Captain Rimor, a blocky Fratalander standing opposite Errol, cleared his throat. “Where are the other captains?”
Errol’s guts twisted at the question and the tense silence after it.
Rale shifted his weight from foot to foot. “The rest of the captains have moved north to aid Liam and Merodach.”
He couldn’t help himself; the question came tumbling out of Errol’s mouth before he could clench his teeth to keep it in. “He’s alive, isn’t he?”
Rale’s shadowed gaze offered no comfort. “He’s north of us. That we haven’t had reports of the enemy coming from that direction is testament to his skill.” He sighed and shook his head in defeat. “But they will have to pull back and retreat with the rest of our forces. Once we’ve crossed the river, we’ll take down the bridges and defend the ford. It’s narrow. As long as the spring melt lasts we can keep them at bay.”
Rale didn’t bother to explain what would happen when the waters subsided.
It took them two days to reach Cruin’s Gap, which held a broad road that led into the Arryth through a saddle in the hills. Liam’s and Merodach’s command fought a scant five leagues south of the river. A single day’s march would put them back in sight of Duke Escarion’s fortress. Rale and Cruk placed their men under temporary command of Indurain and Merkx and sought Errol early in the morning.
“You should come with us, lad,” Rale said. Cruk’s lumpy face twisted into an approximation of discomfort, a witness to some prior conversation between the two men.
“Why?”
Rale’s face hardened, the first time Errol had ever seen that expression directed toward him. “Because we do not know the time or the hour.”
“Or the man,” Cruk added.
He understood. Errol inhaled a deep breath, held it as he wondered just how many remained to him. He reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled the lots he’d carved last night, the cast that had told him Liam still lived. With a flick of his wrist he tossed them aside. The time for lots was past. The entire conclave couldn’t tell him his fate; why should he try?
His foot slid into the stirrup as he mounted Midnight. Rale had never asked for the return of the horse, and Errol hadn’t offered. Midnight’s presence had become a fixture for him.
They ascended the road to Cruin’s Gap in eerie silence. Ahead, men stood in formation—still, as though some sorcery had spelled them. Yet when the three of them approached, men stepped back, making way for their horses. Somewhere ahead a deep-throated challenge split the air.
Cruk spewed a string of curses as he dug his heels into his mount. “That’s Liam.”
Rale followed. Errol felt for the reassurance of his staff as he swung Midnight into line behind. After a hundred paces the columns of archers, pikes, and swords ended, leaving a broad flat space between Illustra’s forces and those of the enemy.
Liam stood another fifty paces beyond, alone. He brandished his sword and mocked the Merakhi army some hundred and fifty paces away. “Craven! Dogs possessed by dogs. Do you think I fear you?” He drew back his foot and kicked an object toward their line. It fell hopelessly short, but the army drew back as if it might reach them.
Errol squinted. It was a head, but too big to be human.
Cruk grabbed Merodach by the arm. Errol hadn’t noticed him before. “What in the name of Deas and all that’s holy does he think he’s doing? Challenging one of the malus? And you let him do it?”
Merodach turned to face Cruk, his face placid. “This is his command, Captain, not the other way around.” He shrugged. “Besides, it would seem he is up to the task. That head he just kicked belonged to the Merakhi troops’ leader, a malus Captain Liam defeated.”
Cruk’s mouth worked. “Impossible.”
Merodach shrugged. “Evidently not.”
“Which one?” Errol asked.
The three captains of the watch stared at him, uncomprehending.
“Which of the malus did Liam kill? Was it Belaaz?”
Merodach shook his head. “No. He called himself Azak. I recognized him as one of the ilhotep’s council of nine, but it wasn’t their leader.”
Cruk grunted. “That’s a shame.”
Rale pointed. “It would seem Captain Merodach is correct. The other malus don’t seem interested in answering Liam’s challenge.”
A stir at the back of the Merakhi line warned him. “Bowmen!” Errol grabbed the shield of the closest pikeman and raced toward Liam.
