A Draw of Kings

by Patrick W. Carr

  He raised a hand, asking for quiet, trying to keep the waver from his voice. “All your questions will be answered if we live.” He swallowed, but the lump in his throat refused to move. “You must get me to Belaaz,” he told the captains. “He will be leading them.”

  Errol hoped they would simply accept his command. Despite the answer from the lots, he didn’t know what would happen or what he needed to do.

  Cruk nodded. “That sounds about right.” He directed the captains into a wedge around Errol with Merodach in the front and Cruk and Rale on the left and right. Indurain and Merkx, along with the rest, settled in behind.

  They rode across the drawbridge, the rest of the watch following close behind. Over five hundred of the black rode with Errol down into the meadow, where rank upon rank of bowmen, pikemen, and swordsmen waited.

  “I’ve never seen the like,” Errol said. The enormity of it stunned him. How many tens of thousands of men were there?

  Cruk grunted. “It always looks nice before the fighting starts. After that, it’s just a mess of men and weapons.”

  They crested the small rise that led down to the river. Approaching it in the dusky light that filtered through the storm clouds overhead, Errol could see a mass of men and spawn stretching into the distance, dwarfing their forces.

  Errol fought to keep his voice calm. “How are we going to find Belaaz and the rest of the malus?”

  Rale pointed to a forward section of the seething mass. Even at that distance, Errol could see a group of riders surrounded by a sparser grouping of men and spawn.

  “They will be there.”

  “So few?”

  “No. There are more, but it takes time for a malus to corrupt its host. Those are what remain of the nine from the ilhotep’s council.”

  Errol’s heart labored through the fear that squeezed it like a vise. Thousands of men and spawn stood in their way. If the Merakhi came across the ford, their line would thin and stretch for miles. “We’ll never be able to get to them on the far side of the river. Our forces will be too stretched out.”

  Merodach, Rale, and Cruk all gave him a curt nod. “That’s right. We’ll have to let them cross the river,” Rale said.

  Cruk grunted. “Lousy tactics. That’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to avoid.”

  “We’re not trying to win the war,” Rale said. “Just a portion of it.”

  The need for haste pounded through Errol’s veins. “What are they waiting for?”

  A long rumble of distant thunder rolled across the mountains, and flashes of lightning within the clouds turned patches of sky a sickly green over the dark umber of the hills.

  Merodach turned to him, his eyes flat, emotionless, the way Errol had seen them before, when he was about to kill. “They wait for a sign, Captain Stone. Despite their advantages, all battles are unsure and the outcome less than certain.”

  Errol stared at the throng across the river that made his own forces appear small. “Even the malus?”

  Merodach nodded, his face grim but unafraid. “In spite of their bluster, they are acquainted with defeat.”

  Errol nodded. Who wasn’t? “Is everyone in position?”

  Rale and Cruk nodded.

  Errol drew a shuddering breath. “Tell the trumpets to sound the charge, but have the men stop short of the water. Let us see if we can lure their vanguard into battle.”

  Runners carried word to the companies of men. A moment later a peal of thunder preceded the brassy-throated fanfare that threw their defiance into the enemy’s teeth. Errol stood in the stirrups with his hand raised, waiting until the small movements of ten thousand upon ten thousand men stilled, looking at him.

  He thrust his arm forward.

  In the end, Martin submitted to the rules of the church. The king would be crowned by a vote of the Judica after confirmation by the conclave. Liam walked before Martin toward the meeting, frustration evident in the corded muscles of his forearms and the clench of his fists. Martin hurried to keep pace with the presumptive king. There would be no fanfares, no stately walks on carpets of crimson and purple. Liam would be crowned in haste.

  Word raced ahead of them like fire through driest tinder, and priests and benefices in crimson came running toward them like embodied flames. “Breun,” Martin called. The boy appeared at his side as if by magic. Martin pulled a thick, heavy key from his pocket, placed it in the boy’s hand. “Go to my quarters. There’s a heavy chest at the foot of my bed. Inside you’ll find a wooden box covered with gold inlay. Bring it to me please. I will be in the Judica’s hall.” The boy nodded with the wide-eyed earnestness of the young and darted away, his skinny legs flying.

