A Draw of Kings

by Patrick W. Carr

  The sky faded from rose to purple before they arrived, leading a man on horseback. The man looked vaguely familiar, but the scorn twisting his face confounded Adora’s memory and she failed to retrieve his name. Far from being frightened of the watchmen, he appeared almost eager to draw swords with them. Adora dismissed him as a fool. Even an idiot could feel the threat emanating from Liam, who rode at the man’s left. At best the watch captain resembled a lion at rest.

  When they came within a dozen paces, the man’s eyes widened, and he jerked in the saddle, appearing to resist the impulse to bow.

  Adora pointed to him as she addressed Liam. “He knows who I am. I don’t know what words have passed between the two of you, but if there is any potential threat in him, be aware.”

  Liam nodded but didn’t draw his sword.

  She looked on the stranger again. The man’s dour expression had yet to put lines on his face, but he wore it as if he would never wear another. Adora tried to imagine him as he might have been.

  Memory returned the name, and she inclined her head. “Lord Waterson.”

  The twist lessened a fraction before becoming even more pronounced. “That title is no longer mine. It was stripped from me by Arwitten’s abbot in Einland. I am Marcus now.”

  “Your pardon, Marcus. I would not have you escorted thus if the matter were not urgent,” Adora said.

  Liam raised his hand. “You misunderstand, Your Highness. It was he who sought us out, naming us for what we are.”

  Waterson exhaled through his nose. “Watchmen are impossible to miss. They always look ready to kill something.”

  Liam ignored the interruption. “He requested leave to speak to the head of our party. Not knowing his history or intention, I thought it best for us to accompany him thus.”

  She nodded. “What would you say, Marcus?”

  His sneer, self-mocking now, came back in full force. “I would say that the shadow lands are doomed without kingdom help, Your Highness.”

  The mountains wavered in the distance, as if they’d become nothing more than fabric in the breeze. She clutched the pommel of her saddle, forcing herself to stay calm. “Please explain.”

  “Very well. The council informed the guard of the bargain struck with the priest, Martin Arwitten. We were told to watch the gap for your coming. On the word of that priest”—he spat the word—“we mobilized the shadow lands for war. Despite what you may think, Highness, most of the people of Haven were born there. They’ve never known anything but the peace that comes from Illustra’s ignorance.

  “Three weeks ago the canis came pouring through the cut, overwhelming my squad.”

  Adora shook her head in denial. “How can that be? Martin told me of your vigilance.”

  Waterson’s look of disdain deepened. “Did he happen to mention that the spawn avoid the sunlight?” At Adora’s nod, Waterson barked a bitter laugh. “Not anymore. They came for us at dawn, when we’d already pulled the guard. They cut through Haven like a sword. The few of us who survived fled north with packs of the spawn in pursuit, alerting the villagers, driving them from their homes.”

  “That would explain the refugees,” Rula said, “and why they feared to speak to us. They still think they’re under a death sentence.”

  Waterson shook his head in disgust. “They are, kingdom man. We all are. Excommunicated or not, we’ve come to Illustra from the shadow lands.” He paused to give a meaningful glance to the watchmen around him. “Any one of these could draw their sword and cut me down right now. Ha. The church might even give you a reward for doing it.” He unstopped a waterskin and raised it in a mocking toast. “Thus is the light of the world preserved.”

  Adora flinched at the bitter sarcasm in the excommunicate’s words. “You’re wrong, Lord Waterson. No man here will draw on you.” She gestured east toward the barren plain. “Your council told you of our agreement, and you meet the only surviving relative of the king, yet you doubt our intention. Why else would I be here in this desolation except to cement the alliance between Illustra and Haven?” She almost laughed at his shock and disbelief.

  “You lie. It’s just more kingdom trickery.”

  Her voice crackled with ice. “You forget yourself, Waterson, and I have no need to lie to one such as you. As you’ve said, if I wish it, your life ends at a moment, but I do not lie. Merakh prepares its invasion, and the kingdom needs allies. In exchange for your help we have agreed to recognize Haven as a sovereign nation. Do you understand, Waterson? Your entire country will be free.”

