Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,5
blood. He gagged and his captor laughed.
Khirro’s resolution faltered, his mouth opened in a scream. The soldier—the creature—smiled, its lipless mouth twisted in a grin that might easily have passed for growl. Goose flesh puckered Khirro’s skin, his stomach knotted. The thing straightened, grasped the haft of the axe with both hands, and laid the blade’s edge on Khirro’s shoulder. Cold steel pressed against his cheek, its rusty smell filling his nostrils. A weak cry burbled from Khirro’s lips, unheard by any save himself and the creature raised the axe skyward as Khirro closed his eyes, whispering prayers to Gods he’d not bothered with since childhood. Memories of Emeline fought their way through his panic, first of her smiling, happy, then angry and accusing. So much had happened, so much was left undone.
What am I doing here? Why does it have to end like this?
He wished he was anywhere but here: tending fields, slaughtering cows, at the end of his father’s switch for something done wrong. Anywhere.
Light flashed bright enough to shine red through Khirro’s lids. A sound like canvas tearing. The pressure on his chest lessened then disappeared. Something hit the ground near Khirro and the stench of burnt hair filled the air. He tensed, awaiting the deathblow, lying helpless pinned beneath the king.
Dread-filled seconds passed, then the king’s weight lifted. Khirro raised his arms in defense, peeked through slitted lids. A black-robed figure leaned toward him—the man from the doorway. He saw nothing beneath the man’s cowl: no face, no mask. The hood cast an inscrutable shadow even in the bright sunlight.
“Bring him,” the robed man said.
Hands grabbed Khirro, dragged him into the darkness beyond the wooden door. It swung closed behind them, leaving Khirro blind in the night-dark room.
Chapter Three
The face of the dead warrior floated before Khirro’s eyes, lipless mouth pulled into a sneer, yellow teeth sharp and dangerous. Blood and pus seeped from its eyes and nostrils forming drops at the tip of its putrid nose. One drop lengthened into a string, separated, and landed square in the middle of Khirro’s forehead.
Khirro woke with a start, eye lids snapping open, breath short. There was no dead man threatening him, no rotted face, no blood-splashed mail. Instead, guttering torches threw dancing shadows against the walls of a windowless room. Khirro struggled to control his breathing and kept his head down as he lay on the dirt floor. From behind hooded eyes he observed figures moving, but who or how many, he didn’t know. His first memory was of the monstrous Kanosee soldier, then he recalled the black-robed man. And there had been others.
Khirro inched his hand toward the dirk hidden in his boot-top but pain in his shoulder kept him from drawing it—dislocated, perhaps broken. With no other choice, Khirro lay at the mercy of whoever dragged him here. After all that had happened, it didn’t surprise him he felt more relief than fear.
One figure he saw and recognized—the body of the king prone in the middle of the floor. Minutes passed and he came to realize there were three other men in the room. The black-robed figure bent over the king, whispering and gesturing. The king’s healer, he guessed. A shiver ran the length of Khirro’s spine. Rumor said this man was more than just a healer, something darker and deadlier who dabbled in arts outlawed in Erechania. Khirro hadn’t believed the stories until the flash of light felled his undead pursuer.
The other two men wore heavy armor. The taller of the two wore silver and gold plate embossed with the crossed sword and lightning insignia of the Kingsblade—the King’s personal guard—the other’s armor was plain black plate marked and dented with use.
“Little life remains in the king,” the healer said without looking up. “Give me the vial, Gendred.”
The man in black plate pulled a glass vial from his belt and passed it to the healer. Gendred. Khirro had heard the name but never seen the man—few had, fewer had and lived. He was a Shadowman, one of an elite group of fighter-assassins Khirro had thought more fable than reality. On quiet watches, fantastic tales of the Shadowmen passed from soldier to soldier, building their legend. It became the goal of any good warrior to be drafted into their brotherhood. The thought never crossed Khirro’s mind.
“The boy lives,” Gendred growled looking sideways at Khirro, his pock-marked face turned down in a sour look. Nothing about him looked friendly.