Heart of the King

by Bruce Blake

  He drew a breath through his nose and smelled the dirt his face lay upon, the blood leaking from him, and another acrid odor he’d come to recognize: the bitter scent of magic tainting the air.

  He blinked twice to focus his eyes and saw the man standing over him. The gleam of his shaven head rivaled the sheen of his silver armor, the chest plate decorated shoulder to shoulder with green enameled ivy—the armor Khirro had removed the day he carried him to the Shaman. King Braymon put his hands on his hips and regarded Khirro.

  “M...my king?”

  “It seems we find ourselves in a familiar place.” The deep and gentle tone of his voice eased the pain creeping through Khirro’s gut and into his extremities.

  “I’m always lying on the ground and in grave danger,” Khirro said and laughed. The laugh became a cough that tasted of blood.

  Braymon kneeled beside him, pulled a shining lobstered gauntlet from his hand and touched Khirro’s cheek with his bare flesh.

  “You have done well, Khirro. Only the brave souls who dare find themselves in grave danger. Those who do nothing, risk nothing, die in their beds without glory. They will tell stories of brave Khirro until the end of time, they will name you in songs and pray their children grow up to be like you.”

  Khirro forced a pained smile to his lips. “I am but a farmer, my king.”

  “No, my friend. You are a hero. May the next world give you all you deserve.”

  Khirro swallowed the coppery taste of blood around a lump in his throat as Braymon stood and replaced his gauntlet. The king looked at him for an instant, nodded, then stepped over him. Khirro attempted to turn his head, but his body no longer possessed the energy to do so, his last ounce sapped by loss of blood and the effort of consciousness. He exhaled through his open mouth and the air stirred tiny waves in the bloody mud.

  A growl rumbled behind Khirro and he drew one more breath he hadn’t planned on taking and held it.

  The tyger leaped over him, the impact of its paws shaking the ground beneath him before it galloped into the mist, flames trailing behind it. Khirro’s lips twitched, searching for a triumphant smile, but found himself unable to locate one.

  His breath escaped his lungs and his eyes slid shut.

  ***

  The enemies kept coming at him, as if the damnable mist spawned them from the falling snow.

  Therrador felt blood drying on his face, saw offal on the fingers of his gauntlet and hardening on his chest plate. He gutted one with the sword in his left hand and jammed his boot into the gut of another, removing its head as it stumbled back. Even the bandage wrapped around his thumbless hand dripped blood like a washcloth left without being wrung out.

  Another undead lurched toward him out of the mist, then a second and a third. Therrador didn’t have time to catch his breath or wipe the sweat from his forehead. Steel clanged against steel, the sound battering his ears until he thought they’d bleed—the only sound he’d heard since the mist fell over them, until the footsteps.

  The ground rumbled with each of them and the snow-laced mist swirled and moved, opening in spots like a curtain drawn aside until it began to lift. Therrador saw the score of undead soldiers awaiting their turn at him, and beyond them the woman, her blond hair wind-whipped, her pale flesh gleaming with sweat as she swung the staff, animating more of the dead to try to take his life. She smiled and laughed, enjoying the carnage she created. Something caught her attention; her movements ceased and her smile slipped away.

  Therrador felled one soldier with his sword, then deflected the second’s attack and shattered its jaw with his fist. It faltered and he removed its head. The third dead man hesitated, its eyes on that which had claimed the witch’s attention. Therrador glanced over his shoulder at the source of their distraction.

  The scrollwork tattoos etched across Athryn’s chest and arms glowed with the same unearthly red light as the runes along the Mourning Sword’s black blade, making both weapon and man look as though they’d been extracted from a blacksmith’s forge. The magician’s steps rumbled through the ground and the mist collected above him, twisting and moving in a tornado of white vapor and cold snow that tossed his shoulder length blond hair in a cloud around his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Therrador saw the Archon take a step toward Athryn.

  She lifted the staff, pointed it at the magician, and all the undead across the battlefield amended their courses toward him. Therrador sprang to action, hacking and slashing those close to him, but the few he put down reduced their numbers by too few to matter.

