by Bruce Blake
Hope drained from Khirro like candle wax pooling into panic at the pit of his stomach, leaving behind a quickly solidifying trail of fear. His mind swirled. The foot race was lost, no doubt of that.
What do I do?
Face the soldier? He’d be dead before he drew his dirk. Surrender? The Kanosee would take no prisoners. But did the warrior pursue him or was he simply after Braymon?
What if he dropped the king?
Khirro gritted his teeth, biting back the thought. He let the king down once, he wouldn’t do it again. A day ago, he told Jowyn the king deserved his loyalty, not his life, but he could no longer make that argument. Braymon could have waited, sacrificing one man to ensure his own safety, but he didn’t. Instead, he threw himself into the fray knowing it might mean his end. If a monarch would sacrifice himself to save a dirt farmer, how could the farmer hesitate at saving the king?
With each step Khirro expected to feel steel in his back, ending his flight and his life. A cry rose behind him, deep and wild. Khirro echoed it, crying out with effort, putting everything into pumping his exhausted legs. Ahead, a door swung open and a figure appeared on the threshold, distracting him. Khirro’s feet tangled and he fell forward, tumbling awkwardly as he twisted to protect the king. His shoulder hit the ground painfully. The king’s body shifted forward, sandwiching Khirro’s head against the ground, blurring his vision. He rolled to his back, reached for his scabbard, found it empty, and had only a second to realize his weapon lay on the wall walk where he’d stumbled down the stairs before his pursuer was on him.
Khirro tried to struggle up, but his arm was trapped beneath King Braymon. The Kanosee soldier sent him back to the ground with a kick to the midsection and put his foot on Khirro’s chest, pinning him. Writhing and wriggling beneath the pressure, Khirro grabbed the enemy’s boot in both hands and tried unsuccessfully to move it. He looked up at the warrior, at his black mail splashed with red, at his menacing closed-face helm, at his massive axe, and his limbs went numb. For the second time in a day, death stared Khirro directly in the eye, and Khirro was afraid.
The Kanosee stared back at Khirro from behind his visor, breath rattling against the steel. Khirro looked from the black helm to the battle axe and saw star bursts of rust dotting the blade, chips and gouges marking its edge. What soldier carried a weapon so old and neglected? It would split his skull nonetheless. Khirro gritted his teeth, determined to take the deathblow like a man but, to his surprise, the Kanosee released the haft with one hand and lifted his visor instead of raising the axe.
The face beneath the visor may once have belonged to a man, but the flesh was rotted and decayed, leaving behind a parody of a man’s features: a black-edged hole in one cheek revealed crooked yellow teeth; the right eye socket stood empty and inflamed; tattered flesh hung from cheek and jaw and forehead. Strands of hair, gray and stringy, escaped from under the helm, plastered by dried blood and pus to what was left of the mottled gray flesh patch-worked across its face. Khirro recoiled. If the thing’s foot wasn’t pinning breath inside his body, he would have had to fight to keep his gorge from rising. He squirmed under the thing’s boot, grabbing and pushing; it didn’t move. Tears squeezed from his eyes as he struggled to move, to breathe.
The enemy leaned over, leering at him, and something dripped onto Khirro’s face-sweat or saliva or blood. He gagged and his captor laughed.
Khirro’s resolution faltered, his mouth opened in a scream. The soldier-the creature-smiled, its lipless mouth twisted in a grin that might easily have passed for growl. Goose flesh puckered Khirro’s skin, his stomach knotted. The thing straightened, grasped the haft of the axe with both hands, and laid the blade’s edge on Khirro’s shoulder. Cold steel pressed against his cheek, its rusty smell filling his nostrils. A weak cry burbled from Khirro’s lips, unheard by any save himself and the creature raised the axe skyward as Khirro closed his eyes, whispering prayers to Gods he’d not bothered with since childhood. Memories of Emeline fought their way through his panic, first of her smiling, happy, then angry and accusing. So much had happened, so much was left undone.
What am I doing here? Why does it have to end like this?
He wished he was anywhere but here: tending fields, slaughtering cows, at the end of his father’s switch for something done wrong. Anywhere.
Light flashed bright enough to shine red through Khirro’s lids. A sound like canvas tearing. The pressure on his chest lessened then disappeared. Something hit the ground near Khirro and the stench of burnt hair filled the air. He tensed, awaiting the deathblow, lying helpless pinned beneath the king.
Dread-filled seconds passed, then the king’s weight lifted. Khirro raised his arms in defense, peeked through slitted lids. A black-robed figure leaned toward him-the man from the doorway. He saw nothing beneath the man’s cowl: no face, no mask. The hood cast an inscrutable shadow even in the bright sunlight.
“Bring him,” the robed man said.
Hands grabbed Khirro, dragged him into the darkness beyond the wooden door. It swung closed behind them, leaving Khirro blind in the night-dark room.
Chapter Three
The face of the dead warrior floated before Khirro’s eyes, lipless mouth pulled into a sneer, yellow teeth sharp and dangerous. Blood and pus seeped from its eyes and nostrils forming drops at the tip of its putrid nose. One drop lengthened into a string, separated, and landed square in the middle of Khirro’s forehead.
Khirro woke with a start, eye lids snapping open, breath short. There was no dead man threatening him, no rotted face, no blood-splashed mail. Instead, guttering torches threw dancing shadows against the walls of a windowless room. Khirro struggled to control his breathing and kept his head down as he lay on the dirt floor. From behind hooded eyes he observed figures moving, but who or how many, he didn’t know. His first memory was of the monstrous Kanosee soldier, then he recalled the black-robed man. And there had been others.
