Spirit of the King by Bruce Blake Read Free Book Online

forward and back. “Yes, child.”
    I take a deep, shuddering breath and taste her perfume on my tongue. I want to be mad at her for what she showed me, but I can’t; my rage at the man in the visions is greater.
    “Why did you do this to me?”
    “Because you have the right to know,” she says. She caresses my cheek with the knuckle of one finger. “You have the right to know who did those things to you. He yet lives while you languish in this purgatory.”
    The tightness in my chest becomes anger, boiling and festering and aching to break free. The scenes flash through my mind again, those and others. My teeth grind, my breath becomes short, forceful bursts spilling from my nostrils.
    “You would like vengeance on this man, would you not?” Her voice is gentle, caring, and my anger at the man increases with the sound of it. I nod feeling the cords in my neck strain with the movement. “I can send you back to find him.”
    “Yes,” I hiss through my teeth. “Yes.” My fists clench into balls in my lap.
    “Good.”
    The black cloaked figure stands, reaches beneath her long robe and pulls out a sword. It gleams with unseen light as she lays the blade on my shoulder. I don’t pull away from the dangerous-looking edge; I know she won’t hurt me.
    She’s here to save me.
    “Who is this man?”
    “You are called Shariel,” she says ignoring my question. “It is not what your name was before, but you are no longer that person, that victim. Now you are strong. You are my angel of retribution.”
    Somehow she has flipped the sword around without my notice and offers me the hilt. I take it in both hands and hold the sword before me like a sacred item. Steel, the fifth God—the warrior God—forced out by his brothers and sisters, all but forgotten long ages ago. This blade will help me avenge all the wrongs done me and others. The man is the embodiment of all things wicked. As my anger grows, so does my pride, for I’ve been chosen to punish him for the evil he’s brought to the world. The sword feels good in my hands. I swing it once, testing its weight, and I’m pleased.
    “How will I find him? Who is he?”
    “He will come to you, child,” the black-cloaked woman says, standing at my side. I replace the sword in the scabbard somehow hanging at my belt, but I don’t bother to wonder how it got there. “I will make sure of that.”
    My hand touches the spot on my torso where he cut me open and spilled my life on the floor of the underground chamber. My fingers feel a ridge of scar, a reminder of what the man did to me. Anger blossoms anew.
    “Who is he?”
    “He is a devil incarnate,” she says, her voice unnaturally calm. “And his name is Khirro.”
     

Chapter Seven
     
    The sound of the river had become a murmur, still noticeable but fading with each step carrying it farther into the distance. Khirro hacked at a tangle of brush, wishing he didn’t have to but accepting there was no other way through. He still remembered the one-eyed mercenary torn apart in a field of Lakeshi grass, and each time his sword contacted a branch or bush, he wondered if this was the time he’d meet a similar fate. Also, if they were being watched as Athryn believed, the noise of clearing a path would make them easy to follow. A droplet of sweat rolled over Khirro’s brow into his eye; he wiped it away on his sleeve.
    “We should make our way back to the river,” he said over his shoulder to the magician following close behind.
    “I agree it would be easier, but it is not safe.”
    “Nothing is safe in this cursed land.”
    Khirro swung the Mourning Sword again and the thicket fell away, opening onto a small clearing circled by tall fir and hemlock. He hesitated at the edge as Athryn stepped up beside him. Something didn’t seem right. The ground was too clear, the circle too round, like something other than the Gods created it.
    “Something is peculiar,” Athryn said, putting words to Khirro’s feeling. Far