A Draw of Kings

22

ONGOL





TWO WEEKS AFTER their escape from the maelstrom, the landscape to port began to change. Errol watched sand and rock give way to scattered trees that grew more dense with each passing league. Soon the vegetation became an impenetrable morass.

The air turned heavy, laden with water, and heat that had been oppressive became unbearable. Crew and passengers alike shed tunics to go about bare-chested. Sweat ran as freely as water in the quiet air. Where before the sails had billowed and popped, now they seldom bellied and often hung limp before filling again.

Then the wind stopped altogether, stranding their ship in the calm as if it were dry-docked. Tek stared at the slack canvas that hung lifeless from the masts and chewed his sailor’s vocabulary through gritted teeth. The coast lay less than a mile distant, teasing them. After two days in which tempers grew thin, Tek called a conference on deck.

“We’re becalmed, gentlemen, and no doubt.”

Rale nodded, the motion sending drops of sweat onto the deck to join similar splatters from the rest of them. “The question is, will we stay that way?”

Tek shrugged. “There be no way of knowing for sure. My charts and maps tell no tales of anything past the whirlpool.” He sighed. “But the sea itself gives us a sign and a bad one at that.”

“How so?” Rale asked.

“No boats, man.” Tek pointed. “We haven’t seen a fishing vessel or any sort of boat since we started along the western edge of the continent.”

“The tiamat and other sea spawn could explain that, Captain,” Merodach said. His skin had turned darker under the sun’s onslaught, and his ice-blue eyes seemed lit from within.

“Aye.” Tek scratched his chin. “But we’ve seen no sign of spawn for days. I think we be at the end of the wind, and it be gone for longer than we can wait for it to return. We need to put ashore.”

Rale turned to scan the coastline. “We don’t know where we are, Captain.”

“How were we ever going to know?” Errol asked. The heat lent his question a harsh edge.

“By the rivers, lad,” Tek said. “Soon or late, rivers run into the sea, and when they do, people build cities there.”

“Or fishing villages, at the least,” Merodach said.

Rale looked at him, his heavy brows raised. “Errol?”

He started. “What?”

His teacher chuckled. “The Judica placed the mission in your hands. What should we do?”

He looked across the security and safety of the ship’s rail to the wall of green that crowded the coast. No road or path or even animal track led from the beach. If they landed, they would be as lost and without bearings as they were on the ship, but they’d have no shelter.

“If the decision is up to me, I say we wait three days. If there’s still no wind, you, Merodach, and I will put ashore with all the provisions we can carry and move south until we find people. When we do, I hope to Deas they’re Ongolese.”

The ship drifted south with the current while they waited for the return of a wind that never came. Time slipped by in a sodden haze until dawn of the third day. With reluctance chewing at him, Errol gave the order to board the ship’s solitary rowboat, and they set off for the coast.

Merodach pulled the oars with the fluid motion of one born to water. “My family lives on the coast of Soeden,” the watchman said. A ghost of a smile played at the corners of his mouth, and Errol marveled again at the change Rokha had wrought in the formerly stoic watchman.

“Do you miss them?” Errol asked.


Merodach’s eyes gazed off into the distance. “Watchmen give up their family for the honor of protecting the king. Since the first watch donned black and forsook their kin, all watchmen go by a single name. It’s a sign of our unswerving commitment to the crown.”

“Until the Judica voted to split the watch to start guarding the benefices.”

From his seat on the rear thwart, Rale growled his opinion. “Weir’s doing. If the watch had been kept intact, Sarin’s murders might have been prevented.”

Merodach dipped the oars in the water and pulled as he shook his head. “I doubt it. Hundreds of years of peace made the watch as complacent as the Judica. Few of us protested the church’s move. Most believed the next king would come from the rank of benefices.”

Rale drew a sharp breath before he sighed. “Illustra has lost much.”

Merodach nodded. “And there will be more to lose. Even if we win.”

They beached with the grinding noise of wet sand scraping wood. Errol’s first impression of the jungle was a riot of smells as sea detritus mixed with the odors of decaying foliage and a thousand blooming plants.

The first mate held the boat steady as Errol and the captains jumped in knee-deep water and waded ashore, shouldering the packs that held their rations. Rale put a foot on the gunwale and fixed the first mate with a level stare. “Tell Captain Tek to maintain his position for a month. We’ll either return or send word if we are able.”

The mate’s mouth pulled to one side in a smirk. “Oh aye, I’ll tell him.” He pushed off with the oars and started back to the ship.

Rale watched with a sour expression. “Which is not the same as saying Tek will actually do it.”

