Heart of the King (20 page)

Did Khirro survive? Graymon?

He licked his dry lips and tasted more blood.

“Help,” he said, but the word struggling through his lips came out a gurgle, a whisper.

He swallowed and attempted it again, but this time made no sound. His eyelids fluttered and slid closed. He forced them open and found a mist had collected in his vision, peppering the forest’s pre-twilight dimness with spots of white. He watched it grow and spread, rolling through the forest.

So is this to be it, then? It seems I will be with you again much sooner than I imagined, Maes.

The mist grew more dense until it obscured trees and brush alike, then it took the bodies of the two Kanosee soldiers, hiding them beneath its opaque whiteness. Somewhere—perhaps  somewhere not too far from where he lay—he imagined it enveloping Khirro and Graymon. In his imagining, they lived and they were together.

But if that is the case, why are they not here for me?

He tried to swallow again, this time without success. Instead, it felt as though the saliva caught on the wound in his throat, threatened to tear it open and spill what little blood remained in him over the forest floor.

Athryn closed his eyes, his lips moving ever so slightly as he whispered a protection spell, sending it out into the forest to find his friend and keep him safe, to seek out the boy and find him alive, help keep him that way.

One last death to use.

After a minute, his energy waned and his lips ceased moving.

The magician felt himself drawn up off the ground. Air moved around him, swirling and lifting him. He imagined himself being lifted out of the forest, soaring high above the tops of the trees, and he thought this must have been the way Shyn felt in his falcon form. How free. How liberating.

Athryn relaxed and let the mist carry him off to the fields of the dead.

The beat of hooves filled Sir Alton Sienhin’s ears, bounced and multiplied inside his head. The rhythm normally soothed him, brought him a calmness rarely felt at other times in his life, for the sound represented freedom to him as he became one with the horse and it carried him across the land faster than a man had any hope of traveling. Not now, though, because he knew he was pushing the horse too hard. Forced by circumstance, he had no choice. Flecks of foam flew from the animal's lips, carried away on the wind as they thundered toward the capital.

In the distance, Achtindel’s walls and spires rose against the dawn sky. With it in view, the general dared to push the horse even harder. He urged his steed on, a feeling of remorse gnawing at the pit of his gut because he knew when he arrived at the city, this valiant animal that had given its all would be left spent and useless. He leaned forward as far as he dared, stroked the horses neck in appreciation.

“It happens to all of us eventually,” he said, his words stolen by the wind.

The horse misstepped and Sir Alton heard the crack of its front leg snapping in the fraction of a second before the horse pitched forward. Unsteady in his seat, the horse’s fall separated the general from the saddle and flung him through the air. For a second, he saw Achtindel, tantalizingly close yet so far away, then he tucked his head and his shoulder hit the ground with a crunch that made his stomach turn.

Pain exploded through his body as he plowed through dirt and scrub grass until his forward momentum ceased. He came to rest with his cheek and chest pressed against the ground, the heavy breaths he drew through his mouth stirring the hair of his long mustache and disturbing the dirt. At his back, the heavy gasps of the dying war horse overpowered the sound of his own breathing. Wincing with pain, Sienhin moved his head enough to see what state the horse was in.

The brave steed lay on its side, head resting in the dirt and its right front leg twisted at an angle it was never intended to bend. Through his own pain, Sienhin felt a pang of regret; he’d caused this animal’s death as surely as if he drew his sword across its throat.

“I’m sorry, boy,” he said, the effort shooting pain from his shoulder down his arm and side.

He cringed, clamped his teeth together in an attempt to suppress it, but it burned through his muscles, clamped onto his bones.

“Gods,” he groaned aloud. “This hurts more than being stabbed.”

Rather than fight the pain, he let it flow through him. His experience of being wounded in battle told him that, in a matter of time, he would become more accustomed to it, have a better chance of controlling it. He lay his head on the ground and relaxed to the extent the pain allowed. The agony in his shoulder pulsed with each beat of his heart, disguising any other pain, any other injuries he might have sustained. Each torturous breath was a torment rippling through his body, shaking his soul, and he fought against crying out, instead concentrating on his breath, focusing on the task ahead of him.

