Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,18
one Necromancer.”
Khirro took a slow, deep breath and released it. “The man who is supposed to be the savior of the kingdom is in league with the enemy and I’m cursed to journey into his grasp.”
“Don’t go.”
“I have no choice.”
Khirro stared at the undead soldier’s head, imagining his own face there instead. Ghaul put his hand on Khirro’s shoulder reassuringly, startling him.
“I’ll come with you.”
Relief and confusion furrowed Khirro’s brow as he turned toward the stranger and saw the determination on his face.
“But why? There is nothing to gain, only danger and death.”
“It isn’t coincidence that brought me here at this time—the Gods have intervened. I came to serve my king and this may be the only way.”
“We may never return to Erechania. Not alive.” Why am I arguing with him? Let him come.
“A warrior expects neither life nor death, only to serve.”
Khirro sighed and felt as though a weight lifted from his shoulders, though a wisp of suspicion still tickled the back of his mind. He set it aside in favor of self-preservation.
“Thank you.”
“All there is left is finding this Necromancer.”
“The Shaman showed me the way.”
“A map?”
“No. He put it in my mind when he cursed me.”
“I guess that makes you invaluable to the success of this task.” He slapped Khirro on the shoulder and smiled, but Khirro couldn’t find it in himself to return the gesture. “We should go or we’ll soon be discovered.” Ghaul bent over the nearest corpse, searching the body. “We’ll need supplies. Take anything we can use.”
“We were going to follow the drainage ditch. It’ll take us to the forest and then Vendaria.”
“Fine.” Ghaul removed the quiver from the Kanosee archer. “Search the Shaman, he may carry something useful.”
Khirro went to the magician lying on his side, the thought of searching him sitting cold and uncomfortable in his head. His attempt to open the magician’s robe failed as the arrow which had penetrated his chest held it fast. He groaned realizing he’d have to remove it.
Remembering what Ghaul had done to pull the arrow from his leg, Khirro unsheathed his dirk and sheared the flights from the shaft. He moved behind the Shaman and grasped the end protruding from between his shoulder blades with both hands but quickly let go, his fingers sticky with drying blood. He stared at them, partly numb, partly repulsed. The blood smear left the lines of his palms white. A hand reader would easily read his future and probably tell him more blood was to come.
My life has suddenly become all about blood.
Khirro wiped his palms on his breeches, flinching at the pain in his leg, then gripped the shaft again, throat clenched to quell his rising gorge. He pulled, moving the arrow only little, then tried again with little success. With a shuddering breath, he jammed his foot against the small of the Shaman’s back and yanked. The arrow came free with a wet sucking noise. Khirro threw the shaft aside and fell to his knees, retching. When he looked up, Ghaul was staring at him. Khirro waved dismissively and turned back to the magician.
The Shaman’s robe hid no armor beneath, only under clothes soaked with enough blood, Khirro couldn’t guess what color they’d been. There were no pockets sewn in the robe and nothing hung around his neck. He pulled the edge of the robe back and was surprised to find a belt around his waist, a scabbard hung from it. The black leather case wasn’t embossed or decorated. Fine work, if plain. He undid the buckle, careful not to touch the bloody clothes or cooling flesh, and pulled it free. Standing, he removed his own sword belt and replaced it with the Shaman’s.
The belt sat comfortably at his hip, reassuring, but wearing it felt wrong. He loosed the long sword from its sheath and pulled clear a few inches of blade unlike any he’d ever seen—black steel highlighted by red scrollwork. He unsheathed more of the blade—the runes ran the length of the blade.
“Anything?” Ghaul asked.
Khirro dropped the sword back into the scabbard and whirled to face him like a man caught stealing.
“Just his sword,” he said defensively.
Why did he feel like a thief? The Shaman wouldn’t miss it. In fact, if it helped complete his cursed task, he’d probably want him to have it. He put his hand on its hilt, more to keep it from leaping from its place than with any intent to draw it.