Bruce Blake - Spirit of the King

And then we are descending through our black outlines.

I look back over my shoulder and glimpse a final rectangle of sapphire outlined in emerald before the blackness takes it all. I grieve its loss but turn my thoughts to Khirro and whatever I must do for him. Whatever it is, I will succeed.

After what the woman in black made me do, I owe him everything I can give.

Khirro knelt beside her cooling body, his head hung.

Twice I caused her death.

He rocked slowly on his knees, like a child comforting himself, but found no comfort in the movement or in his thoughts. The first time she died, it wasn’t he who swung the sword that took her life. He couldn’t make the same claim this time.

I’m not worthy of her love.

He barely noticed Athryn’s hand on his shoulder. A shuddering breath rattled down his throat and he slowly raised his eyes. Dried brown blood stiffened the magician’s shirt while beneath it the gash had become nothing more than another pink scar marring the black scrawl tattoos inked on his stomach.

“We must go,” Athryn said, his tone gentle.

“You used her.” Khirro spoke through clenched teeth to hold anger and grief and despair from spilling out in a torrent. “You took a piece of her soul to heal us.”

“I did.”

“You had no right.”

“Did you want her to twice die for naught? If we perish, all is lost.”

“You had no right.”

Khirro pushed Athryn away and jumped to his feet, hand grasping the hilt of the dagger hanging from his belt. The magician took a step away and raised his hands defensively.

“Khirro, you have been charged with a task of monumental importance. It outweighs all else.”

“Damn the task.” The blade sang against its scabbard as he pulled it free. “And damn the blood flowing in my veins. I didn’t ask for it.”

“None of us did. I only wanted-”

“Damn what you wanted.” He flicked the dagger in Athryn’s direction and the magician jumped back. “I’ve twice lost the woman I love. Is anything worth that?”

Athryn’s face grew stony, his voice firm.

“Do you forget I lost my brother in our journey? Or that Shyn gave his life for a man he barely knew? I am sorry about Elyea, but everyone has sacrificed.”

“All for a king we didn’t know.”

“For the kingdom which gives us life.”

Khirro shook his head. “I go no farther. I can’t.”

“You must. You may be willing to let Elyea die in vain, but I will not let it be so of Maes.”

“Watch your tongue or I’ll remove it like you took out your brother’s.”

He pointed the blade toward Athryn’s face. The magician stepped forward until the steel pressed against his throat, glaring at Khirro from behind the blond hair spilled over his face.

“Do what you must. At least I will die knowing I did everything in my power to honor the one I loved.”

The muscles in Khirro’s jaw knotted and he swallowed hard. Athryn’s expression softened.

“It was not Elyea, Khirro. You saw how she acted. You heard what she said. Were they the words and actions of the woman you loved?”

“No,” he replied and lowered the dagger. “But it was her face.”

“Yes, it was. But it was not simply Elyea’s face you loved, was it?”

“No.”

“Then this was not her.” Athryn moved closer and took the blade out of Khirro’s hand. He placed it on a table and embraced his companion. “Elyea would want her sacrifice to help ensure your success, Khirro. She gave her life so you might continue.” He paused, swallowing hard to contain his own grief. “They all did.”

It was her at the end.

“I’m sorry, Athryn.”

“It is understandable.” He moved back, gripping Khirro’s shoulders at arm’s length. “You are the bravest man I have ever known. The Shaman could not have chosen better.”

Khirro wanted to smile at his companion’s words, to thank him for the sentiment, but found himself unable. He didn’t feel anything like a brave man.

I’ve done a few brave things, but that doesn’t make me a brave man.

He nodded. “We should go before the sun rises.”

Khirro retrieved the dagger and the Mourning Sword, sliding them back into place at his hip, then picked up half of the broken shield. He deemed it unsalvageable before dropping it to the floor and slinging his pack over his shoulder. Athryn led him across the room and Khirro followed, careful not to set eyes upon the corpse lying in the middle of the floor.

***

People flooded the streets of Poltghasa as though news of the demon-woman’s vanquishing had already traveled from one side of the city to the other. Drunken groups of men rollicked down the avenues, cussing and fighting. Moonlight flashed on steel as brawls broke out while Khirro and Athryn watched hidden in the shadows.

Where were they all before?

The streets had been empty the previous night, like they’d entered a city populated by ghosts.

Did one woman cause so much fear?

Athryn led them down an avenue but they didn’t get far before a crowd clogged the way. Pressed against the wall, they crept close, but the throng stretched the width of the boulevard. They melded into the mob, pushing their way through while trying not to attract attention. Men and women around them cheered and jeered. Khirro paused and stood on his toes to peer over the people in front of him but saw little through the forest of waving arms. A man beside him slapped his shoulder and laughed loudly.

“My money’s on the dogs,” he shouted in Khirro’s face, spraying him with saliva and foul-smelling breath.

“Fuck that,” another man said. “The boys’ll take 'em down.”

Khirro stretched farther to see but Athryn grabbed his sleeve and pulled him away. Above the mob’s cheers, he heard the growl of feral dogs and yelps of pain-human, not canine. The autumn air suddenly seemed colder despite the warm bodies close around him.

The crowd moved and pulsed like a beast, shifting first one way then the other as the fight at its center moved and the people closest scrambled out of the way. Khirro pitched and swayed, dragged along with it. Someone grabbed him and yanked him from Athryn’s grasp. The mob engulfed him.

He reached for his sword, but bodies crowded close enough to pin his arm at his side, making it impossible to grasp the hilt, let alone free the blade. People pressed against him, forcing the air out of his lungs, and he gasped to refill them. The throng encircled him, made it impossible to move as they made him their own. He tripped, but they kept him upright, moving him forward and away from his companion. He struggled against them and he found himself moved by too many hands, blocked by too many shoulders, and he stumbled again, but this time no one caught him before he went down hard on the cobblestone street. Air returned to his chest, fresh and cool, and there was suddenly nobody close by him.

Silence.

The cheering and catcalls ceased. Khirro looked up at a circle of faces staring down at him and scrambled to his feet. He reached for his sword to find it gone. The man directly in front of him waved the black blade at him and laughed. Khirro reached for it but the growl behind him made him stop. He turned slowly, already knowing what he would see.

Three brown, mangy dogs leered at him, ribs showing through their sides and foam at their mouths. The blood-soaked body of a man lay at their feet, entrails pulled free and hanging from the jaws of the largest dog. Khirro froze.

If I don’t threaten them, maybe I’ll be all right.

Two men pushed him, sent him stumbling toward the dogs. The big one reacted first, dropping its meal and leaping for him. The other two followed close behind.