Beside him, Athryn stiffened and cocked his head to one side. Khirro reacted by holding his breath and listening to the quiet of the night. Trees creaked at their backs, their nearly-bare branches scraping against one another as an owl called out, waited for a response and got none. Khirro concentrated on listening, but heard nothing. Even when Athryn nodded, he still hadn’t heard anything other than the trees and the nocturnal bird-of-prey. Another thirty seconds passed before Khirro discerned the sound of hooves. He leaned close to Athryn’s ear.
“Can you tell how many?”
“The sound of the wagon makes it difficult,” the magician replied in tones so quiet, it might have been a breeze rather than words. “Five, maybe more.”
Khirro gulped and unsheathed his dagger. He looked at it in his hand, the steel catching light from the shallow moon, and wondered how this small weapon would serve him against five Kanosee soldiers-or possibly more.
You don’t have to kill them all yourself. Stick to the plan.
He only needed to get close enough to kill one man, that would give Athryn the power and opportunity to call his magic into the fray.
All I have to do is get close enough to a group of mounted, trained soldiers to kill one of them. With no sword. That’s all.
He swallowed around the unbudging lump that had crawled out of his gut into his throat and glanced from his companion to the road. Still nothing to see. He heard the horses clearly now, and the rumble of the wagon wheels on the track, but a bend in the road kept them out of his sight.
Khirro shifted quietly, adjusted his grip on the dagger. It felt hard and out of place in his hand. Had he become so used to the Mourning Sword in so short a time? He supposed so. He’d come to feel the sword had chosen him to wield it, the thought making its loss more difficult. He bit down on a curse at himself for letting it go from his grasp; he’d never have such a sword again.
Months ago, I wouldn’t have cared. I’d have rather had a shovel, rake or hoe. How things change.
The sound of wagon and riders neared and Khirro shook the thought from his mind. A moment later, the first rider came into view.
The muscles in Khirro’s arms and shoulders, in his legs, tensed. Two more riders followed, then the wagon, the reins of its horses tended by a single soldier. Another three riders followed the wagon and, a few paces behind them, slowing the procession, two more followed on foot. Khirro held his breath waiting to see if more would follow them around the bend in the road. None did.
Nine.
Athryn looked toward Khirro and their eyes met. The magician nodded slightly, a gesture asking if he was ready, and Khirro nodded back. He readjusted his grip and gave silent thanks the last two soldiers were afoot-it would be easier to steal the life from one of them than to kill a mounted man.
As the lead rider drew even with them, Khirro saw he wore full armor and helm, his face hidden, any distinctions impossible to identify in the dim moonlight. The man could have as easily been Erechanian as Kanosee. The second and third mounted men passed, then the wagon was rattling by their hiding spot. Watching the wooden wheel spokes turning, the dull gray cloth jouncing, Khirro wondered how Athryn knew this to be the right wagon. What if he was wrong?
Too late to worry.
The wagon rumbled by, followed by the last riders. The muscles in Khirro’s thighs burned; he tensed further, coiling back to spring at the closest soldier, and time seemed to slow. The wagon’s clatter and the beat of hooves grew loud in his ears. His vision narrowed to the men approaching on foot, the wagon and his companion beside him dimming to blurs.
The foot soldiers passed and Khirro crept out of the brush onto the dirt track, emerging three yards behind them. He rushed the closest one, grabbed him around the shoulders and slashed his dagger across the man’s throat. The soldier grasped and grabbed at his attacker’s arm, but Khirro held on another few seconds before letting go. He expected the limp body to sink to the ground, blood fountaining from the wound and life draining from the Kanosee to provide Athryn the power he needed.
The man didn’t fall. Instead, he turned.
Khirro realized he should have struck again to protect himself, but a chill took hold of him upon seeing the sheet of skin hanging from the soldier’s throat where his knife sliced through papyrus-like flesh. No blood flowed. The man stared at Khirro, one eye regarding him, the other canted at an odd angle, looking toward the moon. His cheeks were sallow, his thin lips drawn up in a dead smile; a hollow laugh rattled and died against the sides of his open throat.
Khirro gasped and stumbled back as the dead man drew his sword and approached; a sliver of moonlight illuminated the splash of red across his armor. The first time he’d seen the armor of the dead men, Khirro didn’t know whether the red splash was paint or blood, but now he was convinced it was sacrificial blood.
The undead warrior brandished his sword and Khirro could only stare, limbs frozen by the memory of the dead soldier who came so close to taking his life at the Isthmus Fortress. Then, the Shaman saved him with his magic, but Bale died along with the king, and Athryn’s magic couldn’t save him this time.
So many have died.
Khirro could do nothing but clamp his jaw tight and brace himself for the killing blow. But it didn’t come. Instead, Athryn’s sword slashed through the soldier’s neck, finishing the job Khirro’s dagger started. The half-rotted head tumbled off the man’s shoulders, bounced once as it hit the road, then rolled away. The limp body followed it to the ground.
“Khirro,” Athryn cried. “Move!”
Athryn’s words released Khirro’s limbs from the spell of the memory binding them. He lurched to his left, narrowly avoiding a strike he hadn’t seen coming from the second foot soldier. The tip of the dead man’s sword hit the dirt an inch from Khirro, flicked dirt onto his foot. The miss threw him off balance and allowed Khirro to dance away and strike a blow. His dagger sank deep into the soldier’s shoulder but didn’t slow him. His sword swung in an upward arc missing Khirro close enough he felt air gust against his face.
The soldier attacked again and again, forcing Khirro back and keeping his meager weapon at a distance. Khirro knew he needed to counter attack, but the man’s sword kept him wary. He eluded yet another slice and dared a look past his adversary at Athryn engaged with two undead Kanosee soldiers.
His magic is our only hope.
Khirro ducked under the Kanosee’s sword and lunged forward, hitting him in the midsection. If he’d been alive, the tackle would have knocked the breath out of him, but instead it made a crumpling noise and threw him off balance enough for Khirro to put the thing down to the ground. He wrested the sword out of the undead soldier’s grip and separated its head from its body. Khirro straightened, his breath coming hard and fast, and located Athryn again.
“Athryn,” he cried rushing toward his companion.
One undead soldier lay at the magician’s feet while he engaged two others. Khirro looked beyond him and saw the wagon had stopped; the soldier driving it peered around its edge to watch the fight. One mounted Kanosee remained by the wagon, horse prancing in place, as another urged its steed toward the fray. A third horse stood idle on the other side of the wagon, its saddle empty.
“Khirro! I must ready my spell.”
The magician glanced at him as he joined the fight, surprising one of the undead soldiers and knocking him to the ground. He finished him with a flick of his commandeered sword and turned to engage the other soldier.
“But there’s no one to kill.”