Spirit of the King

by Bruce Blake

  “It is Poltghasa,” Athryn said simply.

  The answer satisfied Khirro. In a city where the residents are thieves and murderers, he found it easy to imagine the things that might have brought about this man’s death: a dispute over a bet, a woman, a wrong look, anything.

  One day I’ll be free of all this death. The thought held little conviction for him.

  They kept to the shadowy walls; the whisper of their leather soles on the cobblestones seemed loud and hearing them so clearly made Khirro wonder what happened to all the other sounds of the city. Where were the fights? The drunkenness? Where were all the things he’d heard that made Poltghasa such a dangerous place?

  Athryn stopped him and pointed to a building at the end of the avenue. The wooden porch in front of the stone building canted to one side, the door hung askew. A sign nailed to one of the posts named the place but was illegible from a distance, maybe even from up close. Khirro looked at the magician and shrugged.

  “A public house.”

  This is no time for a drink, Khirro wanted to say, but neither was it time for poor humor.

  Athryn led him out of the shadows and across the courtyard. A fountain—long dried up, its statue smashed into indistinguishable chunks—dominated the yard and Khirro gripped his sword tighter as they passed. He suddenly felt like they weren’t alone, but no one hid behind the crumbled stone. On the side of the fountain closest to the door, the stones beneath their feet changed color, darkening to black in the dim moonlight. The sense of being watched stuck with Khirro. He reached out and put his hand on Athryn’s shoulder.

  “I--”

  The magician put his finger to his lips, nodded, then led Khirro up the two creaking wooden steps onto the porch. The wood here was darker, too, as if painted with the same brush as the courtyard. Khirro glanced down as they passed over it and noticed the color came in patches and blotches, some large, some small; only a few places showed bare, pale wood. Ahead, Athryn disappeared through the doorway. Khirro stole a look over his shoulder before following, expecting to see someone standing in the courtyard, watching, or a group of soldiers running toward them. It remained empty. He pulled his charred shield off his back and followed his companion through the door.

  ***

  He senses me, as I feel his presence. There’s danger to him like I haven’t felt before, but there’s more, too, something I haven’t felt from any of the others I killed. I sensed danger in some of them, too, but most reeked of fear as they saw their deaths coming at the end of my blade. He won’t have the same stink; I’ll be disappointed if he does. Whatever it is, it stays my feet. I rub my leather-wrapped sword hilt hoping to feel the comfort it normally brings, but it’s absent. Instead it’s the cold, unfeeling handle of a weapon. Have I been deserted at the moment of truth?

  As if in answer, the woman’s voice whispers in my ear.

  “It is time,” she says. I look around, hoping, but I already know she’s not here. “It is time for retribution.”

  Visions of the things he did flash through my mind. My body feels every blow, every cut, and I double over struggling to keep from crying out.

  “It is time for vengeance.”

  Bodies appear on the ground before me, their images wavering in the dark. They are people I’ve known and loved, people whose deaths are his responsibility. The sight of their faces brings a lump to my throat and I recall their names: Despina, Aryann, Leigha, Maes, Shyn, and more. A dozen corpses flicker and disappear. I swallow the knot. I won’t cry. I’m not a woman who cries anymore.

  “It is time for him to die.”

  I straighten and nod once, jaw set and muscles tense. My sword murmurs words of encouragement as it slides from its scabbard. The woman’s voice is gone from my ears but I don’t need her now, she served her purpose reminding me why she brought me back. I have one thing to do: the task I was reborn for.

  I start across the courtyard, struggling to keep the grim smile off my lips as I glide over flagstones stained with the blood of men I killed.

  ***

  Khirro searched behind the chipped and splintered bar while Athryn watched the door. They found a little food in the kitchen and stored it in their packs, perhaps a week’s worth at most. Khirro’s search behind the bar revealed nothing but patches of spilled ale that tried in vain to hold his feet to the floor. He rounded the bar shaking his head and Athryn pointed across the room.

  “There is one more room,” he said indicating a dark rectangle in the center of the far wall. “A store room, perhaps.”

