Spirit of the King

by Bruce Blake

  If I can get high enough in the tree, they won’t see me.

  He lifted his feet, hanging from the branch as he struggled to pull himself up, but his arms weren’t strong enough. Dangling like a bat sleeping the day away, he thought desperately, keeping his eyes on the tree instead of watching the torch get closer. He’d climbed trees like this before back home in Achtindel. His favorite to climb was one that grew in the courtyard; nanny was always getting after him for climbing it because she thought it was too high, but the fear of being caught made him forget how he got up to the first branch. He breathed deep and relaxed all the muscles in his body, his feet swinging gently above the ground while he concentrated, remembering the tree.

  Then it came to him how he did it.

  The soles of his boots scraped the bark of the tree trunk as he walked his way up the side. With a grunt of effort, he pulled himself atop the branch and lay on it, hugging it tight, his body shivering uncontrollably.

  After a minute, Graymon realized he couldn’t stay there. The branch might have been high for him, but it left him no higher than his pursuer’s eye level. He struggled to his feet, balancing precariously, and climbed to the next branch, then the next. Pride and a sense of accomplishment pushed fear aside momentarily as the boy perched higher in the tree than he’d ever climbed before.

  I wish da could see me.

  The snap of a branch brought him back to his situation and he pressed himself tight against the tree trunk. The dead men had come much closer while he was ascending to his hiding place, close enough that when he stretched out to peer around the curve of the tree, he saw the shapes of five men gathered around the torch, searching through the brush.

  And looking up into the trees above.

  Graymon thought back to when he’d run from his captors.

  How many were there?

  He closed his eyes and tried to picture the men around the cook fire, to count them again in his head. He knew their number to be more than five, to be sure, but how many? There had been one on the other side, he remembered, but how many around the fire? Six? Seven? He played with the picture in his head, changing the number of men he saw until he thought he got it right. So good was his imagination, he smelled smoke as though the fire burned right here, right now.

  “Nine,” he said finally, satisfied with his recollection, then remembered where he was and slapped his hand over his mouth. Something glided past his face, but it was no leaf this time. Whatever it was floated up instead of down.

  What floats up?

  Pins and needles collected in his right leg, so he shifted his position, carefully keeping his back to the trunk of the tree. Another something floated by his nose and he saw it—wispy and insubstantial. He reached for it and it disappeared through his grip.

  Thoughts of fairies and sprites came to mind and he looked around for more. Perhaps they’d come to help him, to whisk him away to their fairy kingdom and keep him safe from the dead men. The tree brightened around him—the fairies had brought a light to comfort him and make him less afraid. He sighed and relaxed against the tree, convinced he’d be saved until realization hit.

  Smoke.

  Not fairies floating by his nose, but smoke. And the smell wasn’t in his thoughts, nor the light brought to comfort him. It was here to capture him.

  “Here,” the man at the foot of Graymon’s tree grunted.

  Startled, Graymon looked down from his perch into rheumy eyes staring up from a decayed face. He screamed and pulled away, his foot slipping on a patch of moss, but he hooked his arm around the limb, keeping himself from falling all the way to the ground. He panted and squirmed, feet searching frantically for the limb he knew to be somewhere below, but his energy waned. All the running and hiding, fear and stress and cold became too much for him. He yelped as his hold slipped and he lurched down a couple of inches.

  “Come down, boy,” the dead thing growled.

  Graymon looked over his shoulder and saw the man holding the torch high above his head, flames licking at the soles of his damp boots. The boy hooked his other arm over the branch and kicked his feet at the flames, but doing so made him lose his grip. He fell off the branch, scraping his wrists on the rough bark. His hip found the limb he’d been searching for with his feet, spinning him in the air as he bounced off it. He struck the ground hard.

  The crack of his arm breaking beneath him sounded loud in his ears, a sound he wouldn’t soon forget, but the pain was mercifully brief as consciousness fled him like dust blowing before a brisk wind.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  She took two steps toward them dragging her sword at her side, the tip scraping the floor. Her hips swayed slightly when she moved, just the way Khirro remembered. Just the way they had in his dreams every night since he saw her die.

