A Draw of Kings

17

UNDER THE EARTH





THEY JOURNEYED under the Sprata Mountains for what they estimated to be two weeks. And then, finally, Martin saw a splinter of light that didn’t come from torches or lichen. Daylight. The urge to rush to it after so long underground overwhelmed him, and a wordless cry of relief burst from his throat. He dragged his horse forward, crowding the front of the group where Cruk and Owen picked their way toward the exit.

But as Martin approached the crack of light, it didn’t grow any larger. When he bumped into Cruk’s unmoving figure, he saw why—the exit was blocked. A plinth of stone two spans across filled the space, leaving a gap hardly bigger than his leg.

“Is this the way out, Owen?” Cruk asked.

The boy’s head bobbed on the thin stalk of his neck. “But this stone wasn’t here before.”


Luis nodded, his bald head catching the light from Cruk’s torch. “That would explain why the bezahl began frequenting the Bellian side of the mountains—the steppes were denied to it.”

Martin eyed the wan winter light coming through that crack with longing, tried to ignore the urge to pry his way through that crevice by strength. “Owen, is there another way out?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. There might be.”

The cave ended in a broad cavern, the ceiling overhead lost in darkness the light failed to reach. Cruk and Owen took the torch and left to search for another route. Martin watched the light from outside wane from light gray to charcoal to black. For the first time since they’d entered the cavern he had a sense of the time of day.

Hours passed as they waited with the horses for Cruk and Owen to return. Martin knelt to say vespers before digging into their provisions. In the recesses of his mind and heart there was nothing but silence. “What does Aurae tell you?” he asked Karele.

The master of horses shrugged. The darkness and confinement of the caves didn’t appear to bother him. Peace settled over the solis regardless of circumstances, and Martin envied him. He’d felt Aurae in the shadow lands and again on the ship at Rodran’s death, but aside from that, it was almost as if he’d imagined its presence.

“I think if Aurae speaks to me,” Karele said, “you will hear him as well. You’ve been chosen as solis to bring the truth of Aurae to the Judica.”

Martin didn’t share his optimism. The darkness assumed an almost physical presence while they waited for Cruk and Owen to return. The last trickles of water lay too far behind them to offer light or sound to alleviate the deprivation of his senses. Only the occasional sigh from Luis or Karele reminded him he was not alone.

Finally the bobbing approach of orange-yellow light and the sound of steps signaled Cruk’s and Owen’s approach. Defeat wreathed the watchman’s face in lurid flickers. “There’s no way out.” He cast a quick glance at Owen as he swallowed a curse. “If I had thought further ahead, I would have brought more rope. We could have used the horses to try and shift the stone.”

Martin took the torch from Cruk and examined the exit. The stone hadn’t fallen there as the result of a cave-in. “The Morgols put the stone here to keep the bezahl from attacking their herds.”

Karele nodded. “My father would go to even greater lengths to protect his horses.”

Martin clambered onto the top of the barrier. Perhaps they could enlarge the mouth enough to get around the stone. That would still leave the problem of getting the horses out, but they could deal with that later. He checked the roof of the cave and discovered it to be as solid as the floor.

He returned to the circle, gave Cruk the torch. “We have to go back.”

Cruk grunted. “It will be a miserable trip. We’ve used up well over half the stores and torches.”

Martin’s heart protested. “We’ll be trapped in this infernal darkness?”

The watchman shook his head. “There’s no danger of that. Owen and I will find the way out, but the trip back will take longer and we’ll all be lighter at the end of it.” He cast a meaningful glance at Owen, who sat dozing by his side.

Martin understood. The boy, thin as he was, couldn’t afford to go long without food. They would have to limit themselves to severe rations so Owen could eat, but their central problem remained: They still needed to reach the steppes and find Ablajin.

Karele met his glance with a shake of his head, his sharp features and dark eyes somber in the dim light. “Aurae told me to seek out Ablajin, but didn’t specify the path. I assumed this was the route to take. I’m sorry.”

The oppressive darkness tempted Martin toward blame. He swallowed his comment to Karele with an effort. Recriminations would not serve them. “If we have to return, let’s be about it. Perhaps the route back will go more quickly.”

