by Bruce Blake
“I’m not your enemy.”
The man thrust at him again and Khirro blocked it. He saw the blank look in the man’s eyes and it reminded him of the way his parents' eyes looked in the vision. This man was no longer a soldier of the king’s army, but a servant of the Archon. Khirro brushed aside another poke then brought the Mourning Sword down in an arc that split the man’s head in two. He crumpled to the ground amongst the other corpses and the sword’s blade glowed fiercely. Triumph and despair mixed through Khirro as he stared at the man lying on the ground, brains seeping out of his head. He stared until he heard a voice call out.
“Watch out!”
He raised his eyes and saw the fellow standing by the big destrier, looking like a man defeated, but he only saw him for a second before a score of the undead converged on him and pulled him from his horse.
***
The rider split the man’s head open with an arcing blow of his sword, the blade glowing red as though thirsty for the blood of its enemy. Therrador recognized the Mourning Sword that had belonged to the king’s Shaman—only someone who’d been present when the Shaman died could possibly have it.
Hope that had all but disappeared prickled through Therrador’s stomach and chest.
The bearer of the king’s blood. The ghost was right. There’s hope yet.
A tired smile broke across his face, but the rider sat there, looking at the corpse he’d just created.
What is he doing?
Therrador stumbled forward a step. Dozens of undead soldiers had noticed the rider and were finding their way toward him as thought they had been commanded, but the rider didn’t look up.
“Watch out!”
The rider raised his head at Therrador’s warning, but too late. Dead hands grasped him, pulled him out of the saddle and down to the ground. A second later, they overwhelmed his horse. Therrador watched, breathless, hope fleeing with the soldier’s fall.
This cannot be.
He whirled around and returned to Sir Alton’s horse, cut through the reins with his dagger. The general’s body slumped to the ground as Therrador retrieved his sword and forced his fatigued muscles to pull him into the saddle.
“Sorry, my friend.”
He tossed his dagger aside and grabbed the saddle’s pommel, then dug his heels into the horse’s side with as much force as remained in his exhausted legs. The destrier sprang forward, leaping over Sir Alton’s corpse and past the Kanosee soldier who’d almost brought Therrador his end. He charged toward the downed rider, ignoring the protest of his exhausted muscles, the numb pain of gripping the saddle with his wounded hand.
The big horse closed the distance quickly, each stride eating yards of blood soaked ground, carrying Therrador to the bearer's aid. His heart thumped hard in his chest at the thought of losing him, but he forgot his worry as he saw fire spring to life amongst the undead soldiers.
***
Khirro slashed at the hands grabbing at him, but they were too close for him to use the sword effectively. He sliced a shallow cut on one man’s arm, but not enough to stop him and his fellows from pulling him out of the saddle.
He tumbled through a labyrinth of arms and weapons, felt blades rub his armor, until he hit the ground with a jarring thud that clacked his teeth together and doubled his vision. Hands grabbed his arms, wrenching his shoulders in their joints and tearing the Mourning Sword from his grip. Khirro thrashed, trying to free himself. A blade penetrated his armor, jabbing into his side and cutting his flesh; he felt the blood flow from the wound and yelled out in pain. A vision of fire flashed through his mind and he yelled again, but this time it came out a roar.
The flames flickered to life, covering his hands first, turning them to burning paws. The fire climbed his arms, spread across his chest, engulfed his face until a veil of flames licked the world in front of his vision.
Khirro flipped over off his back and swiped at the closest man, leaving four deep wounds across his face and setting his hair alight. The undead came at him from all sides, but Khirro slashed and bit, tearing out throats and ripping off limbs. He felt like a spectator watching the carnage he created, horrified by what he was capable of while being thankful for it.
Swords and axes found him, but rebounded from the flames without effect. The few living men among his attackers screamed and tried to flee, but he caught them, closed his huge, powerful jaws on their heads, cracking them open like nuts at a feast. He trampled them and tore them, rent their flesh and bit off their faces.
