Bruce Blake

Spirit of the King

Chapter One

I saw verdant fields stretching horizon to horizon, endless as far as vision reached. A tender breeze pushed waves across flowers of red and blue and yellow and more. No clouds crowded the bright, sunless sky and the lone sound of delicate birdsong was the only thing disturbing the silent calm.

Paradise.

But it’s all gone now, replaced by darkness. No song of birds. No flowery perfume. No indescribable colors. No sky. I can’t tell if I’m awake and blind, asleep and dreaming, or dead yet somehow aware. My arms and legs feel nothing, as though they may not even exist. My mouth makes no sounds, if I have a mouth. I do not breathe. There are only these words in my head and the longing to return to that infinite field.

The blackness is complete. It surrounds me and fills me, holds me fast, floating in nothing, like a leaf fallen on a lake and frozen in place by a winter wind. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what I am.

I don’t know who I am.

All I remember is lush grass, azure sky, the fragrance of blossoms. Nothing before that perfect place, and after it is only this nothing. I feel there’s more, though, important things I didn’t want to forget. People, places, events-the things that make a life. They’re all gone. If I have eyes, I close them, concentrating my thoughts to discover what more there might have been. But are they my thoughts?

I float in the blackness for a second or an eternity; they’re the same to me. Nothing changes. Eyes open or closed, alive or dead, awake or asleep, the dark-my only companion-refusing to answer my questions.

After some time, or perhaps no time at all, the shadow lightens. The change is almost imperceptible at first; a lighter black, if that’s possible, until my world slowly becomes gray. I try to blink the eyes I don’t have, move the arms I don’t know exist; still, nothing happens. I am only my thoughts floating in a lighter colored nothing.

My surroundings go from iron gray to silver, and finally white, but this is not the white of noonday sun on the sail of a ship. It is snow too long on the ground, a dress washed too many times. There is nothing bright to this white. It is flat and dead, without color or warmth. It is more nothing. If I could sigh, I would use the breath to release my frustration. What did I do to deserve having the glorious world of green and blue, of flowers and grass and sky, taken from me? Could there be worse punishment than being ripped from that and banished to this?

Black spots appear before me, around me. I reach out to them without reaching out. I don’t know what it is, but it is finally something. The first something in…how long? The spots swirl and spin like birds wheeling across a distant blank sky, or perhaps they collect like a cloud of black flies waiting to feed. Either is welcome relief. They make me feel like I have eyes again, like I can see. If I do, I have not the lids to allow me to blink.

The spots collide, whirlpooling against the white background and sticking to each other to make larger patches of black. More bits of dark nothing are absorbed by the bigger pieces, expanding it, spreading. My fascination turns to apprehension as the bigger patches of black carry with them a feeling of dread.

The last few pieces come together in unspectacular fashion leaving a single patch of black before me. It ebbs and flows, a blackened glob that might be tiny as a flea or bigger than the world, for I have no frame of comparison to know which it is or where in between it may fall. Its agitation slows and a shape forms.

At first I don’t recognize it; I don’t remember shapes, only the field and the heavens. When it’s done, it dawns on me what it is: the shape of a person clad in black cloak and cowl. Or perhaps a cloak shaped like a person. It lifts an arm toward me and the sleeve falls away to reveal a white hand, though not so white as my world. I gasp if I can gasp and feel something I recognize as hope.

There is color at the end of the fingers.

I cannot name the colors, but they are such contrast to where I have been. A tear spills from my eye leaving a trail down my cheek. It touches my lip, my tongue, and I taste the saltiness of my joy. This brings more tears.

I am again.

The figure floats closer as I smile and cry and laugh without sound. Maybe this thing, this person, was sent to take me back to my perfect expanse, or to whatever came before. I reach toward it, wanting to touch the cloth of its cloak, wanting to feel something, but I am still without arms, without body, despite the feel of the tear on my cheek, the taste of it on my tongue.

The black apparition comes closer. I search beneath its hood, my new found vision blurred by welcome tears, but see nothing. My blessed eyes find the fingertips instead, the color, and I recognize what I see. On each fingernail is painted a tiny picture of my paradise-emerald grass on one, cobalt sky on another, flowers of many colors on the rest, their petals stirred by an unfelt breeze. More tears flow, some in sadness, some happiness, the rest relief and fear. I still don’t know where or who I am, or what’s happened to me, but I’m no longer alone.

The painted fingertips touch where my shoulder would be. I feel it. The figure makes a sound.

“Shhhhh.”

It’s not the sibilance of a snake, but the sound a parent might make to calm a child. It works. I sigh a chest-full of air-I breathe-and finally feel alive. I can see, feel. It still may be a dream, but I’m glad to know I’m not blind, that I don’t feel dead, at least.

“Shhhhh.”

The final piece falls into place and I find a voice. The voice of a woman.

“Who am I?”

The figure grasps my almost-shoulder in a gesture of comfort, its grip cold. A shred of apprehension shivers through my core, but disperses quickly like mist before the wind, replaced again by hope.

“Who am I?” I ask again. “Where are we?”

The figure tightens its grip on my shoulder but doesn’t respond. I smile and cry anew.

Chapter Two

The earth trembled beneath Khirro’s feet.

Somewhere behind them, he heard the snap and pop of a tree broken in two, the thump of its trunk hitting the ground. In his mind, he could see the beast’s over-muscled shoulder striking the tree, snapping it like Khirro himself might snap a sapling; he imagined what a creature with that kind of strength could do to their bones.

Khirro leaped over a tangle of roots and brush, pushing himself to go faster; his foot landed on a rock, dangerously close to turning his ankle. He stumbled but kept his balance despite the earth’s shaking and dared a glance over his shoulder. Trees shook, leaves flew. He pushed on.

It’s gaining.

Five yards ahead, Athryn darted through the bushes with the lithe grace and ease he always had, branches plucking at his cloak as it swirled behind him. Leaves slapped Khirro’s face, roots and runners grabbed at his ankles, attempting to slow him, throw him off balance. He wished he could move like the magician.

“Hurry,” Athryn called over his shoulder. “The beach.”

In his panic to escape their pursuer, Khirro hadn’t noticed the brackish smell of salt water on the breeze; his companion’s words filled him with both relief and apprehension. Being free of the forest’s impediments would be good, but could they hope to outrun a giant, even without fallen trees, stumps and stones to slow them? With the Small Sea before them, would there be anywhere else to run, or would they be trapped between the beast and the briny deep?

Athryn leaped through a bush and disappeared from Khirro’s view. With no way to tell what lay beyond-life or death, escape or capture-Khirro’s heart jumped into his throat, blocking the breath that already struggled to enter his sore lungs. The smell of the sea ahead and the sound of the giant behind urged him on, and he plunged through the foliage. Thorns tore his clothes and scratched his face. His feet tangled and he spilled headlong through the other side of the bushes, losing his feet from under him.

Warm sand touched his cheek. With no branches slapping his armor or leaves brushing his ears, he heard the waves rolling onto the beach. Somehow, Athryn had known where they were, though Khirro had felt lost since the day they left the Necromancer’s keep.

Athryn grabbed Khirro under his arm and pulled him up. The sand under their feet muted the rumble of the giant’s massive strides behind them, but it was still there, getting closer. They rushed toward the water.

Shells and sun-dried seaweed crunched under Khirro’s boot as he navigated around driftwood strewn across the wide swath of beach stretching to the Small Sea. Sand shimmered wetly under the bright midday sun; a cool wind gusted off the water, rustling the sail of the boat lying on its side a few yards from the water’s edge.

“A boat,” Khirro yelled, pointing.

“Our boat.”

Khirro squinted at the vessel and saw his companion was right. He recognized the markings on its side, identifying it as the same craft that brought them to the haunted land, the one Elyea paid for in a way only a woman could. Khirro’s lips squeezed to a thin line at the thought of her and how much she’d sacrificed.

“We won’t have time to get it into the water,” he said, pulling his mind from his loss.

“We will do what we can with the time we have.”

As they reached the stranded boat, a tree crashed to the ground behind them. They spun and saw the beast come through the brush, giving them their first clear view of the giant since stumbling into his path.

He was taller and broader than the others of his kind they’d encountered, his flat face looming fifteen feet above the ground. What little skin showed through the thick black hair carpeting his barrel chest was burned brown by the sun; his matted beard hung to his filth-filled navel. Blood seeped from a dozen cuts and scrapes scattered across his trunk and arms, likely inflicted by tree branches big enough to knock a normal man out, but his rage seemed to keep him from noticing them. He opened a mouth full of yellowed teeth and roared, a belching sound that sent birds fleeing from nearby trees; the beast brandished a club bigger than an average man.

Khirro stared. They’d come upon the creature foraging for food a half hour before and quickly decided not to risk confronting it, but the thing caught their scent and took up the chase. They hadn’t counted on him deciding to forage for humans instead of berries.

“You will have to distract it while I free the boat,” Athryn said slipping his cloak off his shoulders.

Khirro looked at the white cloth mask covering the magician’s face, at the smears of dirt angling across the cheek and nose, and almost laughed. Why Athryn chose to wear the mask now, after the Necromancer healed his scars, Khirro didn’t know, but even with the cloth hiding his expression, he saw the seriousness in the magician’s eyes. Khirro breathed deep, still recovering from the run.

“All right, but keep an eye on me.”

Khirro pulled his shield off his back, its edges charred by dragonfire, and drew the Mourning Sword. After another breath, he stalked across the sand toward the giant.

What am I doing?

The giant roared again-a challenge, a taunt to dissuade him-and even from a distance, Khirro smelled the beast’s foul breath. He gritted his teeth and kept moving. Over the past months, he’d helped slay one giant, faced a dragon, and killed a water serpent; certainly he could hold this fellow off while Athryn launched the boat.

A year ago, I was a farmer. I didn’t even own a sword.

The giant stooped and used one hand to pick up a boulder two men couldn't have lifted. Khirro stopped, waiting to see what the beast would do. It hefted the rock to shoulder height, cocked its arm and bent at the knees. Lips pulled back in a twisted, effort-filled sneer, the creature heaved the stone.

Khirro watched in awe for a second as the stone hurtled toward him, reminding him of the ball of hellfire that had taken his friend Jowyn’s life. At the last instant, Khirro forced his legs into action and jumped to his left. The stone landed close enough he felt the thump of it hitting the ground through the soles of his feet; the impact sent a spray of sand against his leg.

He looked at the stone for a moment, marveling at its size as he let a shuddering breath free of his lungs. The ground trembled again, again, and Khirro jerked his gaze away from the stone, thinking the giant was tossing more projectiles his way, but found the beast had intended only to distract him.

The huge creature was only ten yards away, rushing toward him, brandishing the huge club in both hands.

Khirro lurched away from the giant’s weapon as it arced down toward him. The tree trunk-sized club thumped into the sand, leaving behind a hole big enough to trip a horse; the beast lifted it again and aimed a blow at his head. Khirro dove right, the gust of air created by the club’s passing touching his cheek.

Khirro swung the Mourning Sword but the giant’s arms were too long and the blade missed by more than a foot. The sharp teeth of doubt bit hard at the back of Khirro’s mind; the club whistling through the air nearly knocked it free, along with his head. Khirro rolled across the sand, righted himself and darted inside the arc of the giant’s club, Mourning Sword cocked to strike, but the creature’s fingers grasped for his tunic and he abandoned the attack to keep out of its grip.

He’s too big. Too fast.

The beast smiled crookedly and laughed, a sound more threatening and danger-filled than its angry roar.

He’s toying with me.

Khirro thought about how he’d become the flame tyger when he fought Ghaul in the Necromancer’s keep, using the fiery claws to defeat his one time friend. Could he do it again? He thought about fire, pictured flames melding into the shape of the tyger.

Nothing happened.

The giant kicked a sheet of sand at his face; Khirro averted his eyes and dove aside, concentration broken by the club thumping the sand where he’d just stood.

“I need help here, Athryn!”

The magician answered, but Khirro didn’t hear his words as the wooden club scraped across his breast piece. He ducked and dodged. Sweat ran down his face as he searched for an opening to get to the beast without forfeiting his life in the process. The Mourning Sword cut the air with no more success than the first time, but the giant hesitated, giving Khirro a second’s respite from attack. He struck a third time, blade glancing ineffectively off the giant’s weapon, but it gave him a moment’s satisfaction for his steel having touched something.

The giant roared its ear-splitting war belch and renewed its attack, spinning Khirro about and forcing him back toward the edge of the forest. Beyond the creature and its swirling club, he glimpsed Athryn stripped to the waist, gesturing and chanting before the giant’s massive body blocked his view.

“Athryn!”

Another barely-avoided blow sent Khirro to the sand. He held the Mourning Sword up knowing he wouldn’t be able to deflect a blow, and that one direct hit would be enough to end the fight, likely his life. The giant was too strong. What a fool he’d been to think he could hold off the beast on his own.

Why isn’t Athryn helping?

The giant loomed beyond his sword’s reach, a string of saliva hanging from its lips like a dog left unfed for weeks. Khirro tensed, hoping to somehow survive the attack, but instead of raining another blow down on him, the giant stopped, listened.

Foreign words floated to Khirro on the sea breeze, words he didn’t recognize but he knew meant Athryn was casting a spell. The giant also seemed to realize what the words were for.

Khirro scrambled to stand, feet slipping in the loose sand, but the creature pushed him back with the tip of his club, knocking breath from his lungs in the process and leaving him no choice but to watch the giant set his club aside and pick up a boulder bigger than the first. It hoisted the stone above its head, bending its elbows like a living catapult.

“No,” Khirro wheezed. “Athryn.”

After all that had happened during their journey, and despite being a soldier in the King’s Army, Khirro still didn’t considered himself a warrior or think he possessed a killer’s instinct, but he realized this might be his last chance to prove to himself he could be.

As the giant heaved the boulder, Khirro leaped up, lungs desperate for air. The Mourning Sword glowed red in anticipation of the blood to come, the radiance brightening as Khirro sank the blade’s tip into the beast’s lower back. The giant howled and jerked away, sending Khirro tumbling back, but not before he’d embedded the sword to its hilt, skewering kidney and lung and heart.

Khirro dug his hands into the sand and pulled himself out of the thrashing beast’s path. The giant stumbled, reaching around in an attempt to grasp the sword’s hilt, its fingers brushing it without finding a hold. It spun a circle like a dog chasing its tail, but the damage proved too much, and the beast dropped to his knees. The ground shuddered under its weight when it pitched forward, face first into the sand, a trickle of blood seeping from the wound in its back.

So little blood.

Khirro watched the blood flow down the giant’s side for only a second before remembering his companion. He spun toward the beach, laboring for air and half-expecting to see the magician crushed beneath the boulder, his hopes of returning to the kingdom with the king’s blood flowing in his veins dead along with his companion.

Athryn knelt in the sand near the boat, dagger in hand, head hung. The black lines of his tattoos swept across his back, over his shoulders and down his arms, the letters foreign and unfamiliar, words to cast spells inscribed in his flesh by his brother, Maes, when he was no longer able to speak them himself. Khirro approached slowly, his breath returning in ragged gasps, relief that his companion appeared unhurt swirling with anger as he wondered why the magician hadn’t aided him.

“Are you all right?” Khirro asked closing the distance between them; he saw three fresh cuts on Athryn’s forearm oozing blood. The magician looked up, face bare, his cloth mask lying on the sand beside him. He looked so different with his face free of scars. “Are you hurt?”

Athryn shook his head and the despair and disappointment noticeable on his face told Khirro enough about what happened to force the anger out of him.

“I could not do it.” Athryn spoke quietly, his voice strained. “I do not know how to make my magic.”

Khirro kneeled beside him and noticed a dozen more cuts on the magician’s arms and torso, many of them camouflaged in the curved lines of the black letter tattoos. Khirro shook his head, guilt poking his gut for the anger he’d felt at Athryn. The magician had tried to do what he knew how to do and failed. He picked the mask out of the sand, turned it in his fingers.

How many times have I failed when I should have helped?

“I couldn’t, either,” Khirro said handing the mask back to Athryn. “I tried to become the tyger, but it didn’t work.”

“But what am I without magic?”

Khirro shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. We have other problems to consider.”

He gestured toward the boat. The giant’s second boulder had struck the vessel’s hull, splintering it into hundreds of pieces and dashing any hope of returning across the Small Sea.

“At least we’re both alive,” he said.

Athryn nodded. “But with no way home.”

“Get dressed. Better to use sunlight for travel than sentiment,” Khirro said slapping the magician on the shoulder as he rose.

Athryn stood and shook sand from his shirt; Khirro went to the giant lying motionless at the forest’s edge, approaching cautiously. He looked down into the giant’s glassy, sightless eyes. The beast didn’t move when he prodded its ribs with his toe. Satisfied, Khirro grasped the hilt of the Mourning Sword and pulled the blade from the giant’s back. A gout of blood followed it out, the powdery sand absorbing it like a starving animal. The sword glowed and pulsed as the blood clinging to its steel disappeared, sucked into the runes twisted along its length before the blade returned to its normal black highlighted by red scrollwork.

“This is not the first time this sand has tasted blood.”

Athryn’s words startled Khirro. He spun to look at the magician.

“This is the same place the one-eyed man attacked us. The same place my brother opened his veins so I might live.”

Khirro glanced at the area and saw Athryn was right. To his left stood the copse of trees where they’d laid Maes’s body while Athryn recovered. Down the beach to the south, they would find the charred remains of the pyre where they sent the little man’s soul back to the Gods if they chose to look for them. Three times now, blood was spilled on this spot. He couldn’t help but think the fact held some significance. He stepped away from the giant’s corpse.

“You’re right,” he said, a chill creeping up his spine. “Let’s get out of here.”

They surveyed the damage to the boat and found no hope of repairing it. Neither of them knew enough about making a boat seaworthy for it to be safe, and it would take too much time.

If only Athryn had his magic.

“What should we do?” Khirro asked as they trudged north along the beach.

“We have little choice.” Athryn pulled the cloth mask into place over his face; Khirro wondered why he bothered. Did he think wearing it or not affected his magic? “There is only one place where we might acquire a boat.”

Khirro peered out at the Small Sea. Waves rolled across its surface, pushed shoreward by the autumn breeze. Across the water and to the north lay his homeland, where a war was being fought, a war the spirit Khirro carried within him could influence. But they couldn’t know how things progressed. The enemy might have been vanquished leaving Erechania standing triumphant despite the king’s death. Or the lack of a regent might have left the country disheartened, ripe for the kill.

Khirro looked away from the water and to the north, toward the one place they might find a way back in their quest to save the kingdom. They marched toward Kanos.

They marched toward the enemy.

Chapter Three

The Archon urged her horse through the open gate and raised portcullis of the Isthmus fortress. As she passed under the rusted bars, she turned in the saddle to look at the men riding behind her, her blond hair caressing the purple velvet cape draped over her shoulders. She saw the tension etched in their faces and knew it to be only partially caused by readiness as they entered an enemy’s stronghold without knowing what to expect. Her generals knew her power, but didn’t suspect its full extent or know how she’d gotten them within the enemy’s walls. Both added to their wariness and a satisfied smile crept across her face. It was best no one knew all, not yet. That would come soon enough, then the entire world would know.

Regardless of how she got them there, the generals would be happy to be behind the wall. She wanted to get the other men in, too, but needed to be patient-moving the entire Kanosee army into the fortress immediately would strain the forced truce. Shortly, though. Except the walking dead-they didn’t feel the cold wind the way the living did and would frighten the fortress residents. The time for that would come later; with the exception of the undead members of her personal guard, they’d stay outside until she needed them.

As her horse carried her away from the salt flats and through the gatehouse passage, she willed the smile from her lips. The reception awaiting the leader of the invading army would not be an occasion for smiles, at least not in the minds of those who surrendered.

She emerged from the tunnel’s shadow into the courtyard dappled with autumn sun. Over centuries, war after war, battle after battle had ended at the impenetrable fortress wall, dashed against the weathered brown stone-no Kanosee had ever set foot here in the long and turbulent history between the two countries. It had taken a woman-a woman of extraordinary powers, but a woman nonetheless-to finally lead them beyond the storied barricade. She held her head high and stifled another smile.

People lined the boulevard-mostly soldiers dressed in leather and mail standing rigid and ready, hands close to their weapons, but there were others, too. Smiths and farriers, cooks and physicians and entertainers and whores. No one cheered as four hundred hooves clicked and clattered against the cobblestone boulevard, throwing up occasional sparks from the scarred stones. Not a face wore a smile, nor a look of relief or gratitude. Frowns tugged at the corners of their mouths, expressions of worry and fear creased their features. Their apprehension didn’t surprise her.

Surrounded by a group of men clad in full plate, Therrador stood on a stone stair leading to a huge building at the far end of the avenue. She recognized the new king easily amongst the group, the red eagle enameled upon his golden plate resplendent in the sunlight; the armor of the other men paled in comparison. The others would be the generals of Erechania, supporting and protecting their king, advising him if need be, and none of them looked any less tense than the soldiers lining the route boulevard.

But the generals would have no reason to advise him, she knew. He already made his decisions based on the safety of his son held captive in her camp, and he would continue to decide whatever she wanted him to decide, as he did when he agreed to let them into the fortress.

Although orchestrating the death of King Braymon and arranging Therrador’s ascent to the throne had seemed to work as she’d foreseen, she couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t quite done. Any possibility of a smile disappeared at the thought; the man who carried the blood of the king to the Necromancer had failed in his attempt to raise Braymon, but he yet lived. As long as he did, he posed a threat to the Archon’s plans. She’d have to take care of him, but these were thoughts for another time; she pushed them from her mind and focused on the fortress’ courtyard.

Beyond the distraught Erechanians, the Archon saw patches of charred earth and wooden outbuildings lying in ruin, their ceilings and walls smashed and burned by the fireballs lobbed over the wall by her army’s catapults. Of course, any bodies had long since been cleared away, and she found herself wondering where Braymon had fallen, what they’d done with the king’s body. She’d have liked to keep his head as a trophy, but she hadn’t thought to mention it to the soldier she’d sent to kill the king.

What was his name again? Oh, yes: Ghaul. How appropriate.

She reined her horse to a halt at the base of the stair and Therrador descended, his plate clanking as he signaled his generals to stay. He stopped three steps short of the bottom, his head on the same level as the mounted Archon. His mouth dropped open, recognition showing in his eyes.

“You,” he said quiet enough only the two of them heard. “You’re the woman from the plains.”

“Oh, more than just a woman, my dear Therrador.”

“And you command an army?” he said, eyes narrowing. “The Archon is a woman? And a magician?”

“Therrador, misogyny and underestimation are two very poor attributes for a king to have.” Therrador noticeably suppressed a shudder as he realized things were measurably worse than he’d imagined. She savored him having the thought. “You may call me your grace.”

She held her hand out to the king at an angle for him to see the pictures painted on her nails: battles, slaughter, the destruction of Erechania and the death of his son. Therrador stared at the depictions, the stern look melting from his face, then took her fingers gently in his and kissed the back of her hand.

“Traitor!” A woman stepped out of the throng watching from the edge of the cobblestones, a stone in her hand. “Scarlet whore!”

The woman hurled the rock, but the Archon simply gestured with her free hand and the projectile came to a halt in mid-air, hovering for a second before tumbling to the ground. The crowd gasped. At the same time, the blade of a Kanosee dagger thrown by one of the Archon’s personal guard found the stone-thrower’s chest and she followed the stone to the ground, as lifeless as the rock. The crowd watched in stunned silence for a second before a thousand hands reached for a thousand weapons. Kanosee steel sang from their scabbards.

“Stop them or they will all die,” the Archon said to Therrador, her voice calm, knowing.

She felt power swell inside her, a feeling she relished, but it didn’t suit her purposes to slaughter all these people. The point wasn’t to simply take a fortress, but to have a country. Therrador stared at her and she saw the force of the magic building within her reflected in his eyes. He tore his gaze away and ran a few steps up the stair.

“No,” he bellowed. “Hold!”

The crowd did as he said, though their weapons remained bared. A grumble rolled through the throng, discordant dissent barely held in check.

“Put away your weapons,” Therrador said and the troubled faces in the crowd turned toward their king. “Let no one raise their hand against the Archon or her men. The people of Kanos are our friends.”

“But look what our friends have done,” a man kneeling beside the dead woman called, his voice full of tears. “They’ve killed my Lera.”

A portion of the crowd rumbled with angry agreement, but most remained silent, awaiting the king’s response. Therrador considered the man for a moment, but said nothing, as though at a loss for words. One of the king’s generals spoke in his stead.

“As she threatened to kill their leader. What would you have done if they first threatened your wife? Or your king?”

The general’s cheeks reddened as he spoke, his huge black mustache quivered with each word. The Archon knew this man to be the one called Alton Sienhin, one of Braymon’s closest and most trusted advisors.

“Put your weapons away,” Therrador said finding words again. “You only hurt the kingdom by drawing them.”

Dissatisfied mutters passed person to person, but swords returned to scabbards, daggers to sheaths, axes slung over shoulders. Therrador looked to Sir Alton and thanked him with a nod before returning his gaze to the Archon.

“I am sorry for this,” he said, though his expression suggested he wished the stone had found its mark and struck her dead. He glanced at his subjects watching him, waiting to see what he would do next. “The people will get used to having you amongst us.”

Feeling gracious, the Archon nodded and smiled. The feeling of power diminished, leaving her enervated as it always did, but she retained her composure. She leaned forward, beckoned Therrador. He moved closer.

“Your Graymon will not be punished for it,” she whispered. The color drained from the king’s cheeks. “Be sure it does not happen again, though, Therrador. I cannot promise the same next time.”

The king stood stiff for a moment, then gestured to a group of soldiers clad in red capes trimmed with gold.

“Take their horses to the stables. Show the Archon’s men to their quarters.” He smiled tightly and offered his hand; his eyes remained hard and suspicious. “Archon, I will show you to your suite myself so you can prepare. A feast awaits.”

She took his hand and dismounted. Only after her feet touched the ground did her men do the same. Pages and grooms ushered horses and men off in different directions; Therrador led the Archon up the stairs toward the group of generals. She peeked over her shoulder and noticed the crowd’s frowns remained, as did their fear and worry. She felt it, savored it.

Good. She looked back to Therrador who stared straight ahead, refusing to meet her gaze as they strode up the stairs. They will soon be mine.

Chapter Four

The river rushed past on its way to the ocean, the deep, swift water separating them from their goal. To Khirro, the far bank looked a long way away.

“It is too dangerous,” Athryn said. “We will have to find somewhere else to cross.”

Khirro breathed a relieved sigh. His last foray into water, when he’d danced with a serpent, had left him hoping he’d never be any deeper in water than his knees. They headed west along the river toward the forest looming before them, but after their latest encounter with a giant, the thought of traipsing through the forest didn’t excite him any more than swimming.

“Why do you still wear the mask, Athryn?”

They’d spoken few words as they made their way up the beach away from the ruined boat and the giant’s carcass, aware it wouldn’t be long before the smell of blood and decomposing flesh drew the attention of predators. But Khirro knew it wasn’t the prospect of carnivores that stilled his companion’s tongue. The magician’s inability to cast a spell when needed and their proximity to where his brother gave his life to revive him were enough to make any man feel impotent. Athryn’s calm and strong demeanor sometimes made it difficult to remember he was but a man, just like Khirro.

The magician shrugged. “I,” he began, then paused. “I do not know exactly. Partly habit, partly in memory of Maes.”

Khirro nodded and reached for his belt, touching the dagger which had been Elyea’s. He understood the need to have a tangible connection to a lost loved one. The thought of Elyea taking the killing blow Ghaul had meant for him-much like Maes gave his life to save Athryn-squeezed his heart whenever he allowed his mind to wander there. With effort, he wrenched his thoughts away and peered up at the tall trees as they reached the first line of ancient pines.

At first, the forest resisted entry, blocking their way with brush and brambles knotted together like a palisade built to keep them out.

Or to keep something else in.

Neither of them drew their weapons to slice through the lattice of branches; they were both acutely aware they still walked the cursed earth of Lakesh, a place where things were seldom what they seemed. Eventually, they pushed their way through, thorns grasping at their breeches, twigs tugging at their sleeves. Moving through it was akin to walking in deep water against the waves.

After a short while, the tangle parted before them, seeming to invite them deeper into the forest rather than resisting. High above in the forest canopy, birds sang and twittered, the occasional raucous cry of a raven rang out. These sounds were unheard during their trek to the Necromancer’s keep; perhaps things were different here, near the border of Kanos. Or maybe the happenings at Darestat’s keep-like the death of the Necromancer himself-allowed the animals to return, or relieved their fear of showing themselves. The bird song faded behind them and for a while they heard only the rush of water and the scrape of boots on dirt. Athryn broke the silence.

“I am sorry I could not aid you when you needed it.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it is not. A magician with no magic is useless. I may as well be a singer with no tongue, a warrior without arms.”

“I don’t think you’ve lost your power. I still feel the tyger inside me, but I don’t know how to release it. Maybe the same is true with you. Things have changed, Athryn. For both of us.”

Athryn sighed through the hole in his mask, his breath stirring the dirt-streaked white cloth.

“Maybe,” he said sounding unconvinced. “But if this is true, I must find out what to do to change it.”

Khirro kicked a rock from his path sending it skittering through the brush and into the river with a soft plop. “You’ll have to try different things until you find out.”

“Do you realize how many different ways exist to access the power?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted. “But if there’s a lot, we better get started.”

***

Khirro concentrated his thoughts and energy, focusing on the ember he prayed still glowed somewhere deep within. He hadn’t exactly lied to Athryn when he told him he felt the tyger within him, he just didn’t tell him how dim the feeling was. Maybe so dim, it was only a memory.

Eyes closed, Khirro pictured the tyger the way it appeared in his dreams, all snowy whiteness and coal black. Then he imagined how he must have looked when he became the flaming tyger in the Necromancer’s chamber. He called to mind the dragonfire swirling about him, remembered the way it felt painful yet comforting at the same time. Yellow and orange tongues of flame licked through his imagination, but when he opened his eyes, he was only Khirro with green forest around him and spongy ground soaking through the seat of his breeches. Disappointed, he sighed cool, cedar-scented air and moved to sit on a fallen tree where he might keep his backside dry.

How did I do it?

He picked absently through furry moss and pried a piece of rotted wood from the log, turned it in his fingers. This piece of wood he could easily ignite with the flint in his pouch, but how to set himself burning? In the time since he inexplicably transformed into the flaming tyger, he’d put much thought to the matter, pondered it and turned it over in his mind much the way he did the piece of wood with his fingers, but still didn’t know how or why it happened. Sometimes he found himself thinking of Shyn, who had complete control over his transformation into falcon-form, but Khirro never asked him about it, never had reason until now.

Thinking of Shyn brought a pang of sorrow and invariably invited Maes and Elyea into his thoughts. He missed his companions. They made the ultimate sacrifice so Khirro might complete his mission and he’d let them down. King Braymon remained dead, and good people were lost in the attempt. And now he wasn’t sure they’d find their way out of Lakesh, never mind back to Erechania to aid their kingdom at war.

Ultimate sacrifice. That’s the glorious way to put it. The truth is, they died because of my cowardice and incompetence.

Elyea’s face floated to mind but he pushed it aside. Instead, he thought of Ghaul and again felt regret, but of a different kind. He didn’t regret killing the soldier, even in such a horrendous manner. He’d deserved the death he received. But Khirro regretted not even suspecting the warrior’s treachery. If he hadn’t acted on blind faith in the man, Elyea and Shyn would still be alive. Maybe Maes, too.

And King Braymon would be properly raised instead of-

Instead of what?

His hand went unconsciously to the spot he’d carried the vial containing the king’s blood, but the glass lay shattered on the marble floor of the Necromancer’s chamber, the kingdom’s last hope splashed across its cold surface. He missed the comforting feel of the hard container against his chest and the warmth it spilled into him.

He’s inside me. Khirro sighed again. The king’s spirit lives in me, but what good will that do?

He rose and brushed shards of rotted tree off the seat of his breeches. Many times he’d strayed down this path, with these thoughts, and never came back with a conclusion or an answer. No reason to tread it again. Better to see how the magician fared.

Can I still call him that?

Athryn insisted on being alone to experiment with various methods of spell casting and Khirro hadn’t asked why. As much time as they’d spent together, an air of mystery he doubted he’d ever penetrate-and possibly didn’t want to-surrounded his friend. The Mourning Sword's light of truth had illuminated enough of Athryn's past to satisfy any curiosity about the man. The vision of Athryn forced to cut out his brother’s tongue kept him from wanting to know more.

The scuff of boots on dirt brought Khirro’s hand to his sword hilt. He headed toward the noise, pushing aside brush until he found the magician, stripped to the waist, crouching by a rock. His cloth mask lay on the ground, bits of dirt and decayed needles stuck to it as though it had been kicked around. Sweat streamed down Athryn’s face; rocks and twigs, leaves and roots littered the area around him. His dagger lay atop the stone. Blood from a multitude of cuts along his left arm dripped steadily from the tip of the index finger. When Khirro emerged into the clearing, Athryn looked up at him, face haggard, eyes sad. He shook his head.

“Nothing.” His shoulders sagged as though someone released the air from him. Khirro felt the same.

“Nor I.”

He picked his way through the piles of detritus to stand by Athryn. Sweat shimmered on the magician’s chest and arms, making the black letters tattooed on his skin gleam.

“I think the Necromancer might have made me become the tyger. I don’t have any control.”

Athryn shook his head again. “Darestat was already gone when you changed.”

“‘Already dead’, you mean.”

“No, that is not what I mean.” He retrieved his mask, shook dirt from it, then used it to wipe the perspiration from his brow and blood from his hand. “The Necromancer is not dead.”

“But I saw-”

“Do you not remember the tale I told you of Monos, the first Necromancer? Powerful magicians are not so easily killed.”

Khirro thought about Ghaul’s arrow piercing the Necromancer’s throat and wondered if Athryn might be fooling himself into believing Darestat still lived.

But he disappeared. There was no body.

Many strange things had happened during their time in Lakesh, and probably more to come, so he supposed he shouldn’t discount the possibility so easily. Let the magician believe what he will.

“Can you conjure him? Get his help?”

The magician shrugged and shook his head.

“And you’ve had no luck casting spells?” Khirro asked.

Athryn grunted and gestured toward the debris spread out around him. “I have tried everything I can with what I have. There are still other possibilities, but I have no gold, nor bones, potions, nor amulets. Nor many other things.”

Khirro suppressed a shudder. When Athryn’s brother Maes still lived, they used another method for summoning magic together. The little man’s torso, arms and legs had been as covered with scars as Athryn’s were scrawled with the words needed to cast the spells. How long would it be before he asked the same of Khirro? He didn’t like the idea of self-mutilation, but it could mean their lives. Given the choice between gaining a scar and living or going to the grave with unblemished skin, Khirro decided he’d rather take the scar.

“There’s one thing you haven’t tried,” Khirro said quietly. Athryn looked at him, blue eyes shining with understanding, but he said nothing. “Maes used to draw his own blood so you might cast your spells.”

Athryn nodded almost imperceptibly. “He did, Khirro, but he was my brother; we shared the power. The fact he is not here may be why I cannot cast a spell.”

“You didn’t know if herbs would work, either, yet you sacrificed these fine plants.” Khirro indicated a heap of leaves near his foot and forced a smile, but it quickly faded. “We'd better find out if it works now, not wait until another giant swings his club at my head.”

“You are right.” Athryn plucked his dagger from the rock and offered it hilt-first. Khirro shook his head and pulled Elyea’s dagger from his belt.

“What do you want me to do?”

He waited while Athryn scanned the swirling lines etched on his arms, tracing the cursive script with the tip of his finger. He stopped on a line that, to Khirro, looked no different than the others.

“What I attempt will be simple. You need not cut deeply, it should only be necessary for you to draw a few drops of blood.”

“Good,” Khirro answered thinking about the scars on his thigh and shoulder where arrows had pierced his flesh. He held the quivering tip of the dagger over his left forearm. “When do I do it?”

“Now.”

Athryn closed his eyes and chanted quietly in a foreign tongue. Khirro looked at him, still not used to his friend’s unscarred face, then took a deep breath scented with disturbed dirt and the magician’s sweat and poked the dagger against his flesh. It hurt but didn’t break the skin. Khirro withdrew the blade and tried again, this time drawing its sharp edge across his flesh.

The blade sliced through his skin. Air whistled between his clenched teeth; a trail of blood trickled around the curve of his arm. The magician opened his eyes and stared at the space between them. Khirro did, too, and saw nothing. Athryn chanted louder, trying harder. Khirro knew little of the workings of magic, but had seen first hand that the volume of the chant was unimportant when Maes healed Athryn with the mumblings of a missing tongue. He was about to say this when a shimmering in the air silenced him.

Khirro’s eyes widened as the tremulous air came together to from a ghostly shape, its appearance causing a blossom of hope in Khirro’s chest. Something flickered in the vision: a tiny version of the flaming tyger he’d become, but it didn’t advance beyond translucence before disappearing. Athryn chanted a few more seconds before falling silent. Khirro stared at the empty air, hoping it would return.

“Why did you stop?” He did his best to keep the note of disappointment from his voice. “It was working.”

“I did not stop, Khirro. That was the best I could do.” Athryn handed him the soiled mask to clean the blood off his forearm. “But it worked better than anything else.”

Khirro wiped his arm then looked up at the magician. “Did it need more blood?”

Athryn shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Let’s try again.” Khirro brandished the dagger, surprised by his willingness to cut himself, but his companion shook his head.

“No, Khirro. We must go.”

“We need to figure this out. Our lives could depend on it.”

Frustration tied knots in the muscles of Khirro’s jaw as Athryn rose from his squat and pulled his shirt on; frustration quickly became anger.

“Why don’t you want to do this?” he snapped. “Are you afraid of failing?”

“No. I think I know what I will need for my magic to work as it should.” He donned his cloak and pulled his pack over his shoulder. “Right now, we have to go.”

“But why not now?” Khirro demanded.

The magician stepped close, his lips inches from Khirro’s ear, and whispered:

“Because we are being watched.”

Chapter Five

Therrador tapped his foot; the click of his leather boot soles on stone echoed through the empty chamber. He fidgeted in his chair and leaned forward, elbows on the table, happiness and trepidation battling in his chest. Soon, the Archon would arrive, Graymon with her.

It would be good to have his boy back.

