Spirit of the King

by Bruce Blake

  Blood.

  ***

  The sun sinks from the sky and the city whispers of strangers approaching from the east—two men who came out of the ground. I whisper back that they’re to be left alone, they belong to Shariel. We’ll see if the seeds of fear I planted have grown enough in these few short days that they heed my bidding. But it’s always best to tend your crops, so I patrol the streets, seeking to ensure my harvest.

  First a man, drunk and retching in an alley strewn with waste. He’s no match for my sword so I kill him with a finger through the space behind his jawbone, just below his ear. Messy, but satisfying; I like the feel of blood on my hands.

  Next, a group of four men raping a woman. My sword sings songs of death, carving its lyrics into their flesh. One of them actually comes within an inch of cutting me so I leave him alive with his insides hanging out for the rats to gnaw and the deathbirds to pick apart. I kill the woman, too. I don’t want to, she is the victim here, but I do and she dies a victim.

  Death and blood invigorate me and I spend the night looking for more. The man called Khirro might arrive this night, but I want him to have his rest. I want him at the top of his skills when the tip of my sword pushes through his flesh, since I’ll be at the top of mine.

  I go back to the public house where my foray into death in Poltghasa began. A new woman leans over the porch rail taking the place of the whore I left dead in my room. She should be more respectful of the dead. I push aside the man mounting her and insert my sword where his cock was—she screams briefly before her life flees. He runs.

  I burst through the door into the tavern and my blade jumps to life. Some men fight back, some flee. Soon, the floor is slick with blood and none of it is mine. The sticky fluid splashes my arms and face and clothes, soaking into my flesh, each drop increasing the feeling of power coursing through my veins. Every man who falls before my wrath bears the face of the man who raped me and tortured me and ended my life. I make them all pay for his sins.

  As the sun rises, I lay down to sleep, my weapons and clothes and every exposed bit of skin tacky with drying blood. I drift off, wondering if I should wash it off or wear it as war paint to strike fear into my enemy. No, if he’s like all these other men, the sight would likely scare him to death and rob me of the joy of doing it myself. If I don’t get to kill him, then what was the point of being brought back from the fields of the dead?

  I think of the black-cloaked woman, hoping to dream of her creamy skin and gentle touch as sleep claims me. I don’t need any more reason to kill the man called Khirro, but if anything could encourage me further, it’s the promise of her reward. But what will become of me after it’s done? Will she keep me for her lover and assassin or return me to the fields of the dead? The thought takes me back to the endless blue sky and emerald field stretching as far as my vision. Both options are attractive, each for its own reason. I’ll be satisfied, no matter which is my fate.

  As my thoughts become dreams, the pleasant feeling of the field slips away, the ache of desire disappears. All is replaced by his face. His mouth opens and he screams, begs for mercy, then blood spills from his lips in a torrent. An indescribable joy fills me and I don’t miss the desire, don’t long for the field. Soon his blood will be on my hands. What happens after that doesn’t matter.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Graymon’s belly growled. He put his hands on it and scowled, straining to remember the last time he ate. The rattle and bump of the wagon had ceased a while ago—long enough for the guards to light a fire and begin cooking. The aroma of roasting meat wafted through the canvas and brought saliva to his mouth, though he didn’t want to imagine what kind of meat the dead men might have skewered over their fire.

  His bum hurt, so he climbed off the wooden bench and knelt on the floor to relieve his aching rump, the movement rocking the wagon. One of the guards snarled. Normally, the sound would have scared Graymon, but the hungry knot in his tummy distracted him from worrying about the guard’s grumbling.

  I’m going to die anyway if I don’t eat soon.

  It must have been a whole day, maybe more, since they fed him. Never in his life had he gone so long without food.

  The canvas flap snapped away from the side of the wagon, startling Graymon, and a man he hadn’t seen before leered in at him. This undead soldier's face showed less decay than the others—he lacked a nose and one cheek sported a green-around-the-edges hole—but his family would have recognized him. One thing was the same with him as it was from one dead soldier to the next—the strange look in their dark eyes, as though they didn’t really see what they looked upon. Graymon scrambled away from the man, the wagon squeaking and groaning with the movement.

