he saw in her eyes that he wouldn’t be able to talk her out of going with him. He breathed a sigh of cold winter air in through his nose and out his mouth, then nodded slowly.
“All right,” he said and Graymon let out a cheer.
If only he understood.
Khirro surveyed the courtyard and recalled the donkey they’d seen trot across it.
“Do you know if there are any horses left?”
“I’ve been hiding since Lehgan...” Her voice trailed off and her eyes dropped to the headless corpse of her husband. She looked at it for a second, then averted her gaze.
“We have to see what we can find, and gather all the supplies we can. And we need to move quickly.”
He offered Emeline help to stand and she took his hand; it surprised him again that he felt no emotion at her touch. So much time had passed, taking so much emotion with it.
They started across the courtyard, in search of a way to catch up to the battle, and Khirro found himself wishing Athryn was with them, that he could draw blood and the magician would transport them where they needed to go, even if it meant a scar and a nasty headache. But Athryn was likely gone to join his brother—and Elyea, and Shyn—in the land of the dead. And now Lehgan had joined them, too. He felt a tightness in his chest.
And now I head off to war with a woman, a child and a baby. If our luck fails, we will all be with them soon.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sword clashed against sword, axe clanked on armor, men shouted and injured horses howled.
The sounds of battle washed over the Archon watching the melee from her horse atop the hill. The grass of the plain was already beaten flat and stained red; the winter wind brought the taste of blood to her tongue, the smell of death to her nose. She breathed deep and savored it.
“How goes the battle?” she asked the Kanosee general who approached. Mud smeared his cheek and blood dirtied his gauntlet.
“It doesn’t go anywhere, your Highness,” he said. “For every one of their soldiers who falls, one of ours does, too. We fight to a standstill.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “But blood is being spilled, is it not?”
“Yes. Much.”
“Then I shall tip the scale in our favor.”
“Your Highness?”
“Never mind.”
Sh
e stood in her stirrups, stretching to see as far across the field of battle as she could. From this distance, it appeared a tangled mess of men and horses. She picked out Kanosee banners and Erechanian flags flying amongst it all.
A silly convention of men.
“Where does their general fight? Where is Sir Alton Sienhin?”
The man repositioned his horse beside hers and pointed with his bloodied gauntlet.
“There. To the southwest.”
She squinted the direction he’d indicated and discerned a faint green glow amongst the throngs of men.
He wields the staff. She smiled. Good.
She sat back in the saddle and waved the man away. “Get back down there and kill some of those dogs. We can use their help.”
The man bowed his head, a puzzled expression on his face, and spurred his horse away. The woman paused to pat her horse on the neck before following.
“Much blood,” she said to the horse. It huffed a breath through its nose in response. “Perfect.”
She gave the horse her heels and trotted down from the hill, heading closer to the southwest side of the plains as flakes of snow began to fall.
***
Sienhin grunted with effort as his sword cut deep into the shoulder of another Kanosee soldier. He found it difficult swinging the sword with his left hand, and it caused pain in his right shoulder every time he did, but every blow brought him closer to being accustomed to using his off hand. He jerked the blade out of the man, pulling him from his saddle at the same time, and the Kanosee soldier fell to the mud. The war horse Sienhin had commandeered in the capital reared, its front hooves pawing the air before coming down on the fallen man.
The impact jarred the general and, lacking the use of his right arm, he slipped abruptly to his left. He abandoned his sword in favor of grabbing the horse’s mane and keeping his seat.
“Gods be damned,” he bellowed when he’d regained his seat.
The battle swirled around him. His horse danced to avoid riderless horses bolting from the fight and foot soldiers attempting to bring it down. Sienhin looked left and right. There were too many of the Kanosee pigs at hand to dismount and retrieve his weapon, and too many for him to go without one.
“Well this won’t do, will it?”
He barked a laugh and grabbed the thick staff he’d slung across his back before the fighting began. He didn’t know why he’d kept the thing after relieving Hahn Perdaro of it, but it had felt like he was supposed to have it, and this would be the second time it had saved him. The Gods were on his side.
A Kanosee foot soldier grabbed the cinch strap of the general’s saddle, the studded mace in his other hand cocked to deliver a blow, but Sienhin caught him in the side of the head with the butt end of the staff hard enough to daze him. Before the enemy soldier could recover, he swung it around and cracked him across the bridge of the nose. Blood gushed from the wound, splashing down his face and onto the staff. The man fell and Sienhin’s destrier finished him off.
“Ha,” the general bellowed. “This will work fine.”
He waded back into the fight, the green-glowing end of the staff flickering and reflecting off the falling snow. He knocked one soldier off his horse, skewered another through the eye, and cracked open the skull of a third. Soon, the first two feet of the staff were awash in blood, and bits of flesh stuck to the wood.
Sienhin smiled a devious grin behind his bushy mustache laced with snow, every nerve and sinew in him enjoying the heady feel of the battle. It energized him, made him feel young again; being so close to death brought clearly into focus how good it was to be alive. Since the first time he swung a sword, it had been like this for him—a blood lust that served him well in battle, though he’d never told anyone of it save his closest friends.
