A Draw of Kings

by Patrick W. Carr

  Muen relayed the order, his voice cutting through the sudden din of voices like a trumpet. A riderless horse came through the gap at a gallop, hooves pounding the road. A thousand of Errol’s men drove their mounts, whipping flanks with their reins in an effort to seal the passage. Bowmen scrabbled up the cliff, hands and legs pushing, moving too fast to see if the next handhold or foothold was sound. More than one fell screaming to the rocks below.

  Errol tried to spur his horse forward, but Sven’s hands on the reins prevented him. “The captain commands from the rear, my lord.”

  Rage mottled Errol’s vision. “I can’t command if I can’t see what’s happening.” He pointed to a rise just to the right of the gap. “I’m headed there. I want the swords in the center on horseback in case the pikes can’t hold. Muen! You’re with me.”

  He jerked the reins from Sven’s hands and dug his heels into Midnight’s flanks as bile rose to his throat. The clash of men and weapons filled his ears as the first wave of pikemen arrived at the gap and dismounted, forming hasty ranks two deep—too shallow to withstand a real charge—and rushed forward.

  The line bulged, thinning in the center, where ferrals on all fours darted in between pikemen. Errol watched Sven move a phalanx of swords into the middle, chopping with short, vicious strokes at the spawn that managed to get inside the reach of the pikes.

  Men poured into the battle. Ferral howls of frustration, oddly human, filled the air.

  Muen clapped him on the back. “We’re holding!”

  Errol nodded. Muen spoke the truth, but their casualties were horrific. They couldn’t afford to trade death for death with the Merakhi. “We need those bows!”

  From his vantage point, he spied the monstrous figure of a man in the midst of the ferrals, laughing. He topped the demon spawn by at least three feet.

  Muen’s triumph faded into horror. “Deas in heaven, how can we fight that?”

  Errol grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him around until their gazes locked. “Can you climb?”

  Muen gaped but nodded.

  “Get to Lieutenant Arick. Tell him to train their fire on that giant and any others like him. They’re driving the forces.”

  Muen stared through him, not moving. Errol whipped his hand across Muen’s face. His head snapped to one side, red hair flying. “Move!”

  Midnight leaped forward at Errol’s urging. The giant Merakhi had the ferrals organized now, interspersing them with swordsmen who swung heavy-bladed shirra in wide arcs. The center of the line bulged again as Errol’s swordsmen faced a combination of blades and teeth.

  They had to straighten the line. The bowmen wouldn’t be able to separate friend from foe otherwise. He searched for Hasta, the lieutenant in charge of the pikes. If they didn’t reinforce the center, they’d lose the entire front.

  He caught sight of the blocky Talian directing men on the left.

  The noise of the battle deafened him, and he screamed in Hasta’s face to make himself heard.

  “Fill the center with pikes! Like a hedgehog!”

  Hasta took one look at the bulge thinning their forces and nodded. At his command, the back ranks pivoted and wheeled toward the center. The pikes thickened until the demon spawn could no longer slip through.

  The line straightened.

  As it did a rain of arrows raked the Merakhi forces in a hail of death.

  The Merakhi attack didn’t falter—it melted in its tracks. A flood of shafts flew at the giant. With a roar of defiance, he sheathed his sword and grabbed a Merakhi warrior in each hand. As easily as Errol might lift a child, the spawn lifted the men into the air, using them as shields.

  A dozen arrows thudded into the men, who jerked several times before going still. The remnants of the Merakhi force retreated, arrows chasing them the length of the gap. A long mound of casualties, a barrow of dead, filled the area between the cliffs.

  Seconds Hasta and Sven came to him. Hasta, blood flowing from a shallow cut on his forehead, bowed from the neck. “Congratulations, Captain, on your victory.”

  Too many of the dead belonged to his force for him to feel anything more than relief, but Hasta’s gesture required some response. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Please keep half the men in formation until we hear from Lieutenant Arick.” He turned to Sven. “Deploy scouts. We need to know how far the Merakhi are withdrawing and the size of their force.”

