A Draw of Kings

by Patrick W. Carr

  The captains rode back to their forces, giving the order to slow.

  Lieutenant Hasta coughed at his shoulder. “If they don’t take the bait, Captain Stone, they’ll have us all.”

  Errol nodded, acknowledging the observation without responding to it. “Where’s Sven?”

  The lieutenant’s gaze became troubled. Instead of answering directly he pointed toward the cliff. The draft horse that had carried Sven to the gap was tethered to rocks at the base. Up above, the Soede walked across the stone, his feet searching tentatively. In one hand he held a length of iron scavenged from a farmer’s cart. It looked almost dainty in his grip.

  Errol spurred Midnight to the base. He stood in the stirrups, craning his neck to yell up the height. “Curse your fat hide, Sven. What are you doing up there?”

  The Soede looked abashed, but resolution filled his face and posture. “You’ll need every bit of horsepower you can get, Captain. A draft horse is too valuable to waste on an overfed swordsman.”

  Errol winced. “Without that horse, he’s got no hope of escaping.”

  Lieutenant Hasta nodded. “He knows, Captain. He also knows that beast is worth five ordinary horses.”

  Twice he started forward to order Sven down the cliff. Both times he stopped, halted by the brutal truth of his insight. Stymied, he turned back to Hasta. “I want a horse left for him where it will be safe from the rockslide. If he manages to survive, he can catch up to us. I need my lieutenant.” He turned Midnight to inspect the archers so Hasta wouldn’t see the grief on his face.

  Every man and bow was hidden behind the rocks that peppered the road beneath the cliffs. Grizzled veterans with hands like gnarled tree roots stood next to wide-eyed lads younger than Errol. Diar Muen came forward to meet him. Arick’s replacement was more to his liking.

  “You understand what needs to be done?” Errol asked.

  The tall man nodded, stroking the longbow scavenged from the cliffs. The tinge of red in his hair proclaimed some trace of Erinon ancestry within. “Aye, Captain, we’ll give those Merakhi something to think about. We’ll mow them down like grass.”

  Errol nodded. “Remember what you’re about, Muen. At this point, we need our men alive more than we need dead Merakhi. I want the Merakhi bunched up and held at bay until they mount an all-out charge. As soon as you see them massing, I want every man on his horse and out of here.”

  Indurain and Merkx approached him, their faces troubled. “Our men are hidden in the gap, but we don’t have enough mounts for all of them.”

  Errol nodded. “Have them double up with the smallest men of my command.”

  Merkx’s face knotted. “Would it not be better for each man to have his own horse and make a run for Escarion?”

  Errol understood the unspoken question and chose to answer it. “The spawn within the Merakhi army would run us down from behind long before Escarion. Do you agree?”

  The Bellian’s jaw muscles clenched as if he were fighting his answer. At last he nodded. “But if your plan fails . . .”

  “If my plan fails,” Errol cut in, “then we will lose my force as well as yours, which was lost at any rate.” He turned to Indurain. “Do you disagree?”

  The Basqu sighed. “No, I do not.”

  The sudden whistle of arrows cut the air like the cry of a thousand wounded birds.

  Indurain pointed at the rain of shafts ascending in a shallow arc into the sky. “It seems we are past the point of debate.” The arrows began their descent toward the startled Merakhi cries. “Good luck, Captain Stone. We’ll await your signal.”

  He coaxed Midnight back toward the apex of the road, where he watched the vanguard of the Merakhi army halt. He nodded with satisfaction as the long stretch of men and spawn bunched together, shields raised to try and lessen their casualties.

  A runner sprinted toward him as the deadly rain trickled. “Muen says they’ve finished, Captain.”

  Errol nodded. “Have the men wait for my signal. If we break too soon, the Merakhi will flank us by withdrawing to the valley.”

  The opposing army frothed like a river at flood, shifting as if they suspected another volley. Then, with a massive roar, they began their charge up the long slope. Errol stood in his stirrups and circled his arm, as if ordering a charge.

