The Knave of Souls - Fantasy - Sequel to The Jack of Souls

Chapter 6b

BLOOD & BANISHMENT

*

Harric's head spun with the exertion of holding himself in the Unseen. Spots swam before his eyes. 

He could not risk collapsing near Lane and his cronies. Better to be caught by Willard.

Panting, he watched Lane, willing the man to leave, so he could at least re-enter the Seen without being spotted. The two whispered, hand to ear. Harric felt himself swaying on his feet. Soon he'd be gasping for breath as if he'd sprinted up a long hill. Mercifully, the two crept away to seek their bastard elsewhere.

Steadying himself against the plank partition, Harric released himself and crashed back through his oculus into the Seen.

The pressure lifted instantly, but he found himself swaying over his feet and gulping for air, his shirt soaked and clinging to his back. Bad luck and stupidity. He cursed himself as he tried to catch his breath without moving or making too much noise.

If Willard caught him, he was well and truly cobbed. What possible excuse could he make?

"If I die, your kingdom falls," Brolli was saying, "and Anna falls with it. If you die, what is the point of your oath?"

"I remain true to Anna."

"Even she would tell you drink the Blood! You know it is true. Once we are safe, you can stop the Blood again."

Harric's struggled to hold back his lungs, which seemed to want to gulp noisily at the air.

Brolli stepped forward to where Harric could glimpse the side of his face. The Kwendi had stripped his day-lenses to peer at Willard with his huge, owlish eyes. "You must take it Blood," he said, accent worsening with emotion. "It is this simple choice: either you drink the Blood for all eternity and be a god. Or Bannus catch and all eternity keep you alive a limbless stump like we see last night, his foot stool and worse."

Willard's breathing sounded almost as labored as Harric's felt. The old knight stood frozen, caught between terrible alternatives. He squeezed his eyes closed. Then turned his back to Brolli, his side now to Harric.

Willards's lips moved soundlessly. Forgive me. Aloud, he whispered, "Leave me, Brolli."

Brolli hesitated, uncertain.

"I said leave!" Willard snapped.

Brolli's footsteps left the way he'd come.

In the silence that followed, Harric watched Willard through the slats, glimpsing parts of his face, parts of Molly's agitated bulk. Willard's breathing grew rapid as he fumbled at buckles on his saddle bags, then fell silent again.

Molly went deadly still. The air seemed charged with the tension of some titanic spring.

Harric heard a small sound of liquid spatter on the hay. Bright violet blood painted the straw on the other side of the slats. Molly let out a tremendous, deep-chested sigh as Willard suckled the wound with an urgent, sloppy, swallows—the sound of a water-starved prisoner on a moistened sponge.

Harric's heart hammered so hard he felt certain Molly would hear it. If Willard saw him now—caught him spying on this most intimate decision while the Blood raged freshly in his veins—Harric was a dead man. Across his mind flew tales of Phyros-riders who slew innocent friends and lovers in the blind fury that came after taking the Blood. And yet, if Willard woke from his rage with Harric's blood on his hands, how could he think of Harric as an "innocent friend?" More like a sneaking knave who deserved his fate.

Gods take me for a sneaking rat and a fool!

The sucking sound ceased. On the other side of the partition, Willard groaned, a deep growl in his barrel chest. He thrashed against the planks, shaking dust from the wood into the air. Molly snarled and stamped, tossing her head so Harric saw flashes of violet ears and wine-black mane above the wall.