Spirit of the King Read online

  “Athryn!”

  Another barely-avoided blow sent Khirro to the sand. He held the Mourning Sword up knowing he wouldn’t be able to deflect a blow, and that one direct hit would be enough to end the fight, likely his life. The giant was too strong. What a fool he’d been to think he could hold off the beast on his own.

  Why isn’t Athryn helping?

  The giant loomed beyond his sword’s reach, a string of saliva hanging from its lips like a dog left unfed for weeks. Khirro tensed, hoping to somehow survive the attack, but instead of raining another blow down on him, the giant stopped, listened.

  Foreign words floated to Khirro on the sea breeze, words he didn’t recognize but he knew meant Athryn was casting a spell. The giant also seemed to realize what the words were for.

  Khirro scrambled to stand, feet slipping in the loose sand, but the creature pushed him back with the tip of his club, knocking breath from his lungs in the process and leaving him no choice but to watch the giant set his club aside and pick up a boulder bigger than the first. It hoisted the stone above its head, bending its elbows like a living catapult.

  “No,” Khirro wheezed. “Athryn.”

  After all that had happened during their journey, and despite being a soldier in the King’s Army, Khirro still didn’t considered himself a warrior or think he possessed a killer’s instinct, but he realized this might be his last chance to prove to himself he could be.

  As the giant heaved the boulder, Khirro leaped up, lungs desperate for air. The Mourning Sword glowed red in anticipation of the blood to come, the radiance brightening as Khirro sank the blade’s tip into the beast’s lower back. The giant howled and jerked away, sending Khirro tumbling back, but not before he’d embedded the sword to its hilt, skewering kidney and lung and heart.

  Khirro dug his hands into the sand and pulled himself out of the thrashing beast’s path. The giant stumbled, reaching around in an attempt to grasp the sword’s hilt, its fingers brushing it without finding a hold. It spun a circle like a dog chasing its tail, but the damage proved too much, and the beast dropped to his knees. The ground shuddered under its weight when it pitched forward, face first into the sand, a trickle of blood seeping from the wound in its back.

  So little blood.

  Khirro watched the blood flow down the giant’s side for only a second before remembering his companion. He spun toward the beach, laboring for air and half-expecting to see the magician crushed beneath the boulder, his hopes of returning to the kingdom with the king’s blood flowing in his veins dead along with his companion.

  Athryn knelt in the sand near the boat, dagger in hand, head hung. The black lines of his tattoos swept across his back, over his shoulders and down his arms, the letters foreign and unfamiliar, words to cast spells inscribed in his flesh by his brother, Maes, when he was no longer able to speak them himself. Khirro approached slowly, his breath returning in ragged gasps, relief that his companion appeared unhurt swirling with anger as he wondered why the magician hadn’t aided him.

  “Are you all right?” Khirro asked closing the distance between them; he saw three fresh cuts on Athryn’s forearm oozing blood. The magician looked up, face bare, his cloth mask lying on the sand beside him. He looked so different with his face free of scars. “Are you hurt?”

  Athryn shook his head and the despair and disappointment noticeable on his face told Khirro enough about what happened to force the anger out of him.

  “I could not do it.” Athryn spoke quietly, his voice strained. “I do not know how to make my magic.”

  Khirro kneeled beside him and noticed a dozen more cuts on the magician’s arms and torso, many of them camouflaged in the curved lines of the black letter tattoos. Khirro shook his head, guilt poking his gut for the anger he’d felt at Athryn. The magician had tried to do what he knew how to do and failed. He picked the mask out of the sand, turned it in his fingers.

  How many times have I failed when I should have helped?

  “I couldn’t, either,” Khirro said handing the mask back to Athryn. “I tried to become the tyger, but it didn’t work.”

  “But what am I without magic?”

  Khirro shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. We have other problems to consider.”

  He gestured toward the boat. The giant’s second boulder had struck the vessel’s hull, splintering it into hundreds of pieces and dashing any hope of returning across the Small Sea.

