Errol looked again. The Merakhi were still two hundred paces away. Yet even at that distance something nagged at his perception. With a start he realized they stood beside their mounts.
“They are as big as Ongolese—bigger, I think.”
Sumeya nodded. “These Merakhi, they have been altered, Err-ol. Sinew and bone! Their flesh screams with it.”
Emptiness opened in the pit of Errol’s stomach. “Why are they here?”
Sumeya shook his head. “I do not know. This is my first trip to the withering.”
Mulu Robel’s chariot slowed, then stopped as the king’s driver prepared to turn. With a shake of his head, Robel pointed forward, and the horses threw their heads as the driver turned them to face the Merakhi once more. In the other chariots, every Ongol who wasn’t driving drew his sword.
Errol’s chariot drew close enough for him to address Robel. “Your Majesty, you cannot mean to let them approach.”
The mfalme nodded. “I would know the mind of my enemy. It is my hope they can be persuaded to cease their war with us.”
“Then you are hasty, Mfalme,” Rale said. “If they attack, your guard will be hard-pressed to keep them from you, and your death hands them the kingdom of Ongol. Civil war is as beneficial to them as conquering you, and less trouble.”
Mulu Robel stiffened at the correction. “Nevertheless, I mean to speak with them. My guards are the greatest warriors alive. If they cannot protect me against ten foes, then my kingdom is lost anyway.”
“I will accompany you if you wish, Mfalme,” Errol said, “but we must be cautious. The malus cannot be killed. If they attack us, they have little to lose except the service of the ones they have possessed.”
Hadari, in the chariot between Errol and his king, nodded and smiled. “Have I not said you are wise, brother? My counsel is the same. Let us withdraw from this place.”
The mfalme cut the air in denial. “We are armed and they are vastly outnumbered. If we turn and flee, my entire kingdom will know of it. I will not unman the people who must fight for me.” He turned to face the waiting group of Merakhi. “Courage, friends.”
“I agree,” Tek said from the chariot he rode. “The malus feed on fear. Don’t show them any.”
Hadari leaned toward Errol, his voice dipping. “Now you know the threat to Ongol, brother. The mfalme has been here before. The Merakhi offered him healing, but he refused.” Hadari’s eyes tightened. “But his pain grows. I am afraid, brother.”
The Merakhi approached until they were twenty paces short of the Ongolese arrayed in their chariots. The shirra at their waists looked like playthings, toy swords for amusement. A man, with jet black hair and a lean, wiry build that put Errol in mind of a viper, stepped forward and offered an ingratiating smile and bow to the mfalme.
“Revered leader,” he greeted, his mouth splitting into a smile that showed too many teeth. “We meet again. Once more I am sent by the exalted one, the omniscient ruler of Merakh, to offer a treaty of peace and more.”
Mulu Robel’s nose twitched as if he’d caught the scent of corruption. “Your ilhotep brought war upon my people and took our women and children”—he glanced toward Hadari—“to be his slaves. But I am told this ‘light of the stars’ is dead at the hands of his council. What of your new leader, this ‘exalted one,’ Chort?”
Chort’s eyes vibrated, and his expression became cruel, his grin widening. Errol brushed a hand against the skin of his throat. The Merakhi, grown abnormally large under the influence of the malus, could kill without weapons. The teeth within those oversized jaws could rip out his throat.
“Belaaz, the holy one, rules in Guerir,” Chort said, “and he is merciful. I am empowered to secure peace with you, honored mfalme, peace between our two kingdoms that has not been known in five generations.”
Longing bloomed on Mulu Robel’s face. Errol gripped the strange metal staff and set his feet. His movement brought Chort’s gaze to him, and a spasm twisted the Merakhi’s face.
Mulu Robel’s response rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest, thick strains of emotion cracking his voice. “What does Belaaz seek in exchange for this peace?”
Chort stood without acknowledging the question, his eyes fixed on Errol and a rictus of hatred twisting his mouth. Merodach inched closer, his sword back in its sheath. His hands held his bow with a borale, one of the wicked-looking arrows, fitted to the bowstring.