  The throng converged on Athryn and the king’s eyes fell upon the staff in Sheyndust’s hands.

  The staff is the key.

  His face set with determination, Therrador abandoned the fight and bolted across beaten grass toward a horse that looked relatively unscathed. Blood spattered its barding and its rider hung limp in the saddle, held there by a boot caught in stirrups. A thought of Sir Alton flashed through the king’s mind, but he banished it as he yanked the dead man unceremoniously out of the saddle and jumped onto the horse.

  The steed snorted and pranced, but Therrador quickly controlled it, reined the horse around in time to see Athryn fell a half dozen undead soldiers with one swing of the Mourning Sword. The king waited to see no more; he put his heels sharply to the horse’s flanks and steered the animal directly at the Archon.

  Sheyndust whirled the staff’s eldritch light around her head and more fallen soldiers climbed to their feet to join their fellows fighting the magician. Overhead, the twisted column of mist and snow climbed higher and higher, sucking clouds from the sky to add to its girth as below it, Athryn put down the risen enemy five or more at a time. Therrador risked a look at his companion and saw sparks jump from the blade of the Mourning Sword with each deadly swing.

  The king leaned forward in the saddle, urging his steed faster. Its hooves beat the ground, the sound thunderous in Therrador’s ears, but her fight with Athryn consumed the witch and she didn’t notice until the last second.

  Therrador leaped off the horse and struck her with the force of his armored weight and the horse’s momentum, throwing them both to the ground. The king hit the ground with his right arm under him and heard it snap more than felt it, the adrenaline of battle at too high a level for the pain to immediately register. They rolled over and over. The sword flew from Therrador’s hand and he clutched at her, struggled to grasp her with his right hand, but the break in his arm prevented its use.

  Over and over they rolled, his injured arm banging against the earth, mud splashing in his face, until they finally came to a stop—Therrador on his back and the witch straddling his waist. A flash of lust quivered his mind at the thought of her nakedness atop him, her genitals so close to his, but the thought fled when she grasped his wrists and slammed them to the ground beside his head, bringing the pain in his arm to sharp focus.

  Therrador grimaced as the broken bone grated and pushed against his flesh. Agony brought a haze to his thoughts, but through it, he realized what the hold the witch had on his wrists meant.

  She dropped the staff.

  Sheyndust leaned forward until her face was inches from Therrador’s. Her lips pulled into a smile full of pointed teeth and blood stains, and Therrador felt sure she’d use them to tear out his throat. He raised his shoulders to protect his neck but, instead of killing him, she kissed him.

  Her lips felt soft against his and her tongue darted into his mouth, touched his tongue. He tasted the blood on her teeth, and desire and disgust stirred in his abdomen, then she pulled away and looked into his eyes.

  “I’ll deal with you later.” Her breath smelled of raw meat and decay.

  The witch climbed off him and Therrador immediately moved to gain his feet, to engage her.

  Kill her.

  He couldn’t move.

  He strained to raise his arms, but they were not his to lift. He struggled to get his feet under him, but his legs were not his to command. Sweat rolled from his t
emple into his ear. He blinked. His eyes shifted to watch her.

  His eyes saw the dragon born of man and snow and mist.

  Chapter Thirty

  Men raised from the dead fell before the Mourning Sword’s blade, and Athryn felt the exchange of power between himself and the weapon. It flowed down his arms, through the sword’s grip and into the runes, then back again. Each fed the other, the steel satisfied by blood, the man satisfied by gathering power.

  Through the attack, Athryn sensed the cadence of hooves and looked away from the fight to see the horse bear down on the Archon and Therrador leap from the saddle. His shoulder struck her and they went to the ground, hidden from the magician’s sight behind the forest of dead advancing on him. He redoubled his efforts, death turning the glowing scrollwork upon his flesh into writhing snakes hungry for the blood of his enemy.

  With their maker distracted, the intensity of the dead soldiers’ attack waned and they fell easily beneath his blade until they finally stopped and stood motionless. Athryn hesitated. He could chop them down like a farmer harvesting a field of hay, but he didn’t. These were puppets, not men, and he couldn’t bring himself to slaughter them if they neither threatened him nor defended themselves.