  “At least we’re both alive,” he said.

  Athryn nodded. “But with no way home.”

  “Get dressed. Better to use sunlight for travel than sentiment,” Khirro said slapping the magician on the shoulder as he rose.

  Athryn stood and shook sand from his shirt; Khirro went to the giant lying motionless at the forest’s edge, approaching cautiously. He looked down into the giant’s glassy, sightless eyes. The beast didn’t move when he prodded its ribs with his toe. Satisfied, Khirro grasped the hilt of the Mourning Sword and pulled the blade from the giant’s back. A gout of blood followed it out, the powdery sand absorbing it like a starving animal. The sword glowed and pulsed as the blood clinging to its steel disappeared, sucked into the runes twisted along its length before the blade returned to its normal black highlighted by red scrollwork.

  “This is not the first time this sand has tasted blood.”

  Athryn’s words startled Khirro. He spun to look at the magician.

  “This is the same place the one-eyed man attacked us. The same place my brother opened his veins so I might live.”

  Khirro glanced at the area and saw Athryn was right. To his left stood the copse of trees where they’d laid Maes’s body while Athryn recovered. Down the beach to the south, they would find the charred remains of the pyre where they sent the little man’s soul back to the Gods if they chose to look for them. Three times now, blood was spilled on this spot. He couldn’t help but think the fact held some significance. He stepped away from the giant’s corpse.

  “You’re right,” he said, a chill creeping up his spine. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They surveyed the damage to the boat and found no hope of repairing it. Neither of them knew enough about making a boat seaworthy for it to be safe, and it would take too much time.

  If only Athryn had his magic.

  “What should we do?” Khirro asked as they trudged north along the beach.

  “We have little choice.” Athryn pulled the cloth mask into place over his face; Khirro wondered why he bothered. Did he think wearing it or not affected his magic? “There is only one place where we might acquire a boat.”

  Khirro peered out at the Small Sea. Waves rolled across its surface, pushed shoreward by the autumn breeze. Across the water and to the north lay his homeland, where a war was being fought, a war the spirit Khirro carried within him could influence. But they couldn’t know how things progressed. The enemy might have been vanquished leaving Erechania standing triumphant despite the king’s death. Or the lack of a regent might have left the country disheartened, ripe for the kill.

  Khirro looked away from the water and to the north, toward the one place they might find a way back in their quest to save the kingdom. They marched toward Kanos.

  They marched toward the enemy.

  Chapter Three

  The Archon urged her horse through the open gate and raised portcullis of the Isthmus fortress. As she passed under the rusted bars, she turned in the saddle to look at the men riding behind her, her blond hair caressing the purple velvet cape draped over her shoulders. She saw the tension etched in their faces and knew it to be only partially caused by readiness as they entered an enemy’s stronghold without knowing what to expect. Her generals knew her power, but didn’t suspect its full extent or know how she’d gotten them within the enemy’s walls. Both added to their wariness and a satisfied smile crept across her face. It was best no one knew all, not yet. That would come soon enough, then the entire world would know.

  Regardless of how she got them there,
the generals would be happy to be behind the wall. She wanted to get the other men in, too, but needed to be patient—moving the entire Kanosee army into the fortress immediately would strain the forced truce. Shortly, though. Except the walking dead—they didn’t feel the cold wind the way the living did and would frighten the fortress residents. The time for that would come later; with the exception of the undead members of her personal guard, they’d stay outside until she needed them.

  As her horse carried her away from the salt flats and through the gatehouse passage, she willed the smile from her lips. The reception awaiting the leader of the invading army would not be an occasion for smiles, at least not in the minds of those who surrendered.

  She emerged from the tunnel’s shadow into the courtyard dappled with autumn sun. Over centuries, war after war, battle after battle had ended at the impenetrable fortress wall, dashed against the weathered brown stone—no Kanosee had ever set foot here in the long and turbulent history between the two countries. It had taken a woman—a woman of extraordinary powers, but a woman nonetheless—to finally lead them beyond the storied barricade. She held her head high and stifled another smile.

