“Well then,” Cruk said, his voice thick, “I want you to be the best horseman you can be.” He hugged the boy close, then lifted him to the ground. “Off with you now.”
Owen scampered toward the rear of the caravan and Ablajin’s household.
Ablajin’s horse faced Cruk, and the chieftain bent in a deep bow that he held. When he rose, Cruk acknowledged him with a nod.
“The boy Owen will be as my own son, Captain,” Ablajin said. He pointed to Karele a few paces away. “You know that I speak the truth.”
Cruk breathed deeply. “I do.” The strain of speaking threaded its way through his voice. “I wouldn’t have let him go otherwise.”
He turned to Martin. “I’ll be going back with you.”
Martin turned to Luis. The secondus returned the look with a lift of his eyebrows. “You know I will always be at your side, Martin.” He reached into his cloak and pulled out a pair of blanks. “And the answer I seek is somewhere back there.”
The church captain coughed. “If you please, Pater.”
Martin nodded. “Though I wish the circumstances were different, it will be good to see Erinon again.”
“No, Pater.” Captain Geraud shook his head. “The Judica awaits us in Gascony. Erinon has been evacuated.”
Martin ignored the panic worming its way through his belly. They’d known holding the strait would be next to impossible once Weir burnt his ships. With a mental shove, he pushed this latest bit of news into the corner of his mind where he kept all the other circumstances that defied his attempts at control.
“Where is the church setting its headquarters, Captain?” Luis asked.
“I am commanded to convey you to Gergy, the ducal seat of Escarion.”
Cruk rolled his shoulders as he gazed at nothing, then nodded. “It’s a bit close to the mountains, but retreat doesn’t matter now. It’s centrally located. We’ll be able to coordinate as well from there as any other location.”
Ten days and innumerable changes of horses later, they arrived at Duke Escarion’s estate. The home of Illustra’s most powerful duke—which Martin had visited several times over the years—resembled the man himself. Strong towers stood at the corners of a five-sided fortress, and though the architecture carried beauty of a sort, it lacked the ostentatious embellishments Duke Weir had favored. Escarion favored function over form. No trees grew within a half mile of the walls, but flower gardens inside the main gates and rich tapestries and carpets decorating its halls testified to Mickala Escarion’s influence.
Cruk nodded his approval as they surveyed the castle from a low rise. “A defensible place, but if we can’t hold the Arryth, it will hardly matter. They’ll just surround it and starve us out, and a siege is a bad way to die.”
“It was built for another age,” Martin said, “before the provinces united. After Magis died, no one thought we would ever see the Merakhi back on our soil.” He waved at the throngs of refugees heading west, leaving the duke’s lands behind. “There aren’t enough castles in Illustra to protect the people that have filled the kingdom. We must win.”
Captain Geraud twitched his reins, looking uncomfortable. “If you please, Pater, the Judica is waiting.”
When Martin nodded, the church guards drew weapons and surrounded him, forcing Cruk and Luis outside of the circle. They descended a low rise and crossed the half mile of field that teemed with more armed men than Martin had ever envisioned. Pikemen drilled under the strident direction of their commanders. A row of men with longbows stretched into the distance, drawing and releasing a cloud of arrows into the air. The flight arced almost lazily overhead before plummeting toward a red-cloth target spread on the ground.
It seemed a vast company, but Cruk’s expression told a different story.
They crossed a broad moat, their horses’ hooves echoing like the call of a drum. Inside the courtyard, the church guards dismounted, and the captain signaled Martin to do the same.
When Luis and Cruk made to follow, Geraud held up one hand. “My orders were to convey Martin Arwitten to the hall of the Judica alone and under guard.” He ducked his head. “I’m sorry, Pater.”
Martin swallowed, forced a reassuring smile to his face. “It’s quite all right, Captain.” He turned to Luis and Cruk. “You both know what to do.”
