Bruce Blake: Heart of the King

Khirro accepted his companion’s hand and allowed him to help him up. They stood side-by-side watching the rat when a second, smaller one appeared in the hole, then a third.

“A mother protecting her babies,” Athryn said.

“Hmm. Nice place to live.”

Khirro brushed the back of his breeches, sending seeds to the ground where next year they would sprout and produce more tomatoes to go to waste. He breathed deep, held the air in his lungs for a second, then released it, thankful for the rat surprising him rather than the corpse reanimating to threaten him. He looked at Athryn.

“What were you doing?”

“Ascertaining the man’s cause of death.”

Khirro chuckled. “Did you not see the hole in his chest?”

“Yes, but it came after his death, put there by your friend, Mother Rat.”

“Then what?”

“Pestilence.”

“You mean disease?”

“Worse. Magic caused this. Evil magic.”

“Someone cast a spell on this man?”

Athryn shook his head. “If only that were so. It is worse. Much worse.”

“What do you mean?”

Athryn strode away without answering. Khirro looked at the rat and its babies, at the man’s parched skin and empty eye sockets, then followed his companion, curious to find out what he thought happened. They covered fifteen paces before Athryn stopped again, lifted his hand and pointed. Another corpse.

They crunched across the dried vines and found the body of what they thought a teenage boy, though it was impossible to tell his actual age with the way his skin shrunken against his bones gave him the look of an old man. Khirro looked at this body, then back over his shoulder at the other they’d left, aware of the obvious similarity between them.

The same thing had killed them both.

“There will be more,” Athryn said looking down at the face of the dead boy.

“How do you know? What caused it?”

The magician faced Khirro, the set of his jaw grim, his blue eyes serious. “You spoke of undead soldiers.”

“Yes.”

“A price must be paid for the use of this kind of magic.” He gestured toward the corpse. “Only the true Necromancer can perform such feats.”

“But Darestat is dead.”

Athryn shook his head. “There is much you do not understand about magic, Khirro. Darestat is gone from our world, but did you not see him with me?”

Khirro remembered the disturbance in the air he’d seen shimmering in front of Athryn, thought of the way his friend had spoken to it and it answered, but he’d dismissed it as an illusion despite what Athryn had said. Khirro saw Ghaul kill the Necromancer, saw the old man become mist and disappear.

“I don’t know exactly what I saw.”

“Then you will have to take my word on faith. Darestat lives. Perhaps not in the form of life you understand, but he does. And there can be only one Necromancer. When another seeks to usurp his power, balance is lost. There are consequences.”

He gestured toward the withered corpse at their feet. One of the boy’s arms and his legs were curled tight to his body, the tendons beneath the dried flesh shrunken and tight. His other arm stuck up in the air, extended toward the Heavens, as though he reached out to touch the fields of the dead.

“How many more will there be?”

Athryn shook his head. “I do not know. The usurper must have expended much power. Many, to be sure.”

Khirro’s thoughts flashed to Emeline, the baby, his parents and brother.

Did this happen to them, too?

“Hey.”

The word came from a distance, floating across the dried-out autumn field. Athryn grabbed Khirro’s arm firmly enough it hurt and it took him a second to realize the word they’d heard was spoken in a different language.

He looked up and saw the horsemen, close enough to make out the armor on their bodies and the swords hanging at their belts.

“Gods,” he cursed.

True warriors aren’t caught off-guard. Shyn wouldn’t have been. Nor Ghaul.

The thought of the traitorous Ghaul set his teeth on edge, but Athryn’s grip wrenching him away from the corpse pushed it out of his mind.

“We must go.”

Athryn released his hold and broke into a run; Khirro followed close behind. Their feet beat the dried tomato plants, crushed brittle vines and rotted fruit beneath their boots. Khirro scanned the field ahead as they ran and saw nowhere to hide, no place to slip away or make a stand. The sound of hooves pounding earth soon overtook the crackle and crunch rhythm of his own feet beating the ground.

We can’t get away.

“Athryn,” Khirro called between gasps of breath. “There’s nowhere to go.”

The magician, more fleet of foot and graceful than Khirro, was several yards ahead. Khirro dared a look over his shoulder and saw the horsemen gaining, weapons drawn and ready.

They’ll ride us down and slaughter us like animals.

Khirro skidded to a halt, unsheathed the Mourning Sword, and faced his pursuers. The red runes on the black blade glowed, the sword already sensing blood in the air. With both hands gripping the hilt, he held the weapon up defensively, awaiting the arrival of the horsemen. He didn’t know if Athryn heard him, if his companion also stopped or kept going, but either way, he refused to die running away with a sword in his back. He may not be a great warrior, but he deserved a better fate than dying like a coward.

Six men on horseback approached, each wearing leather armor, helmets, and the colors of Kanos upon their chests. The first reined his horse to a stop beyond the range of Khirro’s sword as the others arrayed themselves around him, encircling him.

“Who are you?” the first man asked.

Khirro understood the Kanosee tongue-it wasn’t so different from Erechanian-but didn’t answer, knowing his accent would give him away.

“What are you doing here?”

The man’s horse pranced and stomped its feet but Khirro held his ground, unflinching, the muscles in his arms contracted and ready to attack or defend. His eyes flickered from one man to the next, but didn’t stay long on any for fear one of the others may move on him.

“Speak or die, dog. What are you doing here?”

“Passing through,” Khirro said in his best Kanosee.

Where is Athryn?

All of the riders focused their attention on Khirro; none seemed to have noticed the magician. Nor did Khirro see Athryn anywhere as his gaze flickered from man to man. The lead man’s eyes narrowed.

“What did you say?”

Khirro stared back at him, jaw set.

“ What did you say ?”

“I said I’m just passing through.”

He spoke the phrase in Erechanian knowing any charade to conceal his accent to be pointless. The lead man growled and slid off his horse, the point of his long sword directed at Khirro as he did.

“An Erechanian. I should have guessed. No Kanosee in his right mind would be in this part of the kingdom.”

Khirro half-smiled. “I guess that makes you not in your right mind, then?”

The soldier didn’t see the humor of it. The corners of his mouth pulled down in a frown for a second before he lunged. Khirro side-stepped and the tip of the man’s sword cut empty air. The other five Kanosee dismounted.

Where are you, Athryn?

They took turns swinging their swords at him. Khirro parried and blocked, pacing a slow circle from one man to the next and with each time one of their blows glanced off the Mourning Sword, pride and confidence grew within him. Here he was, a dirt farmer less than a year ago, holding off six trained soldiers. A smile crept across his face.

“Ha!” he cried blocking another blow struck by the lead man, a tall fellow with a wide pink scar marring his otherwise neatly trimmed beard. It struck Khirro that these men didn’t look any different from himself or his fellow countrymen, they simply lived in another kingdom, were ruled by a different ruler, lived by different laws.