“Chort!” Mulu Robel called. The Merakhi started, his eyes blinking several times in quick succession. “What is Belaaz’s price for peace?”
Chort bowed, the bend of his back and the spread of his arms insouciant. “My ruler desires nothing more than justice, noble mfalme. To such end, he has suspended the ilhotep’s war that has raged with Ongol for so many years.”
He stepped forward and cut his eyes toward Errol, his voice dipping into a singsong cadence. “Belaaz has declared these men standing with you, noble mfalme, to be under suspicion for the murder of the ilhotep.” Chort licked his bared teeth like a tiger ready to strike. “He would give much, much even beyond peace, for their return to Merakh to face justice.”
Ongol’s king nodded as he rubbed his jaws with his good hand. To all appearances, Mulu Robel considered Chort’s offer worthy. Hadari whispered in the king’s ear, his gestures sharp, urgent. The rest of the Merakhi, grotesquely large, moved forward as if to hear better, but they fanned out as they came and their hands rested on their weapons.
Robel cut off Hadari with a wave of his hand, then raised his head. “Much, you say. I have the riches of Ongol and the love of its people. What more can you offer?”
Chort’s expression grew cunning. “You have wealth and respect, noble one, but I can offer you what none other can.” His gaze lingered on the robes and blanket that hid the mfalme’s deformities. “Behold.”
Chort thrust out his hand and beckoned to one of his men with a jerk of his head. “Your gift, Mfalme.” The man drew his sword and struck Chort’s hand, severing the first two fingers in a spray of blood. Instead of wrapping the wound, Chort displayed the hand for Robel to see. In moments the blood flow lessened, then stopped altogether. As Errol watched, the stubs of the Merakhi’s stricken fingers lengthened, shedding flakes of dried blood, until Chort stood, flexing his hand in proof. The severed fingers still lay at his feet.
Errol glanced at Hadari as comprehension stabbed him.
Robel stared at Chort’s hand like a condemned man offered pardon. “Will you remove the withering?”
Chort’s eyes grew wide in feigned innocence. “It is not the holy one of Merakh who has sent this blight, Mulu Robel, but rather the foul northlanders in Illustra.”
Robel pursed his lips in thought. “You would swear this on your life?”
The Merakhi’s eyes grew bright. “I do swear this.”
Mulu Robel’s good hand clenched the front rail of his chariot, his face taut. “Sumeya! Come forward.”
Beads of sweat appeared on Chort’s forehead. “What is this?”
The mfalme’s smile grew vicious. “The war between our countries has deprived Ongol of its akanwe, Chort, as you know. There are none left, but today is Sumeya’s twentieth naming day.” His eyes narrowed. “And he has the talent.” Grief etched Robel’s face as he shook his head, staring at Chort’s restored hand. “I know Merakh is the source of our blight. A liar can never be trusted, no matter how great his gift may seem.”
Chort snarled. “Do you think you can survive, worm? You and your petty warriors have managed to kill a few of our creations and you think to match us? I will keep you trapped in that useless body for eternity and laugh as you howl in your torment.” Wheeling to face Errol, he drew his sword. “Kill him!”
Ten Merakhi charged, swollen and huge under the influence of their malus. Chort feinted toward Mulu Robel, then vaulted over the king’s chariot. His jump carried him toward Errol’s spinning staff. Before he landed, an arrow cried, and a whirling shaft of black tore the Merakhi’s throa
t away.
Screams of pain and fury merged into a cauldron of sound. Robel’s guards formed a ring around their king. They were the strongest warriors in the world.
And the Merakhi were beating them.
Sumeya took a sword cut along his thigh. He rolled into his fall, striking for his opponent’s middle. The Merakhi leapt over the stroke and landed behind, his sword thrusting. Another scream tore the air, and the Merakhi stilled, an arrow jutting from his eye.
The remaining Merakhi focused their attack on Merodach, trying to still his deadly arrows. The watch captain backed away, and the Ongolese guards formed an arc with the mfalme and the northlanders behind it. Another arrow screamed and another Merakhi went down.
Then they broke, running back up the blackened hillside for their horses. Merodach’s borales followed them, striking. Not every arrow killed, but every Merakhi was marked.
