by Bruce Blake
“What happened?” Shyn surveyed the area as the others emerged from their hiding places. Athryn and Elyea joined him at Khirro’s side while Ghaul stood back, empty bow dangling. Khirro writhed on the ground, blood seeping around the arrow in his right shoulder.
Twice. His mind reeled with pain, grasping for something to hold on to. I’ve been skewered by arrows twice. Who’d have thought it possible?
Shyn acted quickly, drawing his dagger and shaving the arrowhead from the shaft. Khirro bellowed in agony as the arrow slid from his flesh, drawing a gout of blood with it.
“Maes,” Athryn called.
The little man pushed his way through the brush, small dirk in hand. Tears blurred Khirro’s vision as he watched the little man approach, squat by his masked brother, and roll up his sleeve.
“No,” Khirro said through the pain as he rolled onto his back. He wouldn’t let Maes cut himself, not when it wasn’t necessary. “Bandage it.”
“You are bleeding, Khirro,” Athryn told him. “We can stop it, make it heal more quickly.”
“No.”
Khirro struggled to a sitting position, grimacing at the pain of his shredded muscle as he reached beneath his tunic and brought out the vial, showing it to everyone.
“Bandage it and this will do the rest.”
Elyea looked at him questioningly, but Athryn simply nodded and tended the wound. Relieved, Khirro remembered the uncomfortable feeling when Bale healed him with magic. The healing power of the king’s blood was more comfortable. Shyn approached Ghaul, leaving the others to care for Khirro.
“How did this happen?” He held his sword by his side; Ghaul didn’t reach for his weapon.
“He crossed in front of my bow,” Ghaul said, one side of his mouth curling in a smug smile. “The rain made my fingers slick and my hold on the arrow slipped. An accident.”
Elyea paused in bandaging Khirro’s shoulder.
“What kind of soldier can’t keep hold of his arrow?” she demanded.
Ghaul only shrugged in answer. Shyn looked at Khirro then back at Ghaul.
“Had he not stepped in front of you, that arrow would likely be embedded in my chest.”
“Perhaps.”
Shyn moved a step closer and Ghaul reached for his own sword, but the border guard moved quickly, grabbing his wrist and pulling him close so they stood chest to chest. Taller than Ghaul by almost six inches, Shyn looked down into his eyes.
“Were we not being followed, we would settle this right now.”
They looked at the tall soldier in surprise, except Maes who busied himself wiping the dirt from Khirro’s face.
“What?” Khirro asked pushing the little man’s hand away.
“Followed by whom?” Athryn added.
“A one-eyed man follows, a half-day’s ride behind. There are soldiers another day or so behind him.” Shyn turned his back on Ghaul and mounted the black horse. “We must make haste or he’ll be upon us.”
“How do you know this?” Ghaul asked, suspicion plain in his voice.
“I saw him. He wears the armor of a moneysword. If it’s who I think, we’re better not to meet him.”
“Suath,” Athryn said under his breath as he finished with Khirro’s wound. “There could be none more dangerous on our trail.”
They moved quickly, fixing their supplies to the mounts. Khirro helped, though his wound made it difficult. It would feel better soon, he knew, but would be a day or more before he could use his arm. The second time his pack slipped from his grasp, Ghaul caught it and helped him.
“I didn’t intend the arrow for you,” he said in a voice quiet enough only the two of them could hear.
Khirro looked into his eyes, discerning nothing from them. Was this his apology? Did he mean the rain caused his grip to slip? No matter who he pierced with the arrow, it was inexcusable if done on purpose—they’d agreed not to kill Shyn if he returned in good faith. Unsure of Ghaul’s meaning and motives, Khirro only nodded in response. This man had kept him alive when he wouldn’t have survived on his own, for that he owed him the benefit of the doubt. Ghaul offered his hand and helped Khirro climb onto the chestnut horse.
“Who is this Suath?” Elyea asked as they set out.
“A murderer of women and children,” Shyn said gravely. “A wretch. A devil disguised in the skin of a man.”
“Why would he follow us?” Khirro’s voice was breathy and weak with pain. He held the reins delicately with his right hand and held the vial against his wound with the other.