Then he was on top of the last man, pinning him to the ground with his flaming paws. The man’s plate armor protected him from the flames, but smoke rose from the long, braided beard trailing from his chin. The soldier’s mouth moved as he spoke, but fire roared in Khirro’s ears, deafening him to the world outside the flames. The tyger’s mouth opened in a snarl that roared smoky breath into the man’s face. He cringed.
Behind the flames, Khirro suddenly recognized the man: the braided beard, the gleaming plate, the insignia on his epaulets.
Therrador.
The tyger raised its flaming paw.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Therrador leaped off his horse, the sight of the bearer revitalizing his energy, giving him strength in the face of exhaustion. Giving him hope.
He slashed the first soldier he came upon in the back of the leg, toppling him, and the king saw the familiar blank look in his glazed eyes. Therrador inserted the tip of his sword through the man’s skull, pinning him to the ground, then removed the blade with a grunt and a twist.
When he looked up at the throng of men who’d fallen upon the rider, he saw more clearly the source of fire: a burning tyger slashed its way through the men.
What evil magic is this?
Therrador watched with fascinated horror. The beast moved with the speed of lightning and killed without hesitation, but it wasn’t these qualities that held the king enthralled—he would expect these of a great cat, burning or not. No, the man inside the flames drew his gaze.
Mud smeared his face, dirt and blood covered his undistinguished leather armor. Whenever the tyger’s paw swung, the man’s hand followed. Whenever the tyger’s mouth opened, the man’s did, too. They seemed to be one, working in unison, a part of the same being, yet the warrior’s expression looked like it belonged on someone caught in the grip of fear and dismay, not a soldier slaughtering his enemy. He might have thought the soldier would control the beast, but might it be the other way around?
A Kanosee soldier yelled and charged Therrador, drawing his attention away from the flaming tyger and the man inside. The king caught the haft of his attacker’s axe with his blade, turning the blow aside, but the soldier pushed forward, slamming his chest against Therrador’s before he could strike his own blow.
The king stumbled back and might have kept his balance but for the ill placed corpse at his heels. His feet tangled with the man’s arm and he fell to the ground with a clang of armor and a grunt.
His adversary slammed his foot down on Therrador’s wrist, pinning his sword arm to the ground before the king righted himself. Therrador struggled to free it, clawed at the man’s leg uselessly with his thumbless right hand, as the Kanosee raised the axe, two-handed, over his head and grinned mercilessly. The king refused to look away from his killer’s eyes.
I’m so sorry, Graymon.
Fire flashed before the enemy struck his killing blow. A flaming paw drew four deep gouges across the side of the man’s head, pulling one eye from its socket and shredding his cheek. Blood splashed on Therrador’s face and chest.
The Kanosee soldier’s remaining eye widened in shock and terror, his mouth opened to scream, but the tyger rode him to the muddy turf, mauling him before he made a sound. Therrador propped himself on his elbows, watching the carnage, and inhaled a deep, relieved breath of winter air tinged with fire and blood. He’d spent most of his adult life close to killing and death, but this was the first time he’d seen a beast such as this in
battle, let alone be saved by it.
The tyger tore out the man’s throat with a flick of his head, then stalked toward Therrador, snarling its flaming lips back from teeth of fire. The man inside looked bewildered, sickened.
“Thanks for--”
Therrador pushed himself to sit up, but the tyger pounced and knocked him back to the ground, pinning his shoulders with its fiery paws. It roared in his face, blowing hot breath on his cheek; a drop of flaming saliva fell from its mouth and splashed on the top of Therrador’s chest plate. The man within the beast looked at the king, and his lips spoke Therrador’s name, but the sound of his voice was hidden by the flames. His eyes offered apology.
Roaring again, the tyger drew back its left paw, flaming claws unsheathed, taking the man’s arm with it. Therrador thought of Graymon, of how close they might have come to vanquishing the Archon if this man possessed control over the beast.
It may yet happen, but I won’t see it.
“No,” he said but didn’t expect the man to hear him or the beast to understand.
