A stream of horses, hardly more than ponies, snaked out from behind the rise to fall upon the Merakhi foot soldiers. Sabers rose and fell as Morgols ripped through their ranks. The Merakhi attack ceased to exist. Men tried to flee to the safety of the enemy lines only to be ridden down from behind. The mounted Merakhi wheeled and retreated.
Arrows continued to fill the sky.
Errol’s forces pushed forward on the right, drawing within two dozen paces of the core of the enemy—Belaaz and his council.
Adora stood, watching in disbelief. Impossible. No force so greatly outnumbered could hope to win, yet from her viewpoint, she could see Illustra’s forces exacting a staggering toll on the enemy. Hope, wild and unexpected, raged like a fire within her chest, and she screamed until her face heated and her throat rasped.
She grabbed Rokha by the arm, pointing. “They advance. The malus committed themselves too early.”
Rokha nodded, her full lips pursed, but she refrained from adding her voice to Adora’s. Her shoulder, where Adora’s hand gripped it, tensed as she watched the battle. Adora’s heart switched rhythm. Rokha saw something she did not.
“There.” Rokha pointed. “They’ve lost over half the pikes, and they’ve yet to meet the worst of the Merakhi forces.” Adora followed the gesture, looking past the large flatbed carts shuttling back and forth, carrying supplies and wounded to and from the battle.
Panic made her voice harsh. “What do you mean? They’re over halfway there.”
Rokha shook her head. “There are more malus-possessed than just the council. I can feel them, swarming like hornets around Belaaz, waiting. Look how the circle of soldiers around the nine move and flow. Those aren’t men. They’re not concerned about Errol’s charge because they filled the ranks next to Belaaz with their own kind.”
Adora peered into the depth of the battle, searching the faces of those surrounding the council. Laughter. They didn’t wear the dour expressions of men in battle. Pain and death surrounded them on every side, and they greeted it with grotesque expressions of elation.
Adora struggled to clear the sudden spots in her vision.
Pages shuttled back and forth, bringing Martin news from the battle that twisted his guts with apprehension. Errol and the watch approached the center of the Merakhi vanguard where the malus waited.
In Escarion’s hall, a sea of blue-robed arms thrust skyward, the record of each reader who’d completed his cast in favor of Liam’s crowning. The remainder would finish in the space of heartbeats.
But then what? What is the next question, Deas?
Liam paced the floor like a caged animal, a picture of restrained violence. Martin paused. “Made for this,” Liam had said. Illustra’s next king had been trained by the solis.
A knot of tension, one of many, eased in his gut. He knew the question. Martin beckoned the primus, Luis, and Willem forward. They’d been among the first to finish their cast. “I want to know if Liam is supposed to go to battle once he’s crowned.”
Primus Sten nodded approval. “The next right question.”
Luis demurred. “Perhaps.” His gaze lost focus. “From the beginning, Martin, we’ve been behind the course of events. Liam is supposed to be king, but exactly when are we supposed to crown him?”
His breath left him. “My friend, am I hearing you? If we crown him quickly enough, his coronation may restore the barrier and save Errol.”
Luis nodded, but lines of sorrow etched the corners of his eyes and mouth. “It’s a possibility.”
Grief, sharp and cold, pierced Martin as Sten and Willem signaled their agreement. “But that question—when to crown Liam—is too involved to answer quickly. Yes?” He prayed they would disagree with him as he stood panting with desperation, waiting for their answer.
In the end, they didn’t have to. Emma came running, breathing hard from her trips back and forth from their meeting hall to the outside. “Your Excellency—” she gasped a pair of breaths—“the captains are almost to the giants.”
Martin surveyed the hall filled with blue-robed readers standing against the backdrop of red-robed benefices, his to command. The air in the room felt thin. The conclave had failed. No cast could be done in time. He would have to crown Liam and hope.
He lifted his arms for quiet. “Members of the Judica, you have witnessed the cast of the conclave in its unanimity. Three-fourths of sitting benefices must confirm him as king. Please rise if you consent to Liam’s kingship and authority.” He swallowed. “You are adjured by Deas, Eleison, and Aurae.”
