Bruce Blake - Spirit of the King

Smoke.

Not fairies floating by his nose, but smoke. And the smell wasn’t in his thoughts, nor the light brought to comfort him. It was here to capture him.

“Here,” the man at the foot of Graymon’s tree grunted.

Startled, Graymon looked down from his perch into rheumy eyes staring up from a decayed face. He screamed and pulled away, his foot slipping on a patch of moss, but he hooked his arm around the limb, keeping himself from falling all the way to the ground. He panted and squirmed, feet searching frantically for the limb he knew to be somewhere below, but his energy waned. All the running and hiding, fear and stress and cold became too much for him. He yelped as his hold slipped and he lurched down a couple of inches.

“Come down, boy,” the dead thing growled.

Graymon looked over his shoulder and saw the man holding the torch high above his head, flames licking at the soles of his damp boots. The boy hooked his other arm over the branch and kicked his feet at the flames, but doing so made him lose his grip. He fell off the branch, scraping his wrists on the rough bark. His hip found the limb he’d been searching for with his feet, spinning him in the air as he bounced off it. He struck the ground hard.

The crack of his arm breaking beneath him sounded loud in his ears, a sound he wouldn’t soon forget, but the pain was mercifully brief as consciousness fled him like dust blowing before a brisk wind.

She took two steps toward them dragging her sword at her side, the tip scraping the floor. Her hips swayed slightly when she moved, just the way Khirro remembered. Just the way they had in his dreams every night since he saw her die.

“Elyea? Is it really you?”

His hands throbbed. Blood rushed through his limbs.

How can this be?

Athryn remained statue-like beside him. She advanced another step; a board creaked under her foot, confirming she was solid, real. In the dim light, Khirro saw this woman’s hair was cut short and ragged, not long and flowing like Elyea’s.

Maybe it’s not her.

But her height, the shape of her body, the sound of her voice, all these things seemed like his lost love.

Khirro’s gut churned. She died in his arms, no doubt about that, but magic lurked in Lakesh, and especially in the Necromancer’s underground keep. Maybe something in the cursed land brought her back, or someone. The thought sickened him.

We left her behind.

They’d collected wood and built a pyre, lit the flames and released her soul to the Gods. If this was really Elyea, then some powerful magic was at work, and Khirro only knew one way to find out if this was her or a trick.

He slid forward a step, but Athryn grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“Who are you?” Athryn asked in a commanding tone.

A moment of silence passed as they both held their breath, not sure if they should hope for the worst or the best; Khirro didn’t even know which was which. Finally, the silhouette spoke again.

“It is I, Elyea.”

***

“Who are you?”

This one is called Athryn. The woman in black didn’t ask me to kill him, but he’s been with the man called Khirro in many of my visions, and he’s with him now. That’s enough to doom him. But do I surprise them now and take their lives with my sword? I’d enjoy watching their blood drain from them like I did so many other men in this place a day ago. No. That’s good enough for others, perhaps good enough for the magician, but I want to feel the man’s life leave him, not merely watch it.

“It is I, Elyea,” I say and watch them both go tense. They have trouble believing I’m their lost little whore, and they are right to. It’s not really who I am, but who I’ll pretend to be to exact my revenge.

The man called Khirro looks like he might drop his sword at my words, then run behind me and sniff my ass like a homeless dog. The blade droops in his bandaged hands. Concern springs to my chest at the sight of the cloth wrapping both of his palms, catching me off guard. I push it away. Why should I be concerned for the man I’m about to kill? Injured hands will soon be the least of his concerns.

“How do you come to be here, Elyea?” the magician asks.

I move toward them, the floor tacky beneath my feet, making me smile. I let them think the smile is for them, not for the memory and thrill of the blood I’ve spilled.

“It doesn’t matter how, what matters is I’m here.”

Khirro moves a step toward me, breaking away from Athryn’s protesting grip. Fifteen feet separate us and I see his features despite the darkened room. The curve of his cheek, the shape of his nose, everything is familiar about him, not just from my dreams and visions. My heart begins to ache and I swallow hard, attempting to quash the unwanted reaction.

This man raped me, killed my friends. Killed me.

“Elyea, I’m sorry,” he says, startling me. Can he hear my thoughts? “If I thought there were any chance you lived, we never would have left.”

He can’t. He’s trying to save himself, begging like they all do. It won’t help him, though I wouldn’t mind hearing him beg and plead. Yes, begging would be good.

“You couldn’t know,” I say keeping my voice sweet and gentle. It’s difficult.

We close the distance between us, coming close enough either of us could reach out and touch the other. Neither of us do, not yet. I see the desire on his face, the yearning gleam in his eyes, but he’s careful, too. A man as evil as he didn’t live this long being reckless. I’ll have to take the lead, so I grit my teeth to bite back my disgust and reach out with my left hand, stroke his cheek with my fingers. A feeling runs down my arm leaving goose flesh in its wake. He flinches at my touch.

“Khirro,” the magician says and I cast a look at him over Khirro’s shoulder, but not one carrying a threat; I can’t warn him away, not when I’m so close. It doesn’t matter, though, the man called Khirro doesn’t take his eyes from mine.

“I’ve missed you,” I say looking into his eyes. They gleam and glisten in the red glow of his sword, flickering as though alight with fire.

“And I’ve missed you.” He moves closer until a few inches separate our faces. “I dream of you every night.”

“And I of you.”

I feel his breath on my face and suppress a shudder, but I can’t do anything about the tingling that springs to life at the bottom of my abdomen. I attempt to ignore it, but it becomes more insistent when his lips brush mine. He kisses me gently. I kiss him back, then our lips press together more firmly. My breath shortens, my body burns. This doesn’t feel like the other men whose souls I ripped out of their bodies. I close my eyes and see him doing things I haven’t seen him doing in my dreams: stroking my bare thigh, gently biting my neck, cupping my breast. I imagine him pressing his body into mine and my eyes snap open.

He killed me.

Latent anger blossoms in my chest, fills my lungs. He tries to end the kiss and pull away, but I hold him close, making him believe I desire him.

Do I?

Making him believe I want him.

Do I?

Not letting him know I mean to kill him.

Do I?

I do.

With our lips joined almost as one mouth, I inhale deeply, exhilaration filling me as I feel the first piece of his soul find its way into me.

***

“I dream of you every night,” Khirro said. He didn’t doubt that Elyea stood before him. Her hair was different, chopped short, but the rest was her.

“And I of you.”

He took a shuddering breath and leaned closer. Night after night he wished to have her back, to have the opportunity to tell her how he felt, show her in a way he never did before. He told her of his love only in the moment of her death, and he’d carried the fact with him like a rock in his heart ever since.