Though his arrival hadn’t been a surprise, guards kept him waiting outside the grand hall the Judica had claimed for its meeting space. When the doors opened and they escorted him in, each of the benefices wore the ceremonial red of their position along with the gold chain and symbol of their office, confirming his fears. The seating would be a formal one. Archbenefice Canon had confessed before he died, and the entire Judica knew Martin and Luis had cast for the king privately. That he had done so under the orders of the archbenefice would gain him no clemency whatsoever.
The only questioned that remained would be the penalty, or rather, how they would choose to enact it. The Judica had devised rather creative means of execution in the past.
Instead of raised seating, the benefices sat arrayed in a broad half circle of cushioned chairs running several rows deep. The most powerful members that remained after Bertrand Canon’s purge occupied the front.
The doors banged shut, and a guard barred them from within.
A seat that would have been occupied by the archbenefice sat empty at the focal point of the arc, but on either side sat Benefices Kell and Kerran, old and young, benefices of the most powerful dioceses in the kingdom, both stern faced, both ready to pass judgment.
A functionary stepped forward, pulled the archbenefice’s staff from its holder, and rapped it on the floor six times. Martin sighed. Had the count been held to three, he would have been allowed to speak. Six strikes meant the Judica had already voted.
“Benefice Kerran,” Kell intoned. His voice carried the hollow timbre of the old. “Recite the charges.”
Kerran rose and moved to face Martin a mere arm’s length away. “Martin Arwitten, it has been charged and confirmed by lot that you cast for Illustra’s king in contravention of the authority of the Judica. Further, it has been confirmed that, by your absence, you allowed the blame for this act to fall upon Earl Stone, placing his life in danger.”
Benefice Kell’s voice ripped through the hall. “How do you plead?”
Plead? Martin shook his head. They’d struck the floor six times. There was no plea. All he could do was confess.
“The charges are true.”
Kerran nodded as if he expected no less. “And have you no extenuating circumstances to offer in your behalf, Martin Arwitten?”
If he wanted to save himself from the worst of their penalty, this would be his only chance. Canon had ordered him to find the next king. True, he should have reported the archbenefice’s actions to the Judica, but he had still been a subordinate acting on the instructions of his superior, and the circumstances had been exceptional. And as for Errol being blamed for his actions, he’d left Erinon before the extent of the charges and their consequences had been known.
He wet his lips. These men were known to him. Once he had counted many of them as friends. Surely he could persuade enough of them to evade death.
A hint of breath, perhaps the guard’s, stirred the hair on the back of his neck, and his panic cleared. No. He would not quibble. Only absolute truth mattered now, when the kingdom stood on the edge of its own demise. “I have nothing to offer in my behalf, Benefice.”
Kerran nodded, his face somber.
“Then these proceedings are at an end,” Benefice Kell said. “Pronounce sentence.”
“Martin Arwitten.” Kerran’s voice filled the hall. As one, Kell and the rest of the benefices rose. A sea of red surrounded him. “To determine penance and penalty for your actions, the Grand Judica has sought guidance from the conclave.”
Martin jerked in surprise. What? The Judica never cast lots to determine punishment.
“In accordance with the conclave’s cast and the will of Deas, Eleison, and kn
owable Aurae, we pronounce sentence.”
Martin blinked, his mind fighting to make sense of what he’d just heard.
“Martin Arwitten, you are commanded to don the crimson of the office of archbenefice and assume the responsibilities of that office until death severs you from the service of the church.” The collected benefices including Kerran and Kell dropped to their knees. Kerran, his head bowed, pointed at Martin’s heart. “You are adjured by Deas.”
31
War Council
JUST BEFORE DAWN, Errol moved through the halls of Duke Escarion’s castle with tentative steps, ready to spring away at the first sign of being recognized. His recovery of the book of Magis had robbed him of any hope for anonymity. Everywhere he went, servants pointed and whispered, ducking their heads and bowing as if he were royalty. Even other members of the nobility, seasoned men and women old enough to be his grandparents and know better, spoke to him in quiet, almost reverent tones, ducking their heads each time he replied.