“Men like Suath do nothing without payment in gold,” Shyn said. “Someone’s paid him to follow us.”
“But who?”
“Take your pick,” Ghaul said.
They formed a rough line with Shyn leading the way and Ghaul at the rear, undoubtedly to keep an eye on Shyn. Khirro sat in the middle, with Athryn and Maes ahead and Elyea behind.
“The soldiers following Suath are Erechanian,” Shyn said over his shoulder. “He may be scouting for them.”
“Or they could be chasing him,” Athryn added without conviction.
Ghaul laughed. “I think it best we don’t find out.”
“Ghaul’s right. Our best chance is to be asea before we’re caught.” Shyn pointed ahead of them. “We are only a few days ride from the port of Sheldive. If we reach it and get a boat before he finds us, we should be fine.”
“How do you know we need to get asea?” Ghaul asked. “Khirro?”
He’d revealed their journey during one of his watches while Shyn was bound to a tree, but now he remained silent, feigning exhaustion from his wound. Ghaul let the subject go, though Khirro was sure it would come up another time.
Rain beat upon them and they fell into silence as they pushed their mounts as fast as they dared through the tangle of brush and trees. The heat from the king’s blood seeped into Khirro’s shoulder, warming his arm to the elbow. He flexed his fingers; the movement caused considerable pain.
As they rode, his eyes on Athryn’s black-cloaked back, he wondered about the man following them, but it distracted him only briefly. After weeks of being chased, he felt little concern. He’d worry if he caught them. Instead, his thoughts turned back to Ghaul. He believed the arrow hadn’t been meant for him—if Ghaul wanted to kill him, he’d had many opportunities. But it bothered him the arrow might have been meant for Shyn. The border guard came back with horses and supplies, and quickly, so he deserved their thanks and trust, not an arrow to the chest. Khirro sighed. Both men had shown dedication to this cursed journey. He couldn’t imagine reaching the goal without either of them, so he decided to dismiss it as an accident, as Ghaul claimed. If anyone knew accidents happened, Khirro did. The decision did little to ease his unrest.
Nearly three hours passed, time spent mostly in silence except for the frequent checks from both Athryn and Elyea to see how Khirro fared, when Shyn reined his horse to a halt at the crest of a hill. The others halted their steeds beside him.
“What is it?” Khirro asked.
The land fell away in a gentle, brush covered slope which gave way to grassland in the distance, the three days of rain slowly coaxing green back to the landscape. Farms dotted the valley stretched before them; a town sat next to a river near the center. To the south, rolling hills became mountains, peaks hidden in the billowing gray clouds.
“To the south west, the valley ends and the sea begins,” Shyn said pointing to the right of the mountains. “That’s where we find Sheldive. There we can hire a boat to cross the Small Sea and take us to Lakesh.”
The name of the haunted land sent a chill down Khirro’s spine. When the Shaman cursed him, he felt fear and despair, but the passage of time had washed much of it away. Drawing nearer the end of their travel brought it back again.
“We’ll have to skirt the valley and keep to the trees,” Ghaul said, directing his comment to no one in particular. “We won’t be welcomed here.”
“It would be best to avoid confrontation,” A
thryn agreed. “Perhaps we could lose our pursuers, too.”
“Very well.” Shyn reined his horse around. “Are you well enough to continue, Khirro?”
“I grow stronger with each passing moment,” Khirro said more on faith than feeling. The intense pain in his arm continued but the vial healed him before, he had no reason to think it wouldn’t this time.
“Then we ride.” Shyn put heels to his mount, guiding it back into the forest. “But ride with care.”
Athryn followed, Maes bouncing placidly in the saddle before him. Elyea urged her horse beside Khirro’s as he started out.
“Are you sure you’re well enough to continue?”
Khirro nodded, sighing. Elyea smiled.
“You’re a brave man, Khirro. Let me help.”
She leaned over and took the vial from his hand, a gasp of surprise coming from her as she touched its warm surface. He tensed a little as she held it up to peer at the blood.
“Does this truly help?”
“It healed my leg the first time I took an arrow.”