  “Eat.”

  The undead soldier tossed a pewter plate onto the bench where Graymon’s bum had been a few minutes before. A slice of carrot bounced off the plate and rolled the length of the bench before falling to the floor boards; a boiled potato barely stayed put. The meat on the plate was red with blood but smelled delicious.

  “Thank you.”

  Graymon looked up to meet the man’s black eyes and glimpsed the others huddled around the fire; a stretch of rocky ground beyond them led to the sea. The soldier grunted and dropped the flap back.

  Graymon stared at the food on the dull gray plate, wondering if it might be poisoned. He poked the meat, licked the juice off his finger, then picked up the errant carrot and popped it into his mouth. It tasted like a carrot.

  Why would they take me away to poison me?

  They could kill him anytime, in any manner they wanted, but they probably wouldn’t waste so much time dragging him out here to do it. Strangely comforted, he shuffled closer to the plate. No silverware, no nanny to cut the meat for him. Graymon felt lost for a moment, but the gurgle in his belly prompted him to forget manners and convention.

  Wary of what the meat might be, he ate the vegetables first. A tasteless, bland potato and carrots cooked to the edge of mush, but they tasted as good as any other potato and carrots he’d ever eaten. When he finished the vegetables—nanny would be proud of me—he picked up the chunk of meat, eyeing it dubiously. Blood dripped from its edge, spattering on the plate. He sniffed it and, finding nothing unusual to its smell, brought it to his lips. He hesitated for a second before the aroma forced his teeth into the meat, tearing off a piece and chewing it with gusto.

  Delicious.

  Graymon made short work of it, forgetting his worries of poison and dead men while his stomach grumbled thankfully for having been fed. He sucked juice from his fingers and licked every scrap off the plate before wiping his face on the sleeve of his dirty tunic. He smiled.

  If nanny was here, she’d get mad at me for that.

  Aching loneliness grasped his heart and melted his smile. Would he ever see nanny or his da again? He clenched his teeth and wiped his hands on the thighs of his breeches.

  What would a brave hero do?

  He pondered the question as the wind whipped against the canvas. Gorgo, king of the dragons, would roast all the bad men with his fire-breath, but Graymon couldn’t breathe fire. In fact, he didn’t want to kill anyone or know if a man already dead could be killed. They probably could—they needed to eat and stayed close to the fire in the cold—but slaying anyone was out of the question. He thought harder, his eyes narrowing. He couldn’t breathe fire, he couldn’t fly, he couldn’t eat the men or cast a spell. What then?

  A brave hero would escape.

  Nodding to himself, he crawled across the floor of the wagon and hunkered down in the corner, waiting for the wind to blow again, hoping it would move the canvas far enough to see out. A gust howled across the sea, rippled the wagon’s covering, but it didn’t pull away from the wooden frame. Graymon resisted the urge to curse like he’d heard his father do, somehow convinced that, even as far away as she was, his nanny would know. If the wind wouldn’t help, he’d have to take a chance and move the canvas himself.

  He decided
to wait for another gust, so if anyone saw, they might think the wind moved it. Several minutes passed and Graymon began to wonder if the wind would ever blow again, then a gust strong enough to rattle the wagon blew in off the water; he pulled the canvas aside a crack.

  The scene outside his confined space hadn’t changed since the soldier dropped off his dinner. Eight dead men huddled around the fire speaking in low grunts, chuckling occasional laughs that sounded like a dagger pulled across a whetstone.

  Can’t go that way.

  He crawled back along the floor boards and pulled himself up onto the bench, his thigh pressed against the wooden rail on the other side of the wagon. He shifted the canvas aside an inch and peered into the twilight. A few yards away, a line of trees devoid of leaves stood beside the track. Low shrubs grew at their bases forming a thicket where a small boy might conceal himself. If they were still on the land bridge—and judging by the proximity of the shore on the other side, they were—then the Small Sea lay somewhere on the other side of the trees. The lone soldier posted to guard this side stood facing the trees, as though he was there to protect their captive from the forest, not to stop him from escaping.

