Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,147

breathed deeply of the chill night air, strong with the aroma of pine and cedar. It smelled good after being under the ground. He had no nose for the smell of dirt anymore.

“I’ll miss Elyea,” he said and the weight compressing his chest dispelled with the words. “I loved her.”

Athryn nodded. “I will miss her, too.”

“Do you miss Maes?” Khirro looked at his distorted reflection in the magician’s silvered mask. The image looked older, tired.

“Maes is alive within me, as the spirit of the king dwells within you. It is a gift the Necromancer gave me before he left.”

“Before he died,” Khirro corrected.

“Darestat is not dead. He is gone from the world of the living for now, but he has not perished.”

“But I saw Ghaul’s arrow. No one could survive.”

“It takes more than a mortal’s arrow to slay the Necromancer. This world is very different than you know.”

“I guess it is.”

In the distance, a wolf howled and another answered a moment later. They were the first sounds of animal life they’d heard since entering Lakesh. Khirro didn’t pause to ponder why they heard them now.

The world is different than I know.

“Where will we go?”

“We must return the king to his kingdom.”

The words hung in the air between them on the mist of Athryn’s breath until Khirro nodded. He knelt and placed his hand on the knob of bone protruding from the pile of ash.

“We’ve lost so much, haven’t we?” He expected no answer from Athryn and received none. “Good bye, Shyn. Good bye, Elyea. Thank you. We’ll all meet again one day.”

He stood and turned to Athryn. The magician removed his mask, baring the smooth new skin of his cheek. Their eyes met and something unspoken passed between them—a vow, an oath, a bond.

They strode away from the heap of ash Khirro once loved, left behind their dead companions, monsters, dragons, heroes and traitors. The Mourning Sword bounced reassuringly against Khirro’s thigh as he walked, spreading through him a sense of peace. He didn’t know what the future held—adventure or boredom, friends or enemies, life or death. He knew only one thing:

He did not fear.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Figures bustled across the salt flats like bees buzzing around pollen-laden flowers. Craters pock-marked the ground where boulders had struck, but the fortress’s catapults and the Kanosee trebuchets had been quiet in the week since Therrador’s coronation. His long purple cloak streamed behind him in the brisk ocean breeze as he stood atop the wall observing the activity below.

“We should attack, your highness,” Sir Alton Sienhin urged, his voice loud and forceful. Therrador wondered if the man knew how to speak at a normal volume. “They haven’t moved on us in a week. They can’t starve us out, they know that, so they must be up to something. I say we catch them unawares. Crush them while we have the chance.”

“There are still too many.” Therrador crossed his arms to keep his hands from fidgeting, betraying his nerves. Sir Alton stood behind him and probably couldn’t see, but better not to take the chance. No one could know about Graymon. “Don’t doubt me, Sir Alton. Haven’t things been better since I’ve been king?”

“Yes. Of course, my Liege,” Sir Alton blustered. Therrador imagined his chubby cheeks reddening, his mustache quivering. “But we should—”

“Enough.” Therrador silenced the knight with a wave of his hand. Any time now they should see riders. “I’ll hear no more. We’ll wait to see their next move. We have them right where we want them.”

“Yes, your highness.”

Therrador squinted out at the plains.

Where in the name of the Gods are they?

She said it would happen before the sun reached its zenith yet the sun showed midday. He felt Sienhin standing behind him, likely seething at the slight handed him, but Therrador had little concern for niceties and formalities. Only his son mattered. And he was king, it was the old knight’s duty to obey.

Tendrils of gray smoke curled into the sky from cook fires scattered throughout the enemy camp. The days were cooler since they first occupied the land bridge and the salt flats, and the breeze off the Sea of Linghala could be biting. Cold wind had driven more than one army from the wall of the fortress in the past. But it would be two months before it became the weapon it could be, and Therrador didn’t have that kind of time.

Graymon didn’t have that kind of time.

Watching, waiting, Therrador wondered how Suath and the others fared at their task. Months