A Draw of Kings

37

CHOSEN





ADORA HADN’T REALIZED she’d fallen until hands took her by the arms and lifted her. Inside she despised herself even as her heart beat its exultation. Liam was Illustra’s soteregia, and Errol would live. The torchlight, seen through the film of tears that filled her eyes, flowed in her vision until the entire cavern danced in the orange-yellow glow.

“We promised Oliver we would stay until someone came,” Charlotte said. “The villagers never knew we were here.”

Her words washed over Adora, noted but having no impact. She stepped forward to her father’s crypt, the father she hardly remembered, and pulled her dagger from her belt. Using the point like a chisel she beat and pried at the bas-relief, working to loosen the mortar that attached the likeness to the surrounding rock.

Waterson stepped in opposite her, working at the joints on the far side. “One of his sons survived after all.” He sounded amazed. “How is that possible? Rodran searched the entire kingdom for an heir who survived the Merakhi assassins. There weren’t any.”

The herbwomen. “He was guarded,” Adora said. With a grinding sound of rocks sliding against each other, the carving of Jaclin came loose. “The ghostwalkers never knew he was there.”

“This is probably the only likeness of Prince Jaclin left in Illustra,” Waterson said. “Nobody remembers him before age or the scars or without the beard. If Liam dies in combat without being crowned king . . .”

Adora shook her head. “He will not. Deas has appointed him to save us at the determined time.” She wrapped the carving of the stranger, of her father, and of Illustra’s salvation—and her own—in her cloak and turned to the four people who stood waiting for her command. “We have to get back to Escarion as quickly as we can. I have coin. We can buy horses on the way.” Her mouth tightened. “I speak for the king.”

They ascended the stairs, Charlotte and Will in front of Adora with Rokha and Waterson behind. Adora followed in the dim light. The sound of a blade biting into flesh warned her, and she threw herself to one side. A splash, hot and sticky, hit her in the face, and the flare of a torch made her wince. She came up, sword in hand, to mocking laughter. Will and Charlotte lay dead. A pair of blades, both stained red, pointed at her.

“Hello, strumpet.”

Disbelief clattered through her mind. “Sevra.” The face was that of Duke Weir’s daughter, or it would have been, had it not grown hideous, surmounting a seven-foot frame. The duchess’s eyes, so wide they appeared nearly lidless, stared and vibrated.

“We have unfinished business, little one,” Sevra said. “I owe you a debt, and a Weir always pays in full.” The sword bobbed in time to the words, the length of steel a hand longer than any other sword in the room.

“Skorik,” Rokha said. The man with Sevra jerked as if stung. “This is treason.”

The scar on his face contorted, but he gave no sign of being possessed. “No. This is vengeance.”

Rokha laughed, but the sound held none of its usual warmth. It crackled with derision like a whip striking flesh. “Because I found you an unworthy suitor? And this will elevate you in my eyes? You’re a fool.”

He spat. “I want no part of you, and your father is not here to protect you. You all should have died in Merakh.”

Sevra cut Skorik short. “The day marches on, strumpet.” She pointed the tip of her massive sword at the bundle that lay at Adora’s feet. “I see you found something of interest. Did you really think Turing’s last message escaped me?” She looked around the room, her lips curled. “So this is where they brought him.” Her gaze narrowed into a look of deadly concentration. “Lift it, human. Let me see it.”

Adora shot a look at Rokha. They faced only two opponents, and they held three blades of their own. Ru’s daughter gave a slight shake of her head. Breathless, Adora bent, her movements slow and unthreatening, and lifted the stone with her father’s image on it.

Sevra flicked her wrist, impatient, and Skorik thrust his torch forward to illuminate the stone visage. “A mystery. How quaint. Why would the image of a captain of the guard be in this abandoned place?” She stilled, and her eyes slowed their vibration. “There would be no need for you to come all this way for such inconsequence.”

Duke Weir’s daughter and the malus housed in her body leaned forward, still out of sword reach, to peer at the sculpture. “It is Captain Liam . . . and yet it is not.” Her eyes widened. “I know this one. We hunted his offspring, my brothers and I.” She gasped. “And one lived.” Laughter echoed from the stones. “Oh, strumpet, you have given me a gift beyond measure. Almost I am tempted to let you live to see the disaster you’ve wrought.

“By guiding me here you’ve assured your kingdom’s destruction.” Like a monstrous child, she beat her hand against her thigh in glee. “Your Judica and conclave are blind. Had you made it back to them with this, they would have crowned him king and enabled him to rebuild the barrier. Taste it, strumpet! Taste the full measure of your failure. The strait is ours. In hours I will gather a force that will attack Illustra’s men from behind.”