For the sake of the kingdom, I need to get up.

Minutes passed, then more. The pain made his head feel light and the general lost track of time’s passage.

For the sake of the kingdom. For the sake of the kingdom. For the sake of the kingdom.

The words became his unspoken mantra, distracting him from the pain as well as from the other thoughts that did their best to claw their way into his mind. Each time a thought of Therrador’s betrayal, or Hahn Perdaro’s treachery, of dead men fighting as though they lived, or of his long dead son tried to worm their way through his guard, he repeated the phrase again.

For the sake of the kingdom. For the sake of the kingdom.

Finally, a welcome thought found him, and he remembered Braymon sitting astride his steed, sun glinting on his polished plate and a satisfied smile on his face as he brandished his sword. Beside him, Sienhin sat ahorse as well, his bushy mustache hiding the victory smile tilting his lips. It was the day Braymon claimed the throne: a great day for Erechania.

“For the sake of the kingdom.”

Sienhin gritted his teeth and rolled onto his back as gently as he could. He still felt mind-numbing pain, but it was not so terrible as it had been. He lay on the ground facing the winter sky for a few moments, breathing deep through his nose and smelling the crispness of the day and the sweet odor of the dead horse’s dung. Above him, the sun had risen higher in the sky than he’d expected.

“The kingdom,” he said between clamped teeth and pushed himself to a sitting position.

His shoulder screamed with pain and he felt it grate against itself beneath his skin, but he got himself up. He was facing the city and, through the haze the torturous pain cast upon his vision, he saw spirals of smoke rising from bakeries and smithies, cook fires and fires for warmth. Merchant tents sprawled across the plains leading up to the city’s walls, and he’d come far enough to see the different colors of their canvas.

“If I can see them,” he said, “I can walk to them.”

He filled his lungs, grunted, and braced himself with his good arm. In an awkward movement, he gathered his legs beneath him, then rested again for a minute before attempting to stand. As he put his weight on his left foot, he found he had also twisted his ankle as it came out of its stirrup, and he toppled back to the ground in a dusty heap emphasized by a pained growl.

“Damn it.”

He reset himself, clamping his teeth together against the coming pain, when he remembered the staff he’d taken from Perdaro. Grunting, he looked over his shoulder at the dead horse and the staff tied to the saddle.

Sienhin dragged himself around, leaned on his good arm, and began inching along the path his shoulder had dug in the ground. Each time he moved forward, pain pounded in his shoulder. Sweat formed on his brow despite the chill in the air; beads of it rolled down his temple and caught in his mustache.

It seemed to the general that the sun likely crept across the sky at a faster pace than he crossed the ground to his mount. After two pauses to rest and more pained cries than he would have admitted, he made it to the fallen horse, but hesitated before reaching for the staff.

In the daylight, the green glow that had illuminated the drainage tunnel couldn’t be seen, though he knew it was still there. His fingers hovered over the nobbed end of the staff, testing the air around it and finding nothing unusual: no heat, no pain, no magical pulse.

“Curse this magical superstition.”

He grasped the end and tugged hard, expecting difficulty in freeing it from its ties, but the stick slipped out without hindrance.

“Finally,” he grumbled aloud, “something goes right.”

He held the staff with his left hand and repositioned himself, fighting through the pain as he put his weight on his right foot, hoping that it came out of the stirrup more easily than his left when he took his fall. He rocked forward, testing its strength. It held his bulk without pain.

“All right then. Here we go.”

The general pulled hard on the staff and heaved himself to standing on his good leg. His left foot touched the ground gingerly for balance and he suddenly felt that, if he fell again, he wouldn’t be able to get back up and might die within sight of his goal.

It took a minute for him to feel comfortable in this upright position but once he did, Sienhin oriented himself toward the capital and took his first step. It jostled his shoulder, sending more pain down his arm and through his chest. He gritted his teeth, accepting and absorbing the hurt.