Cruk bellowed behind him. “Curse your wormy guts, Liam! Get back here!”
A hail of arrows soared into the sky as Errol pushed his legs to go faster. He cursed himself for looking up and sacrificing the speed it took to do so. Liam raced to meet him, his face angry.
They crashed together and huddled under the pitifully small shield as broadheads thunked into the dirt or struck sparks from stone. The sound of tearing cloth reached Errol’s hearing, and Liam hissed.
“This is the first time I’ve ever seen you do anything stupid,” Errol said as he and Liam backed toward their lines under cover of the shield. The hail of arrows diminished, died to a trickle as they retreated.
Liam nodded. “I didn’t think the malus’s caution would outweigh their pride.” He darted a glance at Merodach, Cruk, and Rale. “The other gaps have fallen?”
“The south is lost. We have to fall back to the river.”
When they reached the safety of their lines, Cruk’s face seemed unable to settle on a single shade of red. He spluttered unintelligibly—the captain’s extensive vocabulary had failed him at last.
“Give over, Cruk,” Rale said. “Captain Liam seems mostly unharmed.”
“More than I can say for myself once Archbenefice Arwitten hears of this.”
“I can answer for myself, Captain Cruk,” Liam said.
“Splendid,” Cruk snorted. “You do that.”
Liam nodded, but Errol thought he saw a hint of doubt in his eye. That would be another first.
Rale outlined their strategy.
Two days later, Errol crossed the Clearwash River with the last of Illustra’s forces. Duke Escarion’s fortress loomed in the distance.
There was nowhere left to run.
39
Revelation
AS HE PACED THE HALLS of Escarion’s fortress, Martin’s mind ran in tracks that trapped his thoughts the way rutted paths captured a cart’s wheels. By Deas and everything holy, he had no desire to shoulder the last decision of the war, perhaps the last decision of any archbenefice of Illustra.
“How did we come to this?”
“Your pardon, Excellency, what did you say?” Breun padded at his side like a faithful puppy, cheerful and attentive to his commands.
Martin shook his head. Had he spoken? “I’m not sure, lad.”
Luis and Willem met him at the door. Strange that Enoch Sten, the true primus of the conclave, was not there. He sighed. Everyone fought the war in their own way. For Sten, it seemed, the best thing to do was to let younger, stronger readers take the lead. Martin’s gut knotted as he thought again of the decision required of him.
“Breun,” Martin said. “Why don’t you visit the kitchen? If I remember correctly, boys your age are always hungry.” He met the solemn faces of the conclave’s leaders as his page loped away. “Do the questions have an answer?”
They nodded.
“Where and when?” His voice rasped like a saw struggling through wood.
Willem and Luis bowed. “Three hours after sunrise tomorrow morning, Archbenefice, at the ford just south of the fortress.”
The air turned thick in his lungs. “So soon?” They didn’t reply. He hadn’t expected them to. “Humph. It is like Deas to set the time and place so we could watch from the ramparts. He has a flair for the dramatic, I think.” He caught Luis’s gaze. “Are we still without an answer to the question of who?”
Luis nodded. “I cast for it less than an hour ago.”
Willem lent the secondus his support.
“As did I. There is still no answer. Perhaps Deas has yet to decide who will be the soteregia.”
Martin could almost believe it. “I will have to crown the pair and send them both.”
“That may leave Illustra without a king,” Luis said. “What kind of war would we have then?”
Martin pulled at the muscles along his jaw. His teeth hurt. “Illustra can survive a civil war, but we must have the barrier. Errol and Liam understand this.” He sighed, his hope as thin as his breath. “I will serve them the sacraments at sunrise. If they wish.”
Rain soaked Adora’s cloak. The fabric surrendered to the water and grew sodden, heavy. She considered stopping to wring out the excess weight. How long could they push their mounts before the noble animals’ hearts gave out? Escarion lay another ten leagues to the east. She didn’t know if the horses would make it at any pace.
