Bruce Blake: Heart of the King

The men quickened the pace of their attack and Khirro’s smile faded as it became difficult to keep up. He deflected one blow with his sword and it grazed his arm without cutting. The flat of one man’s sword caught him across the back making him stumble, but he kept his feet.

They’re toying with me.

The attack continued, bringing beads of sweat to Khirro’s brow. The bearded man with the scar laughed and some of his companions chortled along with him. Khirro’s arms grew heavy with the fatigue of defending himself.

He barely blocked an attack aimed at his legs and ducked under another blow. His breath came in short, heavy gasps; his heart beat fast with exertion and fear. He tried to bring the flaming tyger into his thoughts, to picture fire coursing through his veins and across his flesh, but found the act of defending against the constant attacks kept him from putting his thoughts to it.

As he turned another circle, he spied a figure between two of the men.

Athryn.

The magician sat cross-legged and naked to the waist among the dead tomato plants, the black scrollwork tattoos inscribed on his chest and arms readily visible as he sat stone-still, face upturned to the sky.

“Athryn. Help me.”

The bearded man peered over his shoulder and saw Athryn seated in the field. His lips pulled back in a snarl and he turned from the fight to engage this man who’d crept up on them to interrupt their fun. Khirro took advantage of the instant of respite in the attack and the man’s inattention.

The glowing runes inscribed on the length of the Mourning Sword brightened until the entire blade appeared red. Khirro lunged; the tip of his blade found the seam at the side of the man’s leather armor and sank deep into his abdomen.

The Kanosee soldier gasped; his companions stared. For a moment, time felt as though it paused. Nothing happened, no one moved, until Khirro pulled the Mourning Sword free.

The bearded man took an uncertain step toward Athryn and stopped. Khirro saw blood seeping from under his armor as he faltered, then his legs gave way and he crumpled. They all stared until one of the men behind Khirro shouted and the attack began anew.

This time, they weren’t playing with him.

Blows rained down from all sides. The Mourning Sword jumped and flickered, catching each thrust and swipe, but the onslaught forced Khirro back. The tip of one man’s sword grazed his thigh, opening a small cut. He caught another in the shoulder and immediately felt the pain of a wound and the warm trickle of blood down his arm. Khirro retreated until his feet contacted the fallen Kanosee soldier and he tumbled to the ground. He rolled once, glimpsing Athryn still sitting with his face upturned, then came to a stop on his back.

He rolled away from the next attack and the soldier’s sword cut into his fallen comrade’s neck instead of his enemy. A groan escaped the man and, muddled up with the noise of the soldiers’ movements and the injured man’s cry, Khirro heard Athryn chanting. His eyes flickered toward the magician, hoping whatever spell he chose to cast would not only help, but do so quickly.

In the second his attention was distracted, one of the soldiers landed a solid blow to the guard above the Mourning Sword’s hilt and the weapon flew from Khirro’s grasp. He watched it arc through the air away from him, then his eyes snapped back to his attackers to see another of the men cock his sword back above his head. He bared his teeth in a half-smile, half-growl and brought the sword forward.

“Athryn!”

Khirro heard the whistle of steel cutting through the air, had an instant to feel dried tomato vines scratch against his cheek, then the man, his sword, the entire world disappeared.

The wagon bounced through a deep rut, jarring Graymon and sending a jolt of pain down his arm. His belly churned and he gritted his teeth, determined not to cry any more. No one here noticed or cared, so tears did him no good. No one would comfort him; no one would brush hair out of his face and kiss his forehead like Nanny would; no one would call the surgeon to give him sleeping powder so he wouldn’t notice the pain.

The decayed soldiers had fashioned a crude splint and sling for his arm, but their medical know-how extended no further. The swelling that tightened the skin across Graymon’s forearm kept him in constant pain. He’d barely slept in the week since he fell out of the tree and had no appetite; he felt weak and tired and found keeping his seat a challenge. One of the undead men forced water between his lips from time to time, and they provided him a plate of some sort of charred meat periodically. He’d taken a bite the day before, made himself swallow it, but the vomit it induced was now dry chunks in a corner of the wagon.

They don’t check on me because they don’t think I’ll try to escape again.

He breathed deeply and cradled his arm against his chest. A wave of fatigue rolled through him and his head drooped. He caught himself, shook his head and blinked rapidly to clear the sleepiness from his eyes-if he fell asleep, he’d only roll on his arm and wake himself up anyway.

They’re right.

The wagon rattled along the track and the boy’s eyelids fluttered. After a few minutes of struggling to keep his eyes open, he decided not to fight it, and laid himself down in the bottom of the wagon and pulled the natty blanket over himself, carefully avoiding the dried vomit while protecting his arm. The wagon shook and groaned, bouncing him awake; eventually, he found enough peace to sleep.

At first, it was fitful, interrupted when the cart hit a bump and jarred his arm or rattled with enough noise to stir him. After a while, fatigue overcame the noise and the pain, and he fell into a deep sleep.

And he dreamed.

In this dream, Graymon wasn’t in the wagon transporting him away from his father and his home, but seated at the foot of a stone wall. He looked up and saw moss growing on its surface and holes where bricks had fallen away near the top. After living his entire life in the capital-except for the brief stay in the Isthmus Fortress-he’d never seen a structure in such poor repair.

Graymon stood and it took him a moment to realize that his arm no longer hurt in the dream. He clenched and unclenched his fist, flexed his fingers, bent his elbow and breathed a sigh of relief for being able to do these things again before turning his attention to the wall. It stretched a long way above his head, though not as high as the wall that protected Achtindel, and certainly not as high as the one at the Isthmus Fortress. He looked up the wall toward the sky for a minute, then began walking beside it, fingers trailing along the rough patches of bare stone and the soft, bright green moss covering the rest.

He passed a hole in the wall too high above his head to see through and thought about jumping for it and pulling himself up, but the last time he’d done such a thing, it didn’t turn out so well. He rubbed his arm unconsciously and continued along the wall.

A dozen paces farther along, he found another hole, this one lower. He crept up to it and peered through, staying mostly concealed in case the wall hid more scary soldiers. It didn’t, or at least he couldn’t see any from his vantage point.

Graymon stuck his head through the opening to peer beyond the wall’s crumbling stone. Buildings stood behind the wall, rickety shacks made of wood with thatched roofs. Some of the buildings were charred, those which weren’t had simply fallen down. Of the six or seven buildings Graymon saw, all of them were damaged.

“Where am I?” Graymon said aloud without meaning to speak.

“Kanos.”

Graymon had dreamed of the white tyger before. The first time, he’d been afraid of the beast’s sharp claws and pointed teeth, but with more dreams, he’d come to appreciate the creature’s beauty and know that it didn’t want to hurt him. Its long tail swished behind it like a separate animal; a furry, striped snake tasting the air. The beast’s muscles rippled beneath its shiny fur with every movement, making its physical power apparent, yet it moved with such grace and restraint, in control of every maneuver, from the flick of an ear to each powerful stride.