A Draw of Kings

20

TOWARD THE DEFILE





A RARE EAST WIND blew from the shadow lands and the foothills of the Sprata to fan the doubts Adora concealed with a straight back and a fierce smile. This far south the breeze carried as much threat of rain as it did snow.

She rode at the head of a contingent two hundred strong, Liam and Rokha on her right, Count Rula on her left, and Waterson out front. They all watched the cloud cover as if it had the power to bestow victory or defeat.


Liam and Rokha wore similar expressions; neither looked happy.

“Snow would be bad,” Liam said.

Rokha nodded. “Rain would be worse.”

“I don’t understand.” Adora hesitated to admit ignorance within Waterson’s hearing, but she required comprehension. “I thought snow or rain helped the smaller force.”

Liam chewed his lip, still staring in thought at the bank of clouds building like a wave to the east. “Normally you would be correct, Your Highness, but for the enemy we will face.”

Rokha’s expression became sharp, like a blade. “Those canis Waterson spoke of will hardly notice the poor footing caused by the weather. Horses’ hooves are clumsier in the mud than the pads and claws of the spawn.”

Adora followed their gaze skyward. “And we’re already outnumbered,” she said as a weight of stone settled in her stomach.



The next day they prepared to ford the Sprata. The clouds to the east roiled and hints of thunder fell on her ears like omens of destruction, but the air remained dry. Waterson led them to the northernmost part of the tributary leading into the shadow lands. He dismounted at the bank, searching.

The need for haste gnawed at Adora’s middle, as if ferrals had somehow found their way inside her. “Why do we delay, Lord Waterson?”

Waterson’s mouth pulled to one side, accentuating the cynical grimace of disdain he constantly wore. “It’s winter, your worshipfulness. The water’s cold. If we don’t find the right spot, the horses won’t be in any condition to carry us to safety if we get surprised.”

Adora’s face flushed. They stood at the entrance of the shadow lands in an attempt to salvage the alliance that might save her kingdom, and without a spawn in sight, Waterson spoke of retreat. “Do you mean we should flee, Waterson?” Her voice tightened at the end, became sharp.

He smiled at the absence of his title. “That’s exactly what I mean, Highness. If that storm breaks at the wrong moment, we won’t be a couple of ladies with swords, two hundred watchmen, and a fool excommunicate—we’ll be food. I don’t like the idea of being food.”

“We’re not returning to Illustra without the alliance,” Liam said. He didn’t bother to address Waterson directly or raise his voice. He might have been speaking of a piece of iron that needed quenching, but there was no mistaking his resolve.

Waterson shook his head, muttering imprecations under his breath. He continued north along the bank. The river flowed low and clear close to the edge, but skims of ice remained in protected shallows.

“Here.” He pointed to a pile of rocks that might have been left by children playing castles. “The water is hardly knee-deep, and the crossing is level, though there are slippery spots.”

For a moment his face lost the tortured grimace that mocked himself and everyone around him, and he turned to address Adora as if he were still her subject. “Are you certain you mean to do this thing, Your Highness?”

At Adora’s nod, he sighed. “Then we should begin the crossing now. We’ll be lucky to get all the men and wagons across before nightfall.” He turned to Liam. “You’ll want to make certain preparations. If the canis come upon us at night, no skill or luck will save us.”

Her horse flinched at the cold, but Waterson had been true to his word—the water never made it to Adora’s stirrups. The horses plodded through the crossing, hugging the northern edge of the river where it split to run through the shadow lands and along the eastern edge of the barren plain. The passage amounted to little more than a gap in the foothills that separated the shadow lands from the easternmost provinces of Illustra. As they passed out of Illustra, the air warmed.

Waterson saw her expression and smiled. “Look there, Your Highness.”

He pointed north. A spur of mountains rose, peaks clawing at the sky and running to the east as far as the eye could see.

“Across those mountains lies the southern edge of the steppes. That range protects Haven not only from the horsemen but from their weather as well. Winter in the shadow lands is milder than in Illustra.”

Liam spared a glance for the mountains before turning to survey the landscape. “How far are we from the defile?”

Waterson’s blue eyes tightened beneath his thick brown hair. “The northern end is perhaps five leagues.”

Liam nodded, then pointed north. Perhaps a league away, a forest of pines nestled up against the beginning of the mountains. “Take us there.”

As they rode, Liam drifted back, speaking with the lieutenants and the sergeants. A hundred paces from the trees, he held up a hand, and as one, the watchmen dismounted. Axes and swords were brought forth, and the majority of the men made for the trees while the remainder set picket lines and tents. By the time the cook fires were ready, a small mountain of lances as big around as a man’s forearm were piled at four points around the camp. By the time supper was served, a palisade of sharpened stakes as thick as a prickle hog’s hide encircled them.

Waterson stood in the center of the enclosure, staring in wonder at what had been erected in less than two hours. “If they are as good at fighting as they are at setting camp, we might live. I don’t say we’ll win, mind you, but some of us may live.”

Rula laughed. “You may perhaps underestimate Captain Liam, still, Lord Waterson.” He pointed at the barrier of sharpened stakes. “Those will serve a second purpose. Each man will carry one with him to fight the spawn, and the remainder will travel in the wagons. The men were instructed to cut stakes light enough to be used as lances.”

