Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,134
found grief. He’d liked Shyn, would have befriended him under any circumstances. He examined the border guard’s face, his expression frozen in a skyward stare, lips pulled into a half-smile. Only a few feathers had pushed completely through his skin; most were trapped halfway so it looked as though he’d been skewered to death by a flock of birds. Khirro’s eyes trailed down his chest to the wound in his belly. Dried blood caked in the rings of his mail and stained his tunic dark brown but none pooled on the ground beneath him.
“He didn’t die here,” Khirro said interrupting something Ghaul said.
“That’s what I said,” Ghaul said, annoyed.
Khirro ignored him, his gaze falling on feathers poking through the sleeve of Shyn’s tunic in a testament to the violence of his transformation. No wonder he normally removed his clothes before changing. Khirro shook his head.
This doesn’t make sense.
If the battle had been so sudden and desperate he didn’t have time to change, how had Ghaul escaped unscathed? And why was Shyn here, so far from where he fell? As Khirro mulled over the circumstances, he noticed Shyn’s hand curled into a fist and shifted the Mourning Sword to cast its light upon it.
He held something in his hand.
Khirro knelt to retrieve it as Ghaul did the same, their hands coming to rest on Shyn’s at the same time.
“It might give a clue what happened to him,” Ghaul said brushing Khirro’s hand away. Goose flesh rippled on Khirro’s forearm. He knew Ghaul didn’t speak truthfully, though he didn’t know how he knew.
“We both know what it is,” he said uncurling Shyn’s stiff fingers. The blood in the vial glowed under the sword’s harsh light. Ghaul snatched at it but Khirro retrieved it first.
“I told you we shouldn’t trust him,” Ghaul snarled as he stood. “The bastard stole the vial from you in the throes of your hallucination.”
He kicked Shyn in the ribs, the toe of his boot landing with a dull thud. Elyea cried out on Shyn’s behalf, pushing Ghaul’s leg away.
“His wound is too grievous,” Athryn said shaking his head. “He could not have taken it then come here to die. Someone placed them here together for us to find.”
“But how?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ghaul snapped. “The treacherous thief stole the vial. How he comes to be here isn’t important. We have to find the Necromancer before we all end up like him.”
Khirro stared at Ghaul, begrudgingly accepting his words. Whatever killed Shyn might be stalking them, but he didn’t believe Shyn betrayed them. The border guard was no traitor. He had proven himself in Khirro’s eyes many times over.
“We should bring him,” Elyea said. “The Necromancer can raise him, like Braymon and Maes.”
Athryn shook his head. Shyn’s sightless eyes and frozen face reflected in the magician’s mask, transforming it into a death mask as he looked upon the dead soldier.
“No. There is no living blood in Shyn. Darestat cannot bring him back.”
“We can’t leave him,” Elyea said but Khirro could hear the resignation in her voice.
“There is nothing else to be done,” Athryn said.
“Then let’s go,” Ghaul said. “I don’t want to run into those things again.”
They moved on leaving Shyn’s body behind, silence born of caution and grief following their steps. Something felt wrong about this, but Khirro didn’t know what. Everything had been wrong since they came to Lakesh, more so since they reached the keep. No sense of reality, no control.
Why did Shyn have the vial? How?
Ghaul claimed to see him slain, yet he still quickly named him traitor and thief. Too many questions couldn’t be answered, not here, not now.
Maybe the Necromancer would provide the answers.
Chapter Fifty
Trumpets blared and rose petals drifted from high windows as boulders thudded sporadically against the fortress wall. Therrador’s horse whinnied nervously as it pranced along the narrow street, its shoes throwing up sparks as they clicked against flagstones. An enameled red eagle spread its wings across Therrador’s golden breast plate, the tips touching his epaulets; another eagle perched atop his helm and a red velvet cape draped from his shoulders. The horse’s blanket, spun with gold thread, matched its rider’s gleaming plate.
People lining the street clapped and hooted as he rode by at the head of his entourage. He hid his disappointment at how few people there were, but what could he expect in a fortress under siege? There would be more at the coronation and the reception afterward, and well-wishers would pack the palace when he returned to Achtindel.