Bruce Blake - Spirit of the King

Be b…brave.

When the dead man finally strode past his hiding place, Graymon held onto his breath until his lungs burned before letting it out through his nose. And then he began to shake uncontrollably.

“Fystal said he saw them go in as the sun rose. And people saw someone standing…” The man raises his eyes toward the tower, like he’s afraid of talking about it.

“Hmm,” the second man grunts. He’s much bigger than his companion, probably seven feet tall. His back is to me.

“There’s only two of them,” the first man tells him.

“Did they look like they had anythin’ good?”

“Dunno. Weapons for sure. Fystal said one has a blade what glows.”

“Hmm.”

They look across the avenue at the door to the spire, pondering what to do. I know what they’ll do, they’re criminals, after all, and criminals are predictable. They’re going to storm in and kill them both and take their belongings. Or that’s what they think they’re going to do. I might have something to say about it.

The tall one scratches his ass through his dirty breeches; the ragged legs of his pants hang an inch below his knee and look as though one step would separate the seam. Must be difficult to get clothes that fit when you’re huge, especially when everyone you steal from is smaller than yourself.

“His blade glows, eh?”

“That’s what Fystal said.”

A few yards separate my hiding place from where they stand reviewing their options, but they have no idea I’m here. I’m a shadow, a wraith. Another minute passes and I begin to wonder why the delay. Usually the prospect of plunder is a strong pull for men of their ilk. Something else holds them back. Is it the tower?

“Wanna go now?” the smaller one asks.

“Hmm. What about the demon woman what’s been killin’ everyone?”

I smile. It’s me stopping them.

“Pfft.” The smaller one slaps his knee. “There’s no demon woman. Someone got mad and killed them, that’s all.”

“A whole tavern full?” The big one scratches his ass again-fleas or nerves.

“Sure. Happens. Fystal says-”

“I don’t care what Fystal says,” the big one snaps, afraid.

The smaller one turns to him, his eyebrow crooked. “You ain’t afraid of a woman, are you?”

Ass scratch. “No. No, I ain’t afraid of no woman.”

“Let’s go then.”

I’ve heard enough. It’s time to make them afraid of a woman.

“Where do you think you’re going, gentlemen?” I step out of the shadows and the smaller one, still facing his companion, sees me. His eyes widen. The big man goes stiff. I finger the pommel of my sword and smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? You ain’t afraid of a woman, are you?”

The smaller man’s eyes narrow, his face hardens. There’s spittle at the corner of his mouth and his cheeks flush to pink. Clearly, he’s afraid but intends to show me he isn’t. In a blink, his hand goes for his sword. I dart in, reaching past the big man; my blade flashes from the shadow and takes the smaller man’s arm off at the elbow before his steel clears the scabbard. His sword falls harmlessly back in place as his arm falls harmlessly to the dirt. He screams.

I step back, waiting to see what the big man will do. With his size, he could be very dangerous. Despite all the instincts and skills the woman in the black cloak gave me when she brought me back from the fields of the dead, I’m not ready for what he does.

He runs.

His long legs, thick as small trees, take him ponderously into the avenue with loping strides. I follow him, slicing open the throat of the smaller man on my way by, stopping him mid-scream. I don’t have to chase the man-he’s likely too scared to do anything but hide under his covers-but I can’t chance him coming back with more men and possibly killing the man called Khirro. If it’s not me who kills him, I’ll get neither my reward nor the satisfaction of revenge.

The man’s big but not particularly fast. I catch him and put my sword between his pumping legs sending him sprawling to the flagstones. He scrapes his chin and bumps his shoulder but no real damage done. Not yet.

“Please.” He rolls onto his back and I see his face for the first time-despite his size, he’s not yet old enough to shave. He scrambles away from me, one hand held up defensively. His feet churn dust from the stones of the street. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Why not?” I ask sauntering after him, the tip of my sword pointed at his chest.

“I ain’t done nothing.”

“You’re in Poltghasa. You’ve done something.”

“No, I’m innocent. It was all a mistake.” Tears roll down over the peach fuzz on his cheeks, sobs choke his voice. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t rape the girl, my brother did. She only said I did. You already killed my brother.”

His words stop me. Why do they sound familiar? He must see my hesitation because his begging continues.

“Really. She was a whore anyway. How can a whore be raped?”

His last words dispel all pity and doubt from me. How did I let myself be distracted? This almost-man is an animal, a monster, much like the man I hunt, and the world is a better place without him and all like him. I grit my teeth and lunge. He lifts his hand in a vain attempt to save his skin and my blade cuts off two of his fingers before the tip pierces beneath his chin and continues its path until it thumps against the inside of his skull. I push harder until it pokes through the top of his head.

“Whores can be raped,” I say knowing he no longer hears. I twist my sword for my own pleasure-no more damage can be done to him. “And giants can be killed.”

I pull my sword out of his head and wipe the blood and brains on his soiled tunic. A quick glance around shows me that, if anyone had been watching, they’ve all found better things to do. I smile down at the dead man then leave him to return to the alley across from the tower, what little brains he possessed seeping out of the top of his head.

I have to protect my prey.

***

Khirro woke with a start.

“What was that?”

He looked around the dim chamber, disoriented, and saw the curved walls and the stairway winding into the musty heights and remembered: the king’s blood, the curse, the journey, all the death. He remembered Poltghasa and climbing the stairs. He didn’t remember climbing down and falling asleep.

“The cry of a man in pain.” Athryn stood near the door, sword in hand. Khirro climbed to his feet and yanked the Mourning Sword out-the blade glowed fiercely.

There’s blood in the air.

“Should we go?”

Athryn shook his head and gestured toward the light squeezing through the crack under the door.

“Not until nightfall. Go back to sleep, I will wake you if the need arises.”

Khirro nodded and took half a step away from the door, the nerves in his arms and legs tingling. In Poltghasa, screams were probably common, but he wondered how much safety the tower provided should someone want to attack them. It didn’t seem anyone had entered in a very long time but they couldn’t be sure. He slid the Mourning Sword back into its scabbard and settled on the floor, lying for a long time staring up into the tower’s black heights or watching his companion guard the door. When they heard no more screams, no one forcing their way through the door, he finally found restless sleep and dreamed of Elyea.

***

Darkness falls. Soon they’ll come out to search for food, and then I’ll make my move. That’s when Khirro dies.

No one else approached the tower through the rest of the day; the corpses in the street deterred any who might have considered it. All the better; any more scenes might have warned them they’re being hunted.