Bruce Blake: Heart of the King

She rose from the purple velvet divan and his eyes dropped from her face once again to a spot below her waist before he shook his head and returned his gaze to hers. This time she smiled.

“And in exchange for your freedom, you will advise me when she contacts you.”

He nodded, this time finding success at keeping his eyes on hers.

“How do I know you will be true to your word?”

“You have my son.”

She stopped a few feet from where he sat, her breasts at the same level as his eyes. Rather than battle temptation, he stood.

“Indeed. Why are you not asking for his release in exchange for this information?”

“Because I know you wouldn’t grant it.”

“True.”

She took a step toward him, grasped his bound hands in hers. Black dirt and dried brown blood discolored the bandage on his right hand; the smell of infection wafted from it.

“We will have to take care of this or you will not be with us long enough to betray your friend a second time.”

She saw the muscles in Therrador’s jaw flex at her words and her smile widened.

“Yes. Perhaps you’d consider returning my thumb.”

“I will consider it, but let us see what the maggots can do for you first.” She snapped her fingers and a guard appeared in the doorway. “Fetch the surgeon. Tell him to bring his maggots to clean King Therrador’s wound.”

The soldier bowed at the waist and disappeared out the door. When he was gone, she faced Therrador again. His eyes were still fixed on hers, his jaw set, and she felt anger build in her gut at his resistance of her.

So be it.

She turned abruptly and strode away, the gown flowing around her.

“So tell me, Therrador,” she said, her voice gone icy. “When will you be asking me to return your son?”

He didn’t answer at first and she looked back over her shoulder to see if he’d succumbed to the translucence of the gown, the curve of her buttocks. He hadn’t. Instead, he stared out the window at the courtyard beyond. She seethed at the slight but kept her anger buried within-it would serve her well on another occasion.

“I’ll ask for his return,” Therrador said, his voice quiet, his tone controlled, “when I’ve killed the bearer for you.”

Khirro splashed water on his face and cleansed the wounds left on his arm and leg by the jaws of the feral dogs. The cold water stung, but the bites weren’t deep, certainly not as bad as they might have been. The moment of the dogs’ attack had been the ideal time to work out how to control the fire contained within him.

Or did I?

He looked at the backs of his hands, at the water dripping from the tips of his fingers, before turning them over to trace the lines of his palms with his gaze. His eyes narrowed in concentration and he imagined flames engulfing his open hands. He thought of heat. He pictured fire burning and flickering.

Nothing happened.

How did I do it?

He thought of the times the flames had come and realized it only happened when danger threatened, and inconsistently then. Crouching by the edge of the stream with morning air drying the water on his skin, he felt no threat, no danger. Khirro sighed, put his hands on his knees and stood. The scabbard of the Mourning Sword banged against his leg and he put his hand on the hilt to steady it. Over the past months, there were times he’d been happy for taking the Shaman’s weapon but, at other times, it still felt awkward dangling at his side.

No matter how much time passes, no matter how many killings happen, I will never truly be a soldier.

He wiped his hands on his breeches and headed back through the brush to the lean-to he and Athryn built the night before to keep curious animals away and morning dew off themselves. As he walked, he thought of Shyn and, grudgingly, Ghaul. They were soldiers, real warriors, battle hardened and ready for a fight. Although Ghaul had turned out a traitor, the man knew the ways of steel. He’d have been a useful ally at a time like this. Too bad they were both gone, their bodies left rotting in the Necromancer’s underground hideaway.

Khirro shook his head at the thought and stepped over a fallen branch. His footstep crunched among drying leaves, the sound stirring him from his thoughts, and he halted straddling the limb. He listened. Had he heard another sound disguised by his own footstep?

A real soldier wouldn’t have made such a sound.

He pushed the admonition out of his mind and waited to see if the sound repeated or if he’d imagined it. Thirty seconds passed before he heard it again: the murmur of a man’s whispered voice.

Khirro’s hand returned to the hilt of the Mourning Sword, this time with neither thought of appreciation nor distaste. He loosened the blade in its scabbard and stepped the rest of the way over the limb, choosing his footing carefully among the scatter of leaves.

A second whispered voice added itself to the first. Khirro pulled his weapon free and increased his pace.

Athryn might be in danger.

If something happened to the magician, he didn’t know how he would complete the task given him when the Shaman died. Truthfully, without Athryn to prod him on, he wasn’t sure he’d bother continuing.

Khirro stopped at the edge of the clearing where they’d constructed the lean-to and peered through the wilted autumn foliage.

Athryn sat on the ground in front of the shelter, legs crossed and arms resting on his thighs, his face up-turned and eyes closed. Khirro scanned the area, straining to see through the brush, but saw no one else. He paused, breath held, as Athryn’s lips moved with a whispered rush of words Khirro didn’t understand. When he finished speaking, another voice answered.

Khirro shook his head, confused. His gaze flickered around the clearing until he saw a disturbance in the air a couple of yards from the magician, a shimmering he'd missed when he first looked.

Khirro squinted, trying to make out a shape, a form, but he saw no more substance to it than to that of a misty sigh breathed on winter’s chill. He stepped into the clearing, sword clenched in his tightened fist, though he didn’t know what good the weapon would do against vapor.

“Athryn?”

The magician jumped, startled by Khirro’s voice, and the disturbance in the air evaporated. Athryn looked at his companion, then back at the spot where the shimmering had been; his expression sagged with disappointment.

“Are you all right?”

The magician nodded and looked at the ground in front of him. Khirro stepped into the clearing, lowering his sword but not yet ready to put it away.

“What was that?”

Athryn looked up, met Khirro’s gaze. “Darestat.”

For a moment, Khirro thought he must have misheard. He’d seen Ghaul’s arrow pierce the Necromancer’s throat, watched the man turn to mist. Surely Athryn must have said something else and Khirro’s brain twisted it.

“The Necromancer?”

“Yes.”

“But how?”

Athryn had recovered from his disappointment and pushed himself up to stand. He brushed dirt and twigs off his breeches and straightened his tunic before answering.

“A magician as powerful as the Necromancer can never truly die, not unless he wishes it.”

“And he doesn’t wish it?”

Athryn shook his head. “Not yet. There is much for him to teach me.”

Khirro stared at his companion, watching him collect his gear. He moved as easily and gracefully as always, as though his words were no more unusual than if he’d wished his friend a good morning. With everything packed, Athryn pulled the silvered mask over his face.

“Teach you?”