by Bruce Blake
“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.”
“Not hills: barrows. Every man, woman and child who’s met their end at the Isthmus fortress lies beneath them.” He looked at them with reverence, a soldier silently paying his respect to fallen comrades. “There will soon be more.”
They observed them together in a silence that felt uncomfortable to Khirro. He thought of the thing shuffling in the dark, his mind conjuring visions of something dead but not dead, like the thing that nearly killed him in the courtyard. Shivering, he shook his head to loosen the thought. He didn’t want to think of dead soldiers—there was too much chance he’d soon be one of them, though it was unlikely his body would ever be found and buried here.
“There’s one fallen soldier who won’t be among them,” Khirro said breaking the moment. “King Braymon.”
Rudric half-smiled. “Only his body is lost. We will ensure Braymon’s return.”
Khirro opened his mouth to ask a question but the Shaman spoke before the words cleared his lips.
“Stealth is needed. Following the road or seawall will be risky. We cannot chance being stopped and interrogated. The fewer who know of our passing, the less perilous our journey will be.”
“And how do you suggest we cross the plain without being seen?” Gendred asked appraising the area around them.
At their backs, smoke rose skyward from cook fires and smithies of the village outside the fortress gates. The plain stretched on to farms on one side and to the seawall many leagues ahead—all of it would be patrolled.
“There’s a drainage ditch ahead. It will provide us cover,” Rudric said. “The sun will have dried it by this time of year.”
The Shaman nodded. “It is less than a league from here. We will stay close to the base of the wall until we reach the ditch. We cannot be seen or the alarm will be raised”
Gendred grunted and immediately started for the wall without waiting for the others. The Shaman fell in with him, robe fluttering and waving as he moved. Rudric prompted Khirro forward and they followed, though the pace Gendred set once again proved quicker than he could comfortably maintain. Even though Rudric could likely match the Shadowman’s speed, he stayed with Khirro, whose respect and like for the man increased. As they walked, the question which had occurred to him a few minutes earlier returned to Khirro: if the king’s body is gone, but we restore his spirit, what body will he have? He decided to keep it to himself for the moment.
They reached the foot of the wall and Khirro paused to take in its immensity. From its base, the wall seemed to go up forever, not stopping until it reached the Gods. It was obviously huge from inside, but buildings and stairways and towers divided its surface into smaller, less meaningful portions. Only from here could its size truly be appreciated.
“Keep moving.” Rudric’s words jarred him from his thoughts. “We’ve no time to lose.”
Khirro peered up the wall again and sighed. Soon it would be far behind and he’d likely never see it again. He hated the place, wanted only to be home every second he’d been behind the wall, but now wished he could stay.
He followed Rudric. Gendred and the Shaman had gotten farther ahead, sometimes appearing at the top of a hillock, then disappearing down the other side, swallowed by the barrows.
“How far is it , General?” Khirro asked after a while.
“Not far. Beyond the next barrow. And, given our circumstances, I think it best you call me Rudric.”
Khirro nodded, stifling a smile that one of the highe
st ranking men in the king’s army wanted him to call him by his first name. How different Rudric was from the Shadowman who accompanied them.
“How come Gendred dislikes me so much, Rudric?” Khirro asked trying out the name. It felt odd in his mouth, but its use made him happy, proud.
Rudric chuckled. “Gendred dislikes everyone. Don’t take it to heart, he’s harmless.” Khirro doubted that. “It took years before he and I—”
Something cut Rudric’s words short and stopped him mid-step. Khirro halted, too, and looked into the general’s intense face.
“What is it?”
Rudric put his finger to his lips, silencing Khirro, who heard nothing for long seconds except the sound of his own blood pulsing in his ears as he held his breath. Then, ahead of them from the other side of the last large barrow, came a yell. The sound of metal contacting metal followed quickly, then silence again, the sound cut off like a hand clamped over a mouth.
