All Who Wander Are Lost (An Icarus Fell Novel) (61 page)

At
the last moment, instinct overpowered shock, fear and pain, and
Khirro rolled to the right, teetering dangerously on the landing’s
edge. The body hit the stone floor beside him.

The
slam of armor against stone was nearly deafening, but not loud
enough to mask the sickening pop of bones snapping within. The body
bounced once and came to rest, some part of it pressed against
Khirro’s back, threatening to push him over the precipice. He
wriggled painfully away from the edge, pushing against the unmoving
body behind him.

The
sounds of fighting renewed. Soldiers must have pushed past the
burning catapult that had barricaded them, rushing to engage the
enemy and save their king.

Where
were they five minutes ago?

Khirro
put the thought from his mind. He lived, after all; it was more than
he could say for the man lying beside him.

Khirro
lay still for a minute, unsure what to do. If he stayed put, he’d
forfeit his life to a Kanosee sword as surely as if he rejoined the
fray. His eyes flickered from the wall walk above to the stairs. He
saw no one. If there was a best time to move -- to go
somewhere,
to do
something
-- it was likely now, while the enemy was freshly engaged. He turned
his head, looked at the man lying dead beside him.

The
man’s cheek pressed against the stone landing was curiously
flat, crushed by the fall. His eyes were closed; blood ran across
his closed eyelids from a gash on his clean-shaven scalp. A
scrollwork of enameled ivy crawled out from the corner of his silver
breastplate and across his epaulet. Khirro stopped breathing.

King
Braymon!

It
was the king dead beside him, the man who had rescued him from the
red-splashed Kanosee soldier, leaping into the fight to save a lowly
farmer-turned-soldier without regard for his own safety.

The
king. The man who ruled the kingdom.

While
Khirro had chosen to cower on the landing, struggling to find his
courage as others fought for the kingdom, Braymon hadn’t
hesitated a second.

And
now the king was dead, and there was no one to blame but Khirro.

Guilt
stirred his gut. What would this mean to the kingdom? To the war?
His head swam. Did this mean he could return home, or would it mean
more fighting? He thought of Emeline. It was easy to remember why he
hadn’t risen after his fall down the stairs when he thought of
her and of the child she carried. He only wanted to return to her,
to go back to the farm and live out his life in peace and quiet. If
Emeline would have him back.

The
clang of steel and the shouts and screams of men fell on him like
violent rain. He didn’t know how long he lay there listening
and thinking, mourning and celebrating, awash in guilt and remorse
and relief when another sound caught his attention. He held his
breath.

A
footstep on the stair?

His
eyes darted toward the stone steps, but he couldn’t see beyond
the king’s leg twisted at an unbelievable angle. He dared not
turn his head for fear a man clad in a red-splattered breast plate
may be leering at him from the stair, waiting for an excuse to fall
upon him and finish the job. Thirty seconds crawled by, a minute.
Khirro began to think he’d heard his own breath. For a while
there was only the sound of fighting, then it came again. Not a
footstep, but a groan, small and weak, but close. Khirro waited,
listening, hoping. Dreading. Then another sound, a whisper.

Haltingly,
Khirro moved his gaze back to the face of his king, the man who
saved him, the man who so many years ago, saved the entire kingdom.

He
looked into the open eyes of King Braymon.

####

Copyright 2012, Bruce Blake &
Best Bitts Productions

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be
reproduced in any form of by any electronic or mechanical means,
including information and retrieval systems, without permission in
writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief
passages in a review,

This is a work of fiction,
names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual
events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

ISBN
978-0-9868811-7-6