by Bruce Blake
The king held his breath as the shape moved closer; close enough for him to see the features of the undead soldier’s face. His complexion was ashen and the white of his left eye had gone black with congealed blood, otherwise, this man looked no different from a living soldier. His other eye was watery-blue and clear, his white beard trimmed and neat but for the dried blood sprayed across it from the wound in his throat.
Therrador’s breath caught in his chest.
Sir Matte.
He opened his mouth to speak his old friend’s name, but the ghost woman’s grip constricted, tightening his chest enough to keep him from speaking, prevent him from breathing. The dead man—his old friend, a soldier who he’d fought beside and who had saved his life in battle on more occasions than he cared to count—stood inches away from him, seeming to stare into his eyes.
What did she do to you?
He ached to have a sword in his hand he could use to release a noble soldier from this horrendous fate; Sir Matte deserved better than this. Therrador struggled against the ghost woman’s grip, but she held him tight. After a few seconds, the undead Sir Matte Eliden huffed a breath through his nose as though he smelled Therrador’s presence, his eyes darted back and forth, but then he grunted and stalked away.
“He’s not here,” the first voice said again. “How could you let him out? Did you fall asleep at your post?”
“I didn’t,” the guard said. “I swear I didn’t. Please don’t tell her. I don’t want her to turn me into...one of those.”
“Come on. He can’t have gone far.”
Booted footsteps crossed the stone floor and the wooden door thumped shut behind the three men. Therrador waited for the ghost woman to release him, the muscles in his arms and legs begging to regain control. It seemed a long time before she finally let him have his body back.
“That bitch,” Therrador said gasping a breath to fill his lungs. “I’ll have her head for this.”
“Her time will come.” Elyea looked slightly more solid than before. “For now, we must hide you and keep you hidden until the time comes.”
“But Sir Matte is--”
“That is no longer your friend, only his husk.”
Therrador looked away to stare at the closed door. His hands curled into fists and the feel of his missing thumb further enraged him; he held himself back from rushing out of the room to kill the soldiers with his bare hands and rescue his old friend, or at least release him from his fate.
Their time will come soon enough.
“Therrador--”
“All right,” he said and retrieved his breeches from under the overturned chair beside the bed. “Where will you take me?”
“Somewhere safe,” she replied and waited for him to finish dressing.
“I’ll need armor. And a weapon.”
“You shall have them.” She looked toward the door and back again. “Hurry, they might return.”
Therrador sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots, but hesitated. The end of the bandage wrapped around his right had come loose and hung limp by his forearm. He looked at the back of his hand, then turned it over to look at the palm, at the space where his thumb should have been. He flexed his hand; the pain had mostly subsided, but a numbness remained that he thought would never leave him, and part of him hoped it never would. It would remind him of the mistakes he’d made that threatened the kingdom, his son, his life. Mistakes he planned to rectify.
He finished donning his boots, stood, and nodded to the ghost. Elyea led him to the door secreted in the stone wall and coaxed it open.
When I’m standing in front of the witch with a sword in my hand, I’ll make no mistake, thumb or no.
Chapter Twenty
Khirro’s vision cleared, the flames dimming until they disappeared leaving him feeling suddenly cold. From his position straddling a log, he looked around at the brush and the trees; he heard the rush of waves washing onto the shore.
I shouldn’t be near the sea. Where am I?
Panic flared in his belly as he surveyed his surroundings, attempting to find his bearings. He looked down at the log on which he sat to see which side the moss grew on, but found it wasn’t a log at all.
The man whose hips he perched upon lay on his back facing the sky, wide eyes staring blankly at the limbs overhead. His throat was torn out, his chest thick with his own blood. Khirro gasped and stumbled to his feet, noticing for the first time the blood drying on his cheeks and his chin, knowing it wasn’t mud or berry juice; the coppery smell filled his nostrils, made him gag. He stared at the man and recognized him as one of the Kanosee soldiers, Tugg.
But how did we get here?
He remembered threatening Graymon, feeling the boy quake with fear in his grasp, and wishing he could tell him not to worry, that he wouldn’t hurt him. But he couldn’t have told him so, it would have meant their lives.
Maybe it did.
Khirro lurched away from the body, his feet carrying him toward the sound of the sea to splash salt water on his face and wash the man’s life off his cheeks. But his stomach churned and he stopped to lean against a tree as his stomach heaved out a bloody mess. Seeing it, knowing what it was, made him heave again and again until nothing came out. He spat to clear the taste of blood and bile from his mouth and straightened, his head spinning with confusion, panic, disgust. He panted coppery tasting breath in and out through his mouth and wished for a wine skin to clear the vile flavor, but he didn’t even have fresh water.
After a moment, his head cleared. He straightened and took a step toward the sound of the waves, then hesitated at another noise that wasn’t the sea or the wind in the bare tree branches. Khirro turned slowly.
The Kanosee soldier had found his feet and swayed unsteadily where he stood. His head lolled to the side, the half-a-neck Khirro’s attack left insufficient support. Seeing the way it flopped side-to-side might have been humorous under other circumstances, but Khirro had no doubt the man had been dead a minute before. Vomiting the flesh of his throat proved it.
