Spirit of the King Read online

  He sighed air into his constricted chest, suddenly aware of how small the mail vest was on him. As long as Graymon was safe, nothing else mattered. The Archon gestured over her shoulder and the undead guard with whom Therrador had spoken appeared at her side.

  “Why did you let this man in?”

  “He said you sent him.” A line of drool spilled from the thing’s split lips.

  “I said no one enters.”

  The Archon raised her hand, holding it as though imploring someone to stop, then snapped her fingers into a fist. The undead creature at her shoulder slumped to the floor with a clank of armor, lifeless once more. A smile crinkled the corners of her red lips.

  “Let that be a lesson to the rest of you.” The other guards grunted and shuffled.

  Graymon shifted again on the bed, rolling onto his back. Therrador pried his gaze away from the woman’s golden eyes and looked at his son’s profile. His heart ached. He wanted to tell him he was sorry, that he didn’t mean for this to happen. A vision of rotted flesh caked with pus and blood flashed across his son’s face then disappeared.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Therrador squeezed through his useless lips.

  “I told you I will not hurt him. Is there no trust between us?” She gave his cheek a tap to draw his eyes to her again. “I suppose there is not, but it is due to your actions, not mine. Come morning, your son will be taken to Kanos. It seems the only way I can ensure your cooperation is if he is not here.”

  Therrador’s eyes widened. “No.”

  “And as for you,” the woman continued, ignoring his protest. “You need a reminder of what will happen if you disobey me.”

  She snapped her fingers and whatever held Therrador let go all at once; his straining muscles pitched him forward onto the bed, but strong hands under his arms caught him and held him fast. He pulled against the grasp of the undead soldiers, but three of them held him, their grips hard and strong. The Archon nodded and one of them pushed against his right elbow, extending his arm. A wicked looking pair of shears, silver and gleaming in the flickering firelight, appeared in the woman’s hand. Therrador shook his head.

  “What are you doing?”

  She moved the shears toward his hand and he curled his fingers into a fist. The thing holding his arm shifted its grip, expertly pinching the proper spot on his hand to make his fingers extend. Cold steel touched either side of his thumb, the sharp edges drawing blood. Therrador gritted his teeth and held his breath.

  “Perhaps you will be less inclined to rebellion if you can no longer hold a sword.”

  The tendons in her neck tensed as she closed the shears. Therrador’s scream drowned out the soft sound of his severed thumb hitting the blanket beside Graymon, then the boy’s high pitched squeal joined his shriek as he woke to his father’s blood.

  Chapter Nine

  The guard snarled at Graymon, hurrying him along. The boy pulled his breeches up hastily and fumbled with the tie. Normally, someone helped him fasten them; his shaking fingers proved almost useless.

  “Do not worry, precious. Everything will be all right,” the woman said.

  Graymon glanced at her, his eyes finding her painted nails first, as always. Colorful birds flitted back and forth across their surfaces, their beaks moving in silent chirps, but they didn’t make him smile. At any moment, those birds might molt and droop, melting away to rotted versions of themselves; he’d seen it before. Before that transformation occurred, Graymon shifted his gaze to his father’s limp form hunched in the corner.

  “What will happen to my da?” His voice quivered with the effort of holding back tears.

  The woman crouched at his side. “I will take him home.” She caressed his cheek with the knuckle of her index finger. Graymon flinched. “He loves you so much. He will behave himself now so I will not have to hurt him again. You know what happens when you do not behave yourself, yes?”

  Graymon nodded. His father rarely punished him, but nanny yelled when he didn’t listen to her, sometimes slapped his bottom. There had never been blood like with daddy, though. The thought made him sniffle and shudder.

  “Hurry and get dressed, then. My men are taking you to another place where you can have a real bed. And toys.”