Errol fidgeted under the weight of his pack as Merodach led the way down the beach. Months of food and fighting had made him tough, but the two captains of the watch were still larger and stronger, and he resorted to using the odd metal staff Martin had found as a walking stick.

An hour or so later, they stopped so Merodach could scout the way ahead. Errol shrugged off his pack with a sigh of relief and ate a portion of his rations. With nothing better to do, he pulled his staff to his lap and examined the ancient find. The ends narrowed to a point, yet despite what should have been a fragile spot in the weapon, it showed no sign of breaking or even chipping, as wood would have. He ran his fingers along the metal, marveling again that it could feel smooth and yet always offer a sure grip despite the presence of rain or sweat.

He scrutinized the length. There was not a mark on it. Impossible. He distinctly remembered parrying any number of thrusts from swords made with forge-hardened steel.

The sounds of the jungle faded from the forefront of his awareness as he handed the staff to Rale, who took it with an air of avid curiosity and worked a set of moves. The buzz of displaced air filled the beach.

He was soon drenched with sweat and stopped to wipe his brow. “Ten years ago I might have beaten Cruk with a weapon like this. I’ve never seen metal like it. Not steel, it’s lighter than ash or even aspen, and it settles in the hand as if it knows how to fight.” His hands caressed the staff before giving it back to Errol with obvious reluctance. “That’s quite a weapon, lad. I wouldn’t place money on anyone against you with that in your hands.”

Errol’s desire to spar, to prove himself against the best, had left him, burned away by the procession of men he’d killed in Merakh. He frowned, trying to remember just when he’d lost the need to match his skill against others. With a grunt, he levered himself to his feet, shifted to the firmer footing of wet sand close to the water, and began to move.

The inactivity of ship travel had left his muscles tight and resistant, but they relaxed when he stopped trying to force the staff and simply flowed through the moves Rale had taught him so long ago. After a few minutes he closed his eyes. Peace covered him, and his awareness heightened. The murmur of waves caressing the shore mixed with the cries of animals shielded by the jungle. The taste and smells of the sea and earth blended in his senses. His feet found sure purchase in the grit of the cool wet sand, and the wind kissed his face.

And always he moved, flowing like water as the wind parted and rejoined. Why would he ever want to fight when he could simply dance like this?

Merodach’s return, footsteps whisper light on the sand, became part of his awareness, yet he continued. From behind closed lids, he sensed no urgency in the watchman’s demeanor, only the steady breath of his lungs mingling with the breeze. At last Errol grounded the staff and opened his eyes with a smile, content in the moment.

The Soede nodded. “I hope no one ever beats you, Errol. There may be men more deadly, but there are none more beautiful.”

Errol shouldered his pack to follow Merodach, but a call from the water stopped them. The rowboat approached the shore again with Tek, the first mate, and a pair of crewmen driving the oars. When the boat slid up onto the sand, Tek hoisted a heavy pack and jumped lightly into the surf to join them.

His weather-beaten face crinkled into a sheepish smile. “I be thinking that if the Ongolese are close, this be as good a route as any a merchant could wish, rivers or no.”

Rale fixed him with a businesslike stare. “We’re on land now, Captain Tek.”

Tek’s mouth pulled to one side and ducked his head. “Say no more, watchman. You be calling the orders till we be back aboard ship.”

“Not me—him.” Errol looked to see Rale pointing his way. Not a trace of irony or amusement betrayed itself on Elar Indomiel’s face. His teacher really meant for him to take command.

Errol sighed as he squirmed under the weight of his pack. It seemed as if it carried more than just physical burdens. He looked back at his footprints at the water’s end. The waves had already erased most of the evidence of his presence. Tek, Rale, and Merodach stood looking at him as if he were actually in charge.

“Let’s go.”

They marched south toward a line of craggy hills whose rocks bore ancient evidence of fire. Nothing grew on the scorched slopes, and the smell of sulfur drifted in wisps from fissures in the ground. The beach ended at a sheer cliff that extended into the water. Merodach, from his vanguard position, said this was as far as he had scouted and gave Errol a questioning look.

At Errol’s nod they began to pick their way upward toward a saddle in the ridge above them. It looked absurdly high, but no path or road or even animal track presented itself, only stretches of black rock pocked by holes.

Errol stooped to pick up a piece that had broken off and grunted in surprise at its light weight.

“It’s volcanic,” Merodach said. “As it cools it leaves those holes. There’s more air than stone in your hand.” He smiled at Errol’s expression. “We have them in the far north of Soeden.”