The weeks since the treacherous woman took him had been the worst of his life, worse than when he lost his beloved Seerna. He rocked back in his seat, shifted, then leaned forward on his elbows again, wondering how an agent of the Archon had reached Achtindel, entered the palace and left with Graymon unnoticed.

Someone will answer for that.

The door at the far end of the chamber swung open. Therrador settled his restless feet and sat straight. No door guard entered to announce his visitor-he’d instructed them to let the Archon in when she arrived-but it surprised him when the woman strode through the door with no soldiers of her own accompanying her. And no Graymon. Therrador stood suddenly, pushing the chair back with a scrape of wood against stone.

“Where’s my son?” he demanded.

The woman walked the length of the hall, the cape streaming behind her the same bright red as her painted nails. A jeweled choker with a stone so green it was nearly black shone against alabaster skin where her white chemise was open at the throat; her black riding pants made her look more like she was freshly returned from a hunt than come to address the king of Erechania.

“I have often wondered why your son’s name is so similar to that of your dead friend.” Her smile exposed perfect teeth. “Graymon. Braymon. Graymon. Braymon. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“My son’s name is of no concern to you,” he snapped. “Where is he? I’ve done what you asked.”

“Keep a civil tongue.” Her tone remained conversational as she stroked the smooth, lacquered wood of the table top with the tip of her index finger. The color of her fingernails changed to match the table. “It is precisely this attitude which keeps your son from you.”

Therrador clenched his teeth. “We have an agreement.”

“Yes, we do, but it is not yet a completed agreement. Some of my soldiers occupy your fortress, but that is not enough.”

“When will it be enough?” A tightness grew in Therrador’s chest. It seemed he’d made a grave mistake trusting this one.

The Archon smiled again, eyes gleaming, and the king found his thoughts turning away from anger and toward her beauty. He struggled to keep such treacherous, lecherous thoughts at bay.

“It will be enough when I say it is enough.”

She stepped forward and laid her hand on his chest. Therrador looked down and saw her fingernails were neither red nor the dark brown of the table. Instead, each nail was painted with its own picture, but they were too close for him to see. His gaze returned to her amber eyes.

“You do what I tell you and the boy will be back soon enough.”

Therrador turned away.

“And if I don’t?” he asked, his back to her. It was easier to act defiant if he didn’t have to look into those eyes, gaze upon her pale flesh.

“If you do not, then your son will not live to regret it.”

No time for thought, only action. This woman would kill Graymon if the mood struck. With reflexes honed by years of fighting and slowed only slightly by the passing of years, Therrador pulled his dagger and whirled around, slashing at the Archon.

The knife’s edge cut empty air. The Archon stood across the chamber, farther away than she could possibly have leaped. Her eyes burned.

How…?

“I see you have made your decision,” she said, her voice more stern than before. “Your son will remain with me to ensure your continued cooperation.”

“No.” Therrador saw everything now-she’d never return Graymon to him alive. She likely wouldn’t let Therrador live once she got what she wanted. “No.”

In one deft movement, he flipped the dagger in his hand and hurled it at the woman. Her hand flashed up, the loose sleeve of her shirt flapping as she plucked the knife out of the air as though someone tossed her a ball. In the same instant, she raised her other hand, palm facing Therrador, and thrust it toward him. An invisible force struck his chest, knocking him off his feet.

Therrador hit the floor hard; the impact slammed his teeth together and flashed stars before his eyes. He struggled to regain his thoughts and feet quickly, but the woman already stood over him, her long hair and cape shifting and swirling as though lifted by the hot winds of the Four Hells. It seemed a weight sat on the king’s chest, holding him from rising and defying her again. His mind whirled.

How did she do that? How does she move so quickly?

She pointed at him and he glanced at the long, brightly colored nail. This time, he saw the depiction upon it and the fight drained from him. The tiny picture showed Graymon surrounded by undead creatures glowering and grinning at him. Impossibly, the painted version of his son moved, its mouth forming a word Therrador understood.

“Help.”

“Do not defy me,” the woman said, her voice deeper and menacing. “For I am Sheyndust, bringer of death, ruler of worlds. You will beg for mercy or beg for death if it is what I want from you.”

A chill ran down Therrador’s spine; he wanted to push himself away, but the weight remained on his chest, pinning him to the cold stone floor. Sheyndust. He’d heard the name before. Sheyndust. The one the Shaman, Bale, had thought responsible for the undead soldiers fighting alongside the army of Kanos.

Her lips pulled back in a smile, but this time it held no hint of beauty.

“The world will bow before the new Necromancer.”

Chapter Six

The room is dark, but I see the shapes of furniture in the corner and along the walls. I’ve been here two days. I know this because a sun has risen and set outside my room, its light squeezing between the wall boards where the mud that once sealed the space has fallen away. I want to creep to the light, to peer through the crack, but can only lay on the bed of straw, waiting. I don’t know what I wait for, only that I wait.

This place is no comparison to the field I miss, its memory slipping from my mind like honey leaking through cheesecloth, but it is a vast improvement over the black and white nothing. The figure in the black cloak brought me here without saying why, or who I wait for.

Time passes. Sunlight disappeared from the cracks hours ago, leaving me saddened, but at least I know it will return. Morning always comes, the sun always rises. I shift on the straw bed, slowly tiring of the feel of it on my back. Why am I here? I wish the certainty of receiving an answer matched my confidence in the rising of a new sun.

This place feels familiar, like I should know it but can’t place it. I’ve been here before, a long time ago, or perhaps I dreamed of it. The memory sits at the edge of my mind, excruciatingly out of reach. I try unsuccessfully to grasp it, then finally give up.

A noise. Footsteps.

Excitement and dread coil together in my stomach sending tendrils of discomfort into my limbs and a sheen of nervous sweat to my forehead and chest. Its wetness feels good, but it doesn’t calm my twisting innards.

Has the cloaked figure come back for me?

Another footfall. Furtive. I hold my breath. It sounded closer, right outside the door. The scrape of a latch lifting, the creak of a hinge begging to be oiled. I move my eyes and watch as the door-which looks as though someone built it out of left over pieces of wood-swings inward slowly. I know it isn’t the cloaked figure entering the room, the person I have come to think of as my savior, and I’m suddenly and inexplicably afraid. This has happened before but I don’t know what it is. My gaze searches the room, seeking the crack in the wall to will myself through, out into the night, but it’s too dark to find it and I can’t move. With no other choice, I wait to see what enters my room.

The door swings open completely and a silhouette stands in the doorway. A man, I can tell, but the dimness hides his face. He looks big-not like a giant, but much bigger than me. He pauses, listening perhaps, then he steps into the room and closes the door, latching it before propping a chair under the handle.

Fear becomes panic. I want to call out, but I know it will be worse if I make a fuss-he’s told me so before. He steps toward my bed and I see him more clearly. He’s naked. My muscles tense like they know what will happen. The man speaks in a low, growly sound forming words I should understand but don’t. He kneels beside me and I see his face.

I’m his daughter, but this is not my father.

Tears roll down my cheeks. Over his shoulder, the shape of the black-cloaked figure looms. I move my mouth to ask for help and this father-not-father slaps me across the face. The figure doesn’t come to my aid as the man lays his naked body on top of mine. Perhaps the figure isn’t real, but a trick in the dimness.

I choke on the sickly-sweet odor of sweat and leather as the man’s weight presses down uncomfortably. I close my eyes, clench my jaw and pretend I’m somewhere else.

***

This new room is very different than the last. Many colored silk pillows are scattered about the room, some of them spilled over and off a comfortable-looking blue divan, most tossed here and there around the floor. Tapestries woven in purple and gold adorn three walls while a floor to ceiling sheet of polished silver dominates the fourth. I’m drawn to it; it’s my first opportunity to get a sense of who I am, if not who I was. I stand before it and see my red hair and green eyes, the ripped dress hanging off one shoulder. I’m a young girl now, though older than the girl I was in the other room that let sunlight in through the cracks in the wall. Looking at myself, I see a scratch on my cheek, a welt on my shoulder, and other pains reveal themselves as well. The one between my legs dominates.

I look around the room, suddenly scared. Is the man here?

He’s not, but a woman I hadn’t noticed stands near the door. She would be beautiful but for the scar where her nose should be. Her nostrils are black holes in her flat face, giving her a porcine look. My thoughts linger on this until I see the riding crop she taps against her thigh impatiently.

“You have defied the king. He is displeased.”

I should respond but don’t know what to say. Perhaps plead for mercy, but it doesn’t seem like something I’d do, so I don’t. The woman strides toward me. Her dress is of light blue silk inlaid with golden flowers and hugs tight to her narrow hips like a child afraid to be left alone. I step away but the mirrored wall is behind me.

“He’ll be here soon and you’ll be punished.”

She taps the crop hard against her thigh to emphasize her words, cringing slightly at the pain she causes herself. Despite the way her scarred face makes her look and the threat inherent in her words, her tone is filled with tenderness, like she speaks words she doesn’t want to say but must. We stand for a minute, she tapping the crop against her leg, me looking for a way to escape through the solid mirror. I hold my breath; her lips form a hard line beneath her ruined nose but her eyes look perched on the edge of tears.

The door swings open and a man strides into the room. The woman ceases tapping her thigh with the crop.

“Bow before your king,” she demands, tenderness gone from her voice.

I genuflect as commanded but can’t take my eyes off this king. He wears a robe of black velvet so long it drags on the floor behind. There are many colors embroidered on it-silver and gold and green and red-too many to count. But it isn’t the splendid robe which pins my gaze to the man, it’s his face. This is the same man who visited me in the other room, but this time I’m not his daughter and he’s not my father.

And yet he’s the same man.

The woman approaches, mouth pulled down in a theatrical frown making her look more like a pig. She brandishes the crop as she speaks.

“Turn around and receive your punishment.”

I do what she says because I have no other choice. Outside this room are men with swords and spears, men who’d rape me and kill me if I tried to flee. I face the mirror and my breath fogs its surface. Through the mist, I see the man. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, he wears a satisfied look on his face. Beside him stands the black-cloaked figure, but he doesn’t notice. The harbinger exists in my imagination.

The woman pulls up the hem of my dress, hiking it up to my waist to expose my bare buttocks. In the reflection, I see her raise the crop. The king smiles.

“You won’t bite me unless I ask next time, will you?” he says.

The riding crop slaps my naked flesh. The force of the blow pushes me forward to hit my head on the mirror. I cringe and squeeze my eyes tight shut but I won’t cry.

I won’t give him the satisfaction.

***

It’s not a room this time but a chamber carved of stone and lit by a strange luminescence which seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. It’s beautiful, the way the shifting light shines on the smooth white walls-blue to pink to green-but I don’t have time to appreciate it because there are people in the chamber, things are happening. I take it all in with a quick glance, but my eyes stop on the figure at my feet.

The man.

There’s a weapon in my hand. He seems unconscious.

I’m guarding him, though I don’t know why. I stare at him, hatred brewing inside me. I want to use the sword to punish him for the things he’s done to me but something keeps me from it. Against my will, I turn away from him and toward the others in the chamber. It feels as though I’m the participant in a dream with no control over my actions. I’m observing, no more.

The others in the room are engaged in some sort of ritual. A man with a scarred face and blond ponytail kneels before an old man with a long beard. The third man wears the clothes of a soldier. I should know two of them, but names and happenings are beyond me.

Like the other places, I’ve been here before.

I forget it all when a dagger plunges into my leg. Startled, I drop the sword and sink to the floor, grasping my wound. The man I’d been guarding-the man who raped me and beat me, the man who was my father and my king-steps away and pulls bow and arrow from his back. He releases two arrows. There are cries, then blackness and light. I struggle to my knees and see him looming over the man dressed like a soldier lying on the floor. The old man is gone, the scarred man doesn’t move to help.

“Help him,” I want to scream but still have no control.

The man he threatens is important to me. The dream makes me rise to my feet and lurch across the room. Blood trickles down my leg as the muscle works around the blade planted in it.

The pain is excruciating.

The man raises his sword, ready to strike, and I pounce on him, but he’s strong. He pushes me away and opens a wound in me from hip to shoulder. The soldier lying on the floor stares at me, face twisted by shock and outrage. The man who cut me leers at me before my strength leaves and I slump to the floor.

Something else happens in the chamber, but I don’t know what. My experience is of pain and blood and the realization that he’s killed me. Light fades. I attempt concentrating on the dim figures of the men to ground myself, to keep myself there, and notice the cloaked figure standing behind them, watching. Eventually the darkness wins. I hope to return to the endless field and the boundless blue sky.

But there is nothing.

***

The time it takes for the black to become white seems considerably shorter than last time. The fact it seems anything at all is a vast improvement. The black-cloaked figure already stands before me when my eyes begin to work. I stare for a while, waiting for this person to do or say something, but silence remains. I want to speak but don’t attempt it-my voice has already failed me too many times. The figure floats in the white nothing. After a time, I give in and am surprised to find I have a voice.

“Who are you?”

“One who cares about you, child.” It’s a woman’s voice.

My chest is tight; tears threaten at the memories of the things I’ve just seen, of the things done to me. I feel there’s more, that these visions were but a small part of the wrongs this man did me.

“Why am I here?”

Without moving, she is suddenly beside me, crouching. “I have shown you why you are here. You are dead.”

“You showed me?”

The cowl rocks forward and back. “Yes, child.”

I take a deep, shuddering breath and taste her perfume on my tongue. I want to be mad at her for what she showed me, but I can’t; my rage at the man in the visions is greater.

“Why did you do this to me?”

“Because you have the right to know,” she says. She caresses my cheek with the knuckle of one finger. “You have the right to know who did those things to you. He yet lives while you languish in this purgatory.”

The tightness in my chest becomes anger, boiling and festering and aching to break free. The scenes flash through my mind again, those and others. My teeth grind, my breath becomes short, forceful bursts spilling from my nostrils.

“You would like vengeance on this man, would you not?” Her voice is gentle, caring, and my anger at the man increases with the sound of it. I nod feeling the cords in my neck strain with the movement. “I can send you back to find him.”

“Yes,” I hiss through my teeth. “Yes.” My fists clench into balls in my lap.

“Good.”

The black cloaked figure stands, reaches beneath her long robe and pulls out a sword. It gleams with unseen light as she lays the blade on my shoulder. I don’t pull away from the dangerous-looking edge; I know she won’t hurt me.

She’s here to save me.

“Who is this man?”

“You are called Shariel,” she says ignoring my question. “It is not what your name was before, but you are no longer that person, that victim. Now you are strong. You are my angel of retribution.”

Somehow she has flipped the sword around without my notice and offers me the hilt. I take it in both hands and hold the sword before me like a sacred item. Steel, the fifth God-the warrior God-forced out by his brothers and sisters, all but forgotten long ages ago. This blade will help me avenge all the wrongs done me and others. The man is the embodiment of all things wicked. As my anger grows, so does my pride, for I’ve been chosen to punish him for the evil he’s brought to the world. The sword feels good in my hands. I swing it once, testing its weight, and I’m pleased.

“How will I find him? Who is he?”

“He will come to you, child,” the black-cloaked woman says, standing at my side. I replace the sword in the scabbard somehow hanging at my belt, but I don’t bother to wonder how it got there. “I will make sure of that.”

My hand touches the spot on my torso where he cut me open and spilled my life on the floor of the underground chamber. My fingers feel a ridge of scar, a reminder of what the man did to me. Anger blossoms anew.

“Who is he?”

“He is a devil incarnate,” she says, her voice unnaturally calm. “And his name is Khirro.”

Chapter Seven

The sound of the river had become a murmur, still noticeable but fading with each step carrying it farther into the distance. Khirro hacked at a tangle of brush, wishing he didn’t have to but accepting there was no other way through. He still remembered the one-eyed mercenary torn apart in a field of Lakeshi grass, and each time his sword contacted a branch or bush, he wondered if this was the time he’d meet a similar fate. Also, if they were being watched as Athryn believed, the noise of clearing a path would make them easy to follow. A droplet of sweat rolled over Khirro’s brow into his eye; he wiped it away on his sleeve.

“We should make our way back to the river,” he said over his shoulder to the magician following close behind.

“I agree it would be easier, but it is not safe.”

“Nothing is safe in this cursed land.”

Khirro swung the Mourning Sword again and the thicket fell away, opening onto a small clearing circled by tall fir and hemlock. He hesitated at the edge as Athryn stepped up beside him. Something didn’t seem right. The ground was too clear, the circle too round, like something other than the Gods created it.

“Something is peculiar,” Athryn said, putting words to Khirro’s feeling. Far behind them, leaves rattled and a branch snapped. They both glanced back then looked at each other.

“We have no choice,” Khirro said.

Athryn nodded. They stepped across the brink between forest and clearing and Khirro wished again they’d discovered the secret to Athryn’s powers. The magician claimed he knew, but he hesitated to share. Spilling Khirro’s blood had almost worked, but making the air shimmer in the shape of a tyger wasn’t enough to keep them from danger.

But what is it he won't share?

They crept into the clearing, their steps silenced by a thick carpet of decaying needles beneath their boots. No rocks lay strewn on the ground in the open expanse, no branches fallen from the trees overhead. And no sound. The trees didn’t hide chirping birds; insects didn’t buzz about their heads.

It’s autumn, almost winter. The bugs are done, the birds have gone south.

His thoughts lacked the ring of truth and did little to ease his discomfort.

“Someone created this place, Khirro,” Athryn said.

The air around them seemed to swallow his words as soon as they cleared his lips. Khirro nodded and eyed the brush growing to the edge of the clearing so thick, it gave the impression they’d entered an outdoor room bounded by leafy walls. The area was symmetrical, a perfect circle. Even the branches of the trees overhead stopped precisely at the edge of the circle, allowing the autumn sky to peer down on them like an unblinking gray eye.

“We should not stay here.”

The brush behind them rustled, confirming Athryn’s words. Khirro looked back and saw nothing, not even the shiver of a leaf. Unease made his head feel light. This was no giant following them, no animal, but something else he couldn’t begin to imagine.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Athryn hurried ahead across the clearing toward the far side and Khirro followed, the Mourning Sword in hand ready to clear the way. As they approached the wall of brush, Athryn pointed.

“Look there.”

Khirro’s gaze followed the magician’s finger and saw what he indicated: an opening in the thicket, a spot where the growth was thinner, perhaps easier to get through.

An old trail.

Athryn plunged ahead into the forest with Khirro hard on his heels. The ground was smooth and level beneath their feet, free of rocks and roots, making the going easier and faster than it had been before.

They ran without looking back for a while, hoping to put some distance between themselves and whatever pursued them, leaving behind the unnatural clearing. Khirro held the Mourning Sword in his right hand but didn’t need to use it. No branches whipped his face, no thorns plucked his clothes. For a small, seemingly unused trail that looked overgrown a moment before, it quickly became easy going. After a few minutes, Khirro checked over his shoulder to see if their pursuers were within sight but saw nothing.

Not even the trail behind them.

Fear flared in Khirro as he thought again of the field of tall grass that took the life of the one-eyed mercenary and came close to taking his, too.

The path was closing behind them, sealing them in the forest.

He looked to the front again, at Athryn running just ahead of him, but couldn’t see past. Straining and stretching as he ran, he peered around his companion and saw that the path appeared to open around them, a vague line before them widening to let them through, then closing again after they passed.

We’re being herded like animals. But where?

“Athryn, wait,” he called, already slowing his pace. There was no way for the magician to know the trail was closing behind them. “Something’s wrong.”

The magician turned his head, blond ponytail bouncing against his back, and opened his mouth to reply. Then he disappeared.

Khirro skidded to a halt at the edge of the pit, toes dangling over the lip and sending dirt cascading into darkness below. If he hadn’t slowed, he would have followed his companion into its depths.

“Athryn!”

He fell to his knees a safe distance from the edge lest the ground give way and spill him into the hole. Khirro squinted, struggling to see his friend, but couldn’t. Snarled roots held together the earthen sides that fell away into absolute blackness, deeper than he could see. A woven mat of vines and branches still hid a portion of the opening.

A trap.

“Athryn.” Khirro lay on his belly, head hung over the edge. “Athryn. Are you all right?”

A groan, quiet but distinct, floated up to Khirro on the earthy smell of loam and dirt. He breathed a relieved sigh-his companion had survived the fall. Now he had to hope he wasn’t badly injured and find a way to get him out.

But who would set a trap in the middle of the forest? In Lakesh.

The Mourning Sword still in hand, Khirro put his hands palms down at shoulder width on the loamy earth, readying himself to stand and intending to search for vines to braid into a rope with which to pull Athryn out.

The feel of fingers gripping his ankles stopped him, surprised and suddenly afraid. He twisted, trying to break free and glimpsed a flash of inhuman green skin-so green it was difficult to discern from the leafy background or believe he’d seen it at all.

And then Khirro tumbled into the hole, pushed by the green hands, and light and autumn sky receded above him.

Chapter Eight

Therrador crept from the tunnel and replaced its camouflaged cover, déja vu sending a shiver through him. The last time he used this method to slip out of the fortress, he’d gone to the salt flats and met with a woman he didn't know at the time was the Archon, and she'd revealed Graymon’s abduction. He gritted his teeth, determined this foray would yield a very different result.

This time he stole from the fortress to get his son back.

He paused and looked across the flat land toward the Kanosee camp fires-closer now than they were before. The Archon had moved her camp as close to the walls as seemed prudent given the Erechanians' fear of the undead soldiers that made up a portion of its troops.

Somewhere among those beasts is my son.

Therrador pulled the dark cloak tight around his shoulders to block the cold wind blowing in off the Bay of Tears and snugged down the helmet he’d taken from a sleeping Kanosee soldier to disguise himself. At the Archon’s insistence, the Kanosee were free to roam the Isthmus Fortress, but he didn’t think she’d be so happy with an Erechanian finding his way into the Kanosee encampment.

Especially not the king.

Crouching, Therrador scuttled across the open land, hand held close to the Kanosee short sword at his belt. That poor soldier would wake up in his underclothes with a headache, wondering what happened. It pained Therrador not to simply kill the man as he would kill any enemy, but he didn’t know how powerful Sheyndust’s powers were or if she’d have known. She might already know he’d left the fortress to rescue his son, but he had to take the chance.

First, he’d have to get into the camp, then he’d have to guess which amongst hundreds of tents was the one in which he’d find Graymon.

He didn’t think they’d kill him if they discovered him-especially when they realized who he was-but that didn’t ensure his safety. Best to be careful.

The autumn wind tugged at his cloak and tossed his long beard, unbraided to further hide his identity. The campfires grew closer. A noise made him pause and he crouched, becoming a boulder or a stump in the dark.

Twenty yards away, a figure paced. He knew guards would be posted at the edge of the camp, no matter whether a so-called truce was in place or not.

Therrador breathed shallowly, thankful for the carelessness of the sentry. If the man had been quieter, or stationary, he likely would have walked into him. The king waited and watched as the soldier, silhouetted against the campfires, took slow steps away, the butt end of the spear he carried scraping lazily along the ground. When he’d gone a few yards, Therrador inched forward, his gaze fixed on the man’s back to see if he’d continue on. After a moment, the man’s shape faded into the dark; Therrador hurried past silently.

The edge of the Kanosee encampment lay ten yards ahead. He wanted to rush in, to rifle through tents until he found his son, but Therrador forced himself to wait, to gauge how many men remained in the camp and where they most likely kept Graymon.

The smells of cook fires wafted to Therrador on the salty breeze. Pork, robbed from the stores of the Isthmus Fortress. He clenched his teeth, biting back anger at how things had played out so far, but the blame lay with no one but himself. It was his jealousy and anger that led to this. He could hardly be mad at the Archon or the Kanosee without shouldering a large measure of the responsibility.

Therrador pushed the thoughts from his mind-the time to set things right would come. Not now, though; as long as the Archon held Graymon captive, he could do nothing but what she asked of him without endangering his son. He started forward again, satisfied the sentry wouldn’t likely return shortly. His nerves jumped and danced, controlled but ready for battle.

He reached the outer line of tents and dropped the black cloak from his shoulders, exposing the Kanosee mail beneath. The man from whom he’d taken the armor was slightly smaller than himself and it restricted his breathing, pinched his skin if he turned too quickly. Such discomfort would have meant nothing years ago when soldiering was his world, but king’s advisor was a much easier life. He shifted the mail shirt, pulled it down, suddenly identifying with Braymon’s oft-heard lament about going soft sitting on the throne. It seemed the same had happened to him.

Thank the Gods experience doesn’t wane with age.

Touching first the hilt of the short sword, then the dagger on his right hip, Therrador stepped across the camp’s threshold, out of shadow and into firelight. He chose a spot where he saw no one around and looked left then right, wondering which way to go.

There will be a guard, that’s how I’ll know which tent.

He went right and passed the debris of camp life littering the ground: gnawed chicken bones, fruit and vegetable rinds, worn through boot soles. A rat the size of a farm cat scuttled away before him, a chunk of some rotted food in its jaws. Therrador’s lip curled-he’d never have allowed a camp to look like this, no matter how long the occupation.

Of course, I never commanded soldiers raised from the dead.

Therrador strode the path between tents like a man who belonged. Some tents he passed by lay silent, others hid snoring men or hushed conversations. He ignored them all, concentrating on where he might find Graymon.

If I had a captive, I’d keep him near the center of camp.

He took an abrupt left and headed toward the heart of the Kanosee encampment. Ahead, three men sat around a fire, one of them rotating a spit skewering the leg of pork he smelled earlier. Therrador relaxed, trying to look natural, but his mind tensed, ready to throw his body into action at half a second’s notice.

He looked sideways at the men to see if they were indeed men or the undead. One of them looked up at Therrador’s approach; sparse gray hair speckled his cheeks, his eyes looked suspicious.

“Oy,” the man called confirming him a living thing. “Go get your own food. Leave ours alone.”

Therrador nodded, not trusting his Kanosee would be accent-free enough to keep from giving him away. He strode past the fire with the purposeful gait of a man with a task to accomplish. Ten paces past, he thought himself safe when the man called out again.

“Hey, stop,” he bellowed. Therrador did, turning slowly. The man stood and gestured at him. “What’s with the armor? Afraid those cowards will attack?”

Therrador shrugged; the man’s face pinched in a questioning look.

“Don’t worry ’bout them. The Archon’s got their king under her pretty thumb.”

A spark of anger made Therrador’s hand twitch toward the short sword at his waist, but getting Graymon back was more important than defending his honor-what little might remain in a man who orchestrated his own king’s death. He nodded and smiled. The man took a few strides toward him and Therrador tensed, fingers curled into fists.

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” the Kanosee said with a tone sounding both suspicious and accusatory.

Therrador swallowed hard. “No,” he ventured.

The man glared at him a few seconds before breaking into a wide grin.

“I’s just having at you. Come have a bite with us.”

Therrador made himself smile back.

“No,” he said again. “Already ate.”

“Fine. Be like that then.” The man waved him off and returned to his companions at the fire. “Don’t tell no one I weren’t hospitable, though.”

“I won’t,” Therrador agreed.

He strode away, a droplet of sweat running down the back of his neck. Tension remained in his limbs as he wondered if the men would see through his ruse and come after him. They didn’t. Years before, during skirmishes with Kanos before Braymon became king, Therrador learned to speak Kanosee out of necessity-if you spoke their language, questioning your prisoners was easier. As king’s advisor, it came in handy dealing with the occasional ambassador, but he never expected he’d use it to keep from discovery infiltrating an enemy camp. He sighed and unclenched his fists.

The camp was vast. Therrador passed more fires and more men as he balanced between keeping to the shadows and looking like he belonged. No one else challenged him and after a while, the tents changed from plain tan canvas to larger structures, colored and striped and decorated. He saw fewer soldiers here, where the higher ranks made their beds, and many of the tents were empty-most of these men now resided behind the wall of the Isthmus Fortress. The thought twisted Therrador’s gut; he set his jaw and pushed on.

As he came around a large red tent with a white roof, Therrador halted and shrank back into the shadows. Ahead, a group of five soldiers were gathered around a tent easily the size of the next four largest combined. He crouched and waited, squinting against the light of the tall torches set on either side of the door. The men didn’t talk, instead grunting and growling at one another. One turned toward Therrador and he receded further into the shadows at the sight of the man’s black breastplate splashed with red.

The undead.

Given its size, Therrador guessed the tent must belong to the Archon. A wisp of smoke curled from the peak of the pavilion, dissipating into the night sky. But a fire wouldn’t be lit if there was no one inside, guards wouldn’t be posted at the door of an empty tent, and he knew the Archon to be at the fortress. Hope stirred in Therrador’s chest.

This is where they’re holding Graymon.

He breathed as deep as the ill-fitting armor allowed to ease his excitement and nervousness, then let it out slowly, quietly. Getting here had been relatively easy, now came the difficult part-rescuing the boy and finding a way back through the camp with him. He shook his head to dispel the thought.

First I have to get past the guards.

Therrador crept back around the curve of the tent until the soldiers were no longer in sight, then stood and adjusted the too-small chain vest. He’d never favored the sneaky approach, preferring instead to face things head on. With little effort, he slipped into a posture of command he’d become accustomed to wearing over the past two decades-back straight, eyes ahead, step purposeful. He strode around the tent and directly toward the guards. One of them saw him immediately and grunted at the others. Hands touched hilts, but none drew weapons. He halted in front of the biggest of the group.

“The Archon sent me to check on the boy,” he said and wondered if a man perhaps more dead than alive would notice his accent.

The thing stared at him; Therrador forced himself to look back. Its nose had rotted off in some dark grave; one eye moved while the other stared off at a peculiar angle. Therrador saw crooked yellow teeth though a hole in one cheek.

“Hmm.”

“Sheyndust sent me to look in on the hostage,” he said again. “Step aside.”

The thing opened its mouth sending the stench of death wafting to Therrador on the sea breeze. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to hold the thing’s gaze.

“Why she sent you?” the creature asked finally, its words run together like a child not yet used to speaking. “We guard him.”

Therrador frowned and narrowed his eyes.

“She had a vision of someone coming and taking him.” He glanced at the others watching the exchange. “I’m doing as I’m told, I suggest you do the same.”

One of the others grumbled words Therrador didn’t understand; the leader turned toward the other soldier so his unmoving eye came to gaze upon Therrador. The dead, unseeing orb made Therrador think of Suath’s empty eye hole and he wondered what had become of the mercenary.

“Okay,” the dead man said without moving out of his path.

Therrador took a step forward and came chest to chest with the soldier. It still didn’t move. He glared into the thing’s good eye, knowing he couldn’t be the first to move. A minute passed; the other soldiers moved closer and a flicker of claustrophobia flared in Therrador’s stomach. He held his breath against the stench of rotted flesh gathered around him. Finally, the creature stepped back and gave him space to pass. Therrador went by confidently, bumping the undead man with his shoulder on the way, pulled the flap aside and entered the pavilion.

The fire blazing in the iron fireplace at the center of the tent made it almost unbearably warm inside; smoke curled up through a hole in the peak as he’d seen from outside. He breathed deep, happy to draw air not smelling of rotted flesh after being in close quarters with those dead things.

The tent’s interior was sparsely furnished-not what he’d have expected to find in the Archon’s lodging. Perhaps he’d been wrong about this being her tent. A plain chair made of driftwood lashed together with lengths of heavy twine sat to one side. A basin of water rested atop a short stool; a honey pot sat nearby. On the far side of the makeshift room was a straw-stuffed mattress draped with thick green blankets. Underneath them, a sleeping shape. Only a bit of tussled brown hair showed under the coverings.

Graymon.

Therrador took a step forward, then stopped. He looked about the room again, searching the shadowed corners and behind the stick furniture. They were alone. He hurried across the dirt floor, struggling to contain his excitement. Three strides from the bed, less than ten feet from his son, he stopped. He hadn’t meant to.

What…?

He attempted another step but his foot wouldn’t move. It stayed in place as though stuck by strong glue. He struggled against the unseen grip, grabbed his thigh with both hands and pulled, but nothing happened.

“Graymon,” he whispered and reached out toward his son lying just out of reach. “Graymon.”

The boy shifted under the covers, turned over to face his father, eyes closed in sleep. Therrador’s heart leaped to his throat at the sight of his son with his features so much like his mother’s. He reached again, stretching his fingers as far as he could, but he was too far away.

“Graymon.”

“That’s enough.”

The sound of the woman’s voice stopped Therrador’s breath half-drawn. Goose flesh galloped up his spine despite the fire-warmed air in the tent.

How could she be here?

He struggled to face the voice but found himself unable to move at all. His head wouldn’t turn, his arms wouldn’t raise. Only his eyes would move; he directed them toward the Archon as she stepped up beside him.

“I told you I could not trust you,” she said.

She wore the black cloak she’d worn the first time they met that night on the salt flats, but the cowl was pulled back from her face this time and her blond hair spilled over her shoulders.

“I only want my son back,” Therrador said despite being unable to move his lips. His words ran together like the dead soldier’s had. The Archon’s face remained stern.

“All I want is for you to do as you are told,” she replied with a sweetness in her voice mismatched to her meaning. “It seems neither of us will get what we want if things do not change.”

A lump formed in Therrador’s throat. He tried unsuccessfully to make his mouth ask her not to hurt his son. His eyes flicked back to Graymon; the boy continued sleeping peacefully.

“I can see as long as the boy is nearby, you will be uncontrollable. We will have to rectify that.” She reached out and took the helm off his head, dropping it to the ground with a clank, then brushed hair from his forehead, the tips of her long nails scraping along his skin. “You have to learn to behave yourself, Therrador, or people will start getting hurt. You do not want that, do you?”

The king tried to shake his head.

“No,” he mumbled staring at his son, willing her not to hurt the boy.

“I did not think so.” She grasped his chin and moved his head so his eyes looked into hers. “Do not worry, I am not going to hurt your son. Not this time.”

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.

The act is familiar but uncomfortable, though it’s because of him, not because of the act itself. He’s nervous and afraid, clumsy. I make the best of it, coaxing as much out of him as I can. I’ve done this before, I know. Many times.

When I come to my end, he does, too. As my last satisfied gasp fades from my mouth, my lips find his and I take his breath. Then I break his heart.

I use his shirt to wipe his seed from between my legs and discard it on his naked corpse. Fat, lazy flies nearing the end of their lives in the autumn chill buzz around his companions as they grow stiff under the midday sun. A part of me feels reviled by what I’ve done, but whether it’s the killing or the fucking, I’m not sure. Truth is, most of me enjoyed both. They complement each other.

My clothes are back on my body, my sword belt at my waist when she appears. At first I think to hide like I’ve been caught doing something forbidden me, but I stand my ground. I’m no match for this woman, whoever she is, but I know she didn’t bring me back to be a coward.

“How did it feel?” she asks, and I wonder if she means the death or the sex before she continues. “How did it feel to kill your first man?”

I shrug and suppress the excited feeling in my stomach.

“He’s dead.”

The hole in the cowl laughs and I can’t help smiling.

“You have done well, Shariel, but this is only the beginning. Practice, if you will.” She moves closer, the tall grass making it seem like she floats over the ground. “There will be others. And the man Khirro will know you. He is dangerous.”

His name takes the smile from my lips. I tighten my belt one more notch and straighten the scabbard at my side.

“He will die.”

The black cowl moves, nodding, then the woman raises her arm, the sleeve falling away from a pale hand and painted fingertips. She points south.

“Go to Poltghasa,” she says. I recognize the name: the last Free City. The city of thieves and murderers. “That is where you will find him.”

I open my mouth to speak but she’s gone, disappeared as though never there.

“Poltghasa,” I say to the corpses around me. None of them offer comment.

I step over the body of my lover and head for the southern edge of the forest. A gust of wind swirls fallen leaves across my path, some of them the same color as the blood I wipe from my sword. I want to find them beautiful but can’t.

Not as long as the man called Khirro lives.

Chapter Eleven

The copper-sized circle of sky visible through the opening high above was barely distinguishable from the sides of the pit itself. Hours had passed. Khirro’s head hurt; he rubbed his temples, tentatively moved first one arm, then the other. When both worked, he did the same with his legs.

I’m lucky.

He pushed himself to a sitting position, wincing at the pain in his head. Other than the headache, he'd have a bruise on his hip, but nothing else hurt too badly; he seemed to have survived the fall relatively unscathed. That made twice now he’d taken major falls and survived. He hoped Athryn fared so well.

Athryn!

Khirro lurched to his feet, the sudden movement making his head spin and throb. He paused a moment to settle himself, then turned a tight circle, surveying the dimly lit pit. He saw nothing, so shuffled a wider arc, feet leaving divots in the pile of straw and moss that had cushioned his fall. Still no sign of his companion. He fell to his knees, looking for signs of the magician and what happened to him, where he had gone. His fingers grasped dry straw, sifted through loose dirt, but the lack of light made his search difficult as he scuffled around the thick layer set at the bottom of the pit.

This pit isn’t here by accident. But why? The only answer he could think of unsettled him: hunting.

His thoughts were interrupted when his hand found a wide path cut in the mossy pillow, like a track left when something was dragged away. He followed it a few feet until his hand touched a wet and tacky spot of dirt that stuck to the palm of his hand.

Blood.

Khirro held his breath and reached for the Mourning Sword, but his fingers found an empty scabbard. His mind searched back through what had happened; he recalled having the sword in his hand when he plummeted into the pit. He must have dropped it during the fall.

Damn lucky I didn’t land on it and kill myself.

His eyes flickered across the dark ground. The black blade would be invisible in the dark, but he hoped to catch sight of the faint red glow of the weapon’s runes. With his foot planted firmly on the bare dirt to keep from losing the track left on the ground, he groped through moss and straw, praying his fingers would touch cool steel. Nothing. He settled back on his haunches, despair threatening at the edge of his mind.

What am I without the Mourning Sword?

He set his jaw and forced the thought from his head. A sword could be replaced-even one such as the Mourning Sword-but without Athryn, all was lost.

He crawled tentatively forward along the track in the moss, eyes fixed straight ahead, until he saw the mouth of a tunnel. It was nothing more than a shadow in the pit’s black wall leading another unknown place, to unknown dangers. Khirro sighed. In his experience, nothing good happened underground.

After a moment steeling himself for what the darkness beyond held, Khirro rose to his feet and reached for Elyea’s dagger that he carried at his belt, but found its sheath empty, too. He reached for the small knife in his boot. Gone.

Not a coincidence.

He might have believed he dropped the sword and the dagger came loose in the fall, both of them lost in the dark, but the knife wouldn’t have come out of his boot. Someone had taken his weapons.

He wasn’t alone.

