Heart of the King (23 page)

If someone stole her, they would head to the courtyard, toward the gates.

She ran back the other way, past her hut, down the street. Corpses leaned against walls or lay in the street; she paid them no attention.

Half a building’s length from the courtyard, she stopped and listened, expecting the sounds of soldiers. She took two more cautious steps, holding her breath, listening intently.

Nothing.

She crept forward a few more steps, scanning the ground for clues without knowing what to look. An item of clothing? The blanket?

Blood?

There was blood. Lots of blood. It was splashed on walls and collected on the ground in dried brown puddles. Could some of it be Iana’s?

No!

A shiver wracked her spine and chattered her teeth, the sound loud in her head, loud enough she almost didn’t hear the unmistakable cooing sound Iana made in contentment. It came from in front of her, from the courtyard.

Emeline rushed into the open, uncaring about her own safety, only about her daughter’s. She stopped a few paces into the courtyard, looked down to her left and saw her child on the ground, still bundled. A line of mud stained the blanket, but at first glance, Iana looked otherwise unscathed.

Emeline scooped her up, searched around inside the blanket. Iana laughed her baby laugh as her mother’s fingers tickled her sides; the young mother found nothing amiss with the baby. She looked into her child’s eyes and laughed a humorless, nervous laugh.

“How did you get here?” she said. “What happened to you?”

Iana cooed an answer and Emeline hugged her close.

“Don’t do that to mama again.”

She half-turned to retreat to the relative safety of the hut when she noticed the two men in the courtyard. Twenty yards separated them, and Emeline and Iana were farther away still, but fear gripped her immediately. She didn’t want to be caught out. She didn’t want whatever terrible thing happened to the nice man who brought them food to happen to them.

Then she recognized the men and knew she couldn’t leave.

***

During the time he spent in the fortress before the Kanosee attack, Khirro had never heard it so quiet. Not even close.

They passed under the open portcullis and into the deathly silence of the courtyard, their footsteps unnaturally loud to Khirro’s ears. He gripped the hilt of the short sword tighter and put his left arm in front of Graymon, stopping him.

Bodies littered the courtyard, some clad in Kanosee armor, some Erechanian, others wearing civilian clothes. The heads had been removed from every corpse.

Graymon reached up and took Khirro’s hand, squeezed it tight.

“It’s all right,” Khirro said suppressing a shudder. “They can’t hurt you.”

He didn’t necessarily believe his own words.

They took a few steps, moving slowly, Graymon pressed close behind, making it difficult to be quiet. Khirro watched the corpses closely, looked into doorways and windows, but he saw no one left alive, nothing moving.

When they’d gone ten paces without incident, Khirro stopped to look to the top of the wall—the  wall walk was empty. He looked left, then right and realized that, from where he stood, he could see the staircase where his journey started and, not far from it, the place where an undead soldier came close to ending his adventure before it began.

A donkey brayed and Khirro whirled around, sword raised. The sudden movement threw Graymon off balance and he dropped to his knees as the ass trotted across the courtyard, winding its way through the corpses spread across its path. It disappeared down a side avenue and Khirro relaxed a little.

“Are you all right?” He kept his voice low.

Graymon nodded and Khirro pulled the boy to his feet. He let go of Khirro’s hand to brush dirt off his knees, but stopped, his eyes looking past Khirro.

“Who’s that?”

“It was a donkey. Nothing to worry about.”

“Not the donkey,” Graymon said, pointing. Khirro heard a trace of fear in his voice. “That.”

Khirro turned slowly and felt tension flood back into his limbs and apprehension knot itself in his gut.

The man stood precisely on the spot where the undead soldier came close to ending Khirro’s life.

He wasn’t there a moment ago.

Khirro couldn’t see the man’s face; he wore no armor, bore no insignias or colors, but was instead dressed in plain brown breeches and dark green coat, as a civilian worker might be. If that was the extent of it, Khirro might have relaxed.

The man’s hand resting on the hilt of a sword at his hip kept him from doing so.

Khirro swept his arm back, ushering Graymon behind him, his teeth grinding unconsciously as he debated how to proceed. Approach this man as friend, or enemy? If he misjudged the situation, it would mean their lives.

