Spirit of the King

by Bruce Blake

  Then his backside hit the platform.

  His heart beat fast in his chest, pumping blood and adrenaline through his veins at the speed of racing horses. He scuttled away from the edge like a crab fleeing the sea and scrabbled through the doorway, closing the door behind him to sit atop the stairs in the dark.

  Half an hour later, when Khirro stepped off the bottom stair onto the flat stone floor, his hands were still shaking. He paused and found the sound of Athryn’s breathing in the darkness, then peered back up the stairs. The sliver of light from under the door was invisible in the dark, as were the stairs set into the wall and the ceiling so far overhead. He swallowed hard. His heart had returned to its regular rhythm, and the urge to throw himself from the platform was gone, but as he’d made his way down the stairs, another feeling came over him and it returned as he crossed the floor to take up a position beside the door.

  Despite the echo of his footsteps confirming the emptiness of the place, he felt like they were being watched.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cold salt water splashed Graymon’s feet and ankles. The going through the forest with its tangled underbrush had been slow and noisy, so when he emerged onto the shore of what he thought must be the Small Sea, he decided to take to the water to move faster. The numbness spreading through his toes made him regret the decision.

  The wind tugged at the blanket around his shoulders and no matter how tightly he held it or how careful he was, a corner kept dipping into the water, the wool soaking it up so a third of his covering was wet. One good thing about the coldness of the water and wind: they made staying awake easier even as they rattled his teeth.

  He moved out of the shallow waves onto the shore, drenched boots crunching and gurgling on the pebbly beach. So long he’d dreamed of the water, of seeing the beach and swimming in the surf like his father had done in the stories of his youth. But his dreams of the sea looked vastly different than this. In his dreams, the sun tanned his skin and the water felt warm and inviting.

  No dead men chased him in the dreams.

  A sound behind him made him stop, the fine rocks shifting and grinding beneath his feet. He held his breath and listened, ignoring the pressure in his bladder as the lapping waves did their best to coax urine out of him, distracting him.

  The sound came again—clearly a growl this time—and thoughts of urinating disappeared. An animal? He crouched and listened, annoyed by the noise of the tiny stones under the soles of his boots. A second sound, answering the first. It was no animal.

  They know I’m gone.

  Graymon looked around frantically but didn’t see the soldiers. The water’s edge lay a few feet to his left, the tree line ten yards to his right. He wiggled his toes, noticed feeling returning, and knew he couldn’t go back into the water. With nowhere to hide on the beach, the forest’s tangled thicket offered his best option.

  And the place they’ll be looking.

  The boy duck-walked across the rocky beach, eyes fixed on his goal. If they were to notice him before he reached the forest, he didn’t want to see them coming.

  Clouds scudded past the half moon, casting shadow and throwing the shoreline into darkness. Each shadow leaping from stones and driftwood increased Graymon’s pulse, building panic that pushed him for the trees. After what seemed an impossibly long time to cross such a short distance, he tumbled into the snarl of brush.

  Barbs raked his arms, runners tangled his ankles. He thrashed his way through; the feel of blood running from the scratches on his forearm brought tears to his eyes as he broke free into the forest. Underbrush grew thicker beneath the trees, but it didn’t seek to hurt him. Instead, his feet caught on roots, sending him off balance as he stumbled away from the shore.

  Graymon breathed hard and fast through his nose but didn’t slow his pace to fill his lungs and soon felt lightheaded. He slumped down on a fallen log and wiped tears and snot off his face with the dirty woolen blanket. Quiet returned to the night, the silence broken only by the waves sweeping onto the shore. He filled his chest with air and his nose with the earthy smell of decaying leaves.

  Be brave!

  He took another breath and felt his heart begin to slow. Wind rustled what few leaves autumn had left clinging to the trees.

  Be brave!

  Gathering his courage, Graymon stood. Did no longer hearing the dead men following him mean they gave up or went to look somewhere else? Or did they hear him and were sneaking up on him? He couldn’t stay in one place no matter how scared he felt.