***

Despite the passage of day to twilight and beyond, a dim light illuminated the tunnel, allowing him to see a man's-length in front of him; better than he had experienced in the other underground paths he’d recently trodden. In fact, as Khirro went farther, it seemed he could see better.

The tunnel brushed his shoulder at some points, forcing him to turn sideways to pass through, and the ceiling threatened his forehead at others. He progressed slowly, straining to move quietly both to conceal his presence and to listen for sounds that weren’t echoes of his own. He heard nothing but the soft steps of his boots and the occasional scrape of scabbard against tunnel wall.

After ten minutes, the tunnel brightened, lit by a luminescent glow emanating from the ceiling a foot over Khirro’s head; it gave the passage the luster of dawn sneaking up on a new day. The glow spilled down the walls, clearly marking the path ahead, though it wasn’t bright enough to rescue his feet from shadow. The quality of the light reminded Khirro of the tunnels below the Necromancer’s keep and he shuddered because it also reminded him he was still in Lakesh. But this light was also different. In Darestat’s chambers, the lambency radiated from everywhere and nowhere, an indeterminate source; here, the glow came from the ceiling, close enough to touch.

Khirro stopped and looked up. The glow pulsed minutely, the light ebbing and flowing like a wave. Curious, he reached up and brushed his index and middle fingers across the surface. He felt the uneven, rocky ceiling, but it was covered with a thin, soft layer. His fingers came away glowing like the ceiling. Khirro held his fingertips close in front of his face for a better look.

Worms.

On the end of each finger several tiny, grub-like worms wriggled. Khirro chuckled. He’d heard of such things but never seen them. Things that lived in the dark found ways to survive, he supposed, and creating their own light was one of those ways. He watched, fascinated, as the things crawled down toward his first knuckle, leaving behind a glowing trail. It made him smile-how many people could say they’d seen such a thing?

“Oww!”

A pain in his finger like the prick of a needle melted the smile away. He looked closer and saw one of the worms burrowing into his flesh.

“Gods.”

Khirro rubbed his fingers on his breeches, smearing glowing worm innards across his thigh, and fought the urge to pop the pained digit into his mouth. Shaking his fingers, he walked on again, thankful for the worms’ light but giving them all the space the cramped tunnel allowed.

A few steps farther on, a noise behind Khirro made him stop. A soft, barely-noticeable sound. He heard it again: plop. Like water falling on dry stone.

Khirro spun around, instinctively reaching for his missing sword, and saw two glowing spots on the ground where he’d just passed.

I must have loosened them when I touched the others.

The tip of his finger throbbed dully. Another blob of worms fell half a yard from him, then another landed inches from his boot.

I didn’t touch those ones.

Khirro spun on his heel and hurried down the tunnel; the sound of worms dropping from the ceiling followed him like the sound of rain drops on a canvas tent. He dodged as they came down in his path. A glob landed on his tunic and he wiped it away with his sleeve, smearing their glow along its length and cursing himself for not taking his gauntlets out of his pack.

If they penetrate my skin, can they eat through my clothes?

He wrestled his shield off his back, its fire-blackened steel edge striking sparks against the wall of the tunnel, and held it over his head. Worms pattered against it as he followed the tunnel around a curve where it widened and the ceiling sloped upward and away.

Khirro skidded to a halt as he emerged into a modest chamber. He peeked out from under his shield to see if the worms continued to fall, but the increased distance between their ceiling and his head seemed to deter them. Slowly, he removed the shield from above his head. Glow worms covered two-thirds of its surface.

They emitted enough light to cast shadows on the faces of the men in the chamber.

Khirro reacted by slamming the edge of his shield into the man directly ahead of him, but the others overcame him, tore his only weapon from his grasp and dragged him to the ground.

***

The thin rope of woven vines binding Khirro’s wrists was strong, and the men leading him with it allowed no slack in the line. All six men stood a few inches shorter than Khirro, with pale skin and black hair, long and matted. All but the youngest-looking-the one guiding Khirro-wore scraggly beards that brushed the tops of their bare chests. The two at the front of the line and the one behind Khirro carried torches that glowed rather than flickering with flame.

The group moved quickly, following twists and turns and side tunnels with the confidence of people who’d followed the path many times, their route quickly rendering Khirro unable to tell which direction he’d need to follow to find his way out. He wondered if these people were the ones who’d dragged Athryn away as he lay unconscious at the bottom of the pit.

Khirro heard running water, the sound growing louder with their advance. They passed a wide crack in the tunnel wall which opened on a cavern-where the sound of water was coming from-and he slowed to peer through, but the man leading him pulled hard on the rope, making him stumble. His knees hit the ground painfully and he tumbled onto his side.

The man behind said something Khirro didn’t understand, the timbre of his voice residing somewhere between words and grunts, and shoved his torch toward Khirro’s face. He flinched, expecting heat, but felt none. Instead, he saw glowing worms slithering and writhing beneath a translucent gauze keeping them in place to protect the torch-bearer, but easily released if the occasion arose.

The younger man tugged on the vine rope, prompting Khirro to struggle to his feet.

“Where are you taking me?” Khirro asked and received a poke in the ribs from the man behind. He hoped he hadn’t touched him with the worm covered torch.

They passed an increasing number of side passages as they traversed the tunnels at a fast walk for ten more minutes. Khirro dared a glance into a few, careful not to slow his pace, but most were unlit. He could only allow himself to be led and hope they’d take him to Athryn.

As he walked, Khirro thought about the creature he saw that cast him into the pit. His glimpse had been brief but he clearly saw green skin, scales. The men leading him through the tunnel didn’t fit the description.

Might have been paint.

That would make sense for someone attempting to camouflage themselves. But the quality of the flesh made him doubt it. Its texture had looked scaly, inhuman.

Khirro's captors stopped without warning and he walked into the back of the man leading him who then collided with the next one in front of him. The young man holding the rope looked apologetic but the other man growled angrily, reminding Khirro of a trip through another tunnel and of another man angered at being bumped.

What a different trip this would have been if Gendred, Rudric and the Shaman lived.

The king would have been restored and Elyea and the others would still live.

But I wouldn’t have met them. Wouldn’t have met her.

The second man spoke in their unintelligible language, his voice gruff with anger. Khirro stared at him, watching annoyance harden his features. Someone pushed him from behind, prompting him toward a break in the tunnel wall. As he approached, Khirro saw a latticework of wide branches lashed together with thin twine held in place across the doorway by two thick logs propped against it.

Khirro stood before the makeshift jail cell while two of the men removed first the logs, then the lattice. The space beyond was dark; he looked into the gloom, searching for any indication of what fate may await him on the other side, but saw nothing. Another shove sent Khirro stumbling across the threshold, his wrists still tied, the rope trailing behind him. The younger man threw the rest of the rope through the doorway then helped replace the lattice and prop the logs back in place.

The men looked at him for a minute; one of them spoke a few words and the group continued down the tunnel in the direction they’d been leading Khirro, their glow worm torches fading to nothing in the distance.

Khirro turned slowly, already working his wrists, trying to loosen the rope. The muscles in his thighs tensed, ready to leap one way or the other, or to attack if necessary.

Attack with what?

“Khirro? Is that you?”

“Athryn!” Khirro moved toward the voice, treading carefully while his eyes adjusted to the dark. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” the magician replied. Khirro’s foot bumped something soft. “All right enough.”

Khirro knelt beside his prone companion, his eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the lack of light. He put his hand on Athryn’s arm, thankful to find him alive.

“Where do you think they’ve taken us?”

“I do not know. Too many turns and twists to keep track.”

Khirro’s brow furrowed; Athryn’s voice seemed to come from a different place than it should. Perhaps a trick of the cave walls. He put his hand on the magician’s chest, felt the shallow rise and fall of his breathing. A noise-the scuff of a boot on stone-made Khirro look up, confused and alert.

“Athryn? Where are you?”

“Over here.”

The chest Khirro’s hand rested on didn’t move when the magician spoke, the pattern of breathing didn’t change. He jerked his hand away and stumbled back from the person lying on the stone floor before him.

“We’re not alone,” he said.

“No,” a voice that didn’t belong to Athryn said from behind him. “You’re not.”

Chapter Twelve

What good is a soldier who can’t hold a sword?

Therrador stared at the red spot on the bandage wrapped around his hand. He wanted to scream and cry out in rage at the loss of his thumb, but worry for his son kept him from doing so. If he didn’t handle things correctly, he might never see him again, and he couldn’t know where the woman might have eyes and ears. He hoped she would let the boy live, though he may never know if that came to pass.

It seemed his stupid bravado had done nothing but ensure he’d never see the boy again.

He fussed with the bandage, scratched under its edge, and glanced about the sparsely furnished room. The wooden table was no comparison to the massive marble slab in the council room at Achtindel. Patches of its surface were discolored where some drunken knight or another had spilled wine, another spot splintered and worn as though a knife had been taken to the edge. Thinly padded chairs, not meant for comfort, surrounded the table. While the council room in the capital was designed for show-a place to pass laws and policy-the room at the fortress was used for many purposes, few of them glamorous. Here, bloodshed was planned in earnest, the deaths of good men cursed and victories celebrated.

Therrador snorted at the thought. It would be a long time before any victories would be celebrated in Erechania again. At least by Erechanians.

And there’s only one man to blame.

If he didn’t get the boy back, everything he’d done would be for naught. He’d turned an entire kingdom upside down for Graymon. He fidgeted in the chair, put his hand in his lap so he wouldn’t have to look at the reminder of where his thumb used to be.

How did she know I’d be there?

She’d been in the fortress when he crept out, he was sure of it, yet she appeared in the tent at precisely the right moment. There was more to the woman than he knew; she possessed great power and he finally had to admit he couldn’t overcome her on his own.

He needed help, and his ability to rule was already thrown into question by giving the fortress over to the enemy. Would anyone even listen to him after he admitted his treason?

The brass-banded wooden door swung open as though in response to his thoughts and four men entered the room. Therrador stood to greet them, wounded hand concealed behind his back. The men stopped short and bowed shallowly at the waist.

“You majesty,” Hanh Perdaro said for all of them.

“Gentlemen,” Therrador responded struggling to keep his voice even. He didn’t relish the conversation he was about to have. “Take a seat.”

The men arrayed themselves around the table in their accustomed positions: Sir Alton at Therrador’s right hand, Hu Dondon beside him; Hanh Perdaro at the king’s left with Emon Turesti at his side. Therrador sat and slid his bandaged hand onto his lap, hidden from sight beneath the table. He surveyed the men. It was the first time the full council had met since they confirmed Braymon’s death and Therrador’s right to rule. He wished he could go back and change it all, then his son would be safe.

They looked at their king, waiting for him to tell them why he’d summoned them. It must have surprised them-thus far in his rule, he’d refused their counsel, not even speaking with them before he opened the gates to their enemy, giving up the fortress for the first time in a thousand years. He knew they weren’t pleased by his actions, but the woman had forced his hand. Another action he’d change given the opportunity. If he’d known the Archon would take Graymon away to Kanos-or worse-he’d have defied her earlier. The result for his son would have been the same, but perhaps the fortress would have been saved. On the other hand, doing so may also have kept his son alive.

But for how long?

Somehow, he needed to relate all this to the men sitting before him, watching him with judging eyes disguised as loyalty.

“Gentlemen, everything is not as it seems.”

Nobody responded. Therrador paused, searched their faces one after another. Sir Alton still looked angered and hurt, betrayed by his friend and leader; Turesti and Dondon showed no emotion. Only Hanh Perdaro, the Voice of the People, looked like he might know what the king was talking about. Therrador took a deep breath and collected his thoughts.

Better just to tell them.

“Braymon was no casualty of war. His death was planned.”

The men drew a collective gasp. Sir Alton leaned forward, his ruddy face deepening to a shade of crimson. Dondon’s eyes widened; Turesti’s hand went to his mouth.

“What do you mean, your highness?” Hanh Perdaro asked.

Therrador looked at the man out of the corner of his eye. He’d always liked Perdaro, but suddenly found himself wondering about him. The Voice of the People usually knew all, seemingly before it happened sometimes. Did he already know what Therrador had to tell? Was this reaction for show?

Therrador looked down at his bandaged hand in his lap, at the blood soaked through where his thumb should have been. It didn’t serve to fortify him as he hoped it might; instead, it saddened him because of the mistakes he’d made.

Damn the Archon. Damn Sheyndust.

“It was planned from the start that I should take the throne of Erechania. I’ve been in league with the Archon since soon after Seerna’s death.”

Sienhin stood abruptly sending his chair clattering to the floor; his hand fell to the hilt of his sword. Therrador didn’t move.

“Treachery,” the general bellowed. Even his bushy moustache couldn’t hide the frown on his lips, the hurt in his eyes. “Assassin! You killed the king.”

The other men stared at Therrador, disbelieving or formulating responses. Sienhin was the least political of the bunch, a soldier who rose to the highest ranks on the tail of Braymon’s revolution, so his emotional reaction offered no surprise. The others were no doubt considering in what way what they’d heard would best benefit them.

Therrador thought about how to respond to Sir Alton’s outburst. As the king, he had the right to command him, or he could rise to the inferred challenge. Neither path would solve his problems.

Just the truth, then.

“She has Graymon.”

The room seemed to freeze. No one moved, scarcely even breathed, all eyes on Therrador as he fought to retain composure. He’d never admitted any of this to any save his own reflection, and then even the mirror had looked upon him with judgment in its eyes.

“She has the boy?” Perdaro repeated, his voice quiet. Therrador nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell us before?” Lord Emon Turesti, the High Chancellor of Erechania asked. “We would have helped.”

“I thought I could set things right myself,” Therrador replied, eyes cast down upon his bandaged hand.

“The Archon is powerful. She-” Perdaro began.

“She’s a devil,” interrupted Hu Dondon, Lord Chamberlain of the Kingdom.

“She has your son,” Sir Alton said through clenched teeth, voice quieter, but his tone still betrayed his anger. “But that doesn’t explain why you killed the king.”

Therrador shook his head and met the general’s eyes. “I made a mistake, and I know I’ll pay for it, but there are bigger concerns for the kingdom now.”

“A treacherous king is a concern,” Dondon said.

“Truly,” Emon Turesti agreed as he fidgeted with his long fingers. “But more importantly, the Kanosee occupy our fortress. What are we to do about that?”

A hush fell over the room as the five men pondered the kingdom’s predicament. Sir Alton’s fingers loosened from the hilt of his sword and he glanced over his shoulder at the chair lying on the floor behind him but didn’t move to retrieve it. Turesti gazed at his entwining fingers; Dondon and Perdaro stared at the king.

“How is Graymon?” Hanh Perdaro asked finally.

“I tried to rescue him,” Therrador explained, his voice quiet. “But I was caught. As punishment, she’s sending him back to Kanos.” A pause, then he brought his bandage-wrapped hand from his lap and set it gingerly on the table. “And she took my thumb.”

“Gods,” Sir Alton spat. “She is a devil.”

“No, she’s no devil.” Therrador shook his head and raised his right hand. “I deserved this. Not for trying to save my son, but for what I’ve done to the kingdom. But she is responsible for raising the undead soldiers who fight beside her troops. She’s-”

“A Necromancer,” Dondon said completing his sentence. Therrador nodded.

Sir Alton retrieved his chair and slumped down into it dejectedly. “Things go from bad to worse.”

“Perhaps not.” Hanh Perdaro leaned forward on his elbows. The others waited for him to say more but he allowed the pause to linger.

“What do you mean, Hanh?” Turesti finally asked. “Out with it.”

The Voice of the People cleared his throat. “The Archon-Necromancer, whatever she calls herself-she holds your son, correct?”

“Yes, I told you.”

“So she thinks you her puppet, Therrador. Her pawn. The king of Erechania will do whatever he’s told in order to keep his son safe.”

“Of course,” Sir Alton agreed before Therrador could. The general once had a son, but the boy had been lost during one of the last skirmishes when Braymon took the throne. Twenty years had done little to dispel the sting of it for the tough old soldier.

“As long as she thinks her word is being done, we can enact our own plans now that we all know what’s happened.”

Perdaro looked around the table at the others, a meager smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

“But what to do about a treacherous king?” Hu Dondon asked. Therrador looked at him, suppressing his ire at the comment-he deserved the punishment that would come.

“Nothing right now,” Turesti said nodding slightly in agreement with Perdaro’s words. “First we must neutralize the Kanosee threat. We’ll have to bring the people of the kingdom together, and for that they must have a king.”

Everyone at the table nodded.

“I’ll get the word to the people,” Perdaro said. “Tell them the version of the truth that will most suit our purposes for the moment.”

Therrador sighed. This hadn’t been as bad as he’d imagined. He’d thought his head might have ended up atop a pole in the courtyard before the end of the day.

“Rest assured, though,” Sir Alton said leaning toward Therrador. “When rightness is restored to the kingdom, we’ll deal with our traitor king.”

Chapter Thirteen

The city reeks of the evil it is rife with, like a stinking fruit hanging rotten on the vine. Daylight has recently left the sky as I approach the unguarded gates of the once great city, the place where an empire was born thousands of years ago. There’s no empire found here now, only cutthroats and thieves, rapists and murderers. Statues and temples stand in ruin. Steel is the one God who holds sway here-his last refuge from the Godly brethren who spurned him millennia ago.

I walk through the splintered gates, haphazard on their hinges, and up a shallow rise, keeping to the side of the street to avoid the stream of sewage flowing down the middle. A child with half an arm missing sits against a wall and glares at me as I pass; an unfamiliar feeling twinges in my chest as I wonder how much older the boy will be allowed to grow in such a place. I push it aside, thinking instead about killing the man named Khirro.

A shout and the sound of splintering wood; I’m surprised there’s still anything left here to be broken. I amend my path toward the sounds because I know I’ll find people there, and with people come tests.

The street I turn onto narrows and the stench grows in the smaller space, but I pay it no heed. I’ve been to the Fields of the Dead and had to leave it behind, I’ve spent time in the Void-I couldn't care less about bad smells. Rats scurry past, chased by a cat that looks more like bigger vermin than a feline. As I approach the end of the lane and the square it ends at, my hand finds the hilt of my sword. What little trepidation I might have had disappears at the feel of its leather on the palm of my hand.

There are people in the square, men mostly, staggering and laughing. A group of three sing a bawdy song discordantly, yelling the most offensive words. There are a few women, too, dressed in soiled and torn dresses that may once have been beautiful. They call to the men, shouting to be heard above the drunken din, promising passion for a small sum as they cup their breasts with grubby hands and cracked fingernails. One woman is bent over the wooden railing outside a bustling public house, her skirt hiked up above her waist as a man thrusts into her from behind. She cleans dirt from under her fingernails with the tip of a small knife while he rams his hips against her.

As I watch, he finishes and swats her bare ass, then steps away fastening his breeches. He’s barely three steps away before another man takes his place, gives the woman a coin and undoes his pants. Part of me is sickened, anguished by the memories stirred within my breast, but another part is sympathetic. I understand one must do what one must to survive.

I divert my attention away from the dispassionate coupling and head toward the public house where light spills through loosely shuttered windows, and conversation, shouts and music bubble through the doorway. I pull my cloak tight around my shoulders and against my cheeks. Better I fool some into thinking I’m a man for a while.

At the doorway, I’m uncertain if I look upon a party or a riot. Bodies press together, their sweaty heat keeping the chill night outside the room. A man stumbles past and vomits on the porch outside the door, some of his spew splashing unnoticed onto the bare calves of the man more concerned about getting his money’s worth from the disinterested whore.

In a corner of the room, a scared-looking musician strums a lute and sings words no one hears above the noise of the revelers. To my right is a long bar, its surface nicked and splintered by years of misuse. People dance on it, kicking over others’ drinks; one such incident sparks a fight, but the crowd swallows the combatants and I can’t see the outcome of the skirmish, so I move toward the bar, hoping to gather information.

It’s impossible to tell if the man dispensing drinks is the barkeep or just another inebriated partier. He’s at least as drunk as everyone else and spills more liquor on the stained wooden surface than he pours into the chipped cups. There’s no point asking questions of any of these people. If I interrogated and threatened until the sun rose, I wouldn’t receive coherent answers.

Resigned to wait until the morrow, I take a cup from the bar and carefully choose an edge from which to drink to avoid cutting my lip. The strong liquor burns my throat. It doesn’t refresh me but leaves a warmth in my stomach that’s not uncomfortable. Too much would certainly leave a pain in my head.

I push my way back through the throng toward the door. A man grumbles as I force my way past, another simply topples at my touch, his drink spilling down his companion’s front. The man looks like he’ll make trouble over it, but my stern expression changes his mind.

Halfway to the door, a hand catches my arm, spins me around. I grab the hilt of my dagger and free half an inch of steel, expecting to see the man with the wet shirt, but it’s not.

“I knows you,” this new man says, the lanterns’ light gleaming in the line of saliva running from the corner of his mouth. He might be attractive if not for that and the missing teeth. And the bulbous nose. And the patchy beard. “If I don’t knows ya, I sure wants to.”

His hand finds my breast at precisely the instant my blade finds his belly. I pull him close, burying the steel all the way to the hilt, enjoying the surprised look on his face.

“You don’t know me,” I whisper. “You never will.”

I pull the blade free and step away, holding it in front of me to counter any retribution from him or his companions. His hand falls away from my chest and goes to his belly. He stares at the blood on his fingers, then looks up at me before the writhing crowd absorbs him. I don’t wait to see if he survives or if his friends care what happened. I push my way through the drunken mob and stumble out the door into the cool night, leaving the smell of stale beer and vomit behind. The whore still leans against the railing cleaning her nails; her skirt is back in place, covering her ass. No men are standing around awaiting their turns. I go to her, lean against the railing beside her, facing the other direction to avoid showing my back to the door.

“If’n you wants a turn, you gotta pay,” she says without looking away from her fingers.

“I don’t want a turn.”

At the sound of my voice, she turns her head and appraises me.

“Half price for the ladies,” she says and smiles.

All of her front teeth are gone and I wonder if it happened in a brawl or if she removed them herself to offer special services for her clients. This close, I can tell she’s seen no more than sixteen years.

“Not interested. I’m here to find a man.”

Her smile disappears. “If’n you undercuts me, I’ll slice you.”

She bounces the knife she used to clean her nails in her hand, a lazy threat. Now it’s my turn to smile.

“Not just any man, a man named Khirro.”

She snorts a laugh through her nose. “Ain’t no heroes in Poltghasa, darlin’.”

“Not ‘hero’, ‘Khirro’, with a k.”

“Ain’t none of them here, neither.” She turns and leans with her back against the rail, her shoulder brushing mine. “If you ask nice, I might consider givin’ you more of a discount. Maybe even a freebie.” She shows her gap teeth again.

Memories of nights spent with my nose buried in perfumed hair come to me, bringing with them sadness and anger. The man called Khirro is responsible for taking it from me. Nothing matters but finding him.

“Thanks anyway,” I say and move toward the steps. “I’ll be in town. If you hear of a man called Khirro, find me.”

I feel her eyes on me as I stride down the steps and consider turning back to tell her that life doesn’t have to be this way, but I don’t. We all have to choose our own lives, for better or for worse.

“Come back and see me anytime. I’m right here every night.”

My boot has just touched the dirt at the bottom of the steps when I hear the clamor of people bursting out of the public house, the wooden door slamming against the wall.

“That’s the one, there,” a voice yells, words slurred by drink. “That’s the one what knifed Creeg.”

I turn slowly, without bothering to pull my steel yet. There are five of them leaning drunkenly on one another. One of them points at me, his face twisted into a scowl made humorous by the amount of ale he’s consumed. I can’t help but laugh at him, and my laughter serves to anger them further.

“Your man deserved what he got,” I say knowing my voice will give away the secret I hoped to hide with my cloak. If they know they’ve been slighted by a woman, perhaps it will insight them more.

I can only hope.

The first one stumbles down the stairs, falling onto my sword as I draw it. I spit on him as he slides to the ground, showing his friends I’m disappointed by the ease with which he gave up his life.

Two more come at me, blades bared, and in the wan light of the lanterns hanging on the patio, I see the rust of misuse on their swords. One lunges at me. I step aside and the hilt of my sword shatters his jaw. The woman leaning on the railing hoots and claps despite the man who’s taken up position behind her. I determine that when I’m finished with these ones, I’ll kill him, too.

The second man takes his time, stalking me like he wants me to think he knows what he’s doing. Another man has come down the stairs behind him, but the fifth is gone, disappeared back into the saloon, either scared off or gone for help. I care not either way.

The man circles behind me so he and his companion are on either side. I draw my dagger in preparation for the simultaneous attack they’d be fools not to attempt. They don’t disappoint, at least not from a strategy point of view. In terms of skill and challenge, they offer little more than their dead friends. Dodge, stroke, parry, thrust. In less than fifteen seconds, they are both lying in the dirt, their blood draining to feed the worms and I haven’t broken a sweat.

“Look out,” the woman at the railing calls.

I look toward the door and see the fifth man has returned, and he’s brought companions. Ten, perhaps more. I smile and raise my sword to the woman, thanking her for the warning; she goes back to getting fucked against the railing. I ready myself for the men and hope one amongst them isn’t too drunk, at least one who will provide me the challenge and practice I crave. They spill down the stairs and sparks fly as steel pounds against steel.

The worms will eat well tonight.

Chapter Fourteen

The chill wind stroked her flesh, hardening her nipples and spilling goose bumps down her arms. From the window, she saw little activity in the fortress; a few men wandered the courtyard, but the atmosphere lacked the revelry normally accompanying the end of a battle. To the Erechanians, the battle likely didn’t feel as though it had ended, and the Archon’s soldiers mistrusted them for it. No one truly felt this thing was done yet.

There was much work still to do, but she found patience difficult. Every day the power within her grew; she could use it to make things progress more quickly if she wanted but knew doing so would jeopardize everything.

A group of loud and garrulous men strode by and one of them looked toward her window. His gaze lingered upon her nakedness, his mouth fell open; he prodded his companions and pointed. They all looked up to ogle her, friendly arguments put aside. In the dark, she couldn’t tell whether they were Kanosee or Erechanian-more likely soldiers of her own army-but one of the men must have recognized her. After a harsh whispered word from him, they averted their gazes and rushed past, suddenly with other places to be.

It hadn’t always been like this. Once, she was like other women, a time when men didn’t fear her. Sometimes she missed those simpler days, but she hardly remembered them now, they were so long ago. Only remnants of feelings remained, so few it never took long for the power brewing inside to overcome sentimentality. Despite occasional regret or longing, she’d do nothing differently, given the choice.

“Come away from the window.”

She faced the man in her bed, the red duvet pulled up to his chest against the chill air. His eyes dropped from her face to her breasts and lower, then back to her eyes. A wave of nausea and regret washed through her. She hid it expertly.

What must be done, must be done.

She strode to the side of the bed and looked down at the man.

“What are you whispering to the people, Hanh?”

Hanh Perdaro smoothed a stray hair back from his high forehead. “Exactly what we talked about. The king is dead, long live the king. The message is unchanged.”

“And the council?”

She sat on the edge of the bed and he reached out to stroke her arm with his fingers; she subtly leaned out of his reach.

“They have it in their heads to secretly rally the kingdom and banish their Kanosee foes. I’ve told Therrador to do as he’s told so you won’t catch on.”

She nodded, blond hair caressing her back. “We must be careful. If he organizes the people behind him, it could mean problems.”

“He won’t. That isn’t the whisper reaching the ears of the people, he only thinks it is.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the arm. When she neither reacted nor looked at him, he paused. “Why not be done with him and put me on the throne now?”

Why are men so stupid when a woman drops her dress?

“Therrador must remain on the throne until things are done.”

She turned her head to look into his eyes. They were not the eyes of a stupid man; Hanh Perdaro had lasted too long in the political arena of Erechania to be considered unintelligent. His eyes strayed to her breasts again, reminding her where his brains had gone.

“We have only taken one fortress. There is a kingdom yet to conquer. If Therrador is dethroned too quickly, the people will not submit to my control. He must put the knife in his own heart.”

“Our control,” Perdaro corrected.

“Yes, yes. Our control.”

She waved her hand at him and looked back to the window, wistful. She liked nothing better than the feel of wind in her hair and soil beneath her feet; a tent was usually the most she could stand. She’d felt such since childhood. How she longed to get up off the bed and rush into the night, to let the darkness embrace her, to dive into the cold water of the Sea of Linghala. That’s what freedom felt like.

“You should have told me you abducted Graymon.”

His words pulled her out of the cold autumn night and back into the bedchamber.

“What?”

“I said, ‘you should have told me you took Graymon’.”

She shook her head. “Why? The less you know of what I am doing, the easier it is for you to keep it from Therrador.”

“I wouldn’t betray you.”

She heard his offended expression in the tone of his voice. Part of her wanted to smack it from him, remind him who she was and that he shouldn’t be so comfortable, so expectant, but she held herself in check. She had further need of the Voice of the People.

“I learned long ago the best way to keep from being betrayed is not to share your plans.” She smiled a fake, sickly-feeling sweet smile. It was enough for him and the stern look melted away like ice on the first day of spring. “Do not take it personally, love.”

She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. His breath sighed out through his lips and past her ear, stirring her hair. Hanh Perdaro was still fit enough and handsome enough for many women to find such a breath stimulating, but not the Archon. Her heart, her soul, belonged elsewhere, to no man on the earth. She did these things because they were the best way to get what she wanted from a man.

Make them stupid and they will do your will.

Perdaro lay back, head on the pillow, and she pulled the duvet off him, exposing his lithe body and the touch of gray hair on his chest. In one graceful movement, she swung herself onto him, straddling his hips. His expression went from taut, to surprised, to relaxed. A pressure grew between his legs, pushing against her, and she made herself smile at him and giggle like one of those women men didn’t fear. She wiggled her ass against the pressure until it slid inside her and the tautness returned to his face. He closed his eyes. She stared at him as she rocked back and forth, stealing his brains and his loyalty even as she loathed both him and the act.

One day soon, he’d have served his purpose. When the day came, she’d finally stop pretending and show him how she really felt. She smiled and closed her eyes, taking herself back to the cold sea as she waited for him to finish, then she would climb off, go to sleep, and dream of her empire.

Chapter Fifteen

The day had been very much like this one: clear and cool, the colors of autumn hanging from the trees and the taste of winter threatening on the wind. They weren’t at the Isthmus Fortress that day as Therrador was today. That day six years ago, he’d been camped with his troops in a muddy clearing at the foot of the mountains bordering Erechania and Estycia.

One of the mountain tribes had been sacking villages, killing good Erechanian citizens and plundering good Erechanian crops in the process. Braymon insisted Therrador lead the party to put the raiders down because his presence would show the king cared equally for his entire kingdom, no matter how remote. Therrador didn’t ask if he sent him with Seerna so close to giving birth because he forgot or because it didn’t matter to him. Either answer would have equated to the same thing: he didn’t care.

On that day, Therrador led one of the scouting parties himself. They found a couple of abandoned short-term camps, their burned out fires long dead, and nothing else. Twilight painted pinks and oranges across the tops of the mountains as he led his soldiers back to camp, the colors calming some of the frustration of a fruitless ride and his annoyance that his king had sent him. When he found Sir Matte Eliden awaiting his return, he knew something must be amiss.

“Therrador, my Lord,” Sir Matte panted as he jogged to Therrador’s horse. “There’s been a messenger.”

Therrador looked down into the man’s watery blue eyes. Reading Sir Matte’s mood in his eyes was difficult because he constantly looked on the verge of tears, but the hard line of his lips showing through his meticulously trimmed salt and pepper beard told the king’s advisor that the knight had something urgent that required Therrador’s attention.

“What is it, man? Don’t keep me in suspense.” Therrador slid off his horse and handed the reins to the groom who came up behind Sir Matte. As the lad led the animal away, Therrador put his hand on the knight’s shoulder and steered him toward his tent. “What would make a man of your years run about camp like he was out to have his heart burst?”

Sir Matte shook his head. “The messenger waits for you by your tent, my Lord. He wouldn’t speak his message to myself or anyone else. He said his words were only for you.”

Wouldn’t tell?

Therrador’s chest cinched about his heart, but he kept his face plain, his pace steady. If the messenger wouldn’t tell any but himself, then things were terribly wrong.

Has something happened to Braymon?

Looking back six years later, the irony that he thought first of the king struck Therrador. He had nary a thought of Seerna until reading her name on the damned parchment. He hated himself for it sometimes, but it spoke of what he lived his life for then.

The messenger waiting outside his tent had seen perhaps seventeen years, certainly no more. His jaw was set, determined to deliver likely the first message of any importance with which he’d been entrusted, but fear and uncertainty shone in his eyes. As Therrador approached, the boy straightened and saluted by thumping his fist against his chest hard enough to make himself flinch. Therrador didn’t return the formality, instead waving the youth into his pavilion.

Curiosity and anxiety fluttered in Therrador’s gut. Everything-the manner of the messenger’s arrival, Sir Matte coming to Therrador himself, the look in the boy's eyes-all pointed to news of the worst kind.

“Make sure no one disturbs us,” Therrador said over his shoulder.

He caught a glimpse of Sir Matte nodding as the tent flap fell into place, then he faced the young messenger. The boy seemed to tremble but, to his credit, his expression remained firm and resolved despite the look in his eyes.

“Sit.” Therrador indicated a stool beside the central fire pit where a blaze already flickered in the brazier. He pulled another stool from beside the bed and set it across from the boy. “What’s so desperate our king couldn’t wait for my return?”

“I don’t know, my Lord.” Without sitting, the boy fumbled a leather tube from his belt, opened the top and slid a rolled parchment out of it. “I wasn’t told what the message is, only that it’s for my lord’s eyes alone and it’s of the utmost importance.”

“Is this your first mission, son?”

Therrador took the scroll offered by the messenger and rolled it in his fingers. A spot of blue wax emblazoned with the royal seal held it closed.

From Braymon himself. He must be all right.

“No, Lord Therrador. Not my first.”

Therrador smiled. “Your first outside the city?” If he dragged out the reading of the scroll, perhaps whatever it contained would no longer be real. Maybe the words written upon it would disappear and whatever happened would go back to the way it had always been.

The messenger hung his head, embarrassed. “Yes, my Lord. It’s my first trip outside Achtindel.” He snickered to himself. “I’m lucky I found you.”

“I have a feeling I’m not so lucky you found me.” Therrador tapped the parchment scroll on his knee while the messenger watched. “You’re dismissed. Thank you for your efforts.”

The boy saluted again, this time with less zest, and turned abruptly. Therrador returned the salute halfheartedly and watched the messenger leave the tent. When the flap settled into place, he looked down at the scroll in his hand. Whatever news it contained was at least a week old-it would have taken that long or more for its carrier to reach the frontier, more if he didn’t locate the camp immediately.

Therrador moved to the chair by his cot and contemplated the message. He rubbed the wax seal with his thumb, felt the outline of the tiger’s head emblem signifying the message was written by Braymon’s hand; thoughts swirled through his mind. If the message was of a military nature, it would have been given to Sir Matte in Therrador’s absence. If it contained news of ill befalling the king, it would be someone else’s mark in the wax-Sir Alton Sienhin’s or perhaps the healer’s. Therrador shook his head and sighed. Nothing to do but open it and find out.

He slid his thumb under the wax, broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. Even before he began reading, one word jumped off the page, grabbing his attention and freezing his breath in his lungs.

Seerna.

He scanned the looping letters of Braymon’s hand, taking in the meaning without resting overlong on any one of them.

Regret to inform you…

…died in child birth.

The baby survived, physicians are attending him.

…her last wish was to name him Graymon.

It said more: expressions of regret, offers of assistance. At the end of the message, Braymon encouraged him to continue his duties at the foot of the mountains, ensured him the babe would be cared for until his return.

Therrador lowered the parchment, allowing it to dangle from his fingers, and stared straight ahead at the plain canvas tent wall. Numbness started in his fingers and toes; the lack of sensation crawled up his arms and legs. It spread through his chest, to his head, creating a swirling throb threatening to pop his skull like an over-filled wine skin. He let out a shuddering breath in an attempt to dispel the uncomfortable feeling along with the air from his lungs, but it didn’t leave him. Instead, it clamped his teeth tight and curled his fingers into fists, crumpling the parchment.

He stared at his boots, at the ground under his feet. His vision blurred as tears came to his eyes. One slid down his nose, hanging from the tip before plummeting to the dirt between his boots. He stared at it a second before anger exploded in him. Therrador stood suddenly and hurled the crumpled parchment against the wall of the tent.

“Braymon,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

This was the king’s fault. If he hadn’t sent him away to suppress the tribal uprising, he’d have been there for his wife. If he’d stayed in Achtindel, she might still be alive, or at least he’d have had another month to show her how much he loved her.

His thoughts turned to the baby. His son. Alive and well and taken care of.

And named after the king.

Therrador stared at the tent wall and the crumpled parchment lying on the ground for a long time, every muscle in his body taut and strained, the cords in his neck standing out. The world dimmed and brightened as waves of emotion broke over him like the ocean slamming against the rocky shore. Anger, sadness, longing, hatred. His breath came in short bursts through his nose. His fists quivered at his sides, his anger contained in them with no place to go. How long he stood in that spot fighting the urge to jump on a horse and ride for the capital, he didn’t know. The next thing he remembered was Sir Matte’s voice calling him. He might have been calling for an hour, for all Therrador knew.

“My Lord,” the old knight called, the canvas tent wall muting his voice. “My Lord?”

Therrador shook his head, re-focused his eyes.

“What is it?” he growled.

The last thing he wanted right now was to tell Matte what happened. The last thing he wanted was to face another human being.

“The second search party has returned.” Sir Matte paused and, when Therrador gave no response, he continued. “They have a prisoner.”

The knight’s words made Therrador’s eyes widen.

A prisoner. Someone who can help my time here end.

Therrador burst through the tent flap into a night he hadn’t realized had fallen. Cook fires lit the camp, but no soldiers sat by them. Everyone was gathered around the central fire where the prisoner stood, hands bound behind his back, a rope tethering him to the saddle of a horse.

“My Lord, the…”

Without a word, Therrador pushed past Sir Matte and headed for the man encircled by soldiers taunting him with threats of violence. His unkempt hair and matted beard identified him as a member of one of the mountain tribes.

The man stood steadfast, the bonfire’s flames reflected in his dark eyes as he stared into the night, refusing to meet the gaze of any of the soldiers. Had he been in a different state, Therrador might have admired the way he showed no fear. Unfortunately for the prisoner, he wasn’t.