  But instead of rushing to meet their opponent, every man rushed from the gap back down the other side of the road leading to Escarion, out of sight of the Merakhi. Handlers stood with the horses, waiting for the last of the men to escape. Errol rode by, his throat clutching at the sight of a massive draft horse and the thick ropes that connected it to the rocks at the base of the cliff. Up on top a thick-bodied Soede stood ready with a length of iron.

  Lieutenant Hasta pulled his sorrel in beside him.

  “Deas help us. I hope this works,” Errol said.

  The lieutenant gave a terse nod.

  The first of the Merakhi entered the gap, a mix of men and spawn howling for blood with every stride and leap. The handlers loosed the horses, riding just ahead of them on the last mounts. The animals, their noses filled with the scent of predators, needed no other urging. They plunged forward, thick ropes snaking behind them.

  Errol and Lieutenant Hasta rode just ahead of the handlers. The cry of terrified horses filled his ears, and he fought to keep Midnight under control. A straggler went down beneath a wave of ferrals, their teeth flashing white, then red.

  A trickle of scree warned him, and he jerked the reins to the left. Midnight shifted, a wrenching change in momentum that almost unhorsed him. On the heights above, his neck cording with effort, Sven strained to break a massive boulder loose from the side of the cliff. With a crack like the bones of the earth breaking, it came free, moving as if through water. Wherever it touched, more rock and earth broke loose to join it.

  Slabs of rock crumbled and shifted. The Merakhi forces at the front tried to retreat, but the men and spawn behind them advanced, filling the road as the side of the cliff gave way. Struggling to escape the path of the avalanche, Sven’s draft horse pulled a monstrous boulder.

  Merakhi and spawn cried out, mouths and muzzles stretching in panic as the avalanche grew, washing them down the slope, burying them beneath tons of debris. The draft horse faltered, its legs fighting to move but unable to budge the growing weight of rock against the thick ropes trailing behind it.

  Ignoring Hasta’s warning, Errol turned and raced back to the animal. The slide of rock grew closer as he dismounted and sawed at the thick hemp as he clutched the reins. Stones the size of his fists pelted him as he worked the blade back and forth in panicked strokes.

  It snapped with a popping sound and the rough fibers lashed him. With a lunge, he threw himself onto Midnight’s saddle. The river of earth and rock slowed. Where the road had been lay a vast hill of stones. He sighed, his hands shaking with relief. Nothing stirred.

  “How many of them do you think we killed, Captain?” Hasta asked. The lieutenant held a waterskin toward him.

  Errol washed the dirt from his throat. “Not enough. The survivors on the far side will regroup to pursue us through the valley, but we’ve given ourselves some time. I hope it’s enough for us to make it back.” He gave Midnight a nudge with his heels.

  A voice ghosted to him from above. “Could you wait up for me, Captain? I’m not as nimble as those skinny pikemen.”

  He searched the trail.

  “Where’s the supply wagon? I’m hungry.”

  Errol looked up to see Sven scrambling down the cliff. He scrubbed away sudden tears that turned the dirt on his face to mud.

  38

  Withdraw

  ADORA DUG HER HEELS into her mare. The horse rewarded her with a dispirited canter that lasted all of five strides before it settled back into a walk. Not for the first time, she regretted turning down the offer of better mounts in Escarion. Rokha and Waterson rode beside her without recriminations, but tension marked the way they leaned forward in their saddles as if they could some
how will their animals to greater speed. The two watchmen, Orban and Bartal, rode several paces behind, stoic despite the circumstances. No sign of censure or approval showed on their faces.

  Waterson looked back, again. “I wish it hadn’t rained. If we’ve lost the strait, we’d be able to see the dust from that many men and animals.”

  Rokha turned to look back, her deep brown eyes troubled by an obscure pain. “They’re back there.”

  “How do you know?” Adora asked.

  Rokha shrugged and shook her head. “I can feel them. That’s bad, Your Highness. The last time I could sense the presence of so many malus, we were surrounded by them in Merakh.”

  Adora’s stomach tried to trade places with her liver. “But that would mean . . .”

  “That’s right,” Rokha said. “There are malus-possessed with whoever’s back there.”

  She groped for some argument. “Could it be Sevra?”

  Rokha paused, then shook her head again. “I don’t think so, or rather, not just her. I never sensed her. It takes a greater number for me to sense them with my limited ability.”