  Be brave!

  He crept away from the log, mindful of his footing, but the pressure in his bladder returned and wouldn’t go no matter how he tried to ignore it. He could wait no more.

  Graymon threw the blanket off his shoulders and undid his breeches. At first, as he glanced around expecting a decomposed face to jump out from behind any one of a hundred trees, the pee wouldn’t start. He concentrated, pushed hard, startled himself when he passed wind then stifled a giggle at the sound. Finally, the pee came, spattering off the broad green leaf of a plant his father would want him to know the name of but he couldn’t remember. He sighed as his bladder emptied, then took a step back, worried he might be peeing on his boots.

  He was almost finished when he heard the growl again.

  Fear squeezed off the stream of urine and he pulled his breeches up. The last of the pee ran down the inside of his thigh; he ignored it and forced himself to be quiet despite the urge to run. A shape that didn’t look like a dead soldier loomed ahead, indistinct in the gloomy forest. He moved toward it and found the gnarled end of an uprooted tree. Graymon inserted himself amongst the twisted roots, avoiding thoughts of the spiders and other insects that likely called it home. He hunkered down, sinking as far back into the tree trunk as the space allowed, then remained still.

  Minutes passed with no more sound and Graymon began to wonder if he’d imagined the growls. He considered leaving the cover of the tree and looking around but dismissed it—the creepy-crawlies possibly making their way up his sleeves and pant legs were preferable to rotting men. He waited, breathing shallowly. The wind shook the trees and he shivered, hugging himself against the cold, teeth chattering. Then his breathing halted.

  The blanket!

  In his haste to hide he’d left the blanket lying in the brush where he peed. His eyes flickered across the narrow slices of forest he saw between the twisted roots. Nothing.

  Should I go get it?

  He wished his father was with him to tell him what to do. His da was a brave hero, but no matter how much he wanted to be one or how hard he tried to convince himself he was, Graymon knew he wasn’t really a brave hero himself. He was just a boy trying to survive.

  If I don’t get it, they’ll find it and know I’m here.

  He clicked his teeth together as he thought.

  If I leave here, they might see me.

  He chewed his bottom lip, weighing the two options, deciding between the lesser of evils. He felt safe with the gnarled tree at his back, but how long would that last?

  Another growl, low and barely distinguishable amongst the rustle of leaves, convinced him to stay put. He let his breath out slowly and scanned what little he could see. Wan light streamed through the trees as a cloud moved past the moon.

  A many-legged insect crawled onto Graymon’s hand and he moved instinctively to brush it away when he saw a figure outlined in the dim light. The man grunted, stooped, and rose again holding Graymon’s blanket. Another man joined the first, then another. The many legged-thing scurried over Graymon’s wrist and up his sleeve. A squeal rose in the boy’s chest but he strangled it before it escaped his throat. Another unseen creature crawled onto his face, this one with fewer legs and a gentle touch he wouldn’t have felt on any other part of his body. It moved across the thin line of his pressed-together lips. Unable to bear any more, Graymon closed his eyes and held his breath for fear of sucking some insect up his nose. The thing on his face passed over
his ear and into his hair where it might have remained, but he no longer felt its presence. The one in his sleeve made itself at home in the crook of his elbow.

  As Graymon opened his eyes, the thoughts of the insects fled. The man with the blanket stood two steps away from his hiding place, head swiveling, searching. The boy waited, his throat squeezed off to breath and cries. A tear rolled unheeded down his cheek as time crawled by. The air in his lungs grew stale, pleaded to be released.

  Be b...brave.

  When the dead man finally strode past his hiding place, Graymon held onto his breath until his lungs burned before letting it out through his nose. And then he began to shake uncontrollably.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Fystal said he saw them go in as the sun rose. And people saw someone standing...” The man raises his eyes toward the tower, like he’s afraid of talking about it.

