A Draw of Kings

24

THE WITHERING





ERROL STARED ACROSS THE DISTANCE at the lifeless boundary that denoted the border between what remained of Ongol and the creeping death where the malus of Merakh held sway. “How long will your kingdom last if Illustra falls to the Merakhi?”

Mulu Robel smiled, his eyes filled with hopes and doubts too numerous to define. “The mountains between Ongol and Merakh constrain the number that can be sent against us, and the giant whirlpool has never been conquered until you came through it. Only the trip through the Eastern Ocean lies open to them, and it is long and perilous. The men of Ongol are the mightiest warriors alive. As long as the withering is halted by the book, we will hold.”

Errol shook his head. “Against the malus, Mfalme? Once they have enslaved and corrupted Illustra, do you think they will be content to leave you in peace? Have they offered you any hope of such an outcome?”

The mfalme’s eyes grew troubled, but when he spoke he didn’t answer. “And will sending the book of Magis, the holy object capable of halting the spread of the withering, north with you make us any safer?”

Errol groped for an answer. He’d come to Ongol believing the book would be in Hadari’s possession and that his friend would readily surrender it in order to heal the church. He was unprepared to argue for its return. Why wasn’t Martin beside him? The former benefice wielded persuasion the way Liam handled a sword.

He needed time to persuade Mulu Robel, but more than that, he needed an answer to the Ongol king’s belief that Magis’s book could somehow protect his kingdom. Errol pointed to the stretch of death in the distance.

“Can we go there, Mfalme? I’d like to understand this threat better.”

Mulu Robel nodded. “I understand, Earl Stone. You seek time to convince me to surrender the surety of my kingdom. I tell you plainly, I cannot be persuaded, but I will guide you to the withering myself. Let us go down. The horses of Ongol are not so fast as those of Merakh, but they endure, my friend. We will harness the best to my chariots and be there well before sunset.”

Errol rode in a chariot behind a warrior named Sumeya. His torso tapered down to a waist that appeared all the smaller for the muscle he carried. Every line and movement carried a promise of deadly quickness, but he smiled without ceasing, and despite the concentration their pace required, he managed to supply Errol with his entire family history, including wartime service, weddings, and blood feuds. He pronounced Errol’s name with a hitch between syllables that no amount of coaching or correction could cure. His family, those currently living, appeared to number in the hundreds.

“Tell me, honored Err-ol, do you have a large family? Tales of the northlanders are rare in my country.”

Errol felt the question slide between his ribs like the thrust of a knife. “I don’t have a family.” His mouth twisted around the words as Antil’s face, wearing hate and vengeance, rose in his memory.

Sumeya diverted enough attention from driving the chariot to lay a weighty hand on Errol’s shoulder. “Orphans are rare in Ongol,” he said, “but not unheard of. Was there no one, Err-ol, who could tell you who your father or mother was?”

Errol’s laugh, short and quick, took Sumeya by surprise. “I know who my father was. He disowned me at birth. After my adoptive father died, he took my name and made me an orphan.”

Sumeya’s face registered shock and horror, robbing the warrior of his ability to speak. In the intervening silence Errol lost himself in the rhythmic hoofbeats of the horses that brought the line of death ever closer.

“He is evil, Err-ol. To reject a son is karat—a death to the family.” His face broadened with the advent of inspiration. “I will go with you to your kingdom and help you kill him.”

Errol started. Sumeya’s offer appeared sincere. The gesture warmed his heart even while it made him feel exposed, as if someone had come upon him bathing in the Sprata. “I cannot kill him, Sumeya. It is forbidden. He is a holy man.”

The Ongol warrior snorted. “No, Err-ol. Here in Ongol we would kill anyone who committed such an offense, holy men included.”

Errol nodded. “Alas, Illustra is not Ongol.”

Sumeya returned to his duties as Errol’s charioteer for the space of a league before turning to offer another suggestion. “We should bring this evil man here to Ongol, where you can kill him.”

Sumeya’s deep brown eyes were wide above his hopeful smile. Errol fought to suppress a laugh that might be misinterpreted. “I am grateful for your offer, Sumeya, but I do not want to kill him.”