  People lined the boulevard—mostly soldiers dressed in leather and mail standing rigid and ready, hands close to their weapons, but there were others, too. Smiths and farriers, cooks and physicians and entertainers and whores. No one cheered as four hundred hooves clicked and clattered against the cobblestone boulevard, throwing up occasional sparks from the scarred stones. Not a face wore a smile, nor a look of relief or gratitude. Frowns tugged at the corners of their mouths, expressions of worry and fear creased their features. Their apprehension didn’t surprise her.

  Surrounded by a group of men clad in full plate, Therrador stood on a stone stair leading to a huge building at the far end of the avenue. She recognized the new king easily amongst the group, the red eagle enameled upon his golden plate resplendent in the sunlight; the armor of the other men paled in comparison. The others would be the generals of Erechania, supporting and protecting their king, advising him if need be, and none of them looked any less tense than the soldiers lining the route boulevard.

  But the generals would have no reason to advise him, she knew. He already made his decisions based on the safety of his son held captive in her camp, and he would continue to decide whatever she wanted him to decide, as he did when he agreed to let them into the fortress.

  Although orchestrating the death of King Braymon and arranging Therrador’s ascent to the throne had seemed to work as she’d foreseen, she couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t quite done. Any possibility of a smile disappeared at the thought; the man who carried the blood of the king to the Necromancer had failed in his attempt to raise Braymon, but he yet lived. As long as he did, he posed a threat to the Archon’s plans. She’d have to take care of him, but these were thoughts for another time; she pushed them from her mind and focused on the fortress’ courtyard.

  Beyond the distraught Erechanians, the Archon saw patches of charred earth and wooden outbuildings lying in ruin, their ceilings and walls smashed and burned by the fireballs lobbed over the wall by her army’s catapults. Of course, any bodies had long since been cleared away, and she found herself wondering where Braymon had fallen, what they’d done with the king’s body. She’d have liked to keep his head as a trophy, but she hadn’t thought to mention it to the soldier she’d sent to kill the king.

  What was his name again? Oh, yes: Ghaul. How appropriate.

  She reined her horse to a halt at the base of the stair and Therrador descended, his plate clanking as he signaled his generals to stay. He stopped three steps short of the bottom, his head on the same level as the mounted Archon. His mouth dropped open, recognition showing in his eyes.

  “You,” he said quiet enough only the two of them heard. “You’re the woman from the plains.”

  “Oh, more than just a woman, my dear Therrador.”

  “And you command an army?” he said, eyes narrowing. “The Archon is a woman? And a magician?”

  “Therrador, misogyny and underestimation are two very poor attributes for a king to have.” Therrador noticeably suppressed a shudder as he realized things were measurably worse than he’d imagined. She savored him having the thought. “You may call me your grace.”

  She held her hand out to the king at an angle for him to see the pictures painted on her nails: battles, slaughter, the destruction of Erechania and the death of his son. Therrador stared at the depictions, the stern look melting from his face, then took her fingers gently in his and kissed the back of her hand.

  “Traitor!” A woman stepped out of the throng watching from the edge of the cobblestones, a stone in her hand. “Scarlet whore!”

  The woman hurled the rock, but the Archon simply gestured with her free hand and the projectile came to a halt in mid-air, hovering for a second before tumbling to the ground. The crowd gasped. At the same time, the blade of a Kanosee dagger thrown by one of the Archon’s personal guard found the stone-thrower’s chest and she followed the stone to the ground, as lifeless as the rock. The crowd watched in stunned silence for a second before a thousand hands reached for a thousand weapons. Kanosee steel sang from their scabbards.

  “Stop them or they will all die,” the Archon said to Therrador, her voice calm, knowing.