  “Elyea? Is it really you?”

  His hands throbbed. Blood rushed through his limbs.

  How can this be?

  Athryn remained statue-like beside him. She advanced another step; a board creaked under her foot, confirming she was solid, real. In the dim light, Khirro saw this woman’s hair was cut short and ragged, not long and flowing like Elyea’s.

  Maybe it’s not her.

  But her height, the shape of her body, the sound of her voice, all these things seemed like his lost love.

  Khirro’s gut churned. She died in his arms, no doubt about that, but magic lurked in Lakesh, and especially in the Necromancer’s underground keep. Maybe something in the cursed land brought her back, or someone. The thought sickened him.

  We left her behind.

  They’d collected wood and built a pyre, lit the flames and released her soul to the Gods. If this was really Elyea, then some powerful magic was at work, and Khirro only knew one way to find out if this was her or a trick.

  He slid forward a step, but Athryn grabbed his arm, stopping him.

  “Who are you?” Athryn asked in a commanding tone.

  A moment of silence passed as they both held their breath, not sure if they should hope for the worst or the best; Khirro didn’t even know which was which. Finally, the silhouette spoke again.

  “It is I, Elyea.”

  ***

  “Who are you?”

  This one is called Athryn. The woman in black didn’t ask me to kill him, but he’s been with the man called Khirro in many of my visions, and he’s with him now. That’s enough to doom him. But do I surprise them now and take their lives with my sword? I’d enjoy watching their blood drain from them like I did so many other men in this place a day ago. No. That’s good enough for others, perhaps good enough for the magician, but I want to feel the man’s life leave him, not merely watch it.

  “It is I, Elyea,” I say and watch them both go tense. They have trouble believing I’m their lost little whore, and they are right to. It’s not really who I am, but who I’ll pretend to be to exact my revenge.

  The man called Khirro looks like he might drop his sword at my words, then run behind me and sniff my ass like a homeless dog. The blade droops in his bandaged hands. Concern springs to my chest at the sight of the cloth wrapping both of his palms, catching me off guard. I push it away. Why should I be concerned for the man I’m about to kill? Injured hands will soon be the least of his concerns.

  “How do you come to be here, Elyea?” the magician asks.

  I move toward them, the floor tacky beneath my feet, making me smile. I let them think the smile is for them, not for the memory and thrill of the blood I’ve spilled.

  “It doesn’t matter how, what matters is I’m here.”

  Khirro moves a step toward me, breaking away from Athryn’s protesting grip. Fifteen feet separate us and I see his features despite the darkened room. The curve of his cheek, the shape of his nose, everything is familiar about him, not just from my dreams and visions. My heart begins to ache and I swallow hard, attempting to quash the unwanted reaction.

  This man raped me, killed my friends. Killed me.

  “Elyea,
I’m sorry,” he says, startling me. Can he hear my thoughts? “If I thought there were any chance you lived, we never would have left.”

  He can’t. He’s trying to save himself, begging like they all do. It won’t help him, though I wouldn’t mind hearing him beg and plead. Yes, begging would be good.

  “You couldn’t know,” I say keeping my voice sweet and gentle. It’s difficult.

  We close the distance between us, coming close enough either of us could reach out and touch the other. Neither of us do, not yet. I see the desire on his face, the yearning gleam in his eyes, but he’s careful, too. A man as evil as he didn’t live this long being reckless. I’ll have to take the lead, so I grit my teeth to bite back my disgust and reach out with my left hand, stroke his cheek with my fingers. A feeling runs down my arm leaving goose flesh in its wake. He flinches at my touch.

  “Khirro,” the magician says and I cast a look at him over Khirro’s shoulder, but not one carrying a threat; I can’t warn him away, not when I’m so close. It doesn’t matter, though, the man called Khirro doesn’t take his eyes from mine.

