He tip-toed to the door of the tent and stopped before it, hand outstretched. He hoped he’d move the flap aside and find his father waiting to tell him that this whole thing had been a dream, but he knew that wouldn’t happen. His throat squeaked as he drew a shuddering breath; his fingers brushed the green canvas. He grasped the edge of the flap and pulled it aside slowly. The woman stood as though she’d been waiting for him for a long time. Graymon dropped the flap and jumped back with a screech as she entered.
“You were not leaving, were you?” Her voice sounded sweet as it had when she collected him from the palace, but he no longer wanted to hear a lullaby from those lips.
“Where’s my Da?” he demanded, anger giving him courage. “You said you take me to my Da.”
The woman’s smile showed white teeth; Graymon thought they looked pointier than they should. He backed away a step.
“I will, love. You must be patient, though. There are things your Da must do for me first, then you can be with him.”
Someone stepped through the flap behind her and Graymon strained to see around her. He hoped it was his Dad coming to reassure him everything would be all right, telling him to be a brave little soldier, but the man was not his father. The man was not a man. The rotten-faced monster glowered at him, sending a shiver down his spine.
“If you want to see your Da, you have to do something for me, too.” She put her hand on his shoulder and he looked sideways at her fingers, wondering what scenes danced and played across them today. “Do you remember what it is you have to do for me?”
Graymon hung his head.
“Stay in the tent,” he mumbled, purposely indecipherable, but she didn’t make him repeat himself like nanny would have. He liked nanny better anyway, he decided.
“Now, are you going to do that for me, or do I have to have him stay with you?”
She gestured over her shoulder at the thing by the door and he tried not to look but couldn’t help himself. The dead thing smiled at him with yellow teeth. Graymon looked away quickly, retreating another step from the door, from her hand.
“I’ll stay.”
“Good. Good boy.”
A wave of her hand sent the creature from the tent, but Graymon knew it would be close enough to return and stay with him if he tried to leave again. He didn’t want that thing staying with him. Anything but that. He sat down heavily on the straw mattress.
“I want my Da.”
“Soon, love. You will be with him soon.”
She turned to leave, her long black cloak swirling around her legs, and Graymon stuck out his tongue. She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. Graymon sucked his tongue back into his mouth and curled into a ball on the mattress.
“I want my Da,” he said again as tears began to flow down his cheeks. The dead men scared him, but there was something even worse about the woman. She left the tent and Graymon drifted into fitful sleep.
That was the first time he dreamed of the tyger.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Khirro’s eyes locked on Ghaul and shadowy figures jumped into view around him, men in full armor laughing and jesting with one another, comrades who fought and died together. None looked familiar, though Khirro felt he should recognize something about them. The edges of the vision were ragged and vague enough to hide what he might normally see.
The scene changed to a battlefield littered with hundreds of corpses. A figure cloaked in black cape and cowl walked amongst them accompanied by Ghaul. The figure gestured and each corpse in turn rose like a marionette whose strings were jerked into place at the start of the puppet show. Death masks of pain and suffering contorted the men’s faces, puss and blood dried in cracked scabs on their cheeks and foreheads, and Khirro knew what he saw was the undead soldiers of Kanos.
But who stalks between them, turning them from men to monsters? The Necromancer?
Dread crept into Khirro’s limbs, but the vision faded, replaced by another. The figures of Ghaul and Shyn stood before him, clashing swords sending sparks about their heads. The tips of gray feathers poked through Shyn’s flesh as he defended himself, but he was trapped against the tunnel wall. The tip of Ghaul’s blade found his belly and cut upward. Shyn slumped, his expression a mix of pain and relief. Ghaul laughed and Khirro saw the crest of Kanos come into view on his chest as the vision disappeared. The real Ghaul stood facing Khirro, sword in hand, his face hard and knowing.
“Traitor,” Khirro growled. “Kanosee dog. You killed Shyn.”
Ghaul brought his sword up in front of him, threatening, and chuckled.
“It took you long enough, dirt monger.” He held his empty hand out expectantly. “Give me the vial.”
Khirro shook his head.
“Don’t be foolish, Khirro. We both know you’re no match for my sword. Give me the king’s blood and I may spare your life.”
Khirro gritted his teeth. Ghaul’s skill with a sword was much greater, but he’d come too far and been through too much to give the vial to the enemy. He wouldn’t let Maes and Shyn die in vain.
The Mourning Sword sliced toward Ghaul, jumping in Khirro’s hand on its own. Ghaul deflected the blow and countered with his own. The swords clanged sending a quiver up Khirro’s arm. Ghaul struck blow after blow and each time, Khirro managed to dodge or parry, but he knew he couldn’t repel him indefinitely. Ghaul deftly maneuvered himself away from Athryn and Elyea, keeping Khirro between them so they couldn’t aid him.
Khirro focused on the fight, pouring his energy into each stroke and thrust, each parry, but still noticed the cold wind rise within the chamber, prickling his arms with goose flesh and standing the hairs on the back of his neck on end. The flat of Ghaul’s sword struck Khirro’s shoulder and the soldier laughed, toying with him. The stark realization he was no match for Ghaul bore into Khirro’s gut and he struggled to fight back the panic rising in his throat. He dodged another blow, steel caressing his sleeve. The cool breeze gusted again.
Then Ghaul disappeared. Everything disappeared.
Thick mist filled the chamber as completely as if it had always been there. A sword slashed the fog, missing him by inches. He jumped away and his back pressed against the chamber wall.
Khirro’s eyes flickered, searching for his foe, for Elyea or Athryn, but he saw nothing but the wall of mist. The temperature dropped rapidly; a rime of frost appeared on his gauntlets. No sound. He called out, but his voice died at his lips, smothered by the fog. He held the Mourning Sword in front of him defensively, waiting to be attacked.
The mist swirled as though stirred by some unseen hand, then pulled itself into one twisting pillar centered over the marble seat and formed the shape of a man whose head brushed the ceiling fifteen feet above. A long, misty beard and thick white arms became distinct, a hazy sword hung at his side. A face twisted into being with angry, swirling eyes.
“Who dares disturb me?” The voice boomed across the chamber, amplified by the smooth walls. Khirro stared, forgetting the fight. “Who dares disturb Darestat?”
“I come to resurrect a king.”
Khirro looked at Ghaul, surprised to have heard the soldier respond. He breathed in a short, sharp breath at what he saw. In the confusion and the cover of the mist, Ghaul had grabbed Elyea.
She struggled against the arm about her waist and the sharp edge at her throat, showing no fear, only determination. Khirro touched his chest unconsciously and felt the hard shape of the vial through his tunic.