A Draw of Kings

13

ON THE EARTH





COLD AIR, CARRYING FROST, drifted down from the ring of mountains that bordered the Arryth, the broad expanse of farmland that ran the length and breadth of Gascony and extended into northern Basquon and Talia. The wind lifted Adora’s hair and brushed her forehead with winter’s caress. Barren grapevines and trees decorated the hillsides, their splayed branches resembling dark twisted bones raised in protest against another snowfall. She hated cold weather and the travel preparations it required, but she welcomed the chill like a long-absent friend. Deas was with them, it seemed; the winter proved to be as deep as everyone in Erinon had hoped.

The winding route Liam had chosen passed through a gap in the hills of Basquon, and they descended to the town of Marinne. A low wall of red stone, more decoration than defense, surrounded the burg, and inside the gates, crowds of men—from downy-cheeked youth to grizzled grandfathers—drilled under the guidance of brazen-throated instructors. The large open area had been divided by weapons: pikes, swords, and crossbows.

They slowed to survey the crowd, and Adora pointed to a man instructing a cluster of men and boys with swords. “I know him.”

Liam followed her gesture, then nodded in confirmation and held up a hand to bring the caravan to a stop. “Nob.”

The quartermaster bobbed his head, the tufts of his red hair ruffling. “Yes, Captain?”

“How long will it take to top off the supplies?”

Nob rubbed the bald crown of his head. “It’s only been two days since we replenished them.” At a look from Liam, he shrugged. “Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to grab a few bags of beans, and the cheese is better here in the south, but that takes no more than an hour.”


“I hate beans,” Rokha muttered on Adora’s left. “Tell him to buy some decent meat.”

A hint of suspicion tickled Adora at Liam’s questioning glance. His eyes glinted knowingly beneath the cascade of blond hair. Even so, she nodded.

“See to it, Nob,” Liam said. He turned to Adora. “May I ask how you know this man, Your Highness?”

“I think you know, Captain.” She pointed to the dark-skinned Basquon. His long hair shot with gray swayed as he tapped a man on the leg and demonstrated a proper lunge. “That’s Count Rula.”

Liam’s blue eyes radiated his interest. “Yes, the captains talk of him. Five times they’ve offered him a captaincy in the watch, but he’s always refused. Indurain says he’s the finest instructor in Illustra.”

“And what is your interest in the count?” Adora asked.

Liam’s frank gaze made her uncomfortable. She was unused to that look. No one had regarded her that way since Rodran. Men usually viewed her with some mixture of affection and desire, but Liam looked at her as he would any man under his command.

“I wish to train under his instruction.”

Adora dismounted, gave her reins to one of the guards, and approached the count with Liam and Rokha beside her. The stares of his men warned Rula, and he halted his lesson with an oath and turned. “Whoever you are, this interruption is most . . .” The irritation melted from his eyes, replaced by recognition. “Your Highness,” he said with a deep bow. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Adora nodded, amused to witness the brief lapse in Rula’s legendary courtesy. “Count Rula, it warms my heart to see you again.”

Rula smiled, showing white, even teeth. “You should know, Your Highness, that long-stemmed roses are becoming rare in the estates around my own. It seems that a new expression has taken hold among the young nobles.” The count took her hand and brushed it with a fatherly kiss. “An expression of extreme passion.” He laughed. “You and Earl Stone have done the impossible—you’ve managed to teach Basquons a greater depth that love and passion can take.” He looked around, searching. “I don’t see him. He is well, I trust?”

The mention of Errol brought an almost physical ache, but she masked the response and inclined her head. “He is, and I pray he will remain so.” She turned to Liam. “May I present Captain Liam of the watch?”

Liam stepped forward, and Adora watched as the two men weighed each other.

“I have heard of you, Captain, through my old friend Reynald. He speaks very highly of you.” Rula’s eyes narrowed. “The hills of the Arryth are beautiful, but there are dozens of routes through this part of Illustra. What coincidence brings you through Marinne just when I happen to be organizing the forces here?”

Liam nodded. “Happenstance, perhaps. I am escorting the princess to the shadow lands on a mission to secure their alliance. You are the foremost instructor of the sword in Illustra. I want you to come with us and train me on the journey.”

Rula gaped.