The general knocked another enemy to the ground, then brought his horse about to meet the challenge of a war cry from behind him—a desolate, evil sound. The undead creature that howled it was mounted and held a war scythe with both hands, the tip of the blade pointed at the general. Enough blood and gore covered the thing’s cuirass as to render the black and red markings painted upon it indistinguishable.
Sienhin settled his horse and adjusted his grip on the staff, waiting until the monstrosity urged his horse forward before he did the same. Soldiers of both armies dove out of their paths and, a moment later, the two came together.
The Kanosee attacked first, swinging the wicked blade at Sienhin’s neck, but the general ducked and caught the thing in the temple with a jab of the staff. It reeled momentarily, then thrust the scythe’s point toward the general’s gut. Sienhin brushed the blade aside with the butt end of the staff, then whipped the head around and embedded it in the creature’s throat.
His foe made a gurgling sound and Sienhin thrust the staff deeper, its green glow noticeable beneath the dead thing’s pale skin. It thrashed and grabbed at the staff, so the general leaned into it once more until the end protruded through the back of its neck. The Kanosee went slack and the general wrenched his horse around, unseating the undead rider. The thing hung limply from the staff for a second, then slid off and hit the ground to be trampled under the destrier’s mud and blood covered hooves.
“Ha ha.” Sienhin looked around to see how many more were ready to fall before his wrath when a figure caught his attention.
The woman and her horse sat at the edge of the battle, appearing as a statue if not for the breeze fluttering her blond hair and the flakes of snow melting at the touch of her skin. Sienhin’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. His ability to control his emotions was one of the attributes that had allowed him to survive so long as a career soldier, but the woman responsible for the fall of the kingdom he called home deserved his wrath.
With a cry of rage, Sienhin swung the staff around his head and spurred his horse toward the Archon, but a wall of weapons and armor and bodies blocked him, preventing his steed from charging the woman. He continued to whirl the staff in a circle over his head and put his heels to the horse again; it moved forward only a few paces, caught in the congestion of battle.
Faces turned up to Sir Alton Sienhin and, for a fleeting second, he felt pleased at the way they looked at him—with awe, with fear. But his pleasure disappeared when he saw the greenish tint coloring their cheeks, reflected in their eyes, and he knew it wasn’t for him they felt awe; it wasn’t he who caused their fear. He reined his horse in and ceased swinging the staff, lowered it down to see.
The dim glow had become a blinding light, a green eldritch blaze emanating from the staff and washing over everything. It mesmerized the men closest to Sienhin as they stared at it, the battle forgotten. The general blinked hard to pull himself from its spell.
“What deviltry is this?”
He looked past it, searching beyond the battle for the witch , but the place where he’d seen her stood empty, a flattened bit of grass collecting snow.
Gone.
A moment later, the dead began to rise.
***
Therrador reined his horse to a stop and signaled the men with him to do the same. Including himself, only twelve Erechanians warriors had survived the fight in the Isthmus Fortress—twelve more than the number of Kanosee left alive. They all knew that a troop of twelve men wasn’t enough to turn the tide of battle, but to a man, they swore to do their best.
The battle spread out on the plains before them, the closest line of men less than half a league away. Therrador shifted in his saddle and surveyed the men with him. They looked tired. He’d necessarily pushed them and their horses hard to get here—and straight after the fight at the fortress—but he had no other choice. The battle for their country had already begun without them and, if it was lost, the kingdom would be lost along with it. And his son.
If he still lives.
The soldiers looked back at him, awaiting his orders, and he wondered if any of them doubted their traitor-king, or if he’d shown enough to win back their loyalty. He narrowed his eyes
, tried to look into their souls; none of them faltered, none of them looked away from his gaze.
“This is all we have, my friends,” Therrador said, his voice low, intense. “There is only this battle and nothing more. If we defeat the witch and her troops, the kingdom is ours. Our kingdom. Your wives will live, your sons will carry on your names. If we do not, none will survive her rule.”
The men stared at him and he saw in them hatred of the enemy and the fire of battle, and he knew they were his. Therrador drew his sword and thrust it in the air.
“For Erechania!”
The steel of eleven swords sang against leather.
“For Erechania!” the soldiers responded.
Therrador spurred his horse on, trotting first, then urging it into a canter, then a gallop. He heard the rumble of his fellows following, the cadence of the hoof beats reaffirming his determination to make right his transgressions.
He thought about Graymon as he rode with the wind blowing flakes of snow on his cheeks to melt like tears. He thought of the boy’s smile, of his little boy laugh and the devious, mischievous look he would get in his eye. Then he thought of Seerna, his dear wife, taken from him before her time, and wondered if it was the Gods who took her, or the witch. He gritted his teeth and leaned forward in the saddle.
Finally, he thought of Braymon, his fallen king and lost friend. His memory brought pain to his heart; at the end of it all, the fault for King Braymon’s death lay with him and no one else. He’d allowed himself to be manipulated instead of trusting his closest friend. And again, behind it all stood the witch.
By the time Therrador reached the first Kanosee soldier, his blood was at a boil. He bellowed a primal cry from the bottom of his gut, using it to gain the man’s attention so he would see his death coming on horseback. The enemy soldier turned, and Therrador had a fraction of a second to see the blood on his face and the blank look in his eyes before the king’s sword flashed, separating the man’s head from his body.
