by Bruce Blake
Therrador reined his horse in and hefted the sword; wielding it felt more comfortable—not yet natural, but more comfortable. He swung at another man, removing the soldier’s arm, then swiped a gash across the chest of a third.
The thrill of battle fortified Therrador and his sword rose and fell again and again, slashing, swiping, stabbing. The sweat of exertion formed on his brow, the ache of a muscle not accustomed to such use developed in his shoulder, but he set his jaw and pushed on.
The yells of his men sounded in his ears, cheering each other as they cut down the enemy, warning their fellows of an approaching threat; in contrast, their foe-men were strangely quiet. No cries of pain, no grunts of effort, no begging for mercy. Another soldier fell upon Therrador, then another. He hacked and slashed, defended and attacked; somewhere, in the back of his soldier’s mind, he wondered why they’d encountered so many foot soldiers yet so far from the battle, why they were so quiet.
He realized the answer when he faced the one-armed man.
Therrador stopped mid-swing and narrowed his eyes: the same soldier he’d met earlier. The king had cut off the man’s arm himself, seen him fall to be trampled to death beneath the hooves of his horse, yet he fought again like he had no more than a scratch.
How is that possible?
More soldiers pushed in behind him and, for the first time, Therrador saw Erechanian armor amongst the Kanosee, and the same blank stare on all of their faces.
The king’s eyes grew wide.
She’s raised the dead.
He hacked down the one-armed man, then turned his horse to see how his men fared. In the focus of battle, Therrador had seen nothing but the enemies threatening his life. Now, he saw the sea of the dead—Erechanians and Kanosee alike—risen from the battlefield to swarm them.
One of his men had already been cut down, his frightened horse bolting from the field. Therrador saw another pulled off his horse by six undead soldiers who clawed at him until he fell from the saddle and onto their blades. Two of his attackers wore Erechanian armor.
The dead were everywhere.
“Press on, men. It’s all or nothing. If we don’t die here, we die in a dungeon cell.” Therrador slashed at a hand grasping for him and pivoted in his saddle to face the man.
He looked down into the watery blue eyes of Sir Matte Eliden.
“Matte?”
The old knight looked wasted, his eyes sunken deep into his head, his cheek bones prominent. As they faced each other, Therrador saw a maggot crawl out of his nose and into his mouth. The king shivered.
For an instant, it seemed as though Eliden recognized the man he’d fought beside for the last two decades, then his mouth opened in a strangled growl and he swung his sword. Therrador caught the blow with his blade and coaxed his horse back a step. Dead or not, the king struggled with the idea of putting steel to a soldier so faithful and loyal in life.
He heard the scream of one of his men succumbing to the undead soldiers’ greater numbers, then another hollered for assistance. Sir Matte advanced at Therrador, slashing the air between them with his sword as the sounds of yet another man falling reached the king’s ears.
So this is it then.
Therrador’s lips thinned to a flat line as he clenched his jaw, preparing to remove Sir Matte’s head. He cocked his arm back, steadied his sword to deliver the blow, when a sudden swirl of snow blew around on him on a blast of warm wind from overhead. The dead man he once called friend raised his eyes to the sky as a shadow fell over them.
The red dragon passed twenty feet above Therrador’s head, the flap of its massive wings stirring the air with enough force to put them both off balance. The king gaped at it for a second; he’d never believed the legends that such beasts truly existed; he’d thought them the product of a fanciful imagination. Until now.
More of the witch’s trickery.
Without further thought to it, Therrador released Sir Matte to the fields of the dead with a swipe of his sword to the old knight’s neck. His head toppled off and his body hit the ground at the same instant the dragon touched down on the field ahead of them, its weight making the earth rumble.
The beast reared back on its hind legs, threw its head up toward the sky and released a deafening roar before coming down on all four taloned feet. When it settled, Therrador saw the man seated on the dragon’s back. He wore no armor, only a white shirt, black breeches, and a dark cloak around his shoulders.
