Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,143

glow of the chamber, the runes first crawling red up and down the length of the sword then fading to black before springing to orange light as though drawn from the blacksmith’s fire. Khirro regarded it a moment before sliding it into its sheath, steel whispering against leather, and hoped he wouldn’t have to give it up. He turned his attention to the vial in his other hand and held it out to the Necromancer. The thought of giving it up gnawed his gut.

“You are the bearer, Khirro. You must be so until it is done.”

Khirro nodded and took the vial between thumb and index finger, holding it before him like something fragile, or something likely to bite. His head felt light with a mix of fear and anxiety, excitement and happiness, disappointment, sadness. So long he carried this living piece of the king next to his heart, he’d begun to feel it a part of him. What a triumph to actually complete this journey, and to live, yet a sad thing, too. His life had meant something these last months, but soon he’d be Khirro the farmer again, only after this he’d be unable to return to his farm.

Darestat closed his eyes, lips moving slightly as he chanted. A throb filled the chamber, pulsing the air in rhythm with the Necromancer’s words. His voice rose and fell, a deep drone filling the space, penetrating the corners, nearly forcing the air from Khirro’s lungs. Warmth radiated from the vial; the air moved about him, caressing him as though touched by a thousand unseen hands. Athryn remained on his knee, head bent, unaffected.

The colors in the chamber changed rapidly; pink then yellow, blue then green then red. The colors of the rainbow flashed in Khirro’s vision, and colors never imagined. He wanted to be fascinated by them, intrigued enough to divine their origin or purpose, but he couldn’t take his eyes or thoughts from the Necromancer. The old man’s lips moved without slowing, speaking words Khirro didn’t know in a language he’d never heard, yet somehow he knew what he said.

He beckoned Braymon’s soul, entreating it to rejoin the world of the living.

The blood bubbled within the vial like a liquid at the boil. Khirro’s hand quivered against his will and a low mist rose, swirling about their feet. The walls and ceiling of the chamber shimmered and swam.

Elyea’s cry stilled the mist and solidified the walls.

At first, Khirro didn’t know what the sound was or from where it came. The sound of steel rattling against stone followed and he knew what happened without looking. Alarm knotted his throat as he jerked his gaze from the still-chanting Necromancer’s trance.

First Khirro saw the dagger protruding from Elyea’s leg, then the blood flowing down her thigh. Too late, he saw the bow in Ghaul’s hand and the arrow loaded against the taut string. The arrow pierced his hand as though it was paper, tearing completely through to clatter against the marble wall. His fingers opened involuntarily and the vial tumbled from his grasp, end over end toward the floor while the blood continued to roil and bubble inside.

“No!”

The vial struck the floor and shattered.

All that time, all that struggle and death. For nothing. A journey ending in spilled blood.

But instead of blood splashing across the floor and spattering his boots, red mist puffed from the broken vial, mixed with the other mist. It rolled and moved, formed a shape Khirro recognized immediately from his dreams as a tyger made of mist stood before him.

Darestat’s voice grew louder, its pitch higher as his chant quickened. The mist tyger loomed before Khirro and Ghaul’s bowstring twanged again. An arrow flew past slowly enough he could count the feathers on its shaft, but he moved equally as slowly, rendering him agonizingly unable to react as he watched its path.

Time sped up again, folding in on itself as everything happened at once: the Necromancer’s words ceased as the arrow entered his mouth; the mist tyger roared, pouncing at Khirro, engulfing him in red mist; visions of battles he didn’t fight and men he didn’t recognize swirled about him then disappeared. The mist penetrated him, crawled into his body through his eyes, nose, ears, every pore in his skin, paralyzing him. Powerless, it overtook his limbs and muscles, overflowed his heart and lungs.

And then the world became white light.

Khirro knew instinctively it came from the Necromancer. The force of the light tossed him back and he hit the