As one, the entire Judica rose, a surge of red that swelled upward. Martin met Liam’s eyes and gestured toward the chair he had held moments before. Rodran’s throne had been left in Erinon, but protocol only required the crown, not the seat.
He beckoned Breun forward with the burnished wooden box that held Rodran’s crown, a simple affair, passed down from Magnus. Martin held the thick gold circle with three points in his hand, noting the nicks and scratches in the metal, a diadem of strife, a war crown.
Haste impelled him up the steps of the dais to stand next to Liam where he sat in the high-backed chair, his shoulders and head erect, waiting, the hand still on the sword hilt. Martin lowered the crown toward the blond mane of hair.
“By the manifest will of Deas, Eleison, and Aurae, confirmed by their servants, benefices of the Judica, and readers of the conclave, I, Archbenefice Martin Arwitten of the kingdom of Illustra, crown you, Liam the first, rightful king.”
He moved to lower the crown onto Liam’s head.
And stopped.
43
Avenged
SWORDS!” CRUK’S SCREAM cut across the din of battle, and five hundred soldiers in black drew weapons with a long hiss of steel. The heavy concentration of pikes had vanished, leaving holes in the attack. Ablajin’s men thundered past on the flanks but could do little against the concentrated fire of the Merakhi short bows.
But they were within reach of Belaaz.
A pair of watchmen engaged one of the soldiers of the enemy’s cordon. The Merakhi laughed as they advanced, his eyes dancing, unfocused.
No. “Wait,” Errol cried. “That’s a . . .”
The rest of his sentence faltered as the Merakhi parried their strokes before cutting the horses at the legs. Before either of the watchmen could recover, the Merakhi was upon them. Errol looked on in horror at the soldiers surrounding Belaaz and the rest of the nine. Each wore the savage look of glee and the vibrating eyes of the malus-possessed.
“They’re all malus.”
Cruk nodded, but instead of answering, he shouted another order to the lieutenant at his side, who hoisted a flag of yellow. The swords and pikes wheeled to hold the left and right flanks, pinning the enemy lines in place. It wouldn’t last long. Already the ranks of Illustra thinned as men went down beneath greater numbers.
Cruk stood in his saddle. “Watch, dismount! Capture and hold!”
Rale and all the watch slipped from their saddles, pushing their horses to the rear. Errol copied the motion without understanding, moving forward with his staff. Rale caught his arm, forced him behind. “Wait for your chance, Errol. It may not last long, but we have the numbers to get you to Belaaz. After that”—his shoulders curled—“you’ll need to trust in Deas.”
He shook his head in incomprehension. Two of the watch had been taken as if they were the weakest swordsmen in the kingdom. How could they hope to get him to Belaaz?
The wedge of black split as pairs of watchmen moved forward to engage each of the Merakhi. Errol watched as the first pair stepped forward. Faster than thought, the Merakhi sent a sword stroke toward the soldier on the left.
Instead of parrying, he lifted his arm to take the blow, the stroke biting deep into the mail with a crunch of metal and bone. The watchman screamed but clamped his arm over the sword. The Merakhi tried to withdraw, but in that moment the other watchman took the Merakhi’s head. A pair of bodies slumped to the ground. Another soldier in
black rushed forward to take the place of the one who had fallen.
All around, the same scene repeated itself as over and over again watchmen accepted killing strokes in exchange for a chance to strike back.
“This is your plan?” Errol cried.
Rale and Cruk, their faces hard and unyielding, nodded.
“Magis is avenged.”
The Merakhi cordon evaporated. No longer laughing, the malus-filled soldiers sought to escape the pairs of watchmen who pursued them, always sacrificing one of their own in exchange. And then there was only the council.
A hush settled into Adora’s chest, not peace, but acceptance, as she watched the desperate strategy unfold. The watchmen, those few that remained, moved to attack Belaaz and his monstrous council. She wanted to ask why, but she knew the answer already. Illustra’s mistakes required blood and sacrifice to correct. Somewhere in the mass of people stood the one she loved, but distance obscured faces, and she couldn’t find him.
