Heart of the King (22 page)

His eyes snapped open when he felt the ground shake beneath his hand.

“Horses,” he said, standing. “Many of them.”

Hope bloomed in his chest until he realized Sir Alton had not been gone long enough to be back with troops yet. He suppressed the feeling.

“Yes. The Archon moves her army in preparation for the general’s return.”

“Damn! So she knows he made it out.”

The ghost nodded. “He tried to fool her, but she saw through it.”

“Sir Alton tried to fool her?”

“Our friend did.”

Therrador’s lips parted to ask her once again to whom she referred, but he stopped himself. It didn’t matter. For centuries, the impenetrable Isthmus Fortress with its solid wall and formidable defenses always kept the kingdom safe. Not this time. This time, the kingdom had to rely on its people, so the more on their side, the better, no matter who they were.

I gave away our only hope.

Therrador left the center of the room with its stain of king’s blood and strode to the back wall, leaning against it, then sliding down to sit with his back against the stone.

This is all because of me. Had I approached Braymon, my friend, instead of assuming the worst, none of this would have happened. The witch couldn’t have manipulated me.

He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his head sagging forward. The deep breath he drew into his lungs tasted of must and dirt. Death and hopelessness.

“Do not give up hope, Therrador.”

He looked up to see the ghost woman standing in front of him. She kneeled and put a hand on each side of his head, palms on his cheeks, fingers aside his head. They felt surprisingly warm and solid for a ghost. Energy flowed through them.

“Sir Alton is coming. Your son yet lives. The bearer is near. There is much still at work for us, and much you don’t know.”

“I have to warn them. Get me out of here so I can warn Sir Alton. One man moves faster than an army.”

“No, Therrador. Your place is here. Those left behind need you.”

Therrador pursed his lips and nodded once. The woman’s energy flowed into him, redirecting his thoughts; he couldn’t give up, not while his son and his kingdom still needed him. She let go and backed away as the king pushed himself to his feet and drew his sword awkwardly with his left hand.

“The battle is not lost,” he said, resolve adding steel to his voice. “It has not yet begun.”

He faced away from her to practice parries and thrusts with his weapon in a hand still unaccustomed to wielding a sword. His right hand throbbed with each swing and swipe, as though aching to be used, as though it meant to remind him of the things the Archon had done to him. In his mind, he imagined each strike slicing the witch open, removing her head, running her through.

The battle has not yet begun.

***

During the journey back to the Isthmus from Achtindel, the numbers of Sienhin’s force had grown with Erechanian soldiers who’d found their way out of the fortress, many disguised as civilians. Individual men, groups of two, three and four, but never more. Two days’ ride from the fortress, the army encountered the first wave of civilians fleeing the stronghold: a group of thirty tattered souls too tired to flee but pushing on, anyway. When Sir Alton Sienhin saw them from afar, he raised the staff held in his left hand—his  right lay useless in his lap—halting  his troops, and signaled the three closest riders to accompany him.

The first person the smaller party encountered was a woman. Her dark hair hung ragged at her shoulders, dirt stained her frock, and she wore nothing on her feet despite the travel and the cold. It took a moment for Sienhin to recognize her: one of the harlots who followed the army, making her living providing company for lonely soldiers. The general had employed her more than once himself, but he didn’t remember her name, or perhaps he never knew it.

“Wench, what’s happened?”

He cringed at the pain speaking caused in his shoulder despite the ointments smeared on his flesh and the elixirs the healer made him imbibe. Still, it was much better than it had been.

The woman looked up at him with hollow eyes, her mouth pulled down in perpetual despair. She glanced from him to the other riders with him, then past them at the army following and her expression brightened, looked almost hopeful.

“The enemy’s moved, general,” she said. “A bunch of them overrun our camp and one of them drank too much and told me the witch is moving their army for the capital. I had to leave before another stinking Kanosee put his cock in me.”

Sienhin grunted. “So they know we’re coming.”

He nodded to the man on his right and the young officer—a  soldier whose name he didn’t know and probably never would—immediately  reined his horse around and took the news back to the other officers waiting with their platoons.