  Sven nodded but hesitated. When Hasta withdrew, he spoke, keeping his voice low. “How did you know?” The big Soede waved an arm like a giant sausage toward the mound of dead that filled the gap. “If we’d been even an hour later, the passage would have been lost. Merakhi would be flooding into the Arryth right now. I heard the scouting report back at Escarion’s. They said we had a week.”

  Errol squirmed as if his shirt no longer fit. “I don’t know, Sven.” He broke the gaze. “I just knew.”

  “Well, you kept us alive, my lord.”

  He shook his head. “Not all of us.”

  “Nothing could have changed that.”

  His sigh misted in the cool mountain air. “I am tired of people telling me how necessary dying is.” Errol checked himself. He didn’t have time to indulge in self-pity. With the immediate threat over, more and more of the men had turned, looking toward him with questioning expressions, waiting for orders.

  He pointed. “Order anyone not on active duty to help clear the pass of the bodies. Burn theirs and bury ours back in the valley.” He craned his neck, searching. “Find Conger. Have him say the panikhida and get the names of as many of our dead as he can. If we survive to return to Escarion, we’ll notify the families.”

  Sven’s frown bunched the flesh above his eyes. “Why not keep the bodies in the gap as a barrier to their charge?”

  Errol gestured at the walls of the canyon. “Because we’re at the western end. If we stay here, eventually they’ll push hard enough to force us out of the entrance and into open territory. Once they do, our cause is lost. We must press farther into the gap.”

  The Soede ducked his head, embarrassed, a gesture that brought a smile to Errol’s face. “I should have thought of that.”

  Sven left, mumbling to himself, and was replaced a moment later by Lieutenant Arick, his long nose twitching with excitement. “Magnificent! I never imagined such a victory.”

  The lieutenant’s excitement annoyed Errol—their triumph had been too close and might well prove to be temporary. “Lieutenant Arick, congratulations on a job well done. Your aid was most timely.”

  Arick nodded his thanks at the praise, but his eyes tightened at the corners as he caught Errol’s tone.

  “Tell me what you saw of their leader,” Errol said.

  The lieutenant paled. “We fired enough shafts at him to kill a dozen men, Captain. I’ve never seen a man that big move so fast.” He wagged his head back and forth. “I’ve never seen a man that big.”

  “It’s not a man, Arick. It’s a man possessed by a malus. It may get bigger.”

  His lieutenant nodded, dazed. “I fired at him as they retreated. Twice he snatched arrows from the air before they could find their mark.”

  “Keep your men on the heights, Arick, and keep them alert. They won’t let us have that kind of advantage twice. As soon as the bodies are cleared, we’re going to move forward and claim as much of the gap as we can.”

  Arick nodded and left. A notion occurred to Errol, and he called to the retreating figure. “Lieutenant”—Arick turned—“have your men take torches with them. The Merakhi may have spawn that can see in the dark as well as climb.”

  Errol turned, seeking a place to rest. Though he hadn’t swung his staff once, fatigue threatened to drop him where he stood. How did Rale and Cruk stand it?

  The village of Aresco had long forgotten its reason for being. Everywhere Adora looked, she saw signs of decline. Evidence of roads running in and out of the village lay before her, but missing stones at the edges—probably scavenged for fences—testified to the fact
such thoroughfares were no longer needed. Even the buildings had a too-spacious look, as if they awaited the return of families and merchants to lend them enough life to offer hospitality.

  Children scurrying through the oversized streets regarded them with curiosity, and more than one merchant or goodwife studied them with dread. Adora guided her horse up to a man whose countenance suggested more awareness than his fellows. “Can you guide us to the inn?”

  He lifted an arm, but his hand didn’t quite complete the gesture to point. Arthritis swelled his knuckles. “Go right at the next street.”

  She nodded her thanks. “If you have a healer, ask them for borage root oil. It will help the swelling in your hands.”

  He drifted away.

  “These people are already dead,” Rokha murmured. “If the Forbidden Strait falls to the Merakhi, this village won’t even put up a fight.” Her face closed in disappointment. “These people haven’t even mustered the courage to run away.”

  “Where would they run?” Adora asked.

