The Ippos King: Wraith Kings Book Three

by Draven, Grace

  Anhuset took in the sight with a heart that slowed its beat and breath that hovered in her nostrils. Beside her, Serovek sighed softly, a reverent sound laced with regret. Five men had sacrificed much to battle galla and save a world. One of them had paid an even more terrible price.

  Megiddo Cermak breathed but slept the slumber of the dead, his soul trapped in a galla prison while his body, kept alive and protected by ancient Kai magic, waited for his soul’s return. He wore armor similar to Serovek’s but plainer, its only nod to decorative elements a border of runes etched into the steel around the collar of his breastplate.

  The bier on which he lay was a simple affair of wooden slats laid adjacent to each other, their ends fastened at either side to rails that ran the length of the platform. Designed for ease of transporting the dead, the bier acted as Megiddo’s transparent coffin as well for now. Kai magic, the last remnants of power Brishen had drawn out of his own people with necromantic spellwork, flitted across the width and length of the bier in tiny blue sparks that faded as fast as they ignited.

  A year ago, Anhuset would have sensed Megiddo’s presence even before she reached the barn, felt the pull of sorcery similar to her own, albeit feeble, magic. No longer. Now there was nothing. No twinge or draw, no prickle along her spine. Not even a strip of gooseflesh to signal an awareness of magic.

  She’d known the moment it happened, when the desperate Khaskem had stripped every adult Kai of their magic in order to save them from total annihilation. A hollow had opened up inside her and remained. Neither rage, nor grief, nor acceptance of the necessity of Brishen’s devastating act filled it. Anhuset stared at Megiddo—more simulacrum than living man despite the fact he breathed—then looked away.

  She focused instead on Serovek whose features had gone so pale, he fairly glowed in the dark. His nostrils flared, reminding her of an angry bull, and his hand clenched on the pommel of his sword as if he were tempted to draw it.

  “Why is your brother’s body in one of your barns with the livestock instead of in the house?” He bit out each word from between clenched teeth, his tone quiet but no less menacing for its lack of volume.

  Pluro blanched. Anhuset took a quick step back just in case the man’s fright twisted his guts enough that he retched up his stomach’s contents. He crossed his arms, not in confrontation but in defense, as if the pose might somehow save him should Serovek decide to split him from throat to bollocks with his blade. His explanation came out in a long, stuttering string of words sprayed into the cold air.

  “It wasn’t always so, Lord Pangion. Megiddo was in the house for a time. We had no choice but to move him here. Strange things happened when we kept him there. Voices whispering when no one was in the room. Odd lights without fire or candle to birth them.” He shivered, and not from the cold. “All of us dreamed terrible dreams, nightmares to wake you in a sweat. Our servants refused to sleep in their rooms any longer, and some refused to work inside. My wife needs the help, so I thought it best to move Megiddo here. I didn’t see the harm. After all, he’s unaware of his surroundings. He wouldn’t know or care. Once I did so, everything returned to normal. No voices, no nightmares, no lights.”

  His description sent a splinter of unease down Anhuset’s back. She recalled her conversation with Ildiko about Brishen’s nightmares, had seen herself the shimmer of sorcerous blue that had edged his eye, as if the dark magic that had turned him eidolon still lingered inside him, tied somehow to the deathless warrior lying motionless before her.

  What Pluro described wouldn’t have been enough to convince her Megiddo belonged in an isolated barn, forgotten. Unlike the vassal, however, she hadn’t seen the galla firsthand. He had, and from her observations of her own countrymen who’d fled Haradis before the galla horde, the experience left the lingering stain of terror on the soul and the mind. She didn’t approve of his actions, considering them weak, but she didn’t condemn him for them either.

  Serovek wasn’t as forgiving. He glared at Pluro so hard, the man should have caught fire. “You deserve a thrashing,” he said in those same quiet, seething tones. “Get out of my sight before I decide to give you one.”

  Pluro fled without a word, nearly falling over his own feet to escape the barn. Anhuset watched him go before turning back to Serovek who stared at Megiddo’s still form with an expression both furious and haunted.