With a nod toward the boy sleeping on his arm, Cruk demurred. “Morning will be soon enough. The boy and the horses could do with a night’s rest.”

Martin stifled his protest and rolled himself into his cloak.

Frantic shakes startled him awake the next morning, and he bolted upright, panting in the dark. The passage outside showed an almost imperceptible lightening of the sky. Full daylight was still some time away. Cruk gripped his shoulders with a grip that threatened to turn his flesh to jelly.

“Owen’s gone.”

Martin started to speak, to offer reassurance, but Cruk gave one savage shake of his head before the words left his mouth.

“It’s been over an hour. He’s not just somewhere relieving himself.” In the torchlight, worry and anger chased each other across Cruk’s plain, lumpy face, and his short beard quivered each time he took his lower lip between his teeth.

Martin searched for some encouragement. “Perhaps he woke early and decided to search for another way out. He may have already found the passage we need.”

Cruk snorted, impatience lining the sudden tension through the watchman’s neck and shoulders. “That’s just it, Pater. He has.” He took Martin over to the stone that kept them captive. Then he opened the stubby fingers of one huge fist to reveal a scrap of the gray cloak Owen wore. “I found this by the crevice, caught on a jagged piece of rock.” His hand closed over the scrap as if it were precious. “Owen is on the steppes.”

Martin turned and slid down the face of the stone until he sat on the impossibly smooth floor of their cave. “How long can we wait before we run the risk of not making it back?”

Cruk sank down on his haunches. “Not long. It isn’t just the cave. We’ll have to find food once we get back to Bellia, and there isn’t any in Monsberg.”

The watchman hadn’t answered him, which meant he probably didn’t want to. “How long, Cruk, at the uttermost?”

“Water’s not a problem, but a week will see the end of the food.” Cruk lifted his head to meet Martin’s gaze. “It will be a hungry trip back.”

The image of Owen’s face and Errol’s, so unlike, merged in Martin’s mind. “We’ll wait for a week.”

Three days and nights dragged by as they lay entombed in the rock, waiting for Owen’s return. They measured the passage of time by the sliver of light that came through the space around the stone.

On the morning of the fourth day, Martin awoke to a thin reed of noise from beyond the stone. The whinny of horses brought an answering call from their listless mounts, followed by the grunting of men.

Nearly an hour later, the stone moved, scratching and scraping along the floor of the cave. Cruk drew his sword, but Karele shook his head in denial. “If they have enough men and animals to move the stone, they have too many to fight.”

A passage a pace wide opened to the left, and a voice rasped a command in the Morgol language. When Karele answered back in the same tongue, the tone softened, became questioning.

Karele turned to Martin, not smiling but looking relieved. “We are ordered to come forth. They are of Ablajin’s clan, but we must tread carefully until I can speak with my father. Show no weapon or fear, and do not let yourselves be provoked.”

And with that, Martin followed the master of horses out into the light.

The snatch of a childhood prayer on his lips, he squinted out over the Morgol steppes. Though the sunlight was filtered by cloud cover, he could scarcely keep his eyes open. The wind, dry and bitter with cold, pulled the prayer from his lungs, dispersed it across the tough yellow grass and stone that constituted the landscape.


He shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly about him, a move he saw Cruk and Luis copy. Laughter met this, harsh amusement from short, stocky men with a yellow tint to their skin and dark, wispy facial hair; men who looked like they’d sprung from the implacable countryside.

Karele stepped forward, as short as the Morgols, but without the look of stone in his face or eyes. He bowed, his greeting in the Morgol tongue slipping from him as easily as if he’d never spoken another.

The laughter stopped, and the response came back, questioning and cautious. Karele threw an arm back toward Cruk, beckoning. The captain came forward with the horses, surrendering the reins. He took the first one, a deep-chested black stallion, and brought it into the midst of their enemy, no trace of fear in his voice or manner. Warriors who held drawn short bows parted for him as though he had the power to command, but they did not lower their weapons.

Karele stood by the horse, not holding the bridle, merely resting his hand on the stallion’s shoulder. He rubbed the horse’s nose with affectionate strokes, then shifted to the front, still speaking, his hand tracing the deep muscled chest. The Morgol guards lowered their bows as he slid his hands down the legs. At some signal Martin couldn’t see, the horse shifted, turning to the side. Karele continued his commentary, his tone clearly extolling the horse’s virtues.

