To his right, Sven wiped his mouth. “Six hundred swords.”
Errol took the news like a blow. He’d expected the swords to carry the heaviest casualty, but Sven’s report distressed him. The pikes would have to spread to cover the additional ground.
Lieutenant Hasta threw back his shoulders. “We still have over two thousand men, Captain.” His voice dropped. “But we’re losing the pikes. I’ve got three score men who could fight if they had arms.”
He nodded, acknowledging the lieutenant’s familiar complaint. “Any sign of a resupply wagon?”
Sven shook his head. “No, Captain.”
The Soede’s voice sounded troubled. Errol couldn’t blame him. The Merakhi could be filling the Arryth behind them for all they knew. He fingered the blanks he kept in his pocket, tempted to cast the question, but he doubted his enemy on the other side of the bowl would give him time. “Dispatch a couple of the men without weapons back into the Arryth. Send one south and one north. I want to know what’s going on with the other gaps and if we have any hope of reinforcements. Take the rest of the unarmed pikemen and have them cut lances from any tree they find. We’ll use them to reinforce the line.”
He turned to Arick. “Do you have enough arrows?”
As expected, Arick shook his head.
“I dispatched the wounded back to the Arryth to make new ones, but the wood is green and heavy. We’ve searched the bodies to retrieve as many as we could, but we’re still going to run short,” Arick said. “What will we do then?”
Errol made an effort not to chew his words. “Throw rocks.”
The cauldron of men and spawn across the basin boiled over, spilling men and beasts into the bowl in preparation for another attack. “Get to your men, Arick. We’ll pull our forces back to the narrowest part of the gap. That will take some of the burden off the swords.”
Moments later they came like a flood.
Men and animals clashed, and the screams of the dying men mixed with the howls of wounded ferrals. Errol’s men bunched in the neck of the passage, an opening barely a hundred paces wide, trapping the Merakhi as arrows fell like judgment. Three rows of pikes, backed by the swords, created an impenetrable barrier like a hedge of iron-tipped thorns. Muen’s trumpet-like tenor blasted over the lines as he relayed Errol’s and Sven’s orders.
Then the rain of arrows withered. Errol searched the cliff, unable to see Arick or his men. Something had gone wrong. Dwindled though they were, Arick’s supply of arrows shouldn’t have given out for some while yet.
The Merakhi, unhindered by bow fire, thrust against the center. Then the ranks of the enemy thinned, and a monstrous figure marched forward with huge strides. The sword line bowed as the giant’s massive shirra swept forward, snapping blades and felling men like blades of grass beneath a sickle. The line began to collapse.
Errol threw himself from his horse, the metal staff in his hand, and sprinted toward the line. “Sven! You’re with me.”
His lieutenant dispatched a Merakhi swordsman with a backhanded stroke to the neck and broke from the line to ride next to Errol. Blood flowed from a deep cut on the Soede’s free arm. “Captain, you can’t do this.”
Errol pointed toward the malus. “If we don’t stop him, we’ll lose the line. Stop arguing and follow me.”
He fought his way forward, striking back and forth, aiming killing blows at the exposed necks of his enemies. Blood, hot and sticky, covered his hands. Then he came face-to-face with the giant.
At the sight of Errol its mouth distorted, stretched into a cut of savage glee across the misshapen face. “I know you, little one. The bondage of Belaaz’s court suited you better.”
Errol tried to see through the influence of the malus to the man beneath, but the misshapen lumps on the Merakhi’s face, as if some creature within longed to escape, prevented him. The eyes, filmed and putrid, stared at him without blinking. A bulge in the face shifted and then split, as if the skin could no longer contain the spiritual infection within it.
The shirra whistled as it cut the air, fast, too fast to avoid. Errol would have to parry. Even as he shifted to block, he knew the mass behind the blow would knock him off balance. And leave him open to the monster’s follow.
He brought the staff up to block, pushing the metal with all the strength he held, trying to counter the impact. The clash brought only sparks from the weapons. Errol stumbled, righted himself as astonishment washed over him. That blow should have sent him sprawling.