  “His brother saved him twice, and this is how Pluro repays him,” he said. “Megiddo should have let the galla have him.”

  She touched his arm with one claw tip. “Strength isn’t always a gift shared between blood. The gods gifted one man with the courage of two. Your vassal’s failing isn’t that he’s evil; it’s that he’s craven.”

  Serovek stared at her for a moment, his flinty expression softening a little. “You never cease to surprise me, Anhuset. You’re far more lenient about this than I am. History has proven more than a few times that evil is often the spawn of cowardice.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to be forgiving toward Cermak. Megiddo rode beside you into battle, suffered through the bloodletting required by the ancient spellwork just as you did. You saw firsthand what happened to him. In your place, I might not have held back from carving Pluro into pieces at the knowledge he put Megiddo here.”

  His mouth quirked a little. “Saw that, did you?”

  “You were hardly subtle.” She moved closer to the bier. “He looks peaceful. You all did once the spell that made you eidolon took hold. Do you think he suffers pain?”

  Serovek shrugged. “His body? No. His soul? I wish I could say no to that as well, but I think it otherwise.” Guilt and regret seeped into his words.

  She turned fully to meet his eyes, so dark against his winter-pale skin. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  He went rigid once more. “I never said it was.”

  “You didn’t have to. Many who escaped the razing of Haradis are eaten alive with guilt over their own survival, even when they know there was nothing they could do for those who perished.”

  Serovek’s breath steamed from his nostrils on a long exhalation. “Sometimes I think we stand easier under the yoke of our own sacrifices than we do under the yoke of someone else’s.”

  How well she understood that sentiment. The image of his expression at the moment she had stabbed him to trigger the magic that would turn him eidolon remained emblazoned in her mind. Agony, shock, even when he knew what to expect and joked about it until the moment the sword entered his body. She remembered the feel of severed muscle clenching involuntarily around the blade as she drew it out, the weight of his body when he collapsed in her arm, the hot gush of his blood saturating her midriff as she held him.

  He had never forgiven her for that violence because he had never blamed her for it. She carried enough self-blame for them both. He had saved her once. Her gratitude had been brutal.

  Footsteps entering the barn intruded on her dark thoughts. The tread didn’t belong to Pluro Cermak. It was confident instead of diffident, and without fear.

  Janner, one of the High Salure soldiers, appeared at the doorway. His gaze flickered briefly to Megiddo before settling on Serovek. “The wagon is right outside, margrave. We’re ready when you are.”

  Serovek nodded. “Let’s get to it then. No need to linger here any longer than necessary.”

  The room was too small for more than two people to maneuver the bier and carry it through the doorway. Serovek didn’t question whether or not Anhuset was strong enough—for which she was most pleased—only instructed her to stand at one end of the platform while he stood at the other and lift.

  They carried the bier into the main part of the barn where Serovek’s men waited to take a position on either side and act as pall bearers. Anhuset gave up her spot to one of the soldiers to follow them outside where the wagon was parked just beyond the entrance.

  Except for a clutch of hens loitering nearby in case someone chose to scatter feed on the muddy ground, the yard was empty. She eyed th
e manor house and caught a glimpse of faces peering from the windows in both the ground floor and upper stories. Servants, most of them, but Anhuset would have bet her favorite horse that Pluro Cermak and his skittish wife hid among the watching crowd.

  They put Megiddo’s bier into the back of the wagon and strapped the platform down with rope so it wouldn’t move as they traveled over rutted roads. One of the men brought a large blanket and cast it over the monk. The fabric didn’t fall directly onto his body but draped above it as if Megiddo lay within a box whose sides and lid the blanket now covered. Serovek spoke briefly to the wagon driver for a moment before turning to the rest of their escort.

  “Mount your horses. We’re done here.”

  Anhuset guided her horse until it stood alongside Serovek’s. “No farewells for Megiddo’s brother? He hasn’t even seen fit to come out and bid you good journey or thank you for making the trip.”

