Heart of the King (31 page)

He knew what he needed to do.

The king gritted his teeth and moved forward as the undead throng rushed from around the Archon. The wall of mist and snow descended on them, enveloping them all.

***

When the mist rolled forward, enshrouding the magician and the king, Emeline pulled Graymon close. Iana, hugged tight against her chest, cried and protested; Graymon stared wide-eyed as his father disappeared in the fog.

The white mist moved inexorably forward, devouring the dead and the living, the earth and the sky with its advance. The day dimmed before it, the quake of magic shaking the ground quieted beneath it.

A wisp of mist touched Emeline’s face, its tendril cold against her cheek like the caress of a bony finger. She flinched away. It touched her again, this time on the head, a hand smoothing her hair. She felt Graymon tense in her grasp—he  felt it, too, the way the icy fingers of fog acted in the manner of a living thing.

“Close your eyes,” Emeline said to Graymon as she did the same and put her hand over Iana’s. “Hold your breath.”

She felt the mist envelop them, its cold touch coddling them. With it came silence. She heard only the beat of her own heart in her ears, the pulse of the blood in her veins. Iana made no more sound, Graymon was silent, the clash and clang of battle ceased. Fearful the mist might be poisonous, Emeline clung desperately to the breath in her chest until her lungs burned and she could hold it no more. In the deathly quiet, air whooshed as it escaped her lungs, then whistled as it entered her mouth and found its way into her chest.

Then she was floating.

The swirl of snow and mist lifted her, held her aloft like a cork floating on a lake, bobbing gently but neither rising to the sky nor sinking beneath the surface. Her arms dangled loose at her sides. At first, she felt the pressure of Iana and Graymon against her, but that lifted, too, as the mist cradled them. In the back of her mind, she knew she should be concerned they were no longer with her, but she couldn’t bring herself to pay attention to the tiny voice of warning.

The mist will take care of them.

And she felt assured it would.

She floated for a time she couldn’t fathom, the air around her rejuvenating and refreshing her until the return of sound took it from her.

It began a far off rumble, in the manner of a thunder storm rolling in from the sea, but it grew from a rumble to a growl, then a growl to a roar that filled her ears, crowded her head and pulsed behind her eyes.

Emeline’s eyes snapped open to find herself lying on the ground. The rumble-roar shook the ground, rattled her teeth; the mist swept up and up, a twisting whirlpool in the air that collected and concentrated before it disappeared.

It stole her breath and, with it, the scream of despair when she realized the children were gone.

***

The muddy ground squelched under Athryn’s knees and his lips moved to call forth words to prime his magic and harness the power within him. His hand fell to his chest and his finger traced the tattoos etched across it, frantically and fruitlessly scanning them before moving to the ones on his arms. He found no spell that would help against Sheyndust’s awful power.

There is but one thing to do.

He watched Therrador engage the troop of undead soldiers until the mist descended over everything, smudging the king and his adversaries first to a blur, then hiding them completely. Athryn breathed deep and closed his eyes, readying himself, but the distance between himself and Khirro and Graymon was great, the difficulty of the transfer extreme. The yards of flattened grass, corpses, undead monsters and living soldiers that separated them diminished the chances of success. King Braymon might end up anywhere, or nowhere.

I have to try. It is our last chance.

His finger found the proper incantation inscribed on his abdomen again and the words began, bringing with them the power he’d felt before, returning it as strong as before Therrador’s touch interrupted him. The energy pulsed through his veins, taking the place of his blood; it gathered in his limbs, replacing his muscles; it reverberated in his head, supplanting his thoughts. His finger followed the cursive letters, his lips continued to chant, but his world became the power filling him, threatening to spill out of him.

“Athryn.”

The word sounded crisp and clear through the thrum of power in his ears, like a church bell struck on the dawn of a snow-frozen winter day. The magician opened his eyes.

At first, the white fog filled his vision. Athryn wondered if it was the mist he’d seen descend over Therrador and the Kanosee soldiers, or the same whiteness that took him when he lay dying in the forest, his throat opened by a Kanosee dagger. His eyes flicked side to side and found nothing to see. No more words were spoken, nor did he hear the chant intoned by his own mouth, though his lips still moved.