A mirrored mask hid the dragonrider’s features.
Chapter Twenty-Five
They’d found a horse large enough to accommodate both Khirro and Graymon, but the only other beast they’d located was the wayward donkey, and it struggled under Emeline and Iana’s weight. Graymon bounced in the saddle, his arms wrapped around Khirro’s waist, while the donkey followed behind, slowing them, its lead tethered to the horse.
The battle will be done before we arrive.
Under other circumstances, Khirro would have been glad to miss a battle. Too many times he’d come close to losing his life when sword play commenced, or seen his friends and companions fall. It started with Jowyn—the victim of Kanosee hellfire hurled over the fortress walls when their attack commenced so long ago—and Athryn and Lehgan were but the latest.
Hasn’t there been enough death?
It weighed on him, but he couldn’t give up now, even if he wanted to—the spirit inside drove him onward despite the fear and forebodings in his heart. No longer did the fate of the kingdom—of people unseen and unmet—rest on his shoulders; now, Emeline, Iana and Graymon gave faces to those in peril, and he knew he couldn’t let them down.
As if she heard him thinking of her, Emeline urged the laboring donkey forward to ride beside him.
“I’m sorry for what has happened to you, Khirro.”
He looked at her, but she stared straight ahead at the path they rode instead of meeting his eyes.
“The Shaman cursed this upon me, not you,” he said. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
She shook her head and looked at him. Graymon shifted in the saddle behind him.
“Not this. Everything before.” She breathed deep as though preparing herself. Khirro tensed, readying himself to hear her words. “The ghost woman told me I needed to tell you all.”
“Elyea.”
“Yes.”
Khirro looked down at his hands gripping the reins, at the horse’s mane moving gently with the animal’s gait. He missed Elyea and spent much of his time keeping her from his thoughts. It was too easy to get distracted from what needed to be done when she inhabited his mind, too easy to feel guilty for his role in her death. Deaths.
“You don’t need to,” he said to avoid the pain of her memory.
“I do. Not because she told me to, but because you need to know the truth.”
They looked at each other. Iana snuggled in against Emeline’s breast; Graymon held tighter around Khirro’s waist and sighed, obviously not enjoying the conversation of adults, but keeping quiet nonetheless.
“What I said happened never did.” Her gaze dropped from his.
“So I didn’t rape you.”
She shook her head.
“And Iana is Lehgan’s.”
When she raised her head to look upon him again, her eyes glistened with tears. “No, Khirro. Iana is yours.”
Shock jolted through Khirro and he hauled back on the reins; the horse halted with a whinny of protest.
“Mine? But you said--”
“I said you didn’t rape me. I didn’t say we didn’t...” She glanced over his shoulder at Graymon instead of completing the sentence.
Khirro stared down at his hands resting on the pommel of the saddle. Flakes of snow landed on his gauntlets and he saw their unique shapes and fragile beauty before they melted away.
“But I don’t remember any of it. How could I not remember...that?”
Emeline looked away again and Khirro waited for her to tell him more, his breath held.
For almost a year, he’d debated with himself about what happened that night, felt ashamed of what he thought he’d done. Could the truth possibly be more difficult to bear?
“We both drank that night, that much is true. And things led somewhere I didn’t expect them to go.” She lowered her voice. “You don’t remember because I drugged you.”
Khirro stared at the side of her head for a second, expecting more, but when none came, he put his heels to his horse. The donkey hesitated, the lead pulling tight before the bedraggled animal followed. They rode in silence for a few minutes, Khirro’s lips pressed tight together as he tried to make sense of what Emeline had said. He didn’t want to ask, didn’t want for her to say more, but his head spun with it. He slowed his horse for the donkey to catch up.
“I don’t understand. Why did you tell people what you did?”
“I love Lehgan, Khirro.” She paused. “Loved, I mean. The plan arose when we heard news of the conscriptors were coming to the village. He and I couldn’t live without each other and we thought that, if your parents thought ill of you, and Lehgan and I told them of our love, they would keep him safe.”