“You would aid this?” Rokha said to Skorik.

His face contorted as conflicting emotions chased each other across his features. “I have chosen my side. Nothing I can do will undo it now.”

Sevra looked at Rokha, her head tilted to one side in thought, with a smile that chilled Adora’s heart. “We can use you, my brothers and I. Why not give yourself to us now, small one? You could have the power you’ve longed for.”


Rokha laughed, brought her sword up, and turned to the ready position. “I don’t think so.”

The scrape of cloth against wood whispered in the silence. A ghost of movement in the shadowed interior of the church alerted them as black-clothed men moved in behind Sevra and Skorik.

Violence erupted as swords flashed everywhere.

Waterson dove, bearing Adora to the floor as Sevra launched a flicking attack that would have taken her in the throat. “Stay down.” He grunted in pain but levered himself up to join against the pair.

She rolled, her vision registering the presence of a pair of the watch locked in combat, one against Skorik with Rokha, the other against Sevra with Waterson.

And Antil.

Already the priest bled from a wound in his side, but he launched blows that could not be ignored, giving the watchmen and Waterson openings to strike and dart back.

Rokha’s voice cut the din, yelling instruction to the watchmen.

“He prefers high-line attacks. Watch for a low feint.”

Adora’s sword lay just beyond her reach. Blows and parries whistled above her head, whining against the stones before returning to land against her hearing again. She crawled, belly down on the floor, for her blade. Sevra saw the movement and hopped back in preparation to aim a kick at her throat. Adora rolled, grasped the hilt, and swung.

And struck Skorik just above the heel.

Blood spurted from the severed tendon. Unable to maneuver, he went down beneath an onslaught of blows that took him in the side and neck. Naaman Ru’s protégé died before he hit the floor.

Adora rose to see Sevra launch a counter that cleared the way to the door. Weir’s daughter disappeared at a run into the fading light.

A rattling breath intruded on her awareness. She knew the sound, knew what it meant, but Waterson stood with Rokha, pressing the fold of her cloak against his shoulder, not his lung. A watchman huddled over a figure on the floor whose blood ran into a growing puddle at their feet. A hand twitched. Antil was still alive.

She wanted to stay away. Despite his service, she did not trust him. What revelation might he have kept in reserve? Adora forced herself to circle around and kneel by the pale, pale face. The eyes, not Errol’s, looked up at her.

“I thank you for your service, Pater. Why?”

He struggled to pull a breath past the wound in his chest. “He . . .” He stopped, gave his head the barest shake. “No man—none—should have to bury his love.” His face slackened. “He’ll understand.”

Antil grew still.

Adora stood, her gaze still fastened to the man she’d hated above any other. “He probably will.”

The watchmen made to lift him.

Adora pointed to the stairs. “Place him down there with the rest. It’s fitting.” She gathered the bas-relief into her arms as if it held the power to keep Errol alive. “We must ride for Escarion now.”

“A brisk walk at best,” Waterson said, “with those sorry excuses for horses.”



Errol leaned forward to give Midnight a reassuring pat. He wasn’t sure who needed the gesture more, him or the horse. Illustran soldiers streamed from the Pelligroso Pass. Closer now, he could see they retreated in good order, what was left of them. Half a league behind, a force of Merakhi filled the gentle slope that led into Gascony’s heartland.

Sven towered over him on his left, perched atop the huge draft horse his bulk required. The lieutenant fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable with their plan. Errol couldn’t blame him. Every time he thought of it, a muscle in his eye twitched. He cast a glance back at the wall of rubble and rock that trickled down, closing off the gap. On the cliff overlooking their position, men labored to dislodge more earth and rock.

“How long before it is ready?”

Lieutenant Hasta grunted. “Another hour at least.”

The pace of Errol’s heartbeat jumped. “It’s going to be a near thing.”

“Is this wise, Captain?” Sven asked.

Errol shook his head. “No, it’s not even close. Wise would be tucking our tail between our legs and racing to Escarion as fast as our horses could take us.” He sighed. “But if we do that, Captain Indurain’s and Captain Merkx’s force will be lost. Look.” He pointed. Already the gap between pursuer and pursued had narrowed.

Hasta nodded. Errol had to give him credit; after his initial objections had been answered, he executed every order as if the idea had been his own. “Sergeant Cursus is almost there.”

Errol watched as the horseman merged with the retreating force. “Let’s hope Indurain and Merkx move quickly.”

They waited, watching as the Illustrans moved farther out toward the flat ground that would give them better footing for retreat. A moment passed. Two. Then their path shifted, showing a subtle change that would bring them past the position Errol’s force occupied.