Rudric drew his sword and leaped forward. Left behind, Khirro drew the short sword Rudric had found him, the feel of it clumsy and uncomfortable in his hand. No sword ever sat comfortably in his grip, but this one was too light, its hilt smaller than what he used in practice. Khirro loped up the barrow feeling weighed down by his leather and light mail. Rudric quickly outdistanced him despite his much heavier plate, disappearing over the crest of a hill. Khirro reached the top seconds later and stopped to gaze incredulously at the sight at the foot of the hillock. The blood drained from his limbs.
At the bottom of the slope, on the edge of the drainage ditch, eight Kanosee soldiers engaged Gendred while two others lay dead at his feet. A few yards away, the Shaman struggled with a huge fighter garbed in black mail splashed with red paint. A shimmering cloud distorted the figures and enveloped the area around them. Sparks flew as Gendred parried blows and struck his own, but Khirro heard nothing of the battle. Meadow birds sang, grasshoppers chirruped, his leather armor creaked as he drew breath, but no sounds emanated from the fight. Rudric skidded to a halt short of the haze.
“Bale has cast a spell of silence,” he called over his shoulder. “There will be no aid from the fortress. Hurry.”
He sprang through the undulating gleam of the Shaman’s spell without slowing, and slammed into the undead soldier gripping the Shaman’s wrists. The three of them tumbled to the ground, but Rudric darted up in an instant and brought his heavy sword down across the creature’s neck. Its head rolled across a narrow band of grass and over the edge into the ditch beyond.
Khirro scudded down the hill. Behind the diaphanous curtain, he saw Rudric say something to the Shaman, then rush to Gendred’s aid. When Khirro reached the edge of the spell, he hesitated. Only five Kanosee soldiers remained.
They have things under control.
Haltingly, Khirro put his hand through the shimmering air, steeling himself for pain, but there was not so much as a tickle. He let out his breath and shivered. The Shaman’s hands danced and moved, readying a spell and he remembered how his pursuer had fallen dead in the courtyard.
I’ll wait for him to cast his spell. I’d only be in the way. Whatever spell he casts will end the fight.
A Kanosee soldier stumbled out of the fray and nearly tripped over one of his fallen comrades. He stopped, wiped blood from his face, then bent and plucked a bow from the dead soldier’s hand, an arrow from the quiver on his back, and faced the Shaman. Khirro called a warning but his words bounced back from the hazy invocation and died in the summer air as the enemy soldier sited the Shaman. The weapon in Khirro’s hand felt suddenly foreign, the weight of the short sword great. He looked toward the others.
What if the Kanosee prevail? The thought made him both fearful and morbidly hopeful. If they all die, there’s no reason for me to go to the haunted land.
He shook his head, dispelling the thought, and reached a hand through the glistening shell, staring at it as it penetrated. If nothing else, he owed the king his life.
Too late.
A flash of movement caught his eye. He looked up and saw the Shaman’s incantation die on his lips, his hands cease moving as he slumped forward, falling awkwardly around the arrow piercing his chest. Khirro gaped at the Shaman lying in a heap on the grass.
The Kanosee soldier nocked another arrow. Gendred saw him and shouted—Khirro saw his mouth move—but in the instant of distraction another Kanosee soldier’s sword glanced off Gendred’s parry, the edge finding a sliver of flesh between epaulet and helm. Blood squirted, but Gendred fought on, impaling the man. He wrenched his sword free of the enemy’s belly and lurched toward the bowman.
Three wobbling strides passed beneath his feet before one of the two Kanosee remaining in close combat cut him down. Gendred stumbled, sword falling from his hand, his balance holding for an instant before he pitched face first to the blood stained grass.
The archer loosed his arrow. It struck Rudric in the shoulder, piercing his plate mail and knocking him back a step. With a grimace of pain and effort, he chopped down the man who felled Gendred leaving one Kanosee soldier in close combat with him as the bowman drew another arrow.