Adora jerked in surprise. “Captain Liam, Count Rula is responsible for organizing our forces here in the Arryth. He is, as you’ve mentioned, invaluable, and you are asking him to forsake that duty to be your personal instructor? Why?”

Liam remained as impassive as ever. “To give Illustra a greater chance of survival.”

Rula faded from her awareness as realization hit her. Liam knew. Somehow he knew what the herbwomen, Radere and Adele, had prophesied: either he or Errol must die. Deas, have mercy. Liam believed it was going to be him. Sudden anger spread warmth through her cheeks. Why did there have to be a choice? Couldn’t Deas make up his mind?

“I’m sorry,” Rula said. “As Princess Adora has explained, my responsibility is here. Training one man, however gifted, cannot take precedence over training thousands.”

Liam didn’t respond, but he continued to gaze at Adora. She shook her head. Did all men have this perverse sense of doom, or was it limited to Errol and Liam? As soon as the thought bloomed, she berated herself for its unfairness.

A sigh that was almost a groan deflated her, but she signaled Liam her assent. “Tell Nob we’ll be spending the night here.” She turned to Rula. “Count, I regret that I must request your company on our trip to the shadow lands. You are uniquely qualified to render the assistance required.”

Rula bristled, his eyes darkening. “Your Highness, are you telling me training one man is of more import than equipping the defense of Illustra?”

She nodded. “Yes, Count, I am telling you exactly that.”

He stiffened and his voice held ice. “I must decline, Your Highness. Unless that fractious council of nobles has given you the authority to force my cooperation, I will do as I have been previously ordered.”

Adora pointed back to her mare. “If you will accompany me, Count Rula, I will be happy to satisfy you. I have the letters in my pack.”

Minutes later, Rula bowed once more as he returned the letters to her hand. “Please accept my apologies for my impertinence, Your Highness.” He straightened, favoring Liam with a speculative look. “I would not intrude in matters deemed sensitive, Your Highness, but your request and the letters of authority you have to enforce it raise more questions than they answer. May I ask why training one man will be so critical to Illustra’s survival?”

A brief shake of Liam’s head stilled her response. With a gesture, she demurred on the question. “Your loyalty to Illustra is beyond question, Count, but it is wiser not to discuss some matters where so many may hear.” She hoped he would be satisfied by her assertion of royal privilege.

Rula refused to be put off. He knuckled his mustache in thought. “In war there are few circumstances where the might of a single fighter attains such paramount importance. However, if the armies are evenly matched, the skill of one man may carry the day.”

His gaze moved back and forth between the two of them. “I know something of the river kingdom, Your Highness. The Altaru River winds for a thousand leagues through the desert. You might as well attempt to count the sand as number the Merakhi, and the steppes of the Morgols run to the east without end. Either kingdom has us outnumbered. One man, however skilled, is insignificant.”

“The only time one warrior carries such importance is during the challenge of single combat.” He shook his head. “Your Highness, this is not a tale for the storybooks. There is no reason for our enemy to agree to single combat. Please let me train my countrymen.”

Adora turned her back on Rula’s plea and put the letters back in her pack. “Please let me know if I can render any assistance as you turn your duties over to your subordinates, Count. I would appreciate it if you could begin Captain Liam’s training this afternoon. We will need to resume our journey to the shadow lands in the morning.”

Rula bowed, his posture radiating indignation, and left.



Weak sunlight, yellow but without the ability to warm, lay across the courtyard of Count Michela’s mansion in the rich quarter of the town. The wan early-evening light reflected from the red tiles of the roof like an omen of bloodshed. Liam stood with his practice sword in the ready position with Rula circling him, searching for imperfections in his stance, like a jeweler scrutinizing a stone. Adora looked on, Rokha at her side.


Rula made a minute adjustment to Liam’s form. Adora couldn’t tell the difference. She looked to Rokha, who shrugged and shook her head. The count armed himself and took Liam through a series of attacks and parries, his stare boring into his student the whole time. After ten minutes the pace quickened until the clack of practice swords sounded like the frenzied beat of a drum. After another ten minutes, Rula backed away, sweating and breathing hard. Liam still looked fresh.

“Exactly what is it you expect to learn from me, boy?”

Liam didn’t hesitate. “How to be unbeatable.”