Rokha moved to stand at her side. When Adora turned and met her gaze, Rokha stared back, her eyes flashing as she drew and brandished her sword. “My love fights down there as well. Do you want to live without him?”
Adora’s lips moved in response, as though the answer resided in the beat of her heart, the rise and fall of her chest, the thrum of blood through her veins, instead of in her mind. “No.”
Rokha’s eyes flared with sudden heat, and she bared her teeth in a savage smile.
Drawing her sword, Adora followed Rokha down the hill, her strides steady. Chaos reached for her as she passed through the rearmost portion of Illustra’s lines. Men and horses and carts dashed everywhere, testimony of their struggle to keep from being surrounded. Next to her Rokha stiffened, her eyes wide with shock, and she clutched at Adora’s arm.
“They’re behind us!”
Fifty paces away, shapes boiled out of the back of one of the wagons, figures too tall to be men. They raced away from her toward the castle, except one.
Sevra.
The call from Duke Weir’s misshapen daughter ravaged her hearing, tearing through her courage like a dagger ripping cloth. “Well met, strumpet.” The giant drew her long blade and advanced.
Martin’s hands moved to lower the heavy gold circlet onto Liam’s head, but reticence filled him. Almost he gave the order for a final cast, for some question that could tell him what to do. Liam waited before him, still, like the sky before lightning, like the air before thunder.
“Archbenefice,” one of the benefices called, “why do you wait?”
Why did he? He faced four hundred men. “Perhaps I am weak or old, but I desire a sign. The cast of stones failed us because we did not know the question to ask. Do we ever? If Aurae is knowable, how do we begin knowing Him?”
He turned to regard Liam, who faced him now. “I hold this crown, and some misgiving tells me that the time is not yet. Something restrains me. Is this Aurae?” He shifted, uncomfortable in robes that suddenly felt too tight. No one answered. Martin waited.
A distant clash of steel sounded.
Lightning arced across the sky and the crack of scorched air drowned the sounds of battle. Merodach, Cruk, and Rale stepped forward, leaving him. Five of the council were down, their bodies stretched upon the grass and rock, their faces hideous and surprised in death. A dozen of the watch were all that remained. To the right and left, the ranks of their soldiers thinned, their cries becoming frantic as spawn and Merakhi struggled to break through.
With each death of the malus-possessed, Belaaz shuddered and laughed. Distortions grew on his face and skin. The Merakhi, grown monstrous under the influence of uncounted malus within him, screamed orders in his strange tongue, directing his forces away from Errol. Spawn scented the air and withdrew, leaving him to face the giant alone.
Belaaz saw him and laughed with the sound of a dozen voices. “You think to try me, little one?” He peered down at Errol from his height, his face twisted with derision, but he made no move to attack. Instead he planted his shirra point down into the ground and rested one arm upon it. As one, the remaining malus raised their arms, and the wind stilled.
Errol’s shock robbed him of breath.
“Do you think I’ve come to kill you?” Belaaz laughed, lifting his head to the sky. “How like him, to take someone defenseless and demand his blood.” His gaze lanced through Errol, his eyes boring through his pretense of bravery, laying him bare. “I have not come to kill you, Errol, but to offer you life.”
He clenched his fists around the staff, unwilling to credit the malus’s promise. He gestured at the misshapen face, the knots moving like living things beneath the skin. “Sarin Valon already made the same offer. Do you think I would ever consent to live as a prisoner in my own skin, forced to watch while your corruption twisted my body from the inside?”
Belaaz’s mirth washed over him. “This? You misunderstand, little one. Flesh serves us. We have made ourselves hideous to hinder you in battle.” He waved his hand. “If you do not wish to appear so, do not.” A shimmer washed over Belaaz, cleansing the malus of his disfigurement, and when it faded, Errol found himself looking upon a figure such as he’d never seen before, had never imagined.
The Merakhi’s beauty stunned him, the flawless perfection of his skin and limbs triumphed only by the stunning glow of his visage. He had thought Adora beautiful beyond compare, but human beauty only hinted at what stood before him.
Sevra was still thirty paces distant when Rokha pointed toward a cluster of wounded soldiers limping their way up the hill. “We could run.”