He laughed a little, wondering how many farmers could say they had twice been skewered by arrows. Elyea lifted his bandage, blood and rain tinting it the washed out pink of a winter sunrise. Khirro cringed as she tucked the glass under the cloth, its warm surface pressing against his tender wound.
“Now you can ride with the other hand and allow this one to heal.”
“Thank you.”
Khirro glanced at the rain running from her hair, down her face, and thought about her prancing through the forest naked. Something stirred in his stomach and he averted his gaze. She stroked her hand along his forearm.
“Let’s go,” Ghaul growled behind them. “The one-eyed man will show no mercy if he catches us.”
Khirro clucked at his horse and the chestnut moved forward, Elyea and Ghaul falling in behind. As they re-entered the forest, the rain eased. Khirro looked over his shoulder, past his companions, at the valley beyond and thought he saw the sun breaking through the clouds in the distance.
Chapter Twenty-One
“How is your shoulder?” Athryn settled himself on the log beside Khirro.
“Better.” He raised his arm and made a loose fist—the best he could manage. “The king's blood does wonders.”
“I should expect.”
The magician rolled his mask up to uncover his mouth and bit into a piece of salt pork. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again.
“Quite a sword you have, Khirro.”
“It...” A flutter of guilt interrupted his response as he remembered the fallen Shaman—the man who both saved him and cursed him in the space of a few hours. “It was Bale’s.”
“Yes. The Mourning Sword.”
Khirro’s eyes flickered to the magician, then away.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken it.” He reached to remove the sword belt, a twinge of pain running down his arm. “You take it. You knew the Shaman.”
“No, Khirro. That is not why I inquired about it. The Mourning Sword chooses its bearer. Once it chose Bale, now it is yours. Quite a legacy comes with that blade.”
He removed his mask and faced Khirro. The shiny pink scar distorted most of his features and Khirro tried not to stare, but there was little else to look at on Athryn’s face, so he looked down at the sword and, realizing he still held the belt buckle, released it. He’d never owned a sword before, never needed to, let alone one with a legacy.
“What do you mean, Athryn?”
The magician rubbed his chin where no stubble would ever grow. Khirro let him take his time in spite of his desire to hear about this ‘Mourning Sword’.
“The Mourning Sword was cast a thousand years ago, forged for Monos, the first Necromancer. During the first age, before men made countries, before loyalties existed and pacts were signed, practitioners of magic were greatly feared.”
“Magic still scares me.” He nodded and thought of the things he’d seen over the past few weeks.
“It is natural for men to be afraid of things they do not understand, but it was different in ancient times. People believed all magic—even healing magic—sent to our world by the devils. Anyone suspected of practicing the arts was burned, drowned, thrown from a cliff, or buried alive. Cleansed by the Gods. Only a magician killed in such manner passed to the fields of the dead. Any other way and the devils reclaimed him, sending him back to our world to wreak their havoc.”
“Is that true?”
“I know not. My knowledge does not extend to the land of the dead. I can tell you, though, that many people who did not know magic lost their lives.”
Khirro shook his head, sighing around a mouthful of pork—such mania in the name of fear. But, until recently, had he not been deathly afraid of magic and its practitioners? His mother’s stories had conjured images of magicians doing heinous things. Given such stories, he understood how people justified their actions.
“Monos lived a secret life for decades, practicing and improving his art while appearing a simple farmer.” The terminology might have upset Khirro in the past, but he knew Athryn meant nothing by it. “Eventually, the persecution of the innocent became too much for him. He watched a mob drag a woman from her hut in his own village, accusing her of witchery. They erected a pole at the center of the village, stacked it with tinder and logs soaked with pitch to purify her with fire.”
Athryn paused, staring at his feet. Khirro waited, trying to be patient, but he was caught up in the story and wanted to know about his sword.
“What did she do?”
“She had a birthmark on her back.”
“The mark of the devils?”
“There is no such thing, Khirro. It was but a blemish. An unfortunate blemish. ”
Maes came and sat at Athryn’s feet, took a piece of salt pork from him, but appeared to pay no attention to their conversation.
