“I only want my son back,” Therrador said despite being unable to move his lips. His words ran together like the dead soldier’s had. The Archon’s face remained stern.
“All I want is for you to do as you are told,” she replied with a sweetness in her voice mismatched to her meaning. “It seems neither of us will get what we want if things do not change.”
A lump formed in Therrador’s throat. He tried unsuccessfully to make his mouth ask her not to hurt his son. His eyes flicked back to Graymon; the boy continued sleeping peacefully.
“I can see as long as the boy is nearby, you will be uncontrollable. We will have to rectify that.” She reached out and took the helm off his head, dropping it to the ground with a clank, then brushed hair from his forehead, the tips of her long nails scraping along his skin. “You have to learn to behave yourself, Therrador, or people will start getting hurt. You do not want that, do you?”
The king tried to shake his head.
“No,” he mumbled staring at his son, willing her not to hurt the boy.
“I did not think so.” She grasped his chin and moved his head so his eyes looked into hers. “Do not worry, I am not going to hurt your son. Not this time.”
He sighed air into his constricted chest, suddenly aware of how small the mail vest was on him. As long as Graymon was safe, nothing else mattered. The Archon gestured over her shoulder and the undead guard with whom Therrador had spoken appeared at her side.
“Why did you let this man in?”
“He said you sent him.” A line of drool spilled from the thing’s split lips.
“I said no one enters.”
The Archon raised her hand, holding it as though imploring someone to stop, then snapped her fingers into a fist. The undead creature at her shoulder slumped to the floor with a clank of armor, lifeless once more. A smile crinkled the corners of her red lips.
“Let that be a lesson to the rest of you.” The other guards grunted and shuffled.
Graymon shifted again on the bed, rolling onto his back. Therrador pried his gaze away from the woman’s golden eyes and looked at his son’s profile. His heart ached. He wanted to tell him he was sorry, that he didn’t mean for this to happen. A vision of rotted flesh caked with pus and blood flashed across his son’s face then disappeared.
“Don’t hurt him,” Therrador squeezed through his useless lips.
“I told you I will not hurt him. Is there no trust between us?” She gave his cheek a tap to draw his eyes to her again. “I suppose there is not, but it is due to your actions, not mine. Come morning, your son will be taken to Kanos. It seems the only way I can ensure your cooperation is if he is not here.”
Therrador’s eyes widened. “No.”
“And as for you,” the woman continued, ignoring his protest. “You need a reminder of what will happen if you disobey me.”
She snapped her fingers and whatever held Therrador let go all at once; his straining muscles pitched him forward onto the bed, but strong hands under his arms caught him and held him fast. He pulled against the grasp of the undead soldiers, but three of them held him, their grips hard and strong. The Archon nodded and one of them pushed against his right elbow, extending his arm. A wicked looking pair of shears, silver and gleaming in the flickering firelight, appeared in the woman’s hand. Therrador shook his head.
“What are you doing?”
She moved the shears toward his hand and he curled his fingers into a fist. The thing holding his arm shifted its grip, expertly pinching the proper spot on his hand to make his fingers extend. Cold steel touched either side of his thumb, the sharp edges drawing blood. Therrador gritted his teeth and held his breath.
“Perhaps you will be less inclined to rebellion if you can no longer hold a sword.”
The tendons in her neck tensed as she closed the shears. Therrador’s scream drowned out the soft sound of his severed thumb hitting the blanket beside Graymon, then the boy’s high pitched squeal joined his shriek as he woke to his father’s blood.
Chapter Nine
The guard snarled at Graymon, hurrying him along. The boy pulled his breeches up hastily and fumbled with the tie. Normally, someone helped him fasten them; his shaking fingers proved almost useless.
“Do not worry, precious. Everything will be all right,” the woman said.
Graymon glanced at her, his eyes finding her painted nails first, as always. Colorful birds flitted back and forth across their surfaces, their beaks moving in silent chirps, but they didn’t make him smile. At any moment, those birds might molt and droop, melting away to rotted versions of themselves; he’d seen it before. Before that transformation occurred, Graymon shifted his gaze to his father’s limp form hunched in the corner.
“What will happen to my da?” His voice quivered with the effort of holding back tears.
The woman crouched at his side. “I will take him home.” She caressed his cheek with the knuckle of her index finger. Graymon flinched. “He loves you so much. He will behave himself now so I will not have to hurt him again. You know what happens when you do not behave yourself, yes?”
Graymon nodded. His father rarely punished him, but nanny yelled when he didn’t listen to her, sometimes slapped his bottom. There had never been blood like with daddy, though. The thought made him sniffle and shudder.
“Hurry and get dressed, then. My men are taking you to another place where you can have a real bed. And toys.”
Mixed emotions rolled through Graymon. Thoughts of toys and a comfortable bed pleased him, but the idea of going on a trip with those monsters made his stomach feel sick. He looked away from the woman’s pleasant face to the soldier standing over her shoulder. This one didn’t look as dead as many of the others, might even have been alive except for a patch of green mold on one cheek and spots where his hair had fallen out in chunks. The one thing he had in common with the others was his dark eyes that made him look like he’d rather eat Graymon than guard him.
“Oh, there will be a real man to go with you,” she said noticing the boy’s distress. “Some of my dead friends will be there, but you will not be alone.”
She retrieved Graymon’s shirt from the floor and handed it to him. He slipped it over his head quickly then stepped into his shoes. The woman nodded, smiled unconvincingly. Graymon smiled back knowing it was what adults expected him to do when they smiled, but he put as little effort into it as the woman did. During his time in the Kanosee camp, they’d treated him well, but seeing what they did to his da proved they weren’t his friends. The woman offered her hand; he took it hesitantly and she led him toward the tent flap. Graymon’s head pivoted as they went, his gaze on his unconscious father.
“I want to say bye to da,” he cried, tugging at the Archon’s grip.
The rotting soldier behind him growled, but the woman silenced it with a gesture. She pulled on Graymon’s hand, spinning him toward her.
“You can say good-bye to your father,” she said, her voice gentle and firm at the same time. “But quickly.” His hand slid out of hers but he didn’t move for a second, worried she might be tricking him. “Go on.”
Padding across the dirt floor, he looked sideways at the rotting guard who snarled back at him. Graymon averted his eyes and knelt at his father’s side, reached out to take his hand but thought better of it when he saw the blood soaked cloth wrapped around it.
“I sorry, Da,” he whispered glancing nervously at the woman and the guard then back at his father. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”
Therrador’s eyelids fluttered. His eyes darted around the tent, unfocused, unsure, until they found Graymon and his lids opened wider. He sat up straighter, grunted at the effort.
“Graymon?”
“Da.”
The boy smiled and reached out for his father, his fingers brushing the sleeve of his jerkin before a firm hand on his shoulder pulled him away. He looked up and saw the green-cheeked soldier looming over him and could no longer hold back the tears.