  “Hmm,” the second man grunts. He’s much bigger than his companion, probably seven feet tall. His back is to me.

  “There’s only two of them,” the first man tells him.

  “Did they look like they had anythin’ good?”

  “Dunno. Weapons for sure. Fystal said one has a blade what glows.”

  “Hmm.”

  They look across the avenue at the door to the spire, pondering what to do. I know what they’ll do, they’re criminals, after all, and criminals are predictable. They’re going to storm in and kill them both and take their belongings. Or that’s what they think they’re going to do. I might have something to say about it.

  The tall one scratches his ass through his dirty breeches; the ragged legs of his pants hang an inch below his knee and look as though one step would separate the seam. Must be difficult to get clothes that fit when you’re huge, especially when everyone you steal from is smaller than yourself.

  “His blade glows, eh?”

  “That’s what Fystal said.”

  A few yards separate my hiding place from where they stand reviewing their options, but they have no idea I’m here. I’m a shadow, a wraith. Another minute passes and I begin to wonder why the delay. Usually the prospect of plunder is a strong pull for men of their ilk. Something else holds them back. Is it the tower?

  “Wanna go now?” the smaller one asks.

  “Hmm. What about the demon woman what’s been killin’ everyone?”

  I smile. It’s me stopping them.

  “Pfft.” The smaller one slaps his knee. “There’s no demon woman. Someone got mad and killed them, that’s all.”

  “A whole tavern full?” The big one scratches his ass again—fleas or nerves.

  “Sure. Happens. Fystal says--”

  “I don’t care what Fystal says,” the big one snaps, afraid.

  The smaller one turns to him, his eyebrow crooked. “You ain’t afraid of a woman, are you?”

  Ass scratch. “No. No, I ain’t afraid of no woman.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  I’ve heard enough. It’s time to make them afraid of a woman.

  “Where do you think you’re going, gentlemen?” I step out of the shadows and the smaller one, still facing his companion, sees me. His eyes widen. The big man goes stiff. I finger the pommel of my sword and smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? You ain’t afraid of a woman, are you?”

  The smaller man’s eyes narrow, his face hardens. There’s spittle at the corner of his mouth and his cheeks flush to pink. Clearly, he’s afraid but intends to show me he isn’t. In a blink, his hand goes for his sword. I dart in, reaching past the big man; my blade flashes from the shadow and takes the smaller man’s arm off at the elbow before his steel clears the scabbard. His sword falls harmlessly back in place as his arm falls harmlessly to the dirt. He screams.

  I step back, waiting to see what the big man will do. With his size, he could be very dangerous. Despite all the instincts and skills the woman in the black cloak gave me when she brought me back from the fields of the dead, I’m not ready for what he does.

  He runs.

  His long legs, thick as small trees, take him ponderously into the avenue with loping strides. I follow him, slicing open the throat of the smaller man on my way by, stopping him mid-scream. I don’t have to chase the man—he’s likely too scared to do anything but hide under his covers—but I can’t chance him coming back with more men and possibly killing the man called Khirro. If it’s not me who kills him, I’ll get neither my reward nor the satisfaction of revenge.

  The man’s big but not particularly fast. I catch him and put my sword between his pumping legs sending him sprawling to the flagstones. He scrapes his chin and bumps his shoulder but no real damage done. Not yet.

  “Please.” He rolls onto his back and I see his face for the first time—despite his size, he’s not yet old enough to shave. He scrambles away from me, one hand held up defensively. His feet churn dust from the stones of the street. “Please don’t kill me.”

  “Why not?” I ask sauntering after him, the tip of my sword pointed at his chest.

  “I ain’t done nothing.”

  “You’re in Poltghasa. You’ve done something.”

  “No, I’m innocent. It was all a mistake.” Tears roll down over the peach fuzz on his cheeks, sobs choke his voice. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t rape the girl, my brother did. She only said I did. You already killed my brother.”

