Bruce Blake - Heart of the King

“Athryn, they will find us, then all will be for nothing.”

The magician stared at him, his expression hidden by the black cloth mask covering his face, but Khirro thought he saw struggle in his eyes and imagined that, if he saw beneath the cloth, he’d find concern, fear and doubt. The thought made him shift uncomfortably.

“One slice of a knife won’t kill me.”

Athryn’s gaze dropped to the ground. He transferred his weight from one foot to the other-thinking, struggling-then looked back at his companion.

“For years, Maes cut himself in the service of magic, without a word of protest. I never stopped to ask him how he felt about it as he scarred himself for me.”

Khirro understood guilt-he’d carried around his share and more since what happened with Emeline. It had done nothing to serve him.

“A scar is small price for me to pay compared to what the Kanosee soldiers might do to me. To us.” He nodded over Athryn’s shoulder toward the approaching soldiers. “We can’t risk the boy. Elyea said he has an important role in what we do. Don’t think about me, Athryn. Think about him.”

Khirro stretched and looked past his friend; the nearest soldier had approached close enough to worry he might hear if they continued speaking. Khirro gritted his teeth and looked into Athryn’s eyes, his gaze intense as he tried to will him to make the decision. After a long sigh, the magician nodded.

“Draw blood when I signal.”

Khirro’s dagger whispered out of its sheath as he drew it, then rolled up his left sleeve. He clenched his fist, watching the bandage already wrapped around his forearm shift with the movement of the muscle beneath the skin. A wash of sour-tasting saliva flooded his tongue.

What if it doesn’t work? Then his next thought: It will work.

He set the edge of the knife against his flesh, felt the coolness, the sharpness of it. His skin creased under its pressure, but he held back, waiting to make the cut when Athryn gave him the word. He breathed deep, inhaling the loamy smells of the near-winter forest at their back, but it brought him no solace, did nothing to quell his fear-forests had not been friendly places for him, of late.

What if he doesn’t tell me? What if he’s lying to protect me?

Nerves jumped in Khirro’s stomach and his eyes flickered from the knife against his arm to his companion. Athryn’s eyes were closed, his breathing measured. A second later, the chant began, and the strangely familiar archaic, foreign words muffled by the cloth covering Athryn’s face did what the forest’s aroma couldn’t-Khirro’s reticence eased. The words settled into a quiet rhythm, became the drone emanating from a nest of angry wasps or the thrum of wind through a field of corn.

Khirro glanced at the boy between them, still sleeping undisturbed, his splinted arm resting against his chest. Strain showed on his youthful face, as though he dreamed unpleasant dreams. Khirro understood unpleasant dreams.

A rustle of grass caught his attention and he looked away from the boy. He couldn’t see beyond the magician without stretching, so he did, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Ten yards behind Athryn, a soldier searched the tall grass bordering the thicket in which they hid.

Despite the dim light of the rising sun, Khirro saw the splash of red across the man’s black mail and held his breath as Athryn’s chant continued, rising in volume. He held himself back from warning the magician to be quiet for fear that interrupting his chant might ruin his spell.

The undead soldier turned toward them.

Khirro’s gaze snapped back to Athryn, afraid he’d miss the magician’s signal. Over his shoulder, he saw the soldier look away toward the dirt track, then back at Khirro. Nothing happened for a moment, and Khirro wondered if the thing saw him. Maybe if they stayed still, stayed quiet.

Hurry, Athryn.

“Here!”

The word hit Khirro like a rock to the chest and the undead soldier took a step toward them.

“Athryn,” he whispered.

The chant continued.

The soldier took another step and Khirro pressed the knife more firmly against his forearm, awaiting the signal.

A second soldier farther down the road called back to the first. “Have you found anything?”

Khirro knew by the rough tone of its voice that it was another of the undead.

“Athryn?”

“I think they’re here,” the thing grated.

Khirro’s gaze darted from soldier to magician in time to see Athryn nod. The knife bit into the flesh of his forearm and blood immediately welled to the surface, ran down the side of his arm. Khirro watched it flow, mesmerized by the deep red of fresh blood as the air wavered around him.

Don’t pass out.

Khirro raised his head and saw the Kanosee soldier approach, pushing into the thicket with his sword drawn. The undead thing’s footsteps sounded loud in his ears as it crashed through the brush; Khirro dimly felt the sticky trail of blood rolling down his forearm and into his hand as though it was a distant memory. In front of him, Athryn shook his head minutely, held his finger to his lips. It wasn’t until he saw the gesture that Khirro realized neither the pain of the fresh cut nor his fear of being found made the air waver before his eyes. It was the magician’s spell; it had manifested this way when he hid them before.

A small degree of tension released from Khirro’s limbs and he settled himself in place to watch the soldier hack at a twist of branches blocking his way.

What if he swings his sword where he thought he saw us?

He tightened his grip on the sword he'd taken from one of the undead soldiers, its edge chipped and worn, and wished he hadn’t lost the Mourning Sword.

The Kanosee soldier stopped five yards from their hiding spot and looked around, confused. Khirro clearly saw his features: this one wasn’t as decomposed as many of the others he’d seen. His face possessed the smooth skin and luster of a young man, with only a small amount of rot that looked like moss near his left ear. The red-splashed black mail labeled him as one of the undead-that and the gaping hole where his guts should have been.

Khirro shuddered.

“Where are they?” The second soldier had arrived and stood behind and to the right of the first.

“They were right here,” the first said pointing with the tip of his sword.

The second soldier’s gaze jerked side to side as he surveyed the area, his head wobbling on a neck half-cut-through and Khirro hoped the action might separate it from its body and save him the trouble. The undead man’s eyes swept over Khirro and his companions without recognition; he stepped forward, pushing brush aside with his sword.

“You might’ve been seeing things,” he said. “But we gotta look.”

The first soldier nodded and began poking and prodding through the thicket with the tip of his sword. Khirro drew a slow breath through his nose, trying not to make noise, and looked past the two Kanosee soldiers to see four more approaching along the dirt track. He held the air in his lungs a heartbeat longer before releasing it.

This better work.

The second man swung his sword side to side, cutting through clumps of bramble and fern with each stroke. Khirro tensed, watching him closely until he veered to the right, choosing a course that would take him wide of where the magician’s spell hid them. Meanwhile, the first soldier searched a spot to their left. He bent over, looking closely at something he’d seen lying on the ground. When he straightened, he held a large rock in his hand.

“Find something?”

“No. A rock.”

He tossed the stone aside and Khirro watched it arc through the air toward them, willing it to fall short. It didn’t.