  “How can you feel them at all?” Waterson asked.

  Rokha nodded. If she took offense at his blunt question, she didn’t show it. “Possession is similar enough to compulsion that I can pick up on it, but to sense either at a distance, there must be a great deal of it.”

  “I should go back and scout,” Waterson said.

  Adora cut the air with one hand in refusal. “No. Your horse is as spent as ours. If they spotted you, you’d never get away.” She jingled her purse. “If I have to, I’ll spend every last coin I have to buy fresh mounts at the next village.”

  “If they have them,” Waterson pointed out.

  They turned a bend in the road and once again came in view of the village of Aresco, but now nothing moved, and no sign of inhabitation presented itself. As they neared, Adora saw why and squeezed her eyes shut. Bodies, some of them too small to be adults, littered the streets, many of them cut down from behind.

  Waterson waited until she regained her composure before dismounting and tying his horse to a nearby post, his face pale above the collar of his cloak. “I’ll check the stables.”

  Rokha, her jaws tight, followed his lead. “Come, Your Highness. We’ll check the houses. There may not be horses—” she looked around and sighed—“but there will probably be food and perhaps other supplies as well.”

  The watchmen looked at Adora as she slid from the back of her horse, plainly waiting for orders. “Guard behind us. If you see anyone, don’t wait to find out if they’re friendly. Get us out of here.”

  Her mount hardly reacted when she cinched the long reins to the same column Rokha had used. A body lay sprawled on the threshold. Even in death the expression remained uncaring. “This is what we’re fighting, isn’t it? This disregard for life.”

  Rokha sighed. “It goes deeper than that. The malus at the heart of the Merakhi army don’t just disregard life like a human would, they devour it. They prefer corruption over death.” She shrugged. “Death is only a moment, after all. They take pleasure in it, but it gives them no lasting satisfaction.” She pointed to a small wooden sign across the street that bore the mortar and pestle of a healer’s shop. “Let’s try there.”

  A rough wooden counter ran the length of one wall, behind which lay an assortment of jars. Rokha made for them while Adora searched the bins to one side. They were empty except for one, which held a few bunches of withered carrots. She held them up for Rokha’s inspection.

  “The horses will get more use out of those than we will. We might even get a gallop out of them if we have to.” She put her hand into a jar and brought out a finger coated in a fine yellow powder. She licked it, then spat, her face red. “Curren, and it’s potent. If we can get a bit of this in their hay, they’ll think they are yearlings again, but we’ll have to be careful. It makes them run hot. Too little water and we’ll lose them.”

  There was nothing else. They returned to the street to find their horses gone.

  Adora whipped her blade from its sheath, but the road to the west showed no signs of pursuit. Waterson came from the ruins of the stable, holding several sets of reins.

  “The far end of the stable survived. I found a bit of hay and a watering trough out back. I think they’ll run better on decent feed. There’s a bag of oats that’s not too far gone.”

  Rokha nodded. “We’ll mix in some of the curren we found.”

  Waterson’s eyes widened, but after a moment, he gave a grim nod.

  Adora could feel the gazes of the dead on her, accusing. She shook her head, focusing her thoughts on one she prayed still lived. “Let’s be on our way. Pursuit or not, we must get to Escarion.”

  The brisk trot barely stirred a breeze, but the horses managed to sustain a decent pace for the first time in weeks. When they stopped for a few minutes’ rest, Adora fed them the carrots, and they whickered and snorted with more spirit than they’d ever shown.

  Waterson climbed to the crest of a ridge behind them, where he lay watching, his body stretched on the downhill slope. After a few moments, Adora saw him jerk and slink away in an obvious attempt to avoid being seen.

  “They’re back there, all right. They don’t have many horses, but they’re moving quickly even so.” He looked at Adora and Rokha, his eyes pinched. “I think they have ferrals with them. If the spawn see or smell us, they’ll run us down. There’s at least one malus with them.”

  “We knew that,” Rokha said.

  Adora pulled a shuddering breath into her lungs. “Let’s get as much distance as we can out of the mounts before we give them the curren.” She pulled herself into her saddle.

