Heart of the King (8 page)

He swallowed around the unbudging lump that had crawled out of his gut into his throat and glanced from his companion to the road. Still nothing to see. He heard the horses clearly now, and the rumble of the wagon wheels on the track, but a bend in the road kept them out of his sight.

Khirro shifted quietly, adjusted his grip on the dagger. It felt hard and out of place in his hand. Had he become so used to the Mourning Sword in so short a time? He supposed so. He’d come to feel the sword had chosen him to wield it, the thought making its loss more difficult. He bit down on a curse at himself for letting it go from his grasp; he’d never have such a sword again.

Months ago, I wouldn’t have cared. I’d have rather had a shovel, rake or hoe. How things change.

The sound of wagon and riders neared and Khirro shook the thought from his mind. A moment later, the first rider came into view.

The muscles in Khirro’s arms and shoulders, in his legs, tensed. Two more riders followed, then the wagon, the reins of its horses tended by a single soldier. Another three riders followed the wagon and, a few paces behind them, slowing the procession, two more followed on foot. Khirro held his breath waiting to see if more would follow them around the bend in the road. None did.

Nine.

Athryn looked toward Khirro and their eyes met. The magician nodded slightly, a gesture asking if he was ready, and Khirro nodded back. He readjusted his grip and gave silent thanks the last two soldiers were afoot—it  would be easier to steal the life from one of them than to kill a mounted man.

As the lead rider drew even with them, Khirro saw he wore full armor and helm, his face hidden, any distinctions impossible to identify in the dim moonlight. The man could have as easily been Erechanian as Kanosee. The second and third mounted men passed, then the wagon was rattling by their hiding spot. Watching the wooden wheel spokes turning, the dull gray cloth jouncing, Khirro wondered how Athryn knew this to be the right wagon. What if he was wrong?

Too late to worry.

The wagon rumbled by, followed by the last riders. The muscles in Khirro’s thighs burned; he tensed further, coiling back to spring at the closest soldier, and time seemed to slow. The wagon’s clatter and the beat of hooves grew loud in his ears. His vision narrowed to the men approaching on foot, the wagon and his companion beside him dimming to blurs.

The foot soldiers passed and Khirro crept out of the brush onto the dirt track, emerging three yards behind them. He rushed the closest one, grabbed him around the shoulders and slashed his dagger across the man’s throat. The soldier grasped and grabbed at his attacker’s arm, but Khirro held on another few seconds before letting go. He expected the limp body to sink to the ground, blood fountaining from the wound and life draining from the Kanosee to provide Athryn the power he needed.

The man didn’t fall. Instead, he turned.

Khirro realized he should have struck again to protect himself, but a chill took hold of him upon seeing the sheet of skin hanging from the soldier’s throat where his knife sliced through papyrus-like flesh. No blood flowed. The man stared at Khirro, one eye regarding him, the other canted at an odd angle, looking toward the moon. His cheeks were sallow, his thin lips drawn up in a dead smile; a hollow laugh rattled and died against the sides of his open throat.

Khirro gasped and stumbled back as the dead man drew his sword and approached; a sliver of moonlight illuminated the splash of red across his armor. The first time he’d seen the armor of the dead men, Khirro didn’t know whether the red splash was paint or blood, but now he was convinced it was sacrificial blood.

The undead warrior brandished his sword and Khirro could only stare, limbs frozen by the memory of the dead soldier who came so close to taking his life at the Isthmus Fortress. Then, the Shaman saved him with his magic, but Bale died along with the king, and Athryn’s magic couldn’t save him this time.

So many have died.

Khirro could do nothing but clamp his jaw tight and brace himself for the killing blow. But it didn’t come. Instead, Athryn’s sword slashed through the soldier’s neck, finishing the job Khirro’s dagger started. The half-rotted head tumbled off the man’s shoulders, bounced once as it hit the road, then rolled away. The limp body followed it to the ground.

“Khirro,” Athryn cried. “Move!”

Athryn’s words released Khirro’s limbs from the spell of the memory binding them. He lurched to his left, narrowly avoiding a strike he hadn’t seen coming from the second foot soldier. The tip of the dead man’s sword hit the dirt an inch from Khirro, flicked dirt onto his foot. The miss threw him off balance and allowed Khirro to dance away and strike a blow. His dagger sank deep into the soldier’s shoulder but didn’t slow him. His sword swung in an upward arc missing Khirro close enough he felt air gust against his face.