  They don’t think I’ll try to escape.

  He had that to his advantage, but how to get past the guard? He didn’t have to wait long for the answer.

  One of the men by the fire called to the guard and though Graymon found his gravelly voice difficult to understand, he thought he called him to eat. The man between Graymon and the trees threw a grunted answer back, then left his post to partake in the meal. Before his mind could assess the situation too closely, Graymon pulled the canvas open farther and reached back for the itchy blanket he’d need to keep himself warm.

  His hand brushed the pewter plate sitting on the bench behind him and he hesitated.

  What if they come to get the plate?

  He paused a second, half-expecting the other flap to open and one of the dead men to catch him. His mind worked quickly and he knew immediately what a brave hero would do. He sidled across the width of the wagon, grabbed the plate, and pulled open the flap on the soldiers’ side.

  “I’m done,” he yelled and flung the plate toward the group.

  They growled at him. One poked his spear toward him, but none rose off their seats of logs and rocks as he dropped the canvas. Seconds later, they were laughing at his antics. Graymon returned to the forest side of the wagon, his breath short with nervous excitement.

  I fooled them.

  He waited another minute to be sure he had; blood rushed to his head and the meat in his belly became unsettled, churning against the sides like a ship tossed about by a maelstrom. He grasped the edge of the wagon to steady himself from feeling woozy and, after a deep breath to fortify himself, peeked over his shoulder. No decayed face had appeared to check in on him. He gathered the blanket, pulled back the canvas, and threw his leg over the wagon’s edge.

  Please don’t come. Please don’t come.

  He dangled half-in, half-out of the wagon, his foot searching vainly for the ground. Too far. He swung his other foot over and lowered himself as far as he could. With the wooden edge pressed painfully into his armpits, the soil below eluded him. He glanced at the far side of the wagon, convinced one of them would lift the canvas any second, or that he’d feel a bony hand on his shoulder.

  Don’t come. Don’t come.

  He kicked his feet, knowing that the ground couldn’t be far below, but panic began to well up in him. Settling himself, he closed his eyes and imagined the wagon. He’d needed one of the soldiers to lift him in when they embarked on their journey, so it was too high for him to climb into himself, but it was only a wagon. He gathered his courage and let go.

  The short drop jarred Graymon’s teeth and sent him to the ground with a grunt. He shook his head to clear the impact and peered under the wagon. From his spot in the dirt, he saw the guards seated around the fire and counted them quickly, happy nanny had used his blocks to teach him how.

  Nine.

  They were all there. No alarm had been sounded, so they hadn’t seen him. He collected the blanket and shuffled away from the wagon, eyes fixed on the soldiers. They nodded and growled and laughed but none of them rose from their seats. He didn’t take his gaze off them until his feet rustled the brush and fallen leaves at the foot of the trees; only then did he dare turn away.

  Two steps into the thicket, one of the horses hitched to the wagon whinnied, freezing Graymon in his spot. He held his breath, straining to hear over the wind flapping the canvas and rustling the foliage, but no sound of footsteps came to him. He crouched to see under the wagon—the dead men hadn’t moved. Graymon let his breath out slowly and eased into the brush.

  When he reached the trees, he squatted and pulled the blanket around his shoulders and over his head for camouflage. It itched his cheeks and neck. He watched the soldiers, waiting to see if they’d check on him; his heart raced. They’d shown little interest in their charge so far; he hoped it wouldn’t soon change. The wind blew, seeming to come from all directions at once, and Graymon pulled the blanket tighter, hugging his knees to his chest to conserve heat.

  What if they stay here for the night? I’ll freeze.

  He clamped his jaw tight, worried the chatter of his teeth might attract the guards’ attention. Leaves swirled around him, whipped into a frenzy by the salty sea wind, so he buried his nose in the blanket, nostrils flaring at its musty odor. Even the heavy wool struggled to keep out all the chill.

