Bruce Blake - Heart of the King

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Emeline’s eyes snapped open to find herself lying on the ground. The rumble-roar shook the ground, rattled her teeth; the mist swept up and up, a twisting whirlpool in the air that collected and concentrated before it disappeared.

It stole her breath and, with it, the scream of despair when she realized the children were gone.

***

The muddy ground squelched under Athryn’s knees and his lips moved to call forth words to prime his magic and harness the power within him. His hand fell to his chest and his finger traced the tattoos etched across it, frantically and fruitlessly scanning them before moving to the ones on his arms. He found no spell that would help against Sheyndust’s awful power.

There is but one thing to do.

He watched Therrador engage the troop of undead soldiers until the mist descended over everything, smudging the king and his adversaries first to a blur, then hiding them completely. Athryn breathed deep and closed his eyes, readying himself, but the distance between himself and Khirro and Graymon was great, the difficulty of the transfer extreme. The yards of flattened grass, corpses, undead monsters and living soldiers that separated them diminished the chances of success. King Braymon might end up anywhere, or nowhere.

I have to try. It is our last chance.

His finger found the proper incantation inscribed on his abdomen again and the words began, bringing with them the power he’d felt before, returning it as strong as before Therrador’s touch interrupted him. The energy pulsed through his veins, taking the place of his blood; it gathered in his limbs, replacing his muscles; it reverberated in his head, supplanting his thoughts. His finger followed the cursive letters, his lips continued to chant, but his world became the power filling him, threatening to spill out of him.

“Athryn.”

The word sounded crisp and clear through the thrum of power in his ears, like a church bell struck on the dawn of a snow-frozen winter day. The magician opened his eyes.

At first, the white fog filled his vision. Athryn wondered if it was the mist he’d seen descend over Therrador and the Kanosee soldiers, or the same whiteness that took him when he lay dying in the forest, his throat opened by a Kanosee dagger. His eyes flicked side to side and found nothing to see. No more words were spoken, nor did he hear the chant intoned by his own mouth, though his lips still moved.

Two figures stepped out of the fog to stand in front of him. Athryn nodded.

“Darestat. Elyea.” He licked his lips. “So I am dead, then.”

Neither spoke, not out loud, but he heard Elyea’s voice in his head.

Thank you.

He parted his lips to ask what she meant, or to beg for a few more moments to complete his spell and do all in his power to save the kingdom, but the Necromancer took a step. The old man moved like liquid, flowing toward him rather than walking. Athryn stood to meet him, grudgingly ready for the journey to his final destination.

Darestat paused a pace away from Athryn and their gazes met. The magician breathed deeply through his nose, bracing for whatever it meant to be taken to the fields of the dead, but the Necromancer’s figure wavered like heat rising over distant fields on a scorching summer day, and the old man stepped forward, into him.

Athryn’s body stiffened. He felt Darestat in him, as though the magician was merely a shirt and breeches the Necromancer put on. The power coursing through him combined with the feel of the man within him bulged Athryn’s skin and flexed his bones. His body jerked, his gut twisted with cramps. He bent over and retched.

An instant later, the power took over, soothing him, invigorating him. He straightened and stared straight ahead; Elyea was gone, but he saw figures moving within the mist. Swords flashed, blood flowed. In the middle of them, he picked out Therrador, his blade a blur of movement as he cut down undead after undead, made living soldiers into dead ones. Beyond him, Sheyndust swung her staff, its green light a sickly halo about her head. She smiled and laughed.

Athryn raised the Mourning Sword and took a step; the earth trembled beneath his boot. He set his jaw, lowered his head, and charged into the fray, each step of his advance shaking the ground.

The Archon looked up and her smile disappeared.

***

The earth rumbled beneath Khirro and he struggled his eyes open, the action of fluttering his eyelids made difficult by tacky blood and crusted mud. His fingers were numb, his face cold; the ache in his body suffused his bones.

He drew a breath through his nose and smelled the dirt his face lay upon, the blood leaking from him, and another acrid odor he’d come to recognize: the bitter scent of magic tainting the air.

He blinked twice to focus his eyes and saw the man standing over him. The gleam of his shaven head rivaled the sheen of his silver armor, the chest plate decorated shoulder to shoulder with green enameled ivy-the armor Khirro had removed the day he carried him to the Shaman. King Braymon put his hands on his hips and regarded Khirro.

“M…my king?”

“It seems we find ourselves in a familiar place.” The deep and gentle tone of his voice eased the pain creeping through Khirro’s gut and into his extremities.

“I’m always lying on the ground and in grave danger,” Khirro said and laughed. The laugh became a cough that tasted of blood.

Braymon kneeled beside him, pulled a shining lobstered gauntlet from his hand and touched Khirro’s cheek with his bare flesh.

“You have done well, Khirro. Only the brave souls who dare find themselves in grave danger. Those who do nothing, risk nothing, die in their beds without glory. They will tell stories of brave Khirro until the end of time, they will name you in songs and pray their children grow up to be like you.”

Khirro forced a pained smile to his lips. “I am but a farmer, my king.”

“No, my friend. You are a hero. May the next world give you all you deserve.”

Khirro swallowed the coppery taste of blood around a lump in his throat as Braymon stood and replaced his gauntlet. The king looked at him for an instant, nodded, then stepped over him. Khirro attempted to turn his head, but his body no longer possessed the energy to do so, his last ounce sapped by loss of blood and the effort of consciousness. He exhaled through his open mouth and the air stirred tiny waves in the bloody mud.

A growl rumbled behind Khirro and he drew one more breath he hadn’t planned on taking and held it.

The tyger leaped over him, the impact of its paws shaking the ground beneath him before it galloped into the mist, flames trailing behind it. Khirro’s lips twitched, searching for a triumphant smile, but found himself unable to locate one.

His breath escaped his lungs and his eyes slid shut.

***

The enemies kept coming at him, as if the damnable mist spawned them from the falling snow.

Therrador felt blood drying on his face, saw offal on the fingers of his gauntlet and hardening on his chest plate. He gutted one with the sword in his left hand and jammed his boot into the gut of another, removing its head as it stumbled back. Even the bandage wrapped around his thumbless hand dripped blood like a washcloth left without being wrung out.

Another undead lurched toward him out of the mist, then a second and a third. Therrador didn’t have time to catch his breath or wipe the sweat from his forehead. Steel clanged against steel, the sound battering his ears until he thought they’d bleed-the only sound he’d heard since the mist fell over them, until the footsteps.

The ground rumbled with each of them and the snow-laced mist swirled and moved, opening in spots like a curtain drawn aside until it began to lift. Therrador saw the score of undead soldiers awaiting their turn at him, and beyond them the woman, her blond hair wind-whipped, her pale flesh gleaming with sweat as she swung the staff, animating more of the dead to try to take his life. She smiled and laughed, enjoying the carnage she created. Something caught her attention; her movements ceased and her smile slipped away.

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