The soldier attacked again and again, forcing Khirro back and keeping his meager weapon at a distance. Khirro knew he needed to counter attack, but the man’s sword kept him wary. He eluded yet another slice and dared a look past his adversary at Athryn engaged with two undead Kanosee soldiers.

His magic is our only hope.

Khirro ducked under the Kanosee’s sword and lunged forward, hitting him in the midsection. If he’d been alive, the tackle would have knocked the breath out of him, but instead it made a crumpling noise and threw him off balance enough for Khirro to put the thing down to the ground. He wrested the sword out of the undead soldier’s grip and separated its head from its body. Khirro straightened, his breath coming hard and fast, and located Athryn again.

“Athryn,” he cried rushing toward his companion.

One undead soldier lay at the magician’s feet while he engaged two others. Khirro looked beyond him and saw the wagon had stopped; the soldier driving it peered around its edge to watch the fight. One mounted Kanosee remained by the wagon, horse prancing in place, as another urged its steed toward the fray. A third horse stood idle on the other side of the wagon, its saddle empty.

“Khirro! I must ready my spell.”

The magician glanced at him as he joined the fight, surprising one of the undead soldiers and knocking him to the ground. He finished him with a flick of his commandeered sword and turned to engage the other soldier.

“But there’s no one to kill.”

“Just be ready. I need your blood.”

Athryn felled the second soldier and Khirro attacked the undead warrior who had slid from his horse’s saddle to engage him. He rained blows down on the enemy soldier, forcing him back a step to allow Athryn to retreat from the fight. The other two continued watching but neither moved to help.

The undead Kanosee recovered quickly and counter-attacked, thrusting at Khirro’s belly, following up with an upward swipe. Khirro fell back, parried, danced away. This dead man was better with a sword than the others. They circled each other and, over the man’s shoulder, Khirro saw Athryn had removed his tunic and was searching his tattoos for the words he needed.

Hurry, Athryn.

Steel rang against steel, the power of the dead man’s blows vibrating up Khirro’s arms. Dimly, he thought he heard the sound of Athryn chanting between the clang of weapons, but couldn’t be sure it wasn’t hopeful imagination tricking him. The fight settled into a back and forth rhythm until Khirro’s arms began to tire. The same couldn’t be said of his adversary. Khirro wanted to ask Athryn for help or beg him to hurry, but he worried that, if he did, it would interrupt the magician in the midst of his spell and doom them.

I can do this. The enemy doesn’t even draw breath.

A growl rumbled in Khirro’s throat. He pressed forward, turned his thoughts away from the magician and toward the boy hidden in the covered wagon and what the poor child must have been through. The thought steeled him, forced the fatigue out of his arms.

The undead soldier parried and blocked; Khirro’s blade caught flesh and separated an ear that looked more like a rotted leaf than an instrument for hearing. The contact threw the soldier off balance and Khirro followed the ear severing with a slash across the thing’s throat. It staggered him but didn’t stop it. A second slash and its head toppled. The body lurched on unsteady legs, sword swinging wildly in the thing’s blind hands, before slumping to the ground.

Khirro watched it fall and a short-lived wave of relief washed through him. He looked up from the rotted, lifeless body to see the other three Kanosee soldiers standing before him, two of them with weapons drawn, the third holding a boy in front of him, arm around his neck. The boy’s expression looked equal parts fear and disgust.

“Infidels,” the one holding the boy grated, his voice like a stiff wind rattling dried reeds. “I’ll kill the boy before you take him.”

No one moved for several seconds. Khirro heard the mutter of Athryn’s chant but it would be ineffective without blood to power it. He peeked over his shoulder, not wanting to take his gaze off his adversaries for more than a fraction of a second, and saw Athryn kneeling a few yards behind him. His mask lay on the ground with his tunic. When he looked back, the two Kanosee with their weapons drawn had taken a step forward.

“Athryn?”

The magician continued chanting. The undead holding the boy smiled, his wizened lips opening to show rotten teeth.

“Get him.”