“When Monos saw the mob, rage took him. He drew his sword—the Mourning Sword, though not yet called that—and took the townspeople by surprise. Before they knew what happened, he cut down the leader of the mob. Monos drew his power much the way mine is drawn.” He paused and touched Maes’ head, stroked his thick hair. The little man patted his hand in return. “As soon as blood spilled, it opened opportunity to use his power, and he did. When he finally calmed, only he and the woman with the birthmark lived.”
A few yards away, Ghaul and Elyea were engaged in conversation. A sudden burst of laughter from her startled Khirro. Instead of lifting the sullen mood, the sound stood the hairs at the base of his neck on end. She obviously had no trouble forgiving Ghaul for shooting him with an arrow.
“Do you know how she repaid him for saving her?”
Khirro shook his head before he saw Athryn had not looked to him for a response.
“She feared Monos’ power, feared if people discovered he saved her, she would be put to death anyway. She went to a man called Shyctem, a warlord trying to unite the warring clans.”
“The first king,” Khirro interjected.
“Yes. For her troubles, Shyctem declared her tainted by Monos’ magic and had her drowned. The search for Monos began immediately, and it was this common hatred and fear of the Necromancer which united people under Shyctem’s banner, drew together groups who had warred for centuries. With a common goal—the destruction of Monos and all magic practitioners—they finally had a reason for peace.
“Years passed and Shyctem’s strength grew. Monos disappeared, spending his time hiding, perfecting his art and training a group of Acolytes who craved his forbidden knowledge. Therein lies the genesis of the Cult of Magic.”
Athryn’s hand touched a medallion hanging at his throat which Khirro hadn’t noticed before, a ring of iron interlaced with two snakes coiling in and out of it and over each other. As the medallion shifted with his touch, it appeared the snakes slithered and moved. Khirro blinked and the illusion ceased.
“Rumors of Monos’ teachings spread, whispere
d from town to town. Eventually, the whisper came to Shyctem’s ear. By then, he had proclaimed himself ‘Protector of the People’ and saw in this whisper the opportunity he needed for one more act to complete the unification and declare himself ruler.
“He sent a man feigning desire to become an Acolyte to learn from Monos. Once accepted, he became Monos’ best student, learning much of the arts before leading Shyctem’s army to the Necromancer’s sanctuary. They captured Monos as he slept, bound him wrist and ankle, gagged him and wrapped him in canvas. Shyctem took him to his keep, then went about the task of finding his Acolytes. Each one he brought before Monos and killed in such a manner as not to spill a drop of their blood. The Necromancer watched them die without averting his eyes, helpless to do anything despite his great power.”
Athryn’s voice had fallen to a whisper. He paused to drink from the water skin at the side of his pack. Khirro saw pain reflected in his blue eyes.
“They slew his students by way of water, fire, earth or air. Then it was Monos’ turn. Word went out to every village that the Necromancer would be executed. Thousands gathered at Shyctem’s keep to witness the spectacle. He would be put to death by air—pushed from the top of the highest tower to die on the Killing Stairs two hundred feet below.”
“In Poltghasa?”
“Yes. Now the last of the Free Cities, where men swear allegiance to none but themselves and each other. It sits astride the no-man’s land bordering Kanos and Lakesh; a city of murderers, thieves, rapists and worse.
“On Shyctem’s command, they pushed Monos from the ledge, but instead of falling to his death, the Necromancer floated to the steps below like a leaf bourn on an autumn breeze. Outraged, Shyctem would not be cheated of his victory. He ordered an enormous vat constructed in the city square. Day and night he forced Monos to watch without sleep until complete, then they filled it with water and sealed Monos inside. The crowd waited for half a day to see the vat opened and the Necromancer’s body extracted but, when unsealed, he still lived.
“People whispered that Shyctem had underestimated the Necromancer’s dark power. Further enraged, the so-called ‘Protector of the People’ decreed Monos would die by the earth God—the longest and cruelest method. Normally, the accused would be buried in a pine box, left to die of thirst and hunger, but Shyctem was not patient. He buried the Necromancer directly in the dirt, ten feet down. ‘Let the worms have their way with him’, he said.”