Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,114

with a laugh. “It doesn’t look so dangerous.”

“It also began as a statue in my dream.” Khirro didn’t look up. There was something under there, something he couldn’t quite see.

“What is it?” Elyea asked.

“Dragon teats,” Ghaul commented; no one laughed.

“I think there’s an opening.”

He moved closer, feeling braver now his companions were there. A yard from the beast, he crouched again.

“There is. Right under its belly.” He shuffled closer, mud splashing his boots.

“Wait, Khirro,” Elyea called. He ignored her.

No more waiting.

He stretched for the opening. The dragon’s belly rested six inches above the opening—not enough room for a man to get to it.

There has to be a way.

Sweat rose on Khirro’s brow as he inched closer. His cheek touched the dragon’s belly; it was rough and pitted, not smooth as it appeared from a distance, the stone hot. The heat on his cheek intensified but he reached farther. Another inch or two and his fingers would reach the opening, maybe confirm it the entrance to the keep.

One of his companions shouted something he didn’t hear. Other voices joined the first, but he was so intent on reaching the hole, they might have spoken a foreign tongue.

A little farther. The voice in his head drowned the others out. Just a little farther.

The dragon’s belly lurched up, revealing the opening. Khirro saw wooden stairs disappearing out of sight before the red belly slammed down narrowly missing Khirro’s arm as he pulled away. His companions’ voices rose to fearful shouts. This time he heard and understood.

“Get away, Khirro! The dragon lives!”

Chapter Forty-Two

They saw the fortress wall rising against the horizon while they were still leagues away. To many, the sight instilled wonder and awe, but not to Therrador. The first time he visited, in his idealistic youth full of dreams for the future, he’d felt what others felt as he’d gaped at the wall standing fifty yards high and running the entire width of the isthmus—more than two leagues. The wall had endured for a thousand years, each stone brought by wagon from quarries across the kingdom. The immensity of the structure and the complexity of building it deserved awe, but years spent behind the wall caused reverence to erode into indifference.

“How hold the troops?” Therrador asked.

“The wall holds,” Sir Alton Sienhin replied from his right, his horse half a length behind.

“I didn’t ask about the wall,” Therrador said between clenched teeth. Traveling always made him distraught—too many times the trip ended at a fight. “The wall has stood a thousand years—I’m not concerned for the wall. How are the men?”

“It’ll be good for them to have their leader amongst them. It’s been difficult with Braymon gone. The officers do what they can to maintain morale and fight despair.” The sound of hooves on beaten earth filled the silence as he paused. “The constant rain of rocks and fire from the Kanosee does nothing to cheer their spirits.”

“They’ll have their leader soon.” Therrador shifted in his saddle, searching for a spot on his ass not yet sore. “We’ll be there by nightfall.”

“And the coronation, your grace?”

“The day after tomorrow. That will give enough time for news to spread.” He smiled to himself. “News the new king has arrived.”

They rode on in silence and Therrador thought about Graymon, wished he could have brought the boy, but a fortress during wartime is no place for a child. Certainly no place for the heir to the throne of Erechania. In two days, his son’s future would be assured and all those years of servitude would be paid in full. Therrador smiled again as his entourage rode across the plain, a cloud of dust billowing behind to mark their passing.

Torches flickered in windows dotting the wall of the Isthmus fortress as Therrador and his host rode through the gates, though there were few people in sight as they entered the bailey. Only soldiers and their support remained. Most farmers, merchants and other residents of the fortress had fled at the first sign of the Kanosee army crossing the land bridge onto the salt flats, many of them camping around the outskirts of Achtindel, the rest scattered to villages in the area. Only the greediest merchants remained to take the money of the more than ten thousand soldiers housed in the fortress, but in the large stronghold, even such numbers made it feel empty.

Therrador’s steed trotted down the stone boulevard, Sienhin and the rest close behind, horseshoes striking sparks in the dim light. Boulders lay strewn around, occasionally