  Mixed emotions rolled through Graymon. Thoughts of toys and a comfortable bed pleased him, but the idea of going on a trip with those monsters made his stomach feel sick. He looked away from the woman’s pleasant face to the soldier standing over her shoulder. This one didn’t look as dead as many of the others, might even have been alive except for a patch of green mold on one cheek and spots where his hair had fallen out in chunks. The one thing he had in common with the others was his dark eyes that made him look like he’d rather eat Graymon than guard him.

  “Oh, there will be a real man to go with you,” she said noticing the boy’s distress. “Some of my dead friends will be there, but you will not be alone.”

  She retrieved Graymon’s shirt from the floor and handed it to him. He slipped it over his head quickly then stepped into his shoes. The woman nodded, smiled unconvincingly. Graymon smiled back knowing it was what adults expected him to do when they smiled, but he put as little effort into it as the woman did. During his time in the Kanosee camp, they’d treated him well, but seeing what they did to his da proved they weren’t his friends. The woman offered her hand; he took it hesitantly and she led him toward the tent flap. Graymon’s head pivoted as they went, his gaze on his unconscious father.

  “I want to say bye to da,” he cried, tugging at the Archon’s grip.

  The rotting soldier behind him growled, but the woman silenced it with a gesture. She pulled on Graymon’s hand, spinning him toward her.

  “You can say good-bye to your father,” she said, her voice gentle and firm at the same time. “But quickly.” His hand slid out of hers but he didn’t move for a second, worried she might be tricking him. “Go on.”

  Padding across the dirt floor, he looked sideways at the rotting guard who snarled back at him. Graymon averted his eyes and knelt at his father’s side, reached out to take his hand but thought better of it when he saw the blood soaked cloth wrapped around it.

  “I sorry, Da,” he whispered glancing nervously at the woman and the guard then back at his father. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

  Therrador’s eyelids fluttered. His eyes darted around the tent, unfocused, unsure, until they found Graymon and his lids opened wider. He sat up straighter, grunted at the effort.

  “Graymon?”

  “Da.”

  The boy smiled and reached out for his father, his fingers brushing the sleeve of his jerkin before a firm hand on his shoulder pulled him away. He looked up and saw the green-cheeked soldier looming over him and could no longer hold back the tears.

  “Da,” he squealed, feet kicking as the guard lifted him off the ground.

  Therrador reached for him, blood dripping from the soaked bandage, but a guard near the door crossed the tent and kicked him in the ribs. He fell back, hand dropping into his lap.

  “Graymon,” he coughed before the guard kicked his breath out of him.

  The boy thrashed against the undead thing’s firm grip; its fingers dug deep into his shoulders, grinding against the bone. Tears rolled down the child's cheeks as the thing drew him across the pavilion, away from his father, toward whatever fate the blond woman had in store for him. The thought of a comfortable bed and toys ceased to matter, he only wanted to be home with his da.

  Graymon screamed and yelled as the creature dragged him through the tent flap into the cool night. The sight outside the tent quieted him instantly. More undead soldiers lined up one beside another down the row of tents, more of them than Graymon possessed numbers to explain. They stood at attention on both sides of the narrow path through the tents. At the end of their rows waited horses and a covered wagon.

  “It is time to leave,” the woman said making Graymon jump. He hadn’t seen her emerge from the pavilion.


  “I want my da,” Graymon demanded through clenched teeth, making his best angry face. He’d seen it work for his father when he was talking to his men. This time when the woman responded, she didn’t smile and her tone scared him.

  “Enough.”

  Graymon’s expression drooped, his lip quivered. The woman gestured and green-cheek led him between the rows of soldiers, his feet dragging and scuffing in the dirt. The boy twisted in the creature’s grip, turning enough to see two of the undead guards drag his father out of the tent, each with a hand under his arm.

  “Da,” he yelled again, but the woman stepped between them, blocked his view.

  Green-cheek wrenched his arm painfully, pulling his gaze back to the front. Graymon sniffled and wept, tuning his eyes away from the rotted faces leering at him. The black-painted wagon drew closer with each step, bringing with it whatever horror lay beyond.

