by Bruce Blake
Sheyndust slammed the staff down onto the ground, and green lighting jumped out of it, conducted from corpse to corpse as it followed a jagged path to its target. It hit the last fallen man closest to the beast, then leaped the distance to the dragon, slamming into its chest and making the great creature stumble. The dragon threw its head back and howled as the green light gathered in its translucent ruby chest, swirling into a ball that expanded and grew. Roiling, collecting, killing.
The green light swelled until it filled the dragon’s chest, spilled down its legs, along its tail, into its wings. The beast roared in rage-filled pain and drew a breath deep into its lungs. Its neck extended, but instead of breathing deadly fire, the green death inside it exploded outward, shattering the dragon.
The Archon threw her head back and laughed in triumph as shards of ruby rained down around her.
***
Khirro panted and blinked sweat from his stinging eyes.
The world flickered and danced, yellow and orange light shifting and shimmering across his vision. He hardly saw the men falling before his flaming claws anymore; his parched mouth had grown used to the taste of their blood on his tongue. At first, it made him gag, but now the physical and emotional exhaustion of killing had drained him to the point he’d become only an observer of his acts, uninvolved and barely aware.
Another undead soldier fell before his onslaught, head torn from body, then he took a living Kanosee soldier’s life. Khirro watched the man’s body crumple and fall and took no joy in it, nor did he feel regret anymore. It distressed him to find he felt no more emotion about cutting this man down than he might have felt about taking his scythe to a field of wheat.
What’s happened to me? Is this what it’s like to be a real warrior? A killer?
He thought of his life on the farm as his claws tore through the chest of another man. He thought about how he killed chickens and pigs and cows without remorse, to feed his family and ensure their survival.
As this has to be done so the kingdom will survive.
He felt a sword slash his side and the flaming tyger wrapped around him let out a roar that reverberated through his chest, flared pain down his raw throat. But the sword caused no wound, drew no blood. The flames protected him from harm.
He wrenched his attacker’s arm from his body with the swipe of one paw, then bit through his skull, spilling him to the ground for his brain to ooze onto the trampled grass. He paused to retch and clear his throat before continuing on to take the life of his next enemy.
Ahead, he saw the dragon, the battlefield around it clear of men as they retreated from its swinging tail and deadly breath; the beast’s heat melted the snow that might have collected on the plain before if could settle. Months before, the dragon had been his adversary, and in a way partly responsible for the melding of the king’s spirit with his own. Now, an unexplainable feeling pushed him toward the dragon to fight by its side.
The flaming tyger took one step, then stopped as Khirro spied a solitary figure standing in front of the dragon. He couldn’t see her face, but the cloak and blond hair tossed about her by the cold wind told him all he needed to know. He’d never seen the Archon in person before—only in dreams—but he’d know her anywhere. A growl rumbled deep in Khirro’s chest, echoing and multiplying until it became the tyger’s. Here stood the cause of all that had happened to Khirro: all the death, all the loss, all the destruction. Here stood the murderer of the king.
Here was his chance to end it.
He took a step forward, the tyger’s flaming paw squelching in a patch of bloody mud, then another. He moved slowly, using the big cat’s natural ability to stalk toward the woman, but stopped when he saw the dragon rear back. The woman spread her arms as though to embrace death, and Khirro felt a smile cross his face.
This was a death he would enjoy.
The dragon’s head shot forward to breathe a swirling maelstrom of flame at the woman. It overtook her, surrounded her, engulfed her, and she didn’t move. The fire blocked Khirro’s view of her, but he knew that, when it relented, she would be nothing but charred flesh and smoking bones. He crouched to watch feeling vaguely guilty about the pleasure he’d receive from her death.
The gout of flame continued for fifteen seconds before the dragon’s jaws finally snapped shut cutting it off. Khirro’s gaze flickered to the beast, then across the field to where he expected to see the woman’s burnt form curled up on the ground.
