Heart of the King (7 page)

“I need to rest,” she called to her husband riding a few lengths ahead. He didn’t react, so she assumed he hadn’t heard. It had taken three days ride for him to speak to her again, but things were slowly returning to normal between them.

“Lehgan, I need to rest.”

This time he looked back over his shoulder.

“Already? It’s only been an hour since we set out.”

“Yes. I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

Lehgan slowed his pace, dropping back to ride beside his wife. He reached out and took her chin in his hand, turned her head toward him and looked into her eyes.

“You do look tired. There’s a town an hour ahead where I planned to stop for supplies. Can you last that long?”

She half-smiled at him and nodded. “I can.”

“Good.”

He took his hand from her chin and took hold of her horse’s bridle, then urged his own to increase the pace. Emeline held the reins tight and concentrated on keeping her seat as Iana snored gently against her chest.

***

Emeline dozed in the saddle, an accomplishment she knew experienced horsemen did regularly, but something she’d never imagined herself doing. Not until her mount halted, the lack of movement jarring her awake, did her eyelids flutter open. A shock of panic grabbed her and she glanced down at the bundle held against her chest. Iana looked back up at her and cooed, the small sound settling her mother. Emeline smiled, touched her babe’s face, then raised her head to ask her husband why they’d stopped.

The question never passed her lips as she saw the column of smoke rising from amidst the group of buildings ahead. It swirled and twisted skyward until its gray-blackness thinned and dispersed high above. The color and thickness of the smoke suggested it wasn’t made by a baker’s oven, a potter’s kiln, or a blacksmith’s forge. The smile Iana had put on Emeline’s lips faded.

“Lehgan...?”

Her husband raised his hand to silence her. He sat like that for a moment, arm raised, his other hand holding the reins tight, before whatever had gripped him loosened enough for him to spur his horse forward. Emeline’s steed, tethered to one side of Lehgan’s saddle as the pack mule was tethered to the other, followed.

They moved slowly, the horses’ hooves scraping the dirt track leading into the town. It looked bigger than their own village of Kandan, but most towns were. They rode past a row of dwellings at the outskirts of the town with thatched roofs and walls sealed with clay, all supported by rough-hewn timbers. This could have been any town in the kingdom.

It could be our village.

At first, they saw no one. Emeline stretched her neck to peer through a door open a crack but saw nothing in the dim interior. They guided their horses between the huts and, as they neared the center of town and the source of the smoke, Emeline saw the first sign of violence.

The hut’s door had been torn free and the beam beside the door splintered as though someone gained entry with an axe. Most of the hut’s contents lay in the doorway or on the ground outside the hut; there was no one inside. Emeline looked away and saw the wall of the house on her left had been charred black.

“What happened here?” she asked.

Lehgan didn’t answer. His gaze stayed straight ahead, his shoulders tight and rigid. Emeline spurred her horse to catch up to her husband and saw the grim expression on his face.

“Lehgan?”

She looked into his eyes, and at the set of his jaw, and realized the expression wasn’t one of intensity. His eyes appeared watery and he didn’t respond except by raising his hand to point farther down the street ahead of them. Emeline looked and saw a man seated in the doorway of a hut leaning noticeably to the right. Lehgan reined his hose up in front of the man.

“Excuse me, sir,” he began, but his voice cracked. Lehgan cleared his throat and started again. “Excuse me. What happened here?”

The man sat hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees; his long, unwashed hair hung across his face. His feet were bare and his breeches frayed at the bottom. He didn’t respond.

“Sir?”

A few more seconds passed before he raised his head. His eyes were wide and a little bit wild, like he’d had a fright and they didn’t return to normal; a trail of dried blood began in his hairline and ran the length of his face. Emeline instinctively covered Iana’s face with her hand. The man’s gaze flickered from Lehgan to Emeline and the look of fear in his eyes became wariness—the  presence of a woman with the unarmored man must have convinced him they were no danger. He sniffed deep and spat in the dirt at their horses’ feet.

“Kanosee.”

