His voice, deep and rich like the volcanic soil that nourished the jungle, gave his words an unfamiliar lilt that Errol struggled to follow.
“You understood us the whole time?”
“You may call me Adayo.” The holy man nodded with a smile. “I speak Merakhi also. You run well for a pale one. Your companions are not so well-suited for the journey as you. What is your name?”
Errol looked in Adayo’s face as his lips formed his answer, but he clamped his jaws shut against his response. An avid desire lurked behind the intense brown of the holy man’s eyes. If they meant to take them to Hadari, why were they bound? What need required running men through the jungle until they dropped from exhaustion? Months of moving by horseback had sapped his ability to run easily, but his condition still surpassed the rest of the party. Of the three, only Merodach remained upright. Tek and Rale sat on the hard-packed earth, heads down and breathing hard.
The holy man peered at him, waiting.
Errol stared back, considering. Every people expressed the talent differently. Illustra had readers who cast lots, while the nomads produced theurgists and the Merakhi had akhen, ghostwalkers. How did the talent manifest itself in Ongol? What would Adayo do with his name?
“Tell me, Adayo, if you’re taking us to Hadari, why are we bound?”
The man’s smile never wavered, but tension entered it, and his eyes flashed with disappointment. “Hadari’s name is known to the Merakhi, and reports have come to us of northerners aligned with the sand people. You may harbor the burning ones, though you show it not.”
Errol shook his head. “The burning ones?”
Adayo nodded. “There are those among the Merakhi who allow spirits to inhabit them.” He shook his head and sniffed. “They carry the smell of fire, like the burning mountains.”
“Malus.” Errol traced a path with his hand from the top of his head to his stomach. “Is this why you want to know my name?”
The holy man nodded and smiled, but it held only resolve.
Errol bowed. “Please forgive my hesitation. I do not know what is possible for you. I would prefer not to surrender my name until I know it’s safe to do so.”
Adayo nodded. “You are wise, pale one, but until I am sure of you, you will be bound.” He turned and called an order to the circle of warriors, and they resumed their passage through the forest.
Strengthened by repeated doses of the holy man’s drink, they kept a steady jog that ate up the miles, but always Adayo urged them to greater speed. By the time the green of the forest canopy began to darken toward gray with the inexorable descent of the sun, the holy man’s frustration became obvious. In fact, everywhere Errol looked, the men of Ongol evidenced signs of agitation. Red Stripes—the war leader, Errol had come to learn—entered a heated argument with Adayo, an argument the war leader punctuated by stabbing the air with his sword. Errol saw many of the warriors nodding agreement out of Adayo’s line of sight.
The holy man’s voice rose, quieting the sounds of the jungle. He turned to Errol. “We must not tarry here, pale one. We are too close to the boscage of the ancients. If the short one cannot keep up, we will have to leave him.”
The specifics of Adayo’s warning escaped Errol, but there was no mistaking the tone he used. The Ongolese had been on a customary path close to danger, but Errol and his companions had caused an unexpected delay. Now they stood at the edge of something even these oversized warriors feared, something that came out at night. Errol didn’t bother to speculate. The reaction of the Ongolese warriors told the story.
Spawn.
He stood, squared up to face Adayo. “How far do we have to get by sundown?”
Adayo’s brows furrowed beneath the smooth skin of his shaved head. “At least two more leagues, pale one, and brother sun will be lost to us in less than an hour.”
Errol glanced at Red Stripes. The man stood, sword drawn, ready and eager to spill blood. With a gesture he pointed the tip of his massive sword toward Tek.
Adayo turned to Errol with a shrug. “Phamba says that we should spill the blood of the slow one to buy us enough time. On this point we agree. It is death to remain this close to the ancients after dark.”
Errol shivered in the heat. “These ancients are the spawn of the malus?”
Adayo give him a tight-lipped smile. “You are wise, pale one, to see so clearly. They seldom venture from the plain.” His mouth stretched, showing white, even teeth. “Unless they scent humans.”
