Therrador flexed his right hand. After a week and a half, he often felt like his thumb was attached, like he’d be able to wield a sword better than most men, but he knew it wasn’t true. He’d been practicing swinging a blade with his left, but felt as awkward as a novice. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on allowing the gentle bounce of the horse’s gait to calm him.
The lead rider halted his steed a few yards from the Archon’s party. Therrador looked at the men surrounding her-twelve of them, a mix of Kanosee soldiers and the hideous undead creatures, easily identified by their black mail splashed with red paint. The Archon spurred her horse to the front of the group.
“And where do you think you are going?”
“The king has urgent business in the capital,” Sir Matte said before Therrador could answer. The woman looked at the old knight, a bemused smirk twitching her red-painted lips.
“I know your king has lost his thumb,” she said. “I did not know he also lost his tongue.”
Therrador cleared his throat. “It’s as Sir Matte says. The harvest is in and it must be disbursed.”
“And none but the king can say who gets how many ears of corn?”
“It’s my job to take care of my people.”
“Hmph.” The Archon glanced around. “Perhaps the people closest to you should have been the ones you took care of.”
Anger twisted in Therrador’s stomach. “Move aside so I can complete my duties,” he said, struggling to keep the rage he felt from showing in his voice.
“You go nowhere.” She snapped her fingers and three of the men raised from the dead trotted forward. “Seize Therrador. Take him to the dungeon.”
The three moved for him; Sir Matte and the lead rider bared their steel.
“You’ll be doing nothing of the sort,” the old knight said steering his horse to allow a clear swing of his weapon.
“Matte,” Therrador said, but it was too late.
One of the dead men surged forward, his sword coming out of his scabbard and slashing toward Sir Matte in one smooth movement. The clang of steel on steel rang down the avenue and Therrador unconsciously reached for his sword; his wounded hand banged against the hilt, sending a jolt of pain up his forearm.
Sir Matte had once been a powerful and skilled warrior, but his time had passed some fifteen years before. The undead soldier swung again, knocking the old knight’s sword out of his hand, and a third stroke sent him to the flagstones, blood gushing from a wound in his throat. The other soldiers pressed forward, but the Archon clapped her hands with a resounding smack that stopped everyone in their tracks.
“Enough,” she said. “If you choose for your men to fight, they will all die here.”
Men and undead soldiers milled about, horses dancing, awaiting the command to dart in and join a fight. Therrador hesitated, looking first at his old friend lying on the ground, his life draining from his neck, and then up at the decayed faces of their enemy. His shoulders sagged.
“Sheath your weapons,” he said. His men looked at him, unbelieving. When they didn’t immediately react, he spoke again. “Put them away.”
As they did, Therrador slid out of his saddle and went to his fallen friend’s side. Sir Matte’s watery eyes were glazed, but he still gulped shallow breaths through the bloody froth on his lips.
“Therrador,” he whispered.
“Shh. Don’t speak.” Therrador propped the old knight’s head on his lap. “I’m sorry for this, my friend.”
“Enough sentiment. Seize him,” the Archon commanded. Two of the dead soldiers grabbed Therrador by the elbows and dragged him from the dying man. “Take him to the lowest, darkest cell, but treat him well. He is the king, after all.”
Therrador glared over his shoulder at the woman’s smiling face as the two dead men hauled him away.
She knew again. Maybe she is a devil.
Chapter Twenty-One
Following their rescuers along the twisting, turning tunnels left Khirro unsure what direction they might be traveling and made his head spin. With no moon, sun or stars overhead, no wind blowing or moss growing on trees, concepts like direction and time seemed ridiculous and impossible.
How do they find their way?
The light Athryn conjured from Callan’s death had followed the magician from the cell, but it faded after what Khirro guessed to be an hour. Perhaps another hour passed as they traversed the maze of tunnels led by the smooth-faced man. They set a swift pace and Khirro felt the effort in his aching lungs-the air below ground was not what he was accustomed to above.
“Do you know where we are?” Khirro asked over his shoulder.
“No. I cannot tell.” Athryn sounded short of breath, too. Knowing so made Khirro feel a little better.
Khirro’s grip tightened on the Mourning Sword’s hilt. Once, in the Necromancer’s keep, it had glowed with what Athryn called ‘the Light of Truth’, showing Khirro the secrets of all it touched, but he didn’t know how it happened. If he could choose a time he wanted to know someone else’s true thoughts, it was now as they put their trust in people they didn’t understand leading them through caves and tunnels their imaginations couldn’t fathom. It led the same thought to turn over in his head again and again:
Are they truly helping us or leading us to our doom?
The sword in his hand reassured Khirro somewhat, but what good would it be if they were led into a trap or fed to voracious worms?
But why would they give us back our weapons if they were going to kill us?
The unease in Khirro’s gut distracted him so that he nearly walked into the man ahead of him sword-first when he stopped without warning, his knees bent and body tense. Khirro slid to a stop behind him, the soles of his boots skidding on loose stone strewn on the tunnel floor. The smooth-faced underground-dweller turned to him, finger pressed against his lip, and Khirro nodded. Their language was incomprehensible to him, but some gestures spanned all cultures and races.
Khirro held his breath, listened to his pulse beating in his head, the rush of blood in his ears. He heard nothing else. Shifting his gaze to Athryn, he raised a questioning eyebrow; the magician shook his head. The light of the worm torch pulsed as the grubs writhed beneath the cloth forcing them to stay in place and light the tunnel around them, its illumination falling on plain, rough walls and a ceiling seven feet above. The passages were clearly formed by the hand of man.
Or something man-like.
A minute passed and Khirro looked at the fellow ahead of him, the torch’s glow washing over his smooth cheeks like waves lapping on a lake shore. His finger remained against his lips as though he thought the act of holding it there was what kept the others quiet and, without it, they would begin making noise again. His dark hair fell limp over his forehead and spilled in front of his face. In the torch’s strange glow, his eyes glimmered green.
Somewhere in the darkness-ahead or behind, Khirro couldn’t discern-a sound echoed along the stone walls. Soft, quiet; like a drop of water falling to the ground. Khirro tensed, remembering the worms falling from the ceiling like they attacked with one mind, but this sound wasn’t quite the same.
The muscles in his sword arm tightened, the cut on his palm throbbed beneath the dirty bandage. The smooth-faced man remained still, as though living underground had taught him how to become one with the stone of the cave. After a moment, the sound came again. Then again, and Khirro realized what it was they heard.
Footsteps.
The leader of their procession leaned past Khirro and Athryn and whispered to the woman behind the magician, who passed his words to the next of the underground-dwellers, then the next. The man at the far end nodded and disappeared back down the tunnel, his bare feet silent on the stone floor. Khirro’s brow furrowed.