Bruce Blake - Blood of the King

The man’s eyes widened and his breathing stopped; the soldier knew he’d do whatever he said. This man was no warrior, he clung too tightly to life.

“There are tunnels leading from the fortress. Do you know how to access them?”

The man didn’t respond at first, so the soldier pressed more firmly and a drop of blood rolled down the man’s his neck. He nodded once, a quick, mute movement intended to keep the dagger’s edge from slicing deeper into his throat.

“Take me.” The soldier spun the man around, facing him down the stairs, deftly moving the blade from his throat and inserting the tip through the seam in his leather armor. “Don’t betray me or I’ll gut you like the pig you are.”

They descended to the courtyard five flights below, beads of sweat running down the man’s neck, mixing with the blood. They were nearly at the bottom when the man next spoke.

“Why? Why do you betray your king?”

“Not my king,” the soldier growled and jabbed the knife further into the man’s ribs. “Looks can be deceiving.”

They crossed the courtyard, bodies pressed close hiding the dagger between them. Soldiers and workers passed by, too distracted with their own business of repairs and clean-up to notice anything awry. The soldier breathed deep, inhaling familiar fumes of battle, and raised his eyes to the sun. Many hours yet remained in the day, encouraging him. He’d find the king.

His mission would yet be completed.

Spitting and sputtering, Khirro plucked another spider web from his face. He’d lost track of how many times he’d pulled the unseen traps of their silky strands from his face, as he lost track of how much time passed while they followed the tunnel. It sloped down gently at first but soon fell away at an angle steep enough to necessitate careful footing. Not long before this last arachnid’s snare, the tunnel leveled, then began to climb again. The tingling heat in Khirro’s wounds intensified as the four men walked, silent and purposeful.

What did he do to me?

What little pain lurked beneath the heat was less than the ache of effort burning in his thighs. Keeping pace with Gendred and the Shaman proved difficult, but Rudric stayed close, the light cast by his torch opening a circle six feet in diameter around them. Beyond it lay impenetrable gloom. Occasionally, the air quality in the tunnel changed as they went by passage openings, but they never veered from their path. Khirro peered into the solid darkness as they passed each one, only once divining anything in the pitch black-a glimpse of movement that wasn’t the scurry of a rat or mouse, but something larger shuffling in the gloom. Startled, Khirro misstepped and nearly fell, but Rudric caught him by the arm, ushered him forward. After that, Khirro’s eyes didn’t stray from Gendred’s ring of light leading the way as the ascent went on and on. Torch smoke clung to Khirro’s lungs with each breath, clogging his chest and stretching time impossibly long.

“How much farther?” he said over his shoulder to Rudric trying to make it sound like he was not panting as he spoke. “It seems we’ve been walking all day.”

“Quiet,” Gendred barked from ahead. Khirro received no other answer.

More sloped floor passed beneath their feet; Khirro calculated the passage must have been excavated beneath the lowest levels of the fortress, below the dungeon. As he marveled at what depth into the earth they must have traveled, the upward grade eased, then leveled. His lungs ached with thankful anticipation-even the horse-and-human stink of the fortress would be a relief after the claustrophobic tunnel. No torch smoke would seek his airways outside the cursed tunnel, no unseen things shuffling about in the dark, no spider webs waiting to ambush his face. Instead, he’d feel the sun on his face and breathe fresh air to cleanse his chest. So many years living the agrarian life made him take such things for granted, but a few hours of underground isolation reminded him how much a part of his life the elements were.

Distracted, Khirro watched his feet as they walked the last stretch of unknown distance, unable to discern the outline of his shoes in the dark as he imagined the warmth of the day and the relief in his lungs. He didn’t notice Gendred stop and looked up too late to avoid walking into the man’s back. Their armor and weapons clattered together with unnatural volume; Gendred whirled faster than Khirro had seen a man move.

The warrior’s hand shot out of the dark with unerring design, grasping Khirro’s throat, stopping his breath instantly. Thoughts of sunlight and fresh air fled as his hands clutched at his captor’s grasp and met an arm chiseled of granite. The dancing torch flames snaked shadows across Gendred’s emotionless face, mutating his expression into something fiendish.

He’s going to kill me.

Rudric spoke a word and the Shadowman released his hold. Khirro gasped, head hung to avoid Gendred’s gaze. Now, even the oily, smoke-filled air felt good.

When Khirro looked up again, Gendred had moved away. He might have stood there forever watching the warrior’s outline recede, afraid to follow, if not for Rudric’s hand on his shoulder prompting him forward. A few yards ahead, the Shaman stood in the center of the tunnel, flickering torch light engulfing his figure in writhing specters, making it impossible to tell if he moved or stood still. Whispered words crept along the tunnel walls, keeping to the shadows where they couldn’t be heard, and the air grew heavy.

Light burst into the passageway and everything disappeared: walls, men, the dark. Khirro threw his hands up to protect his eyes from the explosion of light which felt like the sun came down to settle amongst them. He blinked again and again, but his eyes resisted clarity after the long, dark walk underground. A gentle push from Rudric urged him on and he took a tentative step, not sure if he should be more afraid of the incredible light or of walking into Gendred again.

When the Shaman used magic to fell the undead creature, there had been light, but there was something more, too. A smell of energy expended. This time, the smell differed. Instead of ripped plasma and indescribable things, the smell was familiar.

Fresh air.

Five paces and the oppressive blackness and stale air disappeared. Revitalizing warmth bathed Khirro’s face and clean air filled his lungs. He breathed deeply once, twice; each breath forced the stink of the torches from his chest. Squinting, he lowered his hands, eyes slowly adjusting to the light. As his vision cleared, relief filled his chest, fortifying his limbs, and he momentarily forgot his predicament.

Khirro surveyed the area as warmth and sunlight filled him. A vast meadow stretched before them, thigh high grass lush and green in places, burnt yellow by the summer sun in others. Patches of flowers dotted the ocean of grass: purple heather, white daisies and orange poppies waved in the scant breeze. Distant hillocks rose and fell like frozen waves. To their right, the dark stone of the massive fortress wall rose, casting little shadow in the midday sun, an impressive sight even to someone who had lived behind that wall for the past months.

Rudric pushed past Khirro, extinguished his torch and threw it back into the yawning mouth of the tunnel. Gendred did the same. Khirro turned to look back at the tunnel they’d vacated and his scabbard banged against the Shadowman’s leg.

“Watch it,” Gendred growled, but Khirro’s attention was on a piece of earth as it slid over the opening in the hillock, transforming it back into one amongst many.

“The hills,” Khirro said turning to Rudric. “I hadn’t noticed them before. They’re quite unusual.”