Bruce Blake - Heart of the King

The Archon threw her head back and laughed in triumph as shards of ruby rained down around her.

***

Khirro panted and blinked sweat from his stinging eyes.

The world flickered and danced, yellow and orange light shifting and shimmering across his vision. He hardly saw the men falling before his flaming claws anymore; his parched mouth had grown used to the taste of their blood on his tongue. At first, it made him gag, but now the physical and emotional exhaustion of killing had drained him to the point he’d become only an observer of his acts, uninvolved and barely aware.

Another undead soldier fell before his onslaught, head torn from body, then he took a living Kanosee soldier’s life. Khirro watched the man’s body crumple and fall and took no joy in it, nor did he feel regret anymore. It distressed him to find he felt no more emotion about cutting this man down than he might have felt about taking his scythe to a field of wheat.

What’s happened to me? Is this what it’s like to be a real warrior? A killer?

He thought of his life on the farm as his claws tore through the chest of another man. He thought about how he killed chickens and pigs and cows without remorse, to feed his family and ensure their survival.

As this has to be done so the kingdom will survive.

He felt a sword slash his side and the flaming tyger wrapped around him let out a roar that reverberated through his chest, flared pain down his raw throat. But the sword caused no wound, drew no blood. The flames protected him from harm.

He wrenched his attacker’s arm from his body with the swipe of one paw, then bit through his skull, spilling him to the ground for his brain to ooze onto the trampled grass. He paused to retch and clear his throat before continuing on to take the life of his next enemy.

Ahead, he saw the dragon, the battlefield around it clear of men as they retreated from its swinging tail and deadly breath; the beast’s heat melted the snow that might have collected on the plain before if could settle. Months before, the dragon had been his adversary, and in a way partly responsible for the melding of the king’s spirit with his own. Now, an unexplainable feeling pushed him toward the dragon to fight by its side.

The flaming tyger took one step, then stopped as Khirro spied a solitary figure standing in front of the dragon. He couldn’t see her face, but the cloak and blond hair tossed about her by the cold wind told him all he needed to know. He’d never seen the Archon in person before-only in dreams-but he’d know her anywhere. A growl rumbled deep in Khirro’s chest, echoing and multiplying until it became the tyger’s. Here stood the cause of all that had happened to Khirro: all the death, all the loss, all the destruction. Here stood the murderer of the king.

Here was his chance to end it.

He took a step forward, the tyger’s flaming paw squelching in a patch of bloody mud, then another. He moved slowly, using the big cat’s natural ability to stalk toward the woman, but stopped when he saw the dragon rear back. The woman spread her arms as though to embrace death, and Khirro felt a smile cross his face.

This was a death he would enjoy.

The dragon’s head shot forward to breathe a swirling maelstrom of flame at the woman. It overtook her, surrounded her, engulfed her, and she didn’t move. The fire blocked Khirro’s view of her, but he knew that, when it relented, she would be nothing but charred flesh and smoking bones. He crouched to watch feeling vaguely guilty about the pleasure he’d receive from her death.

The gout of flame continued for fifteen seconds before the dragon’s jaws finally snapped shut cutting it off. Khirro’s gaze flickered to the beast, then across the field to where he expected to see the woman’s burnt form curled up on the ground.

Instead of a steaming corpse, the woman stood her ground, arms spread, clothing burned from her. Smoke rose from her limbs and the staff she held; flames flickered in her hair and went out, leaving her blond locks untouched by their heat.

Her laughter rolled across the battlefield to Khirro’s ears.

He watched in disbelief as the dragon moved toward her and she brought the staff to bear on the beast, its tip glowing a bright and sickly green.

No!

Khirro’s heart jumped and the flaming tyger took over, galloping across the muddy, beaten grass, melting paw prints in the snow as it leaped over corpses and flashed past living men. His graceful stride ate up yards, carrying him toward the woman. If he could get to her, he could end this.

She’s been touched by the dragon’s breath.

Once, the thought might have caused terror in Khirro; now, it was instead followed by a very different thought.

So have I.

He ran on, ignoring the pockets of fighting he passed, leaving the mortals and the undead to sort out their own life-or-death scuffles. He pushed himself faster, his muscles straining under the flames and fire.

With a dozen yards between him and the woman, she slammed the staff to the ground with a crack like thunder; green light shot across the space between her and the dragon and leaped into the creature’s chest.

Khirro skidded to a stop, the tyger’s paws digging furrows in the dirt. The green light grew, filling the ruby dragon until it appeared ruby no more. The beast stopped moving, its jaws agape and tail held high, waiting to hammer the ground. Its body bulged and he heard the crackling sound of footsteps on thin ice as its scales separated.

The dragon exploded.

Soldiers fell-live and dead, Kanosee and Erechanian alike-as chunks of the dragon tore through them. Ruby shards slammed into Khirro, driving him back like an unstoppable rain. He stumbled to his knees, then fell onto his back. The flames in his vision flickered and disappeared and pain filled his joints, sluiced through his limbs. He lay on his back sucking bitter air into his lungs until he heard the voice say his name.

“Khirro.”

He felt certain he’d heard the voice before, but didn’t immediately recognize it, for it held a rasp in its tone he knew it didn’t have the last time he heard it. In response, he tried to push himself up to lean on his elbows, but his muscles failed him, his hand slipped in the mud and he fell back. His head throbbed, his body ached. A deep breath shot pain through his chest and he struggled up to see who uttered his name.

The man stood a dozen yards away. Half of his face was peeled away from his cheek bone, leaving one eye bulging and the teeth beneath laid bare in a perpetual sneer that might have suited him as well in life. Even in such a decomposed state, Khirro recognized Ghaul, the man who’d betrayed him and was ultimately responsible for the king becoming part of him instead of being resurrected.

Khirro climbed to his feet, agonizing pain threatening to cripple his movement. With his feet under him, he watched Ghaul approach as he swayed in place, struggling to keep his balance. His stomach clenched and knotted as the warrior neared.

Khirro’s eyes narrowed and he pictured flames crawling up his arms, along his legs, using his imagination to call them into being again with no compunction-Ghaul’s betrayal of the kingdom and of Khirro deserved a death sentence. He felt the fire’s heat on his cheeks when a screech from above distracted him. Khirro’s heart jumped with hope at the thought that the dragon might have somehow survived. A shadow passed over him and he looked up to see a huge gray falcon cutting through the falling snow.

Shyn.

The diving bird struck Khirro’s shoulder, spinning him around and throwing him off balance. He fell to one knee and looked up at the falcon wheeling away into the sky. He may have no problem with the thought of dispatching Ghaul to the fields of the dead, but Shyn…The border guard had been committed to the success of their quest as much as anyone, perhaps more so. More than himself, at times.