“Did everyone make it out?”

Her eyes clouded and her expression sagged. “I don’t know. The piss tank said they were leaving some soldiers behind to make sure they wouldn’t.”

Sienhin looked at her for a minute, anger brewing in his chest. He felt his cheeks go red.

“And what of the king?”

“Dead,” she said and Sienhin’s breath caught in his throat. “He died in the first battle.”

The general let out his breath. “Not Braymon. Therrador. Know you any news of Therrador?”

She shook her head and looked at her filthy feet. “No. None. Therra...the king disappeared. Some think he’s deserted.” She looked up again and the general saw tears in her eyes. “What hope is there for any with a king like that?”

“Don’t you worry, lass, the king is not gone,” he said leaning toward her in the saddle. “And we intend to make the Kanosee pay.”

He sat upright and signaled to the troops, then prompted his horse on, determination furrowing his brow. He wanted to coax the horse to a gallop, to meet the enemy more quickly, but doing so would leave the foot soldiers behind and give the enemy the advantage.

Sienhin gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, set his jaw, and pressed on toward the waiting battle.

“Where is everyone?” Graymon asked.

Tugg and Mandich had been wrong about how far the camp was—it took them nine days to arrive at the salt flats, not the week the soldiers had estimated. They’d crossed the brief grassland separating forest from flatland with as much stealth as possible with a six year old involved, wary of patrols and sentries, but they saw no one. They crept up on the camp and found only long dead cook fires and the detritus of a camp deserted by its army.

“I don’t know, Graymon. Moved on to overthrow the rest of the kingdom, I suppose.”

They picked their way through the empty camp, passing over ground beaten flat and hard by the trample of thousands of feet, saw bones tossed aside and latrines left unfilled. Here and there, they found discarded bodies, all of them stripped of their clothes and belongings; Khirro couldn’t tell if they were Erechanian or Kanosee.

In death, when we have nothing, we are all the same.

Graymon held Khirro’s hand as they crossed the salt flats toward the Isthmus Fortress. The feel of the boy’s hand in his squeezed his heart, and he thought of all the horrible experiences he’d had around children in the past months: being forced to leave a pregnant Emeline; the dead children that made up the walls in the deserted village; the mud baby in his dream. The thoughts made him stop and turn to the boy.

I’m bad luck for children.

“Graymon.” He kneeled to look into the boy’s eyes. “If we can get into the fortress, we will find a safe hiding place for you.”

The boy’s eyes widened and he shook his head vehemently. “No. I want to stay with you.”

Khirro touched his hand against Graymon’s cheek; the boy leaned his head into his palm, tears threatening in his eyes. His lip quivered.

“It won’t be safe with me.”
It’s not safe with me.
“There will be fighting. And the monsters.”

“Oh.” Graymon shivered at the mention of the undead soldiers, but said no more.

Khirro looked at him a moment longer, wondered if there was something else he should say. But what to say to a boy who’d been taken from his father and put through all that Graymon had? How do words make that better?

They don’t. Actions do.

Khirro stood and took the boy’s hand again, leading him on through the camp toward the fortress wall looming before them. If Athryn was with them, he would already have considered how to enter the fortress, but he wasn’t. They still didn’t know what had happened to the magician, and Khirro purposely kept his mind from thoughts of his lost friend—he  had Graymon to worry about before he could allow himself concern or grief. His first priority was getting them into the fortress, his second: finding safety for the boy. All else would come after that.

As they stole from cover to cover across the flats, Khirro thought about the beginning of his journey and how they’d escaped the fortress to the plains through a secret passage. Might there also be a secret passage onto the salt flats? If there was, it would surely be well hidden and impossible to open from without.

Thoughts of secret passages and worries about how they’d enter disappeared as they came closer and Khirro saw the gates standing open. They crouched, hidden behind a pile of discarded armor that smelled of old leather, oil, and stale sweat. As they watched and waited, Khirro scanned the pile for anything he might employ: leather chest pieces with ugly slash marks, mail with too many broken rings to mend, a few broken swords, shields with broken straps and helms dented beyond repair—useless, all of it.