  The margrave’s upper lip lifted in a sneer as he raked the manor house with a hard stare. “He’s probably too busy trying to find where he misplaced his spine. Gratitude and good wishes from a sniveling coward like that is worth less than his silence.” He tapped his heels to his horse’s sides, and the animal stepped high into a brisk walk. “We ride,” he called to the group.

  By unspoken agreement, the riders arranged themselves into a chevron around the wagon with Serovek taking point lead and two riders behind him and in front of the wagon. Anhuset joined the remaining three soldiers in the back. Megiddo, his bier strapped down securely in the wagon, slept undisturbed.

  They traveled the road that wove back and forth across both Kai and Beladine lands until it curved toward the banks of the Absu to run parallel to the shore. The remains of a wooden bridge stood on either side where the river was narrow, its piles cut away by ax or saw where they would have supported the pile caps, stringers, and deck.

  The soldier riding in front of Anhuset spoke. “I think every bridge that crosses the river has been destroyed. I’ll bet some of Cermak’s men turned this one to kindling when they were running from the galla.”

  The land on this side of the Absu had been protected from the galla invasion by the river itself. Water acted as a barrier against the demons, and the only way they could cross was by bridge, either natural or man-made Cermak’s farmstead had lain on the wrong side of the river, vulnerable to the galla. Their household had been lucky to escape with their lives. Anhuset was surprised that Pluro had returned to re-establish his farmstead, even knowing the Wraith kings had rid the world of the demons’ threat.

  They rode past the bridge’s remains. Farther down the river, a small towboat and barge serviced the small farmsteads in the area. It was large enough to transport the wagon and its cargo down the river along with its escort in two trips. It was at that crossing they’d stay the night in the Beladine village of Edarine.

  Taciturn by nature, Anhuset was content to simply listen, without commenting, to the idle chit-chat the three men riding beside and in front of her swapped between them. She spent the time dozing in quick catnaps as the sunlight carved paths in the clouds overhead and warmed her shoulders. These were the hours she normally slept when she wasn’t on patrol or guard duty, and her horse’s easy gait made her even drowsier. She blinked, focusing her attention on Serovek’s broad back as he rode ahead of them.

  The memory of his revelation from the previous evening worried at her. He’d been married once. To a beautiful woman who wore ribbons in her hair. Affection had laced his voice when he spoke of her, along with old grief. Curiosity for this nameless wife plagued her even now, though she’d cut out her own tongue before she asked for details. She allowed herself a tiny smile, remembering his quip when she told him she wouldn’t know what to do with a hair ribbon. He’d always been forthright in his admiration for her acerbic wit. Maybe because he possessed the same at times.

  The trip to Edarine remained uneventful, though the towboat captain asked more than a few questions as to what was under the blanket in the wagon. While Anhuset considered threatening the man into silence by offering to cut out his tongue, Serovek patiently fielded each question, keeping up a steady stream of conversation without ever answering a single one of his inquiries.

  Once they disembarked, they traveled a drover’s path and reached the outskirts of the town just as twilight chased the sun westward. Serovek sent one of his men ahead to secure lodgings for the night, then turned and called Anhuset to join him up front. “Edarine hosts a good market, even in the cold months,” he said. “We’ll purchase more provisions tomorrow for the trip. There’s an inn with clean rooms and a tavern that serves decent ale and food.” He chuckled at her involuntary recoil at the mention of food. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they don’t serve you the potatoes.”

  She dreaded what supper might have in store, vowing only to taste enough as a gesture of goodwill in case it was foul, which she fully expected. She gestured to wagon behind them. “What will you do with the monk?”

  Frown lines marred his brow for a moment. “I’ll be guilty of hypocrisy for a night,” he said. “Carrying him into the inn so he can stay in a room will bring more attention on us than I care to have. We’ll leave the bier in the wagon and rent a stall in the inn’s stables.”

  “I’ll stand guard,” she volunteered. “I can eat in the stables as well. Me at your table in a common room will draw all the attention you’re hoping to avoid.” It only made sense that she keep watch through the night. Nor did she much relish the idea of pacing the confines of a room in an inn crowded with so many humans.

