Spirit of the King Read Free Page A

shirt; Khirro went to the giant lying motionless at the forest’s edge, approaching cautiously. He looked down into the giant’s glassy, sightless eyes. The beast didn’t move when he prodded its ribs with his toe. Satisfied, Khirro grasped the hilt of the Mourning Sword and pulled the blade from the giant’s back. A gout of blood followed it out, the powdery sand absorbing it like a starving animal. The sword glowed and pulsed as the blood clinging to its steel disappeared, sucked into the runes twisted along its length before the blade returned to its normal black highlighted by red scrollwork.
    “This is not the first time this sand has tasted blood.”
    Athryn’s words startled Khirro. He spun to look at the magician.
    “This is the same place the one-eyed man attacked us. The same place my brother opened his veins so I might live.”
    Khirro glanced at the area and saw Athryn was right. To his left stood the copse of trees where they’d laid Maes’s body while Athryn recovered. Down the beach to the south, they would find the charred remains of the pyre where they sent the little man’s soul back to the Gods if they chose to look for them. Three times now, blood was spilled on this spot. He couldn’t help but think the fact held some significance. He stepped away from the giant’s corpse.
    “You’re right,” he said, a chill creeping up his spine. “Let’s get out of here.”
    They surveyed the damage to the boat and found no hope of repairing it. Neither of them knew enough about making a boat seaworthy for it to be safe, and it would take too much time.
    If only Athryn had his magic.
    “What should we do?” Khirro asked as they trudged north along the beach.
    “We have little choice.” Athryn pulled the cloth mask into place over his face; Khirro wondered why he bothered. Did he think wearing it or not affected his magic? “There is only one place where we might acquire a boat.”
    Khirro peered out at the Small Sea. Waves rolled across its surface, pushed shoreward by the autumn breeze. Across the water and to the north lay his homeland, where a war was being fought, a war the spirit Khirro carried within him could influence. But they couldn’t know how things progressed. The enemy might have been vanquished leaving Erechania standing triumphant despite the king’s death. Or the lack of a regent might have left the country disheartened, ripe for the kill.
    Khirro looked away from the water and to the north, toward the one place they might find a way back in their quest to save the kingdom. They marched toward Kanos.
    They marched toward the enemy.
     

Chapter Three
     
    The Archon urged her horse through the open gate and raised portcullis of the Isthmus fortress. As she passed under the rusted bars, she turned in the saddle to look at the men riding behind her, her blond hair caressing the purple velvet cape draped over her shoulders. She saw the tension etched in their faces and knew it to be only partially caused by readiness as they entered an enemy’s stronghold without knowing what to expect. Her generals knew her power, but didn’t suspect its full extent or know how she’d gotten them within the enemy’s walls. Both added to their wariness and a satisfied smile crept across her face. It was best no one knew all, not yet. That would come soon enough, then the entire world would know.
    Regardless of how she got them there, the generals would be happy to be behind the wall. She wanted to get the other men in, too, but needed to be patient—moving the entire Kanosee army into the fortress immediately would strain the forced truce. Shortly, though. Except the walking dead—they didn’t feel the cold wind the way the living did and would frighten the fortress residents. The time for that would come later; with the exception of the undead members of her personal guard, they’d stay outside until she needed them.
    As her horse carried her away from the salt flats and through the