Martin’s stomach tightened. Cruk hadn’t offered a secondary plan.
They formed a broad ring behind the roan and waited.
“Wait in the village, Owen,” Cruk said. The boy nodded, but he moved a few paces behind the ring and stopped.
The roan pulled at the stake and whinnied, high and afraid. Martin’s horse tossed its head and snorted, catching a scent. He stared at the cave opening that yawned like a giant maw in the mountain face.
Then it came, lumbering on cloven hooves with surprising speed.
“Deas have mercy on us,” Luis breathed. “Look at the size of the thing.”
Martin had expected, hoped, the bezahl was nothing more than an oversized ferral, but this was different. As big as a draft horse with the legs and curled horns of a ram, the black-furred spawn scented the air with a nose like a bull. It swung its heavy head back and forth on its thick neck, scenting. When it caught the smell of the horses, it lifted a powerful muzzle and roared, showing pointed teeth like daggers.
It came for the horse with ponderous strides. Martin gripped his sharpened stake as if it would protect him. “At least it’s slower than the horses.”
Cruk circled around at a gallop, his lance couched beneath his arm. He hit the bezahl from the side, the impact nearly throwing him from his horse. The tip of his stake struck the hide of the bezahl and broke, leaving an impression on the spawn’s hide but no blood. The creature snapped at Cruk’s mount as it raced by, missing by the merest fraction.
It continued its advance. The roan reared, pulling at the stake, screaming. Cruk circled around once more, drawing his sword as Karele angled in. The solis looked pitifully small on his mount and even smaller against the spawn. He leaned forward, the sharpened stake held in one hand, shouting encouragement to his horse.
The lance struck the bezahl in the head, just below the eye. The force of the blow set Karele wobbling in his seat. Nightmarish teeth raked the hindquarters of Karele’s mount, and the horse squealed in pain. Still the spawn bore no mark.
Motion from the corner of his eye startled Martin. Sprinting for the roan across the snow, Owen held a knife in one hand and one of the sharpened stakes in the other.
Martin kicked his mount, his throat closing around the warning he wanted to yell but didn’t for fear of alerting the bezahl. “Move, you stupid nag.”
Cruk’s sword flashed in the fading light, his face ruddy and sweating with desperation. The edge struck the spawn’s horn, ringing, and succeeded in drawing the spawn’s attention. Cruk veered away faster than the bezahl could follow. Owen’s dagger sawed at the rope holding the roan to the stake, the thin cords of muscle in his arms working.
The horse reared, breaking the last few strands, and thundered off. Martin’s mount closed on the spawn’s blind side. If he could draw it away, he could circle around and pick Owen up. They would worry about the bezahl later. He couched the pole in the crook of his arm, leaned forward into the thrust.
Nothing could have prepared him for the impact. How had Karele stayed in the saddle? Martin’s teeth banged together, and his head snapped forward on his neck. Spots swam in his vision as he yanked the reins to the right, away from the creature. After a dozen strides he wheeled, searching.
Screams echoed from the mountains to be swallowed by the snow. “No, Owen. No!”
The bezahl, confused by too many targets, lumbered to a stop, testing the air, its broad wet nose swinging back and forth, snorting mist. Owen crept behind and thrust his lance against the creature’s backside. The spawn bellowed, and a trickle of blood flowed from the vulnerable spot Owen had found.
But it smelled him now.
Owen dropped the lance and ran, his feet churning snow across the meadow. The bezahl lumbered as it turned, and in that moment Owen opened space between himself and the spawn, but the bezahl was faster.
Cruk’s mount charged in from the side, striking the spawn, but the creature ignored the attack in favor of prey it could catch. Luis struck at the head, but the spawn took the blow on its curved horn and continued. Martin angled his horse to circle around, hoping to lift Owen onto his saddle before the spawn caught him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Karele angling in from the opposite side, attempting the same.
They were too far away. The creature was nearly on the boy now. With a backward glance made of terror, Owen gathered his legs beneath him and dove.