  Rokha shrugged at the question. “The kingdom is larger than Gascony, and the world is bigger than Illustra and Merakh. There’s always a place to run.”

  The weathered sign at the inn no longer indicated its name or purpose, and a layer of dust covered most of the tables in the interior. When they asked the innkeeper for a room, surprise interrupted the dispirited expression he wore.

  Dinner consisted of tasteless cheese and bread. Adora sat in the common room watching a listless fire burn in the fireplace. “Does this await Illustra if we lose? Will the world simply lose its color and become a shadow of itself?”

  “No,” Rokha said. Her deep brown eyes clouded. “It will die altogether. The malus aren’t coming to rule; they’re coming to destroy.”

  The bland food and heatless fire depressed her. Adora shoved the remains of her dinner away. “We should wait for Waterson upstairs. I don’t want to be recognized.”

  Rokha nodded and they drifted toward their room.

  An hour later, as twilight lowered like a shroud, footsteps thundered up the stairs. Rokha grabbed Adora by the arm, thrust her behind as she drew her sword. “Stay behind me.”

  Waterson pounded around the corner at a run. At the sight of Rokha and Adora he stopped. “Company’s coming.”

  Rokha spun to face her. “It’s time to leave, Your Highness.”

  “In the dark?” Adora asked. Waterson’s distress gripped her throat. He didn’t usually care enough about anything to be this frantic.

  Rokha nodded. “There are no allies here. These people don’t care enough to help us or keep us hidden.” She turned to Waterson. “How far behind are they?”

  “Minutes, and both of them have better horses than we do.”

  “Both?” Rokha asked. She fingered her sword. “Let’s just kill them and be on our way.”

  Waterson shook his head. “This isn’t a fight we want, watch girl. There’s something wrong with those two.”

  The inflection Waterson put on the word wrong raised Adora’s hackles.

  Rokha paled, her lips stark against pallid skin. “What did they look like?”

  “They stopped where I left the road,” Waterson said. “Then the woman dismounted.” He shook his head, disbelieving. “Either she was riding a pony or she was close to seven feet tall.”

  “Malus,” Rokha spat.

  Weight settled into Adora’s middle. What woman would have reason to give herself to a malus? Suspicion gnawed at her, but she pushed it away with an effort. Questions would take time they didn’t have. “We have to get away from the village. They won’t hesitate to kill everyone to get to us.”

  They grabbed their packs and rushed the stairs, heedless of the mild surprise on the faces of the villagers in the common room. A scream echoed from the street. Waterson signaled, and Adora dropped to the floor next to Rokha, hiding beneath the level of the dirty windows.

  “The back,” Waterson said. “Get to the horses.” He threw the bar on the inn’s front door. The boards of the threshold creaked under the tread of heavy footsteps, and a blow followed by the groan of protesting wood sounded behind them as they raced out the back toward the stable.

  Adora followed Rokha into the courtyard at a run, the tendons of her right hand aching from the clench on her rapier. A stirring of shadow warned her, and she threw herself to the ground, rolling as the clash of steel rang in her ears. She came up, her sword ready, to see Rokha backpedaling beneath a furious attack.

  Ru’s daughter slipped a stroke by the narrowest margin. In seconds she would be down. With her free hand Adora grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it at Rokha’s attacker.

  He flinched. Not much, but enough for Rokha to riposte and launch a desperate swipe at his head. Her attacker whipped his sword up to parry, too slow to block but enough to turn the attack so the flat of Rokha’s sword instead of the blade took him across the temple, and he toppled like a felled pine.

  Rokha panted, shaking and winded over the still figure. “Skorik.” She snarled his name like a curse before moving forward, the point of her sword low, as if she contemplated what to do with him.

  Adora struggled to pull air into her lungs. It couldn’t have been more than seconds since they entered the yard, but it felt like hours.

  Waterson burst through the door. He crashed forward, grabbing Rokha by the arm. “It’s coming.”