  “I’m happy to put you on guard duty,” he said, “I can’t think of a more vigilant protector, though you’re always welcome at my table, wherever that may be. Curious eyes be damned.”

  His praise sent another of those awful, embarrassing blushes crawling up her neck to her cheeks. She gave him a quick salute and trotted back to her place behind the wagon, adopting such a forbidding expression that none of the men riding with her dared ask what she spoke about with the margrave.

  Except for a cat that paused in its hunting rounds to watch their group ride past, the streets of Edarine were deserted after dusk. Lamplight filled the windows in the houses lining the main thoroughfare, and a few faces appeared behind them, curious as to who rode through the streets at an hour when the shops were closed and most travelers had found their lodgings for the night.

  The inn where they planned to stay stood at the other side of the town, a two-story structure from which spilled light and music. Several wagons were parked nearby, and numerous horses crowded the yard of the adjacent stables. A figure emerged from the inn to greet them, the soldier Serovek had sent ahead to secure lodgings for them.

  “They had two rooms remaining, my lord. The rest are taken. The innkeeper has said he and his wife are happy to give up their bedroom to the margrave for the night.”

  Serovek snorted. “Generous but not necessary.” He dismounted and tossed the reins to the man. “I’ll speak to the innkeeper. Get the horses settled. Did you find a place for them and for our cargo?” At the other’s nod, he crooked a finger to the wagon’s driver. “Klanek, have Weson show you where to park the wagon and where to unload. Sha-Anhuset will accompany you.”

  The stall reserved for them was spacious, clean, and tucked far in the back of the stables, away from the main traffic of stablehands and riders coming and going. Judging by the size and the pristine conditions of the space, Anhuset guessed Weson had spent quite a bit of Serovek’s coin for it. Fresh straw covered the floor in a thick carpet, and someone had brought in extra saddle padding as bedding, along with an extra unlit oil lamp if needed.

  She, Weson, and two more of their escort carried Megiddo’s bier into the stable, setting it down gently alongside the stall’s back wall. She straightened the blanket in spots where their movements had dislodged the cover to reveal some of what lay beneath. A few of the stablehands had paused in their tasks to watch them pass, but their attention had be
en solely on Anhuset instead of what she and the others transported.

  After assuring her companions that not only was she comfortable in the stall but happy to be there by herself, they left to join Serovek in the inn. The lamp remained unlit, an unnecessary convenience for her and more of a fire hazard than anything. The stablehands drifted away once their work was done, and soon the stable grew dark. Anhuset sat down not far from the bier and reclined against the wall, happy to soak in the darkness and listen to the whuffles and snorts of the horses in the adjacent stalls.

  Hints of blue iridescence shimmered under the blanket covering Megiddo. Anhuset leaned over to slide back a corner of the cover for a look at his still features. Had she no knowledge of how he came to be in this predicament, she might have thought him only asleep.

  She’d first met him months earlier when he had arrived at Saggara with Serovek, volunteering his sword and his soul to fight the galla. Anhuset might have said all of a dozen words to him in the very short time she’d known him, but he’d left her with an impression of ascetic dignity. Even now, his features, expressionless in soulless, ensorceled sleep, retained a certain gravitas that made her want to bow to him in a show of respect.

  The murmur of voices on the other side of the stable wall reached her ears. She stood, passing along the stall’s back wall until she found an opening where one of the boards had warped enough to create a space between it and the board next to it. She glimpsed the silhouettes of three people, one tall and brawny, the other two much shorter and slight. One of the voices belonged to Serovek. The other two were feminine, full of smiles and flirtatious laughter. As their figures moved closer to the stable, their change in positions highlighted more details.

  Serovek headed in the direction of the stable’s entrance, a woman on either side of him, attached to his elbows like arm ornaments. He carried a wrapped parcel in one hand and a tankard in another. His deep voice floated in the night air, amused, seductive, teasing. The women laughed, one nestling his arm into her generous cleavage while the other flipped her hair back to show the graceful line of her neck to its best advantage.