Thoughts of home and safety fled Khirro’s mind. If Rudric died, he’d be left alone with the enemy and the Kanosee surely wouldn’t let him live. He burst through the spell’s shimmering veil, swapping gentle bird song, rustling grass and the sound of his pulse beating in his ears for the biting clang of steel on steel, the howl of a battle cry.
It took an instant to realize the scream of rage belonged to him.
He rushed at the bowman, who spun toward his cry, startled. The Kanosee archer nocked his arrow quickly and released without benefit of aim, acting purely out of self-preservation.
Pain seared Khirro’s thigh and he pitched forward. His shoulder struck the ground, jolting more agony through his body. He lay on the grass, teeth clenched, hand going unconsciously to the wound in his leg. The arrow had pierced the fleshy outside of his right thigh, just missing bone; the head protruded through the back with the shaft buried to the flights at the front. He cringed, stomach roiling.
This must be how father felt when he lost his arm.
Pain filled his body, pounding and pulsing through his veins, the sound of it clouding his mind. He might have cried out, but couldn’t be sure. For a moment, his world was only the wound in his leg and the misery it inflicted. Slowly, the blood-colored cloud receded from his eyes, from his ears—like a blanket pulled back from a child to wake him—and the world returned.
Khirro heard his name shouted and remembered where he was, what was happening. He struggled to his knees and searched for his one remaining ally, saw the fallen Shaman, the dead soldiers. Sweat streamed from under Rudric’s helm as he fought a Kanosee soldier clad in the black-and-red mail of the undead; the general’s left arm dangled uselessly as he wielded his huge broad sword with the other hand. To Khirro’s right, the archer nocked an arrow and sited Rudric, awaiting his opportunity to let fly and end the fray. Khirro struggled toward him on hands and knees. Everything happened at once.
The undead monster swung his sword.
Rudric dodged and returned a blow, catching the Kanosee across the neck, sending his head tumbling from his shoulders.
The bowman drew back as Khirro lunged forward, swinging his short sword in a frantic arc. He missed by a foot and tumbled to the grass at the archer’s feet, breath knocked from his chest.
The Kanosee archer loosed his arrow as Rudric took a step toward him.
The arrow pierced Rudric's throat, stopping him mid-stride. He wobbled like a man spun around and made dizzy, then his knees buckled and he folded to the ground, dead.
Struggling to draw air, Khirro scrambled to his knees, eyes wide, heart racing. The enemy kicked him in the chest and sent him reeling onto his back. His head hit the ground knocking his helm free. The sky loomed above him, bluer than he remembered it ever being. No clouds marred its smoothness as it stretched on forever, leading to the fields of the dead where he would soon go.
The sky disappeared as the shadow of the Kanosee soldier fell across him. Khirro squinted but couldn’t see the face of the silhouette standing against that beautiful sky, an inky shape with nocked arrow and drawn bow.
“Death be yours, Erechanian pig,” the bowman growled as he straddled Khirro. He drew the bowstring to its fullest. Khirro raised his arms knowing the attempt to defend himself would prove futile.
A second passed. In that small space—more time than Khirro thought left in his life—he heard a sound like a stone thrown against leather followed by a splash of dirt against his cheek, then a gurgling from the archer’s lips.
Khirro lowered his arms.
The bow hung limply at the side of the black silhouette and a new appendage had grown from the man’s chest. The archer lurched to one side and Khirro could see again. It wasn’t a new arm sprouting from his chest, but a sword penetrating from behind. The bow fell from his hand, his body thrown roughly aside as the sword pulled free. Khirro expected Rudric or Gendred, even King Braymon, miraculously coming to his rescue, but the man standing over him was none of them.
Khirro gasped in as much air as his lungs could take as breath finally returned. He stared up at the man standing over him. His clean shaven face looked back impassively, blood dripped from his sword.
Khirro scrambled away, the arrow protruding from his thigh catching the ground and sending a fresh wave of pain coursing along his leg. He fell back, face pinched with agony. The man—his rescuer? his killer?—took a step toward him.