Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,99

as he cleared the way of corpses. Each step brought more bodies and limbs into their path, touching Elyea’s skin no matter how he tried to protect her. Fear and disgust stiffened her legs, made her difficult to move. Khirro glanced shoreward and saw his companions staring at the grisly scene.

“Find her clothes,” he yelled.

Shyn and Ghaul went immediately to the task as Athryn waded into the water, extending his hand. Elyea screamed again as the head of a young boy floated against her leg, dead eyes open, staring up at her. Khirro kicked it away but lost his footing. His grip slipped from Elyea.

Water closed over his head, murky fluid found its way into his mouth. He pushed against the bottom of the lagoon but his hand sank into mud and held him, sucked him down. The corpse of a boy in his teen years floated over him, hands seeming to grasp for his chest and the vial hidden there. Khirro kicked and struggled as the corpse sank toward him.

The boy’s eyes opened.

Bubbles exploded from Khirro’s lips as he yelled; the lagoon rushed in to fill his mouth. The corpse face loomed inches from his, its cheeks tinged blue; an eel-like fish slithered out of its nose and into its mouth. The corpse’s hand groped his chest: searching, caressing. Then a hand on Khirro’s shoulder pulled him up until his head broke the surface of the water. He spat and choked, expelling the rancid fluid from his mouth, his lungs. He looked into Athryn’s masked face and for a moment thought he’d been rescued by yet another corpse.

“Come on, Khirro,” the magician urged.

He released Khirro and swung his cloak over Elyea’s shoulders as she shivered violently. Khirro struggled to his feet, put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close as they moved to the shore, the waves their steps created setting the corpses bobbing and bumping against one another.

“Her clothes,” Shyn said coming to their side.

Elyea stared at the lagoon and Khirro looked back, too. The body parts and dead children had begun to sink back into the depths, their bleached bodies going under as though recalled to their watery graves

“Keep them,” Khirro said to Shyn. “We’ll stop for her to dress when we’re away from this place.”

A minute later, the surface of the lagoon was clear, all of the bodies, arms, legs and heads settled back like silt after a spring rain. Elyea watched until they were gone, then turned to Khirro.

“Did you know?” she asked, her voice so quiet he had to lean close to hear. “Did you know this would happen?”

Khirro shook his head.

“No. There are other things in the village. Things you don’t need to see.”

He looked into her eyes and saw the last fragment of her strength disappear. He scooped her into his arms as her knees gave way and hugged her close, her body shivering against his.

Athryn put his hand on Khirro’s shoulder.

“Let us go.”

Khirro nodded.

“Which way?” Ghaul asked, voice unshaken. Nothing on his face, in his voice or demeanor suggested the grisly sights affected him. It made Khirro both envy and pity him.

“West,” he replied steering Elyea away from the lagoon.

They moved in silence, allowing Elyea to dictate their pace as the sun rose above the trees. With some distance between them and the lagoon's corpses, they paused for her to dress. She moved slowly, distracted from the task, but they waited patiently; even Ghaul gave her privacy to clothe herself.

Shyn took the lead when they struck out again. Elyea walked beside Khirro, her arm around his waist for support.

“Thank you,” she whispered and kissed him on the cheek. Khirro shook his head.

“No need to thank me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“And I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

“A messenger from the Isthmus fortress, my Lord.”

From his balcony, Therrador contemplated the city spread before him—his city. Curls of smoke rose from the chimneys of bakeries and smithies; people crowded the market and public houses. The city did a booming business during wartime, its population swollen by those seeking shelter in the capital, afraid for their lives. Beyond the walls, tents spread across the plains, set up by merchants from near and far come to fleece coins from the burgeoned populace.

“Send him in,” Therrador said without looking away.

He breathed deep, smelled the bread from the bakeries and the oily odor of the blacksmiths’ forges. The streets bustled, clean and tidy near the palace. The distant strains of a