A fascination gripped Errol. “Do they not hunt during the day?”
“Never, but sometimes they can be seen sleeping beneath the solitary bringo trees that dot the plain.”
“Perhaps we will see one.”
Adayo shook his head. “That is a sight to be avoided, Earl Stone. Their vision is keen.”
Tek cleared his throat from a few paces away. “They be gone, lad. There are no spawn left on the plain.”
Adayo looked at the sea captain as if he were sunstruck. “The mfalme says you have powerful sight, northlander, but I will not put your pronouncement to the test. Caution costs us nothing.”
Amos Tek nodded. “That be wise, but there are no ferrals left in your kingdom, Adayo. The malus have called their offspring east”—he turned to look at Errol—“to join the fight.”
The truth of his words struck a chill deeper than a Soede winter into Errol’s chest. What manner of twisted creatures would they be fighting when they returned home?
Adayo and Phamba jerked upright, their gazes searching back the way they’d come.
Errol followed their lead, his eyes searching but finding nothing. “What do you see?”
Phamba turned to regard Errol, his expression unreadable. “The wind has shifted, northlander. Zephyr has changed her mind. Our days will soon cool.”
Errol wet his lips. “But that would mean . . .”
“Aye,” Tek said. “Winter is breaking in Illustra.”
Merodach and Rale bore twin expressions of tension and haste. “How fast can you get us back to our ship?” Rale asked.
“As fast as your feet can take you,” Adayo said. “We’ll leave in the morning.”
Errol looked at the reddening sun as it began its descent toward the tops of the trees. “No. There are no spawn to avoid. We go now.”
Adayo glanced at Tek before sighing into the wind. “Then let us run.”
Martin sat heavy in his saddle at the front of the Wind Rider clan, his shaggy horse ignoring the chill wind that wormed its way into every rent and hole in his cloak. He rode next to Ablajin, who led twenty thousand fighting men along with their women, children, and belongings. Though the Morgol warriors spoke exclusively in their native tongue, Martin didn’t require Karele’s translation to catch their mood. Ablajin’s men were unsettled.
Their worry showed itself in a dozen different ways—a squint of the eyes, hands that stayed near swords, mutters spoken at random. Karele, on the other side of the jheng, rode with one ear toward the men, his expression confirming Martin’s fears.
“What do they say?” Martin asked.
Karele waited for Ablajin’s nod of approval before answering, and Martin stared in wonder. As head of the solis, the spiritual head of the entire nation of the shadow lands, Karele held a position comparable to Archbenefice Bertrand Canon, if not king of Illustra. That he would submit himself to a clan chief of the steppes was surprising.
“They are afraid,” Karele said. “And like men who fear something great, they express their dread by speaking of smaller concerns that offer them some measure of power.”
Martin nodded, impressed once again by the depth of Karele’s insight into the human spirit. “What do they speak of?”
Karele’s eyes, dark beneath the loose hair that tumbled to his shoulders, squinted in shared worry. “They fear they will be ordered to fight against their kinsman, that they will be pitted against cousins or brothers-by-marriage.”
Martin nodded. He understood, but he didn’t know what choice they had. “I understand their fears, Ablajin. When the time for battle comes, I will do what I can to keep them from such a fight.” He knew it was small consolation, but he had nothing more.
Ablajin exhaled as if he’d held his breath for too long. “I am grateful.” He turned his eyes to Martin and gave a quick nod, his coarse braid lashing against the wind. “But if we must fight against men whose names and clasps are known to us, we will.”
Karele held up a hand. “There is another more immediate fear, and I do not think there will be any remedy for their unease.” His breath plumed briefly in the chill. “They know that to cross into Illustra, they must pass beneath the mountains.”
“Do the caves scare them so much, then?” Martin asked.
The solis shook his head. “It is more than that. They fear being unmanned in the sight of their wives and children.”
Ablajin placed a hand on Martin’s arm. “Few outsiders would know this of us, Holy Martin, but the essence of what it means to be Morgol is to be immune to fear. A warrior may weep at a loved one’s death, or he may scream in pain, but for him to do either from fear is to bring shame upon his family and clan. Doing so in front of his wife and children is doubly damning.”