He landed on the ice-covered lake, bouncing and sliding across it like a stone skipping across water. Its footing suddenly unstable, the bezahl slipped. Owen came to his feet and shuffled farther across the ice, the bezahl following.
With cracking sounds, like boughs of a tree breaking under too much snow, the spawn broke through, its bellow outraged and confused before the water cut it off.
It never surfaced.
Owen circled the hole, a dusting of snow blowing over it like a shroud, and came off the lake. Cruk hoisted the boy to ride in front of him on his saddle, his face inscrutable.
He motioned over his shoulder. “I’ll get the roan.”
They returned to the village to regroup, all of them silent. Luis and Martin built a roaring fire in the inn while Karele and Cruk tended the horses. As night fell, they made dinner from their provisions with generous tankards drawn from Loren’s main barrel.
Martin allowed Owen half a tankard before switching him to water. “Don’t start down that road, lad. You won’t like where it takes you.”
Owen nodded and cast a glance at the other men around the fire who were still quiet. “Are they mad at me, Pater?”
Martin chuckled. “No, Owen, just tired. What possessed you to attack the bezahl that way?”
Owen shrugged his bony shoulders. “When the lances bounced off and then Captain Cruk’s sword did the same, I knew you wouldn’t be able to kill it. Then I thought about the lake. Jens, the miller, had a bull that wasn’t right in the head. It wandered out onto the ice one winter and broke through. I figured that might work for the bezahl. Plus, I felt sorry for the horse.”
Karele laughed, his eyes moist. “The horse is yours, Owen. Since you saved it, and possibly the rest of us, I think it small recompense.”
The boy looked confused. He reminded Martin so much of Errol it hurt. He tousled the brown hair. “Karele means we owe you a debt for killing the spawn. Would you like to have the horse?”
Owen nodded, his eyes round. “I don’t know how to ride.”
Cruk cleared his throat, but when he spoke his voice was still thick. “I’ll teach you to ride, boy, and anything else you’d like to learn.”
Martin scrubbed a sleeve across his eyes. “It would seem Deas is giving us a second chance to do things right.”
Luis nodded. “I assume that means that you’ve come to accept Owen as our guide?”
“Yes. The lad is brave and quick on his feet.” He turned to Owen. “Do you know a way through the caves the horses can use?”
“I think so, Pater,” Owen said. “But the caves change sometimes. After the mountains rumble, the passages are different. Some are blocked and others are opened.”
Cruk sighed. “Earthquakes. Let’s hope we can get through without getting trapped by one.”
Martin stifled a feeling of dread at the thought of incalculable tons of rock above him. Men of his bulk didn’t belong in the narrow passages and files underground. “How long will it take us to get to the steppes, lad?”
Owen’s features scrunched as he thought. “I don’t know, Pater. I made it in a fortnight, but I don’t think the horses will be able to go so fast.”
They entered the mouth just after dawn the next morning, walking the horses laden with their meager stores and a small mountain of improvised torches. The mouth of the cave bit off the light of the world outside, and darkness closed around them.
Cruk led the way. A few paces in, his horse shied, pulling at the reins, and he covered his nose with his heavy cloak. “Augh! The smell alone would keep the Morgols away.” The torche
s revealed a pile—the skeletal remains of the farm animals from Monsberg.
Martin pointed ahead. “There’s light up there.”
Owen, walking next to Cruk like an additional shadow, nodded. “That’s the moss. It grows where there’s water.”
They sidestepped their way across the fissures and cracks to the sound of trickling water until they came to a slanting rock face that glowed with pale light.
“Amazing,” Luis said. “It’s not moss, though. It’s lichen.”
Karele, however, had moved ahead to examine the floor of the cave. “This may not be as difficult as I had feared.” He moved two dozen paces ahead and turned to face them. “The bezahl must have had a route through the caves from the steppes to Bellia. As big as it was, we should be able to follow its trail.” He raised his torch.
