Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,22
the deaths of Braymon and the Shaman together to come up with a likely reason for you to have done it.”
“Rudric and Gendred disposed of the king’s body. They will only have found his armor.” Maybe he’s right.
“Worse. The king’s missing and you carry a vial of his blood. How’s that look for treason?”
Khirro fell quiet as they picked their way beneath enormous hemlock and fir trees and through the shrubs crowding the forest floor: salal and ivy, skunk cabbage and salmon berry bushes. Somewhere above the branches would be a half-moon, Khirro knew, and stars arranged in constellations his father taught him before he lost his arm and stopped speaking to his eldest son. The outdoors normally calmed his soul, but not on this night, not with his countrymen coming to lynch him.
How could this have happened?
“Why would a Kanosee spy want a vial of the king’s blood?” Khirro moved through the underbrush, careful not to trip on roots and runners that grasped for his foot like human fingers.
“What good is it to you?”
“The Necromancer. The Shaman said he could bring the king back.”
“Right. Did you see the undead fighting beside the Kanosee? Imagine if Braymon was one of them and led the Kanosee forces against his own subjects. The war would end.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Khirro’s head swirled. His own countrymen on his trail, the undead soldiers, the Necromancer. The last thought stopped him in his tracks. Ghaul traveled another three steps before he noticed.
“What is it?”
“All are against us.” Khirro swallowed hard, felt the pulse beat at his throat in spite of the feeling that all the blood had drained from his head. He suppressed a tremor in his knees. “Our own people pursue us. The enemy will be after us if they know what we have. And the man we seek has sided with them. Why would he help us?”
“All we can do is follow the Shaman’s wishes and hope for the best. Let’s get on with it before our pursuers hear your whimpering and relieve us of our problems.” Ghaul strode back to Khirro and put his hand on his shoulder. It did nothing to reassure him. “For now, we’re the only ones who know of your burden. Let’s keep it that way.”
Khirro’s stomach churned. At best, he’d be branded a traitor, at worst: a king slayer. And that was if his own people caught them. What if the enemy found them instead? In the space of a few hours, the most dangerous option—going to Lakesh—had become the best one. Khirro expected the fear and dread the name Lakesh provoked, but he felt something else, too. This task meant more than feeding people. No matter what happened, he’d never guide a plow again. His life had been irrevocably changed when the king came to rest on the landing beside him. He was a warrior now, like it or not. The last hope for the realm.
The thought made him want to vomit.
The night passed in silence, disturbed only by rustling brush and the snap of twigs underfoot. Night under the trees wasn’t like night on the farm, the darkness was deeper, claustrophobic. Khirro fumbled for the hilt of the Shaman’s sword when shapes loomed only to find no more threat than an overturned stump or fallen log. Thankfully, the darkness hid his trepidation from Ghaul. After a time, he got used to the screech of the owl and the skittering of tiny feet hiding from it. Something larger followed them for a while, keeping its distance—they both noted it but didn’t speak of it. As night lightened with the dawn, the noise ceased without approaching closer.
When the interwoven branches above their heads parted, Khirro glimpsed the dark sky fading to midnight blue. His favorite time of day. Most mornings, his day would start at this time, full of promise. His brother would still be sleeping, forsaking the farmer’s life, convinced there were better things for him, though he never tried to discover what. Many times Khirro tilled soil or fed animals with teeth clenched in anger at his brother. He felt the same this morning knowing he slept safe at home, but he missed him, too.
“There’s a stream ahead,” Ghaul said, the first words either had spoken in hours. “We’ll rest there, slake our thirst and change your bandage.”
Khirro hadn’t thought about his wound in a long while. The pain and limp he’d carried along the drainage ditch were gone.