Gibbet swallowed and his eyes became haunted. “I rode from the battle with the commander’s dying shout in my ears. A squad of Merakhi horsemen pursued me. My mount showed signs of coming up lame, putting my ability to make the safety of the Gyarlo garrison in doubt, so I staked the horse when night fell and walked back to their camp.”
His face became grim and eager. “Their lookout was not prepared for me to circle around and come at him from the west. No alarm was raised, and I killed the rest of the squad as they slept. I notified the next garrison of the incursion and caught up to you as quickly as I could.”
His eyes focused, and he looked at Liam with accusation in them. “I should have stayed. One man could have meant the difference between victory and defeat.”
The muscles in Liam’s jaw clenched at the unspoken rebuke.
“Battles may be won through heroics, lad,” Rula said, “but wars are won through wisdom.”
Gibbet squeezed his eyes shut. “They were wiped out to a man because I fled.” He glared at his superior. “Would you have left, Captain?”
A muscle in Liam’s neck twitched, but he did not turn to Adora as she expected. He merely sat, withstanding Gibbet’s accusation.
Adora nodded to Rokha, who poured a vial of blue liquid into a tankard of ale and placed it in Gibbet’s hands.
15
Ice
WIND HOWLED THROUGH the narrow strait sailors called the Soeden Cut, whipping the furled canvas on the ship’s useless arms. Sleet and ice lashed the upper deck in horizontal slashes that flayed the skin of any crewman or passenger foolish enough to set foot out in the open. Their ship lay at anchor ten leagues east of Steadham for the fifth consecutive day, trapped in the strait between Einland and Soeden, waiting for the storm to pass.
Martin stalked the quarters he shared with Luis, Karele, and Cruk in the stern. “How much longer can this last?” He didn’t expect an answer.
“Probably no more than a week,” Cruk answered. At a look from Martin, the watchman shrugged. “I didn’t spend my whole life in Erinon. I was raised in Dannick, not too far from the coast.”
Martin nodded. He’d forgotten.
“It would seem the weather has a double edge,” Luis said. “The harsh winter that delays the Morgol advance breeds the same storm that halts our progress.”
Karele shook his head. “The extra snow in the passes will take longer than a couple weeks to melt. This is to our advantage.”
Martin refused to be encouraged. “If it ever stops.”
Three days later the wind dropped from a howl to a moan, and Captain Piet Vitus unfurled enough sail to resume their journey toward the Bellian inlet, tacking back and forth in the strait.
Martin relieved his frustration at the protracted delay by accompanying Karele into the hold where the little man tended the horses. He rubbed the nose of a chestnut stallion, the scent of Karele’s liniment heavy in the air. “How will we get them through the caves?”
The master of horses shrugged. “I don’t know. We will have to trust Deas.”
Martin stared, his incredulity warring with his liturgical training. “That’s it?”
Karele’s mouth twitched to one side. “That’s all there’s ever been, and for a solis, that’s all there ever is. When Aurae told me to go back to the steppes, he didn’t give me instructions. Bringing a gift of horses was my idea. We may not be able to get them there alive.” He patted the deep-chested chestnut on the shoulder. “That would be unfortunate. These stallions would make fine breeding stock for my father.”
Two weeks later they moved into the Bellian inlet, and their progress slowed further while Captain Vitus repeatedly sounded the water for depth. Martin stood next to Cruk as he gazed over the port rail with a clouded expression. The normally taciturn captain pointed to a broad river just visible to the north. “We sailed that way, up the Perik until we couldn’t go any farther, every ship the kingdom could put on the water filled to overflowing with men.” He sighed. “Strange how hot blood feels when it hits your skin.” He turned to face Martin, his plain face slack. “We can’t win.”
The temptation to despair dragged at Martin like an anchor scraping the bottom of the sea. “If we could win on our own, it is doubtful we would need Liam’s or Errol’s death to save Illustra.”
Cruk shook his head. “I can’t imagine a foe stupid enough to be bound by single combat, Pater. That’s for the tales.”