Waterson snorted. “Men haven’t used lances in battle since infantry started poking holes in their armor with crossbows.”

“Ferrals don’t use crossbows,” Rula said. “The watch trains with every weapon known, old as well as new. With luck, their first charge will take a hundred of the spawn.”

Adora watched as a glimmer of hope flared and then died in Waterson’s eyes. “I’ve never been possessed of luck.”

After sunset, Adora chased slumber in the tent she shared with Rokha, who lay at peace next to her while she rolled, changing position every few seconds.

“How can you even pretend to sleep?” she complained.

Rokha turned toward her in the darkness. Adora thought she could just make out a hint of the other woman’s smile by the sliver of moonlight.

“All the choices have been made, Adora. Is there anything to this point that you would have done differently?”

She stilled. There were certainly things she wished had gone differently, but every command given had been based on Illustra’s desperate need. There hadn’t been any options. “No.”

Rokha’s smile grew. “Is there any decision about tomorrow that needs to be revisited?”

Adora sighed. “No.”

“Then sleep, Your Highness. A rested arm swings a faster sword.”



Despite Rokha’s admonition, Adora woke the next morning with the grit of sleeplessness against her eyes. When she rolled from her tent, the black-garbed watchmen had already dismantled the barrier of protective stakes that had guarded them during the night. Liam strode through the camp, speaking with his men, inspecting the quartermaster’s wagons, searching the ground for prints.

Rula approached carrying two bowls of porridge and a pair of full waterskins. “It’s not what you’re used to, I’ll warrant,” the count said. “But it will keep you from going hungry without slowing you down if it comes to fighting.”


Adora nodded toward Liam as she lifted a spoonful of thick gruel. “How long has he been at it?”

Rula’s mouth pulled to one side. “I can’t say. I woke before dawn.” He shrugged. “Old men have little need of sleep, but he had already risen. I saw him checking the men. I think he’s spoken to every man in the camp this morning, asking after their equipment or horses. By Deas, the man is a natural general. I’ve seen watchmen twice his age gaze after him with something close to adoration in their eyes. He’s almost more than human.”

The count’s glowing account brought Errol’s description of Liam to mind, and with it the herbwomen’s dire pronouncement. Her heart fell. “Liam and Errol aren’t very much alike, are they?” She’d spoken it to herself, but Count Rula turned to face her.

“No, Highness, they are not. These men will fight with Liam to the death because they know he is one of them, however more exalted.” Rula’s eyes grew distant. “Errol is something else, Your Highness. I’m not sure I can put it into words.”

Her eyes stung and tears threatened to overwhelm her. For reasons she could neither identify nor verbalize, she needed to hear the count describe Errol, needed to know the man she loved held some measure of regard with someone who knew both men. “Please,” she said, “try.”

Rula caught the catch in her voice, gave a solemn nod. “All right. Liam is almost more than human. He does everything well, and better than well. He could have bested Naaman with a sword. I’m sure of it now. He’s like no one else.

“With Errol, it’s different. It’s as if he’s so human, he’s almost every man. Unassuming, almost ordinary, and yet despite the terrible price he pays in injury and sacrifice, he finds a way to win.”

Rula’s voice thickened as tears spilled from Adora’s eyes. “Liam is a man anyone would be honored to die with, Highness, but your Errol is a man people die for.”

She stared at the ground and nodded, the motion scattering tears, as if she were planting seed for a hope of spring.

At a signal from Liam, the men mounted. A stern-faced sergeant with a shock of white hair against olive skin brought her horse. Rokha, already astride her dappled stallion, trotted up, her eyes fierce in the early light. “Come, Princess. Today we finally strike a blow for the kingdom.”

Despite herself, Adora smiled. “I didn’t know you held such love for the kingdom.”

The half-Merakhi woman laughed, deep and vibrant, and the men close by turned to stare. “I don’t, Highness, but I’ve come to favor you and that underfed boy you’ve fallen in love with.” She tossed her wealth of glossy black hair over one shoulder. “And there are other reasons to fight as well.” Her voice smoldered.

Ah, Merodach.

Adora mounted the bay gelding and set the horse on a pace to catch Liam and Count Rula, but when she pulled even with the captain of the watch, he objected.

“Your Highness,” Liam said, “it is in your power to refuse, but I would request that you ride toward the back, with the supply wagons. We are less than a day from the northern end of the defile. If you ride in the vanguard, I cannot vouch for your safety.” His lips pursed. “As has been pointed out to me, a leader should command from the rear.”

Adora struggled not to take offense at his dismissal. Liam was almost always right, and he knew it, a trait that annoyed her. “Then should you not be at the rear with me, Captain?” She allowed herself the pleasure of putting extra emphasis on his rank.

He shook his head. If he caught the gibe, he gave no indication. “Not so. As you pointed out, I am captain. I cannot direct the men without an accurate idea of the lay of the land, which I cannot get through a subordinate’s report. In addition I am more suited to this position than you. Your swordsmanship has improved under Rula’s tutelage, but you are still the weakest blade present.”

