Bruce Blake - Heart of the King

An army that would destroy his home and kill his family if he didn’t act.

“Nothing is certain, Khirro, but it is likely this or some version of it will come to pass if the Archon is victorious. And not just to your parents.” Athryn looked past Khirro at Emeline and Iana. “The witch will not stop until the world is hers.”

Khirro nodded and prompted his horse to a walk.

“Say goodbye to Graymon and Emeline for me,” he said over his shoulder. “Give my daughter a kiss from her father.”

He coaxed his horse into a trot, a large part of him hoping the magician would call out to stop him. He didn’t. Khirro breathed deep, filling his lungs in the hope of calming the apprehension and dread churning his insides. They didn’t help.

“Khirro!”

Graymon’s voice. He fought the urge to turn the horse around, return to the boy to protect him, to take Iana from Emeline and hold his daughter just one time. Athryn would take care of them, probably better than he could. He set his jaw and urged his horse faster.

“Khirro!” Emeline called. “I’m sorry, Khirro. I did love you in my way.”

He urged his steed to a gallop and didn’t look back.

The dragon reared back on its haunches, filling its lungs with the fuel its fire needed. The living men before it scattered, leaving the unknowing dead to stand before the beast.

The dragon came down on its front feet, neck extended and mouth open, and spat a column of fire thirty feet long. Dead men burst into flame like dry kindling in a fire pit, burning with no more sound than inanimate lumber. The living didn’t exhibit the same silence.

Therrador gritted his teeth and hewed through the neck of another dead man come back to life. He hated the sound of men suffering in the breath of the dragon; no man deserved such agony on the battlefield, enemy or not.

The king pushed forward on foot, his horse lying dead with an axe in its chest twenty yards behind him. Luckily, his foes around him were also fighting afoot, most of them undead soldiers knocked from their steeds in death.

Lucky I only have to fight men raised from the dead.

All the men he’d brought from the fortress had fallen, the last of them only a minute before. Therrador fought alone. He spied other living Erechanians not far away, but all of them were as engaged as he. He would receive no help.

A mace caromed off the side of his plate, knocking the wind out of him. He whirled around in time to catch the next blow with his sword, then insert its tip through the eye of the beastly soldier. Another of the undead swiped wildly at him, missing and throwing itself off balance. Therrador hacked his arm off at the elbow and the dead man stumbled away, fell among the other bodies littering the field. The king cursed to himself.

There’s another I’ll have to fight again.

He’d come to realize that, if the contents of any soldier’s head-living or dead-should remain intact, they would be back to fight again, so he wielded his sword with all his might, severing necks and cleaving skulls. His shoulder, unused to such work, ached and complained, but Therrador forced himself to fight through the fatigue.

He engaged two more, one a living Kanosee soldier, the other a dead Erechanian brought back by the witch’s evil. Parry, thrust, block, jab. A well-placed swipe removed the undead thing’s head, adding its limp body to both the pile of the dead and to the lengthening list of once-loyal soldiers for the king to mourn, should he survive. He spun toward the live Kanosee soldier as the enemy’s blade found space between the plates covering Therrador’s thigh, opening a wound.

The king cried out in pain and turned his full attention on the man. The Kanosee soldier was big-wide and tall. As the two of them eyed each other, his mouth tilted up in a hateful smile.

“You’re the king,” he said, panting. “You’re Therrador.”

Therrador’s eyes narrowed. Behind the soldier, he spied a horse galloping across the battlefield, plowing through the throng.

“You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You know me, but I don’t know you.”

The man’s smile broadened. “Oh, I don’t matter. It’s killing the king that matters.”

He swung his sword two-handed overhead, looking to split Therrador’s skull; the king blocked the blow, but his own sword arm wilted under its force. Reflexes bred in battle helped him recover to intercept the next attack, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to do so for long-this man was too powerful for his under-trained left arm to handle.

Therrador’s eyes darted from the man attacking him to the bodies littering the ground around them, then back. He blocked another blow. His gaze flickered to the horse approaching more quickly now with fewer men blocking its path. The man attacked again; Therrador ducked under his sword and lunged forward, striking the man in the chest with his shoulder.

The Kanosee soldier stumbled back but didn’t fall. Therrador pressed the attack, glancing at the horse closing fast at the man’s back. Their swords clanged again and again. Sweat rolled into Therrador’s eyes, stinging them and blurring his vision; his shoulder protested with every swipe and block, but his opponent seemed not to tire.

The horse was close enough now Therrador felt its hoof beats through the soles of his boots. The other man must have as well, because he stole a worried look over his shoulder.

Therrador jumped on his enemy’s distraction and lunged forward, the tip of his sword aimed at the man’s belly, but the soldier side-stepped and the attack grazed off his mail. He lowered his arm, trapping the king’s blade between it and his body. The malignant grin returned to his face.

“We’re done here, King Therrador.”

“Yes. We are.”

Therrador let go of his sword and put his boot to his adversary’s chest, catching him by surprise. The man stumbled back a step into the path of the oncoming horse and the destrier’s training took over; the animal lowered its head and the spike at the center of its champron entered the Kanosee soldier’s skull through the back of his head.

The man’s eyes went wide and a gout of blood spewed from his mouth. The horse skidded to a stop and raised its head, pulling the man’s feet from the ground. His sword dropped from his grip as his body spasmed once, twice, then went still. An ugly tearing sound wrenched the air as he fell from the horse’s spike.

Only when the man hit the ground did Therrador notice the soldier dragged by the horse. He immediately recognized him by his armor.

“Sir Alton.”

Therrador leaped over the dead man to fall to his knees at his general’s side.

Scrapes covered Sienhin’s face, rendering him unrecognizable if not for his bushy mustache caked with blood from his nose and cheeks. The arm tangled in the horse’s reins was twisted around and around, the way a wash cloth is wrung out. One of his boots was gone. His head lolled to the side.

Therrador put his hand on the general’s cheek and propped his head up to look in his open eyes. Life yet remained in them, but it was dim and far off, as though it tried to flee this broken body but couldn’t quite get away. They looked into Therrador’s but he wondered if they saw him. His answer came through the general’s shredded lips and broken teeth.

“My king.” The words hissed from his mouth, breathed without the aid of tongue or lips.

“Don’t speak, old friend. I will find you a healer.”

“Is too late.”

Therrador already knew the truth in his words. His arm was destroyed, his body mangled beyond repair. The manner in which his head hung made the king suspect his neck was broken. It was a wonder he still lived.