Bruce Blake - Heart of the King

“How…?”

“It’s the magic. Athryn is right.”

The unfamiliar voice startled Khirro and he swung the knife as he turned before thinking about what he was doing. If the woman had indeed been a woman, the knife would have opened a long wound across her belly. Instead, it passed through her.

Khirro looked at the woman’s face, then down at the knife in his hand. His fingers loosened and the dagger tumbled to the dirt floor.

“Elyea?”

The word caught in his throat.

“The Archon’s actions have broken the laws of nature and magic. Every time she raises an undead soldier, the life to sustain it must come from somewhere. They come from here.”

She swept her arm in front of her indicating the building in which they stood, but Khirro knew she meant the village, or perhaps all of Kanos. He followed the sweep of her arm and saw again the slumping corpse of the woman, the dried-out babe at his feet, each of their lives lost in service of creating one of the hideous monstrosities he’d seen at the Isthmus Fortress. He imagined their essences as a stream of translucent color sucked out of them as the mother rocked back and forth, comforting her child. The streams of color twisted into a rope and seeped out the walls, escaped up the chimney, gone to fuel the rotted soldiers, the mother and child’s lives involuntarily given up for a cause they likely didn’t know existed.

“How bad is it? Is all of Kanos like this?”

Elyea’s ghostly feet carried her past Khirro to the dead woman’s side where she stopped and looked down into the shriveled face. Khirro reached out to touch her hair as she passed.

“The Kanosee army has entered the Isthmus Fortress.”

Khirro stared at the back of her head without seeing the waves of red hair which had tempted his touch seconds before.

I must have heard wrong.

“The fortress? What? How?”

She faced him.

“Therrador was proclaimed king after Braymon’s death. He opened the gates to the Archon and her troops.”

Khirro’s gut shifted, his chest constricted. Anger rumbled at the back of his throat.

“Bastard betrayer.”

The words came from his lips, a growl fueled by rage, but they didn’t feel as though they belonged to him. Elyea tilted her head, looked deep into his eyes. The wan light in the room found the green in her eyes, made them sparkle. His chest loosened and he felt control return.

“He had no choice. She took his son.”

“Graymon?”

He knew nothing of Therrador, yet the name of a child he knew in his dreams came out of his mouth as if he was the boy’s Godfather. Elyea nodded.

“Therrador knows his mistake but the threat to his son clouds his decisions. Unless the boy is safe, it’s difficult for him to be on our side.”

“Where is Graymon?”

“They are bringing him to Kanos.”

“Athryn and I could rescue him. Do you know where he is?”

She nodded. “This is why I have come. They are going to the capital. If you follow the main road toward the land bridge, you will intercept them.”

He didn’t say anything, instead looking into her lake-green eyes, at the spill of red hair across her forehead and shoulders, her freckled cheek. To stop his eyes from straying farther and bringing an ache to his heart, he looked at the floor.

“I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

“You did nothing but show me love and hope in a world I’d begun to think held none for me. Why should you apologize?”

“But I killed you.”

“No, not me. That was someone else.” She reached out and brushed her fingers along his forearm. “You loved me.”

Khirro’s gaze settled on the baby lying near his feet. Was it a sign of things? Did it mean Graymon was close to lost?

Or is it Emeline’s child? My child?

So much time had passed since he last thought of them, long enough he felt shame for it. When once the woman meant everything to him-thoughts of her and of returning to her consuming his moments-now she seemed a memory of a one-time dream, barely remembered. But she was in Erechania where the Kanosee and their undead soldiers had taken over the Isthmus Fortress and controlled the king, where all were in danger. He looked up from the child; Elyea stood near the door.

“Has this happened in Erechania?” he asked indicating the shriveled child.

“No. Not yet, but it is why the Archon seeks to conquer your country. She needs lives to fuel her army of the dead. If we don’t stop her, Erechania is just the beginning.” She stepped into the sunlight streaming through the doorway and disappeared.

“Elyea?”

A second later, Athryn appeared framed in the doorway, a look of concern on his brow.

“Khirro? Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“You have been gone for hours.”

Athryn’s words surprised him. It didn’t feel like he’d been away for more than thirty minutes. Khirro swallowed hard around a lump in his throat.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“We should go.”

“Yes.”

Khirro looked back at the child on the dirt floor, at its bony finger pointing at him. Accusing him? Choosing him?

Both.

He kneeled and placed both hands beneath the child, careful not to damage its dried-out skin and brittle bones. Its flesh felt rough against his fingers, furrowed and hard. He scooped it off the dirt floor, crossed the two paces to the rocking chair and placed the babe back on its mother’s lap. Athryn waited patiently in the doorway while Khirro looked at the mother and child.

“There,” he said and faced his companion. “Now we can go. We must head for the land bridge.”

Athryn nodded. Khirro stepped past his companion and into the light of the autumn sun. Feeling its warmth on his face drove the hut’s ill feelings from him and he looked to the sky. It was still blue, the Heavens still in their place despite what happened here. He sucked a deep breath and expelled the last of the musty, dust-filled air of the building from his chest.

“We have a boy to save.”

He started toward the edge of the ruined village, the magician following without comment as if he already knew what needed to be done.

Therrador paced the room, hands clasped behind his back, boots padding the stone floor. The pain in his hand had diminished after the surgeon’s maggots did their work, but it still throbbed against the fresh bandage. He ignored the discomfort by shifting his thoughts to his son, which in turn transferred the pain from his missing thumb to his chest, squeezing his heart as if the Archon had inserted her hand between his ribs and encircled it with her fingers, threatened to pierce it with her nails.

“Oh, Graymon,” he muttered to the empty room. “I’m sorry.”

“He doesn’t blame you.”

Therrador whirled at the sound of the voice, surprised to find he wasn’t alone. The ghostly woman sat on the divan near the huge stone fireplace, her wild mane of wavy red locks covering the shoulders of her simple white dress and spilling down over her chest. The king stared at her, taking in her face and form. In the dungeon, in the dark and gripped by hunger and despair, he hadn’t really seen her or formed a sense of her. Now, in the open, in the light, with his wits about him, he saw her beauty. He took a step toward her and felt calm emanating from her.

“You’ve seen him? Is he safe?”

She nodded. “As safe as he can be given his situation.”

He sat beside her, not close enough to touch but near enough he saw the translucency of her. He looked into her green eyes flecked with black, and searched them to see if she could possibly be real.

“You’re a ghost.”

“I am no longer living in the manner you are.”