Hadari stepped back, and for the first time his face became closed, unreadable.
Bring him forward, my friend,” the mfalme said, his voice so slurred by the scars and pain, the words were almost unintelligible. “Dire messages dampen the heart.” He sighed, his chest expanding and deflating like a bellows. “Let us welcome our guests with food and drink as we speak to their need.”
Hadari bowed and clapped hands twice the size of Errol’s, and serving men and women materialized a moment later with dishes of meat and fruit. At Hadari’s direction, Errol, Rale, and Merodach arrayed themselves around Ongol’s king on deep cushions.
A servant fed the king a cluster of grapes as he spoke again. “My trusted one has told me of your experience in the prisons of the ilhotep.” He nodded toward Rale and Merodach. “Your companions wear the look of men accustomed to command. Does your kingdom have so many such as these that they can afford to send them away?”
Errol looked to Hadari, unsure of how to answer.
Hadari wore a reassuring smile. “Speak freely, my friend. This is not the court of the ilhotep.”
“The truth, Your Majesty, is that many of my countrymen do not think we will survive the war. I’m told the Merakhi outnumber us three to one.”
The king nodded. “The sand people are uncountable.”
“And they have the spawn of the malus to aid them,” Errol added. “Adayo called them the ancients.” Mulu Robel nodded for him to continue. “The leaders of the church of Illustra sent us to bring the book of Magis home.”
“You would serve them, Errol Stone?” the king asked. “Hadari told me these men bound you with compulsion.”
A stab of bitterness twisted in his side, and he closed his eyes, concentrating on letting it go. “No, Your Majesty, I do not serve them, but I would like for the book to survive.”
“Are you a servant of Deas, then, my brother?” Hadari asked.
Silence stretched across the moments as he looked into Hadari’s eyes, searching for an answer. In his peripheral vision, he could see Rale and Merodach where they sat, not watching him but wearing the stillness of men possessed by singular focus. Hadari’s eyes held him, showing neither judgment nor expectation but refusing to let him go.
Did he serve Deas? Yes. He couldn’t deny it. His actions had been guided as surely as if he’d been nothing more than a sheep sent for slaughter. But Errol sensed Hadari searched for a different answer. He wanted to know if Errol was a willing servant.
Fatigue and despair so deep he thought he might crumple beneath their weight enveloped him as if the burden of the kingdom had become a physical thing that rested on his shoulders.
“I am His servant, but I am so tired.” A cry tore its way from his chest, and his vision blurred as tears smeared the torchlight. Hands lifted him, and he found himself enfolded in Hadari’s embrace. Sobs wracked him as he clung to the Ongolese warrior, his misery blowing through him like a gale. When his grief had run its course, Hadari set him back on his feet, his eyes fierce, proud.
Mulu Robel regarded Errol from within his scarred visage, his expression unreadable. “I am sorry. I cannot send the book back with you.”
Errol jerked his gaze from the floor. The king’s tone and expression carried many things—sympathy, sadness, regret, but also resolution. The mfalme would not change his mind.
Mulu Robel’s face shuddered, and he jerked his good hand up to summon four broad-backed warriors who appeared to shoulder the burden of the king and his throne by means of rods threaded through holes in his chair. “You and your countrymen deserve an explanation, Errol Stone.” His voice became increasingly formal. “Such discussions must wait until morning to be better understood. Relax and enjoy the peace of the gardens of Ongol.”
Errol thought he heard a catch in Mulu Robel’s voice, but the mfalme’s tortured speech was still unfamiliar to him. Despite the king’s blessing to enjoy the gardens’ peace, he sought his bed soon after.
A hand shook him, and he rolled, panicked, into a fighter’s crouch, his eyes searching for his staff. A voice murmured in his ear. “Quiet, brother,” Hadari said. “I have much to show you if you would understand.”
Errol released the breath he held, then nodded to show he understood. The night outside the arched opening of his window lay black and still. “What time is it?” he whispered.