  His words stop me. Why do they sound familiar? He must see my hesitation because his begging continues.

  “Really. She was a whore anyway. How can a whore be raped?”

  His last words dispel all pity and doubt from me. How did I let myself be distracted? This almost-man is an animal, a monster, much like the man I hunt, and the world is a better place without him and all like him. I grit my teeth and lunge. He lifts his hand in a vain attempt to save his skin and my blade cuts off two of his fingers before the tip pierces beneath his chin and continues its path until it thumps against the inside of his skull. I push harder until it pokes through the top of his head.

  “Whores can be raped,” I say knowing he no longer hears. I twist my sword for my own pleasure—no more damage can be done to him. “And giants can be killed.”

  I pull my sword out of his head and wipe the blood and brains on his soiled tunic. A quick glance around shows me that, if anyone had been watching, they’ve all found better things to do. I smile down at the dead man then leave him to return to the alley across from the tower, what little brains he possessed seeping out of the top of his head.

  I have to protect my prey.

  ***

  Khirro woke with a start.

  “What was that?”

  He looked around the dim chamber, disoriented, and saw the curved walls and the stairway winding into the musty heights and remembered: the king’s blood, the curse, the journey, all the death. He remembered Poltghasa and climbing the stairs. He didn’t remember climbing down and falling asleep.

  “The cry of a man in pain.” Athryn stood near the door, sword in hand. Khirro climbed to his feet and yanked the Mourning Sword out—the blade glowed fiercely.

  There’s blood in the air.

  “Should we go?”

  Athryn shook his head and gestured toward the light squeezing through the crack under the door.

  “Not until nightfall. Go back to sleep, I will wake you if the need arises.”

  Khirro nodded and took half a step away from the door, the nerves in his arms and legs tingling. In Poltghasa, screams were probably common, but he wondered how much safety the tower provided should someone want to attack them. It didn’t seem anyone had entered in a very long time but they couldn’t be sure. He slid the Mourning Sword back into its scabbard and settled on the floor, lying for a long time staring up into the tower’s black heights or watching his companion guard the door. When they heard no more screams, no one forcing their way through the door, he finally found restless sleep and dreamed of Elyea.

  ***

  Darkness falls. Soon they’ll come out to search fo
r food, and then I’ll make my move. That’s when Khirro dies.

  No one else approached the tower through the rest of the day; the corpses in the street deterred any who might have considered it. All the better; any more scenes might have warned them they’re being hunted.

  I smile.

  Hunted. I’m a hunter, a server of justice, an angel of death. So much better than being a whore, a victim, raped and abused by men like him. My belly knots with excitement. Soon he’ll pay for his sins.

  I’ll make him pay for everyone’s sins.

  An hour passes before the door opens a crack. The hinges creak, the sound faint; no one but me around to hear. They have me to thank for the privacy. A minute passes—they’re being careful. They’ll have heard the cries of my victims earlier, perhaps spent the rest of their day curled in a corner hugging their knees in fear. The image makes me happy.

  The door opens farther and a man I don’t recognize steps into the street. This is the magician, Athryn. He’ll die, too. Close behind him, my quarry emerges. Thin lines of red light illuminate his blade casting eerie shadows on his face, but I know it’s him. I see his face every time my eyes close.

  Something is different about him.

  It’s in his eyes and the look on his face. He’s wary, a little bit afraid, but he lacks signs of the cruelty he wears like a mask in my dreams. My stomach twists and tingles and suddenly I know something I didn’t know before.

  I loved him once.

  But how could I? He’s responsible for all the bad and harm done me throughout my life. He raped me, tortured me, killed me, yet somehow I loved him.

  They move from the doorway and I follow silently, keeping my distance. My curiosity is piqued, I want to find out more about this man before taking his life. I want to find out what made me love a monster.

  No matter what I discover, I will kill him.

  ***

  Khirro and Athryn crept past the corpse, a dried puddle of blood pooled by the man’s head.

  “What do you think happened?”