The instant the words left his mouth, Errol realized they were true. He did not desire Antil’s death. The mere thought of Callowford’s priest made him weary, but the idea of killing a man who was probably incapable of defending himself filled Errol with repugnance.

“Holy men in Illustra are not warriors, Sumeya. Killing him would bring me no honor, only shame.”

Sumeya took this in with the studied intensity of a child. “You are wise, Err-ol. A warrior’s honor is more important than his vengeance. Here in Ongol, our worst criminals are shunned. They are not recognized and none are allowed to acknowledge their presence. Your father, he would be one of these. He is not worth killing.” He nodded to himself as if satisfied with his conclusion.


Errol breathed a sigh of relief that the uncomfortable topic seemed at last to be at an end. They rode the rest of the way accompanied by the sound of hooves and wind, the sense of dying things growing in Errol’s mind until it filled him.

They passed into the strip of jungle that separated the farmland of Ongol from the stretch of death that had come from the Merakhi border. The sickly sweet stench of decaying plants and flesh assaulted him. Animals had been caught in the withering as well. He closed his eyes as Sumeya slowed the horses along the track leading north.

Moments later the Ongol warrior’s hand found him. “There is something strange here, Err-ol.”

He opened his eyes to look around, tried not to breathe through his nose. Strange? The air itself carried blight, but Sumeya hadn’t spoken of the withering. Something pulled Sumeya’s gaze ahead, and his body carried the tension of one prepared to draw weapons in earnest. They broke from the strip of jungle, and Errol saw what the Ongolese with his height advantage had noticed seconds before.

Tall figures stood on the path that stretched toward the mountains, figures that stood at ease next to their oversized horses, figures that waited in patient expectation.

Merakhi.

Errol did a quick count. There were only ten.

“I do not like this, Err-ol,” Sumeya said with a shake of his head. He urged the horses to move faster, until they passed Mulu Robel’s chariot and joined the rest of the escort who had placed themselves between the Merakhi and the mfalme. “I am of the blood to be akanwe, should I choose. There is wrongness in them. They are . . .” He paused, searching for the words that would match the look of revulsion in his eyes. “They are overgrown.”

Errol looked again. The Merakhi were still two hundred paces away. Yet even at that distance something nagged at his perception. With a start he realized they stood beside their mounts.

“They are as big as Ongolese—bigger, I think.”

Sumeya nodded. “These Merakhi, they have been altered, Err-ol. Sinew and bone! Their flesh screams with it.”

Emptiness opened in the pit of Errol’s stomach. “Why are they here?”

Sumeya shook his head. “I do not know. This is my first trip to the withering.”

Mulu Robel’s chariot slowed, then stopped as the king’s driver prepared to turn. With a shake of his head, Robel pointed forward, and the horses threw their heads as the driver turned them to face the Merakhi once more. In the other chariots, every Ongol who wasn’t driving drew his sword.

Errol’s chariot drew close enough for him to address Robel. “Your Majesty, you cannot mean to let them approach.”

The mfalme nodded. “I would know the mind of my enemy. It is my hope they can be persuaded to cease their war with us.”

“Then you are hasty, Mfalme,” Rale said. “If they attack, your guard will be hard-pressed to keep them from you, and your death hands them the kingdom of Ongol. Civil war is as beneficial to them as conquering you, and less trouble.”

Mulu Robel stiffened at the correction. “Nevertheless, I mean to speak with them. My guards are the greatest warriors alive. If they cannot protect me against ten foes, then my kingdom is lost anyway.”

“I will accompany you if you wish, Mfalme,” Errol said, “but we must be cautious. The malus cannot be killed. If they attack us, they have little to lose except the service of the ones they have possessed.”

Hadari, in the chariot between Errol and his king, nodded and smiled. “Have I not said you are wise, brother? My counsel is the same. Let us withdraw from this place.”

The mfalme cut the air in denial. “We are armed and they are vastly outnumbered. If we turn and flee, my entire kingdom will know of it. I will not unman the people who must fight for me.” He turned to face the waiting group of Merakhi. “Courage, friends.”

“I agree,” Tek said from the chariot he rode. “The malus feed on fear. Don’t show them any.”

