A Draw of Kings

35

ROUT





ERROL STARED into the bowl-shaped basin that interrupted the Cruor Gap. A half mile from the western entrance, the depression might have been big enough to contain a small village had it offered access to running water. Barren, it still presented a stern beauty to the eye. Three hundred paces away, on the other side of the basin, beyond reliable bow shot, Merakhi forces milled, seething like a cauldron over too much heat.

“This is as far as we can go,” Arick said. He pointed, indicating the interruption in the cliffs that offered his bowmen a clear range of fire at the enemy.

Errol nodded at the obvious conclusion. Arick boasted few peers with a bow, but if Errol fell, leadership would have to pass to another, and the man before him was not a tactician. “What’s our best estimate of their numbers?” He didn’t want to ask the question. The forces opposite them easily surpassed the ten thousand they’d been told to expect.

Arick shrugged but his gray eyes squinted as he focused into the distance. “It’s tough to say for certain, Captain. The gap narrows, and there are Merakhi and spawn filling it as far as we can see.”

His reticence illustrated another reason Arick would not lead—the bowman found it difficult to commit to anything less than absolute surety. “Give me an estimate.”


“Twenty thousand. Perhaps more.”

Errol nodded. They couldn’t afford to advance. To venture into that bowl meant slaughter. “Our numbers?”

To his right, Sven wiped his mouth. “Six hundred swords.”

Errol took the news like a blow. He’d expected the swords to carry the heaviest casualty, but Sven’s report distressed him. The pikes would have to spread to cover the additional ground.

Lieutenant Hasta threw back his shoulders. “We still have over two thousand men, Captain.” His voice dropped. “But we’re losing the pikes. I’ve got three score men who could fight if they had arms.”

He nodded, acknowledging the lieutenant’s familiar complaint. “Any sign of a resupply wagon?”

Sven shook his head. “No, Captain.”

The Soede’s voice sounded troubled. Errol couldn’t blame him. The Merakhi could be filling the Arryth behind them for all they knew. He fingered the blanks he kept in his pocket, tempted to cast the question, but he doubted his enemy on the other side of the bowl would give him time. “Dispatch a couple of the men without weapons back into the Arryth. Send one south and one north. I want to know what’s going on with the other gaps and if we have any hope of reinforcements. Take the rest of the unarmed pikemen and have them cut lances from any tree they find. We’ll use them to reinforce the line.”

He turned to Arick. “Do you have enough arrows?”

As expected, Arick shook his head.

“I dispatched the wounded back to the Arryth to make new ones, but the wood is green and heavy. We’ve searched the bodies to retrieve as many as we could, but we’re still going to run short,” Arick said. “What will we do then?”

Errol made an effort not to chew his words. “Throw rocks.”

The cauldron of men and spawn across the basin boiled over, spilling men and beasts into the bowl in preparation for another attack. “Get to your men, Arick. We’ll pull our forces back to the narrowest part of the gap. That will take some of the burden off the swords.”

Moments later they came like a flood.

Men and animals clashed, and the screams of the dying men mixed with the howls of wounded ferrals. Errol’s men bunched in the neck of the passage, an opening barely a hundred paces wide, trapping the Merakhi as arrows fell like judgment. Three rows of pikes, backed by the swords, created an impenetrable barrier like a hedge of iron-tipped thorns. Muen’s trumpet-like tenor blasted over the lines as he relayed Errol’s and Sven’s orders.

Then the rain of arrows withered. Errol searched the cliff, unable to see Arick or his men. Something had gone wrong. Dwindled though they were, Arick’s supply of arrows shouldn’t have given out for some while yet.

The Merakhi, unhindered by bow fire, thrust against the center. Then the ranks of the enemy thinned, and a monstrous figure marched forward with huge strides. The sword line bowed as the giant’s massive shirra swept forward, snapping blades and felling men like blades of grass beneath a sickle. The line began to collapse.

Errol threw himself from his horse, the metal staff in his hand, and sprinted toward the line. “Sven! You’re with me.”

His lieutenant dispatched a Merakhi swordsman with a backhanded stroke to the neck and broke from the line to ride next to Errol. Blood flowed from a deep cut on the Soede’s free arm. “Captain, you can’t do this.”

Errol pointed toward the malus. “If we don’t stop him, we’ll lose the line. Stop arguing and follow me.”

He fought his way forward, striking back and forth, aiming killing blows at the exposed necks of his enemies. Blood, hot and sticky, covered his hands. Then he came face-to-face with the giant.

At the sight of Errol its mouth distorted, stretched into a cut of savage glee across the misshapen face. “I know you, little one. The bondage of Belaaz’s court suited you better.”

