Bruce Blake: Heart of the King

Therrador lay helpless on the ground, watching as Sheyndust’s shocked expression became anger, then satisfaction at the green fire spreading from the staff, climbing the dragon. The beast threw back its head and roared, a sound tinged with triumph and agony, but hidden beneath it was another sound, the roar of another beast.

Therrador’s eyes moved toward the sound and he saw the tyger stalk out of the heap of fallen men, an arm dangling in its fiery teeth. The ground-wet with snow and blood-sizzled beneath its paws, the mud drying hard and cracked under its steps.

“Khirro?”

The burning tyger charged and the dragon-its scaly mist-flesh crawling and flashing with green light and viridian flame-reared back its head, filled its lungs, and belched fire down upon the Archon.

The woman lifted her arms defensively as the fire engulfed her, but it lasted only a moment. The dragon’s size diminished, as though the act of breathing the flames tore its insides out to collapse on itself, then it breathed no more. The mist that had formed the beast thinned and faded to green-tinted wisps before disappearing like the smoke of an extinguished taper.

As the dragon’s fire ended, the tyger let out a thunderous roar and leaped at the Archon without allowing her an instant to recover. It raked her chest with a massive flaming paw that left four deep gashes down her torso. Sheyndust stumbled back, clutching at the wounds and smearing dark red blood across her pale flesh, then the tyger was on her again, driving her to the ground. She screamed and tried to fend off the fiery beast as it sank its teeth deep into her forearm, then her screaming took a different shape.

The words the witch hollered were foreign and unintelligible to Therrador, but something understood them, and the earth heaved, shooting pain through the king’s broken arm. Dark clouds gathered above them, twisting and whirling, pregnant with power and the promise of death.

Finish her!

As if it heard the king’s command, the tyger jerked its head and wrenched the woman’s arm free at the shoulder. An agonized scream interrupted the words of her spell and the black cloud hanging over them faded to gray. The tyger tossed the arm aside, fresh blood crackling on its burning lips, and lunged for her throat.

The beast’s teeth sank into her pale flesh, turning her scream to a blood-filled gurgle. Therrador’s breath caught in his throat as the witch’s life blood fountained from the wound and he realized this would be the end of her, that she would be taken from him forever.

Sheyndust’s body jerked and twisted as she tried to release herself from the tyger’s grip, but the beast’s jaws held tight, digging deeper into her throat. Its flames spread to her hair, then to her skin, and the smell of burning flesh and boiling blood found its way to Therrador’s nostrils, gagging him and pulling him away from his false feelings. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the tyger.

Go on, Khirro. Kill her.

The tyger shook its head and another gout of the witch’s blood spurted onto the beaten grass. Her hand fell away from where it clutched the scruff of flaming fur at the big cat’s throat, her body spasmed and lay still.

The beast held on a few seconds longer, ensuring the woman was dead, then it backed away, leaving her body burning on the muddy ground. Triumph blossomed in Therrador’s chest.

If the witch is dead, her hold on me should be gone.

The king concentrated his effort on gaining his feet, but his limbs refused to move. A spark of despair came to life in the pit of his stomach; he forced the jubilation of victory to extinguish it for the time being. The witch’s magic would wear off and, if not, Athryn would know what to do.

He looked back to his fallen foe and saw the tyger standing over her, the fire covering the man beneath the beast beginning to flicker and die as he watched the flames devour Sheyndust’s flesh. A minute later, it wasn’t a tyger watching the witch burn, but a six year old boy standing with his smoldering back to the king.

Therrador’s eyes widened and the spark he’d extinguished burst into a wildfire.

“Graymon,” he called, his voice strained. He tried uselessly to lift his arm, to move, to crawl.

The boy crumpled to the ground.

***

Despite her terror at the missing children, Emeline stayed with Khirro until he drew his last breath, then she left him lying in a muddy pool of his own blood to search for Iana and Graymon. She looked amongst the corpses, threaded her way between undead soldiers standing like puppets without strings until the dragon snapped the staff and they all tumbled to the ground.

Green fire covered the dragon as it breathed a column of flame at the Archon. Emeline raised her arm to protect her face from heat intense enough to dry the tears on her cheeks. The sound of the dragon fire roared in her ears; she smelled the creature’s acrid breath as it tore the air.

When it stopped, she lowered her arm and saw the flaming tyger pounce on the Archon, driving her to the ground. Beside them, the dragon shrank until it disappeared in a puff of vapor.

But Khirro’s dead. Where did the tyger come from?

The living warriors who remained all stopped fighting to watch, Kanosee and Erechanian standing side by side as the unbelievable fight unfolded before them. Emeline skirted around them, trying not to draw their attention, but one man saw her and stepped into her path.

“What have we here?” the Kanosee soldier said.

Mud smeared the warrior’s face and his left arm hung limp at his side, a gash near the shoulder oozing blood. He smiled to show the gap in his teeth where one was missing, and Emeline froze, her body remembering the man’s rough touch and the terrible things he did to her even before her mind recalled his name.

“Hektor,” she said.

“I told you we’d see each other again, didn’t I?” He held his sword’s scabbard steady with his left wrist, wincing in pain as he did, and slid his weapon into its sheath. “I just didn’t expect it to be here.”

He moved in close to her and Emeline’s jaw clamped tight. She smelled the odor of his sweat, felt his touch on her arm, and the memory of their trip to the fortress came back. In her mind, she saw him kill her husband.

Anger and worry for her child forced fear from Emeline’s mind. She moved a step closer to the man so their bodies were almost touching and put her hand on the top of his chest.

“I hoped we’d meet again,” she said.

With one quick movement, Emeline plunged her fingers into Hektor’s wound. He cried out and jerked back a step; gripped in Emeline’s other hand, his dagger pulled from its scabbard and she leveled it at him.

“What are you doing, woman?” He raised his good hand for a moment, as if in surrender, then lowered it. “You won’t hurt me. You’re just a farm girl. You don’t have it in you.”

His lips curled up in a smile again, revealing the gap that had haunted Emeline’s dreams. He took one step toward her and she planted the dagger in his throat. His eyes went wide with surprise, his mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, blood bubbling on his lips. Emeline pulled the knife from his throat and drove it in again.

Her rapist-her husband’s murderer-collapsed at her feet, and she stared down at him as he twitched on the ground, his life spurting onto the grass. She felt his blood on her fingers and tasted the metallic tang of fear and disgust on her tongue, but her body felt numb, otherwise. When she looked up, she saw Therrador lying prone a few yards from where the tyger was mauling the woman and immediately forgot the dying man at her feet.

Maybe he knows where Iana is. Maybe he took the children to safety.