Bruce Blake - Spirit of the King

“Why do you want to kill us? What did we do to you, Elyea?”

“I am Shariel now,” she said catching Athryn with a kick to his knee as he dodged her sword. He stumbled away. “You are responsible for all the sins against her. Don’t deny it.”

“What sins? What have I done?”

She gritted her teeth and swung hard, the impact vibrating the Mourning Sword right down to Khirro’s wounded hands.

“You raped her,” she said, striking to emphasize her words. “You tortured her. You killed her.”

“No.” Khirro danced out of range of her attack. As good as she was, he held his own, a fact that left him surprised. “I love you, Elyea.”

“I am not Elyea,” she screamed and turned her attack on Athryn, driving him back. Fire raged in Khirro’s chest but he used all his will to suppress it.

There is another way.

He focused his thoughts on the Mourning Sword, taking his attention from the fire struggling to break free. A glow began to fill the room, dim at first but growing brighter. Panic blossomed in Khirro as he thought his inattention had allowed the flames free, but the light didn’t flicker like fire. He looked at the Mourning Sword, surprised and relieved he’d accomplished what he set out to do. The black blade and red runes disappeared, replaced by bright golden light. It attracted the woman’s attention and she forced Athryn back then turned to see the source at the same time the vision spread out in the room between them.

***

“I am not Elyea.”

I turn on the magician; he’s good with a sword, but not as good as me, or as the man called Khirro. If I dispose of Athryn first, I’ll be able to give my full attention to killing Khirro. Then he’ll shut up and stop telling me he loves me. He doesn’t love me, he never has. They are empty words he speaks in an attempt to make me spare his life. Only the woman in black loves me.

I hammer my sword against the magician’s again and again. He shuffles away, barely defending himself. I see a difference in him, but I’m unsure what it is. I don’t know this man, yet I have a sense his face is changed; it bore a scar once. It doesn’t matter, what matters is that he must die.

Another thrust, another blow and his sword falters, dips toward the floor. I raise my weapon to finish him when I notice the light. Has the man called Khirro burst into flames again? He’ll be more dangerous if he has, so I face him, leaving the magician’s death for now. Light fills the room, but it comes from his sword instead of his body. I don’t spend any time wondering about it. It’s the people in the room who garner my attention.

A young girl-five-years-old, I know-lays on the floor, shivering. A man, naked, enters the room and creeps across the floor toward her but his face isn’t the face of the man called Khirro, he’s someone else. He’s her father.

Another girl, a few years older, performs a dance for a man wearing a crown. She moves gracefully around the room removing veils from her dress-her flimsy clothes hide welts and bruises covering her arms and back. Hatred builds within as she performs. She glares at the man watching, but he isn’t the man called Khirro, he has another man’s face.

Three women cower, threatened by a man with a knife as he questions them. He kills the dark-haired one and seizes the young blond. A minute passes before he kills her and the older woman. As he faces me, I see an empty eye socket and web of scars across his face. This isn’t Khirro, either.

“Stop it,” I yell, but the visions continue. I see Khirro rescue the woman, Elyea, from a giant. He saves her from a lake of corpses. Finally, I see her killed protecting him. It isn’t Khirro who wields the sword, it is another.

“Do not believe any of it.”

The voice startles me but I don’t look around for it, I know it’s in my head. It’s the voice of the woman in black.

“Do not believe his sword of lies, it does only his bidding.”

“Lies!”

I feel the magician close behind me and whirl on him before he can react. My sword rakes his stomach, a place I inexplicably know he already bears a scar. His sword drops and he sinks to his knees. I turn my back on him and face the man called Khirro. The visions are gone, along with the sword’s light.

“You’re a liar and sinner, a murderer and rapist. It’s time for you to pay.”

He shakes his head and backs away but he isn’t afraid. I feel the power in him.

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Elyea. You loved me, too.”

“Shariel,” I insist and rush him.

I did love him sometime, I’ve come to realize this truth, but when and why are beyond me. I put thoughts of love, kindness, and mercy out of my mind, replacing them with visions of his blood spilling on the floor I use to coax the satisfaction of vengeance into being. I strike again and again, and he defends but doesn’t take the offensive. This disappoints me because I know I’ll wear him down soon. I’d hoped for more of a fight.

He catches my first blow with his shield, but it splits it in two. He shakes it from his arm and I make the first cut across his left arm. It’s not deep because I didn’t want it to be. The next is on his right thigh, enough to send blood running down his leg but not enough to hobble him. Not yet. Strain shows on his face and sweat runs down his cheeks.

“Elyea-” he pleads again, but I cut him off with a short cut on his cheek. He doesn’t cry out. I laugh.

“Shariel,” I growl and cut deep into his right forearm. The black and red sword clatters on the floor and a growl rumbles in his throat. I smile, ready for the challenge, as the flames start.

***

Blood trickled down Khirro’s arm and thigh, his legs went rubbery under him.

Have to keep going.

He peered over the woman’s shoulder at Athryn on the floor behind her, hands held in front of his midsection. He didn’t have much time, but still Khirro fought the inferno raging inside him, clinging to the thought that Elyea was trapped inside somewhere and she still loved him.

She told me she did.

“Elyea-,” he started, but her sword opened a cut on his cheek. She laughed. Heat filled Khirro’s body, racing through his veins, rejuvenating his muscles.

“Shariel.”

Her sword sank into the muscle of his forearm. He dropped the Mourning Sword and the fire spilled over like a volcano erupting, a growl rumbling in his throat as he finally let go. If Athryn was to live, this was the only way.

Flames engulfed the world before his eyes. Through them, the woman’s face no longer looked like Elyea’s. The flames twisted it, threw shadows dancing across it, and he knew the face he saw belonged to the second voice he’d heard speaking through her mouth. This face was beautiful, too, but the evil etched in the cut of her chin and the color of her eyes was plain. Khirro saw this like an observer watching from a safe place where he possessed no influence on what happened. His body took over, doing what needed to be done, and he allowed it.

The woman swung her sword and Khirro sprang aside. A flaming paw lashed out from where a bandaged hand had been a second before. It connected with the woman’s sword hand and her weapon spun away. Flame spread to the sleeve of her shirt.

She closed the distance between them, a dagger drawn from her belt, her actions showing no fear though a hint of it flickered in her eyes alongside the blaze reflected in them. Fiery claws raked her shoulder and thigh and the flaming tyger pushed forward, driving her to the floor. It climbed atop her, paws on her chest, claws digging into flesh. The tyger leaned forward until its blazing whiskers brushed her cheek.

Khirro wrestled to regain control before the inevitable happened, but through the fire he felt a claw pierce her chest and find its way between her ribs into her lung; another pressed against her heart. The woman’s body stiffened, a look of shock crossing her face, and her breath hissed through taut lips.