Spirit of the King by Bruce Blake Read Free Book Online Page A

behind them, leaves rattled and a branch snapped. They both glanced back then looked at each other.
    “We have no choice,” Khirro said.
    Athryn nodded. They stepped across the brink between forest and clearing and Khirro wished again they’d discovered the secret to Athryn’s powers. The magician claimed he knew, but he hesitated to share. Spilling Khirro’s blood had almost worked, but making the air shimmer in the shape of a tyger wasn’t enough to keep them from danger.
    But what is it he won't share?
    They crept into the clearing, their steps silenced by a thick carpet of decaying needles beneath their boots. No rocks lay strewn on the ground in the open expanse, no branches fallen from the trees overhead. And no sound. The trees didn’t hide chirping birds; insects didn’t buzz about their heads.
    It’s autumn, almost winter. The bugs are done, the birds have gone south.
    His thoughts lacked the ring of truth and did little to ease his discomfort.
    “Someone created this place, Khirro,” Athryn said.
    The air around them seemed to swallow his words as soon as they cleared his lips. Khirro nodded and eyed the brush growing to the edge of the clearing so thick, it gave the impression they’d entered an outdoor room bounded by leafy walls. The area was symmetrical, a perfect circle. Even the branches of the trees overhead stopped precisely at the edge of the circle, allowing the autumn sky to peer down on them like an unblinking gray eye.
    “We should not stay here.”
    The brush behind them rustled, confirming Athryn’s words. Khirro looked back and saw nothing, not even the shiver of a leaf. Unease made his head feel light. This was no giant following them, no animal, but something else he couldn’t begin to imagine.
    “Let’s go,” he said.
    Athryn hurried ahead across the clearing toward the far side and Khirro followed, the Mourning Sword in hand ready to clear the way. As they approached the wall of brush, Athryn pointed.
    “Look there.”
    Khirro’s gaze followed the magician’s finger and saw what he indicated: an opening in the thicket, a spot where the growth was thinner, perhaps easier to get through.
    An old trail.
    Athryn plunged ahead into the forest with Khirro hard on his heels. The ground was smooth and level beneath their feet, free of rocks and roots, making the going easier and faster than it had been before.
    They ran without looking back for a while, hoping to put some distance between themselves and whatever pursued them, leaving behind the unnatural clearing. Khirro held the Mourning Sword in his right hand but didn’t need to use it. No branches whipped his face, no thorns plucked his clothes. For a small, seemingly unused trail that looked overgrown a moment before, it quickly became easy going. After a few minutes, Khirro checked over his shoulder to see if their pursuers were within sight but saw nothing.
    Not even the trail behind them.
    Fear flared in Khirro as he thought again of the field of tall grass that took the life of the one-eyed mercenary and came close to taking his, too.
    The path was closing behind them, sealing them in the forest.
    He looked to the front again, at Athryn running just ahead of him, but couldn’t see past. Straining and stretching as he ran, he peered around his companion and saw that the path appeared to open around them, a vague line before them widening to let them through, then closing again after they passed.
    We’re being herded like animals. But where?
    “Athryn, wait,” he called, already slowing his pace. There was no way for the magician to know the trail was closing behind them. “Something’s wrong.”
    The magician turned his head, blond ponytail bouncing against his back, and opened his mouth to reply. Then he disappeared.
    Khirro skidded to a halt at the edge of the pit, toes dangling over the lip and sending dirt cascading into darkness below. If he hadn’t slowed, he would have followed his companion into its