  They wound their way through upset chairs and overturned tables, careful not to disturb anything or make noise to give away their presence—men might hide behind the last door.

  Where is everybody?

  As they made their way toward the door, the room’s smell changed. A sweet, cloying odor that threatened to adhere to the insides of Khirro’s nostrils overpowered the smell of stale beer and liquor. The closer they came to the door, the stronger the odor. Athryn reached out for the door handle and dread suddenly crashed down on Khirro like a limb fallen from a tree.

  We’re not alone.

  “No. Wait--”

  Too late. Athryn threw the door open, brandishing his sword as he did. The stench rolled over them and Khirro’s stomach took a hard right turn. Athryn stepped back from the door, eyes wide.

  Khirro couldn’t tell how many bodies were in the room. The way they’d been piled on top of one another, limbs twisted and tangled, made it impossible to see where one corpse ended and another began. There was no way to know which severed limb went with what butchered body. Khirro put his hand to his mouth to block the fetid air from his lungs as well as to keep his stomach’s contents in.

  “Gods,” Athryn whispered.

  “Let’s go,” Khirro managed.

  Neither of them needed any more words to convince them. Whatever did this was bad, worse than giants or dragons or lake serpents. They turned to retreat to the courtyard but only made it a few steps before they halted, the corpses crowding the room behind them forgotten.

  The figure outlined in the doorway was small, but with an air of danger in his stance. He stood with legs set at shoulder width and firmly planted, his bared sword rested with its tip on the floor. Khirro looked at Athryn then back at the silhouette. A familiarity about the figure made alarm bells wail in Khirro’s head.

  “We have come for food,” Athryn said raising a hand before him. “We mean no harm and will gladly pay if you like.”

  Silence.

  The figure held position like a statue. Khirro’s arms and legs tingled as adrenaline flooded him with excitement and fear and curiosity. Athryn took a step forward.

  “Let us leave in peace. We will cause no trouble.”

  The figure drew the tip of his sword along the floor, scraping it across the wood as though inscribing a line not to be crossed. Khirro stepped up beside his companion.

  “You don’t want this, stranger,” he said.

  “Oh, there’s nothing I want more,” the figure said, the words floating across the room on the voice of a woman. “And we are not strangers, Khirro.”

  Khirro’s jaw dropped at the sound of the voice, the Mourning Sword drooped to his side.

  Elyea.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A spider scuttled across the thin line of light shining between the bars and disappeared into the dark as quickly as it came. Therrador pushed himself up and crossed to the cell door. A guard stood with his back to the bars and the king knew by the red paint splashed on his black mail that he’d have a decaying face and dead, unfeeling eyes. The corridor was empty but for the guard’s shadow thrown writhing on the wall and floor by the torch guttering in the sconce across the hall from him.

  “Isn’t it time you let me go?” The thing didn’t turn toward him when he spoke. “The people will notice their king is missing.”

  He considered reaching through the bars and poking the dead man but didn’t know what order
s the Archon had left. Such an act might mean his death. He wouldn’t take the chance, not as long as Graymon might still live.

  Why don’t they just kill me?

  He surveyed the featureless cell for the hundredth time. The dungeon was deep underground with no windows, nor furniture or comforts of any kind. A bucket for waste and a pile of hay for sleeping which he no doubt shared with insects and rats.

  He’d survive; this wasn’t the first time he’d been imprisoned, but he couldn’t ignore the pressure of his situation. The longer he stayed here, the more any chance of overcoming the Kanosee diminished, and the greater the chance Graymon wouldn’t survive.

  “Let me out,” he said, his tone commanding and insistent, but it continued to receive no reaction from his guard. “Tell the Archon this is unacceptable.”

  “I told you to do as you were told.”

  Startled, Therrador jumped. He hadn’t noticed Hanh Perdaro approach along the dimly lit corridor. With a nod to the guard, he sauntered past and stood before the bars directly in front of Therrador.

  “Hanh.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Tell me you’re here to let me out.”

