Heart of the King

by Bruce Blake

  Let us pass. Let us pass.

  He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, on maintaining normal breathing. When the men were close, he growled and yanked on the rope, pulling his prisoners along.

  “Oy,” one of the men called. Khirro looked up. “Whatcha got there?”

  Fifteen yards separated them from the three Kanosee soldiers. The two men each wore a week’s worth of beard while dust and grime covered their garb. The undead soldier wore a helmet with a nose guard mostly hiding whatever decay might have decorated his face.

  “Prisoners,” Khirro growled hoping he’d disguised his voice enough to hide his accent. He yanked the rope again to keep moving.

  “That’s a boy you got there,” the other man said. “Be he the one we’re looking for?”

  Khirro grunted a noncommittal response and averted his gaze. If he didn’t give them his attention, maybe they’d let it go.

  “Why’s the kid wearing a mask?” the first soldier asked.

  Khirro shot him a look and bared his teeth. Five yards separated the two parties; the three Kanosee soldiers stopped. Khirro kept moving.

  “Hold up,” the second man said. “Let’s see what you got.”

  Khirro stopped, positioning himself between the soldiers and his charges. A strained squeak of worry emanated from behind the mask covering Graymon’s face; Athryn made no sound. The undead soldier watched silently.

  “Must get to camp,” Khirro croaked.

  The two men eyed him, then looked past him at the prisoners, and Khirro followed their gazes. Graymon’s eyes were cast down and away from the undead soldier while Athryn looked back at them, his expression one of compliance rather than the defiance Khirro knew he must feel.

  “What’s your hurry?” the first said. “If these be the ones we’re looking for, we can go back, too.”

  “Yeah,” the second agreed. “I could use me a pint and a joint of meat. Searchin’s hard work.”

  “Why you wearin’ a mask, boy? You is a boy, ain’t you? Show me what’s underneath.”

  “His face is burned,” Athryn replied. “He does not like people to see.”

  “We don’t care what he likes,” the second soldier said, hand falling to his sword. “And he wasn’t talkin’ to you, so shut your mouth.”

  Khirro saw Athryn tense. Graymon didn’t move.

  “Well?” the first man said. “Are you going to take it off or do I have to take it off for you?”

  Khirro stepped toward the men. “Leave him. We go.”

  For the first time since they stopped, the undead soldier moved. He closed the distance between them and grabbed Khirro’s hand holding the rope before he realized the monster had involved himself. At this close proximity, Khirro detected the reek of decay and old sweat leaking out from beneath his armor and had to fight to keep from gagging.

  “Remove the mask,” the undead thing said, the odor its words carried made Khirro wish for the smell of decay.

  The first soldier glared at Khirro, his eyes narrowing as though inspecting the green rot and black decay on his face. For one panicked second, Khirro thought he would see through the disguise. Then the soldier looked away and reached for Graymon’s mask.

  Khirro’s fingers wrapped around the grip of his sword.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Bloody Turesti,” Sir Alton Sienhin cursed under his breath as he pushed a bundle of salt pork into his pack. “Smoke. Of all the people to be traitorous.”

  “It is what it is,” Therrador said.

  “Aye. I suppose you can never tell who to trust, can you?” He looked sideways at the king; Therrador pursed his lips but held his tongue.

  “But Hu can be trusted?”

  Sienhin shrugged. “Who can say for sure? No one showed up with their sword to convince me not to leave the fortress at the time I told him. Wish I could say the same for Smoke.”

  “Me too.” Therrador paced the room, stopping at a short table fashioned of weather-beaten driftwood. Out of habit, he reached for the letter atop it with his right hand, but his missing thumb prevented him from picking it up. He spat a curse and retrieved it with his left, then returned to his general’s side, letter extended.

  Sienhin regarded it, examining the wax emblazoned with the king’s mark that sealed the parchment.

  “You wrote this?” he allowed a slight smile to tilt his mustache to the right. “Will anyone be able to read it?”

  Therrador breathed a sharp breath through his nose. He didn’t want to put up with such barbs, especially given the situation, but he needed the general—he might be the last person in the fortress loyal enough to be trusted.

  “I did. It took a long while.”

  Sir Alton’s smile faded, replaced by his customary blush. He nodded once and took the folded parchment from the king.

  “These are the orders?”

  “Yes. I’ve gotten word outside the walls, but this must reach Achtindel or all is lost.”

  Sir Alton buckled his pack and threw it over his shoulder, then touched the hilt of his sword hanging at his left hip, the dagger at the right, then the small knife in the top of his right boot. Satisfied the ritual proved his weapons all properly in place, he faced his king.

  “What about a horse?”

  Therrador nodded. “The tunnel exit is not far from the concubines' huts. A mount will await you there.” The king allowed himself a smile. “A horse, I mean. Don’t take the time to stop for any other sort of mount.”

  The general barked a familiar laugh Therrador hadn’t heard from him in a long while. The sound of it—a laugh he’d heard so many times before, at the council table as well as in the middle of heated battle—loosened some of the foreboding constricting his chest and made the king feel a slim chance yet remained that the kingdom might be saved.

  So much is at stake, and so much must go our way.