The word left his mouth like he’d spit out a rotted chunk of meat.

“Kanosee?” Lehgan repeated.

“Aye.” The man nodded toward the center of town where the column of smoke rose skyward. “They did this.”

Emeline followed his gaze and, for the first time since they entered the village, saw other people. An old woman peeked out of the doorway of a hut with a partially caved-in wall. The woman ducked back inside when she saw Emeline looking at her. Farther down the track, others began to emerge: two naked children streaked with dirt, a man walking with a pronounced limp, a woman who’s plain gray shift was torn and hanging down leaving her left breast exposed—she  either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“When did this happen?” she asked.

“Day before yesterday.”

“Gods,” Lehgan interjected. “And the fire still burns?”

“It wasn’t the Kanosee what set that fire.”

Emeline stared at the man, waiting for him to explain and afraid he would. He looked away from the people moving into the street and back at her. Their eyes met for a few seconds before he averted his gaze back to the dirt between his knees.

“That’s the town burning the dead.”

Emeline gasped and clutched Iana closer to her chest. The baby cooed and blew a bubble with her nose.

“Burning the dead?” Lehgan said; the man didn’t respond.

“Lehgan?”

He looked over his shoulder at Emeline and she saw fear on his face before he caught his slip and replaced his expression with one more assuring. His gaze met her eyes, then scanned up and down the narrow lane.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said and spurred his horse on, guiding them toward the center of town.

Toward the smoke.

Emeline looked back at the man as they rode away. He continued staring at the ground and she noticed his shoulders shaking, as though he hung his head to hide his tears. Her chest tightened around her heart.

“Lehgan,” she said facing her husband, “do we have to go this way?”

“There is no other way.”

They rode past the old woman’s hut, but she’d disappeared inside. The two naked children stepped out of the way and one of them—a  boy—stuck  out his tongue as they passed, the small act of youthful defiance bringing a hesitant smile to Emeline’s lips. The limping man hobbled out of the path of their horses, then they rode by the younger woman, who stared at them, breast still exposed. Emeline gestured, encouraging her to cover herself, but she paid no attention. The woman’s vacant eyes stayed upon them, looked through them like she saw them but didn’t comprehend.

They left the woman behind as they continued down the dirt track toward the pillar of smoke sending murdered villagers to the fields of the dead. Emeline looked back at the woman. She stood in the same spot, breast exposed, staring after them, but when she saw Emeline looking at her, she grabbed the front of her dress and lifted it. Under the skirt, blood streaked the woman’s thighs.

“Beware the dead men,” she screeched.

Emeline averted her gaze and urged her horse faster to ride beside Lehgan, the increased pace bouncing her child against her chest. Iana hummed to herself.

“Lehgan, did you hear her? What did she mean?”

He shook his head, gaze fixed on the lane in front of them. “I don’t know.”

She opened her mouth to speak, to say words to ask him to comfort her without asking, but she stopped. As they neared the town center, she smelled the fire burning, tasted its acrid smoke on her tongue.

“Get us out of here, Lehgan. Please.”

He grunted in response and continued along the dirt path. Closer to the fire, the damage done to the huts and hovels increased. They passed one which had been burned to the ground, the heat of it leaving its neighbor charred. Another hut lay in ruins, either pulled or pushed over, all four walls lying on the ground, the roof spilling into the street forcing their horses to pick their way through the rubble.

Emeline pulled the bodice of her dress up over her nose to block the distasteful odor, then did the same for Iana with the edge of the sling. Each step closer to the funeral pyre mounted more distress in Emeline. She held Iana tighter against her chest, and squeezed the sides of her steed until her thighs ached.

Finally, as they rode close enough to see flames licking toward the sky, a second dirt lane opened on their right. Lehgan guided his horse down it and Emeline’s followed. Though she didn’t want to, Emeline’s gaze remained on the flames after they turned down the second lane. Two men approached the fire, a third person carried between them, one gripping the corpse’s arms, the other its legs. At the edge of the bonfire, they swung the body back and forth three times, then heaved it into the flames sending a swirl of sparks skyward. Emeline’s eyes followed their path toward the heavens, part of her disgusted and appalled at what happened here—at  the smoke, at the smell—but  another part of her hoped those tiny sparks really were pieces of someone’s life released from their earthly ties to spend eternity among the Gods.