“Even so,” Karele said, “the fear of the caves weaves its way through their conversation, mentioned briefly before it stills the tongue, and there is no antidote or argument that will avail them.” The solis locked gazes with Martin. “The caves represent the end of their way of life, and they fear what lies ahead. Victory means the subjugation of the steppes by Illustra, their former enemy, and defeat means death for them all and their nation ruled by theurgists.”
Martin hung his head, staring at his thick hands upon the pommel of his saddle. His mind turned Karele’s words over and again, seeking some balm that he might offer against these fears, but nothing came. “They are right, so far as I can tell,” he said at last.
“I have thought so as well,” Ablajin said. “Yet the future is difficult to see even for the theurgists, else Oorgat would not have died from a prophecy he brought to fruition. I choose to take comfort in the misty future. It may be that there are outcomes unknown to us. Who knows what kind of world we will wake to after the war?”
Martin stared at the clan chief in amazement. Where did a man of the steppes, raised within the apostasy of generational theurgy, find such peace? “If we survive this war, clan chief, I would offer you the hospitality of my kingdom.”
Ablajin’s face shone with surprised joy, his smile showing merry crinkles around his eyes. “My son has told me stories of the Green Isle where your king and church rule. I should like very much to see it.”
Martin found Ablajin looking at him, his request plain. After a deep breath he told the clan chief of the isle and its peoples for hours as they rode, and Ablajin’s questions showed both a childlike curiosity and a scholarly discernment that surprised him.
As the sun set they came within sight of the cave that would lead them beneath the mountains to Bellia, and the muttering behind them grew. Ablajin turned his horse to face the clan. The warriors, men ranging in age from a score to three times that number faced him. Their unease became a palpable thing, until Martin could almost smell it on the chill north wind.
“They will break,” he said to Ablajin. He tried to speak without attracting attention. “The longer they stare at the cave, the more the fear of it grows upon them.”
“You are right, holy Martin,” Ablajin murmured in return, “but they must conquer it themselves. Any strength I give them through my words will not last long enough to bring them through to the other side.”
The tension heightened until the horses, attuned to their riders, shied and fought the reins. Just when it appeared the entire clan might break and run, one of Ablajin’s lieutenants, Ulaat, kicked his horse forward until its nose touched that of Ablajin’s mount. Then he spun to face the assembly.
“Hooves and wind,” the lieutenant shouted, his eyes tight, “if a master of horses and four soft kingdom men can brave the dark, a Wind Rider can.”
Ablajin’s gaze sought Martin. “He means no offense, holy Martin.”
Martin rubbed his belly. Months of travel and infrequent food had diminished his bulk, but he still carried far more padding than the Morgol riders. “I would be small-minded to take offense at the truth”—he gave his midsection a soft pat—“however indelicately spoken.”
Slowly at first, but in a growing t
ide, the warriors of Ablajin’s clan committed to braving the underground crossing. The clan chief nodded his approval, then cast a look at the dying light. “I think it would be best if we camped before beginning the passage.” He glanced at the mouth of the cave and shivered. “There are some who may need the knowledge of sunlight to bolster their courage.”
Ulaat passed word among the lieutenants, and the large octagonal tents were quickly erected. Cook fires sprouted like flowers on the plains. Martin cast about for Luis and Cruk, but his countrymen were not to be seen. He passed a hand across his heavy jaws. Cruk’s decades-old enmity for the Morgols could prove to be a problem. He didn’t think the watchman would do anything to jeopardize their newfound alliance, but it would be best not to leave the captain to his own devices for too long.
Luis presented a different problem. Day by day, his friend had withdrawn a little more into his thoughts, leaving Martin bereft of his counsel. Many times at night or early in the morning, Martin spied Luis casting in solitary locations, his face blank, lost in the question and answer that framed his craft, the calling that shaped him as secondus of the conclave.