Instead of a steaming corpse, the woman stood her ground, arms spread, clothing burned from her. Smoke rose from her limbs and the staff she held; flames flickered in her hair and went out, leaving her blond locks untouched by their heat.
Her laughter rolled across the battlefield to Khirro’s ears.
He watched in disbelief as the dragon moved toward her and she brought the staff to bear on the beast, its tip glowing a bright and sickly green.
No!
Khirro’s heart jumped and the flaming tyger took over, galloping across the muddy, beaten grass, melting paw prints in the snow as it leaped over corpses and flashed past living men. His graceful stride ate up yards, carrying him toward the woman. If he could get to her, he could end this.
She’s been touched by the dragon’s breath.
Once, the thought might have caused terror in Khirro; now, it was instead followed by a very different thought.
So have I.
He ran on, ignoring the pockets of fighting he passed, leaving the mortals and the undead to sort out their own life-or-death scuffles. He pushed himself faster, his muscles straining under the flames and fire.
With a dozen yards between him and the woman, she slammed the staff to the ground with a crack like thunder; green light shot across the space between her and the dragon and leaped into the creature’s chest.
Khirro skidded to a stop, the tyger’s paws digging furrows in the dirt. The green light grew, filling the ruby dragon until it appeared ruby no more. The beast stopped moving, its jaws agape and tail held high, waiting to hammer the ground. Its body bulged and he heard the crackling sound of footsteps on thin ice as its scales separated.
The dragon exploded.
Soldiers fell—live and dead, Kanosee and Erechanian alike—as chunks of the dragon tore through them. Ruby shards slammed into Khirro, driving him back like an unstoppable rain. He stumbled to his knees, then fell onto his back. The flames in his vision flickered and disappeared and pain filled his joints, sluiced through his limbs. He lay on his back sucking bitter air into his lungs until he heard the voice say his name.
“Khirro.”
He felt certain he’d heard the voice before, but didn’t immediately recognize it, for it held a rasp in its tone he knew it didn’t have the last time he heard it. In response, he tried to push himself up to lean on his elbows, but his muscles failed him, his hand slipped in the mud and he fell back. His head throbbed, his body ached. A deep breath shot pain through his chest and he struggled up to see who uttered his name.
The man stood a dozen yards away. Half of his face was peeled away from his cheek bone, leaving one eye bulging and the teeth beneath laid bare in a perpetual sneer that might have suited him as well in life. Even in such a decomposed state, Khirro recognized Ghaul, the man who’d betrayed him and was ultimately responsible for the king becoming part of him instead of being resurrected.
Khirro climbed to his feet, agonizing pain threatening to cripple his movement. With his feet under him, he watched Ghaul approach as he swayed in place, struggling to keep his balance. His stomach clenched and knotted as the warrior neared.
Khirro’s eyes narrowed and he pictured flames crawling up his arms, along his legs, using his imagination to call them into being again with no compunction—Ghaul’s betrayal of the kingdom and of Khirro deserved a death sentence. He felt the fire’s heat on his cheeks when a screech from above distracted him. Khirro’s heart jumped with hope at the thought that the dragon might have somehow survived. A shadow passed over him a
nd he looked up to see a huge gray falcon cutting through the falling snow.
Shyn.
The diving bird struck Khirro’s shoulder, spinning him around and throwing him off balance. He fell to one knee and looked up at the falcon wheeling away into the sky. He may have no problem with the thought of dispatching Ghaul to the fields of the dead, but Shyn...The border guard had been committed to the success of their quest as much as anyone, perhaps more so. More than himself, at times.
He is already dead. They both are.
Khirro chewed his bottom lip, wishing for the fire to come, but nothing happened.
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath. Nothing.
Whatever ill magic destroyed the dragon must have affected the tyger.
He stood and drew the Mourning Sword, the blade’s ferocious red glow coloring the falling snow pink as though the flakes were tinted with blood. Ghaul halted five yards from Khirro, and the sword’s light showed him as he’d been in life: a warrior, loyal and dedicated to the task given him by the Archon. A traitor, but Khirro would never have made it to Lakesh without him, no matter his reason for assisting.
