Bruce Blake: Spirit of the King

Someone will answer for that.

The door at the far end of the chamber swung open. Therrador settled his restless feet and sat straight. No door guard entered to announce his visitor-he’d instructed them to let the Archon in when she arrived-but it surprised him when the woman strode through the door with no soldiers of her own accompanying her. And no Graymon. Therrador stood suddenly, pushing the chair back with a scrape of wood against stone.

“Where’s my son?” he demanded.

The woman walked the length of the hall, the cape streaming behind her the same bright red as her painted nails. A jeweled choker with a stone so green it was nearly black shone against alabaster skin where her white chemise was open at the throat; her black riding pants made her look more like she was freshly returned from a hunt than come to address the king of Erechania.

“I have often wondered why your son’s name is so similar to that of your dead friend.” Her smile exposed perfect teeth. “Graymon. Braymon. Graymon. Braymon. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“My son’s name is of no concern to you,” he snapped. “Where is he? I’ve done what you asked.”

“Keep a civil tongue.” Her tone remained conversational as she stroked the smooth, lacquered wood of the table top with the tip of her index finger. The color of her fingernails changed to match the table. “It is precisely this attitude which keeps your son from you.”

Therrador clenched his teeth. “We have an agreement.”

“Yes, we do, but it is not yet a completed agreement. Some of my soldiers occupy your fortress, but that is not enough.”

“When will it be enough?” A tightness grew in Therrador’s chest. It seemed he’d made a grave mistake trusting this one.

The Archon smiled again, eyes gleaming, and the king found his thoughts turning away from anger and toward her beauty. He struggled to keep such treacherous, lecherous thoughts at bay.

“It will be enough when I say it is enough.”

She stepped forward and laid her hand on his chest. Therrador looked down and saw her fingernails were neither red nor the dark brown of the table. Instead, each nail was painted with its own picture, but they were too close for him to see. His gaze returned to her amber eyes.

“You do what I tell you and the boy will be back soon enough.”

Therrador turned away.

“And if I don’t?” he asked, his back to her. It was easier to act defiant if he didn’t have to look into those eyes, gaze upon her pale flesh.

“If you do not, then your son will not live to regret it.”

No time for thought, only action. This woman would kill Graymon if the mood struck. With reflexes honed by years of fighting and slowed only slightly by the passing of years, Therrador pulled his dagger and whirled around, slashing at the Archon.

The knife’s edge cut empty air. The Archon stood across the chamber, farther away than she could possibly have leaped. Her eyes burned.

How…?

“I see you have made your decision,” she said, her voice more stern than before. “Your son will remain with me to ensure your continued cooperation.”

“No.” Therrador saw everything now-she’d never return Graymon to him alive. She likely wouldn’t let Therrador live once she got what she wanted. “No.”

In one deft movement, he flipped the dagger in his hand and hurled it at the woman. Her hand flashed up, the loose sleeve of her shirt flapping as she plucked the knife out of the air as though someone tossed her a ball. In the same instant, she raised her other hand, palm facing Therrador, and thrust it toward him. An invisible force struck his chest, knocking him off his feet.

Therrador hit the floor hard; the impact slammed his teeth together and flashed stars before his eyes. He struggled to regain his thoughts and feet quickly, but the woman already stood over him, her long hair and cape shifting and swirling as though lifted by the hot winds of the Four Hells. It seemed a weight sat on the king’s chest, holding him from rising and defying her again. His mind whirled.

How did she do that? How does she move so quickly?

She pointed at him and he glanced at the long, brightly colored nail. This time, he saw the depiction upon it and the fight drained from him. The tiny picture showed Graymon surrounded by undead creatures glowering and grinning at him. Impossibly, the painted version of his son moved, its mouth forming a word Therrador understood.

“Help.”

“Do not defy me,” the woman said, her voice deeper and menacing. “For I am Sheyndust, bringer of death, ruler of worlds. You will beg for mercy or beg for death if it is what I want from you.”

A chill ran down Therrador’s spine; he wanted to push himself away, but the weight remained on his chest, pinning him to the cold stone floor. Sheyndust. He’d heard the name before. Sheyndust. The one the Shaman, Bale, had thought responsible for the undead soldiers fighting alongside the army of Kanos.

Her lips pulled back in a smile, but this time it held no hint of beauty.

“The world will bow before the new Necromancer.”

The room is dark, but I see the shapes of furniture in the corner and along the walls. I’ve been here two days. I know this because a sun has risen and set outside my room, its light squeezing between the wall boards where the mud that once sealed the space has fallen away. I want to creep to the light, to peer through the crack, but can only lay on the bed of straw, waiting. I don’t know what I wait for, only that I wait.

This place is no comparison to the field I miss, its memory slipping from my mind like honey leaking through cheesecloth, but it is a vast improvement over the black and white nothing. The figure in the black cloak brought me here without saying why, or who I wait for.

Time passes. Sunlight disappeared from the cracks hours ago, leaving me saddened, but at least I know it will return. Morning always comes, the sun always rises. I shift on the straw bed, slowly tiring of the feel of it on my back. Why am I here? I wish the certainty of receiving an answer matched my confidence in the rising of a new sun.

This place feels familiar, like I should know it but can’t place it. I’ve been here before, a long time ago, or perhaps I dreamed of it. The memory sits at the edge of my mind, excruciatingly out of reach. I try unsuccessfully to grasp it, then finally give up.

A noise. Footsteps.

Excitement and dread coil together in my stomach sending tendrils of discomfort into my limbs and a sheen of nervous sweat to my forehead and chest. Its wetness feels good, but it doesn’t calm my twisting innards.

Has the cloaked figure come back for me?

Another footfall. Furtive. I hold my breath. It sounded closer, right outside the door. The scrape of a latch lifting, the creak of a hinge begging to be oiled. I move my eyes and watch as the door-which looks as though someone built it out of left over pieces of wood-swings inward slowly. I know it isn’t the cloaked figure entering the room, the person I have come to think of as my savior, and I’m suddenly and inexplicably afraid. This has happened before but I don’t know what it is. My gaze searches the room, seeking the crack in the wall to will myself through, out into the night, but it’s too dark to find it and I can’t move. With no other choice, I wait to see what enters my room.

The door swings open completely and a silhouette stands in the doorway. A man, I can tell, but the dimness hides his face. He looks big-not like a giant, but much bigger than me. He pauses, listening perhaps, then he steps into the room and closes the door, latching it before propping a chair under the handle.