“Ho there,” he called out finally and took a step toward the man.

He didn’t respond, with words or movement.

Khirro raised his left hand in a friendly wave. Only then did he remember the remnants of dark mud and red berry juice smeared across his armor. He’d left it on as they made their way to the fortress, expecting they would meet more Kanosee soldiers along the way and thinking some disguise better than none. Athryn’s magic had long since worn off, but he’d thought they would still have the best chance if he attempted to pass himself off as one of the dead men. Of course, they’d seen no one, and now he wore the markings of a monster smeared across his chest as he stood facing a man most likely an Erechanian citizen.

“I’m a friend,” he said advancing a few more paces. “I mean you no harm.”

The fellow didn’t respond. His right hand remained on the hilt of his sword as his other dangled at his side. His dark hair hung to his shoulders, a short, patchy beard hid his expressionless face. Khirro decided he needed to take a chance.

He shifted to one side so the man would see Graymon hidden behind him.

“This boy and I have returned from a long journey. We seek Therrador. We seek an audience with the king.”

The ragged fellow began walking toward them. Without moving his gaze from the man, Khirro crouched to speak to Graymon.

“Wait here,” he said. “Don’t move unless I tell you. And if I say so, run and find a place to hide.”

He dared a glance away to look at Graymon, to make sure he understood. Fear filled the boy’s wide eyes, but he nodded.

“Good boy.”

Khirro stood and began walking, intending to meet the man as far from Graymon as possible. He let the short sword dangle by his side to avoid looking threatening, but as long as the man’s hand remained on his weapon, he would be ready.

As the distance between them lessened, he saw the man’s features: strong nose, dark eyes. He stood the same height as Khirro, held himself in a similar manner.

Khirro stopped.

“Lehgan?”

A year had gone by since he last saw his brother, perhaps longer. Other than the changing of the seasons, time had been passing with little notice of the days for Khirro. Lehgan hadn’t worn a beard the last time he saw him, his hair was shorter, but there was no mistaking his own kin. A smile broke across Khirro’s lips and he chose not to recall his brother’s contribution to his being in this place, or that he had hidden to avoid his duty to the kingdom when the conscriptors came.

None of it mattered now. Here was his brother approaching him in the middle of a deserted fortress, leagues from home. A sliver of suspicion crept into Khirro’s thoughts, tempering surprise and happiness, but he pushed it aside. His brother would have a good explanation for his presence; perhaps he’d joined the king’s army, after all.

“Lehgan! What are you doing here?”

He moved forward more quickly and, as the space between them diminished, he noticed the blood in his brother’s beard and staining the front of his shirt and pants. Lehgan’s expression didn’t change when he saw Khirro; his eyes were blank and void of recognition. An alarm sounded in Khirro’s head as Lehgan whipped his sword from its scabbard, aiming a blow at his brother’s head.

Khirro caught the strike with the short sword, the blades clashing in front of his face. Red light flashed and he saw the runes scrawled along the black blade of his brother’s sword.

The Mourning Sword.

The force of the blow made him stumble back; disbelief weakened his knees. His brother. The sword. Attacking him.

How did he get the sword?

“Stop, Lehgan. It’s me, Khirro.” He wiped desperately to remove mud and berry juice from his chest piece. “It’s a disguise.”

Lehgan came at him again, the sword cocked back to strike, his lips curled in a hateful scowl. Khirro saw blood on his teeth and stumbled back in retreat.

Steel clanged against steel, the noise loud in the empty fortress. Graymon cried out, his despaired shout all but lost in the echoes. Khirro accepted another blow, the impact of it shaking his arms. Sweat formed on his brow.

“Lehgan, it’s me. It’s Khirro: your brother.”

His words fell on unhearing or uncaring ears as Lehgan struck again and again. Khirro defended himself, but didn’t return the attack. How could he swing a sword at his own brother?

The Mourning Sword flickered beside Khirro’s ear, and he heard it whisper to him, but not of his death, instead it told him the secret of Lehgan’s demise. In its brief murmur, he knew the Archon had murdered his brother, and that this was no longer his sibling standing before him. The revelation gave him pause and the hesitation was enough for this dead Lehgan to surge forward and slam his shoulder into Khirro’s chest.

