“Should we stake him, too, my Lord?” a soldier standing behind Therrador asked.
“No. Leave him for the animals.”
Therrador handed his sword to the soldier to clean and made his way to his horse, visions of his late wife swirling through his mind.
***
The night after the slaughter, the black-cloaked figure he now knew as Sheyndust first appeared to him. He thought himself delirious with grief, but it was the first of many visits which set in motion the events leading to Braymon’s death.
And Graymon’s abduction.
Therrador looked across the salt flats at the curls of smoke rising from the Kanosee camp. If he’d known then his rash decisions and betrayal of his friend would lead to this, he’d have chosen a different path. He might not have saved Seerna, but he didn’t have to blame Braymon for her death. He could have asked him about his wife’s choice of the name ‘Graymon’ instead of jumping to conclusions about the nature of the king’s relationship with her. Different decisions and his son would likely be safe; Erechania wouldn’t rest in the hands of a mad-woman who fashioned herself a Necromancer.
The breeze gusting in off the Sea of Linghala cut through Therrador’s thin cloak, but he didn’t pull it tight around his shoulders. Instead, he stared at the sun sparkling on the sea and at the tents strewn across the salt flats. Somewhere out there, a Kanosee wagon rattled down a bumpy track, taking his son away from him.
“Happy birthday,” he whispered and wiped a tear from his cheek.
Chapter Sixteen
Athryn crouched over the motionless figure lying in the middle of the cell, his hand resting on the man's chest. A dim light seeping in through the tightly woven latticework door reflected dully in the magician's eyes.
“He lives. Barely.” He looked up at the other prisoner. “What happened to him?”
“I don’t know,” the man who’d told them his name was Callan said. “He was like that when they brought him.”
“And how long have you been here?” Khirro asked.
Callan shook his head. “A few hours before they brought your friend. Then you came perhaps an hour later. It’s difficult to gauge the passage of time in the dark.”
“Why did you not show yourself?” The magician pushed his fingers against the fallen man’s throat, then touched the back of his hand to his forehead.
“Didn’t know who you were. Don’t know what’s going on.” Callan leaned against the stone wall and allowed himself to slide down it into a crouch, head in his hands. “I was asleep in my bedroll when I woke with a start, my hands bound.” He paused for a deep breath that made his shoulders tremble. “There were things in the forest, dancing around me, with green flesh and yellow eyes.”
Khirro nodded. “I saw them, too.”
Athryn stood and looked from Khirro to Callan.
“Forest nymphs. They are said to lead travelers astray, make them hopelessly lost.”
Callan laughed nervously. “They seem to have done a fine job.”
Khirro looked at him and wondered about his reaction. A big man with broad shoulders and thick arms, Callan didn’t strike Khirro as the type to cower in the face of fear.
“But what were you doing in Lakesh?” he asked.
Callan looked up at Khirro, eyes wide with surprise. “Lakesh? What are you talking about? Do I look stupid enough to be caught dead in Lakesh?”
Khirro looked at Athryn, brow furrowed. “If you weren’t in Lakesh, then where were you?”
“Kanos, of course. Where were you?”
Athryn shook his head at Khirro then crouched again, returning to his survey of the injured fellow.
He’s right. Best not to say where we’ve been or what’s happened. Especially not to a Kanosee.
“It doesn’t matter. We’re all trapped here, now.”
Callan pushed himself to his feet, eyes narrowed. “You’re not Kanosee, are you?”
Khirro glanced at Athryn. “No.”
“Me neither.” His face relaxed and a sly smile crept across his lips. “I was passing through on my way home. To Poltghasa.”
Khirro saw that their cellmate intended the statement to inspire fear or awe but, after all they’d been through, the mention of the city of thieves and murderers meant little. There wasn’t a human alive-thief, rapist, murderer, or the like-half as fearsome as the giants, water serpent, or dragon he’d encountered in Lakesh. He was about to tell Callan so when Athryn interrupted.
“Something is happening.”
The magician opened the man’s jerkin, exposing his chest. Khirro and Callan both knelt at his side so they could see. Athryn pointed to the fellow’s stomach where the flesh pulsed and rippled, expanding and contracting like an irregular heartbeat underneath his navel. His belly appeared to glow dully.
“What’s happening?” Callan whispered.
Athryn shook his head. A few seconds passed and the palpitation shifted further up his torso, slipping under the man’s breast bone, pushing his rib cage unevenly. He gasped, his body jerked. The three men stood and took a step back.
The body on the floor convulsed; his head rose then fell back hard against the stone. The man-lump in his throat bobbed as though he wanted to speak, but no words came from his pale lips.
“What’s going on?” Callan said again; this time his voice was louder and held a note of panic.
Khirro looked at him, saw the expression of stark fear on his face, and looked away before it spread to him. The unconscious prisoner's cheeks bulged and a dim luminescence shone though his flesh. His lips parted.
And then the worms came.
They spilled out of his mouth and down his cheeks, their glow spreading and casting shadows across his strained flesh as they tumbled to the floor or caught in his hair. More emerged from his nostrils; Khirro watched in horror as they squeezed out around his eyeballs. Some caught on his cheek or in his ear, immediately burrowing themselves back into the body they’d left. Athryn thrust his arm in front of Khirro and pushed him back a step.
“Stay back.”
The things continued to overflow the man’s body until his head lay in a gradually expanding pool of glowing lice. More and more squirmed out of his head. A popping sound made Khirro jump as the worms pushed one of the poor fellow's eyes out of its socket. Some crawled from holes in his tattered pants and Khirro shuddered to think out of what orifices they’d emerged.
They watched until the clatter of the makeshift door opening pulled their attention from the grisly sight at their feet. Five of the pale-skinned men entered, growling and barking commands in their strange, guttural language. Khirro and Athryn fell back as the leader of the group menaced them with a black sword crawling with glowing red runes.
The Mourning Sword!
Relief washed through Khirro despite the threat before them. He’d thought the sword lost, and its disappearance left a hole in his soul he’d have been loathe to admit-weapons were never important to him before.
Callan also backed away from the shaggy-haired men, but he stepped in a pile of the worms which had writhed away from the body. His foot slipped and he went to the floor hard, three of the men falling on him at the leader’s command before he could recover. They grabbed him by the arms, pulled him to his feet and dragged him out of the cell. Khirro saw glowing worms smeared across the back of his shirt and breeches.
“No,” Callan screamed, voice high and shrill, and Khirro felt ashamed for him, and for hesitating to aid him.
He moved to help, but the man holding the Mourning Sword slashed the air in front of him and Khirro shrank back. The sword-wielder backed out of the cell, shouting at Khirro and Athryn as two of his companions replaced the wooden bars over the doorway. They rushed to the door, the luminescence emitted by the mass of worms wiggling on the cell floor spilling into the tunnel, but it was empty. They were left alone with the glowing worms and the sound of Callan’s screams echoing along the stone walls.