The tyger’s paw moved forward an inch and Therrador flinched, but the killing stroke did not fall. The man inside the beast looked away, his lips moved again forming a word Therrador didn’t recognize. A second later, the tyger climbed off him and bounded away.
The ghost woman stood a pace away, regarding Therrador with a mixture of sadness and relief in her green eyes. She offered her hand and Therrador accepted her help up. Her flesh felt neither warm like the living nor cool like the dead.
“Elyea,” he said and realized her name was the word the man inside the tyger had spoken. “What was that?”
“That was Khirro, who will save your kingdom. Braymon lives within him.”
“Braymon? I thought this man only carried the king’s blood.”
“The tyger is the spirit of the king, but it matters not right now. I have someone here to see you.”
She stepped aside to reveal the man in black cloak and silvered mask standing behind her—the dragon rider. A woman with a baby cradled against her chest and a bandage on her forearm stood at his side, and a young boy staring at the ground held his hand.
“Graymon?” Therrador whispered, disbelieving his own eyes. The witch had tricked him before. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
The king strode a few tentative steps toward the small group, hand gripping the hilt of his sword tight. He didn’t know the woman or the masked man, but they had his son, and he didn’t know their intent. The boy looked up and saw Therrador; his face brightened and a smile crossed his lips.
“Da,” he cried and let go of the dragon rider’s hand to rush to his father. The man didn’t try to stop him.
Therrador kneeled, his legs giving out under the weight of relief, and the boy leaped into his arms. They embraced for a few seconds, then Therrador moved his son away to arm’s length to look at him.
Graymon was skinnier, if that was possible, and his clothing was tattered; his hair was longer and greasy, hanging limp past his ears, but he looked reasonably healthy and unharmed.
“I worried I might never see you again,” Therrador said through a pained smile. His son may have been miraculously returned, but it was his fault he’d been taken nonetheless, and the battle was not yet won.
The boy raised one eyebrow. “I knew I’d see you, Da.”
Therrador laughed and pulled his son back into his arms. Over the boy’s shoulder, he saw the man and the woman with the baby approach. The ghost woman was nowhere to be seen.
“Thank you for returning my son,” he said fighting back the threat of tears. “But who are you?”
The man pulled back his cowl and removed his mask as a gust of snow-laced wind blew his blond hair across his fair face. His expression looked calm and in control compared to the woman, whose sunken eyes cried out with desperation and fear. She looked like a woman who’d been through much.
“We are friends of Khirro's, your Majesty. Loyal subjects of the kingdom.”
Therrador nodded, accepting the man’s words.
What choice do I have?
He stood and took a step back from his son.
“I have to go, Graymon. The kingdom is in need of my sword.”
Tears welled up in Graymon’s eyes instantly, his bottom lip quivered, but he didn’t let himself cry. He sniffled and wiped his arm across his eyes to prevent tears spilling down his cheeks.
“You can be my brave little hero, can’t you?”
Graymon nodded twice and sniffled again. Therrador ruffled his hair, conscious of the thumb missing inside his gauntlet, though his son would neither feel nor see its absence. But if it came down to a matter of trading his thumb for his son’s safety, the choice was an easy one.
Therrador laid his hand on Graymon’s shoulder as he turned his attention to the dragon rider.
“What is your name?”
“Athryn,” he replied and bent his head in deference.
“Athryn. Take the woman and the children to safety. I have a witch to kill.”
He gave Graymon a tap on the back, sending him back to the magician, but Athryn shook his head.
“No,” he said. “We will all be accompanying you.”
“Impossible,” Therrador snapped, suddenly angry and unused to being disobeyed. “I am your king. Do as I say.”
“I am sorry, but I cannot.” Athryn’s voice remained calm, smooth, and its tone drained any more argument from Therrador. “Their roles in this are not yet complete.”
Therrador looked from the man, then to his son finally returned to him, and his heart sank with a certainty that the boy would be taken away again, and he felt like there was nothing he could do about it.