  He gaped at her. “They can’t get to you. Our country narrows into a deep defile at the north. The horde of spawn that chased us has cut the access. You’ll have to go south across the length of the plain and meet them by ship. If they’re coming to you, they’ll be on the coast.”

  Deas have mercy. Waterson didn’t know what he’d said. He couldn’t. There would be no meeting with Merakhi longships filling the strait. If the shadowlanders tried to board ships to flank the spawn, they would be obliterated by Merakhi longboats.

  “There is a way.” Liam’s voice sounded distant despite his proximity. “The ferrals will not expect an attack from their rear. If we can diminish their numbers, they will not be able to hold the defile closed.”

  Waterson looked at their company in disbelief. “For somebody as big as you are, you have remarkably few brains. How many men do you have here?”

  Rula shrugged. “About two hundred.”

  Waterson shook his head. “It can’t be done. You’ve never been to Haven. You don’t even know the lay of the land.”

  Adora pointed a finger at Waterson’s chest. “I will not surrender an entire country to be slaughtered. Is there anyone in the shadow lands who means anything to you, Waterson?”

  At his nod she pressed on. “They will die without our help. Merakhi longships fill the strait. Do you think this sudden attack by the dogs is a coincidence? The malus have discovered our plans for alliance and they mean to destroy the people of the shadow lands. They’re caught between the spawn and their army.” She eased back in her saddle and forced a confident smile onto her face. “We have two hundred of the watch and a guide with intimate knowledge of the shadow lands to show us the way.”

  Waterson’s face went flat. “No.”

  “I’m not accustomed to taking no for an answer, my lord.”

  “I’m not your lord. I’m not anyone’s lord. I’m Marcus, and I’m my own man. And right now I’d rather have one of your watchmen cut me down than to be dragged back to fight a horde of spawn.” He twitched his reins. His horse, penned in still, shied to the left.

  “Not even for the return of your lands and your title . . . my lord?” Adora asked.

  Waterson’s head snapped up, eyes wide as a succession of emotions chased each other across his face: surprise, hope, anger. He muttered a string of curses that barely reached her ears. Adora thought she heard her name more than once.

  “You don’t have that power,” he said finally.

  She gave a derisive laugh. “It’s wartime, my lord.” She took pains to emphasize his title. He knew he was being manipulated; his face showed it. “The council of nobles has given me all the power I need.”

  His fists clenched while Adora held her breath. Then his mouth pulled to one side as he spoke to Liam and Rula. “I hope at least one of you is a tactician. I can guide you through the pass to the northern end of the defile, but I can’t tell you how to win against those kinds of numbers.”

  He turned back to Adora. “That was as ruthless a piece of manipulation as I’ve ever seen, Your Highness. Your uncle would be proud.”

  The words cut, but Adora smiled as if she’d been paid a rare compliment.

  17

  Under the Earth

  THEY JOURNEYED under the Sprata Mountains for what they estimated to be two weeks. And then, finally, Martin saw a splinter of light that didn’t come from torches or lichen. Daylight. The urge to rush to it after so long underground ov
erwhelmed him, and a wordless cry of relief burst from his throat. He dragged his horse forward, crowding the front of the group where Cruk and Owen picked their way toward the exit.

  But as Martin approached the crack of light, it didn’t grow any larger. When he bumped into Cruk’s unmoving figure, he saw why—the exit was blocked. A plinth of stone two spans across filled the space, leaving a gap hardly bigger than his leg.

  “Is this the way out, Owen?” Cruk asked.

  The boy’s head bobbed on the thin stalk of his neck. “But this stone wasn’t here before.”

  Luis nodded, his bald head catching the light from Cruk’s torch. “That would explain why the bezahl began frequenting the Bellian side of the mountains—the steppes were denied to it.”

  Martin eyed the wan winter light coming through that crack with longing, tried to ignore the urge to pry his way through that crevice by strength. “Owen, is there another way out?”

  The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. There might be.”