Hadari stepped back, his feet bare and soundless. “Four hours until dawn. Come. As the mfalme’s aide, I am given authority to move at will through the palace, but the privilege does not extend to you. I have arranged the guards to allow us passage, but we will still have to be cunning.”
“What is it you want me to see?”
Hadari’s eyes grew somber in the torchlight. “The mfalme’s courage and Ongol’s weakness.”
The undertone of caution in Hadari’s voice brought gooseflesh, and Errol darted a look outside. “Will we have time?”
Hadari put a hand on his shoulder. “They are one and the same. Follow and be silent.”
They threaded their way through the palace, pausing often until the sound of the guards’ footsteps receded beyond hearing. After nearly an hour they ascended a set of broad stone steps that led to a circular balcony decked with planters of broad-leafed ferns and blossoms. Hadari stopped and pointed to the chamber beneath them, leaning close to whisper. “This is where the mfalme sleeps when such comfort is not denied to him.”
Errol searched the cavernous room, but aside from obvious luxury of the deep cushions, the fountains, and the plants, the king’s sleeping quarters were empty. “Where is he?”
The skin around Hadari’s eyes pinched as if the Ongol guard fought to keep some obscure pain at bay. “He will come. We need only be patient.”
Moments passed, and Errol found himself swaying on his feet, his eyes aching for slumber. Then, so softly he might have imagined it, came the whimpering of an animal in pain. Hadari’s hand closed on Errol’s shoulder.
Four women, tall and lithe, carried the mfalme toward his cushions, their motions as gentle as if the Ongolese ruler had been fashioned from spun glass. Despite their care, Mulu Robel jerked and moaned with each movement. Errol stared, his face burning at the tapestry before him. The mfalme wore only a loin cloth, the horrific extent of his wounds laid bare to see. Besides the missing hand and foot, the Ongol ruler wore deep trenches of scars that ran the length of his torso and limbs. The skin next to the half-healed wounds pulsed with the mfalme’s heartbeat, and each pulse tore whimpers from his lips.
The women laid him on the cushions as they would a babe, and proceeded to wash him with cloths that filled the room with the heavy scent of belladon.
Hadari led Errol away and back to his room. Once there, he secured the lock and leaned out of the window to check for unwanted ears before speaking.
“Now you know our greatest weakness, my brother. The mfalme is trapped, his body a prison of unrelenting pain. Slowly, like the ocean eating away the stone of seaside cliffs, the mfalme’s agony diminishes his mind. The belladon gives him some relief, but in order to rule he must forego the drug during the day.”
“How does he stand it?” Errol asked.
Hadari shook his head. “The rule of the mfalme is absolute until he dies. He has no choice, or so it would seem.”
The truth of the king’s pain sickened Errol, as if he’d seen the mfalme tortured and locked in stocks from which he could never escape. He shook his head in confusion. “How is this a threat to Ongol?”
The sound of footsteps outside cut off Hadari’s answer. Errol leaned out of the archway to see a pair of guards patrolling the grounds nearby. Without answering, Hadari left the room.
Errol woke the next morning after a series of startled jerks thrust him from sleep. The early-morning air, cool compared to the sultry heat of the previous day, brought him to awareness.
As he stepped from his quarters still wearing the brightly colored robe the mfalme’s servants had given him the previous day, one of the
king’s guards stepped into place beside him. Errol didn’t recognize him, but the calm assurance and the impressive array of weaponry he carried proclaimed him a palace soldier.
“I am instructed to bring you to the mfalme upon your rising,” he said.
Errol gestured acquiescence. “Is it permissible to bring my countrymen as well?”
The guard nodded. “Indeed. They are already with him.”
They turned toward the exterior of the palace, the side facing to the north, where steps carved into the thick rocks of the dome spiraled upward toward the cerulean sky. Minutes later they approached the summit, where the king sat on his portable chair surrounded by four huge guards. Errol concentrated on keeping his gaze from the colorful blanket that hid the worst of the mfalme’s injuries.
