Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,30

dragon near his father’s head, acting as though he didn’t hear him, pretending the toy flew like a real dragon.

“Graymon?”

“I bored, Da.” The toy dragon attacked his father’s arm; a wooden tooth dug into Therrador’s skin. “Play with me.”

Therrador grasped the boy’s shoulders, held him at arm’s length and spoke gently. “Da is busy, we can play when I’m done. Can you go back into the other room for me?”

“Rrraaarrr.”

The toy dragon flew out of his hands in the direction of the tapestry. Therrador spun him around, sending him on his way with a tap on the bum.

“That’s my boy.”

As the boy disappeared behind the velvet arras, Therrador’s smile disappeared, too. All that had been put in motion brought the taste of bile to the back of his throat, but it must be done. Erechania would always remember Braymon the Brave and one day they would exult Graymon the Great; he only hoped they would eventually forgive or forget Therrador the Traitor. He lowered his eyes back to the marble table top shot with red, lost in his thoughts until a sound made him look up.

The fifteen-foot high cedar doors swung inward with a belabored creak and a guard in shining silver chain mail and green-and-gold cape entered, ornamental pole axe in hand. He opened his mouth to pardon the interruption but the man he led in pushed past him, sending him off balance and interrupting the act. The guard recovered, grasped his weapon with both hands and advanced on the intruder but Therrador rose, stopping him with a gesture.

“Leave us.”

He waved his hand and the guardsman bowed at the waist, eyes steady on the other man, and backed out, closing the door with a soft thud. The intruder stopped a yard shy of Therrador, removed his helm and nodded instead of bowing. He didn’t speak. His close-cropped gray hair couldn’t hide the scars criss-crossing his scalp, spilling down his face over the deep wrinkles earned through decades spent fighting in the name of whoever paid him the most. His lone granite-colored eye stared unwavering while the other socket sat empty for all to see. Plain gray armor, as pitted and worn as his face, but fitting him as comfortably as if he’d been born in it, completed his drab yet menacing appearance. Everything about him spoke of business, and his business was death.

“Suath,” Therrador said forcing a welcoming smile. “How long has it been?”

The man didn’t answer. No surprise—Therrador expected no reply. More than a man of few words, the mercenary only spoke when absolutely necessary.

“Too long, I guess, but I need of your services.”

Suath nodded, remained silent.

“Someone has something which belongs to me. I want it back.”

The man’s presence brought a sheen of sweat to Therrador’s palms. He wanted to look away, to turn his gaze on anything but the uncaring gray eye and the pink, puckered flesh of the mercenary’s empty socket. Legend said he’d lost the eye while being tortured and, when he won his freedom, Suath took both the torturer’s eyes before killing him. People whispered that he carried all three eyes—his one and the torturer’s two—as good luck charms. Therrador suppressed a shudder.

“I have good men on the trail already, but this task is of the utmost importance. I need you to retrieve this item and bring it back. No questions asked.”

“At what cost?” the mercenary asked, his voice deep, grating—a voice that made Therrador wish he didn’t speak at all.

“Whatever it takes.”

“What is it?”

“A vial.”

Therrador waited for the next, obvious question, but Suath didn’t seem to care what the vial contained.

“How much?”

“This is why I sent for you: you only care about the money.”

Therrador nodded with satisfaction and used the opportunity to break from Suath’s gaze. He cast a glance toward the tapestry hiding the ante-room’s entrance. It hadn’t moved. Good boy.

“And the killing. How much?”

“Thirty gold now.” He pulled a leather pouch from his belt and tossed it onto the marble table with a clink. Two gold coins rolled out onto the white and red surface. “Fifty more when the vial is in my hands.”

Suath nodded. His head moved so slightly, Therrador didn’t know he’d agreed until he retrieved the pouch and stray coins from the table. The mercenary tucked it into his jerkin without counting the coins then waited for Therrador to say more.

“You can pick up their trail in Inehsul.”

The man answered with a blink, then turned and strode toward the carven doors. Therrador felt a vice release from his