The newly raised dead man stumbled toward him, each step tossing its head around. Khirro stared in horror as it approached.
Haven’t I killed him enough?
He swallowed past the unpleasant taste in his mouth and grasped the hilt of the short sword he was relieved to find in its scabbard at his side. Compared to the Mourning Sword he’d finally gotten used to wielding, it wasn’t much of a weapon, but given the state of the dead man’s neck, it should be enough to finish the job he’d begun with his teeth.
Khirro shivered at the thought and spat again.
The thing came a few steps closer and Khirro steeled himself, ready to cleave its head from its body. A voice in his head tried to distract him by wondering what happened to Athryn and the boy, but he silenced it.
Is this what a real warrior does?
He held the sword, muscles tensed, waiting for the man to reach him, but the undead soldier’s feet caught in the runner of a hibernating berry bush, toppling him to the ground. Khirro frowned, sighed an annoyed breath, and stalked toward the fallen man. He’d struggled to his knees by the time Khirro reached him, wavering unsteadily; his head flopped forward and their eyes met.
Looking into the blank expression of the dead, Khirro remembered that this man had been alive not so long ago. He hesitated. Perhaps Tugg had been married to a woman who loved him, had a family dependent on him. Like Khirro himself, he might have had no choice in coming here to fight, and certainly didn’t choose to become a monster.
Maybe he was once a farmer. Maybe he was forced to join the Archon’s army against his will.
The man’s mouth opened in a snarl that, had his throat not been opened, would likely have come out a war cry rather than the gurgle it created. He rushed forward, weapon extended, and his movement pulled Khirro from his hesitation. A fighting instinct he didn’t possess not so long ago swung the sword in a short arc through the air, severing the rest of the man’s neck. A fine bu
rst of blood sprayed Khirro’s face; Tugg’s head tumbled from his shoulders, bounced off the side of a fallen tree, then rolled into a patch of brush. The body continued a step farther before toppling forward at Khirro’s feet.
Off to the right on a low hanging branch, a winter bird whistled its tune until a stiff breeze rustled the branches and sent it winging off to other locales. Khirro raised his eyes and watched it disappear into the high foliage, feeling as though it carried his last shred of humanity with it.
***
Graymon pushed aside a prickly branch with his forearm and one of the thorns caught on the sleeve of his shirt, slowing him down.
“Let go,” he cried, then threw his hand over his mouth.
Be quiet.
He stopped and took a calming breath, then plucked the branch from his sleeve. It came away easily, not at all like a bush bent on holding him captive until his pursuers caught him.
“Everything’s okay,” he said aloud but quieter this time. He knew he shouldn’t speak at all, but hearing even his own voice made him feel less lonely and lost. What he really wanted was to hear his da’s voice telling him where to go and what to do.
A knot formed in the back of his throat at the thought as he realized it was the first time he’d thought of his father in a long while. With all the danger and fear he’d experienced these last few weeks, he’d forgotten to think of him. He struggled to keep the knot from unwinding and becoming tears. He didn’t want to cry—he’d cried enough to last a lifetime.
Graymon swallowed hard and pushed on. It had been scary when Khirro grabbed him and put a knife to his throat, but not as scary as when his friend caught fire. What happened after that, he didn’t know. He only knew that the magician told him to run, so he did. And he didn’t stop until the bush grabbed him and made him; then, for the first time, he looked back to see if anyone was chasing him, friend or foe, though he no longer felt like he knew one from the other.
He crouched down and peered through the tangle of undergrowth back along the path he’d followed, but saw no sign of movement.
What happened to them?
The sun dipped close to the horizon and the chill in the air deepened. Graymon hugged himself, and bit down on his teeth to keep them from chattering. He’d been through this before and it hadn’t come out well—he knew full well the dangers of the forest at night.
“I’ll hide somewhere,” he said and scanned his surroundings. At first, he saw nothing that looked like it might make a suitable hiding, and his shivers became hard to control as fear added to the cold. His eyes passed over a brace of winter ferns for a third time before he realized they hid a fallen tree behind them.
“Perfect.”
Steering a wide path around the bramble that interrupted his escape, Graymon approached the deadfall slowly, careful to keep from making noise. He peered between sagging fronds, squinting to see into the darkness created by the cascade of browning leaves disguising the log. It looked like there was enough space under the fallen tree for him, but it was difficult to see in through the ferns. When nothing jumped out at him, he moved closer and parted the leaves.
The ground beneath the log fell away in a shallow depression, creating more space than Graymon had realized—enough for him and nanny, too, if she was here. Leaves rustled as he pushed his way through and into the makeshift shelter. The ground was carpeted with soft moss beneath his feet and it felt warmer hidden behind the ferns, what little heat the day had offered trapped behind their screen. Remembering the tree where he’d hid before, Graymon shuffled in a circle to make sure no mice or other small creatures hid anywhere, but he saw none.
They’ve gone to sleep for the winter.
Graymon yawned and stretched at the thought. It suddenly seemed like a long time since he last slept, perhaps longer than he’d ever gone without sleep. He settled down on the bed of moss and decaying fern leaves and laid his head down, heedless of the threat of insects crawling on him as he napped. He was asleep as soon as his eyes closed.