Why, of all the impudent, disrespectful . . . She drew breath to retort.

He held up a hand. “But there is another more important point that you must concede, Your Highness.”

Her teeth clicked shut around her anger. “And what would that be?”

He turned his blue eyes on her, his blond mane shifting with the motion. She didn’t love him. No one but Errol would ever do for her, but by the three, he was beautiful.

“You are indispensable to the mission,” Liam said. “You must live to cement the agreement with the shadowlanders. Without you, the alliance will fail.”

Again. This untutored peasant from a backwater village had outmaneuvered her again. With a stiff inclination of her head, she slowed her mount until she rode in the company of the supply wagons. Rokha hadn’t bothered to accompany her.

The sun moved along its inexorable path through the southern part of the sky, illuminating a ridge of low mountains extending from the Sprata to the east toward the sunset.

Waterson appeared at her side. The expression of self-mockery had returned to twist his features.

“Should you not be riding toward the front, Lord Waterson?” she asked. Frustration served to make her tone frosty, and she shook her head in apology almost immediately. “Forgive me, my lord. I am unused to this.”

Waterson’s mouth pulled to one side. “I’m not sure how one becomes accustomed to battle, but to answer your question, I have told your captain all I know of this part of the shadow lands. I’ve only been this way twice—once on entering the land and once on leaving it.”

They crested a low rise, and the defile, which had looked distant only a moment before, sprang forward. Hills ran west to east in an unbroken ribbon except for a narrow passage weather or water had created.

The winter air, cool and dry, afforded her an unhindered view of the defile. No more than a couple hundred paces wide, it was bordered by steep cliffs. She drew a shuddering breath. Though she’d rarely left the isle, Rodran had insisted on including military history in her education, and now that knowledge pressed against her, tempting her to despair.

“Oh, Deas,” she breathed. “They’re trapped in a killing ground.”

Waterson looked at her and nodded. “The defile runs for two leagues or more. A few hundred of the demon dogs could hold it against an army, and we will face a thousand or more. And the spawn are hard to kill. I’ve seen a canis pincushioned with a dozen arrows come charging on.”

Adora peered into the heart of the defile, straining to catch a glimpse, but the shadows cast by the steep walls prevented her. An impossible hope flared like a candle in her heart. “I don’t see them. Perhaps your countrymen are overcoming them as we speak.”

Waterson bit his lips and gave a slow shake of his head. “Look there, Your Highness.” He pointed to the sun directly overhead.

“But how . . .” She stopped as realization silenced her. There shouldn’t be any shadows in the defile. The floor of the passage should have been visible. She peered at the passage again, saw those shadows stir, boiling like a pot of water over a fire.

Liam held up a hand, passing orders to the lieutenants, and a ripple of movement followed as ten score watchmen deployed, fanning out in a long double line that stretched to either side. The supply carts creaked forward, their beds filled with the extra lances.

At a signal, the line moved forward at a trot, the jangle of tack and weapons loud. A soft breeze blew from the defile and she caught a whiff of corruption, like the smell of a gangrenous wound.


Waterson stiffened. “Your captain plays a dangerous game, Highness.”

His tone held both disapproval and grudging admiration, preventing her from discerning his meaning. “Explain.”

“We are still a league distant, and the dogs have yet to notice us. This trot will alert them. Long before the horses can charge, the spawn will know we are here.”

Adora’s hands twitched on the reins. Safety or not, she could not bear to stay in the back to watch decisions made without explanation. She drove the gelding forward at a canter until she drew even with Liam’s muscled stallion.

“Captain Liam,” she called. He looked at her without fully turning his head. “Won’t this alert the spawn and take away your element of surprise?”

He nodded, face tight, but didn’t speak, his gaze boring forward, unblinking.

She reached across her horse to grip his arm. “Explain yourself, Captain.”

He pointed at the seething shadows within the defile. “The canis are wild and fierce, but they are incapable of forming a battle plan.”

As he spoke, howls drifted to her, diminished by distance but clear enough to chill the pulse of her blood.

“There is only one reason I can discern for their frenzied activity, Your Highness.” His gaze caught her now, azure and cold. “The shadowlanders are trying to break through.”

Hot bile burned the back of her throat and she fought to keep her stomach under control. Her allies were caught between the spawn and the Merakhi. “How soon can we charge?”

“Soon, Highness, but I must hold something in reserve for the mounts. We cannot spend them completely in the charge, or we will fail to get clear.”

“Will we get clear?” Adora winced at her question. It sounded too much like an omen of failure.

Liam shrugged. “I will be able to answer that better in a few minutes.” He raised his hand, circled it twice in the air above his head and thrust it forward.

The column moved ahead at a canter, the distance to the spawn now less than half a league. Other sounds came to her now, misplaced threads in the tapestry of noise woven by the baying of ferrals—the clash of armor, the piercing scream of men, and something more.

She watched as the ferrals caught a scent or sound of the threat at their backs. First one, then another peeled from the snarling mass to check the air, confused.

At her side Liam tensed, a human bowstring ready to fire. When the first dog peeled away from the pack to charge, he thrust his arm forward.

The column sprang to a gallop.