Bruce Blake - Spirit of the King

I won’t miss the opportunity again.

Their lips touched, lightly at first, but passion overwhelmed him. He knew this was neither the time nor place, but he couldn’t help himself. He kissed her deeply, felt her body against his. Love swelled through him, forcing weariness out of his limbs and pain from his hands. He’d have kissed her forever, dying happily of old age in her embrace, but the words he heard ended his thoughts.

He killed me.

He heard them spoken by her voice as though she’d whispered them directly into his ear, but he knew the words didn’t come from her lips because his lips sealed them closed. Khirro tried to pull away and end the kiss but she held him close, eager for more. He indulged her, pushing aside the voice raising a warning in his head. Her lips felt so good on his, until something tore loose inside him.

His body stiffened. Pain in his chest, a feeling like part of his lung separated, leaving behind a burning trail up his throat and out through his mouth. He dropped the Mourning Sword and pressed his hands against Elyea’s shoulders to push her away, the pain in his fingers excruciating, but she wouldn’t release him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Athryn beside them, trying to separate them, but Elyea sent him stumbling away with a stiff shove.

The pain grew. He felt his rib cage, his entire torso, compressed, squeezing his innards, leaving them no choice but to escape through his mouth. He punched at Elyea, but she pinned his arms at his side.

Why is she doing this?

Athryn came at her again. This time, she connected a foot to his midsection; Khirro heard his ribs crack and he went down in a heap. Khirro continued to struggle but strength drained from his limbs. He twitched. Sweat formed on his brow, running down his cheeks. The room grew hot.

Khirro didn’t see the flames engulf his head, but he felt them, hot to the touch. They didn’t burn him, they energized him. The same wasn’t true for Elyea. She released him and stumbled back, her face twisted with rage.

***

His life fills me.

He struggles but he’s no match for me. Neither is the magician. I’m disappointed it’s so easy, I expected more of a fight from a man with such evil flowing through his veins. As his soul enters me, seeping into every crevasse of my body, I see all the things he did to me all over again: the torture, the pain, the anguish. No fantasy of bare flesh and ecstasy this time, that will come when my work’s done and the woman in black comes to reward me.

I look into his eyes as his life leaves him, satisfying myself with the fact he’ll soon be dead. His eyes are wide and scared, like the others, but the draining is taking longer. He has great fight in him, though it will do him no good.

Then his eyes change.

The blaze that burned in them-the reflection of his glowing sword-returns. But he no longer holds the sword, it lays on the floor at our feet. The flame flickers and brightens, like tinder catching in a brisk wind, until his eyes blaze and I feel heat on my face. I breathe deeper but the heat intensifies, searing my flesh until I have to pull away or risk being burned. His soul snakes out of my chest leaving an emptiness begging to be filled again.

I step back, angered at being thwarted and surprised at what I gaze upon. Flame engulfs his head, twisting and moving. It is the burning mask of a tyger he wears, its flaming lips pulled back, revealing blazing teeth. The tyger looks as though it would gladly kill me, but the wearer-his face visible through the flames-looks scared and confused.

The magician makes his way to his feet and moves to the man called Khirro’s side; even he doesn’t get too close to the fiery mask. I raise my sword, ready to defend or attack. I’ll see their lives drain out onto the floor, then. That’s how it will be.

Athryn pulls him away and the flames fade from Khirro’s head. He isn’t burned, his hair isn’t singed, no smoke smolders on him. Curious. What did the woman in black forget to tell me?

“Elyea.” His breath comes in pants, a result of the flames or my attempt on his life, perhaps both. “Why?”

“I’m not Elyea,” I say with a smile and a laugh. I thought I was only taking his life, I didn’t realize I’d get to crush his emotions first. “I am Shariel, the executioner. Your executioner.”

***

Yellow and orange swirled before Khirro’s eyes, coloring the room around him. Elyea stumbled away, hatred and surprise etched equally in her expression. He drew deep breaths, struggling to fill his deflated lungs as Athryn pulled him back, away from her raised sword. The flames dwindled before his eyes, leaving him momentarily blind in the darkness. Only his companion’s grip on his arm kept him from sagging to the floor.

“Elyea,” he gasped. “Why?”

“I’m not Elyea,” she said in a voice not entirely her own. It sounded like another mouth spoke in unison with hers. “I am Shariel, the executioner. Your executioner.”

Khirro shuddered and struggled to keep his knees from buckling. On the floor between them the Mourning Sword pulsed and glowed, the light of the red runes intensifying. Dread collected in the pit of Khirro’s stomach.

“Who sent you, Shariel?” Athryn demanded. “What do you want?”

The woman laughed and the second voice laughed along with her.

“I come to claim the life of the man called Khirro, as is my right.” She looked directly at Khirro. “You will pay for the things you did to me.”

“What I did to you?” Khirro’s mind raced. What does she mean? “I don’t know you, Shariel.”

The woman’s expression changed, softened for a second, but quickly turned back to anger.

“You will pay for what you did to Elyea.”

“But I loved Elyea.”

She stalked toward them and they circled away. Khirro glanced at the Mourning Sword, wondering if he dared make a grab for it. He didn’t want to fight this woman, whether she was Elyea or merely someone who looked like her.

Or maybe she’s something else.

“Your love for Elyea was another of your ways to torture her,” the voices said.

“No. I loved her. I’d never have hurt her.”

“It’s true,” Athryn added. “We all loved you. Khirro most of all.”

He turned his head and nodded almost imperceptibly. Khirro understood immediately.

“I loved you, like I’ve loved no other,” he said following the magician’s lead.

“You didn’t love me… her.” Each voice ended the sentence with a different word. The woman shook her head and corrected herself. “You didn’t love her.” The tip of her blade flickered and they jumped back.

“I loved you. I still do.”

The woman had heard enough. Her lips pulled into a scowl and she lunged. Athryn blocked her blow with a loud clang of steel on steel and Khirro took the opportunity. He somersaulted across the floor and grabbed the hilt of the Mourning Sword, coming to a halt on his feet as the woman swiped at his chest. The sword tip scraped across his leather.

“You will pay for the things you did to her,” she shouted, swinging her sword again, first at Khirro, then Athryn.

She moved with incredible speed, her blade flickering back and forth between them fast enough they barely had time to defend themselves and recover in time to parry or dodge again.

Sweat gathered on Khirro’s brow, but not from exertion. Inside, he felt fire burn as the tyger struggled to break free. He fought it. No matter what voice spoke through her mouth, this was Elyea. He saw it in her eyes, he tasted it on her lips. He didn’t want to kill her, there had to be another way. Blow after blow he kept her steel from finding his flesh. Her skill was incredible. If they were to survive, he’d have to find a way other than by the sword.