  “Don’t worry, Therrador. These bones feel too old of late to seek that kind of mount.”

  The two of them looked at each other a moment, the humor draining out of the room as the gravity of their situation inserted itself between them, making the air grow heavy. Therrador remembered the battles they’d fought side by side, the laughs and times they shared as friends and comrades, and wondered if the general was thinking the same, or if the events of the last few months had forever soured any fond memories.

  We may never fight beside each other again.

  “It will be dark soon,” Therrador said breaking the silence. “It’s time to be off.”

  “Aye,” Sienhin agreed and went to the door.

  “I’ll come along a few minutes after you, Sir Alton.”

  The general paused, his hand on the door’s iron ring. He nodded but didn’t face his king as he pulled the door open with a squawk of ancient hinges before striding across the threshold.

  “And I’m sorry,” Therrador added.

  ***

  A wisp of pungent smoke encircled the Archon’s head. She breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of burning herbs and hair, charred wood and sizzling blood. The aromas filled her nose, her lungs, and sent power coursing through her body; it tingled the flesh on her arms and legs, tightened her belly, inhabited her groin. She let out her breath and closed her eyes.

  The cool air on her skin disappeared from her awareness, as did the feel of the cloth mat she sat upon, and the touch of her hair on her bare back. At the beginning of the trance, she was only aware of the smells of the ingredients burning, and of the darkness behind her eyelids. She no longer heard the sound of her own breath, the creak of the guard’s leather armor as he shifted his position, the snatches of conversation happening on the boulevard below her window.

  The trance deepened and she released her mind, freed her consciousness to roam away from her, searching. It floated up with the smoke and away, spreading out around her. She didn’t know the man who carried Braymon’s spirit—she’d only seen him in dreams, never in person—but she thought it would be enough
to enable her to find him. And when she found him, she would find the boy. With both of them in her grasp, she would have control of both the current king and the former, and the world would practically be hers for the taking.

  Images appeared to her. The fortress in the hours leading up to twilight, people walking the streets: the baker and blacksmith heading home after a day’s work, soldiers readying for a night of drinking and whoring. She floated past them, noticing but ignoring them. What she sought, she wouldn’t find within the confines of the fortress; the carrier simply could not have made it this far yet.

  Her essence rose higher above the ground, spiraling up toward the highest peaks of the buildings, toward the top edge of the wall. She relished the ultimate feeling of freedom as the swirls and eddies of the air tossed her about, mixed with her, like a soul born to the fields of the dead upon the cleansing smoke of a funeral pyre. If, in this form, she possessed the ability to breathe, she would have done so deeply; if she had eyelids, she would have closed them to better feel the breeze upon her face. In her chamber, her body did these things, reacting to what her essence felt as it floated up and away, feeling things no human ever experienced.

  Something caught the Archon’s attention, snapping her eyes open and halting her spirit’s progress. It pulled her away from the feeling of freedom she wished she could revel in for the rest of her time in the world.

  “What is it?” she growled under her breath.

  The guard in the room stirred but said nothing. She felt his fear brush the short hair on her arms as she leaned forward, filling her lungs with the acrid smoke curling from the brazier in front of her before pushing her spirit to go farther, to go beyond the wall and find the would-be usurper.

  It wouldn’t move.

  The Archon grunted and ground her back teeth, pushing harder, but her essence took its own path, plummeting back toward the courtyard within the fortress. She strained a few seconds more to steer it back on its path, but gave in to the whims of her spirit.

  It sank all the way to the ground and crept along the boulevard like an animate fog, snaking between booted feet, avoiding the light where it could. The Archon’s breathing shallowed as she let herself be drawn along. The tingle of freedom that had prickled along her arms and warmed her chest was gone; she felt no freedom in being led.

  Her essence floated past a damaged building and the Archon saw inside through the open door. The woman she’d seen brought in by the patrol sat on a pile of straw, her babe at her breast and tears in her eyes. The man who’d been brought with her—her husband, the Archon presumed—was nowhere to be seen. The young mother looked up at the mist floating by the doorway, but then the Archon saw no more as her essence continued down the street.

  Ahead, a sliver of light shone beneath a wooden door with a rusted iron ring. The swirling mist adjusted its path, drawn toward the light. It inched toward the door like a child tip-toeing up behind its friend, readying to give a scare. It settled against the crack beneath the door, pushed against it until a tendril squeezed through into the room beyond.

  The Archon sat upright and her body stiffened; her eyes opened wide in surprise, but only for a moment before narrowing again.

  “To me,” she said.

  The guard in the room stood at attention then took a step toward her. His fear of her, of her power and magic, wafted over her like air pushed from a bellows. Her eyes flickered toward the man and she put an effort into restraining herself from killing him.

  “Not you, idiot,” she said, breathless as she pushed herself to stand.

  Halfway across the fortress, a twist of fog extracted itself from under a wooden door with a rusted iron ring and raced through the streets, finding its way back to her.