Errol gestured with his tied arms. “Untie us. The white-haired one and I will help our brother make the distance.”
Adayo smiled as if Errol had given him a gift. “And what token will you provide that I may trust you?”
“My name is Errol Stone.”
Adayo’s smile grew, and he bowed. With a cry he turned to Phamba and shouted in Ongolese. Then he cut their bonds. With his face close to Errol’s he breathed his words like a blessing. “Now, pale one, we must run if you would live.”
23
The City of Fire
ERROL’S LUNGS HEAVED as they strove to make the distance that would grant them safety from the spawn. Leaves as large as his torso whipped across his face as he struggled to keep the pace the holy man, Adayo, and the chieftain, Phamba, demanded.
Tek’s weight, shared with Merodach, added no more than perhaps ten pounds to Errol’s burden. The sailing captain remained fit, despite his years of land-locked exile, so he was still able to do his part, but the speed the Ongolese required threatened to undo them all. A few paces behind, Rale ran with the determination of one who had decided his heart would burst before he quit.
Tek tripped, then fell, taking Errol down with him. Phamba growled and pulled his sword, advancing on the gasping figure of the ship’s captain.
Tek stared up at the broad gleam of the blade, panting. Waiting. “Tell Brandy I loved her as much as the sea.”
Errol scrambled to put himself between Phamba and Amos Tek.
“Move, lad,” Tek said. “I can’t make the run. I’ve turned my ankle. It won’t bear my weight.”
“Then we’ll carry you,” Errol said without looking back. “Get up on your good leg so you can wrap your arms around Merodach’s shoulders and mine.”
Adayo drew his sword, mirroring Phamba, the tip coming within inches of Errol’s chest. “Stupid pale one, would you die for him?”
“We won’t die.”
The holy man turned his head and spat. “The ancients will devour you if you do not cross the river before sunset. At night, this jungle belongs to them. He will not make it.” He gestured with the blade. “Move, pale one. Better I kill your comrade quickly with the sword than leave him for the twisted ones. They keep their prey alive as long as possible while they devour it. Would you wish that for him?”
The holy man’s simple description sent pulses of fear down Errol’s spine. “Then leave us. We will make the crossing or not, but I won’t leave him.”
Adayo shook his head. “You do not have that choice, Errol Stone. You have given me your name, your complete name. By the law of our land, you are mine to command.” The holy man’s gaze bored into him, and the blade neared his throat. “I ask you again, would you die for him?”
Movement at the corner of his eye pulled his gaze. Guards held Merodach and Rale, a blade at each man’s throat and a point at their belly. Errol tried not to shrink from Adayo’s threat. Rale and Merodach offered no help, their eyes, one pair blue like the sky and the other gray, were resigned. He swallowed. Were either of those captains in charge, Tek would be dead already. They were men of the watch, accustomed to sacrifice—theirs or someone else’s.
He couldn’t do it. They might all die for the sake of a gimpy sea captain, but he would not be the means of a friend’s death.
Fury contorted Adayo’s face. “Move, northlander. Move if you would live.”
“No.”
Adayo raised his sword.
“Enough,” Phamba said.
Adayo whipped toward Phamba. “He has not said.”
Phamba shrugged. “It does not matter, holy one. He has chosen. Would you strike him down because the words do not follow our tradition? He is not Ongolese.”
Adayo pulled a breath that would have burst the lungs of a normal-sized man and nodded. Phamba signaled a pair of warriors who came forward to lift Tek and support his weight. Errol darted looks at Tek, then Phamba, then Adayo.
“A test?”
Phamba stepped forward. “Yes, little one.” The wave of his arm took in the warriors surrounding them. “We have lost many to the Merakhi that have come in the guise of friends.”
Errol goggled. He had a difficult time imagining anyone foolish enough to attack these giant men of the south.
Phamba shook his head. “Do not be deceived. The sand dwellers carry a strength that is more than human, and they are growing. Already some of their speakers, those you call ghostwalkers, match us in size as the spirit corrupts their fleshly vessel.”