  The cave ended in a broad cavern, the ceiling overhead lost in darkness the light failed to reach. Cruk and Owen took the torch and left to search for another route. Martin watched the light from outside wane from light gray to charcoal to black. For the first time since they’d entered the cavern he had a sense of the time of day.

  Hours passed as they waited with the horses for Cruk and Owen to return. Martin knelt to say vespers before digging into their provisions. In the recesses of his mind and heart there was nothing but silence. “What does Aurae tell you?” he asked Karele.

  The master of horses shrugged. The darkness and confinement of the caves didn’t appear to bother him. Peace settled over the solis regardless of circumstances, and Martin envied him. He’d felt Aurae in the shadow lands and again on the ship at Rodran’s death, but aside from that, it was almost as if he’d imagined its presence.

  “I think if Aurae speaks to me,” Karele said, “you will hear him as well. You’ve been chosen as solis to bring the truth of Aurae to the Judica.”

  Martin didn’t share his optimism. The darkness assumed an almost physical presence while they waited for Cruk and Owen to return. The last trickles of water lay too far behind them to offer light or sound to alleviate the deprivation of his senses. Only the occasional sigh from Luis or Karele reminded him he was not alone.

  Finally the bobbing approach of orange-yellow light and the sound of steps signaled Cruk’s and Owen’s approach. Defeat wreathed the watchman’s face in lurid flickers. “There’s no way out.” He cast a quick glance at Owen as he swallowed a curse. “If I had thought further ahead, I would have brought more rope. We could have used the horses to try and shift the stone.”

  Martin took the torch from Cruk and examined the exit. The stone hadn’t fallen there as the result of a cave-in. “The Morgols put the stone here to keep the bezahl from attacking their herds.”

  Karele nodded. “My father would go to even greater lengths to protect his horses.”

  Martin clambered onto the top of the barrier. Perhaps they could enlarge the mouth enough to get around the stone. That would still leave the problem of getting the horses out, but they could deal with that later. He checked the roof of the cave and discovered it to be as solid as the floor.

  He returned to the circle, gave Cruk the torch. “We have to go back.”

  Cruk grunted. “It will be a miserable trip. We’ve used up well over half the stores and torches.”

  Martin’s heart protested. “We’ll be trapped in this infernal darkness?”

  The watchman shook his head. “There’s no danger of that. Owen and I will find the way out, but the trip back will take longer and we’ll all be lighter at the end of it.” He cast a meaningful glance at Owen, who sat dozing by his side.

  Martin understood. The boy, thin as he was, couldn’t afford to go long without food. They would have to limit themselves to severe rations so Owen could eat, but their central problem remained: They still needed to reach the steppes and find Ablajin.

  Karele met his glance with a shake of his head, his sharp features and dark eyes somber in the dim light. “Aurae told me to seek out Ablajin, but didn’t specify the path. I assumed this was the route to take. I’m sorry.”

  The oppressive darkness tempted Martin toward blame. He swallowed his comment to Karele with an effort. Recriminations would not serve them. “If we have to return, let’s be about it. Perhaps the route back will go more quickly.”

  With a nod toward the boy sleeping on his arm, Cruk demurred. “Morning will be soon enough. The boy and the horses could do with a night’s rest.”

  Martin stifled his protest and rolled himself into his cloak.

  Frantic shakes startled him awake the next morning, and he bolted upright, panting in the dark. The passage outside showed an almost imperceptible lightening of the sky. Full daylight was still some time away. Cruk gripped his shoulders with a grip that threatened to turn his flesh to jelly.

  “Owen’s gone.”

  Martin started to speak, to offer reassurance, but Cruk gave one savage shake of his head before the words left his mouth.

  “It’s been over an hour. He’s not just somewhere relieving himself.” In the torchlight, worry and anger chased each other across Cruk’s plain, lumpy face, and his short beard quivered each time he took his lower lip between his teeth.

  Martin searched for some encouragement. “Perhaps he woke early and decided to search for another way out. He may have already found the passage we need.”