Errol tried to see through the influence of the malus to the man beneath, but the misshapen lumps on the Merakhi’s face, as if some creature within longed to escape, prevented him. The eyes, filmed and putrid, stared at him without blinking. A bulge in the face shifted and then split, as if the skin could no longer contain the spiritual infection within it.

The shirra whistled as it cut the air, fast, too fast to avoid. Errol would have to parry. Even as he shifted to block, he knew the mass behind the blow would knock him off balance. And leave him open to the monster’s follow.

He brought the staff up to block, pushing the metal with all the strength he held, trying to counter the impact. The clash brought only sparks from the weapons. Errol stumbled, righted himself as astonishment washed over him. That blow should have sent him sprawling.

The creature’s mouth split into a snarl beneath a gaze that lashed him, leeching the warmth from his veins. “Our ancient weapon will not rescue you, little one. If I cannot break it, I will beat it from your hands and make your men watch as I eat your heart.”

Errol backed away, the lines of battle flowing around them, the armies clashing to a draw as men and spawn fought. A wind, channeled by the narrow passage that led to the Arryth, cooled the sweat that bathed him.

The feel of the breeze brought a scream of rage from the malus-possessed Merakhi. “Do you think he will save you? He didn’t even bother to save himself.”

The shirra came for him, heavy as a headsman’s axe and impossibly fast. Errol threw himself to the side, desperate to avoid the blow. The giant followed with an overhand strike, his mouth wide with glee. Errol rolled, and the blade struck sparks from the rock. Desperate, he raised his staff, frantic with the need to keep the malus from closing with him.

As if in a dream, over the giant’s shoulder he saw a single shaft descending from the top of the canyon, heading for his enemy’s head. But the malus noticed his stare and whirled, his sword spinning to take the arrow midflight. Errol thrust the point of his staff forward, his feet scrabbling as he tried to get his legs beneath him and rise. But he was too slow. The malus turned, his sword whistling, eyes dancing with the certainty of Errol’s death.

Sven dispatched his opponent with a backhanded sweep of his sword and leapt, hitting the malus in the back, knocking the giant forward. Surprise filled the creature’s vibrating eyes as the point of Errol’s staff took the giant through the throat.

The Merakhi stiffened, falling backward as Errol’s staff found its brain.

Ferrals howled, scampering to get away from the battle. Deprived of their support, the Merakhi line collapsed as men tried to retreat. Columns of pikes wheeled in from the sides, closing off the escape of the men and spawn who’d been closest. With grim efficiency the pikes advanced.

The battle moved away from Errol as the enemy retreated. Sven and Hasta pulled him back, their faces etched with relief. Errol pointed toward the cliffs. “Get a man up there. I want to know what happened to our bowmen.”

Sven sent a swordsman scampering back to the ascension point before turning back to Errol, his mouth open. But he stopped short as the pounding of hooves sounded behind them. Errol turned to see a rider throw himself out of the saddle, stumbling across the rocks a dozen paces away.

Hasta stepped forward. “Sergeant Dyre, report.”

The Bellian pointed, his eyes wide. “Merakhi forces are coming up from the south. They’re in the Arryth.”

Errol stepped forward. He would not retreat for a rumor. “You know this?”


Dyre nodded, his chin bobbing. “One of our scouts spied them from the cliff. They’re driving a force of Illustrans before them.” He swallowed, his throat working with the motion. “It’s a rout, sir.”

Despair settled over Errol like a shroud. The gap to the south could not be regained. “How long before they reach our position?”

“Tomorrow.”

It would have to do. He turned to Lieutenant Hasta. “Have your men form up at the neck. Let the Merakhi think we mean to hold our position. As soon as it gets full dark, we retreat.”

“Where will we go?” Sven asked. The Soede sounded as though his last hope had been slaughtered in front of him.

Errol fought a wave of helplessness so deep it threatened to drown him. He wanted to crawl into an ale barrel and hide there. “There’s nothing defensible between here and Escarion. See to your men. Send messengers to the gaps to the north.” He chewed his lip. “I want the two of you and Arick, if he’s still alive, to meet me at the western entrance of the gap in an hour.”

The Arryth lay spread before him, its verdant health dimmed by the cloud of dust raised by the fighting to the south. Sven and Hasta issued their reports: Their forces were down by over a third. Lieutenant Arick and most of the bowmen were dead, taken unaware by ferrals that had scaled the cliff.

Errol sighed. “I should have replaced Arick before the fighting started. I’m to blame for ignoring my suspicions.”

“He died well,” Sven said. “He was the bowman closest to you, there at the end.”

“We needed him to live.” He looked to Sven. “Have we recovered their bows?”

The Soede nodded, his extra chin moving in confirmation. “Aye, but we have precious few men left to man them.”