Mulu Robel thrust his hand at the fleeing figures. “Hunt them down. No prisoners.”
“There’s no need,” Merodach said. He might have been discussing lunch. “The arrows are poisoned.” He pointed. “Look there.”
One by one the Merakhi fell, twitching where they hit the lifeless earth before they too grew still.
Errol’s hand ached, and he willed his fingers to loosen their grip. He pulled air into his lungs with desperate gasps as if he’d fought Chort’s men alone.
“We do not use poisoned arrows,” Robel said. “It is considered unworthy to defeat an opponent in such a way.”
Merodach nodded, his blue eyes glinting in the bright sunlight. “If I could poison every malus-possessed Merakhi in the world, I would do it without hesitation. They are not opponents, Mfalme Robel—they are blight.”
The Ongolese warriors still standing nodded their agreement. After a moment’s hesitation, Robel did as well. “I regret my decision has cost the blood of my guards, but we have learned something of our common enemy, Errol Stone.”
Errol jerked. “What might that be?”
“The ancients, those you call the malus, are not without number. They are limited to inhabiting those who have the same talent as the readers of your kingdom. Even among the Merakhi, they do not have an unlimited number of willing hosts, else they would have fought to the last man in their attempt to kill you.”
Errol nodded. The king’s logic made sense, but another possibility occurred to him. “Or it takes time for the malus to force the host body to such size. Belaaz was no taller than I when we fled Merakh.”
Something, a hint of intuition or a breath of wind, told Errol now was the time to speak. “If the Merakhi defeat Illustra, Mfalme, they will swallow Ongol soon after.”
Robel nodded. “It is so.”
Errol took a deep breath. “The book of Magis is crucial to our kingdom, Mfalme. If I fail to return with it, many will lose hope.”
The mfalme gave a small shake of his head. “You are asking me to sacrifice my kingdom to the withering.”
Tek limped forward from his position at the rear of their party. Warm air moved like an exhalation of heat across his face, stirred his sweat-stained hair for a moment. “Beggin’ yer pardon, King Robel, but I don’t think so.”
“Then how do you explain the halt of the withering with the arrival of the book?” Robel asked.
Tek rolled his shoulders like a ship riding a wave. “It’s not the book holding back the blight of the Merakhi,” he said. Then he pointed at Hadari. “It’s him.”
25
A Change of Wind
MULU ROBEL leaned toward Errol, his expression bemused. “I understand not how you northlanders express humor. Is this a jest?”
Tek’s sea-weathered face wore a knowing smirk as he continued to point at Hadari.
“I don’t think so, Mfalme,” Errol said, “but I’m not sure. Captain Tek comes from the shadow lands.”
Robel’s eyebrows rose at this. “I have never met one of the banished before. I thought to leave their land of exile meant death.”
Rale shrugged. “Times change, Mfalme. A man who needs allies must be willing to set aside previous judgments.”
Ongol’s king nodded and turned to Tek. “Can you offer proof of your claim, northlander?”
Tek lifted a shoulder. “We be on the edge of the withering here. Come and see, but proof be in the mind of the man.” The captain walked back to the edge of dying plants that lay like a cut across the jungle. Robel’s chariot driver edged closer as the rest of the party walked behind him.
Tek strode up to a tree precisely on the withering line—its leaves blackened to the north but hale and green to the south. The captain reached out and took hold of a large leathery leaf, half black and half green.
Errol watched, his eyes growing wide, as green infused the black part of the leaf, slowly giving life back to the whole until no hint of death remained.
“It is not possible,” Robel gasped. “Even the strongest of the akanwe could not do such a thing. What talent did the gods give you, sea captain, that you are able to do this?”
Tek’s deep green eyes glinted in the glare of the Ongol sun. “There be no talent sufficient to repair this ill, my king. No reader, theurgist, ghostwalker, or akanwe be strong enough to undo this bane of malice.”
“You’re solis,” Errol said.
“Aye,” Tek said. “I be.” He pointed to Hadari. “And so is he.”
“Solis?” Robel asked. “Explain.”
Tek nodded. “The solis hear Aurae, the spirit of Deas, for whatever purpose Deas intends.”