  Martin resumed the task of trying to keep up with Liam. Another page, a girl somewhat less than twenty, shot past him. He reached out and snagged her arm as she raced by. They spun around each other for a moment, off-balance and trying to avoid a fall onto the heavy stone floor. Her eyes flashed at Martin’s presumption before she caught sight of the clothes of his office. One foot went behind the other as she prepared to curtsy.

  Martin held her upright. “Thank you, lass, but there’s no time for courtliness just now. What’s your name?”

  Lips parted beneath earnest brown eyes. “Emma.”

  A memory tugged at Martin. There were few females on the staff of Escarion’s castle who weren’t related to its master. “You’re the duke’s daughter, the one he calls Rose.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Your Excellency. He gave me the nickname when I was just a little girl because he said I was a fair blossom and . . .”

  Martin placed two fingers over the girl’s mouth, cutting off the rapid torrent of words. “Emma, I need you to gather all the members of the conclave to the hall of the Judica. Use every page in the castle if need be, but I want every reader there with the tools of their craft before the sun moves.”

  She nodded and spun, her thick brown hair flying, running toward the conclave’s meeting room.

  Martin took a deep breath and resumed his trek. Liam was lost to sight, but already portly middle-aged men in crimson and blue came running from every direction in response to the small army of pages who ran through Escarion’s keep, yelling their summons.

  Martin entered the hall of the Judica unnoticed as benefices scrambled for seats. Readers crowded to one side, holding knives and blocks at the ready, and everywhere voices assaulted him with a thousand variations of the same question: Who would be king?

  Luis and Willem entered through a side door and came forward, supporting Enoch Sten’s weight between them. Martin shifted in surprise. The primus walked with his face wreathed in the pinched lines peculiar to men in thought.

  “Fools,” the primus said. “Fools to disobey the first stricture of casting. We never questioned ourselves, never suspected the savior and king might be two different people.” He raised his head to stare Martin in the face. “We dare not make the same mistake again.”

  Tremors of cold spilled down Martin’s back like a premonition. Too much could go wrong. “Primus, we cannot do more than what we have. The lots have been cast and confirmed: Errol must fight for us, and Liam must be crowned. The rest is in the hands of Deas.”

  Sten nodded, his patient forbearance rasping against Martin’s nerves like sanding cloth against his skin. His old man’s eyes sharpened. “But what will secure our survival; what will kill the malus and raise the barrier—Errol’s death or Liam’s coronation?”

  Spots swam in Martin’s vision as shock coursed through him. He swayed on his feet. “No, did we send him to die for nothing?”

  Adora threaded her way through the press of people hurrying the other way, desperate to see if hope had been granted at the last minute. People brushed against her without malice or apology or recognition, as if she’d already passed from their knowledge. Their passage lifted tendrils of hair from her face, left them fluttering aimlessly behind her. The crush thinned as she passed through the gates and gazed down the long slope toward the r
iver.

  Somewhere behind her Rokha followed, waiting, possibly, for the moment her consolation would be required. A ring of people—those who hadn’t heard of Liam’s elevation or couldn’t tear themselves from the sight of battle—stood watching with her.

  Errol gripped his staff with one hand and the reins with the other and tried to settle into Midnight’s trot. On a large knoll overlooking the field, ranks of archers waited, equipped with longbows or crossbows.

  Rale and Cruk rode beside him, the two men attempting to look everywhere at once. Errol’s throat tightened as the Merakhi forces surged across the river to meet them. Ferrals and other misshapen spawn raced toward their forces, howling for blood.

  The Merakhi hit the pikes with the deafening impact of a thousand collisions, screams of men and animals mixing with the clang of weapons as thunder rolled in the distance. Errol looked toward the sky. Crows flew across the space, looking for refuge in the few trees on the rolling hills.