Sir Matte called out words that Therrador didn’t hear and the circle of soldiers parted, allowing their leader to walk directly to the prisoner. A few of the soldiers saluted Therrador; he ignored them, his attention directed to the tribesman, his way home to his new child. The man’s eyes flickered to Therrador, but their gazes met for only a second before Therrador’s fist smashed into his face. Blood spurted from the man’s nose; he collapsed to his knees but didn’t cry out. Therrador stood over him, seething with anger and hatred.

“Untie him,” he said.

At first, no one moved. The group of soldiers stared, none of them jumping to do his bidding. Therrador’s anger increased.

“Release him from the horse,” he yelled and the three men closest to the steed all moved at once. The tribesman looked up at Therrador, blood streaming down his chin from his broken nose, but he didn’t speak.

Beg for mercy. Beg for your worthless life.

With the knots undone, Therrador grabbed the tribesman by the front of his grubby doeskin shirt and pulled him to his feet. The man stared, unflinching, seemingly fearless.

For now.

“Where’s your camp?” Therrador shook the man but received no response. “How many in your raiding party?”

Sir Matte appeared at Therrador’s shoulder. “My Lord, not all mountain men speak our language.”

“He speaks it,” Therrador barked at the knight and Sir Matte backed away. “You have to speak it so you can tell your victims to beg for mercy, don’t you?”

The man smiled, blood streaked on his yellowed teeth. Therrador slammed his forehead against the man’s face provoking a pained yelp.

“Where’s your camp?”

“You kill me before I tell,” the mountain man said and spat blood on Therrador’s leather breast piece.

The circle of soldiers pushed closer about them but their leader held them back with a gesture.

“You’ll tell,” Therrador whispered, “then you’ll beg me to kill you.”

Therrador rammed his knee into the prisoner’s groin and, as the man doubled over off balance, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him closer to the fire. The group of soldiers followed closely. Therrador threw the man face down in the dirt a foot from the flames and pressed his knee into the small of his back.

“Where’s the camp?”

“No tell.”

Therrador drove the man’s face into the dirt, grinding it against the ground. He came away sputtering, spitting a concoction of blood and soil from his lips.

“How many in your raiding party?”

The man shook his head. “No tell.”

Gathering fistfuls of the prisoner’s shirt, Therrador dragged him forward six inches and settled on his back again. When he struggled to pull his face away from the flames, the king’s advisor grabbed the man’s greasy hair and forced his nose closer. The heat scalded Therrador’s fingers; the smell of smoldering hair wafted to his nostrils.

“Where’s your camp?” Therrador growled through clenched teeth.

The man shook his head, his beard stirring up dust. Therrador grabbed his shirt again when Sir Matte put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. The king’s advisor looked at his long-time friend, barely recognizing him through a veil of hatred and anger.

“Therrador, my Lord, there are other ways,” he said low enough to keep the other men from hearing. “Don’t do this.”

Therrador glared at him. Fifteen years before, they fought side by side to win Braymon his crown-Matte had practically been a father to him. For a moment, he considered relenting, but the thought of Braymon stirred him.

Braymon the faithless.

“Get your hand off me.”

Matte must have seen the degree of Therrador’s rage, heard it in his tone. He removed his hand from his friend’s shoulder and backed away, head shaking. When he reached the circle of soldiers, he turned and left. Therrador returned his attention to the prisoner, bunching the doeskin shirt in his hands.

“Tell me.”

“Never.”

Therrador jerked the man forward a foot-and-a-half and the screaming started immediately. His hair and beard melted with a sickly smell, his flesh sizzled. Behind Therrador, the soldiers cheered. The man yowled. Through the tumult, Therrador almost missed the tribesman begging for mercy. He pulled him out of the flames and stared into the man’s smoking, ruined face.

“I tell,” he whispered before the pain caused him to lose consciousness.

***

Therrador stood in the middle of the encampment, blood dripping from the tip of his sword, the autumn breeze swirling smoke over his head. Flames engulfed the shelters of branches and makeshift tents, and Erechanian soldiers heaved bodies of tribesmen-some of them still groaning-onto the fires. Screams filled the air, silenced a moment later by sword or spear. The twenty-five tribesmen were no match for the forty trained fighting men with which Therrador surprised them. All of them lay dead or dying. Two soldiers strode past Therrador, a dead mountain man dangling by arms and legs between them.

“Wait,” he said and the men stopped, looking expectantly at their leader. “Behead the rest. Put their heads on spikes. I want them to be a warning: this is the fate awaiting any who defy the might of Erechania.”

Therrador spent the rest of the morning watching his troops carry out his orders. The prisoner, face oozing blood and pus, watched from his knees at Therrador’s side, the occasional whimper squeezing through his pain-tightened throat. When they were done, seventeen six-foot-tall wooden stakes adorned with bearded, long-haired heads decorated the ruined camp. Therrador stepped before the last remaining Estycian and looked into the man’s burned features. He rested his bloody sword on the man’s shoulder.

“Should I let you live to return to your tribe and warn them what will happen if they defy King Braymon again?” The name was a bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted to spit after he said it. How could he have done this to me? “Or should I relieve you of your misery?”

The prisoner looked up. Tears might have flowed from his eyes, or it may have been fluid weeping from his open wounds. His charred lips moved, but no sound emerged.

“You’re right,” Therrador said calmly despite the anger the name ‘Braymon’ bubbled up inside him. He looked around the camp. “There’s plenty of warning here for the rest of your tribe.”

The man’s eyes widened as Therrador drew back his sword. He hesitated a second to imagine it was the king kneeling before him, then swung his blade, severing the arteries in the man’s throat. Blood pulsed from the gash and his body fell sideways.

“Should we stake him, too, my Lord?” a soldier standing behind Therrador asked.

“No. Leave him for the animals.”

Therrador handed his sword to the soldier to clean and made his way to his horse, visions of his late wife swirling through his mind.

***

The night after the slaughter, the black-cloaked figure he now knew as Sheyndust first appeared to him. He thought himself delirious with grief, but it was the first of many visits which set in motion the events leading to Braymon’s death.

And Graymon’s abduction.

Therrador looked across the salt flats at the curls of smoke rising from the Kanosee camp. If he’d known then his rash decisions and betrayal of his friend would lead to this, he’d have chosen a different path. He might not have saved Seerna, but he didn’t have to blame Braymon for her death. He could have asked him about his wife’s choice of the name ‘Graymon’ instead of jumping to conclusions about the nature of the king’s relationship with her. Different decisions and his son would likely be safe; Erechania wouldn’t rest in the hands of a mad-woman who fashioned herself a Necromancer.

The breeze gusting in off the Sea of Linghala cut through Therrador’s thin cloak, but he didn’t pull it tight around his shoulders. Instead, he stared at the sun sparkling on the sea and at the tents strewn across the salt flats. Somewhere out there, a Kanosee wagon rattled down a bumpy track, taking his son away from him.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered and wiped a tear from his cheek.

Chapter Sixteen

Athryn crouched over the motionless figure lying in the middle of the cell, his hand resting on the man's chest. A dim light seeping in through the tightly woven latticework door reflected dully in the magician's eyes.

“He lives. Barely.” He looked up at the other prisoner. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” the man who’d told them his name was Callan said. “He was like that when they brought him.”

“And how long have you been here?” Khirro asked.

Callan shook his head. “A few hours before they brought your friend. Then you came perhaps an hour later. It’s difficult to gauge the passage of time in the dark.”

“Why did you not show yourself?” The magician pushed his fingers against the fallen man’s throat, then touched the back of his hand to his forehead.

“Didn’t know who you were. Don’t know what’s going on.” Callan leaned against the stone wall and allowed himself to slide down it into a crouch, head in his hands. “I was asleep in my bedroll when I woke with a start, my hands bound.” He paused for a deep breath that made his shoulders tremble. “There were things in the forest, dancing around me, with green flesh and yellow eyes.”

Khirro nodded. “I saw them, too.”

Athryn stood and looked from Khirro to Callan.

“Forest nymphs. They are said to lead travelers astray, make them hopelessly lost.”

Callan laughed nervously. “They seem to have done a fine job.”

Khirro looked at him and wondered about his reaction. A big man with broad shoulders and thick arms, Callan didn’t strike Khirro as the type to cower in the face of fear.

“But what were you doing in Lakesh?” he asked.

Callan looked up at Khirro, eyes wide with surprise. “Lakesh? What are you talking about? Do I look stupid enough to be caught dead in Lakesh?”

Khirro looked at Athryn, brow furrowed. “If you weren’t in Lakesh, then where were you?”

“Kanos, of course. Where were you?”

Athryn shook his head at Khirro then crouched again, returning to his survey of the injured fellow.

He’s right. Best not to say where we’ve been or what’s happened. Especially not to a Kanosee.

“It doesn’t matter. We’re all trapped here, now.”

Callan pushed himself to his feet, eyes narrowed. “You’re not Kanosee, are you?”

Khirro glanced at Athryn. “No.”

“Me neither.” His face relaxed and a sly smile crept across his lips. “I was passing through on my way home. To Poltghasa.”

Khirro saw that their cellmate intended the statement to inspire fear or awe but, after all they’d been through, the mention of the city of thieves and murderers meant little. There wasn’t a human alive-thief, rapist, murderer, or the like-half as fearsome as the giants, water serpent, or dragon he’d encountered in Lakesh. He was about to tell Callan so when Athryn interrupted.

“Something is happening.”

The magician opened the man’s jerkin, exposing his chest. Khirro and Callan both knelt at his side so they could see. Athryn pointed to the fellow’s stomach where the flesh pulsed and rippled, expanding and contracting like an irregular heartbeat underneath his navel. His belly appeared to glow dully.

“What’s happening?” Callan whispered.

Athryn shook his head. A few seconds passed and the palpitation shifted further up his torso, slipping under the man’s breast bone, pushing his rib cage unevenly. He gasped, his body jerked. The three men stood and took a step back.

The body on the floor convulsed; his head rose then fell back hard against the stone. The man-lump in his throat bobbed as though he wanted to speak, but no words came from his pale lips.

“What’s going on?” Callan said again; this time his voice was louder and held a note of panic.

Khirro looked at him, saw the expression of stark fear on his face, and looked away before it spread to him. The unconscious prisoner's cheeks bulged and a dim luminescence shone though his flesh. His lips parted.

And then the worms came.

They spilled out of his mouth and down his cheeks, their glow spreading and casting shadows across his strained flesh as they tumbled to the floor or caught in his hair. More emerged from his nostrils; Khirro watched in horror as they squeezed out around his eyeballs. Some caught on his cheek or in his ear, immediately burrowing themselves back into the body they’d left. Athryn thrust his arm in front of Khirro and pushed him back a step.

“Stay back.”

The things continued to overflow the man’s body until his head lay in a gradually expanding pool of glowing lice. More and more squirmed out of his head. A popping sound made Khirro jump as the worms pushed one of the poor fellow's eyes out of its socket. Some crawled from holes in his tattered pants and Khirro shuddered to think out of what orifices they’d emerged.

They watched until the clatter of the makeshift door opening pulled their attention from the grisly sight at their feet. Five of the pale-skinned men entered, growling and barking commands in their strange, guttural language. Khirro and Athryn fell back as the leader of the group menaced them with a black sword crawling with glowing red runes.

The Mourning Sword!

Relief washed through Khirro despite the threat before them. He’d thought the sword lost, and its disappearance left a hole in his soul he’d have been loathe to admit-weapons were never important to him before.

Callan also backed away from the shaggy-haired men, but he stepped in a pile of the worms which had writhed away from the body. His foot slipped and he went to the floor hard, three of the men falling on him at the leader’s command before he could recover. They grabbed him by the arms, pulled him to his feet and dragged him out of the cell. Khirro saw glowing worms smeared across the back of his shirt and breeches.

“No,” Callan screamed, voice high and shrill, and Khirro felt ashamed for him, and for hesitating to aid him.

He moved to help, but the man holding the Mourning Sword slashed the air in front of him and Khirro shrank back. The sword-wielder backed out of the cell, shouting at Khirro and Athryn as two of his companions replaced the wooden bars over the doorway. They rushed to the door, the luminescence emitted by the mass of worms wiggling on the cell floor spilling into the tunnel, but it was empty. They were left alone with the glowing worms and the sound of Callan’s screams echoing along the stone walls.

***

Not long after they dragged Callan away, the men returned with pieces of wood fashioned into shovels and their hands wrapped in beaten leather to gather the worms spilled from the dead man’s body. And none too soon, by Khirro’s estimation; the longer the body lay there, the more of the tiny grubs that emerged from it. The leader held Khirro and Athryn at bay in the corner with Khirro’s sword while the others scooped up the worms. They left the corpse and, an hour after they’d taken Callan, the body started to smell.

Khirro sat against the wall, as far from the dead man as he could get.

“Where do you think they took Callan?”

Athryn shrugged and scowled, concentrating on a line scrolled across his left forearm. A few glowing grubs had wriggled their way out of the body since their pale-skinned captors left, but they didn’t cast enough light to read by. Khirro shuffled to his companion’s side, giving the corpse a wide berth.

“Have you figured out how to use your magic?”

The magician looked up from his musings and gazed into Khirro’s eyes.

“I think so. But I cannot know until I try.”

Khirro rolled up his sleeve.

“Do you want me to draw blood again?” He didn’t like the possibility of wounding himself, but it couldn’t be worse than whatever they were doing to Callan and might eventually do to him.

“No. I think it will take more than a few drops of blood.”

“I can cut deeper. I can use my fingernails.”

Athryn’s eyes dropped back to the writing on his arm.

“No, Khirro. I think it will require a life. I felt the power when the worms overtook our friend.” He nodded toward the corpse, then rolled up one leg of his breeches to examine the tattooed writing on his calf. Khirro watched, waiting for further explanation, but hesitated at asking why he didn’t do anything when he felt the power.

A minute passed without words. Khirro shifted and was about to ask the question when Athryn’s gaze flickered up to meet his, then away again.

“I am sorry, Khirro, but I was not ready. When the power comes, the window of opportunity to cast a spell is brief.” He sighed and looked into Khirro’s face. “That is the second time I have let you down.”

“It’s all right, my friend.” Khirro put his hand on the magician’s shoulder. “I know it won’t happen again.”

***

Khirro slept in brief snatches. Each time he woke, he found Athryn sitting cross-legged, examining the incantations inscribed on his flesh. Between the sleep and the dark, Khirro couldn’t tell how much time passed before their captors returned.

The wooden latticework bars scraped against the stone floor and the first underground-dweller through menaced them with the Mourning Sword as they jumped to their feet. The blade whistled; the runes glowed a smear through the air in front of them. Khirro and Athryn retreated and watched others enter the cell, two of them gripping Callan under the arms, legs splayed out behind, the toes of his bare feet scraping the ground as they dragged him in. They struggled to the middle of the cell and dropped him unceremoniously beside the dead man. The way he fell to the ground without catching himself told Khirro he was either unconscious or already dead.

“Watch for any opportunity,” Athryn whispered, his words soliciting a grunt and a wave of the Mourning Sword from the leader. Nerves coiled and knotted in Khirro’s stomach.

He wants me to kill one of them.

Even after all that had happened since the day the king fell atop the wall of the Isthmus Fortress, the thought of killing sickened Khirro.

What choice do I have?

One of the men who dragged Callan in spoke and the others laughed, all except the one holding the sword. He barked a command, silencing them. More words spilled from his lips, all of them unrecognizable to Khirro’s ears; three of the bearded men nodded and moved toward him and Athryn. The companions tensed, ready to fight. Khirro glanced at Athryn and saw his lips moving, practicing the spell he would cast if the opportunity presented itself.

Kill a man with my bare hands.

The men rushed them. One pushed Khirro away while the others grabbed at Athryn, grasping his clothes and pulling him away from the wall. Khirro jumped one of them, got his arm around his neck, but the Mourning Sword’s pommel cracked against his skull before he cinched in.

The impact crumpled him to his knees and set stars swirling about his head. He ground his teeth and breathed deep through his nose trying to retain focus as the world swam. Through the haze, Khirro saw the three underground-dwellers grab Athryn, arms pinned, and drag him across the room toward the door. Khirro shook his head to clear the fuzziness from his eyes.

“No,” he said pushing himself to his feet.

A knot twisted his belly, the pressure of it building and spreading until it filled his chest. Warmth spilled down his arms and legs; his cheeks burned. The cell sprang into flickering view, darkness driven from it by an unseen light that set shadows dancing on the uneven walls. He said again, more loudly: “No!”

Khirro jumped at the men, a tongue of flame trailing behind his fist looping toward the nearest one. The man’s jaw cracked and fire leaped into his beard. He screamed-the most recognizable sound Khirro had heard any of them make.

The others gasped and released their grip on Athryn as they stumbled over each other, rushing for the narrow door. The sword-wielder made it out first; the others pushed and scratched each other in their haste to get away from Khirro’s flames. The latticework bars slammed into place before Khirro got there and the wide, scared eyes of their captors reflected the blaze engulfing his fists as they jammed the logs into place and backed away staring at him.

Khirro reached for the wooden bars-the tinder dry twine lashing them together would burn easily. Before he touched them, the tip of the Mourning Sword came through the widest gap between two of the bars. He grabbed the blade in both hands, stopping it less than an inch from his stomach.

Beneath the flame, the sharp edge of the sword cut deep into his palms, but Khirro held on. The man yanked on the sword, trying to release it from his grasp and Khirro grimaced as steel grated against bone. He held on a second longer before then letting go, sending the man with the sword stumbling into his companions. They gibbered and yelled but didn’t approach the cell door, instead turning to flee, their guttural cries continuing as they slipped away down the tunnel.

Khirro lurched forward, grabbing the wooden bars, but the flames were gone. Instead of fire to burn the wood and twine and set them free, blood smeared across the cell door and dripped to the floor. Elation and despair spun in his head. A manic laugh spilled from his lips, then the world darkened and the wood disappeared from his vision. The last thing he felt before the world went black was his companion’s hands lowering him to the hard stone floor.

Chapter Seventeen

The dreams are getting more frequent, more vivid. This night I dreamed he was three men, not one. All three had their way with me, passed me around like a doll sewn together strictly to give them pleasure, then they beat me and left me for dead. Then I was in a lagoon, bathing with the corpses of all the people he murdered floating around me-hundreds of them. Many of them were women, many more children, and in my dream I hated him more. I wake and wipe cold sweat from my brow, but it isn’t because of the horrible dreams that I’ve woken before morning light.

There’s someone in my room.

I slip my hand to my waist but the smooth-gripped hilt of my dagger is missing. I feel no panic or confusion about this, not now-taking the time for either of these could mean my life. Instead, my muscles coil and I roll to where my sword and scabbard lay beside the straw mattress, but it’s gone. I push myself to a crouching position, ready to spring or defend myself, but there’s little to be seen in the dim room. A shadow flickers to my right and I lunge, but it’s gone before I reach it: a black cloak, almost indistinguishable in the benighted room.

She was here. She took my weapons. Why?

I straighten and turn, put my back to the wall. The room is small with no place to hide, but I can’t shake the feeling I’m not alone. Is it merely the feeling of her left behind? A whisper of bare foot on wood floor outside my door tells me no. I creep to the door and wait.

The latch rattles-someone testing to see if it’s locked. It’s not. A pause no longer than two breaths passes and the latch lifts, the door swings inward slowly on hinges creaking despite the intruder’s care. The sound makes me remember the man and myself as a small child; I suppress a shiver of angry hatred and raise my hands, ready to attack. Scenarios I wouldn’t have imagined in my previous life run through my mind: what to do if it’s a single man with a sword, or an axe, or if my attackers number two or more. Each ends with me killing with my bare hands. I struggle back a grin.

The door swings fully open and a person steps through. A quick glance shows me there’s only one and I pounce, grasping his hands and riding the intruder to the floor. Several observations come at once as I land atop the trespasser: neither hand holds a weapon nor the calluses of hands used to holding weapons; the smell is more perfume than sweat, though there is certainly both; and the grunt of air forced from lungs isn’t the sound made by a man.

The interloper is a woman.

I roll the woman over and look into one of the few faces I know in this Gods-forsaken city. The whore’s expression twists with pain and panic; she struggles to draw breath. She’s not injured, only the air is knocked out of her chest. I made sure not to strike a killing blow because, had it been him, I wouldn’t have wanted him to die without seeing the look on his face as his life fled. It’s what I live for.

“Breathe. You’ll be okay.”

I sit on her hips, her wrists pinned to the floor. Inches separate my face from hers as she struggles to fill her lungs. After a moment, I hear the squeak of air squeezing through. I wait until she can fill her chest with breath before bothering to question her.

“Why are you here?” I keep my voice low. If she brought others who haven’t revealed themselves, I want to hear them before they sink their steel into my back.

“I don’t know,” she says, words ragged. “I’ve never met no one like you.”

She wriggles her hips beneath me; the tingling it creates distracts me for half a second.

“Who sent you?”

She shakes her head and her hair brushes against the floor. “No one. I wanted to see you.”

I stare into her eyes, looking for the lie they contain, but all I see is an emotion resembling desire. I don’t know what to think. I’m confused, indecisive, and don’t like the way being so makes me feel. Before I can do anything, she strains her neck, pushes her head up, and her lips brush against mine like a feather caressing them.

Again, the tingle.

I release her hands and sit up looking down at her hair splayed across the floor. Curly and brown, the knots in it the last time I saw her are gone. She washed and groomed herself in anticipation of visiting me.

“I…I came to see you,” she says, hands reaching up to rub my chest.

My leather is thick, but I feel the pressure of her touch on my breasts. Her hips grind against me and my breath shortens. The time with the man in the meadow felt good but a desire to kill him, to protect myself, underlay the physical desire. I feel no need for violence at her touch.

I close my eyes as her hands trail down my torso to my thighs, her touch gentle but firm. She rubs my legs, her fingers reaching higher with each stroke. Behind closed lids I see the face of another woman, a young blond who giggles easily and is eager to learn.

Aryann.

She was my friend, one of the women the man named Khirro murdered. I open my eyes to avoid thinking about him. There are more pleasant things to think about as her fingers no longer rub my legs but somewhere higher, pressing desperately against my breeches. A moan escapes my lips, surprising me, and she smiles. I can’t help myself. I lean forward and press my lips to hers. Her tongue darts out eagerly, searching my lips, finding my tongue. The feel of it takes me to another time when I was a different person, when I wasn’t so unlike this woman. I felt in control of my destiny then, and of the things I did, but ended up dead as surely as this woman will.

My mind wanders through other times while her fingers fumble with the fastenings on my leather. Her breath is loud as our mouths eat hungrily of each other’s passion and I think of those women, and of man after man, but they feel wrong. Physically I was with them, but without emotion-as it must be for this woman as she leans against the rail outside a public house and gets fucked for money. Then I think of him, but it’s not the same as before.

I realize for the first time that I loved the man called Khirro once. And it increases the hate I feel for him.

My leather is on the floor beside us, her hands on my breasts. This time only my thin cotton shirt separates her flesh and mine. Her fingers pinch my nipples and the groan comes again, almost loud enough to disguise the creak of a footstep on a wooden floor. My eyes snap open and, without thought, I roll off her and away, my shoulder thumping painfully on the knotty floorboards. I’m on my feet in an instant facing the two men who crept through the door while I was foolishly engaged in the throes of passion. Both hold bare steel in their hands.

“What do you think you’re doing, whore?” one of the men growls and throws a kick toward the woman. She scrambles away and his boot misses. “How many times do I has to tell you no one rides for free?”

The second man snorts and faces me. His eyes seek my chest first, then move up. When he sees my face, he elbows his friend and gestures at me.

“Hey! Ain’t she the wench what killed Mart last night?”

The first man looks at me, also. A grin spreads across his face.

“Yeah. That’s her all right. Killed more than just Mart, I hear.”

“She don’t look so tough.”

“Mmm. Kinda pretty, really.”

The whore has positioned herself against the wall. She makes a comment I don’t hear, focused as I am on the two men. The first man scowls and spits a curse, then they advance on me. The second man has one hand on his belt, loosening his breeches. Why do men think they have the right to fuck anything they want?

He’ll be disappointed with how this turns out for him.

The first man doesn’t have such designs. He swings his sword halfheartedly at me, to scare me and keep me in my place, but I have other plans. As the blade sweeps past, I dart in and spin him around, changing the path of his sword. The steel slashes his friend’s arm and he’s suddenly not so concerned with getting his cock free of his pants. I push the man into his companion. They both yell-one in pain, one in anger-but recover quickly and face me across the room again.

“Whore,” says the second man, the one with the fresh cut on his arm.

“Not anymore,” I growl back. The only whore in the room is behind me; I remain aware of that, but I don’t think I need be concerned about her. Not yet.

The two men rush me, but they’re disorganized and untrained. I dive between them, snagging the dagger from the first man’s belt. Before he can turn, it’s buried in his left side. He gurgles, falls to his knees, then tumbles face first on the floor at the whore’s feet.

The second man comes at me more slowly, the look of rage on his face tempered with fear as blood drips from the fingertips of his left hand. He prods the sword tip at me and I jump back a step. The door is close beside me. He swings his sword and I open the rickety wooden door; the blade crashes into it instead of my side. While he’s off balance, my boot finds his ball sack. The sword hits the floor and my fingers wrap around his windpipe. He thrashes, but I’m behind him, listening to his last breaths rasp down his throat. I dig my nails into his flesh, feel the blood begin to flow, then I tear his esophagus out. He slumps to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.

The whore sits hard against the far wall, knees drawn up to her chest. In this position, I can see up her skirt and feel the tingle again, like an itch that can’t be scratched, but push it aside. As I approach, she tries to make herself smaller. I crouch before her.

“He sent you, didn’t he?”

She steals a look over my shoulder at the men dead behind me, shakes her head hard.

“Not them,” I say doing my best to smile comfortingly. “Him. Khirro.”

“I don’t know no Khirro. I told you that.”

“Of course.” Still smiling, I stroke her cheek with my fingers. She flinches. Her skin is soft. “Is he in the city?”

“I don’t know no one like that.”

My smile disappears. “Is he close?”

This time she shakes her head. I won’t get anything from her. This Khirro’s connections and influence run deep. He must be a very dangerous man for her to be more afraid of him than me. Good.

Could I really have loved such a man?

I touch her cheek again, run my fingers through her hair. She doesn’t flinch this time. It seems to calm her, instead, as is my intent.

“It’s all right,” I tell her, forcing the smile back to my lips. She relaxes a little more. “I’ll find him myself. Now, where were we?”

I slide my other hand beneath her skirt and stroke the soft flesh between her legs. A shiver runs through her; I lean in and put my lips on hers. My tongue goes into her mouth, but I feel no excitement like before, no tingle. Instead I notice the gap in her teeth. I suck her breath into my lungs and she stiffens. I move my hand from her crotch to her chest, my palm flat against her breast. It’s large and soft, and it makes me think of another woman, not the young blond but an older woman, a woman who I once thought of like a mother. I don’t let the thought stop me as I push my palm firmly into her chest. Her ribs let go and her life ends.

I stand and survey the night’s work, looking upon the blood and the bodies. My hands are tacky with drying blood, a feeling to which I’m becoming accustomed. Three dead, only one by weapon. My skill is greater than I knew. But am I ready for the man named Khirro?

As I regard the dead, I realize two things. First, I’m going to have to find somewhere else to stay while I await my prey. The second thing I come to understand is I can trust no one. Anyone can be in league with my enemy.

Perhaps everyone.

Chapter Eighteen

Khirro’s head hurt almost as much as his hands.

He blinked his eyes hard to refocus, but the pain distracted him and the dimness of the cell conspired against his vision. Through the haze and feeble light, he discerned a shape huddled against the wall across from him.

Athryn.

“How long?” Khirro’s words grated out of his dry throat. They’d been given no water since they came underground, and bursting into flames did nothing to help his thirst.

Athryn crossed to his companion. “A couple of hours. How do you feel?”

“Like a horse galloped across my forehead.”

“Not a horse. Magic. You found the fire, Khirro.”

He held up his hands wrapped in pieces of cloth torn from Athryn’s shirt.

“Did the fire do this?”

“No. You grabbed the blade of the Mourning Sword. You are lucky you did not lose your fingers.”

“Yeah. Lucky.”

“But how did you bring the flame to be? Do you remember?”

Khirro’s brow wrinkled as he thought back, struggling for recollection. He remembered the men coming to take Athryn and wanting to stop them, jumping to Athryn’s aid before the fire came without warning or provocation from him. The same feeling of elation and despair he felt when it happened rose in him again-he’d brought the flame forth but had no idea how.

“I don’t know. It was just there.”

“Well, thank the Gods it was. You saved me from that horrible fate.”

The magician pointed at the corpse in the middle of the cell and Callan sprawled out beside it. Khirro had forgotten about Callan.

“Has he woken at all?”

Athryn shook his head.

Khirro pushed himself up to his feet, wincing at the pain in his palms as he did, and went to where Callan lay. A few more of the glowing worms wriggled about near the corpse of the unknown man while others lay still, their light dimming or gone.

“Be careful around those grubs.” Athryn came to his side. “The wounds in your hands will make easy access for them. That is how they got them inside our friends here.”

Khirro stomped harder than necessary on the worms, grinding them into the stone floor with the sole of his boot, lips pulled back in disgust.

Athryn went and kneeled beside Callan and Khirro watched as he pulled the bottom of the man’s shirt open. In the lack of light, Khirro had to move closer to see the small incision on the man’s lower abdomen; the skin around it looked red and irritated. Tiny ripples rolled across his belly like it was a pond into which someone had tossed a pebble, disturbing the surface.

“He doesn’t have much longer, does he?”

“It would seem not.”

Khirro stared at the minute movements, imaging the grubs beneath the skin, crawling over each other in a frenzy to feed on Callan’s insides.

What a horrible way to die.

“Is there anything we can do for him?”

A pause. “Kill him.”

Khirro’s heart jumped at his companion’s words, though he knew they were the truth. They’d seen what happened to the other man-it was too terrible a death for anyone. They remained crouched at Callan's side for a minute, neither speaking. Khirro contemplated Athryn’s words.

We have no option. I’m sorry, Callan.

The sound of a footstep in the tunnel yanked their attention from Callan and the things writhing inside him. They both looked up toward the wooden bars.

“They are coming back,” Athryn whispered. Khirro began to unwind the bandages from his hands, hoping to find a way to reignite the fire, but Athryn stopped him. “No, Khirro. Wait by Callan’s side. When I signal, you must take his life.”

Khirro swallowed hard and nodded.

Killing him isn’t just about saving him from agony, it’s about saving ourselves.

He knew Athryn felt badly for his inability to help when the giant attacked at the shore, leaving the boat in ruins and nearly killing them both, and now Khirro had found his magic and saved Athryn. Here was the magician’s opportunity to redeem himself.

But I don’t want to kill him. Khirro watched Athryn glide across the cell and crouch beside the door. He bit his teeth together hard. It must be done. Athryn must find his magic.

The light of one of the underground-dwellers’ torches bounced into view. Khirro knelt beside Callan, looked up and down the man’s body, deciding how to kill someone who wasn’t threatening him. He could choke him, squeezing the life from him, but that might take too long for Athryn’s purposes and would expose Khirro’s wounds to the glowing worms. And there would be no blood.

Does there need to be blood?

He looked across the cell at Athryn standing beside the door, out of sight from the approaching men; too far away for Khirro to ask for his input without alerting their enemies.

But he didn’t have a knife nor a sword; no weapon of any kind to open one of Callan's veins. How then?

Khirro looked down at the smear of worms on the floor between the two men, crushed by his boot, and the solution came to him. It brought with it a shudder of revulsion, but he could think of no other way.

Breath short, he stood and placed the heel of his boot against the man’s temple.

A face appeared at the bars, weird shadow thrown across their captor's bare cheek by the torch’s glow. It was the young man who held the rope when they brought Khirro.

Out of sight beside the door, Athryn raised his hand; Khirro increased the pressure on Callan’s head, sweat forming on his brow. It took an effort to keep his leg from shaking. The man at the door spoke, a torrent of whispered, unintelligible words spilling from his lips. Khirro looked at him, then at Athryn’s face hidden in the gloom beside the latticework bars.

The magician’s expression changed. He looked at Khirro, shook his head and lowered his hand. With a relieved sigh, Khirro took his boot off Callan’s head. The thought of what he might have done reminded him too much of the undead creature that stood over him months ago, threatening his life with a rusty axe until the Shaman saved him.

But not following through doesn’t relieve Callan’s suffering.

Athryn stepped out of the shadows and the man at the doorway jumped back, startled. More words came, louder this time, more insistent. The magician listened, staring at their captor's face, trying to interpret his expression and body language. As the smooth-faced ground-dweller spoke, he gestured toward Khirro and a chill ran through him.

Have they come for me?

Khirro glanced down at Callan’s head, dreading the idea of putting his foot on it again, but Athryn did nothing to indicate he should. The beardless one spoke again, gestured. Even without understanding the language, Khirro knew he was repeating himself in an effort to make them comprehend his words. After the third repetition, Athryn nodded and held his hand up to the young man, stopping him mid-sentence. Khirro went to his companion’s side.

“Do you understand what he’s saying?”

The magician shook his head. “Not entirely. The one word that comes up over and over is ‘Sol’.”

Khirro raised an eyebrow. “‘Sol’? What’s that?”

“Sol is the name given to the sun God in the far south.” He faced the doorway and held his hands in front of his chest, palms pressed together as though in prayer. “Sol? Do you worship Sol?”

The man nodded.

“Why would people who live underground where they can’t see the sun worship it?”

Athryn rubbed the place on his cheek where his scar used to be. “Many civilizations worship Gods they believe gave them life though they cannot see them. The sun would be such to a race living beneath the ground.” He took a tentative step toward the door and Khirro stayed close. “Sol? What about Sol?”

The man smiled, pleased at making himself understood to some little degree. He pressed himself against the wooden bars and thrust his free arm through, pointing at Khirro’s bandaged hands.

“Sol!”

Khirro’s eyes widened. He looked down at the dirty cloth covering his wounds, staring at them for a moment before holding his hands up. The underground-dweller gestured at them again.

“Sol.”

He pulled his arm back, the door rattling as others Khirro hadn’t noticed standing in the tunnel pulled the logs propped against it away. Khirro and Athryn stepped back as they entered the cell. All of them had the pale skin and dark hair typical of their kind, but Khirro didn’t recognize any but the smooth-faced man. There were six of them; four men and two women who wore the same rough spun pants and bare chests as the men. They all stared at Khirro’s hands.

“They’re letting us go,” Khirro whispered as the youth with the torch signaled for them to come out.

“It could be a trap. They might think you will bring the wrath of Sol on them again if they try to take us by force.”

The man at the door waited through their whispered conversation, the rapturous smile on his lips unfaltering.

“What choice do we have? Wait here for our fate to find us? Die in a pool of those glowing things?” His gaze flickered to Callan and he shuddered.

Athryn nodded. “You are right. I would rather perish doing something than languish in the dark or be eaten by worms.”

He took a step toward the door but Khirro put a hand on his arm, stopping him. The people waiting for them outside the door gasped as his bandage brushed Athryn’s sleeve.

“Callan,” he said nodding toward the unconscious man.

The torch holder grunted as he and Athryn crossed the cell, but they ignored him and crouched beside Callan. The gentle ripples rolling along his stomach had become cresting waves, the flesh lit from within by a dull glow. Beneath each one, Khirro plainly saw the shapes of grubs wiggling and writhing.

“It is too late,” Athryn said. “It will be a short time before the grubs take him. There is nothing we can do.”

Khirro sighed through his nose. He did not know this man but felt connected by their circumstances.

If only I could help.

As though hearing his thoughts, Athryn put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Khirro nodded his thanks.

The underground-dweller holding the torch spoke and a note of desperation underlying his unintelligible words brought Khirro and Athryn to their feet. He stepped forward with the two women, their bare feet silent on the stone floor. One woman held Khirro and Athryn’s sword belts and daggers, the other their packs and Khirro’s shield. When they didn’t immediately step forward to take them, the women bowed their heads and held the items out like an offering. The man with the torch gestured, insisting they reclaim their possessions; the companions obliged.

With his pack and shield slung on his back, weapons stored, and the sword belt around his waist, Khirro felt renewed. He grasped the Mourning Sword’s familiar hilt and pulled an inch of steel from the scabbard. The runes glowed dull red, their energy sending relief up Khirro’s arm and into his chest through the pain of the gash on his palm. The man with the torch gestured for them to follow and stepped across the threshold. Khirro and Athryn moved toward the door, the two women falling in behind them, but then Khirro stopped him, his hand on Athryn’s arm.

“Wait,” he said and turned back into the cell.

The two women looked at him wide-eyed and stepped out if his way as he crossed the floor, both of them bowing their heads and averting their eyes as he passed. The smooth-faced man gibbered something from the doorway.

“Just a moment,” Athryn said.

Khirro stood beside Callan’s prone form, looking down at his bare stomach; the grubs within him shone through his flesh as though he had swallowed a lit torch. Khirro drew a deep breath through his mouth, tasted the dank air of the cell, and freed his blade. He grasped it in both hands and held it over Callan’s unconscious form, his arms quivering slightly both from the pain in his wounds and a desire not to have to do this. The runes brightened until they became a ferocious glow. The underground-dwellers gasped.

“I’m sorry, Callan,” Khirro said raising the sword above his head.

Behind him, he heard Athryn whispering words too quiet for Khirro to hear. Foreign words, he guessed, archaic, understood by fewer people than the words spoken by the underground-dwellers. Words of power.

The Mourning Sword arced down, cutting through Callan’s neck in one stroke, its tip scarring the floor and sending sparks into the air. Blood spurted from the wound, black in the wan light compared to the brilliant, blood-thirsty glow of Khirro’s blade. Grubs squeezed and wriggled their way through the severed flesh but, as Athryn’s incantation ended, they disappeared in the blinding light that filled the cell at the magician’s final word.

Khirro squinted and covered his eyes with his forearm; he heard their rescuers utter confused, fearful sounds. Feet shuffled and voices cried out in surprise. Hope filled Khirro’s soul like the light filled his vision.

Athryn was right. He’s found his magic.

When the light faded to a bearable level, Khirro lowered his arm. A dimmer version of the light remained, illuminating the two dead men lying on the floor, Callan’s head detached at the neck. Khirro let the Mourning Sword sag to his side, the energy gone from his arm.

I killed him.