The creature’s mouth split into a snarl beneath a gaze that lashed him, leeching the warmth from his veins. “Our ancient weapon will not rescue you, little one. If I cannot break it, I will beat it from your hands and make your men watch as I eat your heart.”
Errol backed away, the lines of battle flowing around them, the armies clashing to a draw as men and spawn fought. A wind, channeled by the narrow passage that led to the Arryth, cooled the sweat that bathed him.
The feel of the breeze brought a scream of rage from the malus-possessed Merakhi. “Do you think he will save you? He didn’t even bother to save himself.”
The shirra came for him, heavy as a headsman’s axe and impossibly fast. Errol threw himself to the side, desperate to avoid the blow. The giant followed with an overhand strike, his mouth wide with glee. Errol rolled, and the blade struck sparks from the rock. Desperate, he raised his staff, frantic with the need to keep the malus from closing with him.
As if in a dream, over the giant’s shoulder he saw a single shaft descending from the top of the canyon, heading for his enemy’s head. But the malus noticed his stare and whirled, his sword spinning to take the arrow midflight. Errol thrust the point of his staff forward, his feet scrabbling as he tried to get his legs beneath him and rise. But he was too slow. The malus turned, his sword whistling, eyes dancing with the certainty of Errol’s death.
Sven dispatched his opponent with a backhanded sweep of his sword and leapt, hitting the malus in the back, knocking the giant forward. Surprise filled the creature’s vibrating eyes as the point of Errol’s staff took the giant through the throat.
The Merakhi stiffened, falling backward as Errol’s staff found its brain.
Ferrals howled, scampering to get away from the battle. Deprived of their support, the Merakhi line collapsed as men tried to retreat. Columns of pikes wheeled in from the sides, closing off the escape of the men and spawn who’d been closest. With grim efficiency the pikes advanced.
The battle moved away from Errol as the enemy retreated. Sven and Hasta pulled him back, their faces etched with relief. Errol pointed toward the cliffs. “Get a man up there. I want to know what happened to our bowmen.”
Sven sent a swordsman scampering back to the ascension point before turning back to Errol, his mouth open. But he stopped short as the pounding of hooves sounded behind them. Errol turned to see a rider throw himself out of the saddle, stumbling across the rocks a dozen paces away.
Hasta stepped forward. “Sergeant Dyre, report.”
The Bellian pointed, his eyes wide. “Merakhi forces are coming up from the south. They’re in the Arryth.”
Errol stepped forward. He would not retreat for a rumor. “You know this?”
Dyre nodded, his chin bobbing. “One of our scouts spied them from the cliff. They’re driving a force of Illustrans before them.” He swallowed, his throat working with the motion. “It’s a rout, sir.”
Despair settled over Errol like a shroud. The gap to the south could not be regained. “How long before they reach our position?”
“Tomorrow.”
It would have to do. He turned to Lieutenant Hasta. “Have your men form up at the neck. Let the Merakhi think we mean to hold our position. As soon as it gets full dark, we retreat.”
“Where will we go?” Sven asked. The Soede sounded as though his last hope had been slaughtered in front of him.
Errol fought a wave of helplessness so deep it threatened to drown him. He wanted to crawl into an ale ba
rrel and hide there. “There’s nothing defensible between here and Escarion. See to your men. Send messengers to the gaps to the north.” He chewed his lip. “I want the two of you and Arick, if he’s still alive, to meet me at the western entrance of the gap in an hour.”
The Arryth lay spread before him, its verdant health dimmed by the cloud of dust raised by the fighting to the south. Sven and Hasta issued their reports: Their forces were down by over a third. Lieutenant Arick and most of the bowmen were dead, taken unaware by ferrals that had scaled the cliff.
Errol sighed. “I should have replaced Arick before the fighting started. I’m to blame for ignoring my suspicions.”
“He died well,” Sven said. “He was the bowman closest to you, there at the end.”
“We needed him to live.” He looked to Sven. “Have we recovered their bows?”
The Soede nodded, his extra chin moving in confirmation. “Aye, but we have precious few men left to man them.”