“Hmm,” he grunted and allowed himself a half-smile, then took the next step, this time necessarily putting weight on his injured ankle.

It threatened to give out and he stumbled but caught himself with the staff. The pain made his head spin and he closed his eyes tight to keep vertigo from throwing him to the ground. He sighed deeply, opened his eyes and stared toward Achtindel.

“For the kingdom,” he said and took another step.

***

Emeline felt the rumble of many hooves before she heard them. She raised her head from feeding Iana and looked first at the door, then across the room at her husband. Lehgan sat on the floor staring down, lost in his own thoughts as he had been for days. She shook her head slightly; she didn’t understand why, after what happened, it seemed like he was the one who was angry.

“What is that?” she asked.

Lehgan raised his eyes from the floor and opened his mouth to speak but instead stopped and listened.

“Horses,” he said—the  first time he’d spoken to her in three days. “Lots of them.”

He climbed to his feet and moved to the door where he poked his head around the corner to peer down the avenue. After a minute, he stepped fully into the doorway.

“Do you see anything?”

“No.” He crossed the threshold.

Emeline stood, coaxed her nipple out of the sleeping baby’s mouth, and pulled her dress up to cover her breast before crossing to stand behind her husband. This was the closest they’d been to each other in days, and she immediately felt the heat radiating off him. She wanted to reach out and touch his back, stroke his hair, but stopped herself from doing so.

“I’m going to see what’s going on,” he said and strode out into the avenue.

“Wait, I’ll come with you.”

Emeline wet back to the bed and retrieved the blanket to keep Iana warm.

“No, stay here. It might not be safe.”

Before she opened her mouth to protest, Lehgan disappeared down the street toward the courtyard.

“Lehgan,” she called after him as she hurried to the door. “Lehgan!”

He didn’t stop, though she felt sure he heard her. Her lips pressed together in anger. After what they’d been through, hadn’t she proven herself more than a helpless farm wench? She brooded for only a moment before hurriedly wrapping Iana in the blanket and starting down the street, keeping her distance behind her husband lest he know she followed him.

He’s trying to reclaim his manhood by lording over me.

The thought made her more angry at first, but other thoughts followed it closely.

He wants to take care of me. He wants to make up for letting me down. He’s talking to me again.

She loved him—of  that she was sure—so  as a good wife, she should allow him to do those things, to do whatever he felt necessary to win back her trust and respect. She should be happy he wanted to do so.

But it doesn’t mean I have to sit and wait for him.

Ahead, the avenue opened onto the courtyard and Emeline saw a crowd of people already gathered to see the horses and riders. Lehgan reached them and pushed his way between an old woman straining to see over the taller people standing in front of her and a man so tall, he easily saw over everyone. After a few seconds, the crowd shifted, closing in behind him, and hiding her husband from her.

When Emeline reached the end of the avenue, she went to the left, away from where Lehgan stood, and weaved her way through the throng of people. The smell of unwashed bodies pressed together was overpowering and she held her hand over her nose to keep from breathing in the stench.

The sound of many horses came from the gate that opened on the salt flats, and she saw the dust cloud raised by their hooves. The people standing in front of her prevented her from seeing more, so she endeavored to make her way between them to the front of the crowd.

Perhaps it will smell better, too.

One man shot her an angry look as she squeezed past him, but then he relented when he saw Iana in Emeline’s arms and offered her his spot.

“Thank you,” Emeline said and took his place at the front of the crowd.

The gate was large enough to allow eight horses across its width, and the Kanosee riders took advantage of every inch. The column of mounted soldiers moved forward at a slow walk, the sound of armor and weapons clattering adding to the din of
hoof beats
pounding the ground. One rider sat apart from the others at the head of the procession—a  woman.

She sat tall in the saddle, her yellow-blond hair loose and cascading over the black cloak covering her shoulders. She wore a purple chemise with wide sleeves and black riding pants, but no armor beneath her cape, though all the soldiers following her did. Emeline looked from the woman to the men behind her.