Errol squinted. “But how did you know we weren’t Merakhi?”
Adayo sheathed his giant sword. “The ghostwalkers have the means to appear as men of the north, but they would never hesitate to kill one of their own if it meant survival for the remainder. You refused to abandon your comrade.”
“The people of the river would have killed him themselves,” Phamba added.
Errol adjusted his estimation of the Ongolese chieftain. There were layers there. “So you understood everything we said?”
Phamba’s grin warmed him like an unexpected burst of sun on a cloudy day. “People speak more freely when they think they cannot be understood.”
“The ancients?” Errol asked.
Grins slid from the faces of the Ongolese. “Real enough,” Adayo said. “But the river that denies them passage is just over the next hill. The offspring of evil do not care for the water.”
“And Hadari?” Errol asked.
“I told you the truth, pale one. He lives in the city of fire just beyond the river. Now, we must hurry. The threat of the ancients is a truth, and I’m no longer young and foolish enough to tempt their jungle after dark.”
They continued at a walk. Merodach and Rale closed in next to Errol as they followed the Ongolese who carried Tek to the river.
“Well done, Errol,” Rale said. He kept his face forward as he spoke, but Errol could see the gleam of pride in his eyes. “The outcome would have been different had I made the decision. The Ongolese were looking for a different type of sacrifice than the one I would have offered.”
Merodach nodded. “Or I. We swore never to outlive the king again.”
“But Tek’s not a watchman,” Errol protested.
“When he joined our mission, he accepted the same responsibility,” Merodach said. “You are to be kept alive at all costs.”
Merodach didn’t elaborate, and Errol didn’t require it, but inside, so deep in his chest he could pretend it didn’t exist, burned the hope that somehow he might live through whatever lay ahead.
They crested a hill and descended toward a broad sluggish river that flowed to the southeast, separating the jungle from a broad plain. In the dying moments of the sun, orange light flared and shimmered in reflections from a hundred domes beyond the water.
Errol stopped to stare in admiration.
“It is not so large as Guerir,” Phamba said. “And I am told that Erinon is larger still, but I have never heard of a city that is more beautiful than Gomibe.”
They crossed the water on large flat-bottomed boats as the sun set, washing the plain in crimson. By the time their crafts bumped the pier on the opposite side of the river, they needed torchlight to guide them into the city.
The streets of Gomibe proved to be wide and well lit, its denizens wearing loose-fitting clothes dyed in bright colors, with blue, green, and red predominant. Yet the men and women Errol saw hurried about tasks wearing expressions that seemed at odds with the cheerful aspect of their city.
“A city preparing for war,” Rale said.
“Truly,” Adayo said. “In truth, we cannot—”
“Do not,” Phamba interrupted. “That is for the mfalme.”
They ushered them deeper into a city designed in a series of concentric arcs with roads radiating from the nexus like rays of the sun. As they drew near to their destination, one of the men ran ahead. At the center of Gomibe, they came within sight of a large low-domed building that could have held the entire village of Callowford. An entryway jutted out from the side, and a quartet of guards bearing grievous scars stood watch. Phamba and Adayo stepped forward side by side and bowed.
“We bring one who speaks for his country, Captain.”
The man they addressed, a heavy-set mountain with a brooding countenance, eyed Errol and the rest of the party with disapproval. “He is poorly dressed for an emissary. And his manners are lacking if he comes to the city of fire without the speech of his host on his tongue.”
Errol stepped forward and bent at the waist until his torso was parallel to the ground. “Your pardon, Captain. I only met Hadari a few months ago, and there was scant opportunity to learn your language.”
The captain raised an eyebrow at him. “He comes to us with names of power on his tongue. How do you know Hadari, northlander?”
“He was chief of the guard while I was imprisoned in Guerir.”
The captain shifted his attention to Adayo and Phamba. “He is plain spoken for a pale one. Usually their answers shift and slide like a serpent in the water. Did they pass the test?”
Phamba stiffened at the question. “They would not be here else.”