He wanted nothing more than to slip away from the crowds of churchmen and nobles who packed the corridors, but the proclamations from the Judica made that impossible. After his unlikely elevation, Martin seemed intent on correcting perceived slights to Errol on behalf of his predecessor and Rodran.
Errol just wanted him to shut up.
With Adora still days away according to the latest messenger, the only honest company he cared for was Cruk and Rale. Merodach was straightforward enough, but the taciturn captain hoarded his speech the way a miser guarded his gold. Bemused, he turned a corner and nearly ran over the slight form of Mickala Escarion.
“Pardon me, Duchess,” he said, stammering his words. He still struggled to reconcile this woman, who seemed no more than a decade older than himself, as the mother of Derek and Darren Escarion. “I should pay more attention to what’s in front of me.”
Her laughter brightened the hall like an additional torch. “You can be excused, I think. Do you require anything, Earl Stone?”
He nodded. “I’ve gotten turned around. Could you direct me to Captain Cruk? I believe he is in the nobles’ hall.”
She signaled the servant trailing behind her as she looped an arm through his with a motherly smile that belied her age. “Come, Earl Stone, I will conduct you.”
He slipped into the hall used by the nobles to plan the campaign. It was empty now, or nearly so. Cruk, Reynald, Rale, and Merodach stood at the oversized table gazing at a huge map of the Arryth. They didn’t appear pleased.
At the sound of the door, the four men looked up.
“I’m sorry,” Errol said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll come back later.”
Rale shook his head, the suggestion of a smile playing around his lips. “Said the hero of the kingdom.”
Cruk grunted. “Three times over.” He waved a hand, beckoning. “Come here, Errol. Take a look at the midden we’re wading through.”
The absence of Cruk’s customary title for him—boy—brought a strange pang of regret. Too much had changed and too fast.
“I’m not very good at reading maps,” Errol said.
“We’ll explain,” Rale said. He traced a line of mountains that started just west of Steadham in the north, ran south along the eastern border of Gascony, and then ran west with the border of Basquon. “This line of low mountains is the front we must hold. If the Merakhi or the Morgols break through into the flatland of the Arryth, they’ll push us all the way back to the Beron Strait.”
Errol peered at the map. Notations marked each gap in the mountains. He pointed at one of the numbers in red. “What do those mean?”
“That’s the number of men we estimate are needed to hold the gap,” Reynald said.
Cruk snorted. “The bare minimum.”
Merodach nodded. “And that’s for a single engagement. There won’t be any reinforcements. The numbers are in thousands.”
Errol added up the markers. The other men lapsed into silence as he did so and time stretched. He’d never been quick with numbers despite Naaman Ru’s abbreviated attempt to turn him into a merchant. “We need a hundred thousand men?”
Cruk exhaled through his nose as if he smelled something foul. “No, Errol. We need more, a lot more.”
“How many do we have?”
Rale squinted. “Seventy thousand, perhaps ninety with the Morgols Archbenefice Arwitten brought with him. Princess Adora indicates that she has another ten thousand shadowlanders. That’s all there is, unless we start drafting old men and boys who know nothing about fighting.”
Cruk gestured his disgust. “Always a mistake. That type of conscript is more of a hindrance in battle than an asset.”
Errol stared at the map with its uncompromising reality and shook his head. It wasn’t hopeless—it was worse. “What’s happening now?”
Rale pointed to the southeastern end of the range. “Watch captains Indurain and Merkx are investing the Pelligroso Pass. The Merakhi advance force Princess Adora encountered should arrive there within the week.”
Errol’s stomach lurched. These men talked about thousands dying with little more emotion than they would spend discussing breakfast. “Can they hold?”
Rale shrugged. “We hope so.”
He fought the panic that erupted in his stomach, threatening to bring his breakfast back up on him. They had invited him to look at the map, to think, not to fall to pieces like some scared village drunk. He stared at the chart. The oversized scale managed to convey the details of the terrain in terrifying clarity. The Pelligroso Pass resembled an extended passage rather than a gateway. That seemed important. There were regions of the Sprata that looked like that, the gorge for one.