  “I’ve missed you,” I say looking into his eyes. They gleam and glisten in the red glow of his sword, flickering as though alight with fire.

  “And I’ve missed you.” He moves closer until a few inches separate our faces. “I dream of you every night.”

  “And I of you.”

  I feel his breath on my face and suppress a shudder, but I can’t do anything about the tingling that springs to life at the bottom of my abdomen. I attempt to ignore it, but it becomes more insistent when his lips brush mine. He kisses me gently. I kiss him back, then our lips press together more firmly. My breath shortens, my body burns. This doesn’t feel like the other men whose souls I ripped out of their bodies. I close my eyes and see him doing things I haven’t seen him doing in my dreams: stroking my bare thigh, gently biting my neck, cupping my breast. I imagine him pressing his body into mine and my eyes snap open.

  He killed me.

  Latent anger blossoms in my chest, fills my lungs. He tries to end the kiss and pull away, but I hold him close, making him believe I desire him.

  Do I?

  Making him believe I want him.

  Do I?

  Not letting him know I mean to kill him.

  Do I?

  I do.

  With our lips joined almost as one mouth, I inhale deeply, exhilaration filling me as I feel the first piece of his soul find its way into me.

  ***

  “I dream of you every night,” Khirro said. He didn’t doubt that Elyea stood before him. Her hair was different, chopped short, but the rest was her.

  “And I of you.”

  He took a shuddering breath and leaned closer. Night after night he wished to have her back, to have the opportunity to tell her how he felt, show her in a way he never did before. He told her of his love only in the moment of her death, and he’d carried the fact with him like a rock in his heart ever since.

  I won’t miss the opportunity again.

  Their lips touched, lightly at first, but passion overwhelmed him. He knew this was neither the time nor place, but he couldn’t help himself. He kissed her deeply, felt her body against his. Love swelled through him, forcing weariness out of his limbs and pain from his hands. He’d have kissed her forever, dying happily of old age in her embrace, but the words he heard ended his thoughts.

  He killed me.

  He heard them spoken by her voice as though she’d whispered them directly into his ear, but he knew the words didn’t come from her lips because his lips sealed them closed. Khirro tried to pull away and end the kiss but she held him close, eager for more. He indulged her, pushing aside the voice raising a warning in his head. Her lips felt so good on his, until something tore loose inside him.

  His body stiffened. Pain in his chest, a feeling like part of his lung separated, leaving behind a burning trail up his throat and out through his mouth. He dropped the Mourning Sword and pressed his hands against Elyea’s shoulders to push her away, the pain in his fingers excruciating, but she wouldn’t release him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Athryn beside them, trying to separate them, but Elyea sent him stumbling away with a stiff shove.

  The pain grew. He felt his rib cage, his entire torso, compressed, squeezing his innards, leaving them no choice but to escape through his mouth. He punched at Elyea, but she pinned his arms at his side.

  Why is she doing this?

  Athryn came at her again. This time, she connected a foot to his midsection; Khirro heard his ribs crack and he went down in a heap. Khirro continued to struggle but strength drained from his limbs. He twitched. Sweat formed on his brow, running down his cheeks. The room grew hot.

  Khirro didn’t see the flames engulf his head, but he felt them, hot to the touch. They didn’t burn him, they energized him. The same wasn’t true for Elyea. She released him and stumbled back, her face twisted with rage.

  ***

  His life fills me.

  He struggles but he’s no match for me. Neither is the magician. I’m disappointed it’s so easy, I expected more of a fight from a man with such evil flowing through his veins. As his soul enters me, seeping into every crevasse of my body, I see all the things he did to me all over again: the torture, the pain, the anguish. No fantasy of bare flesh and ecstasy this time, that will come when my work’s done and the woman in black comes to reward me.

  I look into his eyes as his life leaves him, satisfying myself with the fact he’ll soon be dead. His eyes are wide and scared, like the others, but the draining is taking longer. He has great fight in him, though it will do him no good.