  But they will again if we do not stop Sheyndust.

  He stretched to see past his adversaries and spied the staff lying on the ground.

  Athryn threw the Mourning Sword aside and shouldered his way through the crowd of disoriented dead men, emerging from their midst to see Sheyndust on her feet and Therrador prone on the ground behind her. Things pulsed and moved beneath her flesh, stretching it, warping her beauty into monstrosity. Magician and sorceress both eyed the staff on the ground between them, but neither moved.

  “What now, magician?” She spat the last word like it tasted foul to her mouth.

  Behind him, he heard the sound of a growl rumbling in the throat of a beast.

  The time has come.

  “Now we die.”

  He thrust his hands toward the sky and the mist swirling above his head fell upon him like water pouring out of an opened trap door. It raised him into the air, feet dangling above the ground, and the snow and mist gathered into a shape around him, transforming his fingers into talons, sprouting wings on his back, forming a tail.

  Athryn saw clearly through the mist as the Archon darted forward to retrieve the staff. Hands gripped wide, she held it up toward the misty dragon he’d become, her dark eyes gleaming as she parted her lips to command the staff.

  Athryn’s mouth opened, and the dragon’s did, too. The beast’s roar amplified the magician’s cry of rage; the force of it blew the witch’s hair back, filled her lungs with hot breath that stole hers and prevented her from speaking.

  Athryn and the dragon raised their foot and brought it down on the staff, driving it to the ground and snapping it in two.

  ***

  The Archon stumbled back from the beast’s taloned foot, a look of shock on her face as green lightning leaped from the broken staff and up the leg of the mist dragon. The undead soldiers still standing motionless dropped to the ground like rag dolls tossed aside by the hand of a bored child.

  Therrador lay helpless on the ground, watching as Sheyndust’s shocked expression became anger, then satisfaction at the green fire spreading from the staff, climbing the dragon. The beast threw back its head and roared, a sound tinged with triumph and agony, but hidden beneath it was another sound, the roar of another beast.

  Therrador’s eyes moved toward the sound and he saw the tyger stalk out of the heap of fallen men, an arm dangling in its fiery teeth. The ground—wet with snow and blood—sizzled beneath its paws, the mud drying hard and cracked under its steps.

  “Khirro?”

  The burning tyger charged and the dragon—its scaly mist-flesh crawling and flashing with green light and viridian flame—reared back its head, filled its lungs, and belched fire down upon the Archon.

  The woman lifted her arms defensively as the fire engulfed her, but it lasted only a moment. The dragon’s size diminished, as though the act of breathing the flames tore its insides out to collapse on itself, then it breathed no more. The mist that had formed the beast thinned and faded to green-tinted wisps before disappearing like the smoke of an extinguished taper.

  As the dragon’s fire ended, the tyger let out a thunderous roar and leaped at the Archon without allowing her an instant to recover. It raked her chest with a massive flaming paw that left four deep gashes down her torso. Sheyndust stumbled back, clutching at the wounds and smearing dark red blood across her pale flesh, then the tyger was on her again, driving her to the ground. She screamed and tried to fend off the fiery beast as it sank its teeth deep into her forearm, then her screaming took a different shape.

  The words the witch hollered were foreign and unintelligible to Therrador, but something understood them, and the earth heaved, shooting pain through the king’s broken arm. Dark clouds gathered above them, twisting and whirling, pregnant with power and the promise of death.

  Finish her!

  As if it heard the king’s command, the tyger jerked its head and wrenched the woman’s arm free at the shoulder. An agonized scream interrupted the words of her spell and the black cloud hanging over them faded to gray. The tyger tossed the arm aside, fresh blood crackling on its burning lips, and lunged for her throat.

  The beast’s teeth sank into her pale flesh, turning her scream to a blood-filled gurgle. Therrador’s breath caught in his throat as the witch’s life blood fountained from the wound and he realized this would be the end of her, that she would be taken from him forever.