He pointed. “How difficult would it be to get men, ours or the enemies’, up onto the cliffs overlooking the pass?”
Rale nodded his approval. “It can’t be done from their side, but the slope is more gradual from ours.”
“Bowmen,” Errol said. “As many as you can spare. If you—we—lose that gap, it won’t matter if we hold the rest.”
“What else?” Rale prompted.
Errol looked again. What was Rale fishing for? His plan would work. He checked that thought. No, his plan should work, but every fight he’d seen held unexpected elements. What would he do if the Merakhi somehow nullified his bowmen and came through the gap? “Here.” He pointed to the western end, where the pass opened into the fertile lands of the Arryth. “Close the gap. Use soldiers, conscripts, anyone you can. If they’re no good in a fight, let them fill the gap with enough earth and rock so that there won’t be one.” He shrugged. “At least they can narrow it to give us a better chance.”
Rale looked away, seeking Cruk and Merodach. “Well,” he said. “How do you vote?”
Merodach nodded. “Better than most. Captaincy.”
“And you, Captain Cruk?” Rale asked.
“The archbenefice won’t like it,” Cruk said. “He’ll probably have a fit. You know why we can’t give him his own command.”
Rale brushed away Cruk’s argument with a wave. “Can we afford not to? We have few enough men who can think through the advantages of the terrain. Will Captain Liam remain here at Escarion while men of lesser talent command our forces?”
Cruk sighed. “No. It’s one argument Martin will lose with him.”
The import of their discussion became apparent. “Me? You want me to command?”
“Yes,” Rale said. “Welcome to the watch, Earl Stone, I should say Captain Stone. It’s more than honorary now.”
Errol shook his head. “I’ve never commanded anyone in battle. I don’t know the first thing about giving orders.”
Cruk grunted. “Nonsense, lad. You placed your men and your fallback better than most anyone else. The part of command you’re worried about is simple. Give an order, and if it’s not followed, thump the idiot with your staff until he sees the error of his ways.”
Captain Reynald looked at Rale, shaking his head. “Arwitten will flay the ski
n off us for this.”
Rale shrugged and looked at Merodach. “I’m more than happy to put the question of Errol’s command to the conclave.”
After a moment in which he’d forgotten to breathe, Errol faced the white-haired captain. “You’ve already cast the question. How did you even think to ask that?”
Merodach nodded to Reynald. “When he suggested you for command, I offered to fashion the lots.” He shrugged. “No other argument would persuade Martin to let you go, I think.”
“Maybe not even that one.”
Errol nodded, dumbfounded. “When? Where?” He shook his head. “Who?”
Rale made gestures with his hands that Errol supposed were meant to calm him before he pointed to the map again. “We’re filling the gaps from the south up. We still have shadowlanders trickling in through the mountains in north Gascony, but we should be safe from Morgol attack for weeks yet.”
He straightened and placed his big hand on Errol’s shoulder. “As for who, your troops will be comprised of watchmen and irregulars.” A hint of a smile curled his lips beneath his strong, broad nose. “And there are some pretty tough-looking irregulars who have been asking after you.”
Cruk nodded. “The Soede leading them is the fattest swordsman I’ve ever seen, but he knocked a sergeant of the watch unconscious for making light of him.”
Laughter, surprised and clean, gushed from Errol before he realized it. “I’ll take them, all of them. They’re not particularly disciplined, but they all know how to swing a sword.”
Rale sighed. “Now to speak with the archbenefice.”
Reynald tucked his hands into his sword belt. “Would you rather I did it?”
Errol’s mentor shook his head. “No. Martin will discover sooner or later this was my idea.”
Cruk laughed, raucous, loud. “Elar, you seem to have a gift for annoying the head of the church.”
Rale gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I can’t deny it.”
“No!” Martin thundered. “I forbid it!” His gaze landed on Errol and Captain Rale like a whip. Errol winced as if leather had found his skin. “Are you daft? Are you insane?” Martin’s voice rose with each question until his bellow filled the hall.
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