by Bruce Blake
Blood rushed to Khirro’s face. He’d managed to get the king here with a monstrous creature at his heels. Didn’t that prove he was no longer a novice? He opened his mouth to protest the Shadowman’s words but snapped it shut remembering his blunders on the wall walk which had led to Braymon’s death. His ego shrank like a snail pulling its head into its shell.
“He has seen too much for us to leave him,” Rudric said.
Does he mean they should spare me or kill me?
“And he’ll be a burden if we take him,” Gendred added.
He means to kill me.
The healer looked at them. “Would you kill the man who has kept hope alive? Would you kill the man who has given us the opportunity to bring back our king?”
Gendred opened his mouth to protest, but the healer raised a hand, stopping him. The vial was gone from his grasp, disappeared somewhere into his robe.
“Bring him with us.”
Rudric nodded, accepting the healer’s command, but Gendred remained motionless, the muscles of his jaw flexing as he ground his teeth.
“Bring me where?” Khirro fought hard to keep his voice from trembling.
“We are bound for Lakesh,” the healer answered.
Khirro’s breath caught in his throat.
Lakesh. The haunted land.
Chapter Four
The healer dabbed a poultice on the short gash above Khirro’s right eye. Whatever he applied to the wounds felt like nothing Khirro had experienced before—the cuts and bruises tingled with an unsettling but not unpleasant warmth; his flesh convulsed and quivered each time the poultice touched him. In his head, he heard his mother telling his four-year-old-self the story of a wizard who befriended a boy so he could cook him in a pie to feed his pet troll for dessert. In the story, the boy found himself in that predicament because he hadn’t listened to his mother, of course.
At that moment, Khirro could identify with the boy in the story.
“Relax,” the healer said noticing the tension in his limbs. “I will not hurt you.”
Khirro let out a shuddering breath, forcing his muscles to unknot. Despite being only inches away, the darkness shrouding the healer’s face revealed nothing. Occasionally, Khirro thought he saw a glint as torchlight caught the healer’s eye, but it was gone so quickly, he couldn’t be sure he saw even that.
“You needn’t take me with you, Master Sha—Master Healer,” Khirro said. “The king saved my life. I wouldn’t betray him.”
With Rudric and Gendred gone bearing the king’s body away in a canvas sack, the room gathered his words and cast them into the space above to reverberate in the ceiling. The Shaman finished up with the gash on his forehead and moved to an abrasion on his cheek.
“None can know of our journey.” He leaned close and Khirro smelled the scent of his breath: sweet and musty, acrid and mild—mint, cinnamon, and mold. It changed with each word so Khirro couldn’t identify any one odor. “It may not seem it, given our destination, but I take you with us to protect you.”
“But I’d never tell.”
“If you are with us, there is no chance a pint of ale or a pretty girl loosens your tongue. There are those who would do anything to find out what you know.”
Khirro shifted uncomfortably at the healer’s words. “I have a lady who’s with child. Can’t I return to her, leave this all behind.?”
The healer paused as though considering his request. The thought of returning home bolstered Khirro only slightly. There would be struggles there, too, but of a vastly different nature.
“Our enemies are resourceful. It will not be long before they discover the king has fallen. If your involvement is discovered, neither you nor your family is safe. It is better for all if you are with us.”
“But what if they find out anyway? They could still go after my family.”
“For what, Khirro? You would never know they threatened those you love, so they would gain nothing from it.”
Khirro noticed tension crawling back into his muscles at the Shaman’s words: for his family to be safe, he must allow them to drag him to the cursed earth of Lakesh. The healer returned to his ministrations while Khirro’s thoughts strayed to Emeline. The thought of her made his heart ache. He wondered if he’d see her again, if they would ever live their lives together—a question in need of answer whether the haunted land lurked in his future or not.
“Why Lakesh, Master Healer?”
“You watched as I drew the last living blood from the king.” He moved his attention to a cut on Khirro’s forearm. “With this, the king may be raised from the fields of the dead, but I have not the skills to perform such acts. Only the Necromancer possesses such ability.”
“But...Lakesh. Is there no one else?”
Khirro shuddered. Lakesh—the haunted land, the cursed earth, country of magic and shadows and evil. The name alone instilled fear. People said no man who crossed the Little Sea into Lakesh ever returned.
“There is only one Necromancer, can only ever be one, and he is the only one who can do what needs be done. You will be safe with me, for I have safe passage through the dark land. Darestat was once my master, you see.”
Khirro’s eyes widened although this revelation no longer surprised him. “So it’s true. You’re more than a Master Healer.”
“Yes. I am Bale, the king's Shaman.”
“Did the king know?”
“Of course. It was the king’s plan to be raised if he fell. The drawing of lifeblood is something no mere healer can do.”
The Shaman rolled Khirro on his side facing the wall to work on his back, applying the poultice and murmuring the occasional unrecognizable word under his breath. His cold, strong hands made Khirro tense as they fell silent again. The dark magic made his hurts feel better, but what would it mean in the future? Could it taint him? If he could walk away from this evil, he would, but doing so would mean his life, maybe others.
When he completed his work, the Shaman stood and gestured for Khirro to do the same. With teeth gritted against the expected pain, Khirro pushed himself first to a sitting position, then rose to his feet. His tendons creaked, joints popped, but his injuries felt like they had occurred a week or more before and were in the final stages of healing.
“How...?” he began but stopped. This is magic. He didn’t want to know any more about it.
“The entire kingdom is in your debt, though they may never know it.”
Khirro’s lips twitched into a self-conscious smile. Despite the fear and shame, confusion and embarrassment, pride dwelled within him. He had done something heroic, hadn’t he? Someone else might have left the king there, but he’d done the right thing.
The door swung open, startling Khirro out of his self-congratulation, and Rudric and Gendred entered, their faces damp with sweat.
“The deed is done,” Rudric said in a reverent tone. Gendred said nothing, his face frozen in the same stern expression that never seemed to leave it.
“And none saw you? The body will not be discovered?”
“There is naught to find but ashes and bone,” Gendred snapped and cast a seething glance at Khirro. “You needn’t question me, Shaman.”
The air in the room became heavy and thick. To avoid confrontation, Khirro went to where his clothes and armor lay in a heap. He dressed hurriedly, promising himself to wash the acidic smell of urine from his breeches the first time they were near water. He pulled his leather cuirass on, cinching the straps when a thought came to him.
“Armor.”
The three men looked at him; Khirro raised his eyes from his buckles as they regarded him.
“The king’s armor lays abandoned on the stairs to the North tower.”
Gendred spat a curse into the cloying air. The Shaman moved toward the door, robe swaying with the movement. He waved his hand, rippling the air, and stood rigid, staring at the door.
“It is too late. We must go.”
Gendred glowered at Khirro, plainly blaming him for the oversight. Kh
irro averted his eyes from the grim-faced warrior, directing his attention instead to fumbling with the straps of his cuirass. He nearly jumped when a hand touched his shoulder. He looked up nervously, fearing retribution, but it was Rudric standing before him, not Gendred.
“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.
Chapter Five
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.”
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?”
“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.
Chapter Six
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.