Two figures stepped out of the fog to stand in front of him. Athryn nodded.

“Darestat. Elyea.” He licked his lips. “So I am dead, then.”

Neither spoke, not out loud, but he heard Elyea’s voice in his head.

Thank you.

He parted his lips to ask what she meant, or to beg for a few more moments to complete his spell and do all in his power to save the kingdom, but the Necromancer took a step. The old man moved like liquid, flowing toward him rather than walking. Athryn stood to meet him, grudgingly ready for the journey to his final destination.

Darestat paused a pace away from Athryn and their gazes met. The magician breathed deeply through his nose, bracing for whatever it meant to be taken to the fields of the dead, but the Necromancer’s figure wavered like heat rising over distant fields on a scorching summer day, and the old man stepped forward,
into
him.

Athryn’s body stiffened. He felt Darestat in him, as though the magician was merely a shirt and breeches the Necromancer put on. The power coursing through him combined with the feel of the man within him bulged Athryn’s skin and flexed his bones. His body jerked, his gut twisted with cramps. He bent over and retched.

An instant later, the power took over, soothing him, invigorating him. He straightened and stared straight ahead; Elyea was gone, but he saw figures moving within the mist. Swords flashed, blood flowed. In the middle of them, he picked out Therrador, his blade a blur of movement as he cut down undead after undead, made living soldiers into dead ones. Beyond him, Sheyndust swung her staff, its green light a sickly halo about her head. She smiled and laughed.

Athryn raised the Mourning Sword and took a step; the earth trembled beneath his boot. He set his jaw, lowered his head, and charged into the fray, each step of his advance shaking the ground.

The Archon looked up and her smile disappeared.

***

The earth rumbled beneath Khirro and he struggled his eyes open, the action of fluttering his eyelids made difficult by tacky blood and crusted mud. His fingers were numb, his face cold; the ache in his body suffused his bones.

He drew a breath through his nose and smelled the dirt his face lay upon, the blood leaking from him, and another acrid odor he’d come to recognize: the bitter scent of magic tainting the air.

He blinked twice to focus his eyes and saw the man standing over him. The gleam of his shaven head rivaled the sheen of his silver armor, the chest plate decorated shoulder to shoulder with green enameled ivy—the  armor Khirro had removed the day he carried him to the Shaman. King Braymon put his hands on his hips and regarded Khirro.

“M...my king?”

“It seems we find ourselves in a familiar place.” The deep and gentle tone of his voice eased the pain creeping through Khirro’s gut and into his extremities.

“I’m always lying on the ground and in grave danger,” Khirro said and laughed. The laugh became a cough that tasted of blood.

Braymon kneeled beside him, pulled a shining lobstered gauntlet from his hand and touched Khirro’s cheek with his bare flesh.

“You have done well, Khirro. Only the brave souls who dare find themselves in grave danger. Those who do nothing, risk nothing, die in their beds without glory. They will tell stories of brave Khirro until the end of time, they will name you in songs and pray their children grow up to be like you.”

Khirro forced a pained smile to his lips. “I am but a farmer, my king.”

“No, my friend. You are a hero. May the next world give you all you deserve.”

Khirro swallowed the coppery taste of blood around a lump in his throat as Braymon stood and replaced his gauntlet. The king looked at him for an instant, nodded, then stepped over him. Khirro attempted to turn his head, but his body no longer possessed the energy to do so, his last ounce sapped by loss of blood and the effort of consciousness. He exhaled through his open mouth and the air stirred tiny waves in the bloody mud.

A growl rumbled behind Khirro and he drew one more breath he hadn’t planned on taking and held it.

The tyger leaped over him, the impact of its paws shaking the ground beneath him before it galloped into the mist, flames trailing behind it. Khirro’s lips twitched, searching for a triumphant smile, but found himself unable to locate one.

His breath escaped his lungs and his eyes slid shut.

***

The enemies kept coming at him, as if the damnable mist spawned them from the falling snow.

