Bruce Blake - Heart of the King

Emeline dropped the knife and stepped over the first man she ever killed, moving toward the king as quickly as she dared. She crouched, shuffling between the bodies scattered across the ground, but hesitated with only five paces separating her from Therrador to watch the tyger back away from the Archon, leaving her burning to ash upon the plain.

The animal’s flames flickered out and Graymon stumbled back a step before his knees gave way and he crumpled to the ground. The king called out to his son; Emeline found herself unable to do more than stare at the tendrils of smoke rising from the boy’s clothes, her mind refusing to believe what her eyes saw.

Graymon has become the tyger?

She stared, mouth agape, fear and anger and death forgotten until the boy rolled onto his back and she saw the bundle he held in his arms. It felt to Emeline like her heart leaped into her throat, choking her before she found the breath to call out her daughter’s name.

She ran across the scorched and cracked earth where the fight between dragon, tyger and Archon had occurred. The hard ground scraped gashes in her legs as she fell to her knees at Graymon’s side.

Other than a smudge of black soot across her soft, pink cheek, Iana’s face looked peaceful, like it did when she slept. The baby didn’t move.

A weight fell on Emeline’s chest, compressing her lungs until she couldn’t breathe. Her shoulders trembled; a cry of grief began deep in her throat, clawed its way up into her mouth and between her lips. She reached a shaking hand out toward her daughter’s cheek to wipe the soot away, but stopped short of touching her and put her hands instead over her own face, stifling her sorrowful wail. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and let the sobs shake her.

“Em…ah…leen.”

Through her grief, she barely heard the quiet syllables. She sniffled deeply and moved her hands from her face, wiped away her tears. Graymon’s looked up at her from beneath drooping lids.

“I’m here,” she said.

The boy’s face pinched with pain and discomfort for a second, then he looked back into her eyes.

“Iana. She…she…”

“Sshh.” Emeline brushed sopping hair from his sweaty forehead. “Don’t speak.”

Graymon nodded minutely and Emeline inhaled a deep, shuddering breath; in it, she smelled her daughter’s familiar scent mixed with the stink of brimstone and singed grass. She forced an unconvincing smile on her lips for the sake of the boy and reached out to take the baby from him.

Iana’s skin was warm. Emeline hugged her close against her chest and looked down into the babe’s angelic, innocent face, struggling to keep tears from coming anew.

Why did this have to happen to you?

She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer to the Gods to take care of her child, to make sure she found her father in the fields of the dead.

Both of her fathers.

She kept her eyes closed and rocked back and forth on her knees as though she comforted her daughter, but it was herself in need of comfort. But where would she find it with Lehgan and Khirro both dead? What was she without her child?

A soft sound reached her ears and she held her breath. She heard it again and opened her eyes.

Iana looked up at her, smiling.

A ragged, laughing sob broke free of Emeline’s throat and she kissed all over her daughter’s face, eliciting coos and giggles from the baby. She hugged her close and breathed deep of her baby smell.

“Graymon!”

The king’s voice rasped behind her and Emeline chastised herself silently; she’d been so concerned for the welfare of her child, she’d forgotten Therrador must be experiencing the same thing.

“Graymon is alive. So is Iana,” she said over her shoulder. She turned to Graymon and saw his eyes were brighter, more focused. “Can you stand?”

“I…I think so. Is my da all right?”

She stood, Iana cradled in her right arm, and helped Graymon to his feet.

“Take it easy,” she said putting her arm around his shoulders.

He held onto her to steady himself as they crossed the distance to where Therrador lay. When they arrived, Graymon fell to his knees and hugged his father, his head resting on the king’s chest. Emeline stood back and watched them, emotion clogging her throat. She kissed Iana on the head again and the baby giggled.

“I’m so glad you’re all right, son.”

Graymon leaned back and looked at his father. “What happened to you, Da? Are you all right?”

“The witch paralyzed me.” The muscles in his jaw clenched tight and he looked away from his son’s gaze. “It will wear off with time.”

Graymon hugged him again. “I was in the fire, Da. I was in the tyger.”

“You are a brave hero, son. The bravest.”

“You saved the kingdom, Graymon,” Emeline said.

Graymon looked up at her, his eyes sparkling. “Iana-”

“Sshh, honey. The baby is fine,” Emeline said.

“And what of Khirro?” Therrador asked, his neck straining to hold his head up and look at Emeline.

“Khirro has gone on to the next life.”

“And the magician?”

Emeline looked around, noticing for the first time that the battle had not resumed. The dragon, the tyger, the Archon’s death had taken the fight out of the living, and the dead were staying dead. Kanosee soldiers retired from the field of battle as Erechanians tended their fallen comrades.

“He is gone, too.”

Therrador let his head drop back to the ground. “But the kingdom is saved. Because of Prince Graymon.”

The boy raised his head from his father’s chest. “Iana-”

“She’s fine, see?” Emeline said kneeling beside him. “Here, you can hold her for a moment. It seems the two of you are friends now.”

Graymon stood and Emeline placed the baby in his arms. He cradled her close to him, both of them smiling. Emeline looked at the king.

“Can you move at all?” she asked leaning close and keeping her voice quiet so Graymon wouldn’t hear.

“Nothing below my neck.”

Emeline nodded and looked up. To her right, a man clad in Erechanian armor was dragging the body of another soldier out of a pile of the dead. She waved her hands over her head and called out.

“Help us. Please help us. The king is injured.”

The soldier let the dead man’s body fall to the ground and rushed across the scorched ground to their aid.

Khirro blinked.

The cerulean sky stretched away above him, unspoiled, unmarred, cloudless. He saw nothing but endless blue and realized there was nothing but the sky-no smells, no sounds, nothing.

Smells returned first, all of them familiar-grass and earth, the fragrances of flowers and trees; the scents of his life that had always been present.

The farm, then. I’m on the farm.

But that didn’t ring true. He felt warmth on his face and a lightness to his body; memories seemed faint, distant, as though seen through the wrong end of an eyeglass. It couldn’t be the farm, he’d left home long ago…but for where?

Sound crept back into Khirro’s world: the sigh of wind through grass, the creak of a tree limb, the beat of his heart, the sound of his breath. The sounds prodded Khirro’s mind and memories came back to him like a butterfly alighting on the petals of a flower. Consciousness returned, gently, lovingly.

He turned his head and saw the grass, impossibly green; in the other direction stood a tree, its limbs outstretched as though it cradled the sky against its bosom. The movement of his head caused no pain, though he’d suspected it would. Instead, he felt the tickle of the grass against his cheek, the delicate touch of his clothing on his flesh. The sights and sounds, the touch of grass and sun and cloth, all were pleasant, but none meshed with the memories of blood and death and pain. None of them matched his recollection of the farm, his home.