Athryn had crossed the cell without Khirro’s notice and patted him on the arm. Khirro looked up to see a broad, relieved smile on the magician’s lips. He understood why his friend wore the expression, but with a man lying dead at his feet, his life taken by Khirro’s own blade, it was difficult to share in his relief. His gaze fell back to Callan, but Athryn tapped his arm again. Khirro looked up and the magician pointed toward the cell door; Khirro turned his head to look.

All of the underground-dwellers had fallen to their knees, bowing before their angels of Sol.

Chapter Nineteen

Wooden wheels grumbled over uneven ground, protesting with each rock and hole they traversed. Graymon held on to the wooden plank under his bum, trying to keep the bumpy ride from unseating him while being careful the rough seat didn’t give him a sliver. The ride already seemed long, yet when he peeked through the canvas draped over the wagon, he still saw the Kanosee camp. He didn’t want to look again-the last time he did, one of the ugly monster-men snarled at him-but curiosity isn’t an easy thing for a five year-old boy to deny.

No, six. I’m six now.

Graymon hesitated, hand hanging in the air an inch from the canvas as he dug deep to raise his courage.

They won’t hurt me.

He grasped the corner of the canvas and inched it away from the edge of the wagon, then crouched to peer through the small space. The water was closer, the tents fewer. He scuttled across his bench and peeked through the other side to find the view much the same.

The water is close on both sides. This must be the land bridge.

His father had told him about the narrow strip of land separating the Small Sea from the Sea of Linghala, but he’d never seen it. Until the woman brought him to the salt flats-he didn’t know how she’d gotten him from the palace to the flats because he didn’t remember riding in a wagon or mounting a horse-he’d never been outside Achtindel, the city of his birth. At another time, he might have marvelled at seeing the seas for the first time and been awed by the sight of the land bridge, but not so now.

A cold wind blew off the water, shuddering the canvas. Dead brown leaves hung limply on trees or skittered across the barren ground, reminding him of the dead men escorting him from his home as a prisoner. Only dead men, not a living soldier amongst them.

The lady lied.

Tears welled in his eyes and Graymon dropped the canvas flap back in place. If he held it up too long, one of the hideous guards always noticed, always scared him.

Why did this happen to me? I was a good boy.

The wind slapped the canvas against the wooden side of the wagon, making him jump; he pulled the itchy wool blanket tighter about his shoulders and closed his eyes. If he slept, maybe he’d dream of better things: his father, or perhaps his mother whom he’d only known in his dreams and stories his da told him. Maybe, when he woke, he’d find this world of cold wind and canvas, dead leaves and dead men was the dream. Maybe he’d wake in his own bed with Nanny dozing in the other room.

The sound of the woman’s voice shattered his flimsy hope.

“Are you all right, Graymon, my sweet?”

Graymon’s eyes snapped open and he jumped, breath catching in his throat. The woman smiled her honey smile and put a hand on his knee for comfort. He shrank away.

“There is nothing to fear.” She glanced at the canvas protecting them from the wind as though she saw through it. “Are my men treating you well?”

Where did she come from?

The boy stared at her, his bottom lip quivering. Truthfully, the undead soldiers had done no more than glower at him when they caught him stealing glimpses at the countryside bouncing by.

“You lied to me,” he said.

The woman smiled. “I only told you what you needed to hear, dear Graymon. That is what adults do with children. They tell them half-truths and deceptions to protect them and make them feel safe.”

He glared at her, angry, but something in her smile made the ire dissipate from him. Nervous fear replaced it.

“W-where are you taking me?” He hated hearing a shake in his voice to match the one in his lip. The woman continued smiling but didn’t answer.

Daddy would want me to be brave.

He drew a shuddering breath and set his teeth, determination making his voice more steady this time. “Where are you taking me?”

The woman tilted her head the way a dog might, like she didn’t understand his question. She said nothing for a minute and Graymon fidgeted, the wool blanket suddenly itchier on his neck than a moment ago. He fought the urge to reach up and scratch it.

The colors at the ends of her fingertips drew his eye, but he quickly shifted his gaze away rather than see what atrocities might be painted there. The canvas flapped in the wind, startling him, and he stared, worried one of the dead men might be coming to join them.

It’s the wind. Be brave.

The wagon slammed through a deep pothole, jarring his spine and clicking his teeth. The woman continued to smile. Even over the rattle-thump of the wagon wheels rolling over the rocky track, Graymon imagined he heard the footsteps of decaying feet walking beside him, boot heels scuffing through dirt, the butts of spears clicking on stones. He thought if he listened close enough, he’d hear their flesh rotting. A knot formed in his throat making breath difficult.

“I… I want my da.” A fat tear rolled down his cheek onto the itchy blanket.

The woman nodded. “I know, sweetheart. You will see him again. But first, you have to be a good boy. And your da has to be a good boy, too.”

“My da?”

“Yes, dear. Your father promised to do things for me. When they are complete, you will be with him again.”

Graymon chewed his bottom lip and rubbed his cheek against the blanket. The wool wiped away his tear but left another itchy spot.

“But why do I have to go?”

She leaned toward him and he saw flames dance in her eyes.

“Your father cannot concentrate while you are around. He asked me to take you away.”

The air disappeared suddenly from Graymon’s chest, like the time he’d fallen off his bed and landed on his chest. He had thought he might never draw another breath, and though the feeling passed eventually, he’d never been so scared. Not until he met the woman and her dead men. Not until she said his father wanted him to go.

“It will be all right,” she said rubbing his arm. “You will like my palace.”

“But…da?”

The woman’s smile disappeared; some of her beauty left with it. Graymon pushed himself farther back on the bench until a crate behind him pushed uncomfortably into the small of his back.

“If you behave, you and your father will be all right. If your father behaves, you will both be all right. If either of you misbehaves…” She leaned back, her smile returning, but Graymon didn’t think her beauty returned with it. Her stare made him feel cold. “I will have to introduce you to some of my friends.”

Her arm moved quickly, throwing open the canvas before Graymon realized she’d moved. The chill wind whipped decayed leaves into the wagon, swirled them about the boy’s face making him jump back, the crate pressing painfully against his back. He waved the leaves away and looked out of the wagon at three ruined faces glaring back at him. The undead soldiers, their decayed lips contorted in sneers, brandished their weapons. Graymon pulled the blanket over his face as the wind gusted, threatening to pull that little protection off him.

“Remember their faces,” the woman said, her voice distant. “For if you disobey me, you will come to know them better.”

Graymon’s breath came in short in-and-out gasps, dampening the blanket in front of his mouth and making his head feel light. The wind tugged a second longer then died away, but he didn’t emerge from his cocoon for minutes after. When he pulled the cover off his face, the woman was gone and the wagon’s canvas back in place. Tears rolled down his cheeks; he sniffed and gasped, not caring if the beasts outside heard him over the clatter of the wagon.

She didn’t say I couldn’t cry.

After a while, his tears waned. He wiped his nose on the itchy blanket, smearing snot across his cheek. His eyelids drooped, his head sagged, but he fought against the sleep his body craved, afraid of what he might see in his dreams, perhaps more afraid of what he’d see when he woke. He hoped sleep would bring the white tyger that visited him in his dreams once before, but more likely it would be the ugly-beautiful woman or her dead men. He didn’t want to see any more of them. Never again.

As the numbness of sleep overtook Graymon’s limbs, he realized he couldn’t stay in the wagon and be taken to a far away palace. The woman had lied to him: neither he nor his father were safe from her or her monsters. If they both did exactly as she said, she’d kill them. Of this, Graymon felt certain. Escape was his best hope.

His head nodded, chin bouncing against his chest. He snorted and opened his eyes once more, but they didn’t stay open long.

After I have some sleep.

Chapter Twenty

Therrador strode across the courtyard, the others trailing close behind. He scratched at the bandage wound around his right hand, trying to relieve the itch of the healing flesh beneath.

“It’s been more than a week, Hanh,” he said over his shoulder. “We should have heard from someone by now.”

“Whispers sometimes take more time than horsemen, my Liege.”

“I never trusted whispers,” Sir Alton added.

“This isn’t a matter of trust,” Therrador said. “It’s a matter of saving our kingdom. If the whispers are not effective, then I’ll do it myself.”

They approached the white stone building with the arched windows-the fortress’ main stables. A thousand stalls lined the walls of the long, narrow building, each of them filled with horses prancing restlessly, waiting for when they’d be called upon to carry their knights into battle. Therrador shook his head as they neared the doorway.

They’d already have done what they were bred for if not for me.

“What will you do, Your Highness?” Perdaro asked.

“I’ll go to Achtindel. Not all of the king’s army resides in the fortress. After that-”

“But what about the Archon?” Hu Dondon interrupted.

“Tell her I had urgent business at the capital.”

Emon Turesti nodded. “A kingdom has many issues requiring the king’s attention, especially during times of war,” he said, his long fingers fiddling with the clasp of his ankle-length green cape. “I’m sure I could find a convincing task to take you to the capital. At the very least, disbursement of the crops must be handled.”

“She’ll see through such an excuse,” Perdaro insisted. “Remember the plan: do as you’re told.”

Therrador stopped short of the stable entrance and faced the others.

“I may have made a horrible mistake, Hanh,” Therrador said, his mouth pulled down in a frown, “but I am the king. The kingdom is at risk and my son is being taken to Kanos, if he still lives. I won’t sit back and wait for your whispers to take hold, all the while shivering in fear of a woman. If I’m discovered, I’ll live or die with the consequences. If I’m not, then maybe Erechania will have a chance.”

Sir Alton and Emon Turesti nodded while Perdaro and Hu Dondon remained pensive. Therrador entered the stables with its smell of manure and hay, a familiar odor that brought calmness to him like it did any career soldier. Dozens of stable hands moved about, feeding and grooming horses and swamping out stalls. Therrador went to the closest stall reserved for the king’s steed and called to the nearest stable hand, a boy of about twelve years.

“Ready my horse, boy. I leave as soon as possible.”

“Yes, my king.”

The stable hand bowed and dropped his shovel, nearly tripping over his feet as he rushed to do the king’s bidding. Therrador stood back while the youth swung the gate open and went to work saddling the big bay.

“I should go with you,” Sir Alton said. “The king doesn’t travel alone. It would raise suspicion. You should-”

“He’s right, your Highness,” Dondon agreed. “The king does not travel without a guard.”

“Just so. But not you, Sir Alton. It’s your job to command the fortress in my absence.”

“I’ll collect a guard for you, my Liege,” Emon Turesti said.

“We should tell the Archon you’re going,” Perdaro said. “Perhaps there would be fewer repercussions if we gain her agreement.”

“No. The excuses can be made after I’m gone.” Therrador turned to Turesti. “Gather ten men. We leave within the hour.”

Three of the men turned to leave, but Hanh Perdaro hesitated, looking like he wanted to say more on the subject. Therrador shook his head, letting the Voice of the People know the conversation was finished before he parted his lips again. Perdaro bowed his head in deference and Therrador watched him leave while he waited for the stable hand to finish saddling his horse.

What will she do when she finds I’ve left?

His hand throbbed, reminding him of her ruthlessness. He ignored it and stroked his horse’s muzzle as the stable hand threw the saddle over its wide back.

***

How I’ve missed that sound.

Reins jingled and leather creaked as the group of men made their way down the avenue toward the main gate. Two men rode ahead of Therrador, two on each side, and the other four close behind. People watched from windows and doorways, clearing the street as they passed, but no one genuflected before the king. Instead, they stared, many of them glowering with displeasure at him for what had come to pass. Therrador shifted uneasily in his saddle.

Can’t blame them.

Horseshoes clopped on flagstones, echoing off the walls of the close-set buildings; none of the men spoke. Therrador knew many of them were happy to be headed for the capital, but they kept their comments to themselves. An air of suppression had hung over the huge fortress since the Kanosee entered as unwelcome guests in the eyes of the soldiers manning the stronghold and the civilians there providing services. He also knew about the grumblings among the men. Soldiers would always keep their opinions from their commanding officers, but happily shared them around the dinner table or over a game of cards, and none of them understood why he’d allowed the enemy into the fortress. If Turesti hadn’t chosen Sir Matte Eliden to lead the escort, Therrador might have been worried for his safety, but Sir Matte was trustworthy to a fault.

They rounded a curve in the avenue and the lead riders slowed. Therrador stood in his stirrups to see over the men. At the end of the street, where the buildings stopped and the flagstones ended at the fortress gate, a group of mounted soldiers milled about. Even from this distance, he easily picked out the woman with long blond hair in their midst. The lead rider looked back at Therrador questioningly.

“Keep going,” Therrador said and the soldier urged his horse on. Sir Matte guided his steed to Therrador’s side.

“Are you sure, my Liege?” the old knight asked. “We can go back.”

“It would do no good. Better to deal with her now than later.”

Therrador flexed his right hand. After a week and a half, he often felt like his thumb was attached, like he’d be able to wield a sword better than most men, but he knew it wasn’t true. He’d been practicing swinging a blade with his left, but felt as awkward as a novice. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on allowing the gentle bounce of the horse’s gait to calm him.

The lead rider halted his steed a few yards from the Archon’s party. Therrador looked at the men surrounding her-twelve of them, a mix of Kanosee soldiers and the hideous undead creatures, easily identified by their black mail splashed with red paint. The Archon spurred her horse to the front of the group.

“And where do you think you are going?”

“The king has urgent business in the capital,” Sir Matte said before Therrador could answer. The woman looked at the old knight, a bemused smirk twitching her red-painted lips.

“I know your king has lost his thumb,” she said. “I did not know he also lost his tongue.”

Therrador cleared his throat. “It’s as Sir Matte says. The harvest is in and it must be disbursed.”

“And none but the king can say who gets how many ears of corn?”

“It’s my job to take care of my people.”

“Hmph.” The Archon glanced around. “Perhaps the people closest to you should have been the ones you took care of.”

Anger twisted in Therrador’s stomach. “Move aside so I can complete my duties,” he said, struggling to keep the rage he felt from showing in his voice.

“You go nowhere.” She snapped her fingers and three of the men raised from the dead trotted forward. “Seize Therrador. Take him to the dungeon.”

The three moved for him; Sir Matte and the lead rider bared their steel.

“You’ll be doing nothing of the sort,” the old knight said steering his horse to allow a clear swing of his weapon.

“Matte,” Therrador said, but it was too late.

One of the dead men surged forward, his sword coming out of his scabbard and slashing toward Sir Matte in one smooth movement. The clang of steel on steel rang down the avenue and Therrador unconsciously reached for his sword; his wounded hand banged against the hilt, sending a jolt of pain up his forearm.

Sir Matte had once been a powerful and skilled warrior, but his time had passed some fifteen years before. The undead soldier swung again, knocking the old knight’s sword out of his hand, and a third stroke sent him to the flagstones, blood gushing from a wound in his throat. The other soldiers pressed forward, but the Archon clapped her hands with a resounding smack that stopped everyone in their tracks.

“Enough,” she said. “If you choose for your men to fight, they will all die here.”

Men and undead soldiers milled about, horses dancing, awaiting the command to dart in and join a fight. Therrador hesitated, looking first at his old friend lying on the ground, his life draining from his neck, and then up at the decayed faces of their enemy. His shoulders sagged.

“Sheath your weapons,” he said. His men looked at him, unbelieving. When they didn’t immediately react, he spoke again. “Put them away.”

As they did, Therrador slid out of his saddle and went to his fallen friend’s side. Sir Matte’s watery eyes were glazed, but he still gulped shallow breaths through the bloody froth on his lips.

“Therrador,” he whispered.

“Shh. Don’t speak.” Therrador propped the old knight’s head on his lap. “I’m sorry for this, my friend.”

“Enough sentiment. Seize him,” the Archon commanded. Two of the dead soldiers grabbed Therrador by the elbows and dragged him from the dying man. “Take him to the lowest, darkest cell, but treat him well. He is the king, after all.”

Therrador glared over his shoulder at the woman’s smiling face as the two dead men hauled him away.

She knew again. Maybe she is a devil.

Chapter Twenty-One

Following their rescuers along the twisting, turning tunnels left Khirro unsure what direction they might be traveling and made his head spin. With no moon, sun or stars overhead, no wind blowing or moss growing on trees, concepts like direction and time seemed ridiculous and impossible.

How do they find their way?

The light Athryn conjured from Callan’s death had followed the magician from the cell, but it faded after what Khirro guessed to be an hour. Perhaps another hour passed as they traversed the maze of tunnels led by the smooth-faced man. They set a swift pace and Khirro felt the effort in his aching lungs-the air below ground was not what he was accustomed to above.

“Do you know where we are?” Khirro asked over his shoulder.

“No. I cannot tell.” Athryn sounded short of breath, too. Knowing so made Khirro feel a little better.

Khirro’s grip tightened on the Mourning Sword’s hilt. Once, in the Necromancer’s keep, it had glowed with what Athryn called ‘the Light of Truth’, showing Khirro the secrets of all it touched, but he didn’t know how it happened. If he could choose a time he wanted to know someone else’s true thoughts, it was now as they put their trust in people they didn’t understand leading them through caves and tunnels their imaginations couldn’t fathom. It led the same thought to turn over in his head again and again:

Are they truly helping us or leading us to our doom?

The sword in his hand reassured Khirro somewhat, but what good would it be if they were led into a trap or fed to voracious worms?

But why would they give us back our weapons if they were going to kill us?

The unease in Khirro’s gut distracted him so that he nearly walked into the man ahead of him sword-first when he stopped without warning, his knees bent and body tense. Khirro slid to a stop behind him, the soles of his boots skidding on loose stone strewn on the tunnel floor. The smooth-faced underground-dweller turned to him, finger pressed against his lip, and Khirro nodded. Their language was incomprehensible to him, but some gestures spanned all cultures and races.

Khirro held his breath, listened to his pulse beating in his head, the rush of blood in his ears. He heard nothing else. Shifting his gaze to Athryn, he raised a questioning eyebrow; the magician shook his head. The light of the worm torch pulsed as the grubs writhed beneath the cloth forcing them to stay in place and light the tunnel around them, its illumination falling on plain, rough walls and a ceiling seven feet above. The passages were clearly formed by the hand of man.

Or something man-like.

A minute passed and Khirro looked at the fellow ahead of him, the torch’s glow washing over his smooth cheeks like waves lapping on a lake shore. His finger remained against his lips as though he thought the act of holding it there was what kept the others quiet and, without it, they would begin making noise again. His dark hair fell limp over his forehead and spilled in front of his face. In the torch’s strange glow, his eyes glimmered green.

Somewhere in the darkness-ahead or behind, Khirro couldn’t discern-a sound echoed along the stone walls. Soft, quiet; like a drop of water falling to the ground. Khirro tensed, remembering the worms falling from the ceiling like they attacked with one mind, but this sound wasn’t quite the same.

The muscles in his sword arm tightened, the cut on his palm throbbed beneath the dirty bandage. The smooth-faced man remained still, as though living underground had taught him how to become one with the stone of the cave. After a moment, the sound came again. Then again, and Khirro realized what it was they heard.

Footsteps.

The leader of their procession leaned past Khirro and Athryn and whispered to the woman behind the magician, who passed his words to the next of the underground-dwellers, then the next. The man at the far end nodded and disappeared back down the tunnel, his bare feet silent on the stone floor. Khirro’s brow furrowed.

They move so silently. He remembered how they simply seemed to appear at the door to the cell. So why do we hear footsteps?

The fellow returned after a few minutes, breathing hard, and pushed his way past the others to the smooth-faced man, jabbering at him with little regard for his voice’s volume. The smooth-faced man’s eyes widened and he barked a command to his fellows then began moving more swiftly than before.

They ran and the noise behind them grew louder and more frequent, noticeable even over the sound of their own footfalls. Khirro recognized that the sound was created by the footsteps of many, not just one. The underground-dwellers behind Khirro and Athryn pushed forward, urging them to go faster.

“Do you know what’s happening?”

“Only that we are being followed.”

The tunnel curved right, then switched back left before mounting a rise. The sound following them grew, echoing from wall to wall to ceiling until it multiplied to the sound of a soft-footed army at their heels. One of the women behind them cried out as she tripped and fell. Khirro slowed to help her to her feet, but the others grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him on.

“We can’t leave her,” he protested as they pushed him along the tunnel.

A moment later, the woman screamed, the sound piercing in the dark tunnel, then it was cut short. Khirro tried to look over his shoulder and back down the tunnel, but the underground-dwellers herded him along.

“They’re right behind us!”

“Keep going,” Athryn urged.

The two men in the lead began to outdistance Khirro. Their companion’s cry had quickened their pace to a sprint while pausing to help had slowed Khirro and his group. He pushed forward, begging all the speed out of his tired legs. He didn’t know what followed behind them, but if it put this much fear into their rescuers, he suspected he didn’t want to find out, not in a small, dark tunnel with barely enough room to move, never mind fight.

The men ahead disappeared. An instant of panic flared in Khirro’s chest until he found they’d darted over a small rise into a cavern that spread from the mouth of the tunnel. He skidded to a stop beside the two men, noting a pool of water in the middle of the cave and a slice of light filtering from high overhead; darkness hid the far side of the cavern.

The smooth-faced man discarded the worm torch and plucked a fallen cylinder of rock off the ground. He tapped it against a rocky outcropping to test its strength, hefted it in his hand, then wielded it like a short, sturdy club. Athryn and the remaining three underground-dwellers slid to a halt behind them and they all turned to face the yawning tunnel mouth.

Nothing at first. No sound, nothing to see. The woman who’d cried out had disappeared. The wound on Khirro’s hand gripping the hilt of the Mourning Sword throbbed and pulsed with the heavy beat of his heart. He resisted the urge to shuffle his feet nervously as they waited.

The sound of soft footsteps floated down the tunnel, bouncing along the walls and rolling into the cavern. Khirro tried to pick out how many different sets of feet might be following them, but with the multiplying effect of cave and tunnel, it was impossible. It might be a few men or an entire platoon. He glanced at Athryn. The magician’s face was tense, the sword in his hands quivering slightly with the tense anticipation of an impending fight. The sound came closer, echoing, multiplying, growing until footsteps filled the cavern, churning the air around them and punishing their ears. The underground-dwellers began hooting and hollering, kicking stones and clapping. Athryn joined in so Khirro did, too, adding his voice to the others.

The clamor they created did nothing to deter the creature that burst out of the tunnel. Khirro’s eyes widened at the sight of a hundred sets of legs, half a dozen eyes, scimitar-shaped mandibles the size of short swords.

The huge centipede took a hard right as it spilled into the cavern. The underground-dwellers threw rocks and debris they found on the ground at their feet, but the projectiles bounced off the creature’s thick skin.

Khirro felt the air crackle with the panic of the men and woman around him; he bit his teeth hard to keep it from spreading to him. Too many times he’d let panic and fear freeze him while others protected him or died doing it.

That will never happen again.

The huge insect lunged toward them, its mandibles snapping, and the group fell back, bumping and jostling Khirro and Athryn who stood their ground. Only the smooth-faced youth stood with them, brandishing his flaking stone club.

The creature zipped in and Khirro lunged aside. Its back stood as tall as his thigh; each of its legs was as thick as Khirro’s arm. He dodged and slashed the Mourning Sword down, its tip contacting the centipede’s back, but the steel bounced off without damage to the beast. He heard water splashing behind him-the others had retreated into the pool leaving the three of them to fight the monster on their own.

“Its skin is like armor,” he called taking another swipe. He dared a glance across at Athryn and the other man. “What do we do?”

The smooth-faced man yelled and swung his club at one of the creature’s legs, hitting it with a sharp crack. The monster jerked, the leg hung limply at its side.

“Aim for its legs,” Athryn cried.

Khirro looked at the legs-fifty or more on his side alone. If removing its legs was the way to kill it, there was a lot of work ahead.

The Mourning Sword glowed red as Khirro set to the task, alternately hacking legs and dodging attacks. Its mandibles gnashed and sliced the air, first at Khirro, then Athryn, then the youth. Sweat flowed down Khirro’s forehead onto his cheeks.

Four legs gone. Six. His world narrowed to hack and slash, dodge and dance, keeping himself between the monster and the underground-dwellers, his sword between himself and the monster. Another leg came off, he avoided another attack; a commotion rose behind him.

Concerned, Khirro flashed a look over his shoulder and saw the other four underground-dwellers thrashing in the pool, screaming, running for the edge, their legs churning the water into a froth. An indistinct shape leaped out of the water and attached itself to a man’s chest, knocking him into the pool and prompting from him a high-pitched wail that drowned out everything else. Khirro took one more swipe at the insect-thing, removing another leg, and turned toward the water.

“Athryn! The centipede is yours.”

Khirro pushed past the woman and two men who’d climbed out of the pool, hovering uncertainly, not sure whether they should face their deaths in the mandibles of the insect, or give their lives to the lurker in the water. He hesitated briefly at the water’s edge, observing the gelatinous thing attached to the fallen man’s chest as he convulsed in the shallow pool.

“Hold still,” Khirro commanded, forgetting the fellow didn’t understand his words.

The tip of the Mourning Sword hovered in a circle as he followed the movement of man and thing, looking for the right moment.

Be still.

He clamped his teeth tight and lunged, hoping not to impale the creature's victim. The sword sunk into soft flesh and dark fluid oozed out of the thing on his chest. Khirro knew it was the man’s blood the leech-creature had sucked out of him. He struck again, this time slicing instead of stabbing. A flap of the leech’s back swung free and it slid off its victim and into the water. The man jerked, blood bubbling from a hole in his chest, then went still. Khirro dropped to his knee beside him, leg splashing in the water, and looked into his eyes.

“Athryn! This man is going to die.”

Khirro’s stomach knotted at his words. He should be helping him, not feeling thankful that his death would give them an opportunity to survive.

I didn’t kill him.

A wave ripple across the pool and in it, Khirro’s mind saw a vision of Callan’s face flickering in the worm-torch light. He rose and stepped away from the body, allowing the leech that slithered up the man’s leg to finish the job begun by the first.

“Now, Athryn.”

Each blow the magician struck defending himself punctuated syllables of the incantation he spoke. A rumble filled the cavern. Khirro turned from the blood-sucker and grabbed the closest underground-dwellers, pulling them away from the centipede as rocks tumbled from above. Khirro wondered if Athryn’s magic created the stones or simply loosened them.

Small stones rattled off the insect's tough shell, ineffective. It writhed and snapped its mandibles catching the smooth-faced youth’s arm and severing it at the elbow before a rock the size of a pony crashed onto its mid-section. He screamed and stumbled away, blood pumping from his wound. Thick black ooze seeped out of the centipede’s split side. It struggled to reach its attackers, legs thrashing, but the heavy stone held it in place. Athryn grabbed the young man by the shoulders, directing him away from the thing and toward the pool.

“Not the water,” Khirro said; that much blood in the water would attract every leech-thing in the cave.

“Which way, then?”

Khirro scanned the area, stretching to see over the heads of the three underground-dwellers pressed close to him for protection. The tunnel behind them was blocked by the writhing centipede’s death throes while the cavern’s distant darkness was only reached by entering the dangerous pool stretching out before them.

“I don’t know.”

Something brushed his foot beneath the water’s surface. He stepped back and looked down at a long and ribbon-like shape sliding by under the water before disappearing deeper into the pool.

What other creatures does this place hold?

The smooth-faced fellow whimpered and patted Athryn on the arm, then pointed toward the thin light spilling from above. Somewhere overhead, an opening allowed light into the cave.

“Do you see any way up?” Khirro asked and took a step away from the edge of the pool, pushing his charges as close to the thrashing centipede as he dared. They pressed closer against him.

Their savior. Their God.

The thought made him feel disgusted with himself.

“No,” Athryn replied scanning the smooth rock walls. “I could get us there, but you know what that would require.”

Khirro regarded the man lying motionless in the pool, the gorged leech pulsing on his thigh. He felt the three warm bodies pressed close to him and quickly chastised himself for allowing his mind to wander to such a place.

Then an idea occurred to him.

“What about the centipede? Would that work?”

Athryn shook his head. “I do not know. We can only try.”

Khirro separated himself from the three underground-dwellers, shedding them like removing a tunic, and stood in front of the creature, carefully out of range of its gnashing mandibles and struggling legs. He prodded it with the tip of his sword, looking for a reaction to show he’d found a weak spot in the insect’s hard shell. Steel clicked on hard shell once, twice, three times before finding a soft spot where it sunk in an inch. The monster jerked, threatening to wrench the blade from Khirro’s aching hand.

“Found a spot.”

Khirro looked at Athryn; the magician was bare-chested, having removed what remained of his shirt and wrapped it around the young man’s stump. The tattoos scrawled across his chest were visible against his pale flesh; the pulsing dim light of the torch gave the illusion that they crawled along his skin like tiny snakes. With one hand on the injured youth to comfort him, Athryn searched across the scrollwork words, looking for the right spell.

“I am ready.”

Khirro breathed deep and waited for the insect’s thrashing to calm. He coiled his arms back, muscles tight, then launched the Mourning Sword forward. It sunk into what must have been the thing’s eye, the runes on the blade glowing deep red. Two feet of blade sank into the thing before it jerked away, pulling the sword out of Khirro’s hands.

Athryn chanted as the creature thrashed, black goo spattering out of the wound. Its struggle slowed until it lay on the ground spasming occasionally. When it was mostly still, Khirro put his foot on its head and pulled the Mourning Sword free, coaxing with it a flood of the thick black fluid.

He braced himself. Seconds passed. A minute. He looked around and up. The light was no closer, his feet remained planted firmly on the cave floor.

“Athryn?”

The magician shook his head.

“It seems I need the blood of a human.”

The death of a human, he means.

Khirro heard sadness in his voice; Athryn didn’t want to kill any more than Khirro did.

He held his sword out toward the water using its bloodthirsty glow to get a glimpse into the darkness before the runes faded. The red light reflected on dark water as far as he could see. In the distance, a creature broke the surface, shiny gray skin showing above the water before it disappeared beneath again.

“I guess we have no choice.”

The smooth-faced youth, on one knee beside Athryn, pulled himself up. He tapped Khirro on the shoulder to get his attention then spoke in the his people's guttural tongue.

“I don’t understand.”

He began speaking again, then stopped, frustrated and aware he wouldn’t be understood. After a few seconds, he began to gesture. He pointed at Athryn, then at the sliver of light hanging above them, and finally drew his thumb across his own throat.

He knows. I can’t understand anything he says, yet he knows what we need to escape.

Khirro and Athryn looked at each other a second, an unspoken conversation passing between them, then the magician put his hand on the young man’s shoulders.

“No.” He shook his head so the youth would understand. “We will not do that.”

The smooth-faced fellow looked as though he’d been slapped, his expression stunned at first, but it quickly became sadness. He pointed to Athryn, then the light, then gestured across his throat again, his movements more firm and insistent this time. Athryn dissented again. The man’s lips moved, his throat worked to make sounds it was unfamiliar with making.

“You… go…for…Sol.” He pointed at Khirro’s hands.

Khirro looked at the blood soaked strips of cloth covering his hands and chewed his bottom lip. He must still consider the fate of the kingdom. Lives had already been lost to ensure King Braymon, his soul now living inside Khirro, would return to lead Erechania to victory over the Kanosee.

Does one more life matter?

Khirro thought of Maes, and Shyn, and Elyea.

It does.

“No. We won’t kill you to save ourselves.” He spoke firmly, knowing he wouldn’t be understood, but hoping the man would grasp the meaning from his tone. “You’ve done much to help us, but we’ll take our chances.” He pointed across the murky pool.

The young man’s face went stony but Khirro turned away, ready to take his first step into the dangerous water. The youth yelled and Khirro felt a hand at his belt. He reached to stop it, but the bloody bandages made him clumsy, gave him no chance to stop the woman from grabbing the knife from its sheath and plunging it into the smooth-faced youth’s chest.

He staggered back a step; Athryn caught him, lowered him to the cave floor. Khirro pushed past the other men and knelt by the magician’s side. The smooth-faced man blinked, a rapturous expression removing the tension from his face. Khirro pulled the blade free and slapped his hand over the wound. He felt blood pulse against his hand, seep between his fingers.

“Why?” Khirro asked. “Why sacrifice yourself for us?”

The youth’s eyes flickered to Khirro’s hands, then back to meet his gaze.

“For… Sol,” he gasped.

Khirro shook his head. Beside him, Athryn spoke foreign words in a whisper of breath passing between his lips. Khirro hung his head, closed his eyes. He didn’t move when Athryn’s arm encircled his waist and only opened his eyes when he felt the hard ground fall away beneath his knees, his hand come away from the dying man’s chest.

The smooth-faced man stared up at them, eyes glassy. The other underground-dwellers were on their knees, faces raised to watch Khirro and Athryn rise toward the slim slice of light. For the first time, Khirro realized that, with the light of Sol shining down from above, the chamber must have been a sacred place to them, a church of sorts. And now a life had been sacrificed upon its altar, a miracle performed before them in the name of the God they could only glimpse and never hope to truly see or feel.

The man’s sacrifice filled Khirro’s thoughts. It could easily have been Maes, Shyn or Elyea lying dead on the ground below them, or Gendred, Rudric or the Shaman. So many lives had passed in keeping Khirro and the king’s spirit safe.

Too many.

Warmth bathed Khirro’s face and he looked away from the dying youth, turned his eyes toward the light of Sol. The crack in the ceiling of the cavern was bigger than he’d thought from the ground-big enough to fit a man through without difficulty.

“Why did he do that?”

Athryn didn’t answer as he concentrated on the incantation murmuring through his lips. Another minute and they passed through the crack. Athryn’s chant ended as they came to rest on yellowed grass on the bank of a modest river. Khirro blinked against the light of the sun until his eyes grew accustomed.

A rolling plain dotted with occasional stands of cottonwood and oak trees spread out from the river, racing toward the forest marking the horizon. To the west, the smoke of a multitude of fires spiraled toward the sky, melding into one thicker column. He tapped Athryn on the shoulder and gestured. The magician nodded, then searched the sky and their surroundings with his gaze.

“We should go there for supplies,” he said.

“But where are we?”

“That is the first city. The city of Poltghasa.”

A chill crawled up Khirro’s spine.

Chapter Twenty-Two

He’s coming. I couldn’t feel him before, but I can now. For a week, nothing but the stink of the city and its men to kill have occupied my senses. He wasn’t here before, now he is, or he’s close.

“Get out.”

The man lying naked in my bed regards me with a startled look but quickly jumps from under the covers. I watch his thing bounce and jiggle, slack from the sex we’ve just had, and wonder if I should kill him. He’s done nothing to warrant it, but no one’s been left alive in my wake to this point, so why should he be the only one to survive? I stand, the blanket tumbling off my body, and the cold air envelopes my flesh. The man shrinks away as I take a step toward him. I’m naked and he’s afraid of me-rightfully so. Already I have a reputation in this city of killers, thieves and rapists.

I have no choice but to kill him.

“Please,” he says as I take another step.

“‘Please’ what?”

“Please don’t kill me.”

I run my fingers down his bare chest and he flinches. Does he think it loving gesture or threat?

“Why would I kill you? Didn’t we bring each other pleasure?”

He nods, eyes wide, and his gaze flickers to his sword belt then back to me like he hopes I haven’t seen the transgression. I have. A small excuse is as good as any.

“Do you think me some kind of monster?”

The brief pause before he shakes his head tells me volumes. I smile and put my hand on his cheek. He turns his head away.

“If you fear me, why did you lay with me?”

He abandons all pretense, thinking the truth will save him.

“I…my friends said I wasn’t brave enough to.”

I nod. “Will they give you money because you did?”

He shrugs and I lean close.

“Doesn’t that make you a whore? Taking money in exchange for fucking?”

Nostrils flaring, he draws a deep breath, unsure how to answer. It doesn’t matter what he says, I’ll kill him anyway; I only have to decide how. He shakes his head, hoping to change my mind.

“It’s not like that.”

“I’m no man’s toy.”

I grab between his legs with my left hand and one of his balls bulges then explodes in my grip. His scream is high-pitched and he tries to push me away, hands buffeting my breasts and shoulders. I thrust my forehead against his nose and mouth, shattering teeth and spilling blood. His scream becomes a strained gurgle. He reaches for my throat and I twist his arm, breaking it below the elbow, sending him to his knees, then I press his blood-streaked face into my cunt, smothering him with my womanhood and his own cum. My thumb finds his eye. I push hard until his eyeball pops and is forced into his brain, killing him.

He tumbles to the floor, limp and lifeless, and I wonder who has won the bet as I wipe his blood and semen from between my legs. I look up to see the black-cloaked woman standing before me. We stand for a long moment as I resist the urge to cover my nakedness. She surprises me by pulling the cowl back from her head and revealing her face to me for the first time.

She is beautiful.

Blond hair disappears down the back of her cloak. Long lashes flutter and red lips smile. My loins tingle at the sight of her and my breath shortens; I wonder what’s hidden beneath the cloak, then attempt to dispel the thought. I wouldn’t be the one surviving that encounter, not if she didn’t want me to.

“The time for practice and distraction is done,” she says, the music of her voice gracing the space between us.

Oh, that there wasn’t so much space.

I shake my head. Focus. “He approaches.”

She nods. I hear the gentle sound of her hair caressing the fabric of her cloak and imagine it doing the same to my breasts, my thighs.

What’s wrong with me?

I blink and she’s directly in front of me, close enough I feel her breath caress my cheek. Did she hear my heart longing for her? My hand twitches, wanting to reach out and pull her cloak aside, to reveal the wonder of her body beneath it, but I keep myself in check. Not the time or place.

“He will be here within the day.” She steps closer still and her lips brush mine, tantalizing, as she speaks again. “Do not fail me.”

Her mouth presses against mine and pleasure explodes through me, squirming in my chest and between my legs, tingling my arms and hands. I reach up wanting to twist her golden locks through my fingers, to pull them hard and bend her to my will, but I’m stopped by the feel of her taking the breath from my lungs. This kiss wasn’t for pleasure, but a promise of my fate if I don’t accomplish what she’s brought me back for. I don’t struggle, accepting whatever she intends for me as my lungs shrink, but she pulls away and I gasp air into my chest; to fill my lungs, yes, but also to occupy the emptiness left when her lips leave mine.

She smiles at me, several strides away now.

“Next time I see you, Khirro will be dead.” She pulls the front of her cloak aside revealing her perfect naked body, her alabaster skin. “And then you shall be rewarded.”

And she’s gone.

A deep breath shudders down my throat and finds thankful lungs. I stand awhile naked, alone, oblivious to anything but the sensation of desire draining from my body, leaving me empty. Until the time comes that it’s filled again, there’s but one thing to quench the thirst she’s left in me.

Blood.

