“I didn’t,” the guard said. “I swear I didn’t. Please don’t tell her. I don’t want her to turn me into…one of those.”
“Come on. He can’t have gone far.”
Booted footsteps crossed the stone floor and the wooden door thumped shut behind the three men. Therrador waited for the ghost woman to release him, the muscles in his arms and legs begging to regain control. It seemed a long time before she finally let him have his body back.
“That bitch,” Therrador said gasping a breath to fill his lungs. “I’ll have her head for this.”
“Her time will come.” Elyea looked slightly more solid than before. “For now, we must hide you and keep you hidden until the time comes.”
“But Sir Matte is-”
“That is no longer your friend, only his husk.”
Therrador looked away to stare at the closed door. His hands curled into fists and the feel of his missing thumb further enraged him; he held himself back from rushing out of the room to kill the soldiers with his bare hands and rescue his old friend, or at least release him from his fate.
Their time will come soon enough.
“Therrador-”
“All right,” he said and retrieved his breeches from under the overturned chair beside the bed. “Where will you take me?”
“Somewhere safe,” she replied and waited for him to finish dressing.
“I’ll need armor. And a weapon.”
“You shall have them.” She looked toward the door and back again. “Hurry, they might return.”
Therrador sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots, but hesitated. The end of the bandage wrapped around his right had come loose and hung limp by his forearm. He looked at the back of his hand, then turned it over to look at the palm, at the space where his thumb should have been. He flexed his hand; the pain had mostly subsided, but a numbness remained that he thought would never leave him, and part of him hoped it never would. It would remind him of the mistakes he’d made that threatened the kingdom, his son, his life. Mistakes he planned to rectify.
He finished donning his boots, stood, and nodded to the ghost. Elyea led him to the door secreted in the stone wall and coaxed it open.
When I’m standing in front of the witch with a sword in my hand, I’ll make no mistake, thumb or no.
Chapter Twenty
Khirro’s vision cleared, the flames dimming until they disappeared leaving him feeling suddenly cold. From his position straddling a log, he looked around at the brush and the trees; he heard the rush of waves washing onto the shore.
I shouldn’t be near the sea. Where am I?
Panic flared in his belly as he surveyed his surroundings, attempting to find his bearings. He looked down at the log on which he sat to see which side the moss grew on, but found it wasn’t a log at all.
The man whose hips he perched upon lay on his back facing the sky, wide eyes staring blankly at the limbs overhead. His throat was torn out, his chest thick with his own blood. Khirro gasped and stumbled to his feet, noticing for the first time the blood drying on his cheeks and his chin, knowing it wasn’t mud or berry juice; the coppery smell filled his nostrils, made him gag. He stared at the man and recognized him as one of the Kanosee soldiers, Tugg.
But how did we get here?
He remembered threatening Graymon, feeling the boy quake with fear in his grasp, and wishing he could tell him not to worry, that he wouldn’t hurt him. But he couldn’t have told him so, it would have meant their lives.
Maybe it did.
Khirro lurched away from the body, his feet carrying him toward the sound of the sea to splash salt water on his face and wash the man’s life off his cheeks. But his stomach churned and he stopped to lean against a tree as his stomach heaved out a bloody mess. Seeing it, knowing what it was, made him heave again and again until nothing came out. He spat to clear the taste of blood and bile from his mouth and straightened, his head spinning with confusion, panic, disgust. He panted coppery tasting breath in and out through his mouth and wished for a wine skin to clear the vile flavor, but he didn’t even have fresh water.
After a moment, his head cleared. He straightened and took a step toward the sound of the waves, then hesitated at another noise that wasn’t the sea or the wind in the bare tree branches. Khirro turned slowly.
The Kanosee soldier had found his feet and swayed unsteadily where he stood. His head lolled to the side, the half-a-neck Khirro’s attack left insufficient support. Seeing the way it flopped side-to-side might have been humorous under other circumstances, but Khirro had no doubt the man had been dead a minute before. Vomiting the flesh of his throat proved it.
The newly raised dead man stumbled toward him, each step tossing its head around. Khirro stared in horror as it approached.
Haven’t I killed him enough?
He swallowed past the unpleasant taste in his mouth and grasped the hilt of the short sword he was relieved to find in its scabbard at his side. Compared to the Mourning Sword he’d finally gotten used to wielding, it wasn’t much of a weapon, but given the state of the dead man’s neck, it should be enough to finish the job he’d begun with his teeth.
Khirro shivered at the thought and spat again.
The thing came a few steps closer and Khirro steeled himself, ready to cleave its head from its body. A voice in his head tried to distract him by wondering what happened to Athryn and the boy, but he silenced it.
Is this what a real warrior does?
He held the sword, muscles tensed, waiting for the man to reach him, but the undead soldier’s feet caught in the runner of a hibernating berry bush, toppling him to the ground. Khirro frowned, sighed an annoyed breath, and stalked toward the fallen man. He’d struggled to his knees by the time Khirro reached him, wavering unsteadily; his head flopped forward and their eyes met.
Looking into the blank expression of the dead, Khirro remembered that this man had been alive not so long ago. He hesitated. Perhaps Tugg had been married to a woman who loved him, had a family dependent on him. Like Khirro himself, he might have had no choice in coming here to fight, and certainly didn’t choose to become a monster.
Maybe he was once a farmer. Maybe he was forced to join the Archon’s army against his will.
The man’s mouth opened in a snarl that, had his throat not been opened, would likely have come out a war cry rather than the gurgle it created. He rushed forward, weapon extended, and his movement pulled Khirro from his hesitation. A fighting instinct he didn’t possess not so long ago swung the sword in a short arc through the air, severing the rest of the man’s neck. A fine burst of blood sprayed Khirro’s face; Tugg’s head tumbled from his shoulders, bounced off the side of a fallen tree, then rolled into a patch of brush. The body continued a step farther before toppling forward at Khirro’s feet.
Off to the right on a low hanging branch, a winter bird whistled its tune until a stiff breeze rustled the branches and sent it winging off to other locales. Khirro raised his eyes and watched it disappear into the high foliage, feeling as though it carried his last shred of humanity with it.
***
Graymon pushed aside a prickly branch with his forearm and one of the thorns caught on the sleeve of his shirt, slowing him down.
“Let go,” he cried, then threw his hand over his mouth.
Be quiet.
He stopped and took a calming breath, then plucked the branch from his sleeve. It came away easily, not at all like a bush bent on holding him captive until his pursuers caught him.
“Everything’s okay,” he said aloud but quieter this time. He knew he shouldn’t speak at all, but hearing even his own voice made him feel less lonely and lost. What he really wanted was to hear his da’s voice telling him where to go and what to do.