The flickering light illumined crevices and stones that littered the floor of the cave, but even so Martin could see hints and suggestions of unnatural smoothness. Long ago, before earthquakes changed the track, the tunnel would have run unerringly to the east, a road under the mountains. “The malus made this. This part of the range must be more unstable than the mountains south of here.”
They pushed on, led by torchlight and the eerie glow from patches of lichen. At times, enormous blocks of stone, some of them squared on one end, blocked their path, and they slowed to coax the horses up and over them. Before long, Martin lost his sense of time.
They continued until Cruk found a defensible spot to make camp. A ramp of stone lay off to the side, and Cruk backed the horses into a niche in the rock. Owen helped the watchman feed the animals before joining Martin, Luis, and Karele by their torch.
Cruk joined them a few moments later. “If there’s another bezahl in here, we can inch back farther into the crevice. We’d be trapped, but at least we’d be out of reach.”
Martin pulled the damp air of the cave into his lungs. When he let it out, his spirits felt as deflated as his lungs. “The bezahl’s forays into Bellia are troubling. It is as if the spawn sensed Illustra’s barrier was no longer present. The kingdom may find itself under attack at every border as spawn blunder their way in.”
Karele shook his head. “My intuition tells me these are isolated cases. The akhen of Merakh and the Morgol theurgists will call the spawn of the earth to them and then marshal them in the field to fight us.”
Cruk grunted his displeasure. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d rather have them wander into the kingdom. A column of bezahls would make tatters of any army.”
They slept in single file in the niche with the horses, as Cruk stood watch at the mouth of the crevice. Owen stayed with him for a while, and Martin could hear the captain telling the boy stories of the watch over the sound of the horses’ quiet breathing. Owen’s voice punctuated the exciting portions of the watchman’s tales with squeaks of astonishment, followed by Cruk’s laugh.
Martin smiled in the darkness and focused on the pair. Their laughter helped keep the world from closing in on him.
16
Refugees
ADORA SURVEYED THE COUNTRYSIDE as they rode northeast from the village of Banat toward the split of the Sprata River, one branch hugging the western slopes of the mountain range, the other flowing east into Haven. Miles of desolate plains stretched to the west and uncounted leagues of forest to the north. For centuries the church’s excommunicates, those cut off rightly or wrongly, had been forced to make the trek to enter the shadow lands or die in the attempt.
Months prior, on Tek’s ship, Martin had shared with Adora every detail of his trip, which she now communicated to Liam. He wore his silence like an accusation as she spoke, but she refused to acknowledge it. A lifetime of watching her uncle rule the kingdom had given her the training required to make the decision to send men to their death, but she ached inside. One watchman in battle would be equal to five ordinary men. Gibbet might have made the difference in the battle with the Merakhi, but the kingdom couldn’t have afforded to offer him that chance.
Liam nodded. “We’ll continue north so we can skirt as much of the plain as possible. The river will be cold, but not so high as in spring.” He paused. “Is that acceptable, Your Highness?”
Adora caught the subtle irony behind Liam’s question, refused to rise to the bait. “I trust your judgment in this completely, Captain.”
Ten leagues from their destination they entered the tiny village of Waterdown, whose reason for existence seemed to be a certain kind of wood that grew in that part of the world and nowhere else. The inn matched the village’s size, forcing most of her men to sleep in the stable.
The innkeeper, a surly hatchet-faced man named Kol, who’d never ventured beyond the horizon, greeted them with narrowed eyes, his posture closed and unwelcoming. “Where might you be coming from?” His voice barked in the small space of the main room.
Adora kept her expression from growing cold. Some men came out of the womb with persimmons on their tongue, but most had a reason for their actions. “Our origin and destination are our business, innkeeper, but I assure you, we’re honest folk.”
Rokha eyed him, her lips pursed in a sour expression. “He’s as thin as his name,” she muttered. “Never trust a skinny innkeeper; it speaks poorly of the food.”
“Are you kingdom folk?” Kol asked.
Liam and Rula caught her eye. “We are, good innkeeper,” Adora said. “Though I’m curious why you would ask.”