The white tyger came to him immediately, but this time the beast wasn’t alone. A woman with red hair and green eyes accompanied the animal, her hand stroking his neck at the base of his head, and Graymon recognized her as the ghostly woman who visited him in the wagon. He wished he could pet the tyger the way she did.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” the woman said.
“I’m not afraid,” Graymon replied. “This is a dream.”
The woman’s smile lit up her face and made Graymon feel as though he’d done something especially well; it made him want to smile along with her.
“It’s not the dream I’m talking about, sweet Graymon, it’s this.”
She stopped scratching the tyger’s neck and stepped away from the beast. Graymon’s smile wavered but he forced it to stay.
“I’m not afraid of the big kitty. He’s my friend. I dream about him a lot.”
The woman nodded, then turned her gaze toward the tyger, so Graymon did, too. The cat stared straight ahead at the boy, expressionless as always, except for a flicker at the back of its gaze. The light mesmerized Graymon. He wanted to go to the tyger and look deep into its eyes to see what caused the light. A second later, he didn’t have to.
The flames started on the tyger’s neck, where the woman had been stroking him. At first, Graymon thought she set the big cat on fire, but she didn’t have a torch and he hadn’t seen her use a flint. Something else had caused it.
The fire spread over the tyger’s head, igniting its ears and spilling down onto its face to set its whiskers alight.
“No!” Graymon reached out for the tyger but didn’t move toward it. As much as he wanted to save the beautiful animal, the fire scared him.
“Don’t be afraid,” the woman said. In his panic, Graymon had forgotten she was there, and her words startled him.
“But he’s on fire.”
“No. See how it doesn’t burn him? He’s fine. Do not be afraid for him or of him.”
Graymon stared, eyes wide and mouth agape, as the flames spilled down the animal’s back and along its tail, enveloping the beast completely. The fire burned bright yellow and orange, and he felt the heat of it across the space between them, but the tyger didn’t flinch or cry. It stood in place, looking at him, as still and rigid as the tyger statue on the steps outside the palace in Achtindel.
“I would never hurt you,” the tyger said in his mind.
Graymon recognized Khirro’s voice, but had his voice always been the tyger’s? Or did his dream play a trick on him?
“We are the same, Khirro and I,” the voice said. “I live inside him and sometimes, he inside me. One day, you will carry the flames.”
“Me?”
Both the tyger and the woman nodded, and their affirmation brought a knot of excitement to Graymon’s tummy. He imagined himself running through the forest, bounding over logs and leaping through thickets, flames jumping from his back and spreading to the dry leaves.
“You will see this again,” the woman said disturbing the dream within his dream. “Will you be afraid then?”
He shook his head.
“Even if it’s Khirro you see aflame?”
Graymon shook his head again. The tyger’s flames flickered and went out and the boy felt disappointed at their disappearance.
“Good,” the woman said as the tyger loped away into the forest. “The time is coming, young one. Be ready for the tyger. Be ready for the flames.”
Graymon nodded and the woman, the tyger, the forest faded away until the dark nothing of sleep held him.
Under a log, behind a curtain of ferns, Erechania’s next-in-line to the throne smiled in his sleep.
***
Athryn sucked a breath of air in through his nose and with it, the smell of dirt and crisp winter air. The earth pressed against his cheek and he blinked to clear his blurred vision. Lying a few feet in front of him, he saw the undead soldier—now dead again—and the head of one of the soldiers on t
he ground near him. In tyger form, Khirro had rent Mandich’s head from his body with one strike of a massive, flaming paw. He’d mauled the dead man, too, but not before the thing pulled its blade across Athryn’s throat.
He tried to touch the wound to see how bad it was, but found himself unable to move his arm. A breath gurgled down his throat, into his lungs, the taste of blood sharp and salty on his tongue.
I still live. But for how long?
He strained to move his eyes and look past the two fallen men, but saw nothing other than the trunks of trees and the green-brown brush. Holding his breath, he listened. Leaves rustled in the wind; an early owl cried its chilling call. Nothing human.
Did Khirro survive? Graymon?
He licked his dry lips and tasted more blood.
“Help,” he said, but the word struggling through his lips came out a gurgle, a whisper.
He swallowed and attempted it again, but this time made no sound. His eyelids fluttered and slid closed. He forced them open and found a mist had collected in his vision, peppering the forest’s pre-twilight dimness with spots of white. He watched it grow and spread, rolling through the forest.
So is this to be it, then? It seems I will be with you again much sooner than I imagined, Maes.
The mist grew more dense until it obscured trees and brush alike, then it took the bodies of the two Kanosee soldiers, hiding them beneath its opaque whiteness. Somewhere—perhaps somewhere not too far from where he lay—he imagined it enveloping Khirro and Graymon. In his imagining, they lived and they were together.
But if that is the case, why are they not here for me?
He tried to swallow again, this time without success. Instead, it felt as though the saliva caught on the wound in his throat, threatened to tear it open and spill what little blood remained in him over the forest floor.