Bruce Blake - Blood of the King

“It’s all right. You did what needed to be done. No man could expect more.” He stepped back to survey Khirro. “You lost your helm and sword in the fight.”

“What good is a sword to a farmer?” Gendred snorted.

Rudric ignored him. “I’ll get you replacements.”

Khirro nodded, thanking him with a barely perceptible smile. The officer of the Kingsblade stole from the room, returning moments later with a short sword and an open-faced helm. Rudric handed them to him with a shrug.

“Closest I could find. The previous owner won’t miss them.”

“Thank you.” Khirro wondered who the previous owner had been and what happened to him. “You needn’t have troubled yourself.”

“You’re a hero of the kingdom.” Rudric put his hand on Khirro’s shoulder again. “It’s no trouble.”

Gendred interrupted their exchange with a disgusted grunt. “How do you propose to leave this place, Shaman? Shall we march out the door to the rear gate? Two officers, a magic man and a farmer shouldn’t attract much attention.”

The Shaman ignored Gendred’s baiting and moved to the wall at the back of the room.

“The king’s armor has been discovered,” Gendred continued. “Perhaps they’ll return it to us, then hang us as traitors to the crown.”

“Hold your tongue for once, Gendred,” Rudric said, his tone calm but icy, the voice of command. Gendred sneered but fell silent. Watching their exchange, even Khirro saw the hostility between them seething beneath the surface. Perhaps only duty kept them from each others' throats.

The Shaman raised his arms, the wide sleeves of his robe falling back from long fingers, veins showing blue beneath translucent flesh. He muttered indistinguishable words, then placed his hand on first one stone, then another, then a third. A section of wall before him swung inward revealing a passage leading into darkness. Khirro squinted but inky blackness devoured the light only a few feet beyond the opening. The Shaman didn’t say anything, didn’t tell them to follow, he simply stepped across the threshold into the passage. The dark engulfed him as completely as it did the light from the torches, making it seem like the black-clad healer vanished.

Gendred took a torch from its wall sconce and plunged into the passage after the Shaman, the flame barely holding the darkness at bay. Rudric plucked another torch from the wall and ushered Khirro into the passage before him.

Damp, cool air touched Khirro’s face. It smelled of earth and mold, of ancient times and long gone people. The passageway must have lain unused for many years, maybe centuries, forgotten.

What other secrets does the Shaman keep?

Khirro put one tentative foot in front of the other, eyes on Gendred’s torch bobbing ahead of him, Rudric’s torch close behind lighting his way. He looked over his shoulder, past the officer, and saw the dull gray square of doorway disappear as the wall swung closed with the sound of rock grinding on rock, shutting out the room, closing on his life and everything he knew.

The soldier sat on the top stair cleaning blood from his sword, listening to the groans of wounded men strewn on the walk around him. He shifted and slid the blade into its scabbard. Men moved along the wall walk making repairs, tending the injured and collecting the dead. Most of them made a wide berth around him, avoiding a man wearing the garb of the king’s guard. A few archers remained at the parapet launching arrows at the retreating Kanosee, but they had pulled back beyond bow range. The fight had been fierce but, despite the wall breach, they’d repelled the invaders.

For now.

Farther down the wall walk, soldiers scavenged the fallen enemy for whatever they might keep or sell. He sneered. How could they act that way? Where was their honor? On the battlefield, in the heat of the fight when life and death were at stake, such things were done for survival, not for personal gain. Bury them or burn them, don’t rob them. He spat in their direction and turned his head away.

When the Kanosee soldiers breached the wall, it had required all his focus to stay alive, and he lost track of the king in the melee. The last time he saw Braymon, he was engaged with one of the monstrosities summoned to swell the Kanosee ranks. The tide of battle engulfed the soldier, distracting him from his assignment until a fresh troop of Erechanians joined the fray, driving the invaders from the wall, setting the ladders alight with urns of burning pitch. The stench of burnt flesh had threatened to empty the soldier’s stomach; he might have known some of those men, as he may have known some he slew himself. When his thoughts had cleared of the fog of battle, the king was gone. The cloaked man wouldn’t be happy he failed, but he’d have other opportunities.

The soldier stood, stretched, and glanced down the stair at the landing below, a glint of sunlight on metal catching his attention. Near the wall, crowded at the corner of the landing, he saw a suit of plate-Erechanian and of high quality, but he couldn’t get a good view. He hurried down the stairs for a closer look.

Puddled blood, dried and brown, stained the landing. He surveyed the scene with a practiced eye and surmised two men had lain here, one gravely injured. His gaze followed the trail of blood descending the stair and the story became clear: one man injured, the other stripped his armor to carry him to safety. The warrior shook his head. How many men died trying to save one fallen soldier when the entire fortress was in peril? He half-smiled at the novice mistake and went to the heap of plate, shifting it with the toe of his boot. Dirty, scuffed, caked with dried blood inside and out. Through the flaking gore and dust of battle, a pattern was evident on the breast plate. He brushed grime away with a gloved hand and revealed a scrollwork of enameled ivy. His eyes widened.

The armor belonged to the king.

It must have been he who was seriously wounded, carried to safety by some faithful soldier. His stomach clenched. How would he find the king and complete his task now? Anger rose in the soldier; he despised failure, had been trained since birth that it meant weakness. A boot scuffed on a stair below and he stood, muscles tensed, hand on sword hilt.

“Ye! What 'ave we 'ere?” The man ascending the stairs halted as he saw the soldier standing over the pile of armor. “Anythin’ valuable?”

“Not sure.”

The soldier kept his voice purposely low to draw the man closer. With the king fallen, he had little time. The cloaked man had told him what would happen if the king fell and the Shaman performed his abomination, had explained how they would get out of the fortress. He needed to find a way to intercept them before they got too far. This man might be the way.

“I can’t see, ya damn fool. Move outta me way!”

The soldier shifted, keeping his king’s guard insignia hidden, and made space for the other man to sidle in beside him. The man did as the soldier had moments before, crouching, wiping dirt away for a better look and to gauge the armor’s value. The soldier loosened his dagger in its sheath.

“Gods, look at this. Must be worth a fortune.”

He brushed away more dirt, then stopped, hand hovering above an exposed loop of ivy spilling across the breastplate. The soldier’s dagger slid free.

“What is it?”

“The king,” the man said, a note of shock in his words. He stood, half turning toward the soldier. “It’s the king’s pl-”

The soldier’s blade touched the man’s throat, cutting off his words as the sharp edge pressed flesh hard enough to draw blood.

“Don’t cry out. I’ll open your throat before a sound escapes.”