Martin nodded. “Yet if the histories are to be believed, that’s how Magis secured the barrier.”
Cruk’s shoulders bunched under his cloak as he gnawed his lower lip. “And you think the malus will be stupid enough to do it again?”
The answer opened a path to hopelessness, but he refused to follow it. “It may be this war will be the end of Illustra, but my heart tells me that Deas will not allow his creation to succumb completely to the malus. There may be lands beyond the oceans that are untouched by evil, and our resistance may yield an outcome beyond what we can witness. Deas has not told us the outcome of our struggle, only that it is ours to fight.”
Cruk turned from his doleful regard, but his face failed to register hope.
For seven days they crept up the inlet until ice blocked their way. They reversed course and plowed through the slate-gray water until they came to the last set of docks they had passed. They unloaded without conversation, the weather and their mood too grim for farewells. Heading east, they rode their prize horses into Hest, a fishing town that squatted on the inlet with buildings that matched the color of the water. What wasn’t gray was snow or smoke.
“We’ll need provisions,” Cruk said. He led them through a market that seemed well attended, given the weather.
Martin pulled a gold pouch from beneath his cloak and handed it over.
Cruk pointed south. “There used to be a decent inn half a mile that way—the Bent Anchor. I’ll meet you there.” He turned away. Perhaps no one but Martin noticed the dullness in the captain’s eyes.
Martin led Luis and Karele south through the press of buyers and sellers. By the time they reached the inn, the crowd had thinned, but not as much as he’d expected. The innkeeper would have possessed the sharp, dark features typical of Bellia if the temptations of his larder had not been more than he could resist.
He didn’t bother to meet Martin’s gaze. “Rooms? We haven’t had any rooms since Rodran died. Every minor noble east and north of here claims them on their way through.” He shook his head in disgust. “I book one in, and before I can turn around someone of higher rank has kicked them out of their lodgings.”
Martin pulled his symbol of office and his letter from the archbenefice and placed them on the bar in front of the innkeeper. The man’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know where a benefice ranks, Your Excellency. You’ll have to sort that out with the nobles.”
“No need,” Martin said. “Just give us any room that will accommodate four. We’ll be leaving in the morning.”
The innkeeper sighed as if Martin’s gesture hadn’t helped. “Aye, they all leave in the morning, trying to get as far from the steppes as possible. I’ll be going west myself as soon as the passes start to clear.”
“That’s cutting it pretty fine.”
The innkeeper nodded. “I’ll need every gold crown I can get. I saw what happened during the Steppes War. I don’t intend to starve when the price of food starts reaching for the sky.”
They moved out from Hest the next morning with sixty leagues remaining between them and the Sprata Mountain range that kept Illustra in relative safety. They journeyed east through clogged roads and ascended the foothills through progressively emptier towns. Supplies became scarce, but Martin’s letter of authority and the unspoken threat of Cruk’s sword ensured them plenty of provisions. A week out of Hest they stopped at a ridge overlooking a small village of steep-roofed cabins tucked into the nooks and crannies of the mountains.
“Change comes slowly here, it seems,” Karele said.
Cruk pointed to the buildings built into the hillsides. “It’s deserted. There’s no smoke from the chimneys. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Why not?” Martin asked. “These people are closer to the steppes than any of the others.”
Cruk grunted. “That’s what protects them, Pater. The Morgols would have to backtrack a long way to get to a little place like Monsberg. If you were looking for plunder, would you bother searching out a little village like this? These people should have realized they were safest right here.” He shrugged. “Even if most of them didn’t, you always have a few holdouts, the stubborn or the old, who refuse to leave their homes.” His fingers brushed his sword. “No one’s here.”
They rode in, stopping at each house along the way to allow Cruk an opportunity to search it. They were all the same: emptied of personal belongings, food, and livestock, and devoid of life. An eerie sense of something out of place gnawed at Martin, growing with each abandoned cabin they passed.