Khirro’s teeth clunked together hard as he hit the ground; the jolt loosened his grip on the short sword and it flew out of his hand. He stretched his arm to reach for it, but Lehgan’s foot came down painfully on his hand. His brother loomed over him, the Mourning Sword held in front of him, its pulsing runes casting an evil glow.

Khirro lay on the ground looking up at his killer, his mind racing. After all the months, all the blood and death he’d seen or caused, here was the time he needed a warrior’s instincts. Here was the time he needed the spirit of the king.

He thought of fire. He pictured the flames in his mind, imagined them engulfing his hands, climbing his arms, jumping to his aggressor's clothes and consuming him. His chest clamped tight, regretting thinking such things, but he knew he had no choice.

He’s my brother.

He remembered them playing together as children in the days before his father’s accident, when they still behaved like brothers. They’d play fight using sticks as swords, trap squirrel and rabbit together, swim in the brook. On rainy days, they jumped from puddle to puddle, seeing who could create the biggest splash and end up the wettest.

The sword whispered again:
He’s not your brother. Your brother is dead.
 

The flames didn’t come. Khirro held his arm up, blocking the sun from his eyes, but knowing it couldn’t block the arc of the sword as it came down to end his life, his journey. End the hope of the kingdom.

“Khirro!”

He didn’t look away when Graymon called his name. He regretted the boy would have to watch him die.

If this is my time, then let it be so. Let it be quick.

“Lehgan!”

Khirro’s heart jumped. It wasn’t Graymon’s voice he heard—the  boy didn’t know his brother’s name.

Then who?

Lehgan flipped the Mourning Sword around to hold the hilt in both hands with the point aimed at Khirro’s chest. Khirro heard footsteps, something scrape against the ground, and worried for Graymon coming to help him.

“No, Graymon. Run. Hide.”

Lehgan drew the sword up, a laugh Khirro had never heard from his brother rattled in his throat.

“I’m sorry, Lehgan,” the voice said; Khirro finally recognized it the instant the short sword cut into his brother’s side.

Lehgan’s head turned and the Mourning Sword drooped in his grip. Khirro took advantage of the hesitation, rolling away and jumping to his feet. Before his brother could react, he put his boot to his chest and snatched the sword out of his hands. Lehgan stumbled back; Khirro swung the blade from right to left, dimly aware of the glow of the runes and the whisper of steel through the air, and removed his brother’s head with one swing.

The decapitated head hit the ground with a meaty thud and the body stood for a second before its knees gave way. It fell to reveal the woman standing behind Lehgan, a babe cradled in the crook of her left elbow and the short sword dangling in the grip of her right hand. Her eyes were sunken, her body thinner and more fragile than Khirro remembered.

The sword dropped from her hand and she crumpled after it, falling to her knees as sobs tore from her throat. Khirro stepped toward her.

“Emeline?”

He threw the Mourning Sword aside and dropped to his knees beside her, reaching out to touch her back as it heaved with sobs, but he didn’t touch her. She cried and held the baby tight to her chest, and the baby cried, too. Khirro took his hand back and waited, recognizing this was likely the second time she lamented Lehgan’s death.

Lehgan is dead.

He felt numb, as though he’d been submerged in snow and all his nerves were frozen. His brother was dead, and he’d come to the fortress with the woman Khirro once thought the only woman he’d ever love. The two of them, together.

But you knew, didn’t you?

He had. Somewhere deep inside him, he’d known from the start. And after the passing of time, and the things he’d been through, she was no longer the only woman he’d ever loved, for he’d also loved Elyea.

“Khirro?”

This time, the voice unmistakably belonged to Graymon. Khirro twisted around so quickly, he nearly toppled over. Graymon stood a few yards away, arms dangling by his sides, a look of fear and desperation on his face. Tears streaked his cheeks.

“Graymon.” Khirro held his arms out for the boy to come to him. “I thought I told you to run.”

The boy shuffled toward him, in no hurry to reach him. When he did, he remained outside of Khirro’s reach, avoiding his embrace.

“Who're they?”

Khirro looked toward the others.

“That,” he said pointing at Lehgan, “was my brother. Once. Before the bad lady made him into a monster. And this is my friend, Emeline. I don’t know the baby.”