  Perdaro shook his head. “No. And I don’t know I would even if I could.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been a bad king, Therrador,” he said in a tone suitable for chastising a child. “Perhaps it will do you some good to be on your own for a while. To think about what you’ve done.”

  Therrador stared, unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth. “What are you talking about, Hanh? For the Gods’ sake.”

  “Leave us,” Perdaro said over his shoulder and, to Therrador’s amazement, the guard strode away down the corridor, the clomp of his boots on the stone floor echoing after him. Perdaro faced Therrador, one corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk. “Did you really think you could do the things you did and not pay a price?”

  “I’ll pay for my sins after the Kanosee dogs are driven out of the kingdom and Graymon is back with me.”

  “You don’t see it, do you?” Hanh Perdaro chuckled and shook his head. “What you’ve done cannot be undone.”

  “Anything can be undone.”

  “Not this. Her Grace sees all, knows all.”

  Therrador’s eyes narrowed. “Her Grace?”

  “The Archon. I told you to do as she said. It would have been safer for all.”

  “Not for my kingdom.”

  “The kingdom is lost,” Perdaro snapped, the smirk disappearing from his face. “Why can’t you see what’s right before your eyes? You’ve lost your son. You’ve lost your kingdom. You’ve lost.” He glanced down the hall at the guard, then lowered his voice. “It couldn’t have been any other way.”

  Therrador grasped the cool steel bars with both hands and leaned forward until his face nearly touched them. Hanh Perdaro had always been his favorite member of the High Council, but he was beginning to doubt his judgment.

  “If you have something to say, Hanh, say it.”

  “You were never in control. Just as you aren’t now.”

  “What do you mean?” He resisted the urge to reach through the bars, grab the man by his shirt and shake him to get straight answers out of him.

  “You can’t possibly think you manufactured the king’s death on your own, do you?” Perdaro laughed. The guard looked away from the wall in front of him at Perdaro but quickly went back to staring at the blank stone. “The size of your ego never ceases to amaze me.”

  Therrador bit back his emotional response. Years commanding men taught him to think before reacting. He breathed deep and waited for Perdaro to continue, as he knew he would.

  “Didn’t you think it fortuitous when a Kanosee soldier fell into your grasp? Or that no one suspected anything when you inserted him as one of the king’s guards?” He chuckled again. “Wasn’t it unusual for Braymon to be at North Tower when the Kanosee breached the wall? What was the king doing on the first line of defense?”

  Logic demanded that Therrador agree. More then once since this began, he’d wondered what the king was doing there, but had dismissed it as good fortune. It should have taken days, perhaps weeks, for the assassin to find an appropriate time to dispose of Braymon in a manner that seemed natural, yet the king was dead within the first twenty-four hours of the Kanosee siege. A twinge of regret shot through Therrador’s chest.

  “You were so concerned about yourself, you didn’t see the machinations working in the background, placing the dominoes so they’d fall where they needed to fall,” Perdaro said.

  “And you’re behind all this.”

  “No, not I.” He caught sight of a cobweb clinging to his shoulder and brushed it away. “I’m not so naive as you to think I’m not simply one of the Archon’s pawns. But I’m a willing one while you were unwitting from the start.”

  “Why tell me this?”

  “Because it doesn’t matter now. Erechania has been muzzled, the Archon’s in control. It’s a matter of time until her plan is complete and Hanh Perdaro rules the kingdom.”

  Therrador grimaced. “But one domino went astray, didn’t it? King Braymon’s blood yet survives.”

  Perdaro’s expression became cool. “It’s the only reason she lets you live.”

  “Well, thank the Gods for incompetence.”

  “Don’t be smug.” Perdaro examined his fingernails. “The man will soon be found. When his life ends and the blood of the king is spilled for good, yours won’t be far behind.”

  So they haven’t got him yet. Therrador suppressed a smile. There’s still hope.

  “Why are you doing this, Hanh? The king was never anything but fair to you.”

  “Fair? Why settle for fair when you can have the throne? Wasn’t that your attitude? Isn’t that how you became the Archon’s puppet?”

  “I didn’t do it for me, I did it for Graymon. And Seerna.”