  Then his eyes change.

  The blaze that burned in them—the reflection of his glowing sword—returns. But he no longer holds the sword, it lays on the floor at our feet. The flame flickers and brightens, like tinder catching in a brisk wind, until his eyes blaze and I feel heat on my face. I breathe deeper but the heat intensifies, searing my flesh until I have to pull away or risk being burned. His soul snakes out of my chest leaving an emptiness begging to be filled again.

  I step back, angered at being thwarted and surprised at what I gaze upon. Flame engulfs his head, twisting and moving. It is the burning mask of a tyger he wears, its flaming lips pulled back, revealing blazing teeth. The tyger looks as though it would gladly kill me, but the wearer—his face visible through the flames—looks scared and confused.

  The magician makes his way to his feet and moves to the man called Khirro’s side; even he doesn’t get too close to the fiery mask. I raise my sword, ready to defend or attack. I’ll see their lives drain out onto the floor, then. That’s how it will be.

  Athryn pulls him away and the flames fade from Khirro’s head. He isn’t burned, his hair isn’t singed, no smoke smolders on him. Curious. What did the woman in black forget to tell me?

  “Elyea.” His breath comes in pants, a result of the flames or my attempt on his life, perhaps both. “Why?”

  “I’m not Elyea,” I say with a smile and a laugh. I thought I was only taking his life, I didn’t realize I’d get to crush his emotions first. “I am Shariel, the executioner. Your executioner.”

  ***

  Yellow and orange swirled before Khirro’s eyes, coloring the room around him. Elyea stumbled away, hatred and surprise etched equally in her expression. He drew deep breaths, struggling to fill his deflated lungs as Athryn pulled him back, away from her raised sword. The flames dwindled before his eyes, leaving him momentarily blind in the darkness. Only his companion’s grip on his arm kept him from sagging to the floor.

  “Elyea,” he gasped. “Why?”

  “I’m not Elyea,” she said in a voice not entirely her own. It sounded like another mouth spoke in unison with hers. “I am Shariel, the executioner. Your executioner.”

  Khirro shuddered and struggled to keep his knees from buckling. On the floor between them the Mourning Sword pulsed and glowed, the light of the red runes i
ntensifying. Dread collected in the pit of Khirro’s stomach.

  “Who sent you, Shariel?” Athryn demanded. “What do you want?”

  The woman laughed and the second voice laughed along with her.

  “I come to claim the life of the man called Khirro, as is my right.” She looked directly at Khirro. “You will pay for the things you did to me.”

  “What I did to you?” Khirro’s mind raced. What does she mean? “I don’t know you, Shariel.”

  The woman’s expression changed, softened for a second, but quickly turned back to anger.

  “You will pay for what you did to Elyea.”

  “But I loved Elyea.”

  She stalked toward them and they circled away. Khirro glanced at the Mourning Sword, wondering if he dared make a grab for it. He didn’t want to fight this woman, whether she was Elyea or merely someone who looked like her.

  Or maybe she’s something else.

  “Your love for Elyea was another of your ways to torture her,” the voices said.

  “No. I loved her. I’d never have hurt her.”

  “It’s true,” Athryn added. “We all loved you. Khirro most of all.”

  He turned his head and nodded almost imperceptibly. Khirro understood immediately.

  “I loved you, like I’ve loved no other,” he said following the magician’s lead.

  “You didn’t love me... her.” Each voice ended the sentence with a different word. The woman shook her head and corrected herself. “You didn’t love her.” The tip of her blade flickered and they jumped back.

  “I loved you. I still do.”

  The woman had heard enough. Her lips pulled into a scowl and she lunged. Athryn blocked her blow with a loud clang of steel on steel and Khirro took the opportunity. He somersaulted across the floor and grabbed the hilt of the Mourning Sword, coming to a halt on his feet as the woman swiped at his chest. The sword tip scraped across his leather.