Bruce Blake - Heart of the King

The flames flickered to life, covering his hands first, turning them to burning paws. The fire climbed his arms, spread across his chest, engulfed his face until a veil of flames licked the world in front of his vision.

Khirro flipped over off his back and swiped at the closest man, leaving four deep wounds across his face and setting his hair alight. The undead came at him from all sides, but Khirro slashed and bit, tearing out throats and ripping off limbs. He felt like a spectator watching the carnage he created, horrified by what he was capable of while being thankful for it.

Swords and axes found him, but rebounded from the flames without effect. The few living men among his attackers screamed and tried to flee, but he caught them, closed his huge, powerful jaws on their heads, cracking them open like nuts at a feast. He trampled them and tore them, rent their flesh and bit off their faces.

Then he was on top of the last man, pinning him to the ground with his flaming paws. The man’s plate armor protected him from the flames, but smoke rose from the long, braided beard trailing from his chin. The soldier’s mouth moved as he spoke, but fire roared in Khirro’s ears, deafening him to the world outside the flames. The tyger’s mouth opened in a snarl that roared smoky breath into the man’s face. He cringed.

Behind the flames, Khirro suddenly recognized the man: the braided beard, the gleaming plate, the insignia on his epaulets.

Therrador.

The tyger raised its flaming paw.

Therrador leaped off his horse, the sight of the bearer revitalizing his energy, giving him strength in the face of exhaustion. Giving him hope.

He slashed the first soldier he came upon in the back of the leg, toppling him, and the king saw the familiar blank look in his glazed eyes. Therrador inserted the tip of his sword through the man’s skull, pinning him to the ground, then removed the blade with a grunt and a twist.

When he looked up at the throng of men who’d fallen upon the rider, he saw more clearly the source of fire: a burning tyger slashed its way through the men.

What evil magic is this?

Therrador watched with fascinated horror. The beast moved with the speed of lightning and killed without hesitation, but it wasn’t these qualities that held the king enthralled-he would expect these of a great cat, burning or not. No, the man inside the flames drew his gaze.

Mud smeared his face, dirt and blood covered his undistinguished leather armor. Whenever the tyger’s paw swung, the man’s hand followed. Whenever the tyger’s mouth opened, the man’s did, too. They seemed to be one, working in unison, a part of the same being, yet the warrior’s expression looked like it belonged on someone caught in the grip of fear and dismay, not a soldier slaughtering his enemy. He might have thought the soldier would control the beast, but might it be the other way around?

A Kanosee soldier yelled and charged Therrador, drawing his attention away from the flaming tyger and the man inside. The king caught the haft of his attacker’s axe with his blade, turning the blow aside, but the soldier pushed forward, slamming his chest against Therrador’s before he could strike his own blow.

The king stumbled back and might have kept his balance but for the ill placed corpse at his heels. His feet tangled with the man’s arm and he fell to the ground with a clang of armor and a grunt.

His adversary slammed his foot down on Therrador’s wrist, pinning his sword arm to the ground before the king righted himself. Therrador struggled to free it, clawed at the man’s leg uselessly with his thumbless right hand, as the Kanosee raised the axe, two-handed, over his head and grinned mercilessly. The king refused to look away from his killer’s eyes.

I’m so sorry, Graymon.

Fire flashed before the enemy struck his killing blow. A flaming paw drew four deep gouges across the side of the man’s head, pulling one eye from its socket and shredding his cheek. Blood splashed on Therrador’s face and chest.

The Kanosee soldier’s remaining eye widened in shock and terror, his mouth opened to scream, but the tyger rode him to the muddy turf, mauling him before he made a sound. Therrador propped himself on his elbows, watching the carnage, and inhaled a deep, relieved breath of winter air tinged with fire and blood. He’d spent most of his adult life close to killing and death, but this was the first time he’d seen a beast such as this in battle, let alone be saved by it.

The tyger tore out the man’s throat with a flick of his head, then stalked toward Therrador, snarling its flaming lips back from teeth of fire. The man inside looked bewildered, sickened.

“Thanks for-”

Therrador pushed himself to sit up, but the tyger pounced and knocked him back to the ground, pinning his shoulders with its fiery paws. It roared in his face, blowing hot breath on his cheek; a drop of flaming saliva fell from its mouth and splashed on the top of Therrador’s chest plate. The man within the beast looked at the king, and his lips spoke Therrador’s name, but the sound of his voice was hidden by the flames. His eyes offered apology.

Roaring again, the tyger drew back its left paw, flaming claws unsheathed, taking the man’s arm with it. Therrador thought of Graymon, of how close they might have come to vanquishing the Archon if this man possessed control over the beast.

It may yet happen, but I won’t see it.

“No,” he said but didn’t expect the man to hear him or the beast to understand.

The tyger’s paw moved forward an inch and Therrador flinched, but the killing stroke did not fall. The man inside the beast looked away, his lips moved again forming a word Therrador didn’t recognize. A second later, the tyger climbed off him and bounded away.

The ghost woman stood a pace away, regarding Therrador with a mixture of sadness and relief in her green eyes. She offered her hand and Therrador accepted her help up. Her flesh felt neither warm like the living nor cool like the dead.

“Elyea,” he said and realized her name was the word the man inside the tyger had spoken. “What was that?”

“That was Khirro, who will save your kingdom. Braymon lives within him.”

“Braymon? I thought this man only carried the king’s blood.”

“The tyger is the spirit of the king, but it matters not right now. I have someone here to see you.”

She stepped aside to reveal the man in black cloak and silvered mask standing behind her-the dragon rider. A woman with a baby cradled against her chest and a bandage on her forearm stood at his side, and a young boy staring at the ground held his hand.

“Graymon?” Therrador whispered, disbelieving his own eyes. The witch had tricked him before. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

The king strode a few tentative steps toward the small group, hand gripping the hilt of his sword tight. He didn’t know the woman or the masked man, but they had his son, and he didn’t know their intent. The boy looked up and saw Therrador; his face brightened and a smile crossed his lips.

“Da,” he cried and let go of the dragon rider’s hand to rush to his father. The man didn’t try to stop him.

Therrador kneeled, his legs giving out under the weight of relief, and the boy leaped into his arms. They embraced for a few seconds, then Therrador moved his son away to arm’s length to look at him.

Graymon was skinnier, if that was possible, and his clothing was tattered; his hair was longer and greasy, hanging limp past his ears, but he looked reasonably healthy and unharmed.

“I worried I might never see you again,” Therrador said through a pained smile. His son may have been miraculously returned, but it was his fault he’d been taken nonetheless, and the battle was not yet won.