Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,59

forest ten minutes later, wet but clothed, and they exchanged looks and smiles, but nothing else: a secret for them to share.

Two days later, no one danced or tilted their faces to the heavens. They cursed the Gods instead of praising them.

“There’s water in my boots,” Khirro grumbled as they trudged across a muddy patch of ground. “My tunic is glued to my back.”

“Stop whining,” Elyea said. “You complain a lot for a man who made his living on a farm.”

“We didn’t farm in the rain. Never did I harvest a potato with water running into my eyes.”

Ahead, Khirro saw Maes pull on the dripping sleeve of Athryn’s shirt. The magician stopped and looked toward his brother.

“Hold.”

They stopped, waiting for the magician to speak. He cocked his head, listening. Khirro did the same but heard nothing but the patter of rain drops on his soaked clothes and soon began to lose patience. He wiped water from his eyes, about to complain again when Athryn spoke.

“Horses. Someone is coming.”

“I don’t hear any—” Khirro began, but the others were already moving to find cover. He followed, pushing his way through a dense bush, the wet foliage dumping rain water on his head.

Ghaul pulled his bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow as he crouched, gesturing for Khirro to draw his sword. He did and, with the black blade free, he noticed Maes staring at it instead of in the direction Athryn had indicated.

For a minute, Khirro heard only the plunk of rain impacting the leaves around him. They stared through the brush, waiting, Elyea with a dagger in hand, poised to strike as any fighter would. Athryn drew his sword while Maes stared at Khirro’s weapon. Above, a leaf that had been collecting water for some time overflowed, spilling its contents down the back of Khirro’s neck. He shivered, shaking the brush around him and drawing a glare from Ghaul.

Hoof beats soon became noticeable above the rain’s patter. Khirro held his breath, listening closer. He was no tracker, but he could tell more than one rider approached, though how many, he didn’t know. The sounds grew nearer and their pace slowed.

They’re following our trail. His grip on his sword tightened.

A breeze parted the leaves briefly, blowing rain against Khirro’s cheek, revealing a swatch of chestnut fur as a rider halted directly in front of them. Ghaul drew back on his bowstring as the muscles in Khirro’s thighs tensed, readying to spring.

The chestnut moved out of sight and a palomino came into view, followed by a horse of deep black. This time, he saw the rider’s leg and realized he hadn’t seen the same on the other horses. No riders sat them. It could only mean one thing.

“I know you’re there,” the rider called out.

Khirro looked at Ghaul and lowered his sword.

“It’s Shyn,” he whispered, but the soldier’s face remained set, his bow drawn.

“He might have brought soldiers.”

“I can hear you,” Shyn said.

Khirro cursed himself, recalling how Shyn had heard them from a distance before. Ghaul could be right.

“I’m alone. I’ve brought horses and supplies. If you still covet my head, Ghaul, you’ll have to wait for another day.”

Khirro burst forward excitedly. After two steps, something struck him, threw him forward, pain exploding in his shoulder. He pitched through the foliage, stumbling first to his knees, then falling face first on the muddy ground at the foot of Shyn’s horse. The border guard jumped from his steed, sword drawn protectively as he knelt at Khirro’s side.

“What happened?” Shyn surveyed the area as the others emerged from their hiding places. Athryn and Elyea joined him at Khirro’s side while Ghaul stood back, empty bow dangling. Khirro writhed on the ground, blood seeping around the arrow in his right shoulder.

Twice. His mind reeled with pain, grasping for something to hold on to. I’ve been skewered by arrows twice. Who’d have thought it possible?

Shyn acted quickly, drawing his dagger and shaving the arrowhead from the shaft. Khirro bellowed in agony as the arrow slid from his flesh, drawing a gout of blood with it.

“Maes,” Athryn called.

The little man pushed his way through the brush, small dirk in hand. Tears blurred Khirro’s vision as he watched the little man approach, squat by his masked brother, and roll up his sleeve.

“No,” Khirro said through the pain as he rolled onto his back. He wouldn’t let Maes cut himself, not when it wasn’t necessary. “Bandage it.”

“You are bleeding, Khirro,” Athryn told him. “We can stop it, make it