  “Where are the arrows?” Errol yelled across the few feet separating him from Rale. He could hear the grind and groan of steel-headed pikes driving through enemy chain mail, but the snap of wood, the sharp retort of shafts being broken, came to him as well. They needed those archers.

  Rale leaned across his saddle, pointing left and behind. “We must lure the malus closer to us. The bowmen have been ordered to shoot behind them to force the enemy forward. Once the malus are across the river, they’ll change targets.”

  Rale’s strategy left Errol gaping. “We’ll lose most of the pikes if we don’t bring the archers to bear.” Stress cracked his voice until he screeched.

  Rale’s face was somber. “We know, but there’s no other way.”

  The line of pikes bowed under the onslaught of ferrals, forcing them back. Errol watched in horror as thick-limbed spawn surged against the line, their dense hides turning the points aside and trampling the soldiers in the van. The point of the Illustra’s wedge stood perilously close to collapse.

  He pointed, trying to pitch his voice above the riot of battle. “We’re losing them.”

  Rale nodded. “A moment more.”

  Errol swallowed, forcing panic back down his throat. In an instant the spawn would break a gap through the pikes and be among the swords. Blades would be useless against them.

  With a sharp whistle, Rale signaled a pair of lieutenants who surged through the riot of battle toward the flanks. A moment later, the pikes there swung in toward the middle. The bulge in their line steadied, and held.

  A steel-tipped lance found the eye of one of the striped spawn. A howl, eerily human in sound, erupted from the mouth of the beast, and it reared, the pike still lodged in its skull.

  Soldiers from Illustra and Merakh threw themselves back from the creature’s death throes, pushing against their own lines in their efforts to escape. The spawn rolled, crushing Merakhi soldiers beneath it. Men and ferrals surged into the empty space.

  “There.” Cruk pointed. A group of Merakhi, huge and distorted, forded their way across the river on draft horses that looked like ponies beneath them. In their center rode Belaaz, the oversized shirra in his grip appearing as a child’s plaything. Behind them, stretching across the river and disappearing into the distance, came an endless tide.

  “Now,” Rale ordered the lieutenant beside him, who hoisted a patch of red cloth on a long pole.

  From the rise on Errol’s left, hundreds of bowmen rose from the long grass. A swarm of arrows ascended toward the boiling clouds of the sky, then plunged to earth in a black ribbon that raked death upon the Merakhi still crossing the river. From behind Errol came another hail of arrows that poured into the same spot. The river churned with the dying struggles of thousands of men.

  A tug on Errol’s sleeve broke his horrified fascination with the tableau.

  Rale bit his lips, nodded toward the malus. “This is our chance, my lord. Today the men of the watch will redeem themselves.”

  Errol tightened his grip on the metal staff Martin had brought from the ancient city of the malus. He hoped Deas would help him to be brave. He tried to speak and failed, nodding his assent instead.

  Lightning arced across the sky as Errol urged Midnight into a canter. The black-garbed watchmen moved with him in a tight wedge.

  42

  The Coming of the King

  MARTIN STARED AT THE PRIMUS, his mind struggling to think past his abhorrence of Enoch Sten’s observation. “What question are we supposed to ask?”

  The primus shook his head. Martin turned to Luis and Willem, found himself clutching their robes in shaking hands though he couldn’t recall moving to close the space between them. “You’ve trained your whole lives for this! What is the question?”

  Luis drew a breath. Beads of sweat appeared on his head. “We know Errol is supposed to be in battle and Liam is supposed to be here. We only require the next query.”

  “Can you cast for that?” Martin asked.

  The three men shook their heads at him. “Too complicated,” Sten said.

  “And too time consuming,” Willem echoed.

  Luis nodded. “We must choose the best question we are able and hope.”

  Martin stared at his friend as if he’d become unrecognizable. “We stand on the edge of destruction and you’re telling me we must guess?”

  “No, Your Excellency.” Luis bowed. “You must choose.”

