Spirit of the King (16 page)

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.

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.”