Khirro turned his eyes to the top of the wall, searching for sentries, but saw not so much as a glint of sunlight on steel. Graymon fidgeted beside him as Khirro moved his gaze to the gate and found similar results there. It seemed too easy.

They’re not expecting anything. They think their own country lies at their backs.

Other than straight through the gates like an invited guest, he saw no way in. After another look across the top of the wall and a survey of the deserted camp around them, he turned to the boy. Graymon had built a pyramid out of small stones to pass the time.

“We’re going to go now, Graymon. Keep low and stay close. We’ll be moving quickly, so watch your step.” He breathed deep through his nose and waited for the boy to nod his understanding. “If there’s any trouble, get behind me or find a place to hide.”

Graymon looked at him without responding.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Khirro drew his short sword and considered taking one of the shields from the pile, but dismissed the thought in favor of taking Graymon by the hand. The boy stood abruptly and his foot knocked over the rock pyramid as they hurried away from the pile of discarded paraphernalia at a crouch.

No arrows flew from the parapet, no alarm sounded, no call challenged their approach. With each step, nerves and foreboding grew in Khirro’s belly with the feeling things weren’t quite right. It took an effort to keep from squeezing Graymon’s hand too tight.

Dead men wear armor and swing swords. Athryn is gone, maybe dead. The spirit of the king lives inside me in the form of a flaming tyger. Nothing is right.

Not wanting to add to the boy’s fear, Khirro suppressed a shiver, gritted his teeth, and led Graymon through the gate and into the massive fortress, straight toward whatever danger lay beyond.

***

Emeline opened her eyes slowly to see sunlight shining through the doorway—she’d  slept longer than she’d expected she could. She lay listening to the silence of the fortress; it had been that way in the time since the battle.

How long has it been?

Since Lehgan gave his life to ensure her safety, time seemed to matter far less than ever before in her life. Several days had passed since the fight, and more than that since she lost her husband. The growling protest of her empty stomach suggested at least that long, and probably more.

She hadn’t been out of their hiding place since before she heard the sound of steel on steel, the shouts of soldiers fighting and dying, since before the smell of blood and death filled the air. The pile of straw that once was their mattress provided cover and somehow, by the grace of the Gods, no one entered the broken down hut.

Somehow, she and Iana survived.

But now her milk was dry, and Iana was hungry and near impossible to quiet. If anyone remained in the fortress to discover them, they’d have no trouble finding them now. And if she didn’t get food soon, the fear of discovery would be the least of their concerns.

She didn’t know if anyone else remained alive in the fortress. She’d heard no sounds other than those made by the baby and her own desperate hiss trying to quiet her. No more fighting, no footsteps, no shouts, no whispers.

For the first few days after the Kanosee army left, when they were forced into hiding before the fighting began, the man who gave her his place at the front of the crowd the day Lehgan died had brought her food, but then he stopped coming and she worried for what might have happened to him. She cried a lot in those first days, grieving her dead husband, killed protecting her, proving his bravery to her.

Iana!

Emeline sat upright suddenly, panic gripping her as she realized the silence was complete: no crying , no mewling, no soft breathing of a baby asleep. She looked first to one side, then the other, frantically searching for the bundled blanket that held her daughter.

Iana was gone.

Emeline stood and scanned the room, then dug through the pile of straw, throwing it over her shoulder and scattering it across the floor. Nothing.

“Where can she be?” she said aloud, the sound of her own voice startling her.

She peeked her head cautiously out the door, looking first one way up the avenue, then the other. Nothing.

“Hello? Who’s there?” she called; the panicked words echoed amongst the broken down buildings. “Who has my baby?”

Emeline went to the right out the doorway, away from the exposure of the courtyard, her bare feet leaving melted prints on cobblestones rimed with frost. She’d gone fifteen paces when she stopped, suddenly feeling as though she’d gone the wrong direction.