The captain ignored Phamba’s reaction. “The mfalme will see them.” He wrinkled his nose. “But not while they have the smell of tar and salt water on them.” He raised his hand, and a pair of Ongolese women, tall and sloe-eyed, came forward to take charge of them. “See that they are bathed and dress them in something more appropriate.”
An hour later, Errol tugged at the fabric again. The loose-fitting clothes of the Ongolese rested against his skin in unfamiliar ways, and he squirmed, trying to adapt. His face still held the fire of embarrassment at being washed by the women of the mfalme’s staff, his consternation a source of much amusement.
He stood next to Rale and Merodach, who were likewise attired. The two men looked comfortable in the strange clothes. Perhaps their training within the watch had given them the ability to ignore such external distractions. The mfalme’s chamber lay at the center of the low-domed building. Errol entered into a throne room unlike any other.
The Ongolese ruler held court in the middle of a garden; an opening in the dome’s center revealing the star-filled sky. Palms reached upward, flanked by ferns, and the air carried the heavy scents of a myriad of flowers. Blooms in a riot of color were visible in the yellow torchlight.
They followed their escort along a path that wound toward the center of the garden, where the mfalme sat in a high-backed throne made of wood so dark it was almost black. Ongol’s ruler sat unmoving beneath a large covering made from the skin of some animal that had carried white and orange stripes in life.
The man on the throne loomed tall as all the Ongolese, yet he carried enough bulk to appear squat. Torchlight gleamed off a scalp that held no hint of hair, but his eyebrows were full and thick above eyes as dark as obsidian. Though much of the mfalme was hidden, his body showed evidence of horrific conflict. His left arm ended just below the elbow, and his right foot, poking from beneath the coverlet, was nothing more than a stump of puckered scar tissue. Ongol’s king was severely crippled. Errol tried without success not to stare.
The mfalme leaned to his right to speak in a voice as deep as the earth, spasms of pain twisting his scarred face as he addressed one whose unscarred body stood in sharp contrast to his own.
Hadari.
Errol’s heart pounded at the sight of his friend, but Hadari deferred acknowledgment. “The mfalme says you have noted his medallio
ns.” The king’s mouth stretched the memory of a wound that laced his jawline. Hadari continued. “Speak. Should the Ongolese not fight the ancients?”
Errol bowed. “Forgive me, mfalme, but the ones you fight are kept from you by water on all sides. Why do you fight?”
The mfalme nodded and answered Errol’s question directly.
“You are wise, northlander. Few of my own men would ask, since we have always fought. Many do not think to question what has always been done. The ancients occupy the verdant in the center of our land, but though they are numerous and do not die from their years, they cannot breed. So we fight them. Already their numbers are half what they were ten generations ago.” The Ongolese ruler’s face stretched in a parody of a smile.
“We are patient,” Hadari said. “The women informed the mfalme you bear medallions of your own on your skin. Surely you understand this.”
Errol grasped for a way to explain the scars Antil had given him. Hadari leaned over to whisper to the mfalme, pointing toward Errol. At a nod from the ruler, the big man came forward to lift him as easily as a child and pull him close.
His voice, deep as the waters of the ocean, rumbled in Errol’s hearing. “I have hoped for your safety, brother. In Merakh I learned you are wise, and now I find you are fortunate as well.” Hadari placed him again on the interlocking sandstones of the floor. “Allow me to present the ruler of Ongol, Mfalme Mulu Robel.” He turned back to Errol. “That you have dared the journey speaks of great need.”
Hadari did not ask the purpose of their journey, but the question lay between them, and within the moment, Errol’s discomfort grew. He pitched his voice so that it would carry to the throne.
“The church of Illustra has asked me to bring the book of Magis home.” The book held the sacred history of the church. In its absence the church had depended on an exclusively oral tradition since Magis’s death hundreds of years ago, a tradition that had slowly departed from the truth. The benefices of the church wanted the book—thought for generations to have been destroyed—with a desire so deep and desperate, they were willing to hamper the war effort to secure it.
A Draw of Kings Page 24