When they crested the hill an hour later, they surveyed a different world. The lifeless expanse of rock gave way to plant growth on the southern side. Grasses and weeds dominated at first, but farther down the slope, broad-leafed ferns and trees grew thickly enough to block their view. In the distance, they saw a fishing village wrapped around a crescent lagoon. A solitary ship, a Merakhi longboat, stood at anchor, but nothing moved on board.

“There be a mystery,” Tek said. “Nothing that delicate could make it through the maelstrom.”

Errol shrugged, more concerned about being spotted than how the ship had gotten there. “There must be another route here.”


Tek’s eyes narrowed with a speculative look. “Aye, lad, and if I can find it . . .” He gave his head a little shake. “That be a voyage for another time.”

They threaded their way down the mountain toward the jungle, the smell of vegetation and animals growing with each step.

Tek drew his sword with a rasp. “I don’t mean to tell you your business, lad,” he said to Errol. “But strange places often hide strange animals. A beast of the verdant can kill us just as dead as a spawn.”

Merodach’s blade caught the light, and Errol gripped his metal staff, point forward. As they entered the shrouded darkness of the jungle, a cascade of sound and smell struck with the force of a blow, and he strained his eyes to adjust to the sudden gloom. Hints of motion at the limits of his vision set him scanning their surroundings with jerks of his head in a futile attempt to see everywhere at once.

A startled yelp escaped him when Tek grabbed him from behind and yanked him backward. Errol landed on his backside at the same time Tek’s sword flashed, its stroke joining the hiss of a coiled snake on the jungle floor.

A serpent head two hands across flew into the growth to leave the rest of the body, as big around as Errol’s thigh, writhing on the path.

Tek pulled him to his feet with a chuckle. “That be one story I did not credit ’til now.” His face split into a sheepish grin. “They say its coils be strong enough to kill a cow and its jaws wide enough to swallow a child.” He shrugged. “Or a small man.”

Rale nodded. “I suggest we keep an eye on the canopy as well.”

The muscles in Errol’s neck grew fatigued with his attempts to see above him and all around as well, but they descended toward the deserted village without further incident. He, Rale, and Tek stopped within the vegetation’s cover as Merodach stepped forward to search the village.

Errol made out bodies and clear signs of fighting. When Merodach returned, Errol expected he would suggest they skirt the village, but the grim Soede surprised him. “You need to look at this.”

Errol followed, his back straight and tense, through the maze of wooden huts. Before they reached the center of the village, he’d stopped to examine a half dozen bodies, all wearing the white of Merakhi soldiers, all of them janiss, elite fighters.

None of the bodies were Ongolese.

“It was a trap,” Errol said. “These men were lured here and slaughtered.” He caught Merodach’s eye. “Are there any bodies that aren’t Merakhi?”

Merodach gave him an approving glance even while he shook his head.

“How many of them died from arrows?”

The Soede’s approval grew. “Almost all. Only a few bear sword cuts.”

Rale brushed past Errol with a curse. He knelt at one of the bodies and lifted one of its hands, then laid a hand on the corpse’s brow. “He hasn’t stiffened yet.” Rale glanced at the sun. “He’s been dead less than three hours, but it’s impossible to tell in this heat just how long.” He scanned the jungle. “We’ve probably been seen.”

Tek’s hand leapt to his sword.

Merodach motioned for him to put it away. “There’s more on the other side.” Then he moved away as if Rale’s pronouncement did not concern him.

Errol walked through the dead with his qualms nipping at his heels. Why hadn’t he cast to see if entering the village was safe?

Did it matter? There had been no other choice. The book of Magis was in Ongol, and this route had been their only way in. What was the point in casting when all other options had been stripped away?

An additional two score Merakhi dead lay on the stretch of ground between the edge of the village and the jungle. Most of them had fallen from arrows in the back—arrows that were no longer in evidence.

Merodach held up a hand, and they stopped. Without apparent transition two score Ongolese appeared, each holding a bow. The man at the fore, who appeared to be the leader, wore three stripes of red on each cheek and towered two hands over Rale. Huge scars, pink and livid against his dark skin, bore testimony to horrific injuries suffered in the past. Every man wore evidence of similar indignities or worse. A warrior gazed back at him with a single eye, the other lost in the mass of puckered flesh on one side of his face. The leader barked an order in a tongue like nothing Errol had ever heard before.

Merodach turned to face him. “I hope you picked up something of their language while we were in Merakh. Their leader doesn’t seem to be the patient type.”

A dozen bows came up, and the warriors stepped forward to surround them. Errol grunted in cynical amusement even as his stomach tried to hide behind his spine. He’d witnessed what Ongolese fighters could do in Merakh. Even without the bows, he and his friends wouldn’t stand a chance.