36
The Bas-Relief
FOR FIVE DAYS they’d ridden as if the Merakhi army hunted them from just behind the next hill, but the wind that broke winter’s chill had carried no sound Adora could attribute to pursuit. Now the sun touched the horizon beneath a heavy cloud bank. Days of fitful sleep had left her eyes scratchy and dry in the light.
Waterson stiffened ahead of her and scented the air. “I smell the sea.”
They crested a hill and came in view of a large village.
“Tacita,” Adora said. Nothing moved over the village nestled in a broad arc of limestone that cupped the area in a protective hand, but a sensation of recognition nagged at her.
“Where do we begin?” Waterson asked.
The question slid past her, meant for her but without import. She knew this place. Rather, she felt as if she should know it. They dismounted, leaving the horses to graze and drink from a pond within the confines of the town. Adora walked past the buildings, the odd sense of familiarity growing within her. At a junction where a church rose opposite an inn, she turned without thinking, heading up an incline toward a large building, a mansion that overlooked the town.
Why did she know this place? A rock wall four feet high, assembled from the limestone that littered the fields, surrounded the manse. Weeds poked through cracks in the stones that paved a road toward the broad keep. Wide windows, huge targets for even a moderately skilled bowman, testified that the mansion’s origin hearkened to a time of peace. Darkness filled those openings even as memories of life and light pulled at her.
Despite the immense solidity of the estate, everything struck her as too small, as if viewed from the wrong angle. They ascended a flight of rough-hewn steps leading to wide doors framed with massive oak planks.
Rokha drew her sword, her mouth tight. “I thought I saw movement at one of the windows.”
Waterson grabbed the thick iron pull on the door and shoved. Hinges squalled in protest as the door swung open into the gloom. Heavy drops pattered, and thunder rumbled in the distance, heralding an approaching storm. “I’m not overly fond of invitations to ambush.”
Adora tried to reconcile the impressions in her head that conflicted with her vision. “I know this place.”
“You’ve been here before?” Rokha asked.
She had to nod. “But I can’t remember when. At the far end of the room beyond this door, there’s a fireplace large enough for me to stand in.”
Waterson pulled his sword. “If we’re lucky, we won’t be attacked in here.” He snorted. “Not that anyone who knows me would consider me lucky. You have a way of surrounding yourself with unfortunate men, Your Highness. You should consider moving in different circles.”
Adora smiled despite the sorrow Waterson’s banter woke in her. “I consider myself fortunate in my chance of companions, Lord Waterson.”
For the space of a pair of breaths, Waterson’s expression of self-mockery slipped from his eyes. The tightness around them relaxed, and Adora beheld the man he would have been had not circumstance betrayed him.
He bowed. “At your service, Your Highness.”
She drew her sword and nodded.
They entered the next room. Waterson chuckled and pointed to a fireplace when a lightning flash briefly illuminated the space. “Not quite big enough to stand in.”
“Not for an adult,” Rokha said.
Their words took on a sepulchral echo in the empty space. Bits of broken furniture lay strewn here and there, but no lanterns or even torch material remained. Waterson led the way, moving with each flash of lightning. Adora followed, and Rokha protected their rear. The rain came in earnest, the sound mimicking the roar of the distant ocean.
“No,” Adora said, obeying the impression of a memory. “Go left.”
They departed the hall and followed arched corridors toward the back of the building. Despite Rokha’s suspicion, nothing stirred inside, and no sound evidenced the presence of others. They arrived at a set of doors framed by large windows that led outside. Waterson pointed at the floor.
“Wait for the next flash.”
In the harsh blue-white light that flickered across her vision, Adora could see two sets of footprints leading outside.
Waterson grimaced. “They got here before us.”
“Impossible,” Rokha said. “It has to be someone else.”
Waterson gestured in the gloom. “As evidence goes, this is pretty hard to refute.”
Adora frowned. Something didn’t seem right. “No. They couldn’t have beaten us here; they couldn’t have known. I didn’t even know where we were going until we arrived.”