***
The woman rode through the battle, hewing and chopping men with her long sword without regard for what colors their armor displayed. She muttered spells to freeze them in their place or transform their muscles to jelly, she touched them with the glowing tip of the staff and turned them from the living to the living dead.
She stared straight ahead, her eyes on the ruby dragon as it burned her troops with its breath, cut them down ten at a time with powerful swipes of its tail. Arrows and spears bounced off the beast’s scaly chest. The blades of the soldiers who got close enough to swing their swords at it shattered against its ruby plate, and they lost their lives under its wicked talons for their effort. Its emerald eyes flickered with fire, anger and hatred; its pointed teeth gnashed the air.
Sheyndust had seen the dragon once before as it guarded the Necromancer’s keep in the haunted land of Lakesh, but then it was a statue. She hadn’t attracted its attention because she didn’t need the entrance concealed beneath its belly—the ancient texts she’d discovered in Poltghasa at the cost of a hundred lives had revealed another entrance, one only possible for a powerful magician to divine and use. And use it she did when she entered Darestat’s keep to steal his secrets for raising the dead, but as long as he lived, she would merely be able to animate the corpses, not truly bring the dead back to life. She’d learned the limits of her powers when she brought the assassin from the fields of the dead—once and no more, as long as Darestat existed. With him still alive to any degree, she wouldn’t be the most powerful magic user in the world; she wouldn’t be the true Necromancer.
Here, finally, was her chance to defeat him and claim her prize. With him gone, nothing would stand between her and limitless dark magic, and she would claim the world as her own.
Thirty yards from the ruby dragon, the Archon reined her horse to a stop and slid out of the saddle. Snow melted under the soles of her bare feet; mud squished up between her toes and she felt the blood in it, her flesh tasted death in the muck of the battle.
Sheyndust tossed her sword aside—it would do her no good against the beast—and set her feet at shoulder width, braced the butt end of the staff on the ground. With her arms spread, she tilted her head back and allowed the falling snow and winter wind to caress her, flap her dress ar
ound her, embrace her.
She lowered her chin and stared intently at the dragon.
“Necromancer,” she said. The word started small, a whisper, but swelled as it crossed the field of battle, building until it crashed into the dragon’s side like a wave breaking against a rocky shore. “It is I, Sheyndust. I have come to claim your life.”
The dragon’s head swiveled toward her on its long neck and gouts of smoke belched from its nostrils as though it scoffed at her words. Its massive tail slammed the ground, shaking the earth with its impact, then it reared back on its haunches, wings spread threateningly, and filled its lungs.
For an instant, the Archon saw a tiny flame flicker at the back of the dragon’s throat. She planted her feet and braced herself, leaning forward slightly on the staff as the dragon came back down on all fours with a shuddering thump and extended its neck, jaws agape.
She watched the fire swirl toward her. It seemed to move slowly, the orange and yellow and red of it churning and slithering as if possessed of life of its own. She felt as though she could have avoided it if she desired. She didn’t.
The conflagration engulfed her; she threw her head back and closed her eyes, drinking it in as she felt its heat on every inch of her flesh, felt it penetrate her and touch her soul. She smiled. She laughed. When the dragon’s breath ended, she still stood in the same place, staff in hand, her clothes burned off her. Smoke rose from her pale, naked, unburned flesh and the earth around her scorched dry. She opened her eyes, lowered her head, and looked into the eyes of the dragon.
“Is that all you have, Darestat?”
Her laughter echoed across the battle field, and the living men—Erechanian and Kanosee both—stopped to look at her. She felt their eyes on her naked flesh, felt the lust flowing out of them, feeding her.
The dragon’s roar filled the air with acrid smoke and unbridled hatred; it took a lumbering, ground-shaking step toward the woman. She pulled the staff out of the mud and held it out in front of her with both hands, the glowing knobbed end pointed at the dragon. Her lips moved shaping ancient words in a language dead practically before the world began, words she and the Necromancer could speak and no one else, and her only because she’d stolen them from him.