But without him, Shyn would be alive. And Elyea.
The light of the Mourning Sword brightened and his face reverted to the face of the monster he’d become.
Ghaul leaped at him, his blade slicing an arc toward Khirro’s chest. He caught the blow with the Mourning Sword, the force driving him back a step. With an effort, he pushed Ghaul away as wind and snow whirled around his face and a talon dug into his shoulder.
“No, Shyn,” Khirro said, breathless. “It’s me.”
For a second, he thought the pressure of the claw in his shoulder eased, that the border guard recognized him and would let him go, but Ghaul’s garbled words dispelled the illusion.
“Kill him.”
Ghaul’s sword flickered at him again and again, the falcon’s wings beat the air around his ears. The Mourning Sword seemed to take over for Khirro’s tired arm, its glow leaving a sparkling red path through the air as it danced and flickered, turning aside strike after strike. He waved his fist at Shyn above him, caught the bird with a solid shot to the chest and the falcon let go.
The fight drew on and Khirro held his own, deflecting Ghaul’s attacks and fending off the falcon. A sense of satisfaction settled into him; he’d admired these two warriors, and at times wished to be like them, and now he kept pace with them.
Ghaul moved to his left and Shyn settled on the ground to his right, snapping his wickedly curved beak at Khirro’s face. Their splitting up taxed Khirro to the limit. In a second, one of them would be behind him, his back exposed, and he realized he needed to act.
Khirro lunged forward with a flurry that drove Shyn back, the falcon screeching, then he spun around and swung at Ghaul with all his might. The Mourning Sword clashed against the dead warrior’s sword near the hilt, jarring it from his grasp. Khirro didn’t hesitate, swiping his blade at the traitor’s neck.
Ghaul didn’t defend himself. His blank eyes held no fear or sadness, regret or apology, as the Mourning Sword cut through his neck and sent his head tumbling to the ground. His body followed it down.
Khirro had time to search for a breath before he felt the tip of the sword enter his back. Pain exploded through his torso and the exhaustion he’d felt flooded back into him, filling his limbs and making his head feel light. The Mourning Sword dropped from his grip and he looked down to see the blade protruding from his stomach. He stared at it for a second before it disappeared, rasping against his insides as it was pulled out.
He teetered on weakened knees, then folded to the ground, turning as he did. Khirro landed on his side and saw Shyn standing over him, his legs still the legs of the falcon, his upper body a man’s sprinkled with gray feathers. His blank, expressionless eyes stared at his one-time friend, then he turned and walked away, his legs morphing back to a man’s as he went.
Khirro struggled his hand away from the wound in his belly and held it up in front of his eyes. Fresh blood covered his gauntlet, but it was impossible to know how much belonged to him and how much to the uncountable enemies left dead in his wake. The pain of the wound dimmed in comparison to the pain of failure and of what he’d become in its service.
So close. So close.
Khirro’s head sagged to the ground and his eyes slid closed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“There.” Athryn pointed and spurred the horse faster.
Behind him, Emeline clung tight to his waist, as Graymon held his father the same way on the horse thundering across the plain beside them. In the distance, not far from where Sheyndust had destroyed the dragon in a deafening explosion of ruby shards and green light, Athryn picked out Khirro amongst the fighting.
And he recognized the man and the falcon he fought.
The magician swung his sword at any who got too close to them as they rode, but in his head, he prepared the spell he’d need to finish what Khirro and the Shaman started so long ago. He felt his brother’s blood coursing through his veins, fortifying him, encouraging him.
“Do you see him?” Emeline asked over his shoulder, her voice shaken by the horse’s gait.
“Yes. We will be there soon.”
He watched as the two men who once were their companions split up, spreading their attack and taxing Khirro’s ability to defend himself. Athryn and the king were close, but not close enough.