Hadari leaned toward Errol, his voice dipping. “Now you know the threat to Ongol, brother. The mfalme has been here before. The Merakhi offered him healing, but he refused.” Hadari’s eyes tightened. “But his pain grows. I am afraid, brother.”

The Merakhi approached until they were twenty paces short of the Ongolese arrayed in their chariots. The shirra at their waists looked like playthings, toy swords for amusement. A man, with jet black hair and a lean, wiry build that put Errol in mind of a viper, stepped forward and offered an ingratiating smile and bow to the mfalme.

“Revered leader,” he greeted, his mouth splitting into a smile that showed too many teeth. “We meet again. Once more I am sent by the exalted one, the omniscient ruler of Merakh, to offer a treaty of peace and more.”

Mulu Robel’s nose twitched as if he’d caught the scent of corruption. “Your ilhotep brought war upon my people and took our women and children”—he glanced toward Hadari—“to be his slaves. But I am told this ‘light of the stars’ is dead at the hands of his council. What of your new leader, this ‘exalted one,’ Chort?”

Chort’s eyes vibrated, and his expression became cruel, his grin widening. Errol brushed a hand against the skin of his throat. The Merakhi, grown abnormally large under the influence of the malus, could kill without weapons. The teeth within those oversized jaws could rip out his throat.

“Belaaz, the holy one, rules in Guerir,” Chort said, “and he is merciful. I am empowered to secure peace with you, honored mfalme, peace between our two kingdoms that has not been known in five generations.”

Longing bloomed on Mulu Robel’s face. Errol gripped the strange metal staff and set his feet. His movement brought Chort’s gaze to him, and a spasm twisted the Merakhi’s face.

Mulu Robel’s response rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest, thick strains of emotion cracking his voice. “What does Belaaz seek in exchange for this peace?”

Chort stood without acknowledging the question, his eyes fixed on Errol and a rictus of hatred twisting his mouth. Merodach inched closer, his sword back in its sheath. His hands held his bow with a borale, one of the wicked-looking arrows, fitted to the bowstring.

“Chort!” Mulu Robel called. The Merakhi started, his eyes blinking several times in quick succession. “What is Belaaz’s price for peace?”

Chort bowed, the bend of his back and the spread of his arms insouciant. “My ruler desires nothing more than justice, noble mfalme. To such end, he has suspended the ilhotep’s war that has raged with Ongol for so many years.”

He stepped forward and cut his eyes toward Errol, his voice dipping into a singsong cadence. “Belaaz has declared these men standing with you, noble mfalme, to be under suspicion for the murder of the ilhotep.” Chort licked his bared teeth like a tiger ready to strike. “He would give much, much even beyond peace, for their return to Merakh to face justice.”

Ongol’s king nodded as he rubbed his jaws with his good hand. To all appearances, Mulu Robel considered Chort’s offer worthy. Hadari whispered in the king’s ear, his gestures sharp, urgent. The rest of the Merakhi, grotesquely large, moved forward as if to hear better, but they fanned out as they came and their hands rested on their weapons.

Robel cut off Hadari with a wave of his hand, then raised his head. “Much, you say. I have the riches of Ongol and the love of its people. What more can you offer?”


Chort’s expression grew cunning. “You have wealth and respect, noble one, but I can offer you what none other can.” His gaze lingered on the robes and blanket that hid the mfalme’s deformities. “Behold.”

Chort thrust out his hand and beckoned to one of his men with a jerk of his head. “Your gift, Mfalme.” The man drew his sword and struck Chort’s hand, severing the first two fingers in a spray of blood. Instead of wrapping the wound, Chort displayed the hand for Robel to see. In moments the blood flow lessened, then stopped altogether. As Errol watched, the stubs of the Merakhi’s stricken fingers lengthened, shedding flakes of dried blood, until Chort stood, flexing his hand in proof. The severed fingers still lay at his feet.

Errol glanced at Hadari as comprehension stabbed him.

Robel stared at Chort’s hand like a condemned man offered pardon. “Will you remove the withering?”

Chort’s eyes grew wide in feigned innocence. “It is not the holy one of Merakh who has sent this blight, Mulu Robel, but rather the foul northlanders in Illustra.”

Robel pursed his lips in thought. “You would swear this on your life?”

The Merakhi’s eyes grew bright. “I do swear this.”