A half-destroyed shack blocked her view of the fire and she turned her face to her husband riding slightly ahead of her, looked at his broad back. Finally, she looked down at Iana who had fallen back to sleep. Emeline closed her eyes, concentrated on keeping herself from breaking into tears.

“I’m glad that place is behind us,” Lehgan said after a few minutes.

Emeline opened her eyes and looked up. They’d already passed out of the village and were riding through farmland toward a forest in the distance. The area looked not unlike their own home.

“Yes.”

She shifted in the saddle to look back at the village, at the smoke rising into the sky, and breathed deep, thankful for the fresh air.

‘The day before last,’
the man had said. Two days ago the Kanosee ransacked the village. If they were riding the direction from which she and Lehgan came, they would reach their town, their farm, her parents, in less than a week.

Emeline shifted in the saddle, facing forward again, and shook her head. They had seen no other sign of a raiding party’s passing before this, so she had no reason to believe danger would come to her parents. Then she remembered the woman’s cryptic words about dead men and shuddered.

We are all in danger.

The sliver-thin moon provided barely enough light for Khirro to see his hand in front of his face, certainly not enough to see his companion crouched beside him clothed in black and wearing a cloth mask the same color as the night. If not for the quiet sound of Athryn's shallow breaths, Khirro might have thought himself alone. He leaned toward his companion.

“Are you sure this is the right place? We haven’t missed them?”

Athryn turned his head, the wan light finding his eyes and making them twinkle.

“They are close.”

A simple plan: surprise the guards and rescue the boy.

Since they were in Kanos, his captors would have no reason to be on alert, so taking them unaware should be easy. Getting here, however, had been difficult; the nearer they got to the border, the more people and soldiers they’d seen on the road. To avoid them, they crept through fields and forests, forded streams instead of using bridges. The journey took twice as much time and effort as it might have.

Once, while hidden in the forest close enough to see the road, they’d watched a covered wagon pass. A soldier sat at the front of the wagon, guiding the horses while three others rode close behind. Khirro had wanted to attack, convinced the wagon held the boy, but Athryn insisted it didn’t. They remained in hiding and watched, a knot forming in Khirro’s belly as it disappeared in the distance. He didn’t usually have difficulty trusting Athryn but, on that occasion, he’d been unable to discern if the magician made his decision based on magical knowledge, intuition, or simply a hunch.

The longer they crouched in the forest, the more Khirro suspected his companion may have been wrong about the covered wagon. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, careful not to make too much noise, the empty scabbard where the Mourning Sword should have been scraping the ground. The sound reminded him of how woefully unprepared he was should the wagon they sought be well protected. He couldn’t imagine it would be anything but.

Beside him, Athryn stiffened and cocked his head to one side. Khirro reacted by holding his breath and listening to the quiet of the night. Trees creaked at their backs, their nearly-bare branches scraping against one another as an owl called out, waited for a response and got none. Khirro concentrated on listening, but heard nothing. Even when Athryn nodded, he still hadn’t heard anything other than the trees and the nocturnal bird-of-prey. Another thirty seconds passed before Khirro discerned the sound of hooves. He leaned close to Athryn’s ear.

“Can you tell how many?”

“The sound of the wagon makes it difficult,” the magician replied in tones so quiet, it might have been a breeze rather than words. “Five, maybe more.”

Khirro gulped and unsheathed his dagger. He looked at it in his hand, the steel catching light from the shallow moon, and wondered how this small weapon would serve him against five Kanosee soldiers—or  possibly more.

You don’t have to kill them all yourself. Stick to the plan.

He only needed to get close enough to kill one man, that would give Athryn the power and opportunity to call his magic into the fray.

All I have to do is get close enough to a group of mounted, trained soldiers to kill one of them. With no sword. That’s all.