“But you could have drugged me and lied. We didn’t need to lay together.”
“I know, and I didn’t plan to. But something happened, something unexplainable, and I was overcome. I felt as though I had no control over my actions.”
Her words stirred pain in Khirro’s chest. I truly have a child, but not out of love.
“I wanted to stop the conscriptors from taking you,” she said, and he heard the sorrow in her voice, the truth. “But how could I after what we said you did? How could I accuse you of...of rape and then ask for mercy on your behalf?”
She began to cry and Khirro’s chest tightened, squeezing around his heart and making it difficult to breathe, difficult to speak, but there was still more to know.
“But how do you know she is mine? Surely Lehgan is Iana’s father.”
She shook her head slowly, still refusing to meet his eyes. “Lehgan and I didn’t take bed together until after we were married. He would have it no other way.”
“Did he know?”
“No. We married quickly and I couldn’t bear to tell him the truth of it. He died thinking Iana his child.”
Emeline’s shoulders shook as she sobbed quietly and Khirro looked away lest the tears in her eyes bring some to his. He stared straight ahead and, through the falling snow, saw a horse approaching. With a battle ahead of them, he should have felt fear or trepidation; instead, a sense of relief spread through him.
“Look,” he said reigning his horse to a halt.
Emeline sniffled. “A rider? Who is it?”
“I’m not sure. Wait here.”
He untethered the donkey and held his hand out to help Graymon down.
“I want to come with you.”
“You need to stay here, Graymon. You need to protect the women.”
The boy hesitated a second before assenting. He held Khirro’s hand, threw his leg over the horse and allowed himself to be lowered to the ground. Khirro leaned down and handed him the jeweled dagger that had belonged to Elyea.
“Keep them safe, but don’t cut yourself with it.”
Graymon’s eyes brightened and he nodded enthusiastically as he accepted the blade. He stepped in front of the donkey and held the knife in both hands, tip pointed toward the approaching rider. Khirro smiled and leaned down to ruffle the boy’s hair.
“Good work.” He looked up at Emeline, whose tears had stopped. “I’ll be right back. If anything happens, turn your steed around and head for the fortress.”
She looked at him without responding and he wondered if she would do as he said. He felt as though he should say more, or ask to hold his child, but he didn’t. Instead, he pulled the Mourning Sword, felt the comfort of its hilt in his grip, and rode out to intercept the oncoming horse.
***
It seemed that every time Sienhin struck down an attacker, living or dead, another rose to take its place. The green end of the staff flashed and glowed, its light strengthening and fading. The general realized its unearthly illumination was responsible for raising the dead but, without his sword, he possessed no other weapon with which to defend himself. If he kept it, the undead would eventually overrun them; if he disposed of it, he would be defenseless.
But I have to.
He felled two men with a single stroke, and two more climbed out of the slurry of blood and flesh and dirt. Most of those attacking him now were the undead, their faces smeared with gore, some of them missing ears or limbs, and all of them with blank, staring eyes and an indefatigable desire to kill.
Trying to kill them is going to be the death of me.
He put his heels into his horse and the destrier surged forward, crashing through a wall of dead Kanosee and Erechanians alike. Fortified by the movement, the general urged his steed on; it trod a Kanosee soldier with a long wound across his face into the sod, then bowled over another. This man screamed.
A minute later, Sienhin found himself clear of the fighting. He reined his horse around and looked back at the ebb and flow of the battle. His insides ached at seeing it—he’d never in his life deserted a fight, but what choice did he have? He looked at the staff in his hand, then looked around him, ready to toss it aside and find himself another weapon.
No, that’s not enough. I have to destroy it.
“Hmph.”
