“M…my king?”
“It seems we find ourselves in a familiar place.” The deep and gentle tone of his voice eased the pain creeping through Khirro’s gut and into his extremities.
“I’m always lying on the ground and in grave danger,” Khirro said and laughed. The laugh became a cough that tasted of blood.
Braymon kneeled beside him, pulled a shining lobstered gauntlet from his hand and touched Khirro’s cheek with his bare flesh.
“You have done well, Khirro. Only the brave souls who dare find themselves in grave danger. Those who do nothing, risk nothing, die in their beds without glory. They will tell stories of brave Khirro until the end of time, they will name you in songs and pray their children grow up to be like you.”
Khirro forced a pained smile to his lips. “I am but a farmer, my king.”
“No, my friend. You are a hero. May the next world give you all you deserve.”
Khirro swallowed the coppery taste of blood around a lump in his throat as Braymon stood and replaced his gauntlet. The king looked at him for an instant, nodded, then stepped over him. Khirro attempted to turn his head, but his body no longer possessed the energy to do so, his last ounce sapped by loss of blood and the effort of consciousness. He exhaled through his open mouth and the air stirred tiny waves in the bloody mud.
A growl rumbled behind Khirro and he drew one more breath he hadn’t planned on taking and held it.
The tyger leaped over him, the impact of its paws shaking the ground beneath him before it galloped into the mist, flames trailing behind it. Khirro’s lips twitched, searching for a triumphant smile, but found himself unable to locate one.
His breath escaped his lungs and his eyes slid shut.
***
The enemies kept coming at him, as if the damnable mist spawned them from the falling snow.
Therrador felt blood drying on his face, saw offal on the fingers of his gauntlet and hardening on his chest plate. He gutted one with the sword in his left hand and jammed his boot into the gut of another, removing its head as it stumbled back. Even the bandage wrapped around his thumbless hand dripped blood like a washcloth left without being wrung out.
Another undead lurched toward him out of the mist, then a second and a third. Therrador didn’t have time to catch his breath or wipe the sweat from his forehead. Steel clanged against steel, the sound battering his ears until he thought they’d bleed-the only sound he’d heard since the mist fell over them, until the footsteps.
The ground rumbled with each of them and the snow-laced mist swirled and moved, opening in spots like a curtain drawn aside until it began to lift. Therrador saw the score of undead soldiers awaiting their turn at him, and beyond them the woman, her blond hair wind-whipped, her pale flesh gleaming with sweat as she swung the staff, animating more of the dead to try to take his life. She smiled and laughed, enjoying the carnage she created. Something caught her attention; her movements ceased and her smile slipped away.
Therrador felled one soldier with his sword, then deflected the second’s attack and shattered its jaw with his fist. It faltered and he removed its head. The third dead man hesitated, its eyes on that which had claimed the witch’s attention. Therrador glanced over his shoulder at the source of their distraction.
The scrollwork tattoos etched across Athryn’s chest and arms glowed with the same unearthly red light as the runes along the Mourning Sword’s black blade, making both weapon and man look as though they’d been extracted from a blacksmith’s forge. The magician’s steps rumbled through the ground and the mist collected above him, twisting and moving in a tornado of white vapor and cold snow that tossed his shoulder length blond hair in a cloud around his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Therrador saw the Archon take a step toward Athryn.
She lifted the staff, pointed it at the magician, and all the undead across the battlefield amended their courses toward him. Therrador sprang to action, hacking and slashing those close to him, but the few he put down reduced their numbers by too few to matter.
The throng converged on Athryn and the king’s eyes fell upon the staff in Sheyndust’s hands.
The staff is the key.
His face set with determination, Therrador abandoned the fight and bolted across beaten grass toward a horse that looked relatively unscathed. Blood spattered its barding and its rider hung limp in the saddle, held there by a boot caught in stirrups. A thought of Sir Alton flashed through the king’s mind, but he banished it as he yanked the dead man unceremoniously out of the saddle and jumped onto the horse.
The steed snorted and pranced, but Therrador quickly controlled it, reined the horse around in time to see Athryn fell a half dozen undead soldiers with one swing of the Mourning Sword. The king waited to see no more; he put his heels sharply to the horse’s flanks and steered the animal directly at the Archon.
Sheyndust whirled the staff’s eldritch light around her head and more fallen soldiers climbed to their feet to join their fellows fighting the magician. Overhead, the twisted column of mist and snow climbed higher and higher, sucking clouds from the sky to add to its girth as below it, Athryn put down the risen enemy five or more at a time. Therrador risked a look at his companion and saw sparks jump from the blade of the Mourning Sword with each deadly swing.
The king leaned forward in the saddle, urging his steed faster. Its hooves beat the ground, the sound thunderous in Therrador’s ears, but her fight with Athryn consumed the witch and she didn’t notice until the last second.
Therrador leaped off the horse and struck her with the force of his armored weight and the horse’s momentum, throwing them both to the ground. The king hit the ground with his right arm under him and heard it snap more than felt it, the adrenaline of battle at too high a level for the pain to immediately register. They rolled over and over. The sword flew from Therrador’s hand and he clutched at her, struggled to grasp her with his right hand, but the break in his arm prevented its use.
Over and over they rolled, his injured arm banging against the earth, mud splashing in his face, until they finally came to a stop-Therrador on his back and the witch straddling his waist. A flash of lust quivered his mind at the thought of her nakedness atop him, her genitals so close to his, but the thought fled when she grasped his wrists and slammed them to the ground beside his head, bringing the pain in his arm to sharp focus.
Therrador grimaced as the broken bone grated and pushed against his flesh. Agony brought a haze to his thoughts, but through it, he realized what the hold the witch had on his wrists meant.
She dropped the staff.
Sheyndust leaned forward until her face was inches from Therrador’s. Her lips pulled into a smile full of pointed teeth and blood stains, and Therrador felt sure she’d use them to tear out his throat. He raised his shoulders to protect his neck but, instead of killing him, she kissed him.
Her lips felt soft against his and her tongue darted into his mouth, touched his tongue. He tasted the blood on her teeth, and desire and disgust stirred in his abdomen, then she pulled away and looked into his eyes.
“I’ll deal with you later.” Her breath smelled of raw meat and decay.
The witch climbed off him and Therrador immediately moved to gain his feet, to engage her.
Kill her.
He couldn’t move.
He strained to raise his arms, but they were not his to lift. He struggled to get his feet under him, but his legs were not his to command. Sweat rolled from his temple into his ear. He blinked. His eyes shifted to watch her.
His eyes saw the dragon born of man and snow and mist.