  She stared at the guard, loathed the fear in his eyes as he struggled to keep his gaze from straying to her naked body. She didn’t have to worry about the undead soldiers leering at her like this, but they had better uses than having them watch over her in a trance. The man looked back at her; a bead of sweat rolled from under his helmet, down his temple, the path it left increasing her ire. She raised her hand toward him, not sure what she intended, but before she spoke the words to determine his fate, the mist boiled through the window and crossed the room in an instant. It wrapped across her shoulders like a shawl, enveloped her body. She tossed her head back as it entered her like a welcome lover.

  “Ohhh.” The sound shuddered out of her chest at the feeling of wholeness, the disappointment of being trapped within herself.

  The Archon lowered her head to look at the guard again. His gaze lay on her body, stealing a glimpse when he thought she wouldn’t know, and he snapped his gaze back to hers when he realized she was looking. Her mouth crinkled into a frown, but she lowered her hand.

  “Bring me Hahn Perdaro,” she ordered and turned away from the guard.

  Let him look.

  She heard the clank of his armor as he bowed, then hurried out of the room. The Archon moved toward the window. The cold night air caressed her flesh, made her body ache for the freedom she’d felt, but freedom would have to wait. First, there would be death.

  ***

  Hahn Perdaro leaned the weapon against the wall outside the door, then adjusted his doublet and smoothed his thinning hair before reaching for the door handle. He paused to breathe deep and put a smile on his face, then pushed the door open and strode through into the room beyond.

  An unusual odor hung in the air and the room was hot—far hotter than the Archon normally liked it. Many nights he’d shivered instead of sleeping as she insisted on leaving the shutters agape. He hoped the warmth in the room and the gift he’d brought her would allow him to sleep well this night.

  At first, Hahn didn’t see the Archon. He looked around the room, his smile waning, but then he saw her by the window, her red gown blending with the tapestry on the wall beside it. He renewed his smile and stepped forward but, when she faced him, her expression chased any joy from his lips.

  “What is it, my love? Has something happened? Did you find the blood-bearer?”

  “No, I did not.” She moved from the window to the center of the room, avoiding the bearskin on the floor as she did, and stood by the brazier glowing with embers. “But I found something else.”

  Hahn opened his mouth to ask what, but gulped a breath and kept from speaking. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, knowing silence was often the best course of action with the Archon, though he found it difficult, and waited for her to speak.

  “I have seen Therrador and the general—Sienhin.”

  She put her hands behind her back and paced first to her left, then back to the right, her movement lithe and graceful. Hahn found himself mesmerized by each step she took and had to shake his head to free himself of her body’s spell to hear her words.

  “Saw them?”

  “They plot against me. I had thought having the boy would keep Therrador from doing so.”

  “But we don’t have the boy. He--”

  “Therrador cannot know that,” she yelled, spinning to face him.

  The ferocity in her voice startled Hahn Perdaro enough it took him a second to recover and settle his expression back to one of concern instead of fear.

  But she won’t hurt me. She loves me. “Yes, yes. Of course he can’t. So he risks all for the kingdom.”

  “He thinks I do not know his plan.”

  “But you do.” He tried not to make the statement sound like a question.

  “He is sending the general to the capital to raise more troops. He will make his way out of the fortress through a tunnel tonight.”

  Hahn’s brow creased. “Both Turesti and Dondon said he would leave last night. We went--”

  “They tricked us, you fool. The general fed the councilors incorrect information to see whom he could trust.” Her eyes bore into him. “They tricked you.”

  Perdaro raised his hand and rubbed his chin nervously, eyes darting away. “But Turesti said--”

  “Forg
et what he said. What are you going to do to correct your failure?”

  ”He...he must be stopped.”

  The Archon nodded and a menacing grin crawled onto her lips. “You must stop him.”

  Perdaro’s breath caught in his throat. “Me? But I’m not--”

  “You. You will intercept the general in the tunnel. Take five soldiers out onto the plains and enter from the outside; that way you will not be chasing him. He will come to you.”

  The Voice of the People swallowed hard. Sir Alton Sienhin was a battle-hardened warrior not to be taken lightly, and Perdaro didn’t relish the idea of facing him, even with five soldiers at his side. The odds would be in Hahn’s favor, but against the general, the chance for death was great.

  He opened his mouth, on the edge of begging to be let out of this duty, when he remembered the gift he’d brought. Perhaps, if he gave it to her, she would be so happy with him, she would reconsider.

  He lowered his head and backed toward the door.

  “I have a gift for you.”

  He reached through the doorway and retrieved the weapon from where he’d left it leaning against the wall, awaiting the perfect moment to present it without knowing that saving it for the right time might save his life. Hahn reentered the room with it held behind his back, careful to keep the blade from touching his leg.

  “What is it?” the Archon demanded, impatience plain in her voice.

  Hahn’s heart sank. He’d hoped a gift would win her over.

  Perhaps it still will.

  He pulled the weapon from behind his back and held it out to her, the hilt held in one hand, the tip of the black blade resting on the palm of the other. Red runes glowed dimly along the sword’s length. The Archon’s eyes widened and Perdaro felt hope return to his heart.

  “Troops coming from the homeland found it and brought it with them. When I heard of its beauty and workmanship, I knew it to be a treasure you should have.” He bowed slightly at the waist and held the sword out toward her.

  “The Mourning Sword.”