Tek’s voice growled something from behind Errol. The array of deep-chested warriors surrounding them laughed, but the leader frowned and barked an order. The bows dropped, but hands still rested on swords.

Rale turned with an expression of forced calm on his face. “You speak their language, Captain?” At Tek’s nod, he asked, “What did you just say?”

Tek smirked. “I said a lion such as he would gain little honor by slaying a mouse such as me.”

Rale darted a glance at the fuming Ongolese leader. “In the future, Tek, you will clear your comments with me before speaking. Understand?”

Tek smiled and pointed at Errol. “I thought he was in charge.”

Rale’s eyes, hot with tension, found Errol. “Well, lad?”

The leader shifted his weight, showing signs of impatience. Errol concentrated on keeping his movements deliberate. “Captain Tek, please convey our respects to the Ongol leader. Tell him that we too fight the Merakhi.” Errol darted a glance at the leader. “Be brief.”

Tek let loose a stream of rich, rounded syllables that put Errol in mind of food and hospitality. The line of Ongolese warriors gave appreciative nods at hearing their language, but the leader’s posture remained tense. He jabbed a crooked finger at the four of them as he began to speak.

Errol waited for Tek to translate. The sea captain grimaced. “He says that mice are vermin and should be exterminated before they have a chance to multiply.” Tek coughed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have made that first comment.”

The momentary favor they’d gained from Tek’s knowledge of the language appeared to be slipping. Errol nudged his arm. “Tell them I am looking for one named Hadari, who used to be chief of the guard for the Merakhi ilhotep, and that I owe him my life.”

Rale whistled. “Boy, that’s a dangerous move. We don’t know if these men view Hadari as a friend or an enemy.”

Tek nodded. “I do hate to agree with the watchman, lad, but he’s got the right of it. Best to let the information out slowly.”

Errol looked at the soldiers, their black skin shining in the sun. He sensed tension in the set of their legs, preparation for attack. “We’re out of time, Tek, and the truth will have to come out anyway since finding Hadari and the book is the purpose of our journey.”

The sea captain wet his lips, relayed Errol’s message in a series of staccato bursts as he squinted, searching for the right words. The leader’s hand jumped to his sword hilt, and he drew the large curved sword, his face storming.

Errol took a step back. “Are you sure you said it right?”


Tek nodded. “Aye, lad.”

A voice cut the air, crackling with command, and a man stepped forward, two circles of white decorating the area underneath each eye. The leader bristled at the tone, took another step toward them with his sword drawn. Errol swallowed at the size of the blade. Thick and heavy, it looked more like an executioner’s axe than a sword, but the Ongolese looked muscled enough to wield it like a rapier.

The man with the spots barked a short command, eyes blazing. The leader stopped as if he’d struck a wall. With a snarl, he backed up, his neck corded with frustrated violence.

An ache in his chest reminded Errol to breathe again. “What did they say?”

“I can tell you most of the words they said, lad, but I can’t explain it. I know their language from my travels, but there be undercurrents here that defy me.”

Rale shook his head.

Errol kept his eyes on the two Ongolese. They looked ready to draw weapons on each other. “Just tell me what they said.”

Tek ducked his head. “The one with the white spots be a holy man of some type, I think. Something about your friend’s name gave offense to Red Stripes there.” Tek cracked a lopsided grin. “He seems to be a chief of sorts. I don’t think people that offend him live very long.”

Errol sighed. It seemed Tek’s ability with the language might not be as helpful as he’d hoped.

Tek pointed. “White Spots stepped in and claimed us. We seem to be under his jurisdiction now.”

The chief still had his weapon drawn. He didn’t look to be a man who relinquished authority with grace. Errol didn’t care much for their chances if the chief decided to defy the holy man’s orders.

“Now what?” he asked.

Tek shrugged. “You be as informed as me, lad. I think we have to wait for White Spots to decide what to do with us.”

Mere heartbeats later, the holy man snapped an order, and four warriors came forward with thick leather thongs and tied their hands behind their back. Then they left the village moving northeast through the jungle at a pace that winded Errol and left Tek gasping and red-faced.

White Spots called for a rest after the ship captain fell facedown the second time. The closest warriors slapped Tek’s legs and made comments that set the Ongolese to laughing. Except the chief.

The holy man came forward with a waterskin and offered them each a drink. Tek’s eyes widened as the liquid hit his tongue, and he gasped. Errol took a cautious pull, though he could detect no hint of fermentation. The drink flowed across his tongue with hints of mint and peaches and something bitter, like tea but far stronger. His heart thrummed as his fatigue disappeared.