The snow swallowed the sounds of their passage, and his unease grew. In the middle of Monsberg, a small post pointed up a narrow lane to a cabin a bit larger than the rest, the post identifying it as the Frozen Arrow, the village inn. Martin dismounted in the deserted stable yard, but besides the fact that the inn was deserted, nothing seemed out of place. “Tidy.”
Cruk nodded approval. “Bellians are a very orderly people.”
A creak, sharp in the still air, yanked their attention to a door swaying slightly ajar.
Cruk drew his sword. “There’s no wind.” Martin did the same, feeling ridiculous, and Karele nocked an arrow to the short bow he’d procured in Erinon.
They stepped onto the porch to the sound of footsteps retreating along the floor inside the inn. Cruk pushed the door open with the point of his sword, crouched and ready to strike, but the room beyond appeared empty. They passed through the kitchen, where pots, pans, jars, spices, and anything else small enough to cart away had been removed. The cook fires had long since burned themselves out, leaving nothing in the arched fireplaces but cold, dead ash.
A clatter beneath them pulled Martin from his inspection. “Someone’s in the cellar.”
It took them a moment to find the stairs and another to find a torch. At the bottom of the roughhewn steps, a thin, shadowy figure darted behind a giant ale cask. Cruk snorted as he followed. He emerged a moment later gripping a skinny, underfed boy who shivered in fear or cold.
“I have the strangest feeling I’ve done this before,” Cruk said.
For the first time in days, Martin saw him smile. The boy yelped and struggled to free his arm, but Cruk didn’t appear to notice his efforts.
Martin laughed. The boy looked nothing like Errol, aside from being dark-haired and skinny, but their circumstances unleashed a cloud of memories. “Go easy, Cruk. There’s no telling what struggles this one’s had, and I’ve underestimated such before.”
Cruk’s eyes softened. He pulled the boy around to face him. “Aye. Boy, no one wants to hurt you, but we need information. If I let you go, will you stay put?”
The boy nodded, his mouth gaping and his brown eyes large and round.
Martin gestured up the stairs. “I’m Pater Martin. Why don’t we go up where we can have light and fire? What’s your name, boy?”
“Owen.”
As they started up the stairs he asked, “Is there any food left in Monsberg, lad?”
He shook his head. “Not really, Pater. They cleaned the village out when they left. I found some old carrots and beets at the bottom of Jesper’s vegetable bin and some bread at the baker’s that wasn’t too moldy.”
Cruk grunted. “You found the ale readily enough, boy. I can smell it on you.”
The boy shrugged. “Loren’s main cask was too big to haul. He’ll never miss it.”
Upstairs they set a fire. Once the boy determined the captain meant him no harm, he stuck by Cruk so closely the watchman had a difficult time coaxing flame from the damp wood.
“Owen,” Martin called. “Let’s give Captain Cruk some room to work. Have a seat. I’d like to talk to you.” He patted the chair next to him.
The boy inched away from Cruk and squirmed into the chair, his bony knees drawn up to his chin, looking ready to bolt at the first loud noise.
“Where is everybody?” Luis asked.
The boy reached out and rubbed Luis’s dark olive skin, his eyes wide. “They left.”
Martin stifled a sigh. “Why didn’t you go with them?”
“I got into Loren’s ale and fell asleep. When I woke up the next day, they were all gone.”
Cruk struck steel and flint, and sparks jumped into the tinder. “Every village has one.” He growled a curse. “What’s wrong with people?”
Owen hunched his shoulders, pushed farther back into the chair. “Is he mad?”
Martin squeezed a bony shoulder. “Yes, Owen, but not at you. Did the villagers leave because of the Morgols?”
“No, Pater. It was the bezahl.”
“What’s that?”
Cruk snorted. “A mountain spirit, Pater. It’s a myth.”
Owen nodded. “That’s what Heinid said, but then it came out of the cave and ate all her goats in one night. The only thing it left was the hooves.”
Karele jerked. Martin pulled his cloak closer despite the healthy blaze coming from the fireplace. “What happened next, Owen?”
The boy leaned forward. “Everyone started arguing about what killed the goats—some people accused other people, some said it was Morgols looking for meat. They didn’t believe me at first when I said it was the bezahl.”