Sienhin tucked the staff under his arm and slid awkwardly out of the saddle. His feet sank through the thin layer of snow and half an inch deep in mud, the bloody earth squelching under the soles of his boots. Breathing deep to prepare for the coming pain, the cold tang of winter burned his nostrils as he swung his near-useless right arm around to grab the end of the staff. He intended to lift his knee and break the cursed stick, but quickly realized the grip of his injured arm was too weak; if he attempted it, he wouldn’t be able to hold on.
“Gods curse me,” he muttered and put the end of the staff to the ground instead.
The general stomped the butt end into the dirt, then readjusted his grip on the other end. Satisfied his hold was solid, he raised his right boot and slammed his foot down on the staff.
The impact vibrated up the staff and through his arm, across his chest and into his injured shoulder. Sienhin closed his eyes and cried out in pain.
“Perhaps you should not attempt to destroy that which is not yours.”
The woman’s voice sliced through both the din of battle and the general’s pain, startling him. His eyes snapped open to find her standing five paces in front of him, flakes of snow clinging to her hair sparkling green in the staff’s light. The Archon wore no armor to protect her from the fight, no cape or cloak to keep the cold from her shoulders. She titled her head to the side and smiled the way an adult might do to a child, or a pet; her expression lit a fuse in the general.
“It’s not really the staff I seek to destroy, is it?” His eyes narrowed as he forced the words through clenched teeth. “A staff is but a staff, only as dangerous as its wielder.”
She laughed, the sound rolling out of her mouth and across the space between them, touching him with the power of a slap to the face.
“And who has been wielding it, Sir Alton Sienhin, general of the king’s army of Erechania? Not I.”
Sir Alton growled in the back of his throat, felt rage and hatred bubble in his chest. He knew better than to let anger take him, but here stood the woman threatening the destruction of his home, the end of his people. His forehead furrowed, bushy brows nearly blocking his vision; the muscles in his arms and chest tensed shooting more pain through his body, but he ignored it.
“It ends here,” he said and whipped the staff above his head to strike a killing blow.
“No, it does not,” the woman said, pointing at him.
The general froze. He struggled to move, but to no avail. His eyes flickered to the nail at the end of her finger, painted the deep red of blood, and
she strode closer until it was only an inch from his face. He watched the color run to form a drop that fell to the ground.
He grunted with strain, but for his effort got only a droplet of sweat that rolled between his eyes and down the bridge of his nose. It hung from the tip for a second, and the general watched with crossed eyes until he felt it plummet to splatter on the top of his boot. When he looked up again, the woman’s fingernail had changed.
Instead of the red of blood, a picture was painted on the nail. Sienhin squinted to better see the depiction. It was a man—not just any man, Sienhin saw, but himself—his body folded and broken, a look of death on his face as a horse dragged him amongst corpses.
The general’s breath caught in his throat at a touch on his right wrist.
He forced himself to look and glimpsed his horse’s reins snaking their way around his wrist, encircling his forearm. His eyes widened and flickered back to the woman.
“Damn your magic, witch. Fight me like a man.”
She lowered her finger and leaned forward, bringing her face close to his. Her breath caressed his face; it smelled of herbs and mint and another, more unpleasant odor beneath—the stench of death.
“Why would I do that, Sir Alton?” She moved closer, pressed her body against his. “I am not a man.”
Her chest pressed against him hard enough he felt the shape of her breasts through his mail shirt. A vision of her naked and sprawled across a bed jumped to his mind; he blinked hard to clear the vision and spat in her face.
The woman took a step back, her expression hardening as she wiped his spittle off her cheek.
“Give me the staff.”
Her tone held no more hint of jest, no gentleness or playfulness. Instead, her words dripped hatred and threat. Sienhin stared at her, satisfied he’d gotten to her, no matter how little. He narrowed his eyes in defiance despite the feel of the lead tightening around his arm.
The woman grabbed the staff, yanked it, but Sienhin’s grip held firm. He chuckled at the back of his throat, a sound that brought a touch of red to the woman’s white cheeks. Her lips curled back from her teeth in a snarl; he smiled behind his mustache, defiant.