  Cruk snorted, impatience lining the sudden tension through the watchman’s neck and shoulders. “That’s just it, Pater. He has.” He took Martin over to the stone that kept them captive. Then he opened the stubby fingers of one huge fist to reveal a scrap of the gray cloak Owen wore. “I found this by the crevice, caught on a jagged piece of rock.” His hand closed over the scrap as if it were precious. “Owen is on the steppes.”

  Martin turned and slid down the face of the stone until he sat on the impossibly smooth floor of their cave. “How long can we wait before we run the risk of not making it back?”

  Cruk sank down on his haunches. “Not long. It isn’t just the cave. We’ll have to find food once we get back to Bellia, and there isn’t any in Monsberg.”

  The watchman hadn’t answered him, which meant he probably didn’t want to. “How long, Cruk, at the uttermost?”

  “Water’s not a problem, but a week will see the end of the food.” Cruk lifted his head to meet Martin’s gaze. “It will be a hungry trip back.”

  The image of Owen’s face and Errol’s, so unlike, merged in Martin’s mind. “We’ll wait for a week.”

  Three days and nights dragged by as they lay entombed in the rock, waiting for Owen’s return. They measured the passage of time by the sliver of light that came through the space around the stone.

  On the morning of the fourth day, Martin awoke to a thin reed of noise from beyond the stone. The whinny of horses brought an answering call from their listless mounts, followed by the grunting of men.

  Nearly an hour later, the stone moved, scratching and scraping along the floor of the cave. Cruk drew his sword, but Karele shook his head in denial. “If they have enough men and animals to move the stone, they have too many to fight.”

  A passage a pace wide opened to the left, and a voice rasped a command in the Morgol language. When Karele answered back in the same tongue, the tone softened, became questioning.

  Karele turned to Martin, not smiling but looking relieved. “We are ordered to come forth. They are of Ablajin’s clan, but we must tread carefully until I can speak with my father. Show no weapon or fear, and do not let yourselves be provoked.”

  And with that, Martin followed the master of horses out into the light.

  The snatch of a childhood prayer on his lips, he squinted out over the Morgol steppes. Though the sunlight was filtered by cloud cover, he could scarcely keep his eyes open. The wind, dry and bitter with cold, pulled the prayer f
rom his lungs, dispersed it across the tough yellow grass and stone that constituted the landscape.

  He shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly about him, a move he saw Cruk and Luis copy. Laughter met this, harsh amusement from short, stocky men with a yellow tint to their skin and dark, wispy facial hair; men who looked like they’d sprung from the implacable countryside.

  Karele stepped forward, as short as the Morgols, but without the look of stone in his face or eyes. He bowed, his greeting in the Morgol tongue slipping from him as easily as if he’d never spoken another.

  The laughter stopped, and the response came back, questioning and cautious. Karele threw an arm back toward Cruk, beckoning. The captain came forward with the horses, surrendering the reins. He took the first one, a deep-chested black stallion, and brought it into the midst of their enemy, no trace of fear in his voice or manner. Warriors who held drawn short bows parted for him as though he had the power to command, but they did not lower their weapons.

  Karele stood by the horse, not holding the bridle, merely resting his hand on the stallion’s shoulder. He rubbed the horse’s nose with affectionate strokes, then shifted to the front, still speaking, his hand tracing the deep muscled chest. The Morgol guards lowered their bows as he slid his hands down the legs. At some signal Martin couldn’t see, the horse shifted, turning to the side. Karele continued his commentary, his tone clearly extolling the horse’s virtues.

  Martin couldn’t understand his speech, yet his blood responded to Karele’s cadence, and images of speed filled him, stoking a desire to ride. The Morgols nodded in agreement. Then the healer handed the reins back to Cruk, exchanged the stallion for a strong-withered mare. Martin turned his attention from Karele to the Morgol warriors surrounding them. Many of them had stowed their short bows to holders on their backs. They no longer looked upon Karele as an intruder or enemy.

  Karele presented the remaining horses, stroking the legs, running his hands along the strong backs, tracing the powerful hindquarters. As he finished with the last, one of the guards stumped forward on bandy legs to run his hand up the back of the animal in front of Karele, raising the horse’s coat, then plucking at it, his movements and voice disdainful.