Therrador felt blood drying on his face, saw offal on the fingers of his gauntlet and hardening on his chest plate. He gutted one with the sword in his left hand and jammed his boot into the gut of another, removing its head as it stumbled back. Even the bandage wrapped around his thumbless hand dripped blood like a washcloth left without being wrung out.

Another undead lurched toward him out of the mist, then a second and a third. Therrador didn’t have time to catch his breath or wipe the sweat from his forehead. Steel clanged against steel, the sound battering his ears until he thought they’d bleed—the  only sound he’d heard since the mist fell over them, until the footsteps.

The ground rumbled with each of them and the snow-laced mist swirled and moved, opening in spots like a curtain drawn aside until it began to lift. Therrador saw the score of undead soldiers awaiting their turn at him, and beyond them the woman, her blond hair wind-whipped, her pale flesh gleaming with sweat as she swung the staff, animating more of the dead to try to take his life. She smiled and laughed, enjoying the carnage she created. Something caught her attention; her movements ceased and her smile slipped away.

Therrador felled one soldier with his sword, then deflected the second’s attack and shattered its jaw with his fist. It faltered and he removed its head. The third dead man hesitated, its eyes on that which had claimed the witch’s attention. Therrador glanced over his shoulder at the source of their distraction.

The scrollwork tattoos etched across Athryn’s chest and arms glowed with the same unearthly red light as the runes along the Mourning Sword’s black blade, making both weapon and man look as though they’d been extracted from a blacksmith’s forge. The magician’s steps rumbled through the ground and the mist collected above him, twisting and moving in a tornado of white vapor and cold snow that tossed his shoulder length blond hair in a cloud around his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Therrador saw the Archon take a step toward Athryn.

She lifted the staff, pointed it at the magician, and all the undead across the battlefield amended their courses toward him. Therrador sprang to action, hacking and slashing those close to him, but the few he put down reduced their numbers by too few to matter.

The throng converged on Athryn and the king’s eyes fell upon the staff in Sheyndust’s hands.

The staff is the key.

His face set with determination, Therrador abandoned the fight and bolted across beaten grass toward a horse that looked relatively unscathed. Blood spattered its barding and its rider hung limp in the saddle, held there by a boot caught in stirrups. A thought of Sir Alton flashed through the king’s mind, but he banished it as he yanked the dead man unceremoniously out of the saddle and jumped onto the horse.

The steed snorted and pranced, but Therrador quickly controlled it, reined the horse around in time to see Athryn fell a half dozen undead soldiers with one swing of the Mourning Sword. The king waited to see no more; he put his heels sharply to the horse’s flanks and steered the animal directly at the Archon.

Sheyndust whirled the staff’s eldritch light around her head and more fallen soldiers climbed to their feet to join their fellows fighting the magician. Overhead, the twisted column of mist and snow climbed higher and higher, sucking clouds from the sky to add to its girth as below it, Athryn put down the risen enemy five or more at a time. Therrador risked a look at his companion and saw sparks jump from the blade of the Mourning Sword with each deadly swing.

The king leaned forward in the saddle, urging his steed faster. Its hooves beat the ground, the sound thunderous in Therrador’s ears, but her fight with Athryn consumed the witch and she didn’t notice until the last second.

Therrador leaped off the horse and struck her with the force of his armored weight and the horse’s momentum, throwing them both to the ground. The king hit the ground with his right arm under him and heard it snap more than felt it, the adrenaline of battle at too high a level for the pain to immediately register. They rolled over and over. The sword flew from Therrador’s hand and he clutched at her, struggled to grasp her with his right hand, but the break in his arm prevented its use.

Over and over they rolled, his injured arm banging against the earth, mud splashing in his face, until they finally came to a stop—Therrador  on his back and the witch straddling his waist. A flash of lust quivered his mind at the thought of her nakedness atop him, her genitals so close to his, but the thought fled when she grasped his wrists and slammed them to the ground beside his head, bringing the pain in his arm to sharp focus.

Therrador grimaced as the broken bone grated and pushed against his flesh. Agony brought a haze to his thoughts, but through it, he realized what the hold the witch had on his wrists meant.