He looked at the men of two kingdoms who stared at him in wonder, and his mouth pulled to one side in a self-deprecating grin. “I be as much surprised about it as you. Outcast as a pirate, I floundered in the shadow lands until a breath of inspiration led me to back to the shore, clueless but compelled. The ship I built there sat at anchor for years before circumstance thrust me back into the waters of the world again.”
Mulu Robel beckoned, and Tek pulled the regenerated leaf from the tree and put in the mfalme’s good hand, where his fingertips brushed it as if in unbelief. “Hadari, can you do this thing?”
The big man stepped forward. “I do not know. I never conceived of such ability.”
“Come. Try.”
Hadari took a blackened leaf in his hands. Green spread from his touch for a moment before the leaf broke away from the stalk.
“What happened?” Robel asked.
Hadari shook his head, not answering.
Sumeya stepped forward, tugged Hadari to the side, and pointed to a leaf that still retained a hint of green at the base of its stem. “This one,” he said.
Hadari took the leaf in his hands, and once again verdant health flowed through the veins until the whole was green. Hadari let go as if the leaf were made of gossamer and might tear free, but the tree held on.
Sumeya turned to the mfalme, his broad face split in a radiant smile. “His healing must work with the remnant of health within the plant to succeed.”
Robel eyed the plant, his jaw working. “Can it be done? Can the withering be removed?”
Sumeya nodded, his gaze dancing. “I believe it can, Mfalme. The work will be slow, but I will work with Hadari to determine where to use his power.”
The king of Ongol turned to Tek, his eyes wide with wonder. “For this, I will make you second in the kingdom if you ask it of me.”
Tek sketched a clumsy bow. “I be a simple reformed pirate, Your Majesty, meant for my Brandy and the sea.”
Mulu Robel nodded as if he’d expected no less and turned to Errol. “The book is yours, with one condition.”
Errol waited, not daring to hope. “What might that be, Your Majesty?”
The king of Ongol’s face became almost pleading. “That you give my scribes time to copy it. I would know more of its contents.”
He bowed as low as he could. “Gladly, Mfalme.”
Three days later, they left the royal city with the book, bound once more and wrapped in oiled cloth to gu
ard against the weather. As the growth in the jungle thickened, they forsook the king’s chariots and continued on foot, the northlanders struggling once more to keep pace with their Ongolese escort. Adayo and Phamba halted two hours before sunset well back from the boscage of the ancients.
“The journey through the domain of the ancients takes planning,” Adayo said. “I would not risk any of your party”—he darted a look at Tek’s ankle—“by setting too swift a pace.”
Errol glanced around the thick jungle, tried to take comfort from the dense growth. How fast would he be able to climb one of the trees? A morbid curiosity grew in his mind. “What form do these ancients take?”
Adayo’s face, speckled by sunlight shining through the canopy of foliage, took on a grim cast, the lines of his face taut. “Ah, Earl Stone, you are unfamiliar with the beasts of Ongol. There are cats in your kingdom, the spotted ones. . . .” He stopped searching for the word.
“Lynx,” Errol prompted.
Adayo nodded. “Yes. How big are they?”
Errol shook his head. “I’ve never seen one. They stay in the mountains of Frataland, but I’m told they might attack children or sheep.”
Soft laughter accompanied Adayo’s nod. “Imagine such a thing, its paw as big as your head, and weighing as much as Phamba and I together.”
Errol gaped.
Adayo smiled. “Now imagine one of those corrupted by the malus. It holds all of the power and ferocity of the animal but with greater intelligence and an unquenchable thirst for human blood.”
Errol’s stomach dropped with a weight against the bones of his hips.
Adayo noted his reaction. “In the history of our kingdom, warriors have tested themselves against the ancients, striving to claim the verdant from them. We lure them into the jungle, where arrows and javelins may be used from cover, but at great cost. The men who survive such a hunt become heroes, only a little lower than the mfalme.”
Errol swallowed. “Are we far enough from their plain?”
Adayo nodded. “The river lies less than a mile from here and they are too big to swim well. Tomorrow we must make haste past the boscage.”
A Draw of Kings Page 26