Tek stood to one side, his ankle heavily bandaged. Merodach’s face glistened with sweat in the early-morning sun, testimony to the means of the ship captain’s arrival. Each man, from king to sailor, nodded a somber greeting to Errol and turned back to the north. Hadari, standing on Robel’s right, stepped to the side to allow Errol to stand between them.
The mfalme nodded greeting, then pointed north. Rich green cropland extended north from the king’s city for a distance of some three leagues before the jungle asserted its claim on the foothills beyond.
Errol blinked. Then he shielded his eyes with one hand as he scrubbed sleep away with the other. A line of black, like a splash of dried blood, stretched across the jungle in the distance. Beyond the line lay nothing but dead rock and barren earth that continued until the haze of distance obscured it.
“You see it?” Robel asked.
Errol nodded.
“The withering started a few months ago.” His huge shoulders shrugged beneath the brilliant colors of his blanket. “The lore of our kingdom is different than that of Illustra or Merakh. In Ongol, the akanwe—those born with the talent to be readers in your kingdom or ghostwalkers in Merakh—strive to understand the land. It is given to them to understand how to keep the plants and animals of Ongol in health.” Mulu Robel turned to him. “Have you not wondered how we are able to flourish outside the protective influence Magis bought for your kingdom? Our akanwe have strengthened our kingdom against the death the fallen ones sought to send against us.”
“But now you’re losing,” Errol said.
Robel Mulu shook his head as if casting away his pain. “The death of your king tipped the scales in favor of the malus. The time approached when I would have had to surrender or watch the entire width and breadth of Ongol die, lost for all time. . . .”
He breathed deeply and stared into Errol’s eyes, as if willing him to understand. “But no longer. When Hadari came to us with the book of Magis, the advance of the withering halted.”
Now Errol understood. “You think it’s the book.”
The mfalme nodded. “To surrender the book to you, Earl Stone, I must be willing to surrender my kingdom along with every living thing within it.”
24
The Withering
ERROL STARED ACROSS THE DISTANCE at the lifeless boundary that denoted the border between what remained of Ongol and the creeping death where the malus of Merakh held sway. “How long will your kingdom last if Illustra falls to the Merakhi?”
Mulu Robel smiled, his eyes filled with hopes and doubts too numerous to define. “The mountains between Ongol and Merakh constrain the number that can be sent against us, and the giant whirlpool has never been conquered until you came through it. Only the trip through the Eastern Ocean lies open to them, and it is long and perilous. The men of Ongol are the mightiest warriors alive. As long as the withering is halted by the book, we will hold.”
Errol shook his head. “Against the malus, Mfalme? Once they have enslaved and corrupted Illustra, do you think they will be content to leave you in peace? Have they offered you any hope of such an outcome?”
The mfalme’s eyes grew troubled, but when he spoke he didn’t answer. “And will sending the book of Magis, the holy object capable of halting the spread of the withering, north with you make us any safer?”
Errol groped for an answer. He’d come to Ongol believing the book would be in Hadari’s possession and that his friend would readily surrender it in order to heal the church. He was unprepared to argue for its return. Why wasn’t Martin beside him? The former benefice wielded persuasion the way Liam handled a sword.
He needed time to persuade Mulu Robel, but more than that, he needed an answer to the Ongol king’s belief that Magis’s book could somehow protect his kingdom. Errol pointed to the stretch of death in the distance.
“Can we go there, Mfalme? I’d like to understand this threat better.”
Mulu Robel nodded. “I understand, Earl Stone. You seek time to convince me to surrender the surety of my kingdom. I tell you plainly, I cannot be persuaded, but I will guide you to the withering myself. Let us go down. The horses of Ongol are not so fast as those of Merakh, but they endure, my friend. We will harness the best to my chariots and be there well before sunset.”
Errol rode in a chariot behind a warrior named Sumeya. His torso tapered down to a waist that appeared all the smaller for the muscle he carried. Every line and movement carried a promise of deadly quickness, but he smiled without ceasing, and despite the concentration their pace required, he managed to supply Errol with his entire family history, including wartime service, weddings, and blood feuds. He pronounced Errol’s name with a hitch between syllables that no amount of coaching or correction could cure. His family, those currently living, appeared to number in the hundreds.