  She felt power swell inside her, a feeling she relished, but it didn’t suit her purposes to slaughter all these people. The point wasn’t to simply take a fortress, but to have a country. Therrador stared at her and she saw the force of the magic building within her reflected in his eyes. He tore his gaze away and ran a few steps up the stair.

  “No,” he bellowed. “Hold!”

  The crowd did as he said, though their weapons remained bared. A grumble rolled through the throng, discordant dissent barely held in check.

  “Put away your weapons,” Therrador said and the troubled faces in the crowd turned toward their king. “Let no one raise their hand against the Archon or her men. The people of Kanos are our friends.”

  “But look what our friends have done,” a man kneeling beside the dead woman called, his voice full of tears. “They’ve killed my Lera.”

  A portion of the crowd rumbled with angry agreement, but most remained silent, awaiting the king’s response. Therrador considered the man for a moment, but said nothing, as though at a loss for words. One of the king’s generals spoke in his stead.

  “As she threatened to kill their leader. What would you have done if they first threatened your wife? Or your king?”

  The general’s cheeks reddened as he spoke, his huge black mustache quivered with each word. The Archon knew this man to be the one called Alton Sienhin, one of Braymon’s closest and most trusted advisors.

  “Put your weapons away,” Therrador said finding words again. “You only hurt the kingdom by drawing them.”

  Dissatisfied mutters passed person to person, but swords returned to scabbards, daggers to sheaths, axes slung over shoulders. Therrador looked to Sir Alton and thanked him with a nod before returning his gaze to the Archon.

  “I am sorry for this,” he said, though his expression suggested he wished the stone had found its mark and struck her dead. He glanced at his subjects watching him, waiting to see what he would do next. “The people will get used to having you amongst us.”

  Feeling gracious, the Archon nodded and smiled. The feeling of power diminished, leaving her enervated as it always did, but she retained her composure. She leaned forward, beckoned Therrador. He moved closer.

  “Your Graymon will not be punished for it,” she whispered. The color drained from the king’s cheeks. “Be sure it does not happen again, though, Therrador. I cannot promise the same next time.”

  The king stood stiff for a moment, then gestured to a group of soldiers clad in red capes trimmed with gold.

  “Take their horses to the stables. Show the Archon’s men to their quarters.” He smiled tightly and offered his hand; his eye
s remained hard and suspicious. “Archon, I will show you to your suite myself so you can prepare. A feast awaits.”

  She took his hand and dismounted. Only after her feet touched the ground did her men do the same. Pages and grooms ushered horses and men off in different directions; Therrador led the Archon up the stairs toward the group of generals. She peeked over her shoulder and noticed the crowd’s frowns remained, as did their fear and worry. She felt it, savored it.

  Good. She looked back to Therrador who stared straight ahead, refusing to meet her gaze as they strode up the stairs. They will soon be mine.

  Chapter Four

  The river rushed past on its way to the ocean, the deep, swift water separating them from their goal. To Khirro, the far bank looked a long way away.

  “It is too dangerous,” Athryn said. “We will have to find somewhere else to cross.”

  Khirro breathed a relieved sigh. His last foray into water, when he’d danced with a serpent, had left him hoping he’d never be any deeper in water than his knees. They headed west along the river toward the forest looming before them, but after their latest encounter with a giant, the thought of traipsing through the forest didn’t excite him any more than swimming.

  “Why do you still wear the mask, Athryn?”

  They’d spoken few words as they made their way up the beach away from the ruined boat and the giant’s carcass, aware it wouldn’t be long before the smell of blood and decomposing flesh drew the attention of predators. But Khirro knew it wasn’t the prospect of carnivores that stilled his companion’s tongue. The magician’s inability to cast a spell when needed and their proximity to where his brother gave his life to revive him were enough to make any man feel impotent. Athryn’s calm and strong demeanor sometimes made it difficult to remember he was but a man, just like Khirro.

  The magician shrugged. “I,” he began, then paused. “I do not know exactly. Partly habit, partly in memory of Maes.”