Bruce Blake - Heart of the King

Therrador felled one soldier with his sword, then deflected the second’s attack and shattered its jaw with his fist. It faltered and he removed its head. The third dead man hesitated, its eyes on that which had claimed the witch’s attention. Therrador glanced over his shoulder at the source of their distraction.

The scrollwork tattoos etched across Athryn’s chest and arms glowed with the same unearthly red light as the runes along the Mourning Sword’s black blade, making both weapon and man look as though they’d been extracted from a blacksmith’s forge. The magician’s steps rumbled through the ground and the mist collected above him, twisting and moving in a tornado of white vapor and cold snow that tossed his shoulder length blond hair in a cloud around his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Therrador saw the Archon take a step toward Athryn.

She lifted the staff, pointed it at the magician, and all the undead across the battlefield amended their courses toward him. Therrador sprang to action, hacking and slashing those close to him, but the few he put down reduced their numbers by too few to matter.

The throng converged on Athryn and the king’s eyes fell upon the staff in Sheyndust’s hands.

The staff is the key.

His face set with determination, Therrador abandoned the fight and bolted across beaten grass toward a horse that looked relatively unscathed. Blood spattered its barding and its rider hung limp in the saddle, held there by a boot caught in stirrups. A thought of Sir Alton flashed through the king’s mind, but he banished it as he yanked the dead man unceremoniously out of the saddle and jumped onto the horse.

The steed snorted and pranced, but Therrador quickly controlled it, reined the horse around in time to see Athryn fell a half dozen undead soldiers with one swing of the Mourning Sword. The king waited to see no more; he put his heels sharply to the horse’s flanks and steered the animal directly at the Archon.

Sheyndust whirled the staff’s eldritch light around her head and more fallen soldiers climbed to their feet to join their fellows fighting the magician. Overhead, the twisted column of mist and snow climbed higher and higher, sucking clouds from the sky to add to its girth as below it, Athryn put down the risen enemy five or more at a time. Therrador risked a look at his companion and saw sparks jump from the blade of the Mourning Sword with each deadly swing.

The king leaned forward in the saddle, urging his steed faster. Its hooves beat the ground, the sound thunderous in Therrador’s ears, but her fight with Athryn consumed the witch and she didn’t notice until the last second.

Therrador leaped off the horse and struck her with the force of his armored weight and the horse’s momentum, throwing them both to the ground. The king hit the ground with his right arm under him and heard it snap more than felt it, the adrenaline of battle at too high a level for the pain to immediately register. They rolled over and over. The sword flew from Therrador’s hand and he clutched at her, struggled to grasp her with his right hand, but the break in his arm prevented its use.

Over and over they rolled, his injured arm banging against the earth, mud splashing in his face, until they finally came to a stop-Therrador on his back and the witch straddling his waist. A flash of lust quivered his mind at the thought of her nakedness atop him, her genitals so close to his, but the thought fled when she grasped his wrists and slammed them to the ground beside his head, bringing the pain in his arm to sharp focus.

Therrador grimaced as the broken bone grated and pushed against his flesh. Agony brought a haze to his thoughts, but through it, he realized what the hold the witch had on his wrists meant.

She dropped the staff.

Sheyndust leaned forward until her face was inches from Therrador’s. Her lips pulled into a smile full of pointed teeth and blood stains, and Therrador felt sure she’d use them to tear out his throat. He raised his shoulders to protect his neck but, instead of killing him, she kissed him.

Her lips felt soft against his and her tongue darted into his mouth, touched his tongue. He tasted the blood on her teeth, and desire and disgust stirred in his abdomen, then she pulled away and looked into his eyes.

“I’ll deal with you later.” Her breath smelled of raw meat and decay.

The witch climbed off him and Therrador immediately moved to gain his feet, to engage her.

Kill her.

He couldn’t move.

He strained to raise his arms, but they were not his to lift. He struggled to get his feet under him, but his legs were not his to command. Sweat rolled from his temple into his ear. He blinked. His eyes shifted to watch her.

His eyes saw the dragon born of man and snow and mist.

Men raised from the dead fell before the Mourning Sword’s blade, and Athryn felt the exchange of power between himself and the weapon. It flowed down his arms, through the sword’s grip and into the runes, then back again. Each fed the other, the steel satisfied by blood, the man satisfied by gathering power.

Through the attack, Athryn sensed the cadence of hooves and looked away from the fight to see the horse bear down on the Archon and Therrador leap from the saddle. His shoulder struck her and they went to the ground, hidden from the magician’s sight behind the forest of dead advancing on him. He redoubled his efforts, death turning the glowing scrollwork upon his flesh into writhing snakes hungry for the blood of his enemy.

With their maker distracted, the intensity of the dead soldiers’ attack waned and they fell easily beneath his blade until they finally stopped and stood motionless. Athryn hesitated. He could chop them down like a farmer harvesting a field of hay, but he didn’t. These were puppets, not men, and he couldn’t bring himself to slaughter them if they neither threatened him nor defended themselves.

But they will again if we do not stop Sheyndust.

He stretched to see past his adversaries and spied the staff lying on the ground.

Athryn threw the Mourning Sword aside and shouldered his way through the crowd of disoriented dead men, emerging from their midst to see Sheyndust on her feet and Therrador prone on the ground behind her. Things pulsed and moved beneath her flesh, stretching it, warping her beauty into monstrosity. Magician and sorceress both eyed the staff on the ground between them, but neither moved.

“What now, magician?” She spat the last word like it tasted foul to her mouth.

Behind him, he heard the sound of a growl rumbling in the throat of a beast.

The time has come.

“Now we die.”

He thrust his hands toward the sky and the mist swirling above his head fell upon him like water pouring out of an opened trap door. It raised him into the air, feet dangling above the ground, and the snow and mist gathered into a shape around him, transforming his fingers into talons, sprouting wings on his back, forming a tail.

Athryn saw clearly through the mist as the Archon darted forward to retrieve the staff. Hands gripped wide, she held it up toward the misty dragon he’d become, her dark eyes gleaming as she parted her lips to command the staff.

Athryn’s mouth opened, and the dragon’s did, too. The beast’s roar amplified the magician’s cry of rage; the force of it blew the witch’s hair back, filled her lungs with hot breath that stole hers and prevented her from speaking.

Athryn and the dragon raised their foot and brought it down on the staff, driving it to the ground and snapping it in two.

***

The Archon stumbled back from the beast’s taloned foot, a look of shock on her face as green lightning leaped from the broken staff and up the leg of the mist dragon. The undead soldiers still standing motionless dropped to the ground like rag dolls tossed aside by the hand of a bored child.