Rula blew air through his lips like a horse. “I can’t do that unless I can put you against someone better than you.” His face tightened. “And the only one who might have fit that description is dead.”

Liam pursed his lips. “We’ll have to find a substitute, some way of approximating a more skilled opponent.”

Rula nodded, turned to Adora. “Your Highness, how many members of the watch did you bring with you?”

“Nearly two hundred, divided by ranks.”

Rula glanced at the sky. “We have an hour yet. Let us begin with a pair of the lieutenants, shall we?”

Rokha disappeared through an arch of the steep-roofed mansion and emerged a few minutes later with two black-garbed watchmen—Lieutenants Jens and Falco. The men might have been brothers. Both were fair-skinned and dark-haired with rich blue eyes. Rula armed them each with a practice sword and positioned them on opposite sides of Liam.

The lieutenants shifted their feet, nervous. At Rula’s signal, Liam darted to one side, circling away from Falco so that he faced Lieutenant Jens alone.

“He shouldn’t have been able to do that,” Rokha murmured. “Nobody his size moves like that.” A flurry of blows, and a grunt echoed from the stones as Liam attacked and the lieutenant retreated, trying vainly to bring Falco back into the fight.

Liam pressed, circling to keep one lieutenant pinned behind the other. A few seconds later, it was over. Jens was disarmed and Liam faced Falco alone.

“Halt,” Rula said. With a bow of thanks and a wave, he sent the watchmen back inside. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Captain Liam. There is no one better than you in the kingdom, probably not in Merakh either. Once more I ask, exactly what kind of opponent do you expect to meet?”

Liam took a deep breath, looked toward Adora before answering. “Something from legend.”

Rula stared unblinking, then turned to Adora. “I have heard whispered rumors of what you saw in Merakh, Your Highness. Am I supposed to give credence to nightmares?”

At Adora’s nod, Rula shook his head and turned to walk away. After a few steps, he paused. “I will serve however you command me, Your Highness, but I cannot train him to fight an opponent I know nothing about.”

Darkness descended on the courtyard, but Adora made no move to go inside. Liam stood, sword in hand, as if waiting for an answer.



They departed the next morning—with Count Rula—and began the long descent down the Arryth toward the coast. Once the Apalian range was behind them, they turned east, cutting across the lowlands of Talia.

Count Rula, his expression thoughtful, kept to himself as they moved from the snow-laden mountain roads to the tracks soggy with winter rain farther south. He sat his large piebald gelding, his eyes intent on nothing, tugging his mustache at intervals. When they stopped two hours before sunset at the village of Tolve, the second day into the coastal plain, he disappeared into the carpenter’s shop.

Early the next morning Adora emerged from the inn to see Rula overseeing the assembly of a wide circular platform. When he was finished it resembled a round stage with a large hole cut in the middle. Rula retrieved a practice sword that looked half again too long for him and gestured Liam into the center of the platforms.

“This should prove interesting,” Rokha murmured.

Adora understood what Rula attempted without explanation. By using the height advantage of the platforms and a longer sword, he attempted to approximate the physical characteristics attributed to the malus that killed King Magis.

“Will it work?”

Rokha shook her head. “I don’t think so, at least not the way Rula uses it now. That length of sword the count holds will be difficult to move.” As if her words were prophecy, Rula signaled the start and was disarmed moments later.

Even so, they packed the platforms onto a wagon and rode southeast. Rula resumed his vacant-stared contemplation. That night he directed a pair of lieutenants to mount the platform and fence against Liam, who stood on the ground in the center. Despite the advantage in leverage and reach, the guards failed to win more than one bout out of five. After three days, the ratio had fallen to one bout out of ten.

“This isn’t working,” Liam said after his latest victory.

Rula yanked on his mustache. “Don’t point out the obvious to me, Captain. It makes me cross.”

Liam nodded, his face calm. “I think we should put another man on the platforms.”

Rula shook his head. “We could put men up there until they collapsed under their weight or you lost every bout; it wouldn’t help. The malus are monstrous. Training you to fight three men at once isn’t the same as training you to fight one monster twice as big as you are. The moves are different.”

