Spirit of the King (22 page)

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.

“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.