Martin started. “How did you know?”
“I saw it come out of the cave beneath mine, Pater. It kept coming, not every day, but more often. Bold, Jesper called it.”
“When did it first come out of the cave?” Luis asked.
Owen shrugged. “Maybe three moons ago.”
“Right after Rodran died,” Cruk said.
“Don’t you live in the village?” Martin asked.
Owen shook his head, then fixed his eye on the floor beneath his feet. “They don’t like having me around, so I stay in my cave most of the time.” He looked at Martin and the rest of them, then rolled his shoulders. “It’s not so bad, and the bezahl can’t get to me.”
Cruk fingered his sword. “How well do you know these caves, lad?”
Martin jerked his head in denial. “No, Captain, we will not.”
Cruk looked his way, his face etched with implacable necessity. “We need a guide, Pater.”
Martin pointed. “We have Karele.”
Karele cleared his throat. “Owen, the four of us have to do something very important, something that will help a lot of people, but it means we have to go all the way through the caves to the other side.”
Owen nodded. “You mean to the steppes. I can show you.”
“Enough.” Martin slapped his palm on his chair. “I forbid it. We will give the boy provisions and money to go west to the next village.”
“And then what, Pater?” Cruk asked. “As soon as some cutpurse or swindler sees he has gold, the boy will end up in the gutter with his throat cut.”
Owen gulped, his throat apple bobbing and his eyes wide.
“I think Aurae has placed him with us,” Karele said.
Martin cut the air with his hand. “I don’t believe you.”
Karele nodded as if acknowledging his doubt. “Shall we have the secondus cast for it?”
“Boy,” Cruk said, “how many different bezahls have you seen?”
Owen’s face scrunched as he thought. “Just one, I think. It has a white patch on the shoulder.”
Cruk nodded. “Simple enough. We use one of the horses as bait and kill the spawn when it comes for it.”
“Aren’t you the one that says no fight is simple?” Martin asked.
He nodded. “Yes, but I’d rather fight that thing on open ground in daylight than in the caves.”
Th
e boy shook his head. “But it won’t come out until dusk, Pater. It doesn’t like the light so much.”
Cruk squeezed his eyes shut. “Nothing’s ever easy.” With a sigh he left the fire. “We might as well make it tonight. C’mon, boy. I need you to show me this cave. If we’re going to lay a trap, we’ll want to make it easy for the bezahl to take the bait.”
Owen led them to a high meadow bordered by a frozen lake that butted up against the shadowed crags of the mountain range. A pair of openings showed in the sheer face, the lower one two paces across and twice as high and the upper one little more than a hole.
“You live there?” Martin asked.
Owen nodded. “It’s not so bad. It opens up farther in, and it’s warm enough out of the wind.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “I only use it to sleep in when Loren gets mad. He’s been mad a lot lately.”
Cruk turned to Karele, his face subdued. “You know the horses better than I do. Which one are you willing to lose?”
The solis’s face grew somber, but he gave a nod, chose the slender roan, and brought it to Cruk.
The watchman for once didn’t try to bait him. “If I can keep the bezahl from taking the horse, I will.”
Karele nodded. “On the steppes, if a man gets caught by a winter storm unaware, he will not hesitate to kill his animal so that he will have heat and food to survive the night. To succeed, we must live. Don’t take any undue risks, Captain.”
Cruk staked the horse where the meadow sloped down to the lake. “We’ll want to make the thing fight uphill if we can.” He looked at the gray sky overhead. In the last hour it had darkened from steel to slate. “I need to hurry.”
He mounted and made for the nearest stand of fir trees a few hundred paces away. After long moments punctuated by the sound of chopping, he returned with a dozen branches, trimmed and sharpened to a point. Cruk placed one in Martin’s hands. “I’ve never fought a myth before, but I’ll try to keep it occupied so the rest of you can ride up and skewer it.” He gave one each to Luis and Karele. “Don’t close with it, and don’t get fancy. Stick it, get another lance, and stick it again.”
A Draw of Kings Page 16