Bruce Blake - Spirit of the King

Khirro heard running water, the sound growing louder with their advance. They passed a wide crack in the tunnel wall which opened on a cavern-where the sound of water was coming from-and he slowed to peer through, but the man leading him pulled hard on the rope, making him stumble. His knees hit the ground painfully and he tumbled onto his side.

The man behind said something Khirro didn’t understand, the timbre of his voice residing somewhere between words and grunts, and shoved his torch toward Khirro’s face. He flinched, expecting heat, but felt none. Instead, he saw glowing worms slithering and writhing beneath a translucent gauze keeping them in place to protect the torch-bearer, but easily released if the occasion arose.

The younger man tugged on the vine rope, prompting Khirro to struggle to his feet.

“Where are you taking me?” Khirro asked and received a poke in the ribs from the man behind. He hoped he hadn’t touched him with the worm covered torch.

They passed an increasing number of side passages as they traversed the tunnels at a fast walk for ten more minutes. Khirro dared a glance into a few, careful not to slow his pace, but most were unlit. He could only allow himself to be led and hope they’d take him to Athryn.

As he walked, Khirro thought about the creature he saw that cast him into the pit. His glimpse had been brief but he clearly saw green skin, scales. The men leading him through the tunnel didn’t fit the description.

Might have been paint.

That would make sense for someone attempting to camouflage themselves. But the quality of the flesh made him doubt it. Its texture had looked scaly, inhuman.

Khirro's captors stopped without warning and he walked into the back of the man leading him who then collided with the next one in front of him. The young man holding the rope looked apologetic but the other man growled angrily, reminding Khirro of a trip through another tunnel and of another man angered at being bumped.

What a different trip this would have been if Gendred, Rudric and the Shaman lived.

The king would have been restored and Elyea and the others would still live.

But I wouldn’t have met them. Wouldn’t have met her.

The second man spoke in their unintelligible language, his voice gruff with anger. Khirro stared at him, watching annoyance harden his features. Someone pushed him from behind, prompting him toward a break in the tunnel wall. As he approached, Khirro saw a latticework of wide branches lashed together with thin twine held in place across the doorway by two thick logs propped against it.

Khirro stood before the makeshift jail cell while two of the men removed first the logs, then the lattice. The space beyond was dark; he looked into the gloom, searching for any indication of what fate may await him on the other side, but saw nothing. Another shove sent Khirro stumbling across the threshold, his wrists still tied, the rope trailing behind him. The younger man threw the rest of the rope through the doorway then helped replace the lattice and prop the logs back in place.

The men looked at him for a minute; one of them spoke a few words and the group continued down the tunnel in the direction they’d been leading Khirro, their glow worm torches fading to nothing in the distance.

Khirro turned slowly, already working his wrists, trying to loosen the rope. The muscles in his thighs tensed, ready to leap one way or the other, or to attack if necessary.

Attack with what?

“Khirro? Is that you?”

“Athryn!” Khirro moved toward the voice, treading carefully while his eyes adjusted to the dark. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” the magician replied. Khirro’s foot bumped something soft. “All right enough.”

Khirro knelt beside his prone companion, his eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the lack of light. He put his hand on Athryn’s arm, thankful to find him alive.

“Where do you think they’ve taken us?”

“I do not know. Too many turns and twists to keep track.”

Khirro’s brow furrowed; Athryn’s voice seemed to come from a different place than it should. Perhaps a trick of the cave walls. He put his hand on the magician’s chest, felt the shallow rise and fall of his breathing. A noise-the scuff of a boot on stone-made Khirro look up, confused and alert.

“Athryn? Where are you?”

“Over here.”

The chest Khirro’s hand rested on didn’t move when the magician spoke, the pattern of breathing didn’t change. He jerked his hand away and stumbled back from the person lying on the stone floor before him.

“We’re not alone,” he said.

“No,” a voice that didn’t belong to Athryn said from behind him. “You’re not.”

What good is a soldier who can’t hold a sword?

Therrador stared at the red spot on the bandage wrapped around his hand. He wanted to scream and cry out in rage at the loss of his thumb, but worry for his son kept him from doing so. If he didn’t handle things correctly, he might never see him again, and he couldn’t know where the woman might have eyes and ears. He hoped she would let the boy live, though he may never know if that came to pass.

It seemed his stupid bravado had done nothing but ensure he’d never see the boy again.

He fussed with the bandage, scratched under its edge, and glanced about the sparsely furnished room. The wooden table was no comparison to the massive marble slab in the council room at Achtindel. Patches of its surface were discolored where some drunken knight or another had spilled wine, another spot splintered and worn as though a knife had been taken to the edge. Thinly padded chairs, not meant for comfort, surrounded the table. While the council room in the capital was designed for show-a place to pass laws and policy-the room at the fortress was used for many purposes, few of them glamorous. Here, bloodshed was planned in earnest, the deaths of good men cursed and victories celebrated.

Therrador snorted at the thought. It would be a long time before any victories would be celebrated in Erechania again. At least by Erechanians.

And there’s only one man to blame.

If he didn’t get the boy back, everything he’d done would be for naught. He’d turned an entire kingdom upside down for Graymon. He fidgeted in the chair, put his hand in his lap so he wouldn’t have to look at the reminder of where his thumb used to be.

How did she know I’d be there?

She’d been in the fortress when he crept out, he was sure of it, yet she appeared in the tent at precisely the right moment. There was more to the woman than he knew; she possessed great power and he finally had to admit he couldn’t overcome her on his own.

He needed help, and his ability to rule was already thrown into question by giving the fortress over to the enemy. Would anyone even listen to him after he admitted his treason?

The brass-banded wooden door swung open as though in response to his thoughts and four men entered the room. Therrador stood to greet them, wounded hand concealed behind his back. The men stopped short and bowed shallowly at the waist.

“You majesty,” Hanh Perdaro said for all of them.

“Gentlemen,” Therrador responded struggling to keep his voice even. He didn’t relish the conversation he was about to have. “Take a seat.”

The men arrayed themselves around the table in their accustomed positions: Sir Alton at Therrador’s right hand, Hu Dondon beside him; Hanh Perdaro at the king’s left with Emon Turesti at his side. Therrador sat and slid his bandaged hand onto his lap, hidden from sight beneath the table. He surveyed the men. It was the first time the full council had met since they confirmed Braymon’s death and Therrador’s right to rule. He wished he could go back and change it all, then his son would be safe.