Martin couldn’t understand his speech, yet his blood responded to Karele’s cadence, and images of speed filled him, stoking a desire to ride. The Morgols nodded in agreement. Then the healer handed the reins back to Cruk, exchanged the stallion for a strong-withered mare. Martin turned his attention from Karele to the Morgol warriors surrounding them. Many of them had stowed their short bows to holders on their backs. They no longer looked upon Karele as an intruder or enemy.

Karele presented the remaining horses, stroking the legs, running his hands along the strong backs, tracing the powerful hindquarters. As he finished with the last, one of the guards stumped forward on bandy legs to run his hand up the back of the animal in front of Karele, raising the horse’s coat, then plucking at it, his movements and voice disdainful.

Martin understood the gesture without translation. Such short-coated horses would never thrive in the fierce weather of the steppes. Karele nodded, then left the horse and the circle of stone-faced guards. Sallow hands darted for sabers that rested on each hip before his intent became obvious. One man, the leader, drew, his face stern, affronted. Karele pushed his hands forward toward the nose of one of the Morgols’ long-haired ponies.

The mount tossed its head, then quieted. Karele dug his hands deep into the coat, nodding toward the mounts they’d brought. He came back into the circle, paused to bow from the waist toward the Morgol leader whose horse he had dared to touch.

Cruk’s hands still hung loose and relaxed at his sides, but he held his weight forward on his feet. Wind tugged at Martin’s hair, found passage down the neck of his cloak.

“What happens now?”

Karele shrugged. “It’s up to them. I told them the horses are a gift, but I didn’t say for whom. I’m waiting for them to ask. Once they do, they’re honor bound to guide us to the recipient.”

Martin surveyed the faces around them, faces as bleak as their surroundings. “What’s to keep them from simply killing us and taking the horses?”

The healer looked shocked. “Anathema. A gift of horses is the highest honor to the Morgols. Taking them for themselves would be tantamount to forsaking their entire society.”

Cruk’s growl cut through the cold behind him. “Where’s the boy? If they’ve harmed Owen, healer, no amount of horseflesh reverence matters.”

The Morgols reacted to Cruk’s tone, their open expressions sliding away to be replaced by their former implacability.

Karele sighed. “The nomads don’t kill children, Captain, but if it will keep you from setting them on their guard . . .” He turned, and a stream of words in the Morgol tongue spilled from him. Martin caught Owen’s name among the pile of nonsense syllables.

The lead guard answered, stealing glances at Cruk as he did so.

Cruk unclenched his jaws enough to ask for the translation.

Karele shrugged. “Owen was taken back to their camp. When they found him, he was weak from exposure; they did not wish to further expose him to the wind off the steppes.”

The leader of the guards interjected with a string of words that finished with a questioning tone.

Karele conversed with him briefly, then turned to Martin and smiled. “Our gift has been accepted. They will take us to my father.” He sprang onto the back of the nearest horse. Martin mounted and moved his horse close to Karele’s.

When the Morgol captain gave orders to his men, Karele shook his head and spoke in a diffident tone. The eyes of the Morgol leader grew wide and his tone doubting. Karele placed his hands on the space between his mount’s flickering ears and recited something that put Martin in mind of the rite of compulsion. Satisfied, the Morgol leader signaled, and the Morgols turned their horses to start across the plain.

“What was that?” Martin asked.

Karele shrugged. “They intended to return the stone to block the passage. I took an oath on my honor as a master of horses that the creature inhabiting the caves was dead, drowned in a lake on the far side of the mountains.”

“And he believed you?”

The healer smiled. “There is no greater vow among the nomads. Of course, all of our lives are forfeit if I turn out to be wrong. Let’s hope there was only one of those things in the caves.”

Martin drew a breath sharp with the distilled cold of winter. “They are a strange and complicated people.”

Karele nodded. “Did I not tell you that there was much about them worth redeeming?”

The healer’s passion for the nomads moved Martin, but hundreds of years of combat and strife lay between the two kingdoms. “I’m not contesting your words, but how can we overcome the influence of their theurgists?”

Karele rode in silence before he sighed with a small sound like winter’s chill whistling through the long grass. “I don’t know.”