Thunder rolled to her right, but it continued to peal long after the lightning ceased. Horses. Rokha and Waterson drew as they steered their mounts to face the threat.
Rokha eyed the hills and shook her head, her hair shedding water.
“How many?” Adora yelled over the growing rumble.
Rokha threw her answer back over her shoulder. “Too many to guess.”
A line of shaggy ponies, tails and manes flying, crested the ridge, came pouring toward them, their hooves throwing gouts of mud.
“Morgols,” Waterson said. He looked toward Adora and Rokha. “I’ve heard stories from the war”—his eyes darted to the edge of his sword—“about what they do with women.”
Rokha slashed her sword through the air, making it whine. “I doubt they’ll want me alive.”
Adora left her sword in the scabbard. Another blade would make no difference, but more than hopelessness kept it in its sheath. “They can’t have come so far west from the passes in so short a time.”
Horses streamed around them, circling until she became dizzy with trying to see them all at once. At last they reined in, thousands of hooves skipping and prancing to a stop as their riders called to each other in ululating cries.
Their leader, mustache swirling in the air of their commotion, sought them, his dark brown eyes serious in a nest of sun-wrought wrinkles. He nudged his horse closer, his short saber by his hand but still sheathed. Next to him, riding one of the long-haired ponies as though born to it, sat a kingdom man, Karele. Adora released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
The leader reined in, paused just long enough to cast an inquiring glance at his companion, who spoke briefly in the Morgol tongue. He pointed to the three of them by turns. “You are far from the rest of your people.” He gave a pointed glance at their swords. “If you carry weapons, then should you not be where they are the most useful?”
Adora knew him. “We are headed for Escarion now, but there are weapons stronger than steel.”
Their leader nodded. “Truth.”
“How did you come to be here?” Waterson asked.
Ablajin nodded. “My son guided us along the paths of wind, bringing us to you. He tells me we must get to this place—Escarion—tomorrow, else your kingdom will fall.”
A fist closed around her heart. Tomorrow? Their horses would never make another ten leagues in that time.
“Can it be done?” Her voice cracked and broke.
Ablajin laughed. “The horses of the steppes do not have the stride of kingdom mounts, but they have been hardened by cold. They can take many more of them. We will make it.”
“You have to take us with you.” She didn’t pose it as a question.
To his credit, he didn’t take offense, but his eyebrows rose at the demand. “And what token can you give me of why this must be?”
She could not afford dissembling or intrigue. With trembling hands she jerked the cloth from the sculpted face of her father and held it so Ablajin and Karele could see. “I know who must be soteregia.”
Karele’s eyes widened, as if someone had given him the answer to a puzzle long attempted. He nodded. “They have to be there, Father, by sunrise.”
Ablajin stroked each side of the long, thin mustache that framed his mouth. “By sunrise? The issue is in doubt, especially with the rain. Come, Highness, choose ponies for yourself and your friends. Words are a waste of time.”
Martin’s messenger left Errol’s doorway to be replaced by one from Captain Rale a moment later. The watchman looked familiar, but Errol couldn’t place him.
“Do I know you?”
The proverbial stoicism of the watch slipped a notch as the craggy face drew to a lopsided grin. “Not so you’d remember. I was the second man you faced in your challenge to the watch, Captain Stone. I think you might have seen me for all of a minute before I was unconscious.”
Errol nodded, but the memory refused to come into focus. Too much had happened since. “I’m sorry for that.”
The man before him shrugged. “No need to be. Taught me a thing or two, it did.” He coughed and stepped aside with a beckoning gesture. “I was told to escort you to the captains’ meeting.”
Duke Escarion’s audience hall seemed much like the man himself: practical but with an understated elegance designed to invite candid conversation. A fire burned in a pair of large arched fireplaces on opposite sides of the hall, flanking a table that had been set up in front of the low dais at one end. Most of Illustra’s captains, those not guarding the north against the coming of the Morgols, surrounded the table as though a body, not a map, lay upon it.
