Bruce Blake - Heart of the King

“I’m so sorry, Alton. This is my fault.”

The general’s dispassionate eyes stared back at him and Therrador searched them for forgiveness. He found none. He found nothing. The general’s breath hissed into words again.

“Release me.”

The king closed his eyes tight. He knew Sienhin wasn’t asking him to untangle his arm from the reins; he wanted him to ensure the witch wouldn’t bring him back to fight against his own kingdom. He didn’t want to be made into a monstrosity.

Therrador opened his eyes. The general’s gaze remained upon him, though he suspected it was because his eyes no longer moved rather than a desire to look upon his king-the man who betrayed the kingdom-in his last moments of life.

The king nodded and reached for his dagger with his right hand as he held Sir Alton’s head with his left. His lack of a thumb made holding the blade awkward, but he got his fingers wrapped around the hilt and unsheathed it. His grip wouldn’t be tight enough to best a man in a knife fight, but a knife fight wasn’t the task he intended to accomplish.

He raised the dagger, the point held an inch from the general’s left eye. He hesitated.

“Goodbye, my friend.”

He plunged the dagger in to the hilt.

Therrador remained kneeling, aware of the battle raging around him, but exhaustion had crept into his limbs. Part of him wanted to stay there, to give in to whatever monster wanted to plunge its sword into his back and end his suffering for what he’d done to his kingdom, his friends, his son. But another part clung to the hope that, somewhere out there, Graymon yet lived, and that hope for the kingdom’s survival remained alive with the boy.

When he heard a horse approaching at a gallop, it was this part that brought him to his feet and turned him around, tired arms dangling at his sides.

***

The bodies lay thick on the ground, like a macabre snow fallen from malicious Heavens. In the distance, he saw the ruby dragon rise up in the air and spew fire on the men below. Black smoke rose to the sky and the wind picked up the smell of brimstone and burning flesh.

Darestat’s dragon! How can it be?

Khirro stared as the beast dove back to the ground and roared before gathering another breath. He shuddered with the memory of the beast and its fire.

He reined his horse to a stop, looked back over his shoulder; there was still time to turn the horse around, go back to Emeline and Iana. She would understand-she’d already lost Lehgan.

But Athryn wouldn’t. Nor would Maes, or Shyn, or Elyea. His parents wouldn’t understand his decision when Kanosee soldiers marched onto their farm to end their lives like he’d seen in the Mourning Sword’s prognostication. They wouldn’t understand when the Archon transformed them into monsters.

Khirro turned back to the fight and coaxed his horse to a walk. He breathed deep through his nose, pressed his lips together. The smells of the battle brought a lump in his throat large enough to gag him. He swallowed hard to dispel it.

I can do this. I’m no longer a farmer. I’m a warrior.

With the Mourning Sword at the ready, Khirro guided his horse through the corpses, noting their armor: the Kanosee insignia, Erechanian colors, the black splashed with red of the dead. There seemed equal numbers of each.

The fighting began a few yards ahead. A torrent of men ebbed and flowed, swords flashing, blood spilling. Men shouted and cursed, screamed in pain amongst the din of steel and the growl and roar of the dragon.

The runes running up and down the length of the Mourning Sword began to glow, dully at first, but more intensely with each step closer the horse brought him to the battle. The brighter the blade glowed, the more he felt heat build within him, an ember sparking to life in his chest that his blood carried out to his torso and limbs as it pumped through his veins. It fortified him, strengthened him and he sat straighter in the saddle, held the Mourning Sword with a more sure grip.

The first man approached him: a soldier in Erechanian mail and a deep killing wound in his chest oozing blood. He raised the pike he held in both hands, poked it at Khirro’s face; he brushed it aside with his free hand.

“I’m not your enemy.”

The man thrust at him again and Khirro blocked it. He saw the blank look in the man’s eyes and it reminded him of the way his parents' eyes looked in the vision. This man was no longer a soldier of the king’s army, but a servant of the Archon. Khirro brushed aside another poke then brought the Mourning Sword down in an arc that split the man’s head in two. He crumpled to the ground amongst the other corpses and the sword’s blade glowed fiercely. Triumph and despair mixed through Khirro as he stared at the man lying on the ground, brains seeping out of his head. He stared until he heard a voice call out.

“Watch out!”

He raised his eyes and saw the fellow standing by the big destrier, looking like a man defeated, but he only saw him for a second before a score of the undead converged on him and pulled him from his horse.

***

The rider split the man’s head open with an arcing blow of his sword, the blade glowing red as though thirsty for the blood of its enemy. Therrador recognized the Mourning Sword that had belonged to the king’s Shaman-only someone who’d been present when the Shaman died could possibly have it.

Hope that had all but disappeared prickled through Therrador’s stomach and chest.

The bearer of the king’s blood. The ghost was right. There’s hope yet.

A tired smile broke across his face, but the rider sat there, looking at the corpse he’d just created.

What is he doing?

Therrador stumbled forward a step. Dozens of undead soldiers had noticed the rider and were finding their way toward him as thought they had been commanded, but the rider didn’t look up.

“Watch out!”

The rider raised his head at Therrador’s warning, but too late. Dead hands grasped him, pulled him out of the saddle and down to the ground. A second later, they overwhelmed his horse. Therrador watched, breathless, hope fleeing with the soldier’s fall.

This cannot be .

He whirled around and returned to Sir Alton’s horse, cut through the reins with his dagger. The general’s body slumped to the ground as Therrador retrieved his sword and forced his fatigued muscles to pull him into the saddle.

“Sorry, my friend.”

He tossed his dagger aside and grabbed the saddle’s pommel, then dug his heels into the horse’s side with as much force as remained in his exhausted legs. The destrier sprang forward, leaping over Sir Alton’s corpse and past the Kanosee soldier who’d almost brought Therrador his end. He charged toward the downed rider, ignoring the protest of his exhausted muscles, the numb pain of gripping the saddle with his wounded hand.

The big horse closed the distance quickly, each stride eating yards of blood soaked ground, carrying Therrador to the bearer's aid. His heart thumped hard in his chest at the thought of losing him, but he forgot his worry as he saw fire spring to life amongst the undead soldiers.

***

Khirro slashed at the hands grabbing at him, but they were too close for him to use the sword effectively. He sliced a shallow cut on one man’s arm, but not enough to stop him and his fellows from pulling him out of the saddle.

He tumbled through a labyrinth of arms and weapons, felt blades rub his armor, until he hit the ground with a jarring thud that clacked his teeth together and doubled his vision. Hands grabbed his arms, wrenching his shoulders in their joints and tearing the Mourning Sword from his grip. Khirro thrashed, trying to free himself. A blade penetrated his armor, jabbing into his side and cutting his flesh; he felt the blood flow from the wound and yelled out in pain. A vision of fire flashed through his mind and he yelled again, but this time it came out a roar.