  Martin’s lips had already closed from their openmouthed indignation to frame the question “Me?” when he caught himself.

  “You are the archbenefice and one of the solis,” Luis continued. “If you cannot discern the question, it cannot be determined.”

  Martin stilled. Could it be possible? Until now, he’d waited for those times when he felt the presence of Aurae, waiting for what he’d once considered unknowable to stir the air and tell him the will of Deas. Could he inquire? Who was he to demand an answer from Deas?

  But there was more to his hesitation. Honesty compelled him to admit as much. He didn’t want to inquire of Deas or listen for Aurae. Lots didn’t require the personal interaction with something incomprehensible, something whose vastness frightened him. And casting was resolute, the answer absolute, honed to surety by hundreds of years of research by the conclave.

  So long as they knew which question to ask.

  Benefices and readers filled the hall, no longer milling about, but watching. With a flush of embarrassment, he realized many of them had witnessed their exchange. Liam stood in front of the dais, his hand upon his sword, as if he expected to draw it any moment.

  Luis and Willem and Sten waited.

  Emma reappeared at his side, sliding through the door at a run, her thick brown hair streaming behind her. She skidded to a stop three feet from him, incorporating a bow into the motion. “That’s all of them, Your Excellency. They’re all here.”

  The girl’s interruption served to focus his thoughts. Perhaps it couldn’t be done, but he would not leave it unattempted. In the end, the world was Deas’s, to save or sacrifice as he chose. He mounted the dais and sat in the chair reserved for the archbenefice, his chair, and inquired of the three.

  The air in the room stilled.

  He looked upon Liam and felt a stir on the back of his neck as if the castle had sighed. At the least, Illustra needed a king and there were formalities to be observed. Yes, he knew what must be done next. “Honored benefices and readers, I will be brief. Battle rages and we must make haste. Illustra needs a king. In the person of Captain Liam of the watch, I believe we have one, but he must be confirmed. I request the conclave to cast the question confirming him. Is Liam to be king?”

  He turned to address the Judica. The benefices had found their chairs at last. “Members of the Judica, please stand if you so agree.”

  Dozens of red-robed men rose from their seats. The conclave didn’t wait for the order—two hundred readers began their cast.

  Their wedge surged forward as the pikes melted into the flanks. Out of the
corner of his eye, Errol saw Merakhi soldiers split left and right to attack them from the sides. His forces, concentrating on their forward attack, took grievous losses. The unending rain of arrows exacted horrendous damage on the enemy crossing the river, turning the water a dark russet colored by mud and the blood of all who fell there. Yet scores upon scores of Merakhi soldiers and spawn made their way to Escarion’s side of the river to join the attack.

  Only a hundred paces separated Errol from Belaaz, but the sheer number of soldiers separating them seemed insurmountable. As quickly as a soldier from either side died, they were replaced by two or three more. The wedge slowed, its pace crawling. Time crept as the two sides sought advantage.

  Without warning, the Merakhi on Illustra’s left flank peeled off to attack the archers, rushing the knoll. Possessed Merakhi drove the soldiers before them in a headlong charge toward the bowmen. Errol watched, the pounding of his heart rocking him back and forth in the saddle, as if the ground moved beneath him.

  The bowmen refused to be deterred from their assigned targets. He could see them, each man equipped with a longbow and uncountable arrows placed point down in the turf before them, drawing and shooting without slowing, seconds from being butchered.

  A long peal of thunder filled the air.

  Despair tore at Errol’s throat. “No.”

  Rale caught his look, darted a glance toward the archers, and shook his head. “If they change targets, lad, we’ll be washed under. If we don’t reach the malus soon, we won’t reach them at all.”

  Errol looked ahead. Their wedge had managed to shrug off the attacks on the flanks so far, but they would never make it to the center of the Merakhi position before the archers were swarmed under.

  Rale reached across his horse to grip his shoulder. “Watch, lad, and you’ll see why Cruk is accounted the best tactician in the kingdom.”