Bruce Blake - Spirit of the King

“I want to say bye to da,” he cried, tugging at the Archon’s grip.

The rotting soldier behind him growled, but the woman silenced it with a gesture. She pulled on Graymon’s hand, spinning him toward her.

“You can say good-bye to your father,” she said, her voice gentle and firm at the same time. “But quickly.” His hand slid out of hers but he didn’t move for a second, worried she might be tricking him. “Go on.”

Padding across the dirt floor, he looked sideways at the rotting guard who snarled back at him. Graymon averted his eyes and knelt at his father’s side, reached out to take his hand but thought better of it when he saw the blood soaked cloth wrapped around it.

“I sorry, Da,” he whispered glancing nervously at the woman and the guard then back at his father. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

Therrador’s eyelids fluttered. His eyes darted around the tent, unfocused, unsure, until they found Graymon and his lids opened wider. He sat up straighter, grunted at the effort.

“Graymon?”

“Da.”

The boy smiled and reached out for his father, his fingers brushing the sleeve of his jerkin before a firm hand on his shoulder pulled him away. He looked up and saw the green-cheeked soldier looming over him and could no longer hold back the tears.

“Da,” he squealed, feet kicking as the guard lifted him off the ground.

Therrador reached for him, blood dripping from the soaked bandage, but a guard near the door crossed the tent and kicked him in the ribs. He fell back, hand dropping into his lap.

“Graymon,” he coughed before the guard kicked his breath out of him.

The boy thrashed against the undead thing’s firm grip; its fingers dug deep into his shoulders, grinding against the bone. Tears rolled down the child's cheeks as the thing drew him across the pavilion, away from his father, toward whatever fate the blond woman had in store for him. The thought of a comfortable bed and toys ceased to matter, he only wanted to be home with his da.

Graymon screamed and yelled as the creature dragged him through the tent flap into the cool night. The sight outside the tent quieted him instantly. More undead soldiers lined up one beside another down the row of tents, more of them than Graymon possessed numbers to explain. They stood at attention on both sides of the narrow path through the tents. At the end of their rows waited horses and a covered wagon.

“It is time to leave,” the woman said making Graymon jump. He hadn’t seen her emerge from the pavilion.

“I want my da,” Graymon demanded through clenched teeth, making his best angry face. He’d seen it work for his father when he was talking to his men. This time when the woman responded, she didn’t smile and her tone scared him.

“Enough.”

Graymon’s expression drooped, his lip quivered. The woman gestured and green-cheek led him between the rows of soldiers, his feet dragging and scuffing in the dirt. The boy twisted in the creature’s grip, turning enough to see two of the undead guards drag his father out of the tent, each with a hand under his arm.

“Da,” he yelled again, but the woman stepped between them, blocked his view.

Green-cheek wrenched his arm painfully, pulling his gaze back to the front. Graymon sniffled and wept, tuning his eyes away from the rotted faces leering at him. The black-painted wagon drew closer with each step, bringing with it whatever horror lay beyond.

I wake from a dream and open my eyes to white and gray clouds smeared across blue sky. This isn’t the beautiful sky I longed for, but I don’t care anymore. I have another purpose now. One day I’ll return there, but not until I’ve made him pay for his sins.

It’s the same dream every time I close my eyes since my savior showed me my path: the man. Each time he appears in my dream, some new atrocity he performed is revealed. This time I saw him visit three women I can’t name but know were my friends. He hurt them, tortured them, killed them. He raped one after killing her, as he raped me when I was a child. The thought brings the taste of bile to the back of my throat, so I sigh a deep breath of fresh air to wash it away. The dream also ended as it always does, with my sword in his stomach and blood spilling from his mouth. My nausea fades; I smile.

I stand and orient myself. My clothes are damp with dew and I brush the sheen of water from my shirt and breeches, neither recognizing the clothing nor recalling dressing in them. I don’t put much thought to it. If I wasted time on the unexplainable things experienced since meeting the woman in the black cloak, I’d have time for no other thought.

I’m standing in a field of thigh high grass, autumn-faded to the color of straw. Maple and oak trees encircle the clearing, leaves of gold, red and brown decorate their branches and litter the ground at the feet of the trees. I want to find it beautiful, but my thoughts contain too much ugliness. Perhaps I’ll return here to find out if it truly is beautiful when my task is complete and I’ve exorcised the vileness.

I run my hand through my hair cut short and spiky by the sword at my hip. I remember her cutting it, right after she told me who I am.

You are a new person, Shariel, she said, and she was right. Whoever I was is gone, dead, killed by the man I’ve been sent back to seek vengeance on.

I will have revenge for the woman I was.

Birds twitter and sing in the trees, calling out to each other in the crisp autumn air, but I hear other sounds, too. Boots scraping through grass, leather creaking, a scabbard brushing against a pant leg. I turn toward the sounds, forcing calmness in my breathing while hoping it is the man, hoping this is my opportunity. She said she’d bring him to me.

It’s not.

Three men approach. I don’t know them or don’t remember them, but I know the situation. I’ve been here before. And the man, this Khirro , was there then, too. I await them, quelling my disappointment, keeping my hand near my sword.

“What’s this, Barrack?” one of the men comments to a companion. “A comely wench has lost herself in the wilds?”

They speak a language I shouldn’t understand but do. I don’t speak, hoping to draw them closer.

“It’s a good thing she has tits, Dar,” one-presumably Barrack-replies. “With her hair cut like that, I might have mistaken her for a man.”

They’re close enough I could graze their bellies with the tip of my sword. I don’t; that would be too easy.

The third man feels compelled to comment. “Naw, no mistakin’ her for a man. Too pretty for a man.”

I smell them: sweat and ale and dirt. They smell of lust. The mix of odors threatens to turn my stomach and I commit to transforming their stench to the more agreeable aroma of fear.

None of these men are the man I seek, but neither are they good men. They’ve committed sins, brought evil upon the world, and the God Steel will make them pay. I wait while they surround me, thinking they’ll do as they like with me. They will be unpleasantly surprised.

“What are you doing here, little lady?” the second man asks.

“Waiting for you,” I say, both surprised and not surprised I speak their language. Kanosee, it is called.

They circle me, each of them appraising me, but they’re not gauging my fighting skills like they might do a man, they’re imagining me without my clothes. Their mistake.

The first man, Dar, steps up in front of me, an arm’s length away.

“What be it that you’re waiting for, exactly?”

“I’m waiting for a man,” I say, aware he hears my statement differently than what I mean by it.

“Mmmm.”

The sound is guttural, the primal noise of an animal. A knot rises to the back of my throat, but it’s not fear, it’s disgust. I suppress it. I’m no longer the victim-she’s dead. I’m in control here.