***

The sun sinks from the sky and the city whispers of strangers approaching from the east-two men who came out of the ground. I whisper back that they’re to be left alone, they belong to Shariel. We’ll see if the seeds of fear I planted have grown enough in these few short days that they heed my bidding. But it’s always best to tend your crops, so I patrol the streets, seeking to ensure my harvest.

First a man, drunk and retching in an alley strewn with waste. He’s no match for my sword so I kill him with a finger through the space behind his jawbone, just below his ear. Messy, but satisfying; I like the feel of blood on my hands.

Next, a group of four men raping a woman. My sword sings songs of death, carving its lyrics into their flesh. One of them actually comes within an inch of cutting me so I leave him alive with his insides hanging out for the rats to gnaw and the deathbirds to pick apart. I kill the woman, too. I don’t want to, she is the victim here, but I do and she dies a victim.

Death and blood invigorate me and I spend the night looking for more. The man called Khirro might arrive this night, but I want him to have his rest. I want him at the top of his skills when the tip of my sword pushes through his flesh, since I’ll be at the top of mine.

I go back to the public house where my foray into death in Poltghasa began. A new woman leans over the porch rail taking the place of the whore I left dead in my room. She should be more respectful of the dead. I push aside the man mounting her and insert my sword where his cock was-she screams briefly before her life flees. He runs.

I burst through the door into the tavern and my blade jumps to life. Some men fight back, some flee. Soon, the floor is slick with blood and none of it is mine. The sticky fluid splashes my arms and face and clothes, soaking into my flesh, each drop increasing the feeling of power coursing through my veins. Every man who falls before my wrath bears the face of the man who raped me and tortured me and ended my life. I make them all pay for his sins.

As the sun rises, I lay down to sleep, my weapons and clothes and every exposed bit of skin tacky with drying blood. I drift off, wondering if I should wash it off or wear it as war paint to strike fear into my enemy. No, if he’s like all these other men, the sight would likely scare him to death and rob me of the joy of doing it myself. If I don’t get to kill him, then what was the point of being brought back from the fields of the dead?

I think of the black-cloaked woman, hoping to dream of her creamy skin and gentle touch as sleep claims me. I don’t need any more reason to kill the man called Khirro, but if anything could encourage me further, it’s the promise of her reward. But what will become of me after it’s done? Will she keep me for her lover and assassin or return me to the fields of the dead? The thought takes me back to the endless blue sky and emerald field stretching as far as my vision. Both options are attractive, each for its own reason. I’ll be satisfied, no matter which is my fate.

As my thoughts become dreams, the pleasant feeling of the field slips away, the ache of desire disappears. All is replaced by his face. His mouth opens and he screams, begs for mercy, then blood spills from his lips in a torrent. An indescribable joy fills me and I don’t miss the desire, don’t long for the field. Soon his blood will be on my hands. What happens after that doesn’t matter.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Graymon’s belly growled. He put his hands on it and scowled, straining to remember the last time he ate. The rattle and bump of the wagon had ceased a while ago-long enough for the guards to light a fire and begin cooking. The aroma of roasting meat wafted through the canvas and brought saliva to his mouth, though he didn’t want to imagine what kind of meat the dead men might have skewered over their fire.

His bum hurt, so he climbed off the wooden bench and knelt on the floor to relieve his aching rump, the movement rocking the wagon. One of the guards snarled. Normally, the sound would have scared Graymon, but the hungry knot in his tummy distracted him from worrying about the guard’s grumbling.

I’m going to die anyway if I don’t eat soon.

It must have been a whole day, maybe more, since they fed him. Never in his life had he gone so long without food.

The canvas flap snapped away from the side of the wagon, startling Graymon, and a man he hadn’t seen before leered in at him. This undead soldier's face showed less decay than the others-he lacked a nose and one cheek sported a green-around-the-edges hole-but his family would have recognized him. One thing was the same with him as it was from one dead soldier to the next-the strange look in their dark eyes, as though they didn’t really see what they looked upon. Graymon scrambled away from the man, the wagon squeaking and groaning with the movement.

“Eat.”

The undead soldier tossed a pewter plate onto the bench where Graymon’s bum had been a few minutes before. A slice of carrot bounced off the plate and rolled the length of the bench before falling to the floor boards; a boiled potato barely stayed put. The meat on the plate was red with blood but smelled delicious.

“Thank you.”

Graymon looked up to meet the man’s black eyes and glimpsed the others huddled around the fire; a stretch of rocky ground beyond them led to the sea. The soldier grunted and dropped the flap back.

Graymon stared at the food on the dull gray plate, wondering if it might be poisoned. He poked the meat, licked the juice off his finger, then picked up the errant carrot and popped it into his mouth. It tasted like a carrot.

Why would they take me away to poison me?

They could kill him anytime, in any manner they wanted, but they probably wouldn’t waste so much time dragging him out here to do it. Strangely comforted, he shuffled closer to the plate. No silverware, no nanny to cut the meat for him. Graymon felt lost for a moment, but the gurgle in his belly prompted him to forget manners and convention.

Wary of what the meat might be, he ate the vegetables first. A tasteless, bland potato and carrots cooked to the edge of mush, but they tasted as good as any other potato and carrots he’d ever eaten. When he finished the vegetables-nanny would be proud of me-he picked up the chunk of meat, eyeing it dubiously. Blood dripped from its edge, spattering on the plate. He sniffed it and, finding nothing unusual to its smell, brought it to his lips. He hesitated for a second before the aroma forced his teeth into the meat, tearing off a piece and chewing it with gusto.

Delicious.

Graymon made short work of it, forgetting his worries of poison and dead men while his stomach grumbled thankfully for having been fed. He sucked juice from his fingers and licked every scrap off the plate before wiping his face on the sleeve of his dirty tunic. He smiled.

If nanny was here, she’d get mad at me for that.

Aching loneliness grasped his heart and melted his smile. Would he ever see nanny or his da again? He clenched his teeth and wiped his hands on the thighs of his breeches.

What would a brave hero do?

He pondered the question as the wind whipped against the canvas. Gorgo, king of the dragons, would roast all the bad men with his fire-breath, but Graymon couldn’t breathe fire. In fact, he didn’t want to kill anyone or know if a man already dead could be killed. They probably could-they needed to eat and stayed close to the fire in the cold-but slaying anyone was out of the question. He thought harder, his eyes narrowing. He couldn’t breathe fire, he couldn’t fly, he couldn’t eat the men or cast a spell. What then?

A brave hero would escape.

Nodding to himself, he crawled across the floor of the wagon and hunkered down in the corner, waiting for the wind to blow again, hoping it would move the canvas far enough to see out. A gust howled across the sea, rippled the wagon’s covering, but it didn’t pull away from the wooden frame. Graymon resisted the urge to curse like he’d heard his father do, somehow convinced that, even as far away as she was, his nanny would know. If the wind wouldn’t help, he’d have to take a chance and move the canvas himself.

He decided to wait for another gust, so if anyone saw, they might think the wind moved it. Several minutes passed and Graymon began to wonder if the wind would ever blow again, then a gust strong enough to rattle the wagon blew in off the water; he pulled the canvas aside a crack.

The scene outside his confined space hadn’t changed since the soldier dropped off his dinner. Eight dead men huddled around the fire speaking in low grunts, chuckling occasional laughs that sounded like a dagger pulled across a whetstone.

Can’t go that way.

He crawled back along the floor boards and pulled himself up onto the bench, his thigh pressed against the wooden rail on the other side of the wagon. He shifted the canvas aside an inch and peered into the twilight. A few yards away, a line of trees devoid of leaves stood beside the track. Low shrubs grew at their bases forming a thicket where a small boy might conceal himself. If they were still on the land bridge-and judging by the proximity of the shore on the other side, they were-then the Small Sea lay somewhere on the other side of the trees. The lone soldier posted to guard this side stood facing the trees, as though he was there to protect their captive from the forest, not to stop him from escaping.

They don’t think I’ll try to escape.

He had that to his advantage, but how to get past the guard? He didn’t have to wait long for the answer.

One of the men by the fire called to the guard and though Graymon found his gravelly voice difficult to understand, he thought he called him to eat. The man between Graymon and the trees threw a grunted answer back, then left his post to partake in the meal. Before his mind could assess the situation too closely, Graymon pulled the canvas open farther and reached back for the itchy blanket he’d need to keep himself warm.

His hand brushed the pewter plate sitting on the bench behind him and he hesitated.

What if they come to get the plate?

He paused a second, half-expecting the other flap to open and one of the dead men to catch him. His mind worked quickly and he knew immediately what a brave hero would do. He sidled across the width of the wagon, grabbed the plate, and pulled open the flap on the soldiers’ side.

“I’m done,” he yelled and flung the plate toward the group.

They growled at him. One poked his spear toward him, but none rose off their seats of logs and rocks as he dropped the canvas. Seconds later, they were laughing at his antics. Graymon returned to the forest side of the wagon, his breath short with nervous excitement.

I fooled them.

He waited another minute to be sure he had; blood rushed to his head and the meat in his belly became unsettled, churning against the sides like a ship tossed about by a maelstrom. He grasped the edge of the wagon to steady himself from feeling woozy and, after a deep breath to fortify himself, peeked over his shoulder. No decayed face had appeared to check in on him. He gathered the blanket, pulled back the canvas, and threw his leg over the wagon’s edge.

Please don’t come. Please don’t come.

He dangled half-in, half-out of the wagon, his foot searching vainly for the ground. Too far. He swung his other foot over and lowered himself as far as he could. With the wooden edge pressed painfully into his armpits, the soil below eluded him. He glanced at the far side of the wagon, convinced one of them would lift the canvas any second, or that he’d feel a bony hand on his shoulder.

Don’t come. Don’t come.

He kicked his feet, knowing that the ground couldn’t be far below, but panic began to well up in him. Settling himself, he closed his eyes and imagined the wagon. He’d needed one of the soldiers to lift him in when they embarked on their journey, so it was too high for him to climb into himself, but it was only a wagon. He gathered his courage and let go.

The short drop jarred Graymon’s teeth and sent him to the ground with a grunt. He shook his head to clear the impact and peered under the wagon. From his spot in the dirt, he saw the guards seated around the fire and counted them quickly, happy nanny had used his blocks to teach him how.

Nine.

They were all there. No alarm had been sounded, so they hadn’t seen him. He collected the blanket and shuffled away from the wagon, eyes fixed on the soldiers. They nodded and growled and laughed but none of them rose from their seats. He didn’t take his gaze off them until his feet rustled the brush and fallen leaves at the foot of the trees; only then did he dare turn away.

Two steps into the thicket, one of the horses hitched to the wagon whinnied, freezing Graymon in his spot. He held his breath, straining to hear over the wind flapping the canvas and rustling the foliage, but no sound of footsteps came to him. He crouched to see under the wagon-the dead men hadn’t moved. Graymon let his breath out slowly and eased into the brush.

When he reached the trees, he squatted and pulled the blanket around his shoulders and over his head for camouflage. It itched his cheeks and neck. He watched the soldiers, waiting to see if they’d check on him; his heart raced. They’d shown little interest in their charge so far; he hoped it wouldn’t soon change. The wind blew, seeming to come from all directions at once, and Graymon pulled the blanket tighter, hugging his knees to his chest to conserve heat.

What if they stay here for the night? I’ll freeze.

He clamped his jaw tight, worried the chatter of his teeth might attract the guards’ attention. Leaves swirled around him, whipped into a frenzy by the salty sea wind, so he buried his nose in the blanket, nostrils flaring at its musty odor. Even the heavy wool struggled to keep out all the chill.

As time passed, he wondered if he’d done the right thing. He looked at the canvas side of the wagon, longing for the protection it gave from the blustering wind. Maybe he could get back inside without them noticing. If they did notice, would they risk the wrath of the woman and kill him? No. But they’d punish him.

An especially brisk gust of wind shivered the trees and Graymon decided he’d made a mistake. No matter what a brave hero might have done, or might do now, he was cold and didn’t think he’d survive the night if he stayed in one place. He resigned himself to returning to the wagon and began looking for the best way back when he saw movement by the fire.

They’re leaving.

The soldiers were standing, collecting their weapons. Graymon tensed. If they were going to check on him, now would be the time. If they discovered him gone, then found him huddled, shivering in the woods, what would they do to him?

He didn’t want to know.

Two of the soldiers went to the front of the covered wagon and took seats behind the horses; one went to the rear while the other six arrayed themselves on each side. None of them approached the canvas. Graymon shrank to the smallest he could, careful not to rattle the dead leaves around him.

The nearest soldier stood close enough he heard him call out to let the driver know when he was in position and ready to go. Graymon’s pulse pounded in his throat. One of the dead men on the bench behind the horses shouted and snapped the reins; the horses neighed in response and began moving, the wagon rattling along behind.

Graymon stayed hidden until he no longer heard wagon wheels clattering along the track, then remained hidden a few minutes more. When he thought it safe, he crept out of his hiding spot, the blanket wrapped tight around his body. He didn’t know the area, but knew enough to realize that, if the wagon headed one way, he should go the other. He looked back down the track, dreading the walk into the darkness, but nothing in the forest lining the road could be worse than the dead men. At least in this direction, he knew his father was there somewhere, and his nanny. He took a step down the track, then stopped, his attention grabbed by the crackle of the cook fire the soldiers hadn’t extinguished.

First, I’ll warm myself. Even a brave hero would do that.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The plain gray slab of the city wall rose before them. No gargoyles loomed at its corners; no statues or signs, decorations or markings adorned its surface. The lack of anything surprised Khirro; he’d imagined the fabled city of Poltghasa-the last refuge of the guilty and the damned-would be imposing. Instead, it looked like any other city-older, perhaps, more rundown, but no different.

No one challenged their approach, but they had waited until just before dawn and chose not to enter through the main gate. They stalked around the base of the wall, kicking aside rubble and loose stone fallen from its surface during the thousands of years it had ringed the city. It wasn’t the staunchness of the wall that deterred the Kanosee or anyone else from storming the city and bringing the renegade criminals to justice, it was the reputation of the denizens lurking behind the wall that kept the rest of the world at bay. The thought raised the short hairs on the back of Khirro’s neck.

“Look, there.” Athryn pointed at the wall ahead of them.

Khirro squinted, but he saw nothing other than an outline of the wall’s pockmarked surface. “I don’t see anything.”

“A door hanging askew. There.”

“Your eyes are better than mine.”

“Come.”

They stole forward, Athryn leading the way. After a few steps, Khirro saw the edge of the door silhouetted against the gray wall.

How nice of them to leave it open for us.

“It will be guarded,” Athryn said drawing his sword.

They crept along the wall, stepping carefully around rocks and shards fallen from above uncountable years before, and Khirro pulled the Mourning Sword from its scabbard. He couldn’t imagine what kind of barrage this great slab of stone must have withstood in the days after Monos’ death, when Shyctem-the first king-ruled the land. His reign had been tumultuous, marked by death and fighting as rival warlords launched attacks to usurp his power. Eventually, he met his death on the same Killing Stairs upon which so many of his enemies had met theirs.

Athryn gestured toward the horizon and Khirro saw the sky beginning to lighten with the dawn creeping in to banish night from the land. They stood their best chance of survival if they entered the city and found a hiding place before the sun climbed into the sky.

Khirro slipped past Athryn, back pressed to the wall as he crept up to the battered and scarred door; the rusted bars of an iron gate lay on the ground nearby, chunks of stone torn from the wall still attached to its hinges. He peered through the crack of the open door and saw an alley running away into darkness but nothing else. He crept back across the opening and pulled the magician a step away.

“No one,” he whispered directly into Athryn’s ear. “An alley. No room for guards.”

“But ideal for an ambush.”

He looked into his companion’s eyes and nodded once. They didn’t know when they might find another town and, with winter’s approach, game was scarce. If they didn’t resupply here, they wouldn’t make it back to Erechania; they had no choice but to enter the city.

“I’ll go,” Khirro said. “Give me a few minutes. If you don’t hear me come to my death, then follow.”

“They may have seen our approach and will wait until we are both trapped.”

“Then be ready to fight.”

Athryn put a hand on Khirro’s shoulder like he might speak, but didn’t. Khirro wanted to say more, perhaps to thank his companion for all he’d done, but though their lives might end here, he didn’t know what to say to the man whose assistance had allowed him to come this far. The heat of embarrassment touched his cheeks. Instead of speaking, he turned away and forced himself through the space between broken door and chipped wall into the dark alley.

The stench of refuse, rotted food and Gods knew what else slammed against him like he’d run into a wall. He covered his nose and mouth with his arm and breathed shallowly. His eyes watered. He waited. After a minute with no noise or movement from the lane ahead, he sucked a breath through the sleeve of his tunic and took a step. His boot sunk into something soft and he pulled back.

It’s only garbage.

Khirro shuddered and swallowed hard around a knot in his throat. When his boot sank again, he pushed on. His second step found hard ground and he paused again, looked up at the tops of the buildings on either side. The sky above remained dark, leaving him unable to determine if he saw silhouettes against the dark gray of impending dawn or not. He crouched to make himself a smaller target and held the Mourning Sword out in front of him. The glow of the runes faded, as though the sword knew not to give him away. A minute passed. Another. Sweat ran down Khirro’s brow despite the chill in the autumn air. Gathering himself, he moved forward.

After a dozen steps, the alley widened into a narrow courtyard. Windowless walls looked down onto bare ground and Khirro stood at the mouth of the alley, wishing for light. A heap lay in the middle of the courtyard, lumpy and angular and indistinguishable. He crouched again, straining to hear past the rush of blood in his ears, the rasp of breath in his throat. Swallowing, he stopped his breathing, tried to calm his thumping heart.

A noise.

The sound of cloth scraping against cloth from the heap lying in the middle of the yard. Khirro dropped his arm from his face and grasped the hilt of the Mourning Sword with both hands, the muscles in his arms bunching. Another sound, louder this time. The clink of steel? A thought sprang to Khirro’s mind.

What would Ghaul do?

The name brought a bad taste to his mouth, but he couldn’t deny the soldier-enemy or not-would have known how handle this, as he would have known how to handle any dangerous situation. Would he rush in and hope to catch the enemy off guard? Sneak up and surprise them? The lack of visible movement suggested the person must be resting or unconscious.

Ghaul would sneak up and slit their throats while they slept.

Disgusted at the thought, Khirro rose and inched forward. Each step brought the shape before him into clearer view until he saw it was more than one person lying on the ground. He stepped gingerly, closing the distance, silent like the tyger burning within him until his boot struck a stone. The rock skittered across the ground.

A flurry of movement froze him in his spot. The dark shape of some devil or monster rose into the air and he dove to the ground before recognizing the angry caw of the crow he’d disturbed. He rolled to his back and saw its dark shape outlined briefly against the sky before it disappeared beyond the top of the wall. It hollered at him from a distance, but he neither saw nor heard any other signs of life. Khirro climbed to his feet.

“Khirro?”

He whirled at the voice, blade flashing before him. Wisely, Athryn had halted several paces away. Khirro blinked and allowed the sword’s tip to dip toward the ground, embarrassed by his nervousness.

That’s not me anymore. I’m no longer the fearful dirt farmer.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Khirro whispered as the magician came to his side. “You startled me. You and that crow.”

“It seems our entrance is unguarded and unnoticed.”

“Perhaps.” Khirro gestured over his shoulder. “Look at this.”

Five corpses in total lay in the street-four men and one woman. The woman’s rough spun dress was in tatters; two of the men wore no breeches. Athryn knelt and inspected the bodies, touching bare flesh with the back of his hand, lifting one man’s arm. Khirro watched.

“They have been dead for a couple of hours.” Athryn nodded toward the bodies arrayed on the ground before him. “They have no weapons. They did not kill each other. Someone else did and brought them here.”

“But why? What happened?”

Athryn glanced up at Khirro. “This is Poltghasa.”

***

They crept through the city, stealing from shadow to receding shadow as dawn inched into the sky. The only people they saw were asleep or passed out-or perhaps dead-and they didn’t stop to determine which. Khirro wondered at the lack of people in the streets. Was Poltghasa such a terrible place that even those who lived in it wouldn’t venture out in the dark?

The city’s architecture contrasted with the plain wall surrounding it. Pillars carved with heroic scenes supported arches over the main boulevard; buildings built not just for shelter but also for art lined the streets. Stretching above them all, a spire two hundred or more feet tall in the center square presided over the city. But all the buildings and statues showed disrepair and neglect, the city’s beauty muted by centuries of dirt, grime and damage. Statues of ancient kings, with missing limbs or broken heads, stood guard outside shattered buildings. Once proud gargoyles lay smashed in the streets, thrown off their perches by the hands of attacking warriors or drunken wretches. They passed by it all, awed as much by the neglect of the city’s residents as they were by the incredible workmanship.

What should I expect of banished criminals?

They stole along garbage strewn streets, drawn toward the spire. Chipped cobblestones passed beneath their feet as the sky lightened and in the distance a rooster heralded dawn, followed quickly by someone telling the bird to shut up. Athryn took Khirro by the elbow, hurrying him along.

A hundred yards from the tower, they stopped. Athryn raised a finger and pointed at the rough flight of stairs climbing alongside the spire.

“The Killing Stairs.”

Khirro stared. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people’s lives had ended on those stairs, thrown off the top of the tower in the days before anarchy ruled Poltghasa. Gods alone knew how many more in the days since.

They moved forward quickly, as life began to stir around them. A woman threw her gray water out of a second story window; a cat raced across the avenue chasing a mouse; the sound of voices embroiled in an argument spilled out through the broken door of a building.

They stopped at the first step of the granite stairs and saw each edge was chipped and worn by a thousand years of sandals and boots thumping against their surface. Instruments of death. Part way up, spread over twenty of the steps, Khirro saw a dark stain on the light colored stone.

That’s where they died.

Athryn nodded, confirming Khirro’s thought, then gestured toward the door at the base of the tower.

“In there,” he said and moved toward the door.

A layer of verdigris covered the bronze door, muting the intricate pattern carved across its surface. Despite the neglect, the door hung straight on its hinges. Khirro grabbed the handle and pushed, expecting it not to budge, but it swung open easily, like a portal well used and oiled, though the odor of dust and mold wafting through the open doorway suggested otherwise. Athryn crept through; Khirro followed.

The air within seemed like it might have been undisturbed for centuries, existing to be breathed by spiders and vermin scuttling about in the dark and no one else. Khirro pulled the Mourning Sword from his hip; the red runes glowed dimly but it was enough for them to discern shapes in the chamber as Athryn closed the door. The room was empty of furnishings or decoration except for a staircase carved into the wall winding its way up and up and up into the darkness above. Khirro extended the sword over his head, hoping to see the ceiling, but saw darkness and nothing more beyond the glow of his blade.

“The ceiling is two hundred feet above our heads. Maybe more.” Athryn’s voice echoed away in the heights. Somewhere above a bat squeaked and fluttered.

“What?”

“There are no floors, only this one and the roof from which Shyctem cast his enemies. Those and the stairs in between.”

“It seems like no one’s been in here for a long time.”

“I do not think they bother to take the condemned all the way to the top before killing them anymore.”

Khirro thought about the men and woman they’d found and wondered how many people in this so-called ‘free city’ found their deaths innocently. He suspected it could happen anytime if you made the wrong man angry. But the same could be said of any city, couldn’t it?

“We will rest here until nightfall,” Athryn said clearing cobwebs, dust and loose pebbles from a place on the floor with his boot. “After dark, when we can move with less chance of notice, we will find supplies and be out of this place before the sun rises.”

Khirro nodded, his chest tight. “I’ll take first watch.”

“As you like. You have but one door to watch.”

Athryn settled onto the floor, his breathing soon settling into the deep, easy pattern of sleep. Khirro wandered the round chamber, examining walls and testing the stairs. He rested his foot on the bottom step and dread filled him as he felt what it must have been like for the condemned mounting the stairs on the final march to their deaths. The only choices before them were complete the climb and die on the Killing Stairs, leap from these steps and die a death unseen by the crowds gathered in the square or be killed for refusing to climb. Any of the three yielded the same result.

Khirro looked back over his shoulder at Athryn sleeping on the floor and the closed door beyond him. It looked like no one had entered this place in a very long time; he doubted there was any chance anyone would do so today.

No one saw us come in. We’re safe here.

Khirro turned his attention back to the stair and stepped up onto the first step. Beneath his boot, it felt like any other step. It could easily belong to any one of the sets of stairs leading to the top of the wall at the Isthmus Fortress, would have only felt out of place leading to the hay loft in his father’s barn because it was stone rather than wood. The sense of dread he’d felt disappeared, no feeling of impending doom shivered up his leg and into his heart.

They’re only stairs.

He stepped up onto the next stair, then the next, his shoulder brushing the wall his only guide to keep him from going over the edge. Step after step he climbed, fingers trailing along the stone wall beside him. After several dozen steps had passed under his feet, he stopped, listening. He still heard Athryn’s gentle breathing on the floor below, but there was nothing else; no bats or birds flitted overhead chasing bugs, no sounds from outside the tower penetrated its thick wall.

Another step. Another. Khirro climbed the staircase following the curve of the tower wall, each step forward taking him higher and deeper into darkness. He moved slowly, cautiously, silently counting each stair as his foot set upon it without knowing why he was climbing.

When his count reached two hundred, he stopped again, listened to the silence. The only sounds now came from within him: the beat of his heart, the whisper of breath in his throat, the creak of his armor each time his chest expanded. He saw nothing ahead and above him but darkness; behind and below was the same.

A wave of vertigo overtook Khirro, spinning his head in the dark. He leaned toward the wall and felt as though it would surely be gone; it startled him when his back touched it. The dark spun around him, shortening his breath and bringing nausea from his gut to his throat. He flattened himself against the wall, arms spread, and closed his eyes to stop the world from spinning. After a minute that felt as though it stretched on for an hour, his head steadied, his stomach settled, and Khirro opened his eyes to the same darkness they’d observed before.

He looked down and saw nothing. If he hadn’t counted two hundred stairs passing under his feet, he might have thought he could step off right onto the floor, but he knew that would be the death of him, the end of hope for the kingdom. He looked up and thought he saw a sliver of light. It invigorated him and he began moving up the stairs, keeping as close to the wall as he could.

As he climbed, the sliver of light grew brighter, and with it his mood lifted. He moved faster, driven to get out of the dark and into the light. His thighs ached from climbing, sweat ran from his temple, but the light got closer until he recognized it as the sun shining through the narrow crack beneath a door.

Khirro made his way cautiously up the last few stairs, suddenly aware again of the fall awaiting him if he misstepped. Finally, his eyes drew even with the crack under the door and he could see the last few stairs dimly lit, and the landing at the top of them.

He rested a moment as he reached the top, sucking deep breaths into his lungs in an attempt to recover from the climb. How horrible it must have been to be a condemned man making such an ascent, having so much time to contemplate your coming demise. Khirro shivered at the thought but put it aside as he reached for the door.

It wasn’t locked, of course. At such a height, there was nothing to keep out, and who in their right mind would climb the steps to the door.

Only me, I suppose.

The city stretched away in all directions from the spire, its broken down buildings bathed in the golden glow of early morning sun. Beyond the far city wall, yellow-brown steppe led to forest and the ground rose to hills. Khirro didn’t know if he looked toward Kanos or Lakesh, but either way, the view was breathtaking.

As was the sheer height of the spire.

Khirro stepped gingerly onto the ledge outside the door. It was big enough for a few men to stand on at once-perhaps ten feet wide and extending out five feet from the tower-but the lack of any handhold or railing to separate platform from empty air made it a poor idea to crowd it with too many. One was probably enough.

The soles of Khirro’s boots scuffed the rough stone as he shuffled away from the doorway, curious to peer over the edge. He leaned forward, dragged his feet ahead another few inches, then leaned again.

The stairs two hundred feet below were tinted pink, painted that color by the lives they’d taken over the centuries. After the climb to get here and now standing on the platform, Khirro realized that the death at the end of the fall might have been a relief to the condemned who took the plunge. The dread anticipation and exertion of climbing the stairs, the opportunity to contemplate the value of life while standing on the platform looking over the city and the land beyond, the fearful descent to the stairs so far below all must have been tortures heaped upon tortures that hitting the stairs would finally relieve.

Tortures heaped upon tortures.

Like having the life you were raised for torn from you against your will. Like being cursed to carry out a task you didn’t want. Like watching friends and companions die in the name of helping you. Like never having the chance to love the woman you truly loved.

Khirro moved closer to the edge, his toes less than an inch from open air. A bird flew by close to the tower but beneath the level of the platform; cold wind touched his cheeks, drying the sweat on his temples and making him shiver. He looked down at the pink stone stairs and drew a long breath in through his nose.

One death could save so many: Athryn, the child in my dreams, my family. If only it could bring back those already lost.

The wind rose again, flapping his breeches against his legs, tugging at him. He crossed his arms, hugged himself against the cold, but he knew it wasn’t only the cold that made him shiver. It was also where he stood, and it was temptation.

But how many more would die along with that one death?

The thoughts were like words in his head that didn’t feel as though they belonged to him. He swayed slightly forward and back again, forward and back. His legs ached, tired of holding him upright, tired of holding the burden.

Smoke curled from chimneys of many of the decrepit houses below and Khirro caught a whiff of pork frying, bread baking. He saw people moving through the streets. These weren’t his people, but they made him think of his own home, of people like the widow Breadmaker who liked to entertain foreign merchants, and of Maree who showed him her lady flower when they were but children. Did they deserve to die because Khirro didn’t want to go on any longer?

Do they?

The voice again that didn’t belong to him. He knew whose voice it was: the tyger's.

“No,” he said aloud. “They don’t.”

Khirro turned his shoulders to move away from the edge, but his feet wouldn’t do as they were told. The world tilted and he stumbled, arms pinwheeling, desperately seeking balance without finding it. Khirro threw his weight backward, away from the edge, felt air rush around him and the sensation of falling. Saliva flooded his mouth with the coppery taste of panic.

Then his backside hit the platform.

His heart beat fast in his chest, pumping blood and adrenaline through his veins at the speed of racing horses. He scuttled away from the edge like a crab fleeing the sea and scrabbled through the doorway, closing the door behind him to sit atop the stairs in the dark.

Half an hour later, when Khirro stepped off the bottom stair onto the flat stone floor, his hands were still shaking. He paused and found the sound of Athryn’s breathing in the darkness, then peered back up the stairs. The sliver of light from under the door was invisible in the dark, as were the stairs set into the wall and the ceiling so far overhead. He swallowed hard. His heart had returned to its regular rhythm, and the urge to throw himself from the platform was gone, but as he’d made his way down the stairs, another feeling came over him and it returned as he crossed the floor to take up a position beside the door.

Despite the echo of his footsteps confirming the emptiness of the place, he felt like they were being watched.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Cold salt water splashed Graymon’s feet and ankles. The going through the forest with its tangled underbrush had been slow and noisy, so when he emerged onto the shore of what he thought must be the Small Sea, he decided to take to the water to move faster. The numbness spreading through his toes made him regret the decision.

The wind tugged at the blanket around his shoulders and no matter how tightly he held it or how careful he was, a corner kept dipping into the water, the wool soaking it up so a third of his covering was wet. One good thing about the coldness of the water and wind: they made staying awake easier even as they rattled his teeth.

He moved out of the shallow waves onto the shore, drenched boots crunching and gurgling on the pebbly beach. So long he’d dreamed of the water, of seeing the beach and swimming in the surf like his father had done in the stories of his youth. But his dreams of the sea looked vastly different than this. In his dreams, the sun tanned his skin and the water felt warm and inviting.

No dead men chased him in the dreams.

A sound behind him made him stop, the fine rocks shifting and grinding beneath his feet. He held his breath and listened, ignoring the pressure in his bladder as the lapping waves did their best to coax urine out of him, distracting him.

The sound came again-clearly a growl this time-and thoughts of urinating disappeared. An animal? He crouched and listened, annoyed by the noise of the tiny stones under the soles of his boots. A second sound, answering the first. It was no animal.

They know I’m gone.

Graymon looked around frantically but didn’t see the soldiers. The water’s edge lay a few feet to his left, the tree line ten yards to his right. He wiggled his toes, noticed feeling returning, and knew he couldn’t go back into the water. With nowhere to hide on the beach, the forest’s tangled thicket offered his best option.

And the place they’ll be looking.

The boy duck-walked across the rocky beach, eyes fixed on his goal. If they were to notice him before he reached the forest, he didn’t want to see them coming.

Clouds scudded past the half moon, casting shadow and throwing the shoreline into darkness. Each shadow leaping from stones and driftwood increased Graymon’s pulse, building panic that pushed him for the trees. After what seemed an impossibly long time to cross such a short distance, he tumbled into the snarl of brush.

Barbs raked his arms, runners tangled his ankles. He thrashed his way through; the feel of blood running from the scratches on his forearm brought tears to his eyes as he broke free into the forest. Underbrush grew thicker beneath the trees, but it didn’t seek to hurt him. Instead, his feet caught on roots, sending him off balance as he stumbled away from the shore.

Graymon breathed hard and fast through his nose but didn’t slow his pace to fill his lungs and soon felt lightheaded. He slumped down on a fallen log and wiped tears and snot off his face with the dirty woolen blanket. Quiet returned to the night, the silence broken only by the waves sweeping onto the shore. He filled his chest with air and his nose with the earthy smell of decaying leaves.

Be brave!

He took another breath and felt his heart begin to slow. Wind rustled what few leaves autumn had left clinging to the trees.

Be brave!

Gathering his courage, Graymon stood. Did no longer hearing the dead men following him mean they gave up or went to look somewhere else? Or did they hear him and were sneaking up on him? He couldn’t stay in one place no matter how scared he felt.

Be brave!

He crept away from the log, mindful of his footing, but the pressure in his bladder returned and wouldn’t go no matter how he tried to ignore it. He could wait no more.

Graymon threw the blanket off his shoulders and undid his breeches. At first, as he glanced around expecting a decomposed face to jump out from behind any one of a hundred trees, the pee wouldn’t start. He concentrated, pushed hard, startled himself when he passed wind then stifled a giggle at the sound. Finally, the pee came, spattering off the broad green leaf of a plant his father would want him to know the name of but he couldn’t remember. He sighed as his bladder emptied, then took a step back, worried he might be peeing on his boots.

He was almost finished when he heard the growl again.

Fear squeezed off the stream of urine and he pulled his breeches up. The last of the pee ran down the inside of his thigh; he ignored it and forced himself to be quiet despite the urge to run. A shape that didn’t look like a dead soldier loomed ahead, indistinct in the gloomy forest. He moved toward it and found the gnarled end of an uprooted tree. Graymon inserted himself amongst the twisted roots, avoiding thoughts of the spiders and other insects that likely called it home. He hunkered down, sinking as far back into the tree trunk as the space allowed, then remained still.

Minutes passed with no more sound and Graymon began to wonder if he’d imagined the growls. He considered leaving the cover of the tree and looking around but dismissed it-the creepy-crawlies possibly making their way up his sleeves and pant legs were preferable to rotting men. He waited, breathing shallowly. The wind shook the trees and he shivered, hugging himself against the cold, teeth chattering. Then his breathing halted.

The blanket!

In his haste to hide he’d left the blanket lying in the brush where he peed. His eyes flickered across the narrow slices of forest he saw between the twisted roots. Nothing.

Should I go get it?

He wished his father was with him to tell him what to do. His da was a brave hero, but no matter how much he wanted to be one or how hard he tried to convince himself he was, Graymon knew he wasn’t really a brave hero himself. He was just a boy trying to survive.

If I don’t get it, they’ll find it and know I’m here.

He clicked his teeth together as he thought.

If I leave here, they might see me.

He chewed his bottom lip, weighing the two options, deciding between the lesser of evils. He felt safe with the gnarled tree at his back, but how long would that last?

Another growl, low and barely distinguishable amongst the rustle of leaves, convinced him to stay put. He let his breath out slowly and scanned what little he could see. Wan light streamed through the trees as a cloud moved past the moon.

A many-legged insect crawled onto Graymon’s hand and he moved instinctively to brush it away when he saw a figure outlined in the dim light. The man grunted, stooped, and rose again holding Graymon’s blanket. Another man joined the first, then another. The many legged-thing scurried over Graymon’s wrist and up his sleeve. A squeal rose in the boy’s chest but he strangled it before it escaped his throat. Another unseen creature crawled onto his face, this one with fewer legs and a gentle touch he wouldn’t have felt on any other part of his body. It moved across the thin line of his pressed-together lips. Unable to bear any more, Graymon closed his eyes and held his breath for fear of sucking some insect up his nose. The thing on his face passed over his ear and into his hair where it might have remained, but he no longer felt its presence. The one in his sleeve made itself at home in the crook of his elbow.

As Graymon opened his eyes, the thoughts of the insects fled. The man with the blanket stood two steps away from his hiding place, head swiveling, searching. The boy waited, his throat squeezed off to breath and cries. A tear rolled unheeded down his cheek as time crawled by. The air in his lungs grew stale, pleaded to be released.

Be b…brave.

When the dead man finally strode past his hiding place, Graymon held onto his breath until his lungs burned before letting it out through his nose. And then he began to shake uncontrollably.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Fystal said he saw them go in as the sun rose. And people saw someone standing…” The man raises his eyes toward the tower, like he’s afraid of talking about it.

“Hmm,” the second man grunts. He’s much bigger than his companion, probably seven feet tall. His back is to me.

“There’s only two of them,” the first man tells him.

“Did they look like they had anythin’ good?”

“Dunno. Weapons for sure. Fystal said one has a blade what glows.”

“Hmm.”

They look across the avenue at the door to the spire, pondering what to do. I know what they’ll do, they’re criminals, after all, and criminals are predictable. They’re going to storm in and kill them both and take their belongings. Or that’s what they think they’re going to do. I might have something to say about it.

The tall one scratches his ass through his dirty breeches; the ragged legs of his pants hang an inch below his knee and look as though one step would separate the seam. Must be difficult to get clothes that fit when you’re huge, especially when everyone you steal from is smaller than yourself.

“His blade glows, eh?”

“That’s what Fystal said.”

A few yards separate my hiding place from where they stand reviewing their options, but they have no idea I’m here. I’m a shadow, a wraith. Another minute passes and I begin to wonder why the delay. Usually the prospect of plunder is a strong pull for men of their ilk. Something else holds them back. Is it the tower?

“Wanna go now?” the smaller one asks.

“Hmm. What about the demon woman what’s been killin’ everyone?”

I smile. It’s me stopping them.

“Pfft.” The smaller one slaps his knee. “There’s no demon woman. Someone got mad and killed them, that’s all.”