“Tell me, honored Err-ol, do you have a large family? Tales of the northlanders are rare in my country.”
Errol felt the question slide between his ribs like the thrust of a knife. “I don’t have a family.” His mouth twisted around the words as Antil’s face, wearing hate and vengeance, rose in his memory.
Sumeya diverted enough attention from driving the chariot to lay a weighty hand on Errol’s shoulder. “Orphans are rare in Ongol,” he said, “but not unheard of. Was there no one, Err-ol, who could tell you who your father or mother was?”
Errol’s laugh, short and quick, took Sumeya by surprise. “I know who my father was. He disowned me at birth. After my adoptive father died, he took my name and made me an orphan.”
Sumeya’s face registered shock and horror, robbing the warrior of his ability to speak. In the intervening silence Errol lost himself in the rhythmic hoofbeats of the horses that brought the line of death ever closer.
“He is evil, Err-ol. To reject a son is karat—a death to the family.” His face broadened with the advent of inspiration. “I will go with you to your kingdom and help you kill him.”
Errol started. Sumeya’s offer appeared sincere. The gesture warmed his heart even while it made him feel exposed, as if someone had come upon him bathing in the Sprata. “I cannot kill him, Sumeya. It is forbidden. He is a holy man.”
The Ongol warrior snorted. “No, Err-ol. Here in Ongol we would kill anyone who committed such an offense, holy men included.”
Errol nodded. “Alas, Illustra is not Ongol.”
Sumeya returned to his duties as Errol’s charioteer for the space of a league before turning to offer another suggestion. “We should bring this evil man here to Ongol, where you can kill him.”
Sumeya’s deep brown eyes were wide above his hopeful smile. Errol fought to suppress a laugh that might be misinterpreted. “I am grateful for your offer, Sumeya, but I do not want to kill him.”
The instant the words left his mouth, Errol realized they were true. He did not desire Antil’s death. The mere thought of Callowford’s priest made him weary, but the idea of killing a man who was probably incapable of defending himself filled Errol with repugnance.
“Holy men in Illustra are not warriors, Sumeya. Killing him would bring me no honor, only shame.”
Sumeya took this in with the studied intensity of a child. “You are wise, Err-ol. A w
arrior’s honor is more important than his vengeance. Here in Ongol, our worst criminals are shunned. They are not recognized and none are allowed to acknowledge their presence. Your father, he would be one of these. He is not worth killing.” He nodded to himself as if satisfied with his conclusion.
Errol breathed a sigh of relief that the uncomfortable topic seemed at last to be at an end. They rode the rest of the way accompanied by the sound of hooves and wind, the sense of dying things growing in Errol’s mind until it filled him.
They passed into the strip of jungle that separated the farmland of Ongol from the stretch of death that had come from the Merakhi border. The sickly sweet stench of decaying plants and flesh assaulted him. Animals had been caught in the withering as well. He closed his eyes as Sumeya slowed the horses along the track leading north.
Moments later the Ongol warrior’s hand found him. “There is something strange here, Err-ol.”
He opened his eyes to look around, tried not to breathe through his nose. Strange? The air itself carried blight, but Sumeya hadn’t spoken of the withering. Something pulled Sumeya’s gaze ahead, and his body carried the tension of one prepared to draw weapons in earnest. They broke from the strip of jungle, and Errol saw what the Ongolese with his height advantage had noticed seconds before.
Tall figures stood on the path that stretched toward the mountains, figures that stood at ease next to their oversized horses, figures that waited in patient expectation.
Merakhi.
Errol did a quick count. There were only ten.
“I do not like this, Err-ol,” Sumeya said with a shake of his head. He urged the horses to move faster, until they passed Mulu Robel’s chariot and joined the rest of the escort who had placed themselves between the Merakhi and the mfalme. “I am of the blood to be akanwe, should I choose. There is wrongness in them. They are . . .” He paused, searching for the words that would match the look of revulsion in his eyes. “They are overgrown.”
A Draw of Kings Page 25