  Chapter Ten

  I wake from a dream and open my eyes to white and gray clouds smeared across blue sky. This isn’t the beautiful sky I longed for, but I don’t care anymore. I have another purpose now. One day I’ll return there, but not until I’ve made him pay for his sins.

  It’s the same dream every time I close my eyes since my savior showed me my path: the man. Each time he appears in my dream, some new atrocity he performed is revealed. This time I saw him visit three women I can’t name but know were my friends. He hurt them, tortured them, killed them. He raped one after killing her, as he raped me when I was a child. The thought brings the taste of bile to the back of my throat, so I sigh a deep breath of fresh air to wash it away. The dream also ended as it always does, with my sword in his stomach and blood spilling from his mouth. My nausea fades; I smile.

  I stand and orient myself. My clothes are damp with dew and I brush the sheen of water from my shirt and breeches, neither recognizing the clothing nor recalling dressing in them. I don’t put much thought to it. If I wasted time on the unexplainable things experienced since meeting the woman in the black cloak, I’d have time for no other thought.

  I’m standing in a field of thigh high grass, autumn-faded to the color of straw. Maple and oak trees encircle the clearing, leaves of gold, red and brown decorate their branches and litter the ground at the feet of the trees. I want to find it beautiful, but my thoughts contain too much ugliness. Perhaps I’ll return here to find out if it truly is beautiful when my task is complete and I’ve exorcised the vileness.

  I run my hand through my hair cut short and spiky by the sword at my hip. I remember her cutting it, right after she told me who I am.

  You are a new person, Shariel, she said, and she was right. Whoever I was is gone, dead, killed by the man I’ve been sent back to seek vengeance on.

  I will have revenge for the woman I was.

  Birds twitter and sing in the trees, calling out to each other in the crisp autumn air, but I hear other sounds, too. Boots scraping through grass, leather creaking, a scabbard brushing against a pant leg. I turn toward the sounds, forcing calmness in my breathing while hoping it is the man, hoping this is my opportunity. She said she’d bring him to me.

  It’s not.

  Three men approach. I don’t know them or don’t remember them, but I know the situation. I’ve been here before. And the man, this Khirro, was there then, too. I await them, quelling my disappointment, keeping my hand near my sword.

  “What’s this, Barrack?” one of the men comments to a companion. “A comely wench has lost herself in the wilds?”

  They speak a language I shouldn’t understand but do. I don’t speak, hoping to draw them closer.

  “It’s a good thing she has tits, Dar,” one—presumably Barrack—replies. “With her hair cut like that, I might have mistaken her for a man.”

  They’re close enough I could graze their bellies with the tip of my sword. I don’t; that would be too easy.

  The third man feels compelled to comment. “Naw, no mistakin’ her for a man. Too pretty for a man.”

  I smell them: sweat and ale and dirt. They smell of lust. The mix of odors threatens to turn my stomach and I commit to transforming their stench to the more agreeable aroma of fear.

  None of these men are the man I seek, but neither are they good men. They’ve committed sins, brought evil upon the world, and the God Steel will make them pay. I wait while they surround me, thinking they’ll do as they like with me. They will be unpleasantly surprised.

  “What are you doing here, little lady?” the second man asks.

  “Waiting for you,” I say, both surprised and not surprised I speak their language. Kanosee, it is called.

  They circle me, each of them appraising me, but they’re not gauging my fighting skills like they might do a man, they’re imagining me without my clothes. Their mistake.

  The first man, Dar, steps up in front of me, an arm’s length away.

  “What be it that you’re waiting for, exactly?”

  “I’m waiting for a man,” I say, aware he hears my statement differently than what I mean by it.

  “Mmmm.”

  The sound is guttural, the primal noise of an animal. A knot rises to the back of my throat, but it’s not fear, it’s disgust. I suppress it. I’m no longer the victim—she’s dead. I’m in control here.

  “Well, you need wait no longer, lass.”

