Bruce Blake: Spirit of the King

We’re being herded like animals. But where?

“Athryn, wait,” he called, already slowing his pace. There was no way for the magician to know the trail was closing behind them. “Something’s wrong.”

The magician turned his head, blond ponytail bouncing against his back, and opened his mouth to reply. Then he disappeared.

Khirro skidded to a halt at the edge of the pit, toes dangling over the lip and sending dirt cascading into darkness below. If he hadn’t slowed, he would have followed his companion into its depths.

“Athryn!”

He fell to his knees a safe distance from the edge lest the ground give way and spill him into the hole. Khirro squinted, struggling to see his friend, but couldn’t. Snarled roots held together the earthen sides that fell away into absolute blackness, deeper than he could see. A woven mat of vines and branches still hid a portion of the opening.

A trap.

“Athryn.” Khirro lay on his belly, head hung over the edge. “Athryn. Are you all right?”

A groan, quiet but distinct, floated up to Khirro on the earthy smell of loam and dirt. He breathed a relieved sigh-his companion had survived the fall. Now he had to hope he wasn’t badly injured and find a way to get him out.

But who would set a trap in the middle of the forest? In Lakesh.

The Mourning Sword still in hand, Khirro put his hands palms down at shoulder width on the loamy earth, readying himself to stand and intending to search for vines to braid into a rope with which to pull Athryn out.

The feel of fingers gripping his ankles stopped him, surprised and suddenly afraid. He twisted, trying to break free and glimpsed a flash of inhuman green skin-so green it was difficult to discern from the leafy background or believe he’d seen it at all.

And then Khirro tumbled into the hole, pushed by the green hands, and light and autumn sky receded above him.

Therrador crept from the tunnel and replaced its camouflaged cover, déja vu sending a shiver through him. The last time he used this method to slip out of the fortress, he’d gone to the salt flats and met with a woman he didn't know at the time was the Archon, and she'd revealed Graymon’s abduction. He gritted his teeth, determined this foray would yield a very different result.

This time he stole from the fortress to get his son back.

He paused and looked across the flat land toward the Kanosee camp fires-closer now than they were before. The Archon had moved her camp as close to the walls as seemed prudent given the Erechanians' fear of the undead soldiers that made up a portion of its troops.

Somewhere among those beasts is my son.

Therrador pulled the dark cloak tight around his shoulders to block the cold wind blowing in off the Bay of Tears and snugged down the helmet he’d taken from a sleeping Kanosee soldier to disguise himself. At the Archon’s insistence, the Kanosee were free to roam the Isthmus Fortress, but he didn’t think she’d be so happy with an Erechanian finding his way into the Kanosee encampment.

Especially not the king.

Crouching, Therrador scuttled across the open land, hand held close to the Kanosee short sword at his belt. That poor soldier would wake up in his underclothes with a headache, wondering what happened. It pained Therrador not to simply kill the man as he would kill any enemy, but he didn’t know how powerful Sheyndust’s powers were or if she’d have known. She might already know he’d left the fortress to rescue his son, but he had to take the chance.

First, he’d have to get into the camp, then he’d have to guess which amongst hundreds of tents was the one in which he’d find Graymon.

He didn’t think they’d kill him if they discovered him-especially when they realized who he was-but that didn’t ensure his safety. Best to be careful.

The autumn wind tugged at his cloak and tossed his long beard, unbraided to further hide his identity. The campfires grew closer. A noise made him pause and he crouched, becoming a boulder or a stump in the dark.

Twenty yards away, a figure paced. He knew guards would be posted at the edge of the camp, no matter whether a so-called truce was in place or not.

Therrador breathed shallowly, thankful for the carelessness of the sentry. If the man had been quieter, or stationary, he likely would have walked into him. The king waited and watched as the soldier, silhouetted against the campfires, took slow steps away, the butt end of the spear he carried scraping lazily along the ground. When he’d gone a few yards, Therrador inched forward, his gaze fixed on the man’s back to see if he’d continue on. After a moment, the man’s shape faded into the dark; Therrador hurried past silently.

The edge of the Kanosee encampment lay ten yards ahead. He wanted to rush in, to rifle through tents until he found his son, but Therrador forced himself to wait, to gauge how many men remained in the camp and where they most likely kept Graymon.

The smells of cook fires wafted to Therrador on the salty breeze. Pork, robbed from the stores of the Isthmus Fortress. He clenched his teeth, biting back anger at how things had played out so far, but the blame lay with no one but himself. It was his jealousy and anger that led to this. He could hardly be mad at the Archon or the Kanosee without shouldering a large measure of the responsibility.

Therrador pushed the thoughts from his mind-the time to set things right would come. Not now, though; as long as the Archon held Graymon captive, he could do nothing but what she asked of him without endangering his son. He started forward again, satisfied the sentry wouldn’t likely return shortly. His nerves jumped and danced, controlled but ready for battle.

He reached the outer line of tents and dropped the black cloak from his shoulders, exposing the Kanosee mail beneath. The man from whom he’d taken the armor was slightly smaller than himself and it restricted his breathing, pinched his skin if he turned too quickly. Such discomfort would have meant nothing years ago when soldiering was his world, but king’s advisor was a much easier life. He shifted the mail shirt, pulled it down, suddenly identifying with Braymon’s oft-heard lament about going soft sitting on the throne. It seemed the same had happened to him.

Thank the Gods experience doesn’t wane with age.

Touching first the hilt of the short sword, then the dagger on his right hip, Therrador stepped across the camp’s threshold, out of shadow and into firelight. He chose a spot where he saw no one around and looked left then right, wondering which way to go.

There will be a guard, that’s how I’ll know which tent.

He went right and passed the debris of camp life littering the ground: gnawed chicken bones, fruit and vegetable rinds, worn through boot soles. A rat the size of a farm cat scuttled away before him, a chunk of some rotted food in its jaws. Therrador’s lip curled-he’d never have allowed a camp to look like this, no matter how long the occupation.

Of course, I never commanded soldiers raised from the dead.

Therrador strode the path between tents like a man who belonged. Some tents he passed by lay silent, others hid snoring men or hushed conversations. He ignored them all, concentrating on where he might find Graymon.

If I had a captive, I’d keep him near the center of camp.

He took an abrupt left and headed toward the heart of the Kanosee encampment. Ahead, three men sat around a fire, one of them rotating a spit skewering the leg of pork he smelled earlier. Therrador relaxed, trying to look natural, but his mind tensed, ready to throw his body into action at half a second’s notice.