“A whole tavern full?” The big one scratches his ass again-fleas or nerves.

“Sure. Happens. Fystal says-”

“I don’t care what Fystal says,” the big one snaps, afraid.

The smaller one turns to him, his eyebrow crooked. “You ain’t afraid of a woman, are you?”

Ass scratch. “No. No, I ain’t afraid of no woman.”

“Let’s go then.”

I’ve heard enough. It’s time to make them afraid of a woman.

“Where do you think you’re going, gentlemen?” I step out of the shadows and the smaller one, still facing his companion, sees me. His eyes widen. The big man goes stiff. I finger the pommel of my sword and smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? You ain’t afraid of a woman, are you?”

The smaller man’s eyes narrow, his face hardens. There’s spittle at the corner of his mouth and his cheeks flush to pink. Clearly, he’s afraid but intends to show me he isn’t. In a blink, his hand goes for his sword. I dart in, reaching past the big man; my blade flashes from the shadow and takes the smaller man’s arm off at the elbow before his steel clears the scabbard. His sword falls harmlessly back in place as his arm falls harmlessly to the dirt. He screams.

I step back, waiting to see what the big man will do. With his size, he could be very dangerous. Despite all the instincts and skills the woman in the black cloak gave me when she brought me back from the fields of the dead, I’m not ready for what he does.

He runs.

His long legs, thick as small trees, take him ponderously into the avenue with loping strides. I follow him, slicing open the throat of the smaller man on my way by, stopping him mid-scream. I don’t have to chase the man-he’s likely too scared to do anything but hide under his covers-but I can’t chance him coming back with more men and possibly killing the man called Khirro. If it’s not me who kills him, I’ll get neither my reward nor the satisfaction of revenge.

The man’s big but not particularly fast. I catch him and put my sword between his pumping legs sending him sprawling to the flagstones. He scrapes his chin and bumps his shoulder but no real damage done. Not yet.

“Please.” He rolls onto his back and I see his face for the first time-despite his size, he’s not yet old enough to shave. He scrambles away from me, one hand held up defensively. His feet churn dust from the stones of the street. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Why not?” I ask sauntering after him, the tip of my sword pointed at his chest.

“I ain’t done nothing.”

“You’re in Poltghasa. You’ve done something.”

“No, I’m innocent. It was all a mistake.” Tears roll down over the peach fuzz on his cheeks, sobs choke his voice. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t rape the girl, my brother did. She only said I did. You already killed my brother.”

His words stop me. Why do they sound familiar? He must see my hesitation because his begging continues.

“Really. She was a whore anyway. How can a whore be raped?”

His last words dispel all pity and doubt from me. How did I let myself be distracted? This almost-man is an animal, a monster, much like the man I hunt, and the world is a better place without him and all like him. I grit my teeth and lunge. He lifts his hand in a vain attempt to save his skin and my blade cuts off two of his fingers before the tip pierces beneath his chin and continues its path until it thumps against the inside of his skull. I push harder until it pokes through the top of his head.

“Whores can be raped,” I say knowing he no longer hears. I twist my sword for my own pleasure-no more damage can be done to him. “And giants can be killed.”

I pull my sword out of his head and wipe the blood and brains on his soiled tunic. A quick glance around shows me that, if anyone had been watching, they’ve all found better things to do. I smile down at the dead man then leave him to return to the alley across from the tower, what little brains he possessed seeping out of the top of his head.

I have to protect my prey.

***

Khirro woke with a start.

“What was that?”

He looked around the dim chamber, disoriented, and saw the curved walls and the stairway winding into the musty heights and remembered: the king’s blood, the curse, the journey, all the death. He remembered Poltghasa and climbing the stairs. He didn’t remember climbing down and falling asleep.

“The cry of a man in pain.” Athryn stood near the door, sword in hand. Khirro climbed to his feet and yanked the Mourning Sword out-the blade glowed fiercely.

There’s blood in the air.

“Should we go?”

Athryn shook his head and gestured toward the light squeezing through the crack under the door.

“Not until nightfall. Go back to sleep, I will wake you if the need arises.”

Khirro nodded and took half a step away from the door, the nerves in his arms and legs tingling. In Poltghasa, screams were probably common, but he wondered how much safety the tower provided should someone want to attack them. It didn’t seem anyone had entered in a very long time but they couldn’t be sure. He slid the Mourning Sword back into its scabbard and settled on the floor, lying for a long time staring up into the tower’s black heights or watching his companion guard the door. When they heard no more screams, no one forcing their way through the door, he finally found restless sleep and dreamed of Elyea.

***

Darkness falls. Soon they’ll come out to search for food, and then I’ll make my move. That’s when Khirro dies.

No one else approached the tower through the rest of the day; the corpses in the street deterred any who might have considered it. All the better; any more scenes might have warned them they’re being hunted.

I smile.

Hunted. I’m a hunter, a server of justice, an angel of death. So much better than being a whore, a victim, raped and abused by men like him. My belly knots with excitement. Soon he’ll pay for his sins.

I’ll make him pay for everyone’s sins.

An hour passes before the door opens a crack. The hinges creak, the sound faint; no one but me around to hear. They have me to thank for the privacy. A minute passes-they’re being careful. They’ll have heard the cries of my victims earlier, perhaps spent the rest of their day curled in a corner hugging their knees in fear. The image makes me happy.

The door opens farther and a man I don’t recognize steps into the street. This is the magician, Athryn. He’ll die, too. Close behind him, my quarry emerges. Thin lines of red light illuminate his blade casting eerie shadows on his face, but I know it’s him. I see his face every time my eyes close.

Something is different about him.

It’s in his eyes and the look on his face. He’s wary, a little bit afraid, but he lacks signs of the cruelty he wears like a mask in my dreams. My stomach twists and tingles and suddenly I know something I didn’t know before.

I loved him once.

But how could I? He’s responsible for all the bad and harm done me throughout my life. He raped me, tortured me, killed me, yet somehow I loved him.

They move from the doorway and I follow silently, keeping my distance. My curiosity is piqued, I want to find out more about this man before taking his life. I want to find out what made me love a monster.

No matter what I discover, I will kill him.

***

Khirro and Athryn crept past the corpse, a dried puddle of blood pooled by the man’s head.

“What do you think happened?”

“It is Poltghasa,” Athryn said simply.

The answer satisfied Khirro. In a city where the residents are thieves and murderers, he found it easy to imagine the things that might have brought about this man’s death: a dispute over a bet, a woman, a wrong look, anything.

One day I’ll be free of all this death. The thought held little conviction for him.

They kept to the shadowy walls; the whisper of their leather soles on the cobblestones seemed loud and hearing them so clearly made Khirro wonder what happened to all the other sounds of the city. Where were the fights? The drunkenness? Where were all the things he’d heard that made Poltghasa such a dangerous place?

Athryn stopped him and pointed to a building at the end of the avenue. The wooden porch in front of the stone building canted to one side, the door hung askew. A sign nailed to one of the posts named the place but was illegible from a distance, maybe even from up close. Khirro looked at the magician and shrugged.

“A public house.”

This is no time for a drink, Khirro wanted to say, but neither was it time for poor humor.

Athryn led him out of the shadows and across the courtyard. A fountain-long dried up, its statue smashed into indistinguishable chunks-dominated the yard and Khirro gripped his sword tighter as they passed. He suddenly felt like they weren’t alone, but no one hid behind the crumbled stone. On the side of the fountain closest to the door, the stones beneath their feet changed color, darkening to black in the dim moonlight. The sense of being watched stuck with Khirro. He reached out and put his hand on Athryn’s shoulder.

“I-”

The magician put his finger to his lips, nodded, then led Khirro up the two creaking wooden steps onto the porch. The wood here was darker, too, as if painted with the same brush as the courtyard. Khirro glanced down as they passed over it and noticed the color came in patches and blotches, some large, some small; only a few places showed bare, pale wood. Ahead, Athryn disappeared through the doorway. Khirro stole a look over his shoulder before following, expecting to see someone standing in the courtyard, watching, or a group of soldiers running toward them. It remained empty. He pulled his charred shield off his back and followed his companion through the door.

***

He senses me, as I feel his presence. There’s danger to him like I haven’t felt before, but there’s more, too, something I haven’t felt from any of the others I killed. I sensed danger in some of them, too, but most reeked of fear as they saw their deaths coming at the end of my blade. He won’t have the same stink; I’ll be disappointed if he does. Whatever it is, it stays my feet. I rub my leather-wrapped sword hilt hoping to feel the comfort it normally brings, but it’s absent. Instead it’s the cold, unfeeling handle of a weapon. Have I been deserted at the moment of truth?

As if in answer, the woman’s voice whispers in my ear.

“It is time,” she says. I look around, hoping, but I already know she’s not here. “It is time for retribution.”

Visions of the things he did flash through my mind. My body feels every blow, every cut, and I double over struggling to keep from crying out.

“It is time for vengeance.”

Bodies appear on the ground before me, their images wavering in the dark. They are people I’ve known and loved, people whose deaths are his responsibility. The sight of their faces brings a lump to my throat and I recall their names: Despina, Aryann, Leigha, Maes, Shyn, and more. A dozen corpses flicker and disappear. I swallow the knot. I won’t cry. I’m not a woman who cries anymore.

“It is time for him to die.”

I straighten and nod once, jaw set and muscles tense. My sword murmurs words of encouragement as it slides from its scabbard. The woman’s voice is gone from my ears but I don’t need her now, she served her purpose reminding me why she brought me back. I have one thing to do: the task I was reborn for.

I start across the courtyard, struggling to keep the grim smile off my lips as I glide over flagstones stained with the blood of men I killed.

***

Khirro searched behind the chipped and splintered bar while Athryn watched the door. They found a little food in the kitchen and stored it in their packs, perhaps a week’s worth at most. Khirro’s search behind the bar revealed nothing but patches of spilled ale that tried in vain to hold his feet to the floor. He rounded the bar shaking his head and Athryn pointed across the room.

“There is one more room,” he said indicating a dark rectangle in the center of the far wall. “A store room, perhaps.”

They wound their way through upset chairs and overturned tables, careful not to disturb anything or make noise to give away their presence-men might hide behind the last door.

Where is everybody?

As they made their way toward the door, the room’s smell changed. A sweet, cloying odor that threatened to adhere to the insides of Khirro’s nostrils overpowered the smell of stale beer and liquor. The closer they came to the door, the stronger the odor. Athryn reached out for the door handle and dread suddenly crashed down on Khirro like a limb fallen from a tree.

We’re not alone.

“No. Wait-”

Too late. Athryn threw the door open, brandishing his sword as he did. The stench rolled over them and Khirro’s stomach took a hard right turn. Athryn stepped back from the door, eyes wide.

Khirro couldn’t tell how many bodies were in the room. The way they’d been piled on top of one another, limbs twisted and tangled, made it impossible to see where one corpse ended and another began. There was no way to know which severed limb went with what butchered body. Khirro put his hand to his mouth to block the fetid air from his lungs as well as to keep his stomach’s contents in.

“Gods,” Athryn whispered.

“Let’s go,” Khirro managed.

Neither of them needed any more words to convince them. Whatever did this was bad, worse than giants or dragons or lake serpents. They turned to retreat to the courtyard but only made it a few steps before they halted, the corpses crowding the room behind them forgotten.

The figure outlined in the doorway was small, but with an air of danger in his stance. He stood with legs set at shoulder width and firmly planted, his bared sword rested with its tip on the floor. Khirro looked at Athryn then back at the silhouette. A familiarity about the figure made alarm bells wail in Khirro’s head.

“We have come for food,” Athryn said raising a hand before him. “We mean no harm and will gladly pay if you like.”

Silence.

The figure held position like a statue. Khirro’s arms and legs tingled as adrenaline flooded him with excitement and fear and curiosity. Athryn took a step forward.

“Let us leave in peace. We will cause no trouble.”

The figure drew the tip of his sword along the floor, scraping it across the wood as though inscribing a line not to be crossed. Khirro stepped up beside his companion.

“You don’t want this, stranger,” he said.

“Oh, there’s nothing I want more,” the figure said, the words floating across the room on the voice of a woman. “And we are not strangers, Khirro.”

Khirro’s jaw dropped at the sound of the voice, the Mourning Sword drooped to his side.

Elyea.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A spider scuttled across the thin line of light shining between the bars and disappeared into the dark as quickly as it came. Therrador pushed himself up and crossed to the cell door. A guard stood with his back to the bars and the king knew by the red paint splashed on his black mail that he’d have a decaying face and dead, unfeeling eyes. The corridor was empty but for the guard’s shadow thrown writhing on the wall and floor by the torch guttering in the sconce across the hall from him.

“Isn’t it time you let me go?” The thing didn’t turn toward him when he spoke. “The people will notice their king is missing.”

He considered reaching through the bars and poking the dead man but didn’t know what orders the Archon had left. Such an act might mean his death. He wouldn’t take the chance, not as long as Graymon might still live.

Why don’t they just kill me?

He surveyed the featureless cell for the hundredth time. The dungeon was deep underground with no windows, nor furniture or comforts of any kind. A bucket for waste and a pile of hay for sleeping which he no doubt shared with insects and rats.

He’d survive; this wasn’t the first time he’d been imprisoned, but he couldn’t ignore the pressure of his situation. The longer he stayed here, the more any chance of overcoming the Kanosee diminished, and the greater the chance Graymon wouldn’t survive.

“Let me out,” he said, his tone commanding and insistent, but it continued to receive no reaction from his guard. “Tell the Archon this is unacceptable.”

“I told you to do as you were told.”

Startled, Therrador jumped. He hadn’t noticed Hanh Perdaro approach along the dimly lit corridor. With a nod to the guard, he sauntered past and stood before the bars directly in front of Therrador.

“Hanh.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Tell me you’re here to let me out.”

Perdaro shook his head. “No. And I don’t know I would even if I could.”

“What?”

“You’ve been a bad king, Therrador,” he said in a tone suitable for chastising a child. “Perhaps it will do you some good to be on your own for a while. To think about what you’ve done.”

Therrador stared, unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth. “What are you talking about, Hanh? For the Gods’ sake.”

“Leave us,” Perdaro said over his shoulder and, to Therrador’s amazement, the guard strode away down the corridor, the clomp of his boots on the stone floor echoing after him. Perdaro faced Therrador, one corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk. “Did you really think you could do the things you did and not pay a price?”

“I’ll pay for my sins after the Kanosee dogs are driven out of the kingdom and Graymon is back with me.”

“You don’t see it, do you?” Hanh Perdaro chuckled and shook his head. “What you’ve done cannot be undone.”

“Anything can be undone.”

“Not this. Her Grace sees all, knows all.”

Therrador’s eyes narrowed. “Her Grace?”

“The Archon. I told you to do as she said. It would have been safer for all.”

“Not for my kingdom.”

“The kingdom is lost,” Perdaro snapped, the smirk disappearing from his face. “Why can’t you see what’s right before your eyes? You’ve lost your son. You’ve lost your kingdom. You’ve lost.” He glanced down the hall at the guard, then lowered his voice. “It couldn’t have been any other way.”

Therrador grasped the cool steel bars with both hands and leaned forward until his face nearly touched them. Hanh Perdaro had always been his favorite member of the High Council, but he was beginning to doubt his judgment.

“If you have something to say, Hanh, say it.”

“You were never in control. Just as you aren’t now.”

“What do you mean?” He resisted the urge to reach through the bars, grab the man by his shirt and shake him to get straight answers out of him.

“You can’t possibly think you manufactured the king’s death on your own, do you?” Perdaro laughed. The guard looked away from the wall in front of him at Perdaro but quickly went back to staring at the blank stone. “The size of your ego never ceases to amaze me.”

Therrador bit back his emotional response. Years commanding men taught him to think before reacting. He breathed deep and waited for Perdaro to continue, as he knew he would.

“Didn’t you think it fortuitous when a Kanosee soldier fell into your grasp? Or that no one suspected anything when you inserted him as one of the king’s guards?” He chuckled again. “Wasn’t it unusual for Braymon to be at North Tower when the Kanosee breached the wall? What was the king doing on the first line of defense?”

Logic demanded that Therrador agree. More then once since this began, he’d wondered what the king was doing there, but had dismissed it as good fortune. It should have taken days, perhaps weeks, for the assassin to find an appropriate time to dispose of Braymon in a manner that seemed natural, yet the king was dead within the first twenty-four hours of the Kanosee siege. A twinge of regret shot through Therrador’s chest.

“You were so concerned about yourself, you didn’t see the machinations working in the background, placing the dominoes so they’d fall where they needed to fall,” Perdaro said.

“And you’re behind all this.”

“No, not I.” He caught sight of a cobweb clinging to his shoulder and brushed it away. “I’m not so naive as you to think I’m not simply one of the Archon’s pawns. But I’m a willing one while you were unwitting from the start.”

“Why tell me this?”

“Because it doesn’t matter now. Erechania has been muzzled, the Archon’s in control. It’s a matter of time until her plan is complete and Hanh Perdaro rules the kingdom.”

Therrador grimaced. “But one domino went astray, didn’t it? King Braymon’s blood yet survives.”

Perdaro’s expression became cool. “It’s the only reason she lets you live.”

“Well, thank the Gods for incompetence.”

“Don’t be smug.” Perdaro examined his fingernails. “The man will soon be found. When his life ends and the blood of the king is spilled for good, yours won’t be far behind.”

So they haven’t got him yet. Therrador suppressed a smile. There’s still hope.

“Why are you doing this, Hanh? The king was never anything but fair to you.”

“Fair? Why settle for fair when you can have the throne? Wasn’t that your attitude? Isn’t that how you became the Archon’s puppet?”

“I didn’t do it for me, I did it for Graymon. And Seerna.”

“Ha!” Perdaro looked toward the guard then back at Therrador. “Do you still think Braymon would have sent you away with Seerna ready to deliver a child? You? His closest friend? He thought you volunteered for it. And did you believe your wife would have named your son after the king?”

“You bastard.”

Therrador’s hands shot through the bars, grabbing Perdaro by the lapels before he knew what happened. The king pulled hard, slamming the man’s chest against the cell door, coaxing a high pitched shriek from him.

“Guard,” Perdaro screeched clawing at Therrador’s hands; the king didn’t let go.

“You’ll pay for this,” he whispered through the bars, their faces inches apart. “And tell that bitch she’ll pay, too.”

Searing pain in his thigh made Therrador release his grip. He stumbled away from the cell door, blood streaming down his leg as the guard’s spearhead pulled out of his flesh. Perdaro glared at him, the dead man standing blank faced at his side.

“You live on borrowed time, Therrador. For your own good, the good of your son and the good of your people, learn to behave.”

Hanh Perdaro-Voice of the People, member of the High Council, friend of the king, and now traitor to the kingdom-turned abruptly, his cape spinning behind him, and hurried from the dungeon leaving Therrador alone with the undead guard and the guttering torch.

Therrador lurched across the cell away from the door until his back struck the wall, then slumped to the floor. Thoughts and emotions boiled within him: grief, sadness, hatred. The Archon had killed his beloved and set him against his oldest friend. For six years, his thoughts and actions were not entirely his own, but the blame was. He hung his head and clamped his teeth together. Seerna was gone-he couldn’t bring her back-but Graymon was still out there somewhere, and a piece of King Braymon. But where?

There’s still hope.

He drew a deep breath and spent the next hours convincing himself it was true.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Branches raked at his face. Each footstep echoed in his ears, convincing him his pursuers were at his back, ready to reach out and grasp him by the collar, but Graymon didn’t look behind him. He didn’t want to know how close they were. Moonlight flickered through tree limbs; wind rustled leaves and swayed branches. Occasionally, the sound of waves rolling onto the shore came to his ears; when it did, he amended his course away from the beach.

Dried tears tightened the skin on his cheeks, his breath became gasps. The escaping from the wagon seemed like it would be the difficult part, he didn’t expect the getting away to be so hard.

Where do I go?

Ahead-though he didn’t know how far-he knew more dead soldiers camped all across the salt flats, and there was water on either side of them. He swam well for a six-year-old, but not well enough to escape in the sea. And where would he swim if he could? Father had shown him his maps, he knew Kanos, the land of the enemy, lay across the Small Sea. He didn’t want to go there, even if he could. He thought of his toy dragon and the way the woman made it fly.

If I could fly, I could get away.

His foot struck a rock painfully and he tumbled to the ground, his head barely missing the trunk of a stout tree. He pulled his knee to his chest and grabbed his toe, biting back the urge to yell and give away his position. The guards were looking for him; they wouldn’t give up until they found him.

The tumult of waves and wind swirled around him, sounding to his ears like men crashing through the brush. He looked around, panicked, pulse racing, until his gaze fell on the tree towering over him. More brown leaves clung to its branches than most of the other trees-leaves that could provide cover. He stood and reached over his head but found the lowest branch a foot out of reach.

I can’t fly, but I can climb.

He jumped, his fingers brushing the branch’s rough bark, and a leaf broke free to float past his head. His eyes followed it to the ground. When he looked up, he saw torchlight bobbing through the trees in the distance. That’s why he hadn’t seen his pursuers since hiding in the fallen tree-they’d gone back for torches.

Graymon leaped for the branch again. Cool moss teased his fingers, but the limb was too high. Shuffling his feet along the ground to avoid tripping, he circled the tree in search of a lower branch or a stump on which to stand. On the far side of the tree, he found a swell in the dirt directly under a low branch; when he stood on it on his tiptoes, he could wrap his fingers around the limb. The feel of the wood in his hands gave him hope.

If I can get high enough in the tree, they won’t see me.

He lifted his feet, hanging from the branch as he struggled to pull himself up, but his arms weren’t strong enough. Dangling like a bat sleeping the day away, he thought desperately, keeping his eyes on the tree instead of watching the torch get closer. He’d climbed trees like this before back home in Achtindel. His favorite to climb was one that grew in the courtyard; nanny was always getting after him for climbing it because she thought it was too high, but the fear of being caught made him forget how he got up to the first branch. He breathed deep and relaxed all the muscles in his body, his feet swinging gently above the ground while he concentrated, remembering the tree.

Then it came to him how he did it.

The soles of his boots scraped the bark of the tree trunk as he walked his way up the side. With a grunt of effort, he pulled himself atop the branch and lay on it, hugging it tight, his body shivering uncontrollably.

After a minute, Graymon realized he couldn’t stay there. The branch might have been high for him, but it left him no higher than his pursuer’s eye level. He struggled to his feet, balancing precariously, and climbed to the next branch, then the next. Pride and a sense of accomplishment pushed fear aside momentarily as the boy perched higher in the tree than he’d ever climbed before.

I wish da could see me.

The snap of a branch brought him back to his situation and he pressed himself tight against the tree trunk. The dead men had come much closer while he was ascending to his hiding place, close enough that when he stretched out to peer around the curve of the tree, he saw the shapes of five men gathered around the torch, searching through the brush.

And looking up into the trees above.

Graymon thought back to when he’d run from his captors.

How many were there?

He closed his eyes and tried to picture the men around the cook fire, to count them again in his head. He knew their number to be more than five, to be sure, but how many? There had been one on the other side, he remembered, but how many around the fire? Six? Seven? He played with the picture in his head, changing the number of men he saw until he thought he got it right. So good was his imagination, he smelled smoke as though the fire burned right here, right now.

“Nine,” he said finally, satisfied with his recollection, then remembered where he was and slapped his hand over his mouth. Something glided past his face, but it was no leaf this time. Whatever it was floated up instead of down.

What floats up?

Pins and needles collected in his right leg, so he shifted his position, carefully keeping his back to the trunk of the tree. Another something floated by his nose and he saw it-wispy and insubstantial. He reached for it and it disappeared through his grip.

Thoughts of fairies and sprites came to mind and he looked around for more. Perhaps they’d come to help him, to whisk him away to their fairy kingdom and keep him safe from the dead men. The tree brightened around him-the fairies had brought a light to comfort him and make him less afraid. He sighed and relaxed against the tree, convinced he’d be saved until realization hit.

Smoke.

Not fairies floating by his nose, but smoke. And the smell wasn’t in his thoughts, nor the light brought to comfort him. It was here to capture him.

“Here,” the man at the foot of Graymon’s tree grunted.

Startled, Graymon looked down from his perch into rheumy eyes staring up from a decayed face. He screamed and pulled away, his foot slipping on a patch of moss, but he hooked his arm around the limb, keeping himself from falling all the way to the ground. He panted and squirmed, feet searching frantically for the limb he knew to be somewhere below, but his energy waned. All the running and hiding, fear and stress and cold became too much for him. He yelped as his hold slipped and he lurched down a couple of inches.

“Come down, boy,” the dead thing growled.

Graymon looked over his shoulder and saw the man holding the torch high above his head, flames licking at the soles of his damp boots. The boy hooked his other arm over the branch and kicked his feet at the flames, but doing so made him lose his grip. He fell off the branch, scraping his wrists on the rough bark. His hip found the limb he’d been searching for with his feet, spinning him in the air as he bounced off it. He struck the ground hard.

The crack of his arm breaking beneath him sounded loud in his ears, a sound he wouldn’t soon forget, but the pain was mercifully brief as consciousness fled him like dust blowing before a brisk wind.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

She took two steps toward them dragging her sword at her side, the tip scraping the floor. Her hips swayed slightly when she moved, just the way Khirro remembered. Just the way they had in his dreams every night since he saw her die.

“Elyea? Is it really you?”

His hands throbbed. Blood rushed through his limbs.

How can this be?

Athryn remained statue-like beside him. She advanced another step; a board creaked under her foot, confirming she was solid, real. In the dim light, Khirro saw this woman’s hair was cut short and ragged, not long and flowing like Elyea’s.

Maybe it’s not her.

But her height, the shape of her body, the sound of her voice, all these things seemed like his lost love.

Khirro’s gut churned. She died in his arms, no doubt about that, but magic lurked in Lakesh, and especially in the Necromancer’s underground keep. Maybe something in the cursed land brought her back, or someone. The thought sickened him.

We left her behind.

They’d collected wood and built a pyre, lit the flames and released her soul to the Gods. If this was really Elyea, then some powerful magic was at work, and Khirro only knew one way to find out if this was her or a trick.

He slid forward a step, but Athryn grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“Who are you?” Athryn asked in a commanding tone.

A moment of silence passed as they both held their breath, not sure if they should hope for the worst or the best; Khirro didn’t even know which was which. Finally, the silhouette spoke again.

“It is I, Elyea.”

***

“Who are you?”

This one is called Athryn. The woman in black didn’t ask me to kill him, but he’s been with the man called Khirro in many of my visions, and he’s with him now. That’s enough to doom him. But do I surprise them now and take their lives with my sword? I’d enjoy watching their blood drain from them like I did so many other men in this place a day ago. No. That’s good enough for others, perhaps good enough for the magician, but I want to feel the man’s life leave him, not merely watch it.

“It is I, Elyea,” I say and watch them both go tense. They have trouble believing I’m their lost little whore, and they are right to. It’s not really who I am, but who I’ll pretend to be to exact my revenge.

The man called Khirro looks like he might drop his sword at my words, then run behind me and sniff my ass like a homeless dog. The blade droops in his bandaged hands. Concern springs to my chest at the sight of the cloth wrapping both of his palms, catching me off guard. I push it away. Why should I be concerned for the man I’m about to kill? Injured hands will soon be the least of his concerns.

“How do you come to be here, Elyea?” the magician asks.

I move toward them, the floor tacky beneath my feet, making me smile. I let them think the smile is for them, not for the memory and thrill of the blood I’ve spilled.

“It doesn’t matter how, what matters is I’m here.”

Khirro moves a step toward me, breaking away from Athryn’s protesting grip. Fifteen feet separate us and I see his features despite the darkened room. The curve of his cheek, the shape of his nose, everything is familiar about him, not just from my dreams and visions. My heart begins to ache and I swallow hard, attempting to quash the unwanted reaction.

This man raped me, killed my friends. Killed me.

“Elyea, I’m sorry,” he says, startling me. Can he hear my thoughts? “If I thought there were any chance you lived, we never would have left.”

He can’t. He’s trying to save himself, begging like they all do. It won’t help him, though I wouldn’t mind hearing him beg and plead. Yes, begging would be good.

“You couldn’t know,” I say keeping my voice sweet and gentle. It’s difficult.

We close the distance between us, coming close enough either of us could reach out and touch the other. Neither of us do, not yet. I see the desire on his face, the yearning gleam in his eyes, but he’s careful, too. A man as evil as he didn’t live this long being reckless. I’ll have to take the lead, so I grit my teeth to bite back my disgust and reach out with my left hand, stroke his cheek with my fingers. A feeling runs down my arm leaving goose flesh in its wake. He flinches at my touch.

“Khirro,” the magician says and I cast a look at him over Khirro’s shoulder, but not one carrying a threat; I can’t warn him away, not when I’m so close. It doesn’t matter, though, the man called Khirro doesn’t take his eyes from mine.

“I’ve missed you,” I say looking into his eyes. They gleam and glisten in the red glow of his sword, flickering as though alight with fire.

“And I’ve missed you.” He moves closer until a few inches separate our faces. “I dream of you every night.”

“And I of you.”

I feel his breath on my face and suppress a shudder, but I can’t do anything about the tingling that springs to life at the bottom of my abdomen. I attempt to ignore it, but it becomes more insistent when his lips brush mine. He kisses me gently. I kiss him back, then our lips press together more firmly. My breath shortens, my body burns. This doesn’t feel like the other men whose souls I ripped out of their bodies. I close my eyes and see him doing things I haven’t seen him doing in my dreams: stroking my bare thigh, gently biting my neck, cupping my breast. I imagine him pressing his body into mine and my eyes snap open.

He killed me.

Latent anger blossoms in my chest, fills my lungs. He tries to end the kiss and pull away, but I hold him close, making him believe I desire him.

Do I?

Making him believe I want him.

Do I?

Not letting him know I mean to kill him.

Do I?

I do.

With our lips joined almost as one mouth, I inhale deeply, exhilaration filling me as I feel the first piece of his soul find its way into me.

***

“I dream of you every night,” Khirro said. He didn’t doubt that Elyea stood before him. Her hair was different, chopped short, but the rest was her.

“And I of you.”

He took a shuddering breath and leaned closer. Night after night he wished to have her back, to have the opportunity to tell her how he felt, show her in a way he never did before. He told her of his love only in the moment of her death, and he’d carried the fact with him like a rock in his heart ever since.

I won’t miss the opportunity again.

Their lips touched, lightly at first, but passion overwhelmed him. He knew this was neither the time nor place, but he couldn’t help himself. He kissed her deeply, felt her body against his. Love swelled through him, forcing weariness out of his limbs and pain from his hands. He’d have kissed her forever, dying happily of old age in her embrace, but the words he heard ended his thoughts.

He killed me.

He heard them spoken by her voice as though she’d whispered them directly into his ear, but he knew the words didn’t come from her lips because his lips sealed them closed. Khirro tried to pull away and end the kiss but she held him close, eager for more. He indulged her, pushing aside the voice raising a warning in his head. Her lips felt so good on his, until something tore loose inside him.

His body stiffened. Pain in his chest, a feeling like part of his lung separated, leaving behind a burning trail up his throat and out through his mouth. He dropped the Mourning Sword and pressed his hands against Elyea’s shoulders to push her away, the pain in his fingers excruciating, but she wouldn’t release him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Athryn beside them, trying to separate them, but Elyea sent him stumbling away with a stiff shove.

The pain grew. He felt his rib cage, his entire torso, compressed, squeezing his innards, leaving them no choice but to escape through his mouth. He punched at Elyea, but she pinned his arms at his side.

Why is she doing this?

Athryn came at her again. This time, she connected a foot to his midsection; Khirro heard his ribs crack and he went down in a heap. Khirro continued to struggle but strength drained from his limbs. He twitched. Sweat formed on his brow, running down his cheeks. The room grew hot.

Khirro didn’t see the flames engulf his head, but he felt them, hot to the touch. They didn’t burn him, they energized him. The same wasn’t true for Elyea. She released him and stumbled back, her face twisted with rage.

***

His life fills me.

He struggles but he’s no match for me. Neither is the magician. I’m disappointed it’s so easy, I expected more of a fight from a man with such evil flowing through his veins. As his soul enters me, seeping into every crevasse of my body, I see all the things he did to me all over again: the torture, the pain, the anguish. No fantasy of bare flesh and ecstasy this time, that will come when my work’s done and the woman in black comes to reward me.

I look into his eyes as his life leaves him, satisfying myself with the fact he’ll soon be dead. His eyes are wide and scared, like the others, but the draining is taking longer. He has great fight in him, though it will do him no good.

Then his eyes change.

The blaze that burned in them-the reflection of his glowing sword-returns. But he no longer holds the sword, it lays on the floor at our feet. The flame flickers and brightens, like tinder catching in a brisk wind, until his eyes blaze and I feel heat on my face. I breathe deeper but the heat intensifies, searing my flesh until I have to pull away or risk being burned. His soul snakes out of my chest leaving an emptiness begging to be filled again.

I step back, angered at being thwarted and surprised at what I gaze upon. Flame engulfs his head, twisting and moving. It is the burning mask of a tyger he wears, its flaming lips pulled back, revealing blazing teeth. The tyger looks as though it would gladly kill me, but the wearer-his face visible through the flames-looks scared and confused.

The magician makes his way to his feet and moves to the man called Khirro’s side; even he doesn’t get too close to the fiery mask. I raise my sword, ready to defend or attack. I’ll see their lives drain out onto the floor, then. That’s how it will be.

Athryn pulls him away and the flames fade from Khirro’s head. He isn’t burned, his hair isn’t singed, no smoke smolders on him. Curious. What did the woman in black forget to tell me?

“Elyea.” His breath comes in pants, a result of the flames or my attempt on his life, perhaps both. “Why?”

“I’m not Elyea,” I say with a smile and a laugh. I thought I was only taking his life, I didn’t realize I’d get to crush his emotions first. “I am Shariel, the executioner. Your executioner.”

***

Yellow and orange swirled before Khirro’s eyes, coloring the room around him. Elyea stumbled away, hatred and surprise etched equally in her expression. He drew deep breaths, struggling to fill his deflated lungs as Athryn pulled him back, away from her raised sword. The flames dwindled before his eyes, leaving him momentarily blind in the darkness. Only his companion’s grip on his arm kept him from sagging to the floor.

“Elyea,” he gasped. “Why?”

“I’m not Elyea,” she said in a voice not entirely her own. It sounded like another mouth spoke in unison with hers. “I am Shariel, the executioner. Your executioner.”

Khirro shuddered and struggled to keep his knees from buckling. On the floor between them the Mourning Sword pulsed and glowed, the light of the red runes intensifying. Dread collected in the pit of Khirro’s stomach.

“Who sent you, Shariel?” Athryn demanded. “What do you want?”

The woman laughed and the second voice laughed along with her.

“I come to claim the life of the man called Khirro, as is my right.” She looked directly at Khirro. “You will pay for the things you did to me.”

“What I did to you?” Khirro’s mind raced. What does she mean? “I don’t know you, Shariel.”

The woman’s expression changed, softened for a second, but quickly turned back to anger.

“You will pay for what you did to Elyea.”

“But I loved Elyea.”

She stalked toward them and they circled away. Khirro glanced at the Mourning Sword, wondering if he dared make a grab for it. He didn’t want to fight this woman, whether she was Elyea or merely someone who looked like her.

Or maybe she’s something else.

“Your love for Elyea was another of your ways to torture her,” the voices said.

“No. I loved her. I’d never have hurt her.”

“It’s true,” Athryn added. “We all loved you. Khirro most of all.”

He turned his head and nodded almost imperceptibly. Khirro understood immediately.

“I loved you, like I’ve loved no other,” he said following the magician’s lead.

“You didn’t love me… her.” Each voice ended the sentence with a different word. The woman shook her head and corrected herself. “You didn’t love her.” The tip of her blade flickered and they jumped back.

“I loved you. I still do.”

The woman had heard enough. Her lips pulled into a scowl and she lunged. Athryn blocked her blow with a loud clang of steel on steel and Khirro took the opportunity. He somersaulted across the floor and grabbed the hilt of the Mourning Sword, coming to a halt on his feet as the woman swiped at his chest. The sword tip scraped across his leather.

“You will pay for the things you did to her,” she shouted, swinging her sword again, first at Khirro, then Athryn.

She moved with incredible speed, her blade flickering back and forth between them fast enough they barely had time to defend themselves and recover in time to parry or dodge again.

Sweat gathered on Khirro’s brow, but not from exertion. Inside, he felt fire burn as the tyger struggled to break free. He fought it. No matter what voice spoke through her mouth, this was Elyea. He saw it in her eyes, he tasted it on her lips. He didn’t want to kill her, there had to be another way. Blow after blow he kept her steel from finding his flesh. Her skill was incredible. If they were to survive, he’d have to find a way other than by the sword.

“Why do you want to kill us? What did we do to you, Elyea?”

“I am Shariel now,” she said catching Athryn with a kick to his knee as he dodged her sword. He stumbled away. “You are responsible for all the sins against her. Don’t deny it.”

“What sins? What have I done?”

She gritted her teeth and swung hard, the impact vibrating the Mourning Sword right down to Khirro’s wounded hands.

“You raped her,” she said, striking to emphasize her words. “You tortured her. You killed her.”

“No.” Khirro danced out of range of her attack. As good as she was, he held his own, a fact that left him surprised. “I love you, Elyea.”

“I am not Elyea,” she screamed and turned her attack on Athryn, driving him back. Fire raged in Khirro’s chest but he used all his will to suppress it.

There is another way.

He focused his thoughts on the Mourning Sword, taking his attention from the fire struggling to break free. A glow began to fill the room, dim at first but growing brighter. Panic blossomed in Khirro as he thought his inattention had allowed the flames free, but the light didn’t flicker like fire. He looked at the Mourning Sword, surprised and relieved he’d accomplished what he set out to do. The black blade and red runes disappeared, replaced by bright golden light. It attracted the woman’s attention and she forced Athryn back then turned to see the source at the same time the vision spread out in the room between them.

***

“I am not Elyea.”

I turn on the magician; he’s good with a sword, but not as good as me, or as the man called Khirro. If I dispose of Athryn first, I’ll be able to give my full attention to killing Khirro. Then he’ll shut up and stop telling me he loves me. He doesn’t love me, he never has. They are empty words he speaks in an attempt to make me spare his life. Only the woman in black loves me.