Martin shrugged as if an unfamiliar and unwelcome weight had settled upon his shoulders. The failure of the cast of stones, the draw for the king they knew would come from Callowford, gnawed at him. How much more had it distressed Luis, who had shaped it?
Women and children stared at Martin as he passed by, their fingers pointing at his strangely rounded eyes or his girth, both equally rare on the steppes. On the northern end of the camp, he found them both. Cruk stood guard, Owen by his side, while Luis strove to carve a lot. Small white fissures laced the back of his chapped hands as he stroked the knife over the wood. Despite the chill, his motions were steady, and before the sun slipped below the horizon, a pair of spheres lay before him.
Luis regarded them as he might an enemy. Martin coughed, and the secondus jerked, scooping up his lots to deposit them in a rough leather bag, his face red.
“How many?” Martin asked. Worry sharpened his voice. Cruk turned at the sound.
Separated from the reader’s trance that kept him from feeling the cold, Luis’s hands trembled as he shook the bag. “Specify.”
A sigh, bitter as the wind, escaped Martin. He knelt on the frozen earth next to his friend. “How many times have you cast the same question since the stones failed us?”
Luis didn’t bother to raise his head. His shoulders lifted a fraction, then fell back into place as he drew from the bag. “More times than I can count.”
Martin shook his head. “I doubt that. How many?”
The lots within the bag clacked softly as Luis rolled it across the ground. “Perhaps a hundred.” He drew again, shook his head with a rueful smile. “But not always the same question. I even cast to see if I was still a reader. Then I tested to see if the question could be answered.”
He looked at Martin at last, his eyes dark, haunted. “Both of those came up yes.”
Martin balked at the torture in his friend’s voice. “But there remains no answer between Errol and Liam.” He’d meant to phrase it as a question.
Luis shook his head and drew again. “Illustra must have its soteregia, Martin.” His gaze changed from haunted to grief-stricken. “What if the wrong man dies?”
He tried to block the possibility from his mind, but Luis’s question wormed its way through his defenses, ate at his conviction until he doubted his faith. “Deas will ensure that does not happen,” he said, but his statement carried no fire.
Luis continued to draw, sparing only the barest glances for the lots before repeating the process.
“Still?” Martin asked.
“Twelve times for Errol. Twelve times for Liam.”
Bands of despair squeezed his chest, keeping him from drawing breath. Luis folded his bag and tucked it away before throwing the lots with a savage grunt out into the grass of the plain.
Cruk edged his way toward them, his face grim. “We have a more pressing concern.” His voice shoved aside their concern. “The wind has shifted.”
Martin stared, then rose to face south. A whisper brushed his face, startlingly warm compared to the north wind that no longer cut, that no longer kept the passes protecting the kingdom filled with ice. “It’s coming now,” he breathed. “War.”
26
Refugee
ADORA PACED IN HER TENT, clothed in bone-deep weariness that made her light-headed even as it weighted each step. She locked her knees as reports continued to come in, none of them good. Rohka’s and Rula’s expressions were grim—Liam’s was unreadable.
Now back in Illustra, their forces had enough food for a fortnight, perhaps two if adults went to half rations. The refugees numbered nearly fifty thousand men, women, and children—fighting men accounted for perhaps a fifth of that. Scavenger parties returned empty-handed. The villages, too small to feed such numbers even during harvest, had been emptied of people and provender.
Waterson entered and stood before her, his empathy surprising, considering the circumstances. He no longer balked at the use of his title but continued to speak his mind in blunt terms, even so. Under the circumstances, Adora found his harsh honesty refreshing.
His mouth turned down at the edges. “That didn’t turn out well.”
Adora couldn’t tell if he referred to the overall mission into the shadow lands or the latest report from the scavengers. In the end, it didn’t matter. Both were a disaster, differing only in scale.
Rokha laughed. “Maybe you should banish all your nobles, Your Highness. It seems to provide a perspective most of them lack.”
Adora nodded. “I appreciate Lord Waterson’s honesty, but I’d appreciate a supply of food for our return to the west even more.”