His expression remained as if he didn’t believe her. “Seen too many people skirting the village, coming from the east, flitting through the trees like specters.”
“Have you spoken to any of them?” Rula asked.
Kol huffed. “Didn’t you listen? They’re avoiding the village like we’re riddled with plague. But you can see them at dusk circling north or south, moving west by twos or threes.” His expression darkened to match the scruff of his beard. “We get the occasional runaway from the shadow lands here, but there’s never been anything like this.”
“When did you first notice them?” Adora asked. She kept her face and voice smooth, but inside her stomach fluttered like a restless bird. Something had gone wrong in Haven.
Kol shrugged as if the question held no importance. “Three, maybe four days ago. We sent word to the garrison at Sligo, but that’s fifty leagues away. Even if they send troops, they won’t get here for another week.”
He spat on the rough boards that made up the floor. “By then we’ll be drowning in fugitives.” Kol stopped to eye the men with Adora. “If you’re kingdom soldiers, it’s your responsibility to help us. The kingdom is supposed to help its people.”
Adora turned away from his complaint. She’d met his kind before. No amount of protection or reassurance would suffice. His perpetual frown of disapproval had worn permanent ruts of condemnation in his face. Instead, she turned to Liam, seeking to rebuild his trust. “How long do we have until dusk?”
He nodded as if he understood her plan and approved. “An hour, perhaps a little less.”
“I think it would be in our best interests to seek out some of these people and discover what compels them into the kingdom.” She submitted the idea with a glance to Liam and Rula. “Do you agree?”
They nodded, and their company left the inn and split in two before meeting east of town at sunset. Liam went north with three lieutenants, while Adora went south with the count and Rokha.
Even before they entered the woods Adora could see shadows of men, women, and children moving toward the setting sun, some leading horses, others bearing burdens.
Rokha gave a low growl. “Refugees. Fleeing the shadow lands. Grim tidings.”
Adora’s breath stopped somewhere between her lungs and her throat. “Perhaps not,” she whispered. “Let us see what they have to say.”
Rokha kept pace with her. “Don’t fool yourself, Your Highness. War has already come to them. Somehow, the Merakhi have learned of our hope for alliance and they’ve adjusted. Our efforts to
make them split their forces have failed. They’ll push everything west.” She pointed to three figures made dim by the woods and failing light, a man on foot accompanied by a woman on a mule. “Them?”
Rula nodded. “A reasonable suggestion, but don’t draw weapons. Let’s not give the man any reason to believe we’re a threat to his wife.”
They threaded their way through the woods, angling to intercept. When the refugees stepped into a clearing, they were there waiting. But on seeing them the man mounted the mule behind the woman and swatted its hindquarters with his sword. The animal loped away, the man turning to watch them until the trees blocked their view.
Rokha shook her head. “They fear for their lives.”
“As well they should,” Rula said. “Have you never seen the ceremony for excommunication? The guilty are banished to the shadow lands with whatever they can carry on horseback. To return is to die.” He gave Rokha a level stare. “I know of only one excommunicate who remained to live in the kingdom.”
“And you knew where he was all along,” Rokha said.
“Your grandfather and I came to regret Naaman’s banishment.” He sighed. “But there’s no undoing the past. When your father killed his brother, your grandfather lost both of his sons. We allowed Naaman to roam the kingdom as a struggling merchant—” he paused—“at first for the sake of the infant he carried, then for the girl, and later for the woman.”
Rokha nudged her mount over and enfolded her uncle in her hug. Adora met Rula’s gaze over her shoulder and smiled. It took a long time for Rokha to let go.
They tried twice more to engage solitary travelers into speaking, but without success. It appeared the fear of acknowledging their identities was at least as great as the dread of what drove them. Short of holding them at sword point—an idea that Adora considered and then discarded—there would be no conversation. They moved out of the woods and placed themselves on the road, hardly more than a track now, east of the village and waited for Liam and his party.
A Draw of Kings Page 17