The tyger, Khirro. Become the tyger.
The Mourning Sword’s red blade flashed, and Athryn saw Ghaul’s head freed from his undead body. He cheered silently, but in Khirro’s distraction, Shyn had transformed back to a man and picked a sword up off the ground.
No.
The border guard skewered Khirro with his blade and Athryn gasped. Shyn pulled the blade free and walked away, leaving Khirro to crumple to the grass.
Athryn reined his horse to a stop, and Therrador did the same; the king leaped out of the saddle before the steed came to a stop. He raced across the field, leaping corpses and slashing adversaries, until he got to Shyn. As he swung a blow at the border guard, Athryn lowered Emeline and Iana off the horse, then followed her out of the saddle. She hurried across the plain, oblivious to the dangers around her as she made her way to Khirro.
Therrador’s first blow glanced off Shyn’s sword, driving him back; the king struck again and again, not giving his foe the chance to go on the offensive. Instead, he stumbled away, retreating. Therrador stood watching him, catching his breath, but Athryn saw what he was doing. Shyn’s face warped and changed; feathers forced their way through the flesh of his cheeks.
“He is changing!” Athryn yelled as he increased his pace, running past Emeline to help the king. “Don’t let him change.”
Therrador looked over his shoulder at the magician then back at his foe. He lunged forward recklessly, the tip of his sword finding its way past Shyn’s defense to cut a shallow gash on his half-man, half-bird chest. Therrador swung the sword around his head and connected with the taller man’s neck, severing his head.
Athryn fell to his knees beside Khirro. Blood masked his friend’s cheeks and chin, splattered across his chest and arms. There was mud and gore caked on his leg and fresh blood flowing from the wound in his belly puddled on the ground beneath him. Kneeling over him reminded Athryn of the similar wound he sustained on the shore of Lakesh when the mercenary stole the king’s blood from Khirro. Then, Maes had saved him with magic and his own blood, now flowing through Athryn’s veins.
There wouldn’t be the same result this time.
Emeline arrived and kneeled beside Athryn.
“Gods. Does he live?”
Athryn looked at her and nodded. Her face was drawn and haggard with stress and worry; the baby, swaddled in a blanket at her breast as usual, remained surprisingly quiet and undisturbed by the goings-on around her.
“He is alive, but barely.” He removed the mirrored mask and his cloak, pulled open his shirt. “He does n
ot have much time. We have to hurry.”
“So you can save him?”
Hope flickered in Emeline’s eyes, touched her lips. Seeing it made Athryn’s heart ache.
“Emeline,” he said quietly, his voice overflowing with his own emotion. “When Darestat’s spell went astray, King Braymon’s spirit and Khirro’s were bonded. To separate them and save the kingdom, only one will survive.”
She stared into his eyes and he saw that, for a moment, she didn’t grasp the weight of his words. He held her gaze, doing his best to keep his own emotions in check as realization dawned for her.
“You’re going to kill him.”
Athryn licked his lips. “It is the only way to raise the king.”
“After all he did for you, all he did for the kingdom, you’re going to kill him.”
Therrador had arrived and stood between the two of them, looking down at Khirro; he said nothing.
Athryn held Emeline’s gaze as he spoke. “Therrador, fetch your son.”
The king nodded and took a step toward the horses and stopped.
“Where is he?”
“I left him with the horse.”
Therrador took another step, stopped, spun a half circle. Athryn looked away from Emeline.
“Graymon!”
The magician followed Therrador’s gaze to the boy crossing the grassland toward the Archon, a jeweled-handled dagger in his hand.
***
Graymon’s toes dangled above the ground as he lowered himself out of the saddle, his hands gripping the leather tight. He hung from it without letting go, fearful though he knew the ground to be close beneath his feet, but the memory of climbing out of the wagon, of falling from the tree, still lingered. He took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of saddle leather and horse sweat, and let go, dropping the six inches separating the soles of his feet from the ground.