  Rokha threw a curse behind her as they ran toward the stables. Adora grabbed a bridle and threw herself onto the first horse, smacking its rump with her sword, praying it would run away from the malus. A few hundred yards. That’s all she needed to stop and get the bit in its mouth. Her mount pounded after Waterson’s, and she offered thanks for its herd instinct. A horse thundered next to hers, and she looked over to see Rokha chop at the lantern by the entrance, spraying oil and fire onto the wood and hay.

  Ru’s daughter grimaced. “If we’re lucky, the stable will go up.” Her mouth grew tight “I hate killing horses.”

  Adora looked back to see flames racing across the hay to lick the dry wood of the barn. The sound of frightened horses pierced the air with their shrill cries. A figure, monstrous and threatening, stood silhouetted in the fire, and Adora bent over the neck of her horse, urging it forward.

  Past the edge of town, Waterson slid forward on his mount’s back to grab its muzzle and bring it to a halt. Adora’s horse slowed, then stopped. She dismounted, sliding the bridle over its head to put the bit in its mouth, concentrating on the task to keep her hands from shaking. The horse champed as she remounted. She wrapped the reins around her fists as if the tight circles of leather could return the sense of security the monstrous form had taken from her.

  They raced along the road southwest until the onset of dusk made their pace a hazard. Waterson, his features indistinct in the gloom, dismounted. The landscape rolled away from them, and clouds covered any hope of moonlight, or even starlight. A copse of trees, cedars by the smell, beckoned in the distance. Waterson ignored them, began walking.

  “Aren’t we stopping?” Adora asked.

  “I’m not,” Waterson said. “I’m going to get away from that thing even if I have to feel for each step in the dark.”

  Rokha nodded her agreement. “We don’t know if they were able to follow us. The Merakhi say a malus is friends with the dark. I don’t know if they mean the evil ones can see at night, but this is a poor time to find out.”

  An hour later, after they’d been reduced to Waterson’s suggestion, a sliver of argent pierced through the thin clouds behind them. Light like a candle seen through a shroud illumined the road. They mounted and rode at a walk as Adora dozed off and on in her saddle.

  When the garish light of day roused her, she found her horse trailing Waterson’s mount, the lord holding her reins with one hand while he guided his horse with the other. Behind her Rokha lay stretched across her horse’s back as if accustomed to sleeping that way.

  Adora yawned, her jaws cracking, and Wat
erson turned to face her. “Good morning, Your Highness.” Smudges like strokes of charcoal lay beneath his eyes.

  “Didn’t you sleep?”

  He shook his head. “I can keep sleep at bay for a while, if needed, a leftover benefit of a misspent youth. The ability came in handy in the shadow lands when we guarded against the things that tried to come through the gap.”

  He frowned. “We have a problem. My horse is going lame. If we’re pushed to it, it won’t make a gallop. It needs rest.” He laughed without humor. “Actually, it needs to be about ten years younger. Its teeth are shorter than a churchman’s temper.”

  Her stomach growled. “Do we have any food?”

  Waterson shook his head. “Only if you want to eat my horse.” He shrugged. “It may come to that. I have no idea how far the next village is.”

  A soft beat of hooves preceded Rokha’s presence. “This region is sparse. The soil’s not right for farming. Mostly, it’s used for sheep.” She waved a hand at the scrub dotting the rolling countryside.

  They limped into a village before noon with only the wind to greet them. Waterson dismounted. With careful movements, he ran his hands down the legs and lifted each hoof. The horse flinched as he ran his hand across the frog of a rear hoof. He pulled his knife and dug until a pebble came loose. He covered his nose against the stench.

  “That rock has probably been in there for weeks.” He kicked the ground in disgust as he looked around. “I doubt the farrier or blacksmith left anything behind we could use. If I could pack the hoof with moss, I might be able to ride her.”

  Adora dug in the pack behind her saddle and brought forth a bundle wrapped in waxed parchment. “There might be something in here that will help. Healer Norv taught me how to treat infections.” She laid the packet on the ground and opened it. “I have urticweed.” She shrugged. “It’s mostly used to stop bleeding, but it also helps speed healing, in people anyway.” She dug further. “I have veritmoss too. It’s dry, but it might work if you wet it and pack it in.”

  “What’s it do?” Waterson asked.