Liam, his blue eyes somber, nodded to him in greeting. Escarion did as well, though his head dipped a fraction of an inch lower and he closed his eyes as he did so. Perhaps he thought the allegorical body on the table was Errol’s.
Cruk opened the meeting. “We’re all here. Everybody that’s going to show up, at any rate.”
Rale pointed to the area on the map that showed the region just south of Duke Escarion’s fortress. A section of the river had been rendered in pale blue, distinguishing the shallow depth of the ford from the rest of the river, affected in darker shades. “They’ll try to cross here. The malus have always commanded close to the front. From everything we’ve seen, they believe themselves immune to our attacks.”
“They did, at any rate,” Cruk growled, “until Captain Liam managed to relieve one of them of some excess head.”
Rale bit his lower lip. “It would have been better had he not. They might be more cautious now.”
Errol shook his head. “I don’t think one death will teach them humility, and our men have taken courage from the stroke.” He caught Liam’s gaze across the table. “They call you Demon Slayer now.”
“I hope you’re right,” Rale said. “If not, our challenge becomes difficult.”
Cruk snorted. “That’s not the half of it, Elar. It becomes impossible. There are more Merakhi arrayed against us than maggots on a thousand dead horses. Even if all of us could fight as well as Captain Liam, we would be hard-pressed to counter their numbers.”
Rale answered by using a thin piece of wood to point toward the map. “All we ever had, Captain Cruk, was hope. By the order of the archbenefice, the Judica, and the conclave, we are commanded to attack the enemy here tomorrow. Captains Liam and Stone will lead. They . . . they . . .” Rale exhaled, searching for words.
“We will fight until we have defeated the enemy or restored the barrier,” Errol said.
As if his words had somehow strengthened Rale’s resolve, his mentor continued. “We will form a wedge, captains and lieutenants of the watch close to the vanguard. Archers will be positioned behind us to clear Merakhi forces from the field until we engage. After that they’ll continue to fire at the back ranks of the enemy.” He paused to gaze at every man in the room. “They will do this regardless of any flanking tactics the enemy will use.”
Errol stared in horror. “You can’t be serious. Our forces will be slaughtered. They’ll pincer us from the sides.”
“We know that, Errol,” Cruk said. �
��I think we talked once or twice before about what needed to be done. If we don’t reestablish the barrier, every victory will be short-lived.”
Rale smiled at him as if he’d coaxed the expression from unwilling muscles. “If we win quickly, they won’t have to time to flank us.” He glanced down at the map, then up again. “That’s all, gentlemen.”
The captains didn’t waste time. Each turned and made his way to doors and hallways leading to whatever friends and family or solitude they needed.
Errol followed Liam from the room, pushed by instinct and a desperate need for some measure of hope. “Can I have a moment of your time, Captain Liam?”
The blue eyes twinkled at the use of the title. “You’ve learned formality in the last year.”
A surprised laugh exploded from Errol’s lips. “Along with a lot of other things.”
“Come. I have food in my quarters. I don’t think I’ll feel like eating tomorrow morning.”
Once there, they sat, but Errol couldn’t muster an appetite. He watched Liam dispatch the remains of a roasted chicken and a wedge of cheese with aplomb.
“Can I beat him?” Errol asked.
“Who?” Liam asked. He swallowed and moved the plate to one side.
“Belaaz.”
Liam took a handful of breaths to reply. “I don’t think so. I’m not bragging when I say I’m far more skilled than when we first came to Erinon, yet Belaaz’s inferior came within a hair’s breadth of taking me.” His gaze softened. “I’ve done nothing in any spare moment except work the sword. You must let me fight them.”
Errol forced his face to neutrality. “Gladly, but there will be more than one. If they come at us in a group, I will do what I can to keep them off of you as long as possible.”
Liam shook his head. “We don’t know which of us will die.”
A Draw of Kings Page 40