he directed them toward the Archon as she stepped up beside him.
“I told you I could not trust you,” she said.
She wore the black cloak she’d worn the first time they met that night on the salt flats, but the cowl was pulled back from her face this time and her blond hair spilled over her shoulders.
“I only want my son back,” Therrador said despite being unable to move his lips. His words ran together like the dead soldier’s had. The Archon’s face remained stern.
“All I want is for you to do as you are told,” she replied with a sweetness in her voice mismatched to her meaning. “It seems neither of us will get what we want if things do not change.”
A lump formed in Therrador’s throat. He tried unsuccessfully to make his mouth ask her not to hurt his son. His eyes flicked back to Graymon; the boy continued sleeping peacefully.
“I can see as long as the boy is nearby, you will be uncontrollable. We will have to rectify that.” She reached out and took the helm off his head, dropping it to the ground with a clank, then brushed hair from his forehead, the tips of her long nails scraping along his skin. “You have to learn to behave yourself, Therrador, or people will start getting hurt. You do not want that, do you?”
The king tried to shake his head.
“No,” he mumbled staring at his son, willing her not to hurt the boy.
“I did not think so.” She grasped his chin and moved his head so his eyes looked into hers. “Do not worry, I am not going to hurt your son. Not this time.”
He sighed air into his constricted chest, suddenly aware of how small the mail vest was on him. As long as Graymon was safe, nothing else mattered. The Archon gestured over her shoulder and the undead guard with whom Therrador had spoken appeared at her side.
“Why did you let this man in?”
“He said you sent him.” A line of drool spilled from the thing’s split lips.
“I said no one enters.”
The Archon raised her hand, holding it as though imploring someone to stop, then snapped her fingers into a fist. The undead creature at her shoulder slumped to the floor with a clank of armor, lifeless once more. A smile crinkled the corners of her red lips.
“Let that be a lesson to the rest of you.” The other guards grunted and shuffled.
Graymon shifted again on the bed, rolling onto his back. Therrador pried his gaze away from the woman’s golden eyes and looked at his son’s profile. His heart ached. He wanted to tell him he was sorry, that he didn’t mean for this to happen. A vision of rotted flesh caked with pus and blood flashed across his son’s face then disappeared.
“Don’t hurt him,” Therrador squeezed through his useless lips.
“I told you I will not hurt him. Is there no trust between us?” She gave his cheek a tap to draw his eyes to her again. “I suppose there is not, but it is due to your actions, not mine. Come morning, your son will be taken to Kanos. It seems the only way I can ensure your cooperation is if he is not here.”
Therrador’s eyes widened. “No.”
“And as for you,” the woman continued, ignoring his protest. “You need a reminder of what will happen if you disobey me.”
She snapped her fingers and whatever held Therrador let go all at once; his straining muscles pitched him forward onto the bed, but strong hands under his arms caught him and held him fast. He pulled against the grasp of the undead soldiers, but three of them held him, their grips hard and strong. The Archon nodded and one of them pushed against his right elbow, extending his arm. A wicked looking pair of shears, silver and gleaming in the flickering firelight, appeared in the woman’s hand. Therrador shook his head.
“What are you doing?”
She moved the shears toward his hand and he curled his fingers into a fist. The thing holding his arm shifted its grip, expertly pinching the proper spot on his hand to make his fingers extend. Cold steel touched either side of his thumb,
“I told you I could not trust you,” she said.
She wore the black cloak she’d worn the first time they met that night on the salt flats, but the cowl was pulled back from her face this time and her blond hair spilled over her shoulders.
“I only want my son back,” Therrador said despite being unable to move his lips. His words ran together like the dead soldier’s had. The Archon’s face remained stern.
“All I want is for you to do as you are told,” she replied with a sweetness in her voice mismatched to her meaning. “It seems neither of us will get what we want if things do not change.”
A lump formed in Therrador’s throat. He tried unsuccessfully to make his mouth ask her not to hurt his son. His eyes flicked back to Graymon; the boy continued sleeping peacefully.
“I can see as long as the boy is nearby, you will be uncontrollable. We will have to rectify that.” She reached out and took the helm off his head, dropping it to the ground with a clank, then brushed hair from his forehead, the tips of her long nails scraping along his skin. “You have to learn to behave yourself, Therrador, or people will start getting hurt. You do not want that, do you?”
The king tried to shake his head.
“No,” he mumbled staring at his son, willing her not to hurt the boy.
“I did not think so.” She grasped his chin and moved his head so his eyes looked into hers. “Do not worry, I am not going to hurt your son. Not this time.”
He sighed air into his constricted chest, suddenly aware of how small the mail vest was on him. As long as Graymon was safe, nothing else mattered. The Archon gestured over her shoulder and the undead guard with whom Therrador had spoken appeared at her side.
“Why did you let this man in?”
“He said you sent him.” A line of drool spilled from the thing’s split lips.
“I said no one enters.”
The Archon raised her hand, holding it as though imploring someone to stop, then snapped her fingers into a fist. The undead creature at her shoulder slumped to the floor with a clank of armor, lifeless once more. A smile crinkled the corners of her red lips.
“Let that be a lesson to the rest of you.” The other guards grunted and shuffled.
Graymon shifted again on the bed, rolling onto his back. Therrador pried his gaze away from the woman’s golden eyes and looked at his son’s profile. His heart ached. He wanted to tell him he was sorry, that he didn’t mean for this to happen. A vision of rotted flesh caked with pus and blood flashed across his son’s face then disappeared.
“Don’t hurt him,” Therrador squeezed through his useless lips.
“I told you I will not hurt him. Is there no trust between us?” She gave his cheek a tap to draw his eyes to her again. “I suppose there is not, but it is due to your actions, not mine. Come morning, your son will be taken to Kanos. It seems the only way I can ensure your cooperation is if he is not here.”
Therrador’s eyes widened. “No.”
“And as for you,” the woman continued, ignoring his protest. “You need a reminder of what will happen if you disobey me.”
She snapped her fingers and whatever held Therrador let go all at once; his straining muscles pitched him forward onto the bed, but strong hands under his arms caught him and held him fast. He pulled against the grasp of the undead soldiers, but three of them held him, their grips hard and strong. The Archon nodded and one of them pushed against his right elbow, extending his arm. A wicked looking pair of shears, silver and gleaming in the flickering firelight, appeared in the woman’s hand. Therrador shook his head.
“What are you doing?”
She moved the shears toward his hand and he curled his fingers into a fist. The thing holding his arm shifted its grip, expertly pinching the proper spot on his hand to make his fingers extend. Cold steel touched either side of his thumb,
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