  He steps closer until our bodies nearly touch; he’s taller than me, my eyes level with his chin. With another animal sound, he puts his arm around my waist and pulls me against him. I don’t protest as he presses his lips against mine, the salty taste of his sweat raising anger and hatred and power within me. I lay my hand on his chest over his heart and breath in, sucking the air out of his lungs.

  His body stiffens; he releases his arm from my waist.

  There’s another animal sound, muffled by my lips, but this time it’s the sound of panic and terror, and it strengthens me. He jerks once, twice. I push my hand more firmly against his chest and feel his ribs crack. A twist of my wrist and one punctures his heart. He falls limp to the straw-colored grass.

  “Wha...?” one of his companions says.

  A half-second passes before they realize what’s happened to their friend and reach for their weapons. In that time, I leap across his fallen body, twisting to face them, and snatch my sword out of its scabbard in one smooth movement. I swing it in an arc, sun glinting on polished steel, its path burned into my vision for a moment, and the tip slices Barrack’s throat. The cut is only half an inch deep, but it’s enough. Blood spurts from the wound, spraying across the third man’s cheek. His eyes show stark panic, but he pulls his sword anyway. I step back, drops of blood slithering down my blade, and wait for him as he brandishes his steel. It shakes in his hand.

  “Be on your way and I’ll tell no one what you did,” he says.

  The quake in his sword arm shows itself in his voice and brings a smile to my face. This man is scared of me.

  He should be.

  “Why should I leave you alive?” I flick the end of my sword at him, spattering him with more of his friend’s essence. He flinches and falls back a step. “You and your friends would have had your way with me, probably killed me. Do you not deserve the same?”

  “N-no. You’ve got it wrong. We was just having fun is all. We wasn't going to hurt you.”

  His eyes flicker away from mine and linger on his fallen friends before returning to me. Had I chosen to do so, he’d have met his end in that second.

  “Of course you say that when you’re looking into the eyes of your executioner.”

  I see the argument going on behind his eyes: attack me and hope for the best? Turn and run? Wait it out and see what I do? To a man who has just watched his companions fall like untrained children, surely none of the options seem like good ones.

  He opts for the first.

  His blade lashes out and I deflect his blow with a flick of my wrist. Exhilaration pounds through my veins, fortifies my limbs. The first two kills were surprise attacks�
��neither man had a chance—but this is one-on-one combat and I know I can best this man without expending any real effort.

  He strikes again and I parry. He’s been trained, though not well. Another blow and another, wild and unplanned. I block one and side-step the next, toying with him. Another swing. Another. I haven’t yet swung a blow in offence, yet sweat drenches his brow and his breathing is labored, fearful.

  He comes at me again; I step aside and land the pommel of my sword in the small of his back. He stumbles but doesn’t fall. When he faces me, I step in and relieve him of his weapon with the snap of my wrist, then the point of my blade is at his throat. His eyes widen, crossing as they look down on the silver steel, then find their way along its length until he sees the smile on my face. I wait for him to beg for his life. He doesn’t let me down.

  “Please, my lady.”

  “Shariel.”

  The name feels odd to my lips, as though it isn’t mine. Not so long ago, it wasn’t.

  “I beg you, don’t kill me. I’ll do anything.”

  I raise my eyebrow theatrically. “Anything?”

  He nods frantically, like an enthusiastic child, but stops abruptly at the feel of the edge of my blade rubbing against his throat. It’s not enthusiasm that prompts his nod, it’s fear. I believe he really would do anything, though he’d never tell anyone he did. A thought crosses my mind, surprising at first, then comfortable, like a shirt well worn.

  He’s young. Underneath the dirt and bravado, he’s not unattractive.

  “Remove your clothes,” I tell him, a smile on my lips. He looks at me like I spoke a foreign language.

  “My clothes?”

  I nod and wait, the sword tip hovering an inch from the man-lump in his throat. He complies, removing his sword belt first, slowly, careful not to lean forward and pierce his windpipe. Next comes his armor, then his shirt and breeches. As his underclothes fall to the grass, my smile broadens. I’m glad for whatever suggested this action to me.