He decided on the gentle approach. If he went straight in after him first, the act couldn’t be undone, but if words didn’t work, he could still drag him out.
Khirro crouched beside the curtain of ferns and took a breath, muscles tense. He needed to be ready in case the boy tried to run.
“Graymon? Are you in there? It’s Khirro.”
He paused and listened, but heard no response at first, no indication the boy hid within. After a few seconds, the gentle rustle of disturbed leaves confirmed what he already knew. Khirro continued to wait, but heard nothing more.
“It’s me, Graymon. I’m alone. It’s safe to come out.”
The boy exploded out of his hiding place and jumped into Khirro’s arms in a storm of desiccated fern leaves and joyous cries. Caught off guard, Khirro lost his balance and toppled backward, the giggling boy on top of him.
Not the reaction I expected.
Khirro hugged the boy around his shoulders, his chest aching with the knowledge he would likely not ever hold a child of his own, then Graymon wiggled away.
“Where’s Af…Af…your friend?” he asked.
Khirro sat up and brushed leaves off his tunic. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Graymon shrugged. “He told me to run, so I did.”
“Good. Good boy.”
“Should we look for him?”
He stood and put his hand on Graymon’s shoulder, paused before answering in a solemn tone.
“I went back to where it happened. He wasn’t there. I hoped he was with you.”
Khirro thought back to his trek through the woods. After washing the blood off his face and arms in the sea, he’d made his way back to the place he’d changed into the tyger without knowing how he’d found it. Beside the tree, he found the undead monster and the body of the other Kanosee soldier, but no sign of Athryn-no body, no trail, no sign anyone else had been there. The scene provided no explanation for where the magician had gone, and he didn’t know whether to think his absence a good thing or bad.
“He must have been captured again.”
“Then let’s rescue him.” Graymon ran a few steps, stopped and looked back to see if Khirro followed. “Come on.”
Khirro smiled. “Aren’t you afraid?”
The boy shook his head, his brown locks flying around his head like a halo.
“Why not?”
“The tyger told me.”
Khirro raised an eyebrow. “The tyger?”
“I dream about him. And the ghost woman. They said not to be afraid of you. They said you won’t hurt me.”
Khirro kneeled in front of him, grasped him gently by the arms.
“Of course I wouldn’t. Never. But you should know something about me.”
Graymon’s face broke into the kind of unbridled smile only a child can wear. “You’re the tyger!”
The boy shook off Khirro’s hold and bounced away into the forest, leaving him crouching by the log where Graymon had hidden, wondering how the tyger kept appearing in the boy’s dreams.
“I’m the tyger,” he said as he stood and followed the boy into the forest.
***
Therrador kicked at the rat, catching it in the side and sending it squeaking across the floor. “Get away from me, vermin.”
“Shh.”
He looked across the room at the ghost woman standing watch by the door. She’d done as promised, supplying him with sword and armor and a place to hide, but he didn’t know how they wouldn’t be discovered hiding practically in plain sight. The store room wasn’t used, but neither was it hidden.
He moved closer to speak more quietly.
“Why did you bring me here? We’ll certainly be discovered.”
She turned from the door and looked at him for a moment, her piercing green eyes holding him as surely as if they were shackles. After a few seconds, she raised her hand and pointed to the center of the room.
“That,” she said, “is where Braymon died.”
Therrador took three slow, measured strides to the spot she indicated and stood staring down at the dirt floor for a minute before he crouched. He reached out and touched the soil with the tips of his fingers.
“I’m sorry, my friend.”
“I didn’t bring you here to be sorry, Therrador. The Shaman protected this place with his magic while drawing the blood of the king. Remnants of his protection spell still remain.”
Therrador first nodded, then shook his head as he looked back to the place where his friend’s life ended because of him. “There’s no reason to be sorry. No one will forgive me, anyway.”
Elyea didn’t reply. Therrador watched her staring at the door as though she saw right through it.
Maybe she can.
A minute passed in silence. Therrador looked from the ghost woman back to the dirt floor at his feet and imagined he saw a stain where Braymon’s final blood flowed. He placed his palm over it and closed his eyes in silent prayer for the safety of the king’s spirit, no matter whether it resided with the bearer or had moved on to the fields of the dead.
His eyes snapped open when he felt the ground shake beneath his hand.
“Horses,” he said, standing. “Many of them.”
Hope bloomed in his chest until he realized Sir Alton had not been gone long enough to be back with troops yet. He suppressed the feeling.
“Yes. The Archon moves her army in preparation for the general’s return.”
“Damn! So she knows he made it out.”
The ghost nodded. “He tried to fool her, but she saw through it.”
“Sir Alton tried to fool her?”
“Our friend did.”
Therrador’s lips parted to ask her once again to whom she referred, but he stopped himself. It didn’t matter. For centuries, the impenetrable Isthmus Fortress with its solid wall and formidable defenses always kept the kingdom safe. Not this time. This time, the kingdom had to rely on its people, so the more on their side, the better, no matter who they were.
I gave away our only hope.
Therrador left the center of the room with its stain of king’s blood and strode to the back wall, leaning against it, then sliding down to sit with his back against the stone.
This is all because of me. Had I approached Braymon, my friend, instead of assuming the worst, none of this would have happened. The witch couldn’t have manipulated me.
He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his head sagging forward. The deep breath he drew into his lungs tasted of must and dirt. Death and hopelessness.
“Do not give up hope, Therrador.”
He looked up to see the ghost woman standing in front of him. She kneeled and put a hand on each side of his head, palms on his cheeks, fingers aside his head. They felt surprisingly warm and solid for a ghost. Energy flowed through them.
“Sir Alton is coming. Your son yet lives. The bearer is near. There is much still at work for us, and much you don’t know.”
“I have to warn them. Get me out of here so I can warn Sir Alton. One man moves faster than an army.”
“No, Therrador. Your place is here. Those left behind need you.”
Therrador pursed his lips and nodded once. The woman’s energy flowed into him, redirecting his thoughts; he couldn’t give up, not while his son and his kingdom still needed him. She let go and backed away as the king pushed himself to his feet and drew his sword awkwardly with his left hand.
“The battle is not lost,” he said, resolve adding steel to his voice. “It has not yet begun.”
He faced away from her to practice parries and thrusts with his weapon in a hand still unaccustomed to wielding a sword. His right hand throbbed with each swing and swipe, as though aching to be used, as though it meant to remind him of the things the Archon had done to him. In his mind, he imagined each strike slicing the witch open, removing her head, running her through.
The battle has not yet begun.
***
During the journey back to the Isthmus from Achtindel, the numbers of Sienhin’s force had grown with Erechanian soldiers who’d found their way out of the fortress, many disguised as civilians. Individual men, groups of two, three and four, but never more. Two days’ ride from the fortress, the army encountered the first wave of civilians fleeing the stronghold: a group of thirty tattered souls too tired to flee but pushing on, anyway. When Sir Alton Sienhin saw them from afar, he raised the staff held in his left hand-his right lay useless in his lap-halting his troops, and signaled the three closest riders to accompany him.