Spirit of the King by Bruce Blake Page B

Archon sent me to check on the boy,” he said and wondered if a man perhaps more dead than alive would notice his accent.
    The thing stared at him; Therrador forced himself to look back. Its nose had rotted off in some dark grave; one eye moved while the other stared off at a peculiar angle. Therrador saw crooked yellow teeth though a hole in one cheek.
    “Hmm.”
    “Sheyndust sent me to look in on the hostage,” he said again. “Step aside.”
    The thing opened its mouth sending the stench of death wafting to Therrador on the sea breeze. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to hold the thing’s gaze.
    “Why she sent you?” the creature asked finally, its words run together like a child not yet used to speaking. “We guard him.”
    Therrador frowned and narrowed his eyes.
    “She had a vision of someone coming and taking him.” He glanced at the others watching the exchange. “I’m doing as I’m told, I suggest you do the same.”
    One of the others grumbled words Therrador didn’t understand; the leader turned toward the other soldier so his unmoving eye came to gaze upon Therrador. The dead, unseeing orb made Therrador think of Suath’s empty eye hole and he wondered what had become of the mercenary.
    “Okay,” the dead man said without moving out of his path.
    Therrador took a step forward and came chest to chest with the soldier. It still didn’t move. He glared into the thing’s good eye, knowing he couldn’t be the first to move. A minute passed; the other soldiers moved closer and a flicker of claustrophobia flared in Therrador’s stomach. He held his breath against the stench of rotted flesh gathered around him. Finally, the creature stepped back and gave him space to pass. Therrador went by confidently, bumping the undead man with his shoulder on the way, pulled the flap aside and entered the pavilion.
    The fire blazing in the iron fireplace at the center of the tent made it almost unbearably warm inside; smoke curled up through a hole in the peak as he’d seen from outside. He breathed deep, happy to draw air not smelling of rotted flesh after being in close quarters with those dead things.
    The tent’s interior was sparsely furnished—not what he’d have expected to find in the Archon’s lodging. Perhaps he’d been wrong about this being her tent. A plain chair made of driftwood lashed together with lengths of heavy twine sat to one side. A basin of water rested atop a short stool; a honey pot sat nearby. On the far side of the makeshift room was a straw-stuffed mattress draped with thick green blankets. Underneath them, a sleeping shape. Only a bit of tussled brown hair showed under the coverings.
    Graymon.
    Therrador took a step forward, then stopped. He looked about the room again, searching the shadowed corners and behind the stick furniture. They were alone. He hurried across the dirt floor, struggling to contain his excitement. Three strides from the bed, less than ten feet from his son, he stopped. He hadn’t meant to.
    What...?
    He attempted another step but his foot wouldn’t move. It stayed in place as though stuck by strong glue. He struggled against the unseen grip, grabbed his thigh with both hands and pulled, but nothing happened.
    “Graymon,” he whispered and reached out toward his son lying just out of reach. “Graymon.”
    The boy shifted under the covers, turned over to face his father, eyes closed in sleep. Therrador’s heart leaped to his throat at the sight of his son with his features so much like his mother’s. He reached again, stretching his fingers as far as he could, but he was too far away.
    “Graymon.”
    “That’s enough.”
    The sound of the woman’s voice stopped Therrador’s breath half-drawn. Goose flesh galloped up his spine despite the fire-warmed air in the tent.
    How could she be here?
    He struggled to face the voice but found himself unable to move at all. His head wouldn’t turn, his arms wouldn’t raise. Only his eyes would move;