Once, the thought might have caused terror in Khirro; now, it was instead followed by a very different thought.
So have I.
He ran on, ignoring the pockets of fighting he passed, leaving the mortals and the undead to sort out their own life-or-death scuffles. He pushed himself faster, his muscles straining under the flames and fire.
With a dozen yards between him and the woman, she slammed the staff to the ground with a crack like thunder; green light shot across the space between her and the dragon and leaped into the creature’s chest.
Khirro skidded to a stop, the tyger’s paws digging furrows in the dirt. The green light grew, filling the ruby dragon until it appeared ruby no more. The beast stopped moving, its jaws agape and tail held high, waiting to hammer the ground. Its body bulged and he heard the crackling sound of footsteps on thin ice as its scales separated.
The dragon exploded.
Soldiers fell-live and dead, Kanosee and Erechanian alike-as chunks of the dragon tore through them. Ruby shards slammed into Khirro, driving him back like an unstoppable rain. He stumbled to his knees, then fell onto his back. The flames in his vision flickered and disappeared and pain filled his joints, sluiced through his limbs. He lay on his back sucking bitter air into his lungs until he heard the voice say his name.
“Khirro.”
He felt certain he’d heard the voice before, but didn’t immediately recognize it, for it held a rasp in its tone he knew it didn’t have the last time he heard it. In response, he tried to push himself up to lean on his elbows, but his muscles failed him, his hand slipped in the mud and he fell back. His head throbbed, his body ached. A deep breath shot pain through his chest and he struggled up to see who uttered his name.
The man stood a dozen yards away. Half of his face was peeled away from his cheek bone, leaving one eye bulging and the teeth beneath laid bare in a perpetual sneer that might have suited him as well in life. Even in such a decomposed state, Khirro recognized Ghaul, the man who’d betrayed him and was ultimately responsible for the king becoming part of him instead of being resurrected.
Khirro climbed to his feet, agonizing pain threatening to cripple his movement. With his feet under him, he watched Ghaul approach as he swayed in place, struggling to keep his balance. His stomach clenched and knotted as the warrior neared.
Khirro’s eyes narrowed and he pictured flames crawling up his arms, along his legs, using his imagination to call them into being again with no compunction-Ghaul’s betrayal of the kingdom and of Khirro deserved a death sentence. He felt the fire’s heat on his cheeks when a screech from above distracted him. Khirro’s heart jumped with hope at the thought that the dragon might have somehow survived. A shadow passed over him and he looked up to see a huge gray falcon cutting through the falling snow.
Shyn.
The diving bird struck Khirro’s shoulder, spinning him around and throwing him off balance. He fell to one knee and looked up at the falcon wheeling away into the sky. He may have no problem with the thought of dispatching Ghaul to the fields of the dead, but Shyn…The border guard had been committed to the success of their quest as much as anyone, perhaps more so. More than himself, at times.
He is already dead. They both are.
Khirro chewed his bottom lip, wishing for the fire to come, but nothing happened.
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath. Nothing.
Whatever ill magic destroyed the dragon must have affected the tyger.
He stood and drew the Mourning Sword, the blade’s ferocious red glow coloring the falling snow pink as though the flakes were tinted with blood. Ghaul halted five yards from Khirro, and the sword’s light showed him as he’d been in life: a warrior, loyal and dedicated to the task given him by the Archon. A traitor, but Khirro would never have made it to Lakesh without him, no matter his reason for assisting.
But without him, Shyn would be alive. And Elyea.
The light of the Mourning Sword brightened and his face reverted to the face of the monster he’d become.
Ghaul leaped at him, his blade slicing an arc toward Khirro’s chest. He caught the blow with the Mourning Sword, the force driving him back a step. With an effort, he pushed Ghaul away as wind and snow whirled around his face and a talon dug into his shoulder.
“No, Shyn,” Khirro said, breathless. “It’s me.”
For a second, he thought the pressure of the claw in his shoulder eased, that the border guard recognized him and would let him go, but Ghaul’s garbled words dispelled the illusion.
“Kill him.”
Ghaul’s sword flickered at him again and again, the falcon’s wings beat the air around his ears. The Mourning Sword seemed to take over for Khirro’s tired arm, its glow leaving a sparkling red path through the air as it danced and flickered, turning aside strike after strike. He waved his fist at Shyn above him, caught the bird with a solid shot to the chest and the falcon let go.
The fight drew on and Khirro held his own, deflecting Ghaul’s attacks and fending off the falcon. A sense of satisfaction settled into him; he’d admired these two warriors, and at times wished to be like them, and now he kept pace with them.
Ghaul moved to his left and Shyn settled on the ground to his right, snapping his wickedly curved beak at Khirro’s face. Their splitting up taxed Khirro to the limit. In a second, one of them would be behind him, his back exposed, and he realized he needed to act.
Khirro lunged forward with a flurry that drove Shyn back, the falcon screeching, then he spun around and swung at Ghaul with all his might. The Mourning Sword clashed against the dead warrior’s sword near the hilt, jarring it from his grasp. Khirro didn’t hesitate, swiping his blade at the traitor’s neck.
Ghaul didn’t defend himself. His blank eyes held no fear or sadness, regret or apology, as the Mourning Sword cut through his neck and sent his head tumbling to the ground. His body followed it down.
Khirro had time to search for a breath before he felt the tip of the sword enter his back. Pain exploded through his torso and the exhaustion he’d felt flooded back into him, filling his limbs and making his head feel light. The Mourning Sword dropped from his grip and he looked down to see the blade protruding from his stomach. He stared at it for a second before it disappeared, rasping against his insides as it was pulled out.
He teetered on weakened knees, then folded to the ground, turning as he did. Khirro landed on his side and saw Shyn standing over him, his legs still the legs of the falcon, his upper body a man’s sprinkled with gray feathers. His blank, expressionless eyes stared at his one-time friend, then he turned and walked away, his legs morphing back to a man’s as he went.
Khirro struggled his hand away from the wound in his belly and held it up in front of his eyes. Fresh blood covered his gauntlet, but it was impossible to know how much belonged to him and how much to the uncountable enemies left dead in his wake. The pain of the wound dimmed in comparison to the pain of failure and of what he’d become in its service.
So close. So close.
Khirro’s head sagged to the ground and his eyes slid closed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“There.” Athryn pointed and spurred the horse faster.
Behind him, Emeline clung tight to his waist, as Graymon held his father the same way on the horse thundering across the plain beside them. In the distance, not far from where Sheyndust had destroyed the dragon in a deafening explosion of ruby shards and green light, Athryn picked out Khirro amongst the fighting.
And he recognized the man and the falcon he fought.
The magician swung his sword at any who got too close to them as they rode, but in his head, he prepared the spell he’d need to finish what Khirro and the Shaman started so long ago. He felt his brother’s blood coursing through his veins, fortifying him, encouraging him.