  They raced east as fast as their mounts could take them, slowing only when one of the horses stumbled with fatigue. Waterson watched behind as Rokha scouted ahead, but the terrain betrayed them. Too often they were forced to ride around the hills to avoid being seen cresting the ridges.

  The next morning, two of the horses went lame. No food or spice would coax them into anything more than a limp, their heads bobbing in time. Rokha and Adora dismounted. Waterson stopped to run his hands from shoulder to hoof. His mouth tightened. “They can’t be ridden any time soon.”

  The watchmen dismounted and presented their reins to Adora and Rokha. Adora shook her head in refusal, commanding with as much authority as she could muster. “We’ll double up.”

  Bartal and Orban exchanged a glance before Bartal, the older of the two, spoke. “No, Your Highness. That is not an order we will obey. Once before the watch allowed their sovereign to die before them. We will not do so again.” He held the reins out to her, his face as impassive in sentencing himself to death as it had been in keeping guard.

  “I won’t take them.”

  “You must,” Orban said. “We will not ride. If you refuse to do so, then we all die needlessly. Rodran is dead. You are the last of the line.”

  She shook her head. “You know that’s not true.” The temptation to bring out the bas-relief made her hands itch.

  “What may be true is for the Judica and the conclave to decide, Your Highness.” He stepped forward to loop the reins of his horse around her wrist and went on in a lower voice. “Besides, we do not intend to die. A watchman can cover nearly as much ground in a day as his horse.”

  Bartal handed his reins to Rokha. Then the two watchmen faced the rising sun and set off at a jog. Adora watched them, dumbfounded.

  Waterson spoke in a slow drawl. “If you want to continue the conversation, Your Highness, we’ll have to mount up and ride after them. I’m not much of a runner.”

  They passed the watchmen a couple of hours later. The next day, the malus behind them faded from Rokha’s awareness, and the following morning they crossed the river that marked the western border of Escarion.

  Errol wove his way through the thick columns of men moving north and entered an area cordoned off by black-garbed members of the watch. The
re was no tent or pavilion available for the meeting of captains. He stepped into the seclusion of the barn and nodded in response to a salute from the pair of watchmen who guarded the privacy of the meeting, their gesture still strange to him.

  Cruk and Rale stood at opposite ends of a table consisting of three planks of wood scavenged from one of the doors. An iron hinge askew and black with age still clung to one of the boards. A map of Gascony covered the table. Darkened spots on the map might have been ink, or perhaps blood.

  “How did we lose the Pelligroso?” Cruk asked. His arm was bandaged, and his voice, always harsh, carried accusation.

  “It hardly matters,” Rale said before anyone could speak. He tapped the map. “We have to man the next best defensible line.”

  Cruk refused to be put off. “It matters. I don’t fancy repeating a mistake.” He turned toward Indurain and Merkx, where they stood on Errol’s left. “What happened?”

  Indurain sighed. “The blame cannot be denied. Captain Merkx and I were appointed to hold the southern end of the range. In this, we failed. The Merakhi brought a beast against us, a spawn I had not heard of before. It was no mere ferral. The head was armored with horns like a ram, though it bulked larger than any of our horses.”

  “Bezahl,” Cruk said.

  Indurain licked his lips. “It cut through our lines like a blade slicing gossamer. Arrows, even swords, would not draw blood. Lieutenant Gale sacrificed his horse to get close enough to the fell creature to jump on its back. He thrust his dagger through the thing’s eye, killing it, but the spawn crushed him in its death throes.”

  Merkx nodded. “Our lines were ragged, but we restored order, thinking we had taken the worst the enemy had to offer.” He drew himself up. “The malus commanding their army mocked us even as they withdrew, shouting in a strange tongue, and five more of the beasts, hidden until then, charged our line.”

  “Water,” Cruk said. He looked toward Rale. “We encountered one—I had hoped the only one—on the eastern edge of Bellia. The bezahl can’t swim.”

  Rale grimaced and his brows drew together over his broad nose. “The spring melt will keep us safe everywhere except on the south. The only river on that side is the Clearwash, and it sits in sight of Duke Escarion’s fortress. It’s deep enough to stop most spawn but too slow to keep horsemen from swimming it.”