  As time passed, he wondered if he’d done the right thing. He looked at the canvas side of the wagon, longing for the protection it gave from the blustering wind. Maybe he could get back inside without them noticing. If they did notice, would they risk the wrath of the woman and kill him? No. But they’d punish him.

  An especially brisk gust of wind shivered the trees and Graymon decided he’d made a mistake. No matter what a brave hero might have done, or might do now, he was cold and didn’t think he’d survive the night if he stayed in one place. He resigned himself to returning to the wagon and began looking for the best way back when he saw movement by the fire.

  They’re leaving.

  The soldiers were standing, collecting their weapons. Graymon tensed. If they were going to check on him, now would be the time. If they discovered him gone, then found him huddled, shivering in the woods, what would they do to him?

  He didn’t want to know.

  Two of the soldiers went to the front of the covered wagon and took seats behind the horses; one went to the rear while the other six arrayed themselves on each side. None of them approached the canvas. Graymon shrank to the smallest he could, careful not to rattle the dead leaves around him.

  The nearest soldier stood close enough he heard him call out to let the driver know when he was in position and ready to go. Graymon’s pulse pounded in his throat. One of the dead men on the bench behind the horses shouted and snapped the reins; the horses neighed in response and began moving, the wagon rattling along behind.

  Graymon stayed hidden until he no longer heard wagon wheels clattering along the track, then remained hidden a few minutes more. When he thought it safe, he crept out of his hiding spot, the blanket wrapped tight around his body. He didn’t know the area, but knew enough to realize that, if the wagon headed one way, he should go the other. He looked back down the track, dreading the walk into the darkness, but nothing in the forest lining the road could be worse than the dead men. At least in this direction, he knew his father was there somewhere, and his nanny. He took a step down the track, then stopped, his attention grabbed by the crackle of the cook fire the soldiers hadn’t extinguished.

  First, I’ll warm myself. Even a brave hero would do that.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The plain gray slab of the city wall rose before them. No gargoyles loomed at its corners; no statues or signs, decorations or markings adorned its surface. The lack of anything surprised Khirro; he’d imagined the fabled
city of Poltghasa—the last refuge of the guilty and the damned—would be imposing. Instead, it looked like any other city—older, perhaps, more rundown, but no different.

  No one challenged their approach, but they had waited until just before dawn and chose not to enter through the main gate. They stalked around the base of the wall, kicking aside rubble and loose stone fallen from its surface during the thousands of years it had ringed the city. It wasn’t the staunchness of the wall that deterred the Kanosee or anyone else from storming the city and bringing the renegade criminals to justice, it was the reputation of the denizens lurking behind the wall that kept the rest of the world at bay. The thought raised the short hairs on the back of Khirro’s neck.

  “Look, there.” Athryn pointed at the wall ahead of them.

  Khirro squinted, but he saw nothing other than an outline of the wall’s pockmarked surface. “I don’t see anything.”

  “A door hanging askew. There.”

  “Your eyes are better than mine.”

  “Come.”

  They stole forward, Athryn leading the way. After a few steps, Khirro saw the edge of the door silhouetted against the gray wall.

  How nice of them to leave it open for us.

  “It will be guarded,” Athryn said drawing his sword.

  They crept along the wall, stepping carefully around rocks and shards fallen from above uncountable years before, and Khirro pulled the Mourning Sword from its scabbard. He couldn’t imagine what kind of barrage this great slab of stone must have withstood in the days after Monos’ death, when Shyctem—the first king—ruled the land. His reign had been tumultuous, marked by death and fighting as rival warlords launched attacks to usurp his power. Eventually, he met his death on the same Killing Stairs upon which so many of his enemies had met theirs.

  Athryn gestured toward the horizon and Khirro saw the sky beginning to lighten with the dawn creeping in to banish night from the land. They stood their best chance of survival if they entered the city and found a hiding place before the sun climbed into the sky.