I hammer my sword against the magician’s again and again. He shuffles away, barely defending himself. I see a difference in him, but I’m unsure what it is. I don’t know this man, yet I have a sense his face is changed; it bore a scar once. It doesn’t matter, what matters is that he must die.

Another thrust, another blow and his sword falters, dips toward the floor. I raise my weapon to finish him when I notice the light. Has the man called Khirro burst into flames again? He’ll be more dangerous if he has, so I face him, leaving the magician’s death for now. Light fills the room, but it comes from his sword instead of his body. I don’t spend any time wondering about it. It’s the people in the room who garner my attention.

A young girl-five-years-old, I know-lays on the floor, shivering. A man, naked, enters the room and creeps across the floor toward her but his face isn’t the face of the man called Khirro, he’s someone else. He’s her father.

Another girl, a few years older, performs a dance for a man wearing a crown. She moves gracefully around the room removing veils from her dress-her flimsy clothes hide welts and bruises covering her arms and back. Hatred builds within as she performs. She glares at the man watching, but he isn’t the man called Khirro, he has another man’s face.

Three women cower, threatened by a man with a knife as he questions them. He kills the dark-haired one and seizes the young blond. A minute passes before he kills her and the older woman. As he faces me, I see an empty eye socket and web of scars across his face. This isn’t Khirro, either.

“Stop it,” I yell, but the visions continue. I see Khirro rescue the woman, Elyea, from a giant. He saves her from a lake of corpses. Finally, I see her killed protecting him. It isn’t Khirro who wields the sword, it is another.

“Do not believe any of it.”

The voice startles me but I don’t look around for it, I know it’s in my head. It’s the voice of the woman in black.

“Do not believe his sword of lies, it does only his bidding.”

“Lies!”

I feel the magician close behind me and whirl on him before he can react. My sword rakes his stomach, a place I inexplicably know he already bears a scar. His sword drops and he sinks to his knees. I turn my back on him and face the man called Khirro. The visions are gone, along with the sword’s light.

“You’re a liar and sinner, a murderer and rapist. It’s time for you to pay.”

He shakes his head and backs away but he isn’t afraid. I feel the power in him.

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Elyea. You loved me, too.”

“Shariel,” I insist and rush him.

I did love him sometime, I’ve come to realize this truth, but when and why are beyond me. I put thoughts of love, kindness, and mercy out of my mind, replacing them with visions of his blood spilling on the floor I use to coax the satisfaction of vengeance into being. I strike again and again, and he defends but doesn’t take the offensive. This disappoints me because I know I’ll wear him down soon. I’d hoped for more of a fight.

He catches my first blow with his shield, but it splits it in two. He shakes it from his arm and I make the first cut across his left arm. It’s not deep because I didn’t want it to be. The next is on his right thigh, enough to send blood running down his leg but not enough to hobble him. Not yet. Strain shows on his face and sweat runs down his cheeks.

“Elyea-” he pleads again, but I cut him off with a short cut on his cheek. He doesn’t cry out. I laugh.

“Shariel,” I growl and cut deep into his right forearm. The black and red sword clatters on the floor and a growl rumbles in his throat. I smile, ready for the challenge, as the flames start.

***

Blood trickled down Khirro’s arm and thigh, his legs went rubbery under him.

Have to keep going.

He peered over the woman’s shoulder at Athryn on the floor behind her, hands held in front of his midsection. He didn’t have much time, but still Khirro fought the inferno raging inside him, clinging to the thought that Elyea was trapped inside somewhere and she still loved him.

She told me she did.

“Elyea-,” he started, but her sword opened a cut on his cheek. She laughed. Heat filled Khirro’s body, racing through his veins, rejuvenating his muscles.

“Shariel.”

Her sword sank into the muscle of his forearm. He dropped the Mourning Sword and the fire spilled over like a volcano erupting, a growl rumbling in his throat as he finally let go. If Athryn was to live, this was the only way.

Flames engulfed the world before his eyes. Through them, the woman’s face no longer looked like Elyea’s. The flames twisted it, threw shadows dancing across it, and he knew the face he saw belonged to the second voice he’d heard speaking through her mouth. This face was beautiful, too, but the evil etched in the cut of her chin and the color of her eyes was plain. Khirro saw this like an observer watching from a safe place where he possessed no influence on what happened. His body took over, doing what needed to be done, and he allowed it.

The woman swung her sword and Khirro sprang aside. A flaming paw lashed out from where a bandaged hand had been a second before. It connected with the woman’s sword hand and her weapon spun away. Flame spread to the sleeve of her shirt.

She closed the distance between them, a dagger drawn from her belt, her actions showing no fear though a hint of it flickered in her eyes alongside the blaze reflected in them. Fiery claws raked her shoulder and thigh and the flaming tyger pushed forward, driving her to the floor. It climbed atop her, paws on her chest, claws digging into flesh. The tyger leaned forward until its blazing whiskers brushed her cheek.

Khirro wrestled to regain control before the inevitable happened, but through the fire he felt a claw pierce her chest and find its way between her ribs into her lung; another pressed against her heart. The woman’s body stiffened, a look of shock crossing her face, and her breath hissed through taut lips.

The flames before Khirro’s eyes dimmed and his control returned. He pushed himself up and took his hands off her chest; blood pumped from the holes left by the tyger’s claws. He leaned forward again, applying pressure to the wounds he’d caused. The woman’s face became Elyea’s again.

“No,” he whispered. “Elyea.”

Behind him, he heard Athryn speaking archaic words, using the end of his love’s life to concoct a spell. Each foreign syllable wrenched at him, twisting his insides into a knot of anger. He wanted to yell at the magician to stop, say it was wrong for him to take advantage of the loss of her life, but Elyea’s eyes moved to Khirro’s and he forgot his companion’s transgressions.

“Khirro.”

“Shhh. Don’t speak.”

“She lied to me. It wasn’t you. I’m sorry.”

He felt the blood pulsing out of her chest between his fingers, soaking the bandages wrapping his hands. Somehow, through the pain, through death pulling her from him again, she smiled. Her expression drained his strength and he sagged forward, put his cheek against hers.

“It wasn’t you. I loved you,” she whispered, then her breath ceased.

“Don’t go. Not again.” He shook his head, cheek brushing against her cheek. “Don’t go.”

He was vaguely aware of Athryn’s incantation stopping and the room-a room full of so much death-fell into silence. Soon, the magician would put his hand on Khirro’s shoulder and tell him it was time for them to go. Soon, they’d be on their way, into the country of their enemy, marching toward a future which surely held their deaths; for an instant, it seemed the future might also hold love.

But no more.

At least she can seek peace with the Gods. The thought gave him no comfort.

Athryn put his hand on Khirro’s shoulder.

Chapter Thirty

The Archon’s eyes snapped open and she sat up abruptly, pain flaring in her chest. Hanh Perdaro stirred in the bed beside her, snored lightly. She smelled the odor of his sweat and the hot air in the room pressed on her like a moist sheet; it brought nausea to her stomach.

He must have gotten up in the night and closed the shutters.

It bothered her both that he had done it, closing her in the stone prison of the room with its heavy air and rank smells, and that he had managed the act without waking her. If she knew any truth, it was that she needed to be more alert and aware than that-all the time, but especially while sleeping under the enemy’s roof. She threw the covers off angrily, unconcerned about waking the man in the bed beside her, and dangled her legs over the edge.

But she knew the heat hadn’t woken her, nor Perdaro’s smell or his snoring. She’d been dreaming of the woman, Shariel, her assassin. The dream had been more than a dream, as they always were, and she had been pulled from her sleep when the woman’s life left her body.

She has failed.

She stood and crossed to the window, the soft fur of the bearskin rug grating on the bottom of her feet more than usual, her hatred of it amplified by her mood. Her skin was thankful when it touched cool stone.

I should have the damn rug removed.

She threw open the shutters and stared out into the night. From the window in the king’s quarters on the third floor, she could see the tops of a few buildings and the inside of the fortress’ wall, nothing beyond. She knew the building faced north when the happenings of her dream lay to the west, but she stared hard into the night as if doing so would allow her to see into the distant public house and look into the face of her enemy.

When it didn’t, she put her hand on her chest and breathed deep, her chest and heart and lungs stinging with the wounds inflicted by the flaming tyger on her assassin. She felt blood oozing from the wound and onto her fingers, heard the hiss of breath escaping from the holes in her chest. Life escaped the body with the fluid and the air. The Archon closed her eyes and concentrated, willing the power to rise in her, and the pain faded.

Vanquishing the feeling of Shariel’s wounds changed neither the fact of her death nor the survival of the man and the spirit of the king within him.

Her eyes remained closed another minute as she fought the urge to build the power further, to use it to transport herself to that distant city and finish herself what the assassin started, but she knew she didn’t have the power to do it. It took too much of her to raise the dead men and keep them going for her to expend so much energy elsewhere. She must trust the man’s journey would be cut short another way, or that he would come to her and find his death at her hands.

A cold breeze gusted through the window, blowing the scent of Perdaro’s body out of her nostrils and carrying with it the briny scent of the sea and the hint of winter coming in the near future. The wind embraced her, caressed her like no man ever could, but his time it didn’t calm her or make her feel better like it so often did. Instead, it was the gust of air to fan the flames.

“He lives,” she said aloud; Perdaro snorted in his sleep. “And he still carries the king within him.”

This wasn’t what she had foreseen. In her visions, Erechania’s king and its people simply bent to her will, provided her the stepping stone she needed to launch her offensive on other kingdoms. As her army and her might pushed forward, she would eventually overthrow the southern kingdoms and learn the secrets of their dark magic no northerner had ever learned, not even Monos. She’d be the most powerful Necromancer who ever lived. No one would stop her.

Yet this man, this farmer, stood in her way.

“How is it he yet survives?”

She knew the answer. It was unexpected and unlikely, but not out of the realm of possibility. Only one man could have kept the farmer alive so long, a man who professed not to involve himself in the goings-on of men. Her eyes narrowed, a shadow fell across her face.

“Darestat.”

She cursed herself for not ensuring the old wizard was truly dead as she watched clouds roll across the moon, throwing the fortress into deeper night. If the Necromancer still lived, she would have to find ways to increase her powers to defeat him. It was no longer a farmer or a fallen king against whom she fought, but the powerful magician.

And she relished the challenge.

“This is not done,” she said crossing the room to the divan.

The velvet upholstery chaffed her flesh as she reclined on the bench. She closed her eyes, focusing the power swirling within her until her mind filled with the vision of a verdant field, blue sky, and the shape of a woman reclining in the grass.

“Shariel,” she said and smiled.

Chapter Thirty-One

The flaming tyger’s claw pierces my heart and I know it’s done.

I’ve failed.

The flames flicker and die and the man called Khirro looks down on me with love and sorrow in his eyes. I want to tell him he’ll be okay, to reach up and stroke his cheek; in this moment I realize I’m Shariel no more. I’m Elyea: the woman he loved, the woman who loved him.

“Khirro.”

“Shh. Don’t speak.”

“She lied to me. It wasn’t you. I’m sorry.” He leans forward, puts his cheek against mine. It washes warmth through me not caused simply by the proximity of a warm body. This is the way he made me feel.

“It wasn’t you. I loved you.”

“Don’t go. Not again.” He shakes his head and his cheek touching mine is the last thing I experience. I breathe my last breath and feel myself floating toward the ceiling with it.

Below me, Athryn kneels, his chanting finished. He uses my death to heal them both and the thought fills me with joy. I caused their injuries, so it’s fitting I’ll be the cause of their healing, too. I pass through the roof of the building, floating upward, and can no longer see the two men. The city of Poltghasa stretches beneath me, a sleeping beast, a place where I wreaked such havoc and caused such death.

But it wasn’t me. I see that now.

And I see the truth now, too. Khirro didn’t do those things, the woman in black manipulated me. He didn’t do anything but love me and care for me-the only man who ever truly did. He deserves my appreciation and love, not hatred and disdain, and he’ll have it forever more. It pains me I can’t show him.

I will find a way.

The city disappears, replaced by grass greener than grass should be. I roll onto my back, delighting in the feel of the dewy blades caressing my naked flesh. A cloudless sky carved of sapphire stretches forever over my head and peace fills me. If I can’t be with Khirro, this is where I want to be.

The Gods did not invent the sundial, it is a construct of man, to gauge when his life’s end approaches, so it holds no value here. Lives here have already ended. Perhaps, to a mortal, I’ve been here a few seconds when the colors begin to fade, or maybe it’s eons. No matter, I’ve seen this before, it led me from my paradise to hell on earth and I won’t let it happen again. I concentrate. The field wavers then solidifies. The sky fades, flirting with white, then returns to cerulean when I turn my attention to it.

A spot of black appears before me, small at first. It expands; before it takes shape, I know what it is. Who it is.

Anxiety intrudes on my peacefulness, nesting in the pit of my stomach. The black smudge grows to the size of a person, resolves itself into the woman in black, her cowl pulled back from what I once thought her beautiful face. The look in her eyes sends a shudder through my body.

“Shariel,” she says, a smile oozing across her lips.

“I’m not Shariel. I’m Elyea.”

“Do not be silly, child. There is no shame in your failure. Even I did not know the power within him.” She takes a step toward me and I fight the urge to crawl away, knowing it will do me no good. “I am here to offer you another chance, Shariel.”

“No. He’s done nothing to me. I’m Elyea, and I love Khirro.”

Rage chases the smile from the woman’s face for an instant, then she recovers and I notice the white teeth in her smile end in points. She takes another step closer.

“Nonsense.”

She slides her cloak off her shoulders; it falls in a black heap on my emerald grass, an ugly stain on my perfect place. She stands naked before me, dark nipples against pale flesh, no hair between her legs disguising the flower of her womanhood. I gaze upon the splendor of her body and remember how it made me feel before, but it’s a memory now. This time, instead of the tingling in my loins, disgust writhes in my belly.

“I am Elyea. I don’t do the bidding of a witch.”

She makes no attempt to replace the hideous slash of a smile when it evaporates. Her eyes narrow, her lips pull back from her pointed teeth as though she’ll pounce on me, eat me. She doesn’t. Instead she raises her arm, open hand held in front of her, and slowly closes it to a fist.

My throat constricts.

As my breath stops, I wonder how she can kill me if I’m already dead.

“I cannot kill you again,” she says answering my thoughts, “but worse places exist, places you do not want to be. You will find out about them first hand if you do not aid me.”

I shake my head and try to tell her I won’t help her, but nothing more than a gurgle emerges from my lips. The pressure on my throat increases and the pain spreads into my shoulders and chest, paralyzing me. My world of emerald grass and endless sky wavers. A fuzzy ball of cotton appears over the naked woman’s shoulder, a sure sign my consciousness is fleeing. The white spot grows, swirling larger until it looms behind her.

It becomes a man.

My eyes widen and she must sense its presence. She whirls toward it, breaking her concentration, and I gasp breath into my lungs. My beautiful world steadies itself.

“Leave the woman, Sheyndust.”

“Darestat.”

Her voice drips hatred. The name she utters returns fresh memories to me of a glowing chamber and a giant formed of mist.

“You have over-stepped your bounds, young one. There will be consequences.”

“Your time is passed, old man.” She retrieves her cloak and pulls it around her shoulders like it will protect her from the man with the long white beard. “Stay dead and let the world move on.”

“It will take more than one of your soldiers to kill me.” He chuckles as though having a conversation with an old friend. “Go back to your world of the living and leave the dead to the true Necromancer.”

“You cannot tell me-”

“Go.”

The force of his word flutters her cloak and bends the grass in a widening half moon outward from him. The woman glares; her form becomes indistinct and translucent.

“We will meet again, old man.”

“Yes, we will.”

His tone suggests a smile beneath his whiskers. The woman disappears and I sit up; he turns his attention toward me. Kindness and concern shine in his eyes and the peace I felt before returns.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

He raises a hand. “No reason, child. I am sorry this happened to you. I should have been more vigilant.”

“I know you.”

“Yes.” He nods and a gentle breeze sets the grass waving. It feels good on my face.

“I saw you die.”

He offers his hand and helps me to my feet. “And I saw you die, yet here we are, talking of our deaths.”

“Why has this happened?”

His hand still holds mine. His skin is rough and callused but his grip is tender. He looks down at his sandal-clad feet like my words have brought him shame.

“In order for important events to transpire as they must, a myriad of other things must happen. Unfortunately, our deaths were two of those things.”

“But what about what she did to me?”

It’s difficult to keep my voice even. I remember everything-my real life as Elyea and Shariel’s life of lies. I recall the things which truly happened as well as the untruths told by the woman in black. The thought of her brings the taste of bile to my tongue.

“Sheyndust seeks to change the outcome in her favor, but it must not be. I had thought things would unfold as necessary without my assistance, but I see that will not happen.”

“What will you do?”

His washed out blue eyes gaze into mine, penetrating deep into me. I feel him searching my soul for the truth of me and I know what he will find.

“You love him?”

I nod.

He gestures at the green fields and blue sky. “Would you give this up for him?”

I follow the sweep of his arm, reveling in each blade of grass, breathing the sky into my lungs. It will be difficult but I know it’s right.

“I would.”

His arm wraps around my shoulders and we stride away, our pace slow.

“But how can I help? How will Khirro raise Braymon without you?”

A low chuckle. “You cannot know the minds and plans of the Gods, my child. Nor can I, for things are not always what we expect.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are not meant to, not yet. For Khirro to complete his task, he must know peace and truth. You are the one to bring this to him.”

I nod again, though my mind spins.

“Will I be with him?”

“Of a manner.”

He squeezes me close in a fatherly gesture I’ve never experienced. My father chose other, less loving and kind ways to show his feelings.

“There is much for you to do, child. Worry not, I will guide you and you will know your task when it is laid before you.”

The sun shines on my back and, for the first time since I’ve been in these fields, I cast a shadow. It stretches out from my feet, walking steadily beside the one cast by my companion. With each step we take, our specters grow, blacking out an expanding swath of lush grass. The shade we cast hides the ground from my eyes so each step is into the unknown, the unseen.

And then we are descending through our black outlines.

I look back over my shoulder and glimpse a final rectangle of sapphire outlined in emerald before the blackness takes it all. I grieve its loss but turn my thoughts to Khirro and whatever I must do for him. Whatever it is, I will succeed.

After what the woman in black made me do, I owe him everything I can give.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Khirro knelt beside her cooling body, his head hung.

Twice I caused her death.

He rocked slowly on his knees, like a child comforting himself, but found no comfort in the movement or in his thoughts. The first time she died, it wasn’t he who swung the sword that took her life. He couldn’t make the same claim this time.

I’m not worthy of her love.

He barely noticed Athryn’s hand on his shoulder. A shuddering breath rattled down his throat and he slowly raised his eyes. Dried brown blood stiffened the magician’s shirt while beneath it the gash had become nothing more than another pink scar marring the black scrawl tattoos inked on his stomach.

“We must go,” Athryn said, his tone gentle.

“You used her.” Khirro spoke through clenched teeth to hold anger and grief and despair from spilling out in a torrent. “You took a piece of her soul to heal us.”

“I did.”

“You had no right.”

“Did you want her to twice die for naught? If we perish, all is lost.”

“You had no right.”

Khirro pushed Athryn away and jumped to his feet, hand grasping the hilt of the dagger hanging from his belt. The magician took a step away and raised his hands defensively.

“Khirro, you have been charged with a task of monumental importance. It outweighs all else.”

“Damn the task.” The blade sang against its scabbard as he pulled it free. “And damn the blood flowing in my veins. I didn’t ask for it.”

“None of us did. I only wanted-”

“Damn what you wanted.” He flicked the dagger in Athryn’s direction and the magician jumped back. “I’ve twice lost the woman I love. Is anything worth that?”

Athryn’s face grew stony, his voice firm.

“Do you forget I lost my brother in our journey? Or that Shyn gave his life for a man he barely knew? I am sorry about Elyea, but everyone has sacrificed.”

“All for a king we didn’t know.”

“For the kingdom which gives us life.”

Khirro shook his head. “I go no farther. I can’t.”

“You must. You may be willing to let Elyea die in vain, but I will not let it be so of Maes.”

“Watch your tongue or I’ll remove it like you took out your brother’s.”

He pointed the blade toward Athryn’s face. The magician stepped forward until the steel pressed against his throat, glaring at Khirro from behind the blond hair spilled over his face.

“Do what you must. At least I will die knowing I did everything in my power to honor the one I loved.”

The muscles in Khirro’s jaw knotted and he swallowed hard. Athryn’s expression softened.

“It was not Elyea, Khirro. You saw how she acted. You heard what she said. Were they the words and actions of the woman you loved?”

“No,” he replied and lowered the dagger. “But it was her face.”

“Yes, it was. But it was not simply Elyea’s face you loved, was it?”

“No.”

“Then this was not her.” Athryn moved closer and took the blade out of Khirro’s hand. He placed it on a table and embraced his companion. “Elyea would want her sacrifice to help ensure your success, Khirro. She gave her life so you might continue.” He paused, swallowing hard to contain his own grief. “They all did.”

It was her at the end.

“I’m sorry, Athryn.”

“It is understandable.” He moved back, gripping Khirro’s shoulders at arm’s length. “You are the bravest man I have ever known. The Shaman could not have chosen better.”

Khirro wanted to smile at his companion’s words, to thank him for the sentiment, but found himself unable. He didn’t feel anything like a brave man.

I’ve done a few brave things, but that doesn’t make me a brave man.

He nodded. “We should go before the sun rises.”

Khirro retrieved the dagger and the Mourning Sword, sliding them back into place at his hip, then picked up half of the broken shield. He deemed it unsalvageable before dropping it to the floor and slinging his pack over his shoulder. Athryn led him across the room and Khirro followed, careful not to set eyes upon the corpse lying in the middle of the floor.

***

People flooded the streets of Poltghasa as though news of the demon-woman’s vanquishing had already traveled from one side of the city to the other. Drunken groups of men rollicked down the avenues, cussing and fighting. Moonlight flashed on steel as brawls broke out while Khirro and Athryn watched hidden in the shadows.

Where were they all before?

The streets had been empty the previous night, like they’d entered a city populated by ghosts.

Did one woman cause so much fear?

Athryn led them down an avenue but they didn’t get far before a crowd clogged the way. Pressed against the wall, they crept close, but the throng stretched the width of the boulevard. They melded into the mob, pushing their way through while trying not to attract attention. Men and women around them cheered and jeered. Khirro paused and stood on his toes to peer over the people in front of him but saw little through the forest of waving arms. A man beside him slapped his shoulder and laughed loudly.

“My money’s on the dogs,” he shouted in Khirro’s face, spraying him with saliva and foul-smelling breath.

“Fuck that,” another man said. “The boys’ll take 'em down.”

Khirro stretched farther to see but Athryn grabbed his sleeve and pulled him away. Above the mob’s cheers, he heard the growl of feral dogs and yelps of pain-human, not canine. The autumn air suddenly seemed colder despite the warm bodies close around him.

The crowd moved and pulsed like a beast, shifting first one way then the other as the fight at its center moved and the people closest scrambled out of the way. Khirro pitched and swayed, dragged along with it. Someone grabbed him and yanked him from Athryn’s grasp. The mob engulfed him.

He reached for his sword, but bodies crowded close enough to pin his arm at his side, making it impossible to grasp the hilt, let alone free the blade. People pressed against him, forcing the air out of his lungs, and he gasped to refill them. The throng encircled him, made it impossible to move as they made him their own. He tripped, but they kept him upright, moving him forward and away from his companion. He struggled against them and he found himself moved by too many hands, blocked by too many shoulders, and he stumbled again, but this time no one caught him before he went down hard on the cobblestone street. Air returned to his chest, fresh and cool, and there was suddenly nobody close by him.

Silence.

The cheering and catcalls ceased. Khirro looked up at a circle of faces staring down at him and scrambled to his feet. He reached for his sword to find it gone. The man directly in front of him waved the black blade at him and laughed. Khirro reached for it but the growl behind him made him stop. He turned slowly, already knowing what he would see.

Three brown, mangy dogs leered at him, ribs showing through their sides and foam at their mouths. The blood-soaked body of a man lay at their feet, entrails pulled free and hanging from the jaws of the largest dog. Khirro froze.

If I don’t threaten them, maybe I’ll be all right.

Two men pushed him, sent him stumbling toward the dogs. The big one reacted first, dropping its meal and leaping for him. The other two followed close behind.

Khirro regained his balance in time to raise his arm for protection. The first dog bit down on his forearm, the second went for his crotch but he pivoted and the dog’s snout bounced off the side of his thigh. The third grabbed him by an ankle. Pain seared through Khirro’s body and he struggled to maintain focus. In his mind, he pictured flames and fire burning on his limbs. He gritted his teeth as the lead dog shook its head, rending his flesh.

His arm burst into flames.

The big dog yelped and released him, fire spreading to the fur on its muzzle. It leaped away howling in pain, jaws snapping futilely at the blaze. The crowd gasped.

Fire swirled before Khirro’s eyes; a roar escaped his throat. The dog biting his ankle let go and sprinted into the crowd whining and barking. The last dog leaped for him again, jaws snapping at his face. Khirro caught it in both arms and squeezed. The dog’s claws raked his chest as it struggled to get away but he didn’t let go until its spine popped. He released his grip and the dog’s smoldering body thumped to the ground.

Khirro faced the men who’d pushed him. They stared, white-faced and gaping. Silence fell and time seemed to stand still. Nobody moved. Dogs whimpered and fire crackled, but the crowd around him made no sound. Khirro bared his teeth of flame and stepped toward them and it was as if someone released the throng from a spell. Everyone moved at once, screaming and yelling, desperate to flee. They bumped into each other, scrambled over the top of one another. A woman fell and no one stopped to help her-the crowd trampled her, left her bleeding in the street.

As the mob dispersed, the flames dancing before Khirro’s eyes dissipated. Tendrils of smoke curled up from his body leaving him shivering as the last of the crowd disappeared into doorways and down side streets. Even the woman who fell under the feet of her compatriots dragged herself away to find cover in the shadows.

“You have control of the fire,” Athryn said.

“More than I did.”

“That is good.”

Khirro wrapped his arms around himself and went to where the man dropped the Mourning Sword, probably leaving it behind for fear of retribution. He slid it back into the scabbard and looked at Athryn.

“I couldn’t stop it when I was fighting Elyea.”

“It was not Elyea. Remember that.”

“I know. Shariel.”

He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of a bandaged hand and felt no pain, so pulled the dirty cloth from his fingers. The flesh beneath was completely healed. The spell Athryn had cast when Elyea-Shariel-died had worked. Only the fresh lacerations left by the dogs remained.

“Are you all right to travel?” Athryn eyed the blood on his sleeve.

“Good as ever. We have no choice: they may come back to punish the beast.”

“I doubt that.”

Athryn started down the avenue toward the broken doorway through which they’d entered the city. Khirro followed, his heart heavy. No matter what the magician said, no matter how right his thinking might be, he couldn’t help thinking he’d murdered the woman he loved. As they fell back into the shadows at the base of the walls and crept along the avenue hoping to avoid further trouble, it felt to Khirro like he left a piece of himself behind in this Gods-forsaken place.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Emeline tossed another log on the fire sending sparks dancing and spiraling up the chimney. Careful not to disturb the babe suckling at her breast, she settled back into the rocker her father built as a wedding gift, and bundled the blanket close around the baby’s face.

“Snow soon,” she whispered. The babe looked up at the sound of her voice, then her eyelids fluttered closed as her mouth worked to extract milk from her mother’s nipple. “You’ll like the snow, Iana.”

Logs crackled and hissed, the occasional knot popped. Emeline looked around the single room hut at the furniture Lehgan had made himself, at the disheveled bedclothes left unmade. He’d return from the hunt soon. If snow was coming as she suspected, they didn’t have much time to cure and salt meat to last them the winter. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of feeding her baby, and sighed. The rocking of the chair slowed as she dozed.

At first, she wasn’t sure if she’d woken. The fire had burned down, leaving the room dark. Iana slept, nipple half in her mouth, a line of milk dribbling down her cheek. Emeline pulled her frock over her breast and looked around the room.

The air held a different quality; not just cooler because the fire had burned down, but it felt heavier, pulsed with energy.

She hugged the baby close, rose from the chair and poked the fire, coaxing it back to life before she threw on another log. With the blaze in the hearth casting warmth and light again, she turned back to the room.

The woman sitting on the edge of the bed wore her long, red hair loose down her back and her full lips were set in a smile. Emeline gasped and nearly dropped the baby as she stepped away and felt the fire’s heat on the back of her legs.

“Don’t be afraid,” the woman said.

“Wh-who are you?” Emeline asked side-stepping away from the hearth. “What do you want?”

The woman stood and moved toward her, her long dress hanging past her feet, giving the illusion she floated above the floor rather than walked upon it. Emeline shuffled away until the rocking chair stood between her and the woman.

“Don’t come any closer.”

Emeline looked toward the door, wondering if she could get to it. Even if she could, her parents’ house was a ten minute walk. With Iana in her arms, she’d never stay ahead of the woman.

“I won’t hurt you.” The woman stopped in the middle of the room, keeping her distance. “I’m here to ask for your help.”

“But who are you?” Emeline squinted. The woman’s pale skin and white dress reflected the firelight, making it seem like she glowed dimly.

“My name is Elyea. I’m a friend of Khirro’s.”

“You’ve come to the wrong place. Khirro doesn’t live here.” Iana shifted in her arms and she bounced the baby unconsciously. “He joined the king’s army a year ago.”

“No, he didn’t go, he was taken. You and your parents and his sent him away.”

Emeline stared at the woman, mouth open, and for a moment she thought she glimpsed the bed behind, as though she could see through her. She blinked and the illusion disappeared.

“That’s not true.”

The woman smiled sweetly and shook her head.

“You can’t lie to me, I know all the truths. I told you I’m a friend of Khirro’s. He told me everything.”

“What do you want?” Emeline snapped making Iana mewl. “How do you know Khirro?”

“I died so he might live.”

“Died?” She stepped back two steps until her back touched the log wall. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I say.”

The glow around the woman brightened as her form faded, leaving Emeline no doubt that she could see the bed behind her, through her.

“No.” Emeline looked around frantically for a weapon with which to ward off the spirit. She grabbed the stick she’d used to tend the fire and brandished it at the apparition. “Get back. Leave us alone.”

The woman smiled again, though not so broadly.

“I won’t harm you or the child. Please, sit down.” She gestured toward the rocking chair. When Emeline made no move toward it, the spirit kneeled in the middle of the floor, the wide skirt of her dress pooling beneath her. “I’m here to ask for your help.”

“Help with what?”

“Khirro.”

Emeline looked at her, head tilted, and eased away from the wall, bouncing Iana all the while.

“Khirro? Is he all right?”

“Sit.”

Feeling like she had no other choice, Emeline crept around the rocking chair, careful to keep the maximum distance between herself and the ghostly figure. She sat and began rocking to keep the baby calm.

“Your child is beautiful.”

She nodded and hugged Iana closer. “What about Khirro?”

“Khirro’s no longer the man you used to know.”

Emeline’s eyebrows drew together. “What did you do to him?”

“I’ve done nothing. Circumstances have made him evolve and grow. But for him to become the man he must, he needs to know peace, and that means hearing truth from your lips.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” The woman nodded toward the baby.

“He forced me.” Emeline’s gaze flickered around the room, looking for anything to alight on instead of the woman’s green eyes. Her lip twitched. “We drank too much and he took me against my will.”

“There’s no one else here to learn your secret, Emeline. We both know that’s not the truth.”

“But it is. It’s why they sent him to the king’s army.”

“Enough, Emeline.” The woman’s firm tone made Emeline flinch. “Khirro is no longer at the Isthmus Fortress. He’s no longer fighting with the king’s army.”

“What? Where is he?”

The ghost paused as though trying to recall, or reflecting. The flicker of light in her gaze dimmed and a look of sadness touched her eyes.

“The last time I saw him, he was in Poltghasa. He’s probably reached Kanos by now.”

“Poltghasa? Kanos? Why would he be there?” She looked down at Iana, head shaking. A thought occurred to her. “Is he a deserter?”

“No. He’s the savior of the kingdom.”

The words floated between them on the warm air wafting from the hearth, waiting for Emeline to accept them. The woman waited, too.

“What are you talking about?” Emeline sneered. “Savior? Khirro barely knew how to take care of himself. How could he ever have taken care of me, or Iana?”

“The Khirro you knew, perhaps, but much has changed.”

The woman stood and Emeline cowered against the back of the rocking chair, but she made no move toward her. Instead, she grasped the sides of her white dress and lifted them out to the side. Emeline looked at the half-circle it formed hanging from her waist to the floor.

Figures moved across the white surface. She saw Khirro, leather armor on his chest and a sword in his hand, and another man beside him. She’d seen King Braymon but once when she was a child, yet she recognized him.

“I heard whispers of Braymon’s death.”

“The king is dead.”

The scene changed. King Braymon lay on a stone floor, face blood-covered, eyes staring blankly. Emeline covered her mouth. Khirro stood behind the king while a figure dressed in black cloak and cowl leaned over him, a vial of blood in his hand. The hooded man gave the vial to Khirro and the vision faded.

“What does this mean?” Iana began to fuss, so Emeline pulled the front of her dress down and put her nipple in the baby’s mouth.

The ghostly woman didn’t reply, only continued to hold her dress spread before her. After a few seconds, more figures came into view. Emeline recognized Khirro, though uncharacteristic stubble covered his cheeks, and she saw the woman, Elyea, seated with her back against a wall and blood on her hands. She didn’t know the other three men in the chamber. One of them-an old man with a long beard-gestured and chanted as Khirro stood with the vial of blood in one hand extended before him. One of the other men held a bow, an arrow nocked. He released the arrow and it skewered Khirro’s hand.

“No,” Emeline cried and turned her head away.

“Look.”

The ghost’s voice boomed through the small room, raising goose flesh on the back of Emeline’s arms. Want to or not, she looked again at the scene on the woman’s skirt. She saw a second arrow penetrate the old man’s throat, halting his chant. The old man vanished and a curious cloud of red mist filled the scene, swirling around Khirro, engulfing him. The mist pulled away from him, twisting and writhing until it formed the shape of an animal: a huge cat. The mist-beast gathered itself and sprang for Khirro. Emeline sucked breath through her teeth but the thing didn’t drive him to the ground or tear him to pieces, it entered him, diffusing into his flesh until it disappeared. The vision faded and the woman dropped the hem of her skirt.

“D-Did this happen?”

The woman nodded.

“What was that?”

“The spirit of the king entered Khirro. He carries Braymon with him.”

Emeline’s eyes widened. “And this makes him the kingdom’s savior?”

“Yes.”

“But what has this to do with me?”

The woman moved toward her and Emeline shrank away, the rocking chair’s joints creaking as she did. A few feet short of the chair, the ghostly visitor stopped and crouched, green eyes intent on Emeline.

“The safety of you and your child, the entire kingdom, rests with Khirro, but some of the old, doubtful Khirro yet remains, fighting his responsibility. If the kingdom is to survive, then he must find peace.”

Emeline shrugged and the woman’s eyes darted from hers to the baby.

“I know what happened. Khirro suspects the truth, but won’t admit it to himself. He prefers to accept blame.”

“We drank too much. He-”

“No he didn’t,” the ghost snapped, eyes suddenly blazing. Emeline flinched. “It’s time for the truth.”

Emeline’s top lip quivered. She readjusted the baby on her lap, shifting Iana from one breast to the other. The fire snapped and popped in the hearth sending flickering sparks swirling up the chimney as it threw heat out into the cabin. She shivered in spite of the fire and the warm bundle pressed to her chest.

“If you tell me now, it will be easier for you to tell Khirro when the time comes.”

She released her breath in a long sigh. “He didn’t do anything to me.”

“I know. Tell me what happened.”

Another pause.

“Khirro’s brother, Lehgan. Iana is his.”

A gust of wind rattled the shutters and pushed smoke back down the chimney but the women didn’t release their gazes from one another.

“Yes?” Elyea prompted.

“My blood didn’t come with the changing of the moon, so we thought I might be with child. We knew what would happen if our parents found out.”

She wanted desperately to drop her eyes from the ghost’s, to look upon her beautiful little girl instead of staring into the accusing green eyes. She couldn’t.

“So you blamed Khirro.”

Emeline’s head bobbed minutely.

“I made him drink until he passed out so he wouldn’t remember. When it became obvious I was with child, I said he raped me.” She paused and the woman continued staring, reading the story behind the words. “What else was I to do? If I told the truth, they’d have sent Lehgan away and Iana wouldn’t have her father. I love him.”

The woman’s gaze held. “As Khirro loved you.”

The room blurred before Emeline and she felt panic before realizing her eyes had filled with tears. She blinked and warm droplets rolled down her cheeks. The ghostly woman finally allowed her to look away and she hung her head, staring past the baby at the thresh covering the floor at her feet.

“I’m sorry,” Emeline said, breathy words carried on a sorrowful sigh.

“It’s not me to whom you need apologize.” The woman placed a surprisingly solid-feeling finger under Emeline’s chin and lifted her head. “It’s Khirro who needs to hear your words.”

Emeline sniffled and blinked to clear tears from her eyes.

“But how can I tell him?”

“Go to the Isthmus Fortress.”

“You said he’s not at the fortress.”

“He will be.”

Iana snored lightly against her mother’s chest, so Emeline removed her still suckling mouth from her nipple and pulled her dress back into place.

“But how do I know this is true? How do I-“

“What does your heart tell you?”

She stared into the fire, eyes stinging with drying tears. “I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

“But I feel so bad. I-”

“Emeline.” Elyea’s hand brushed her knee and pulled her attention from the dancing flames. “What has happened has happened. It’s hard to understand, but it needed to be. Will you let it be for naught, or will you help Khirro fulfill his destiny?”

“I’ll go to him,”‘ she said. “I should bring Lehgan.”

“Of course. He’s Khirro’s brother-he has a part to play, too.”

The ghostly woman stood and looked down at Emeline and her baby. The air in the room grew lighter, easier to bear.

“We’ll go.”

The door opened, spilling dim twilight into the room, and the woman disappeared leaving behind a swirl of dust eddying in her place. Emeline looked toward the door, squinting at the silhouette outlined in the fading light. A sense of peace overtook her and she hugged Iana tight against her chest.

“Emeline?” Lehgan said stepping over the threshold and pushing the door closed. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, my love.” She stroked Iana’s head as she spoke, smoothing the baby's ruffled, silky hair. “Sit down. I’ve something to tell you.”

Content

Bruce Blake
Spirit of the King

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three