Waterson’s chest inflated before he sighed. “I hope you’re right, Your Highness.”
He opened the door onto a torrent. Garish brilliance showed a small stone church across a brief courtyard surrounded by a high stone wall. Waterson led the way at a run, stopping once they’d gained the protection of the overhanging roof.
“Do you remember this place, Your Highness?”
Adora nodded. She did, though the scale of the church seemed too small to fit her intuition. “I must have been a young child.”
“The church would have been for the nobles of the house and perhaps for their staff,” Waterson said. “I had one as well, though it was smaller than this.” He moved through an archway into the sanctuary. It might have held thirty or forty people. Lightning showed through a far window.
“There’s nothing here,” Rokha said.
“There’s nowhere else to go,” Waterson said. “Check the floor.”
They split up, their movements timed to the flashes of the storm. No footprints marred the dust of the floor. But when they returned to the narthex, they spotted tracks leading to an alcove with a dark-paneled door, nearly invisible against the aged wood paneling of the room.
It opened to reveal a set of stairs descending into the depths of the earth. Orange light glowed from a small torch set into a sconce on the wall. Waterson took it in hand, eyeing it as he might a viper. “It’s just been lit.”
More light glowed from beneath them. Adora’s heart hammered against her ribs.
The stairs ended in a large oval chamber completely walled in with heavy blocks of limestone. By torchlight Adora could see niches fronted by faces cut in bas-relief, sculptures of men or women pictured in the flower of their youth. Some were children.
“It’s a crypt,” Waterson said. “There must be generations here.”
“It is.” A figure limned in shadow moved in the darkness. “There are. Welcome home, Your Highness.”
Another silhouette, larger and armed with a sword, joined the first. “We despaired of your coming.”
Waterson lifted his torch, and the shadows fled to reveal two normal-sized people. Adora’s heart slowed from its frantic race. They stepped forward and knelt to her. “Be welcome in Patria, the seat of your father.”
She gaped.
Charlotte and Will, Oliver Turing’s assistants, gazed up at her, awaiting her command,
their expectation plain.
She dipped her head. “Oliver Turing died before he could deliver his message. All he could tell me was that I needed to find my father.” She turned a slow circle, noting the number of tombs. “Why is he here? I always assumed he rested at Erinon.”
Her news of Oliver Turing struck them, and they touched their heads together, mourning, before Charlotte spoke. “The decision to hide your father’s body was made of desperation, Your Highness. The king and the church desired to erase his memory in case any of his sons survived.”
Adora stiffened. Sons. It had been years since anyone had dared to remind her of her father’s efforts to sire the future king. When it became clear Rodran would never produce an heir, the Judica had tasked Prince Jaclin with providing the scion Rodran could not. After the death of her mother, at Adora’s own birth, the Judica feared nefarious forces were at work, so they sent Jaclin to roam the countryside in hopes of hiding the heirs he produced. But the Merakhi assassins, the ghostwalkers, had found them all. Only the prince’s nickname, Randy Jac, had remained. She thrust the painful memories away. “Why would my uncle use a nuntius?”
“Because”—Charlotte smiled sadly—“he suspected something that he desperately wanted passed on, but the duke had him watched. Weir suspected the king of some secret knowledge.”
“So Oliver sent you here?” Adora asked. Realization flooded through her like sunlight. “This was one of my father’s estates. I played here as a child.”
Will brought an unlit torch forward, touched it to Waterson’s before moving to a niche hidden in the corner. “No one’s been allowed here in almost twenty years. The entire kingdom thought it abandoned, a belief the king encouraged. I think you’ll understand why.”
Charlotte came forward, touched her fingers to the bas-relief in front of her father’s tomb. “This is your father, Your Highness, as he looked some fifty years ago, when he was about your age.”
Gasps from Rokha and Waterson echoed her own. She knew him.
Martin Arwitten, leader of the faithful, first among equals within the hall of the Judica, sat speechless. He cudgeled his brain, berating himself as a fool and a coward for not speaking, for not offering the nobles who remained, chief among them Duke Escarion, the solace and comfort of the church.
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