Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,15
fell across him. Khirro squinted but couldn’t see the face of the silhouette standing against that beautiful sky, an inky shape with nocked arrow and drawn bow.
“Death be yours, Erechanian pig,” the bowman growled as he straddled Khirro. He drew the bowstring to its fullest. Khirro raised his arms knowing the attempt to defend himself would prove futile.
A second passed. In that small space—more time than Khirro thought left in his life—he heard a sound like a stone thrown against leather followed by a splash of dirt against his cheek, then a gurgling from the archer’s lips.
Khirro lowered his arms.
The bow hung limply at the side of the black silhouette and a new appendage had grown from the man’s chest. The archer lurched to one side and Khirro could see again. It wasn’t a new arm sprouting from his chest, but a sword penetrating from behind. The bow fell from his hand, his body thrown roughly aside as the sword pulled free. Khirro expected Rudric or Gendred, even King Braymon, miraculously coming to his rescue, but the man standing over him was none of them.
Khirro gasped in as much air as his lungs could take as breath finally returned. He stared up at the man standing over him. His clean shaven face looked back impassively, blood dripped from his sword.
Khirro scrambled away, the arrow protruding from his thigh catching the ground and sending a fresh wave of pain coursing along his leg. He fell back, face pinched with agony. The man—his rescuer? his killer?—took a step toward him.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’m on your side.”
Khirro looked at the man through a haze of pain. Did he speak the truth? Should he thank him or defend himself? He touched the hilt of the dagger hanging from his belt but didn’t draw it.
“Who are you?” Khirro rasped, his lungs thankful for air and not wanting to waste it on words. The man’s armor bore Erechanian markings.
“Are there any others?” The soldier looked around, then back at Khirro who shook his head. He switched his sword from his left hand to his right and offered to help Khirro up. “All right. Let’s see if anyone lives.”
Khirro stared at the man’s hand without accepting it, not knowing if he truly meant to help him.
What choice do I have?
Fresh blood ran down his thigh as the man pulled him to his feet. The muscles of his jaw bunched as he bit down against the pain.
“You’re wounded.”
He set his sword aside and pulled a long knife from his belt. With two strokes, he removed the fletching from the shaft.
“What are you—?”
“Brace yourself.”
Before Khirro could, he pulled the arrow through his thigh with one swift movement. Khirro cried out, swaying on rubbery legs, and the man caught him by the arm, steadying him. When he regained his balance, the man removed a pack from his back and drew a strip of cloth from it to wrap Khirro’s wound and stem the flow of blood.
“What’s your name? Why do you help me?”
“I’m called Ghaul.” The man pulled his pack back on. “I serve the king as you do, but there will be time for talk later. We should check your friends quickly, there may be more Kanosee about. I’ll check the robed man.”
“No,” Khirro responded without knowing why he objected.
Something inside him—perhaps something as simple as a sense of responsibility—told him to protect the Shaman and the item he carried. Ghaul shrugged and went to where Gendred lay amongst the tall grass burnt red with the Shadowman’s blood. Khirro’s leg pulsed with pain as he hobbled to the Shaman’s side.
Blood soaked the magic man’s cloak. Khirro stood over him, an unexpected sense of loss churning his gut, tightening his throat. The three men performed their heroics to save the king, he knew, but they also saved his life and for that he owed them.
If only I’d joined the fight sooner, maybe they’d still be alive. If only I’d been brave.
“Khirro.”
Little more than the sound of breath passing lips, the word startled Khirro and sent goose flesh crawling down his arms.
“Khirro. What’s happened?”
The Shaman coughed bloody spittle from the dark depths of his cowl. His hands shaking, Khirro reached out and pushed the hood back. The Shaman’s sallow skin stretched thin on his hairless skull, blue veins drawing a grim map of some unknown country. His open eyes stared skyward—one black with no pupil or iris, the other red. His purple lips quivered with each pained breath.