  “Ha!” Perdaro looked toward the guard then back at Therrador. “Do you still think Braymon would have sent you away with Seerna ready to deliver a child? You? His closest friend? He thought you volunteered for it. And did you believe your wife would have named your son after the king?”

  “You bastard.”

  Therrador’s hands shot through the bars, grabbing Perdaro by the lapels before he knew what happened. The king pulled hard, slamming the man’s chest against the cell door, coaxing a high pitched shriek from him.

  “Guard,” Perdaro screeched clawing at Therrador’s hands; the king didn’t let go.

  “You’ll pay for this,” he whispered through the bars, their faces inches apart. “And tell that bitch she’ll pay, too.”

  Searing pain in his thigh made Therrador release his grip. He stumbled away from the cell door, blood streaming down his leg as the guard’s spearhead pulled out of his flesh. Perdaro glared at him, the dead man standing blank faced at his side.

  “You live on borrowed time, Therrador. For your own good, the good of your son and the good of your people, learn to behave.”

  Hanh Perdaro—Voice of the People, member of the High Council, friend of the king, and now traitor to the kingdom—turned abruptly, his cape spinning behind him, and hurried from the dungeon leaving Therrador alone with the undead guard and the guttering torch.

  Therrador lurched across the cell away from the door until his back struck the wall, then slumped to the floor. Thoughts and emotions boiled within him: grief, sadness, hatred. The Archon had killed his beloved and set him against his oldest friend. For six years, his thoughts and actions were not entirely his own, but the blame was. He hung his head and clamped his teeth together. Seerna was gone—he couldn’t bring her back—but Graymon was still out there somewhere, and a piece of King Braymon. But where?

  There’s still hope.

  He drew a deep breath and spent the next hours convincing himself it was true.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Branches raked at his face. Each footstep echoed in his ears, convincing him his pursuers were at
his back, ready to reach out and grasp him by the collar, but Graymon didn’t look behind him. He didn’t want to know how close they were. Moonlight flickered through tree limbs; wind rustled leaves and swayed branches. Occasionally, the sound of waves rolling onto the shore came to his ears; when it did, he amended his course away from the beach.

  Dried tears tightened the skin on his cheeks, his breath became gasps. The escaping from the wagon seemed like it would be the difficult part, he didn’t expect the getting away to be so hard.

  Where do I go?

  Ahead—though he didn’t know how far—he knew more dead soldiers camped all across the salt flats, and there was water on either side of them. He swam well for a six-year-old, but not well enough to escape in the sea. And where would he swim if he could? Father had shown him his maps, he knew Kanos, the land of the enemy, lay across the Small Sea. He didn’t want to go there, even if he could. He thought of his toy dragon and the way the woman made it fly.

  If I could fly, I could get away.

  His foot struck a rock painfully and he tumbled to the ground, his head barely missing the trunk of a stout tree. He pulled his knee to his chest and grabbed his toe, biting back the urge to yell and give away his position. The guards were looking for him; they wouldn’t give up until they found him.

  The tumult of waves and wind swirled around him, sounding to his ears like men crashing through the brush. He looked around, panicked, pulse racing, until his gaze fell on the tree towering over him. More brown leaves clung to its branches than most of the other trees—leaves that could provide cover. He stood and reached over his head but found the lowest branch a foot out of reach.

  I can’t fly, but I can climb.

  He jumped, his fingers brushing the branch’s rough bark, and a leaf broke free to float past his head. His eyes followed it to the ground. When he looked up, he saw torchlight bobbing through the trees in the distance. That’s why he hadn’t seen his pursuers since hiding in the fallen tree—they’d gone back for torches.

  Graymon leaped for the branch again. Cool moss teased his fingers, but the limb was too high. Shuffling his feet along the ground to avoid tripping, he circled the tree in search of a lower branch or a stump on which to stand. On the far side of the tree, he found a swell in the dirt directly under a low branch; when he stood on it on his tiptoes, he could wrap his fingers around the limb. The feel of the wood in his hands gave him hope.