They skirted the coast for three more days. On the fourth, outside the coastal fishing village of Andria, they found themselves riding against a tide of humanity. Farmers and fishermen led wives and children along the road away from the sandy marshland. Wagons and two-wheeled carts piled high with meager belongings and dirty-faced children maneuvered across the ruts and ridges of the winter road. Curses accompanied broken axles or delays. Fear lined faces that refused to make eye contact.

Liam, riding a big bay on Adora’s right, moved his mount to intercept a blocky farmer with dark hair and haunted eyes. The man, as broad across the shoulders as Liam, recoiled as if he’d been struck.

Liam held up both hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The farmer shrank back. The children in the cart behind him began to cry. Adora urged her mount in front of Liam’s. “Goodman, are you well?”

Rokha dismounted and joined Adora, her pack in hand. “His arm is broken. I need to splint it.”

The farmer’s left arm made an odd angle halfway between the shoulder and the elbow. Rokha poured milky liquid from a stoppered bottle into a cup and mixed in an equal amount of water. She offered it to the farmer, who stared at her blankly. “It’s going to hurt when I set your arm. This will dull the pain.”

He didn’t respond.

Adora laid her hand on his good arm. “Drink it.”

The farmer nodded, drained the cup. Rokha ripped cloth into strips.

“Look at me,” Adora said. “What happened?”

He blinked. “It came out of the marsh by the sea, killed all the animals. It took Arlo. It ate him.”

Adora leaned in, tried to keep the farmer’s attention while Rokha set the arm. A spasm of pain wrenched his face, laid bare the horror beneath the surface for an instant before his expression went numb again.

“What came?” Adora asked.

The farmer gaped. “It took Arlo. I tried to stop it, but I ran out of arrows. It dodged them. It took Arlo.”

Adora steeled herself. “Who’s Arlo?”

“My son. I tried to get him.”


Rokha finished tying the splints on the farmer’s arm, then pulled Adora aside. “You won’t learn anything from him. The shock is breaking his mind.”

“We need to know what happened,” Liam said.

Rokha shook her head. “You won’t get it from him.”

They moved from cart to cart, family to family. By the time they were done interviewing the villagers, they knew little more.

The villagers passed and the road emptied. “I know your mission is urgent, Your Highness,” Liam said, “but this section of Talia is remote. If this is a preliminary thrust from Merakh, we need to know about it.”

He sat his horse as before, expression grave, but his arms corded with tension, as if eager. Adora nodded her consent. “We’ll investigate, but I don’t want to get sidetracked, Captain. And I don’t want to lose men. If it’s the Merakhi, we’ll send a message to the closest garrison.”

“It doesn’t sound like any Merakhi I’ve ever seen,” Rokha said.

They rode south for a league and entered a deserted village filled with bodies of men and animals and signs of hasty departure. Chairs, toys, and other discarded pieces of life lay in tracks of churned mud that led out of town. A flap of wings and the screech of a chicken sounded to their right.

Liam dismounted, drawing his sword. With brusque gestures, he ordered all of the watchmen except for the lieutenants and some trusted soldiers to withdraw and ready bows.

“Is that wise, Captain?” Rula asked.

Liam paused, considering. “Perhaps not, but I’m sure it’s not Merakhi. The villagers would know.”

A muscle jumped at the base of Adora’s throat. “I think we should leave, Captain. If it’s not the Merakhi, it’s not urgent. Let the garrison handle this. They have the men and the time.”

Liam turned, sword bared. “Highness, we must know what we fight. Merakhi soldiers won’t be the only thing we’ll face. There will be—”

The sound of splintering wood and an approaching scream came from their left.

“It’s heard us,” Rula shouted. The horses shied, scenting. Lieutenants Jens and Falco barked orders for the rest of the watchmen to dismount.

It came for them, gray-haired and red-eyed, its maw dripping blood from the chicken it held in one fist. The other hand held a rusty scythe. Seven feet tall and wiry, it moved with a speed that brought Adora’s stomach to her throat.

Liam moved out in front. Twenty paces away the thing stopped, confused, snout snuffling the air. Its eyes moved across the watchmen arrayed to meet it, and it hunched over.

“It is unused to confrontation,” Rula said.

Adora nodded.

“I don’t think that will stop it,” Rokha said. “It’s a ferral—intelligent enough to fight or recognize its masters, but insane.”

As if her words released the creature, it roared and charged. Liam moved forward, away from the rest of the watchmen, to meet it.