The holy man leaned forward as Errol drank, towering over him. “Hadari’s name is strong, pale one. Most revere him.” He inclined his head toward the chief. “But not all.”

His voice, deep and rich like the volcanic soil that nourished the jungle, gave his words an unfamiliar lilt that Errol struggled to follow.

“You understood us the whole time?”

“You may call me Adayo.” The holy man nodded with a smile. “I speak Merakhi also. You run well for a pale one. Your companions are not so well-suited for the journey as you. What is your name?”

Errol looked in Adayo’s face as his lips formed his answer, but he clamped his jaws shut against his response. An avid desire lurked behind the intense brown of the holy man’s eyes. If they meant to take them to Hadari, why were they bound? What need required running men through the jungle until they dropped from exhaustion? Months of moving by horseback had sapped his ability to run easily, but his condition still surpassed the rest of the party. Of the three, only Merodach remained upright. Tek and Rale sat on the hard-packed earth, heads down and breathing hard.

The holy man peered at him, waiting.

Errol stared back, considering. Every people expressed the talent differently. Illustra had readers who cast lots, while the nomads produced theurgists and the Merakhi had akhen, ghostwalkers. How did the talent manifest itself in Ongol? What would Adayo do with his name?

“Tell me, Adayo, if you’re taking us to Hadari, why are we bound?”

The man’s smile never wavered, but tension entered it, and his eyes flashed with disappointment. “Hadari’s name is known to the Merakhi, and reports have come to us of northerners aligned with the sand people. You may harbor the burning ones, though you show it not.”

Errol shook his head. “The burning ones?”

Adayo nodded. “There are those among the Merakhi who allow spirits to inhabit them.” He shook his head and sniffed. “They carry the smell of fire, like the burning mountains.”

“Malus.” Errol traced a path with his hand from the top of his head to his stomach. “Is this why you want to know my name?”

The holy man nodded and smiled, but it held only resolve.

Errol bowed. “Please forgive my hesitation. I do not know what is possible for you. I would prefer not to surrender my name until I know it’s safe to do so.”

Adayo nodded. “You are wise, pale one, but until I am sure of you, you will be bound.” He turned and called an order to the circle of warriors, and they resumed their passage through the forest.

Strengthened by repeated doses of the holy man’s drink, they kept a steady jog that ate up the miles, but always Adayo urged them to greater speed. By the time the green of the forest canopy began to darken toward gray with the inexorable descent of the sun, the holy man’s frustration became obvious. In fact, everywhere Errol looked, the men of Ongol evidenced signs of agitation. Red Stripes—the war leader, Errol had come to learn—entered a heated argument with Adayo, an argument the war leader punctuated by stabbing the air with his sword. Errol saw many of the warriors nodding agreement out of Adayo’s line of sight.

The holy man’s voice rose, quieting the sounds of the jungle. He turned to Errol. “We must not tarry here, pale one. We are too close to the boscage of the ancients. If the short one cannot keep up, we will have to leave him.”

The specifics of Adayo’s warning escaped Errol, but there was no mistaking the tone he used. The Ongolese had been on a customary path close to danger, but Errol and his companions had caused an unexpected delay. Now they stood at the edge of something even these oversized warriors feared, something that came out at night. Errol didn’t bother to speculate. The reaction of the Ongolese warriors told the story.

Spawn.

He stood, squared up to face Adayo. “How far do we have to get by sundown?”

Adayo’s brows furrowed beneath the smooth skin of his shaved head. “At least two more leagues, pale one, and brother sun will be lost to us in less than an hour.”

Errol glanced at Red Stripes. The man stood, sword drawn, ready and eager to spill blood. With a gesture he pointed the tip of his massive sword toward Tek.

Adayo turned to Errol with a shrug. “Phamba says that we should spill the blood of the slow one to buy us enough time. On this point we agree. It is death to remain this close to the ancients after dark.”

Errol shivered in the heat. “These ancients are the spawn of the malus?”

Adayo give him a tight-lipped smile. “You are wise, pale one, to see so clearly. They seldom venture from the plain.” His mouth stretched, showing white, even teeth. “Unless they scent humans.”

Errol gestured with his tied arms. “Untie us. The white-haired one and I will help our brother make the distance.”


Adayo smiled as if Errol had given him a gift. “And what token will you provide that I may trust you?”

“My name is Errol Stone.”

Adayo’s smile grew, and he bowed. With a cry he turned to Phamba and shouted in Ongolese. Then he cut their bonds. With his face close to Errol’s he breathed his words like a blessing. “Now, pale one, we must run if you would live.”