Rage at the colossal injustice and her own helplessness poured through Adora. Her skin burned at the sight of Sevra, and the outraged beat of her heart roared in her ears. “No! I will not show my back to her again.”
Rokha laughed, throwing her head back to crow at the sky. “Well spoken, sister.”
They drew, spreading to come at the malus from opposite sides. Adora looked for hope in her friend’s face but found only resolve. They were going to die. Sevra closed the distance and darted toward Rokha. Adora stood rooted to the ground in surprise before forcing her legs into motion. Stupid fool. Of course the malus would attack Ru’s daughter first. Adora was no real threat.
Rokha fell back beneath vicious sweeps of Sevra’s blade, throwing frantic parries at the onslaught. Adora leapt, swinging for Sevra’s unprotected back.
Sevra pivoted to knock her attack aside. Adora rolled across the wet grass, fighting to keep a grip on her sword. She gained her feet a few paces from Rokha to face the twisted form of Weir’s daughter again.
The two of them parted once more, staying closer this time, but Sevra only watched them. Though every line of Weir’s daughter strained, and froth gathered at her lips, Adora’s tormentor made no move to attack.
Belaaz’s voice came to Errol, no longer harsh or belittling, but warm, encouraging, the voice of a friend of long acquaintance. “What kind of god demands blood, Errol? Give up this hopeless fight. There is no need to die, not for you or your friends.” With a casual gesture, Belaaz signaled his forces, who promptly withdrew a dozen paces and stilled. Illustra’s forces looked upon the Merakhi army as if suspicious of sorcery, holding their ground, their lungs heaving in the silence.
The panting of men and beasts filled the silence of Belaaz’s impromptu truce. “Oh, Errol, there is so much I can give you.” The malus stepped forward, pushed Errol’s staff aside, and placed a hand on Errol’s shoulder. A chill went through him. “Are you hurt?” Belaaz asked. “Your pains can be washed away as easily as the dust of the road.”
Errol gasped as if he’d plunged into the iciest pool in the Sprata. Each of the nagging pains and injuries he’d collected in the last year left him. The scar in his side no longer burned. He rolled his shoulders in shock, then reached behind with one hand to feel for the scars that laced his back. “They’re all gone.”
Belaaz nodded, his eyes glinting. “Didn’t I say flesh serves us? There is no s
uffering among the exalted ones, Errol. It’s only your god who requires it.”
Errol turned, his muscles responding in a way they had not since he’d first come to himself on Rale’s farm, but thousands of dead lay before him on the fields of Escarion, images of death and suffering wrought by Belaaz, giving the lie to his words.
The malus must have sensed his mood, though Errol tried to keep revulsion from showing on his face. “If healing is not enough for you, then content yourself with other gifts I have to offer. The crown could be yours.” Encouragement filled Belaaz’s face. “No longer would you be subservient to the whims of churchmen who would use you for their own ends.”
Almost, the offer tempted him, reviving bitterness he’d harbored at being a tool the church used in its struggle. Could he deny they had used him? No, but neither could he deny the reasons behind their desperation. Caught in their circumstances, the benefices had grasped for any chance they could. Was it their fault Errol had been a weapon, one of many Deas offered?
He met Belaaz’s gaze, but the mask of unearthly beauty no longer awed him. If it had not been for the malus and their evil, no sacrifice would have been required. If Deas had not chosen Errol, he would have chosen someone else. Errol’s resentment and cries of “Why me?” would only be answered by Deas with “Why not you?”
Belaaz’s temptation slipped from him like ice slipping from the walls of a cliff beneath a spring sun. Errol clung to the truth of Magis’s book: Deas hadn’t even exempted himself from the necessity of sacrifice.
Errol stepped back, breaking contact, shaking Belaaz’s offer from his mind.
The malus peered down at him, the chiseled perfection of his face filled with regret. “I can see I have failed to persuade you, but I have one thing more to offer, Errol.” The malus smiled, closed his eyes, and shrank, diminishing until he matched Errol’s size. His shirra, now woefully oversized, fell from his open hand, and he stepped forward, his face still handsome but without the unearthly beauty it had possessed before.
A Draw of Kings Page 43