Bruce Blake - Spirit of the King

Wary of what the meat might be, he ate the vegetables first. A tasteless, bland potato and carrots cooked to the edge of mush, but they tasted as good as any other potato and carrots he’d ever eaten. When he finished the vegetables- nanny would be proud of me- he picked up the chunk of meat, eyeing it dubiously. Blood dripped from its edge, spattering on the plate. He sniffed it and, finding nothing unusual to its smell, brought it to his lips. He hesitated for a second before the aroma forced his teeth into the meat, tearing off a piece and chewing it with gusto.

Delicious.

Graymon made short work of it, forgetting his worries of poison and dead men while his stomach grumbled thankfully for having been fed. He sucked juice from his fingers and licked every scrap off the plate before wiping his face on the sleeve of his dirty tunic. He smiled.

If nanny was here, she’d get mad at me for that.

Aching loneliness grasped his heart and melted his smile. Would he ever see nanny or his da again? He clenched his teeth and wiped his hands on the thighs of his breeches.

What would a brave hero do?

He pondered the question as the wind whipped against the canvas. Gorgo, king of the dragons, would roast all the bad men with his fire-breath, but Graymon couldn’t breathe fire. In fact, he didn’t want to kill anyone or know if a man already dead could be killed. They probably could-they needed to eat and stayed close to the fire in the cold-but slaying anyone was out of the question. He thought harder, his eyes narrowing. He couldn’t breathe fire, he couldn’t fly, he couldn’t eat the men or cast a spell. What then?

A brave hero would escape.

Nodding to himself, he crawled across the floor of the wagon and hunkered down in the corner, waiting for the wind to blow again, hoping it would move the canvas far enough to see out. A gust howled across the sea, rippled the wagon’s covering, but it didn’t pull away from the wooden frame. Graymon resisted the urge to curse like he’d heard his father do, somehow convinced that, even as far away as she was, his nanny would know. If the wind wouldn’t help, he’d have to take a chance and move the canvas himself.

He decided to wait for another gust, so if anyone saw, they might think the wind moved it. Several minutes passed and Graymon began to wonder if the wind would ever blow again, then a gust strong enough to rattle the wagon blew in off the water; he pulled the canvas aside a crack.

The scene outside his confined space hadn’t changed since the soldier dropped off his dinner. Eight dead men huddled around the fire speaking in low grunts, chuckling occasional laughs that sounded like a dagger pulled across a whetstone.

Can’t go that way.

He crawled back along the floor boards and pulled himself up onto the bench, his thigh pressed against the wooden rail on the other side of the wagon. He shifted the canvas aside an inch and peered into the twilight. A few yards away, a line of trees devoid of leaves stood beside the track. Low shrubs grew at their bases forming a thicket where a small boy might conceal himself. If they were still on the land bridge-and judging by the proximity of the shore on the other side, they were-then the Small Sea lay somewhere on the other side of the trees. The lone soldier posted to guard this side stood facing the trees, as though he was there to protect their captive from the forest, not to stop him from escaping.

They don’t think I’ll try to escape.

He had that to his advantage, but how to get past the guard? He didn’t have to wait long for the answer.

One of the men by the fire called to the guard and though Graymon found his gravelly voice difficult to understand, he thought he called him to eat. The man between Graymon and the trees threw a grunted answer back, then left his post to partake in the meal. Before his mind could assess the situation too closely, Graymon pulled the canvas open farther and reached back for the itchy blanket he’d need to keep himself warm.

His hand brushed the pewter plate sitting on the bench behind him and he hesitated.

What if they come to get the plate?

He paused a second, half-expecting the other flap to open and one of the dead men to catch him. His mind worked quickly and he knew immediately what a brave hero would do. He sidled across the width of the wagon, grabbed the plate, and pulled open the flap on the soldiers’ side.

“I’m done,” he yelled and flung the plate toward the group.

They growled at him. One poked his spear toward him, but none rose off their seats of logs and rocks as he dropped the canvas. Seconds later, they were laughing at his antics. Graymon returned to the forest side of the wagon, his breath short with nervous excitement.

I fooled them.

He waited another minute to be sure he had; blood rushed to his head and the meat in his belly became unsettled, churning against the sides like a ship tossed about by a maelstrom. He grasped the edge of the wagon to steady himself from feeling woozy and, after a deep breath to fortify himself, peeked over his shoulder. No decayed face had appeared to check in on him. He gathered the blanket, pulled back the canvas, and threw his leg over the wagon’s edge.

Please don’t come. Please don’t come.

He dangled half-in, half-out of the wagon, his foot searching vainly for the ground. Too far. He swung his other foot over and lowered himself as far as he could. With the wooden edge pressed painfully into his armpits, the soil below eluded him. He glanced at the far side of the wagon, convinced one of them would lift the canvas any second, or that he’d feel a bony hand on his shoulder.

Don’t come. Don’t come.

He kicked his feet, knowing that the ground couldn’t be far below, but panic began to well up in him. Settling himself, he closed his eyes and imagined the wagon. He’d needed one of the soldiers to lift him in when they embarked on their journey, so it was too high for him to climb into himself, but it was only a wagon. He gathered his courage and let go.

The short drop jarred Graymon’s teeth and sent him to the ground with a grunt. He shook his head to clear the impact and peered under the wagon. From his spot in the dirt, he saw the guards seated around the fire and counted them quickly, happy nanny had used his blocks to teach him how.

Nine.

They were all there. No alarm had been sounded, so they hadn’t seen him. He collected the blanket and shuffled away from the wagon, eyes fixed on the soldiers. They nodded and growled and laughed but none of them rose from their seats. He didn’t take his gaze off them until his feet rustled the brush and fallen leaves at the foot of the trees; only then did he dare turn away.

Two steps into the thicket, one of the horses hitched to the wagon whinnied, freezing Graymon in his spot. He held his breath, straining to hear over the wind flapping the canvas and rustling the foliage, but no sound of footsteps came to him. He crouched to see under the wagon-the dead men hadn’t moved. Graymon let his breath out slowly and eased into the brush.

When he reached the trees, he squatted and pulled the blanket around his shoulders and over his head for camouflage. It itched his cheeks and neck. He watched the soldiers, waiting to see if they’d check on him; his heart raced. They’d shown little interest in their charge so far; he hoped it wouldn’t soon change. The wind blew, seeming to come from all directions at once, and Graymon pulled the blanket tighter, hugging his knees to his chest to conserve heat.

What if they stay here for the night? I’ll freeze.

He clamped his jaw tight, worried the chatter of his teeth might attract the guards’ attention. Leaves swirled around him, whipped into a frenzy by the salty sea wind, so he buried his nose in the blanket, nostrils flaring at its musty odor. Even the heavy wool struggled to keep out all the chill.