Khirro inched his hand toward the dirk hidden in his boot-top but pain in his shoulder kept him from drawing it-dislocated, perhaps broken. With no other choice, Khirro lay at the mercy of whoever dragged him here. After all that had happened, it didn’t surprise him he felt more relief than fear.
One figure he saw and recognized-the body of the king prone in the middle of the floor. Minutes passed and he came to realize there were three other men in the room. The black-robed figure bent over the king, whispering and gesturing. The king’s healer, he guessed. A shiver ran the length of Khirro’s spine. Rumor said this man was more than just a healer, something darker and deadlier who dabbled in arts outlawed in Erechania. Khirro hadn’t believed the stories until the flash of light felled his undead pursuer.
The other two men wore heavy armor. The taller of the two wore silver and gold plate embossed with the crossed sword and lightning insignia of the Kingsblade-the King’s personal guard-the other’s armor was plain black plate marked and dented with use.
“Little life remains in the king,” the healer said without looking up. “Give me the vial, Gendred.”
The man in black plate pulled a glass vial from his belt and passed it to the healer. Gendred. Khirro had heard the name but never seen the man-few had, fewer had and lived. He was a Shadowman, one of an elite group of fighter-assassins Khirro had thought more fable than reality. On quiet watches, fantastic tales of the Shadowmen passed from soldier to soldier, building their legend. It became the goal of any good warrior to be drafted into their brotherhood. The thought never crossed Khirro’s mind.
“The boy lives,” Gendred growled looking sideways at Khirro, his pock-marked face turned down in a sour look. Nothing about him looked friendly.
“Leave him,” the healer said. “I’ll deal with him later.”
He held his hand above the king’s head, a whispered chant of rhythmic cadence coming from beneath the darkened hood. Khirro shifted to watch, his movement drawing a glare from the Shadowman. The third man stood against the far wall, arms folded across his che
st, concern showing in the blue eyes peering from beneath bushy red brows.
The healer’s chant increased in volume, his pale hand shook. He spoke dusty, archaic words foreign to Khirro, unsettling, and he squirmed on the dirt floor in spite of himself. The king’s eyes stared wide and glassy at the high ceiling as it collected oily smoke twisting up from the torches. To Khirro, it looked as though Braymon had already passed to the fields of the dead, but the healer’s incantation continued.
The king gasped, his body jerked.
Startled, Khirro jumped, a bolt of pain lancing through his arm. The healer held the vial between thumb and index finger over Braymon’s torso, open end toward the king. Braymon’s back arched as though drawn toward the vial and Khirro held his breath. Gendred and the man of the Kingsblade watched silently. Above the king’s head, the healer’s hand quaked; the hand holding the vial remained steady.
It was just a single drop first, so small Khirro barely noticed. Another drop followed, then another. Khirro drew a sharp breath as the droplets expanded to a thin stream flowing from the king upward to the vial. Somehow, the blood from the king’s wounds collected at his midsection, concentrating in one place to defy the Gods’ laws. The fine stream of blood filled the vial as the healer continued chanting.
The container approached fullness and the stream waned, became droplets again, then stopped. The healer kept chanting as he turned the vial right side up, then his words ceased. The king’s body spasmed then moved no more, the end of the healer’s words releasing him to the fields of the dead. The officer of the Kingsblade and Gendred bowed their heads and kept their silence. Sadness gripped Khirro’s chest, surprising him.
“Weep not for your king,” the healer said as he stood. He drew a cork from somewhere in his sleeve and capped the vial then waved his fingers around it and spoke more foreign words. Then he said, “All I need to retrieve the king from the fields of the dead is here in my hand.”
The warriors raised their eyes. Khirro wiped a tear from his face, hoping the men hadn’t seen, and looked at the vial, too. The flickering torchlight lent it a dull crimson glow.
“We must dispose of the king’s flesh,” the healer said. “No one can know the king has fallen.”
“What of this one, then, Shaman?”
Gendred gestured toward Khirro, speaking of him as though he wasn’t in the room, but Khirro barely noticed.
The rumors about the healer are true.
The healer turned his gaze toward Khirro. Something flickered beneath the cowl, impossibly far away. A shiver galloped up Khirro’s spine.
“What is your name, soldier?”
“Kh-Khirro.”
“Khirro has done the kingdom a great service.” He paused as the torches flickered and spat in their sconces, then continued, his voice quiet, serious. “You have seen much.”
Khirro shook his head.
They mean to kill me.
But he’d risked his life to bring the king to them, surely that meant something. He fought the urge to crawl away from their gazes, to seek refuge in a shadowy corner of the room.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he squeaked.
The healer chuckled, a sound like stone rubbed against stone.
“Of course you won’t,” he said still looking at Khirro. Then, over his shoulder to the other men: “Bring him with us.”
Khirro’s chest felt as though it dropped into his stomach.
Bring him with us? Bring me where?
He stared into the blackness beneath the hood, searching for answers, but it revealed nothing. A horrible feeling flooded his aching body, one he’d never have expected: he found himself thinking he’d have been better off at the end of the monster’s axe.
“That wouldn’t be wise,” the Shadowman said without looking at Khirro. His voice held the taut tone of a man containing his anger. It wouldn’t be long before Khirro realized it sounded thus because it was the truth of it. “He looks more farmer than fighter.”
“But he’s a trained soldier of the king’s army,” the other man said and Khirro realized he knew him. They called him Rudric. He’d been one of the men leading Khirro’s training.
“Hmph. He’ll slow us down at best, more likely get us killed. I have no desire to waste my time saving his skin at every turn.”
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 you
r 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.