Shyn’s dead. Maes is dead. Is this worth her life, too?
“Give me the vial, Khirro.”
He pulled it out and rolled it back and forth on his flat palm. Its deep red glow lit his glove, attracting the mist-man’s attention.
“What is this?” His voice was a low rumble, though his words were as clear as the peal of a bell on a summer eve.
“The blood of the king, Braymon of Erechania, slain in battle by the walking dead of Kanos.” Khirro managed to keep the quiver in his knees from shaking his voice.
He took a step toward Ghaul, hand tight on the hilt of his sword. Elyea shook her head and a drop of blood rolled down her smooth throat where Ghaul’s blade pressed against her skin.
“Why do you bring this blood to me? I care not for the doings of mortals.”
“The Shaman, Bale, enchanted me to bring the vial here and see the king restored.”
The swirling mist halted, falling away to leave a bent old man standing where the giant had been. His scraggly white hair fell past his shoulders framing a face wizened by more years than Khirro could comprehend. Despite his age, his eyes shone with vigor and knowledge.
“Bale?” The old man’s voice was quieter but still unshaken and sure. “Bale sent you?”
“Yes.” Khirro looked from Darestat to Ghaul. He didn’t think he’d hurt Elyea, not until he got what he wanted. “He enchanted me to bear the vial to you.”
The Necromancer made a clicking sound with his tongue.
“He did not enchant you, Khirro. No man can be made to do that which they would not do themselves, not even by magic. If such was possible, magicians would rule the world, not kings.”
Khirro stared at the old man, his jaw hanging open.
Not enchanted? How is that possible?
He opened his mouth to ask so many questions-what about the feeling in his chest? Why did he feel the compulsion to complete the journey? — but the Necromancer spoke again, cutting off his thoughts.
“Why did Bale not bring it himself?”
“He’s dead.”
The old man’s face sagged, sadness dimming the blaze of his eyes. “That is too bad. He was a good student, and a fine son.”
“Son?” Athryn said, his voice a whisper. Khirro had forgotten Athryn was there.
“Enough sentiment,” Ghaul said firmly. “Give me the vial or the whore dies. Braymon will lead the dead army of Kanos.”
Khirro tensed but the Necromancer continued as though Ghaul had not spoken.
“How did my son die?”
Hope sparked in Khirro. He raised his sword arm and pointed at Ghaul. “He’s responsible.”
The light in the chamber faded to dull pink as Darestat straightened and gestured, conjuring a vision for all of them to see. The images shifted and changed quickly. First it showed Ghaul dressed in Kanosee armor fighting, training, receiving orders from a figure in cloak and cowl. Khirro shivered. Then Ghaul wearing the cloak of a king’s guard, running Braymon through as the face of an undead soldier leered on, laughing.
The light shifted and they saw Ghaul lead an Erechanian soldier into a tunnel, slit his throat and emerge in a field wearing the man’s armor. The same armor he now wore. Then they saw the battle at the foot of the fortress, the Kanosee lying in wait to ambush their party and Ghaul coming upon the fight, nocking an arrow and slaying the Shaman.
They knew. Somehow, they knew about Braymon’s plan. They were after us because they knew we carried the king’s blood.
“It’s a lie,” Ghaul protested, his voice lacking its usual surety. “He killed Bale, not me. He wanted the glory for himself.”
“Silence!” Darestat’s voice became the voice of the mist giant again, filling the room and dispersing the vision. “The light does not lie.”
“No. I-”
The Necromancer’s eyes narrowed, his face became stern. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, ominous, but tinted with grief.
“You killed my son.”
Light flashed like a stroke of lightning, blinding Khirro. He gripped his sword tight and bent his knees to spring or defend but when his vision cleared Ghaul lay dazed on his back, his sword on the ground at Elyea’s feet. Khirro blinked, returning his vision to normal as Elyea retrieved Ghaul’s blade and placed the tip against his throat.
“Come forth, bearer of the blood. If you wish a life restored, there is a cost to be paid.”
Cost? What does he mean?
Khirro stepped forward tentatively. Athryn walked beside him, pulling the mask from his face. They stopped a few strides from the Necromancer standing before the marble throne and awaited his terms. Darestat appraised them, his look betraying nothing of his thoughts or intent. A minute passed. Ghaul groaned, regaining consciousness; Elyea kept the sword pressed to his throat.
“I have lost my son,” the old man said, his words measured. “The last of my line. If you wish me to resurrect your king, then I ask a son in return, someone whose life will become mine. To live with me, to learn from me.”
Khirro felt Athryn straighten beside him. This was exactly what Athryn wanted.
Does the Necromancer know?
“The fire of the dragon touched my brother,” Athryn said, emotion straining his words. “He gave his life for me, his blood courses through my veins. His soul rests with my soul.” He stopped, drew a shuddering breath. “Our lives will be yours.”
Elyea made a sound of protest but stopped short of speaking. This was why Athryn joined this fool’s journey. Over time, it became easy to trick oneself into believing they were all there for each other, for the good of the kingdom, but in truth, none were. They all had their own selfish reasons, as did Khirro. Athryn came to advance his skills at the foot of the master; Shyn to prove an outsider, a freak, had value. Ghaul’s motives were treacherous; Elyea saw it as an opportunity to atone for what others looked upon as her sins.
I thought I was compelled to come.
He knew he hadn’t been, perhaps always knew. So why? To prove himself more than a cowardly farmer? Or to escape a life which hadn’t gone the way he wanted? Both held the ring of truth.
“This is no small thing I ask,” the Necromancer warned Athryn. “Your life-your lives, you and your brother-will belong to me. Living with me, learning from me, you will never return to your home. The rest of your days will be spent at my side. What say you to that?”
Athryn went to one knee, bowed his head.
“We are yours, master. Do with us as you will.”
Darestat nodded, a satisfied look crossing his face. Elyea spoke to Ghaul, telling him not to move; Khirro resisted the urge to turn and make sure she was still all right.
She has everything well in hand.
“Then it shall be done.” The old man moved toward Khirro, his face looking younger than moments before. “Put the Mourning Sword away, Khirro.”
The blade flashed and flickered in the glow of the chamber, the runes first crawling red up and down the length of the sword then fading to black before springing to orange light as though drawn from the blacksmith’s fire. Khirro regarded it a moment before sliding it into its sheath, steel whispering against leather, and hoped he wouldn’t have to give it up. He turned his attention to the vial in his other hand and held it out to the Necromancer. The thought of giving it up gnawed his gut.
“You are the bearer, Khirro. You must be so until it is done.”
Khirro nodded and took the vial between thumb and index finger, holding it before him like something fragile, or something likely to bite. His head felt light with a mix of fear and anxiety, excitement and happiness, disappointment, sadness. So long he carried this living piece of the king next to his heart, he’d begun to feel it a part of him. What a triumph to actually complete this journey, and to live, yet a sad thing, too. His life had meant something these last months, but soon he’d be Khirro the farmer again, only after this he’d be unable to return to his farm.