“It’s not going to happen, Your Highness,” Rokha said with a toss of her head. “The villages are cleaned out. Only the most ignorant peasant could miss the change in the weather.” She cast a glance out the open flap of the tent. Darkness veiled the landscape, but Rokha sighed anyway. “Rain would help. Nothing slows an army like nice deep mud.”
Liam nodded his agreement. “Yet the fair weather offers some hope too. Our return will progress more quickly than it would otherwise.”
Lord Waterson nodded. “True enough. We’ll be able to get a few more leagues out of the horses before we have to slaughter them for meat.”
Adora searched his face but found no sign of jesting or sarcasm. Liam and Rokha nodded their agreement.
Lieutenant Jens entered the pavilion and made his way to Adora and Liam, trying to make eye contact with both of them at once before settling for staring into the distance halfway between them.
“Your Highness, Captain,” he bowed. “Our rear scouts have returned.” He hesitated, his manner furtive. “There are only two of them.”
Rokha growled out a curse that would have done the hardest sergeant proud, and Liam grew still. Adora made a summoning gesture with one hand. She tried to keep it from trembling. “Bring them in.”
A pair of men shambled in. Both bore wounds that would require treatment; rents and tears in their clothing bore traces of blood.
Liam stepped forward. “Sergeant Ancois, report.”
A blond-haired man with the chiseled features and strong chin of an Avenian stepped forward to essay a bow toward Adora. He stumbled, and pain leached color from his face. “Your Highness.”
Adora bowed. Her training with healer Norv split her mind, allowed her to continue the façade of court protocol even as she surveyed his injuries, assessing which required immediate attention and which could wait. There were too many of the former. Ancois should have been in the infirmary, but watchman pride would never allow him to seek the healer’s arts before giving his dispatch to his superior.
“Make your report as brief as possible, Sergeant Ancois,” Adora said. “Time weighs against us.” If she couldn’t order him to the infirmary, perhaps she could hurry him there.
Ancois nodded.
She might have detected relief on his pasty features.
“Of the score of watchmen who served as the rear scout, only I and Ianson remain. A dozen of us scaled the plateau to observe and harry the enemy in hopes of bringing report of their withdrawal from the shadow lands.”
He blinked, swaying.
“They have spawn with them, Your Highness,” he said, “creatures of vast strength that they are using to clear the canyon of the rock and rubble. The Merakhi are not retreating.”
Adora shivered, then pulled her cloak more tightly about her in the hope it would be attributed to the cold, if noticed.
“How long before they have it cleared?” Count Rula asked.
Ancois shifted to face him. His face blanched with the effort. “Perhaps three days.”
“They’ll be on top of us in seven,” Waterson said, “five if the weather holds. We can’t stay here.”
“Deas help us,” Rula muttered.
“We couldn’t remain at any rate,” Liam said. Somehow he managed to look unconcerned by the sergeant’s news. “The need for supplies drives us west as surely as the enemy’s advance.” He turned toward Ancois. “More troubling is their control of the spawn. The beasts possess greater intelligence than animals, but they’re insane. That they can control them well enough to force them to labor troubles me.”
Ancois nodded. “There was a man among the beasts, Captain.” He shook his head. “But he was more than that. Though distance makes such calculations difficult, he had to be close to three spans tall. The spawn feared him.”
Adora cut the air with one hand. “It matters little how they are controlled. We must either find a means to escape their notice or outpace their pursuit.” She turned to the scouts. “Is there anything else of immediate concern?” At the shake of their heads she thanked them for their service and ordered them to the infirmary.
Jens approached, again splitting the difference between Adora and Liam for his bow. “There is a group of men and women outside demanding an audience.”
A pain grew somewhere in the back of Adora’s neck, then traveled into her head, where it exerted a viselike grip on her skull. Before she could signal her refusal or assent, the flap of the large tent flew back and a group of men and women, fronted by a Lugarian man and a Talian woman, marched in. They spread around her in an arc, unarmed except for the sternness of their expressions.
A Draw of Kings Page 27