Spirit of the King (7 page)

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.

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.