  Sheyndust’s body jerked and twisted as she tried to release herself from the tyger’s grip, but the beast’s jaws held tight, digging deeper into her throat. Its flames spread to her hair, then to her skin, and the smell of burning flesh and boiling blood found its way to Therrador’s nostrils, gagging him and pulling him away from his false feelings. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the tyger.

  Go on, Khirro. Kill her.

  The tyger shook its head and another gout of the witch’s blood spurted onto the beaten grass. Her hand fell away from where it clutched the scruff of flaming fur at the big cat’s throat, her body spasmed and lay still.

  The beast held on a few seconds longer, ensuring the woman was dead, then it backed away, leaving her body burning on the muddy ground. Triumph blossomed in Therrador’s chest.

  If the witch is dead, her hold on me should be gone.

  The king concentrated his effort on gaining his feet, but his limbs refused to move. A spark of despair came to life in the pit of his stomach; he forced the jubilation of victory to extinguish it for the time being. The witch’s magic would wear off and, if not, Athryn would know what to do.

  He looked back to his fallen foe and saw the tyger standing over her, the fire covering the man beneath the beast beginning to flicker and die as he watched the flames devour Sheyndust’s flesh. A minute later, it wasn’t a tyger watching the witch burn, but a six year old boy standing with his smoldering back to the king.

  Therrador’s eyes widened and the spark he’d extinguished burst into a wildfire.

  “Graymon,” he called, his voice strained. He tried uselessly to lift his arm, to move, to crawl.

  The boy crumpled to the ground.

  ***

  Despite her terror at the missing children, Emeline stayed with Khirro until he drew his last breath, then she left him lying in a muddy pool of his own blood to search for Iana and Graymon. She looked amongst the corpses, threaded her way between undead soldiers standing like puppets without strings until the dragon snapped the staff and they all tumbled to the ground.

  Green fire covered the dragon as it breathed a column of flame at the Archon. Emeline raised her arm to protect her face from heat intense enough to dry the tears on her cheeks. The sound of the dragon fire roared in her ears; she smelled the creature’s acrid breath as it tore the air.

  When it sto
pped, she lowered her arm and saw the flaming tyger pounce on the Archon, driving her to the ground. Beside them, the dragon shrank until it disappeared in a puff of vapor.

  But Khirro’s dead. Where did the tyger come from?

  The living warriors who remained all stopped fighting to watch, Kanosee and Erechanian standing side by side as the unbelievable fight unfolded before them. Emeline skirted around them, trying not to draw their attention, but one man saw her and stepped into her path.

  “What have we here?” the Kanosee soldier said.

  Mud smeared the warrior’s face and his left arm hung limp at his side, a gash near the shoulder oozing blood. He smiled to show the gap in his teeth where one was missing, and Emeline froze, her body remembering the man’s rough touch and the terrible things he did to her even before her mind recalled his name.

  “Hektor,” she said.

  “I told you we’d see each other again, didn’t I?” He held his sword’s scabbard steady with his left wrist, wincing in pain as he did, and slid his weapon into its sheath. “I just didn’t expect it to be here.”

  He moved in close to her and Emeline’s jaw clamped tight. She smelled the odor of his sweat, felt his touch on her arm, and the memory of their trip to the fortress came back. In her mind, she saw him kill her husband.

  Anger and worry for her child forced fear from Emeline’s mind. She moved a step closer to the man so their bodies were almost touching and put her hand on the top of his chest.

  “I hoped we’d meet again,” she said.

  With one quick movement, Emeline plunged her fingers into Hektor’s wound. He cried out and jerked back a step; gripped in Emeline’s other hand, his dagger pulled from its scabbard and she leveled it at him.

  “What are you doing, woman?” He raised his good hand for a moment, as if in surrender, then lowered it. “You won’t hurt me. You’re just a farm girl. You don’t have it in you.”

  His lips curled up in a smile again, revealing the gap that had haunted Emeline’s dreams. He took one step toward her and she planted the dagger in his throat. His eyes went wide with surprise, his mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, blood bubbling on his lips. Emeline pulled the knife from his throat and drove it in again.