The two men advanced. Khirro raised his sword defensively, the muscles in his arms screaming as fatigue rushed back into them.

“Now, Khirro,” Athryn called.

Khirro clenched his teeth and swiped his arm across the sword’s edge. The steel bit deep and he sucked a hissing breath between his teeth as blood trickled down his forearm, dripped on the ground. The two threatening men sank to the ground like half-full sacks of potatoes, armor and weapons clattering on loose stones. Khirro looked up at the last man, the boy held in front of him, its grip tight around his throat. Despite the holes in his gray-fleshed cheeks, the thin lips and non-existent eyelids, the soldier’s face registered surprise. It quickly changed to an emotion more akin to rage.

“The boy dies.”

Khirro saw the rotting muscle in the thing’s arm flex in preparation to slit the boy’s throat. Panic blossomed in Khirro’s gut. Elyea had told him to rescue the boy; what would happen if he failed? Without time for thought, he heaved the sword he’d taken from the fallen Kanosee at the undead warrior. It spun end-over-end through the air and Khirro watched in disbelief.

Why did I do that?

For Khirro, the world narrowed to the sword, its path, the soldier it was directed at and the boy in his grasp. End-over-end, end-over-end, point, hilt, point. The expression of fear on the boy’s face increased to horror and he squeezed his eyes closed, bracing for the impact. The soldier’s ruined face looked surprised again.

Until the point of the sword entered his right eye and exited through the back of its head.

The undead creature dropped its knife and released its grip on the boy, the force of the impact sending it reeling back, until its feet caught and it tumbled to the ground. The boy cracked one eyelid and started crying.

Khirro rushed past the boy, pulled the sword from the undead Kanosee’s eye, and used it to separate its head from its shoulders. A moment later, Athryn was at his side, hand on his shoulder. A sheen of sweat glistened on the magician’s forehead and bare chest in the wan moonlight.

“Nice aim,” he said and went to Graymon.

Athryn knelt in front of the boy and looked him in the eye. Graymon looked back for a second before collapsing into his arms.

“Don’t worry,” Khirro overheard Athryn whisper. “We are taking you home.”

“Quiet.”

Lehgan had stopped a minute before, his head canted as he listened to the sounds around them, though Emeline didn’t know why; she didn’t hear anything. A nightbird sang from the forest beside the road, trees creaked and brush rustled, and Iana cooed against her breast as if answering the night. Nothing unusual.

“Keep the child quiet, woman.”

Emeline shifted to pull the neck of her dress down, exposing her breast. Iana’s eyes widened at the sight of the freed nipple before she put her tiny mouth around it and closed her eyes. The calmness of feeding the baby flowed through Emeline’s arms and legs, making her forget where they were and all that had happened, until she heard the sounds that had made Lehgan stop.

Horses.

Somewhere around the bend in the road ahead, a horse whinnied and huffed, then she heard the voices. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered the village they’d passed with its funeral pyre and smashed huts.

Lehgan gestured with his head for her to follow and turned his horse back the way they’d come. Emeline sat for a second, staring down the road.

“I knew we should have turned around and gone home when we saw that village. Come on.”

Her husband’s harsh whisper prompted her into action. She removed the nipple from the baby’s mouth, covered herself, and urged her horse to follow.

Iana began to cry.

Emeline looked down at her daughter’s face strained with anger at having her food taken away. A sob broke through, then a second, louder.

“Quiet,” Lehgan said and grabbed her horse’s bridle.

“
Shh.
” Emeline put the tip of her finger to Iana’s lips to calm her, but the baby jerked her head away and sobbed again.

“Keep the child quiet, woman.”

Lehgan put his heels to his horse and it sprang forward, dragging Emeline’s mount along and threatening to unsaddle her. She righted herself and hugged Iana tight to her chest. The baby shrieked.

“Who goes there?”

Emeline's right foot slipped out of the stirrup as she looked back over her shoulder at the words made foreign by the soldier’s Kanosee accent. She saw six or seven mounted men behind them before the horse’s movement made her slide in the saddle. Her foot dug for the stirrup but found only empty air. Instinctively, she let go of the reins and hugged Iana tight as panic surged through her at the feel of her dress slipping on the saddle leather. She lashed out a hand, grabbing for the horse’s mane, but missed.