Mulu Robel’s good hand clenched the front rail of his chariot, his face taut. “Sumeya! Come forward.”

Beads of sweat appeared on Chort’s forehead. “What is this?”

The mfalme’s smile grew vicious. “The war between our countries has deprived Ongol of its akanwe, Chort, as you know. There are none left, but today is Sumeya’s twentieth naming day.” His eyes narrowed. “And he has the talent.” Grief etched Robel’s face as he shook his head, staring at Chort’s restored hand. “I know Merakh is the source of our blight. A liar can never be trusted, no matter how great his gift may seem.”

Chort snarled. “Do you think you can survive, worm? You and your petty warriors have managed to kill a few of our creations and you think to match us? I will keep you trapped in that useless body for eternity and laugh as you howl in your torment.” Wheeling to face Errol, he drew his sword. “Kill him!”

Ten Merakhi charged, swollen and huge under the influence of their malus. Chort feinted toward Mulu Robel, then vaulted over the king’s chariot. His jump carried him toward Errol’s spinning staff. Before he landed, an arrow cried, and a whirling shaft of black tore the Merakhi’s throat away.

Screams of pain and fury merged into a cauldron of sound. Robel’s guards formed a ring around their king. They were the strongest warriors in the world.

And the Merakhi were beating them.

Sumeya took a sword cut along his thigh. He rolled into his fall, striking for his opponent’s middle. The Merakhi leapt over the stroke and landed behind, his sword thrusting. Another scream tore the air, and the Merakhi stilled, an arrow jutting from his eye.

The remaining Merakhi focused their attack on Merodach, trying to still his deadly arrows. The watch captain backed away, and the Ongolese guards formed an arc with the mfalme and the northlanders behind it. Another arrow screamed and another Merakhi went down.

Then they broke, running back up the blackened hillside for their horses. Merodach’s borales followed them, striking. Not every arrow killed, but every Merakhi was marked.

Mulu Robel thrust his hand at the fleeing figures. “Hunt them down. No prisoners.”

“There’s no need,” Merodach said. He might have been discussing lunch. “The arrows are poisoned.” He pointed. “Look there.”

One by one the Merakhi fell, twitching where they hit the lifeless earth before they too grew still.

Errol’s hand ached, and he willed his fingers to loosen their grip. He pulled air into his lungs with desperate gasps as if he’d fought Chort’s men alone.

“We do not use poisoned arrows,” Robel said. “It is considered unworthy to defeat an opponent in such a way.”

Merodach nodded, his blue eyes glinting in the bright sunlight. “If I could poison every malus-possessed Merakhi in the world, I would do it without hesitation. They are not opponents, Mfalme Robel—they are blight.”

The Ongolese warriors still standing nodded their agreement. After a moment’s hesitation, Robel did as well. “I regret my decision has cost the blood of my guards, but we have learned something of our common enemy, Errol Stone.”

Errol jerked. “What might that be?”

“The ancients, those you call the malus, are not without number. They are limited to inhabiting those who have the same talent as the readers of your kingdom. Even among the Merakhi, they do not have an unlimited number of willing hosts, else they would have fought to the last man in their attempt to kill you.”

Errol nodded. The king’s logic made sense, but another possibility occurred to him. “Or it takes time for the malus to force the host body to such size. Belaaz was no taller than I when we fled Merakh.”

Something, a hint of intuition or a breath of wind, told Errol now was the time to speak. “If the Merakhi defeat Illustra, Mfalme, they will swallow Ongol soon after.”

Robel nodded. “It is so.”

Errol took a deep breath. “The book of Magis is crucial to our kingdom, Mfalme. If I fail to return with it, many will lose hope.”

The mfalme gave a small shake of his head. “You are asking me to sacrifice my kingdom to the withering.”

Tek limped forward from his position at the rear of their party. Warm air moved like an exhalation of heat across his face, stirred his sweat-stained hair for a moment. “Beggin’ yer pardon, King Robel, but I don’t think so.”

“Then how do you explain the halt of the withering with the arrival of the book?” Robel asked.

Tek rolled his shoulders like a ship riding a wave. “It’s not the book holding back the blight of the Merakhi,” he said. Then he pointed at Hadari. “It’s him.”