“There it is,” Errol said. “Get everyone in position. It’s going to be tight.”



Captain Indurain’s force flowed past him. Every man bore wounds, gaping rents which left their owners pale and haggard beneath a veneer of sweat and dirt. Indurain and Merkx hadn’t surrendered the Pelligroso easily, far from it. Even if they survived, most of their men would never fight again. As he watched, two more succumbed to their wounds and fell from blood-soaked saddles to lie dead upon the earth.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his anger to serve him. “Have someone put their horses against the wall with the rest.”

The watch captains diverted toward him.

Merkx bowed from his saddle. “My thanks, Captain Stone. They would have caught us after another three leagues.”

Errol nodded. “Or less.”

Merkx stiffened as if he’d been insulted. Errol held up his hand. “I mean no offense, Captain. It was easier to gauge their speed from here.”

The Bellian nodded, mollified. He surveyed the rubble barrier Errol’s men were building. “How can we help?”

Errol ached with the answer. A line of horses, all of the horses they could spare and then some, waited behind him. “We need to lure the enemy as high up the slope as possible. Let them think we’ve taken this gap and are going to escape to the far side. Slow your men. I have bowmen in place to keep the Merakhi off your back.”

Their eyes widened in disbelief, accusing. Merkx started forward, his mouth open, ready to hurl accusations. Errol cut him off. “Desperate circumstances require desperate measures, Captain.”

“Aye,” Indurain said. “You would know this, yes?”

“I would.”

The captains rode back to their forces, giving the order to slow.

Lieutenant Hasta coughed at his shoulder. “If they don’t take the bait, Captain Stone, they’ll have us all.”

Errol nodded, acknowledging the observation without responding to it. “Where’s Sven?”

The lieutenant’s gaze became troubled. Instead of answering directly he pointed toward the cliff. The draft horse that had carried Sven to the gap was tethered to rocks at the base. Up above, the Soede walked across the stone, his feet searching tentatively. In one hand he held a length of iron scavenged from a farmer’s cart. It looked almost dainty in his grip.

Errol spurred Midnight to the base. He stood in the stirrups, craning his neck to yell up the height. “Curse your fat hide, Sven. What are you doing up there?”

The Soede looked abashed, but resolution filled his face and posture. “You’ll need every bit of horsepower you can get, Captain. A draft horse is too valuable to waste on an overfed swordsman.”


Errol winced. “Without that horse, he’s got no hope of escaping.”

Lieutenant Hasta nodded. “He knows, Captain. He also knows that beast is worth five ordinary horses.”

Twice he started forward to order Sven down the cliff. Both times he stopped, halted by the brutal truth of his insight. Stymied, he turned back to Hasta. “I want a horse left for him where it will be safe from the rockslide. If he manages to survive, he can catch up to us. I need my lieutenant.” He turned Midnight to inspect the archers so Hasta wouldn’t see the grief on his face.

Every man and bow was hidden behind the rocks that peppered the road beneath the cliffs. Grizzled veterans with hands like gnarled tree roots stood next to wide-eyed lads younger than Errol. Diar Muen came forward to meet him. Arick’s replacement was more to his liking.

“You understand what needs to be done?” Errol asked.

The tall man nodded, stroking the longbow scavenged from the cliffs. The tinge of red in his hair proclaimed some trace of Erinon ancestry within. “Aye, Captain, we’ll give those Merakhi something to think about. We’ll mow them down like grass.”

Errol nodded. “Remember what you’re about, Muen. At this point, we need our men alive more than we need dead Merakhi. I want the Merakhi bunched up and held at bay until they mount an all-out charge. As soon as you see them massing, I want every man on his horse and out of here.”

Indurain and Merkx approached him, their faces troubled. “Our men are hidden in the gap, but we don’t have enough mounts for all of them.”

Errol nodded. “Have them double up with the smallest men of my command.”

Merkx’s face knotted. “Would it not be better for each man to have his own horse and make a run for Escarion?”

Errol understood the unspoken question and chose to answer it. “The spawn within the Merakhi army would run us down from behind long before Escarion. Do you agree?”

The Bellian’s jaw muscles clenched as if he were fighting his answer. At last he nodded. “But if your plan fails . . .”

“If my plan fails,” Errol cut in, “then we will lose my force as well as yours, which was lost at any rate.” He turned to Indurain. “Do you disagree?”

The Basqu sighed. “No, I do not.”

The sudden whistle of arrows cut the air like the cry of a thousand wounded birds.

Indurain pointed at the rain of shafts ascending in a shallow arc into the sky. “It seems we are past the point of debate.” The arrows began their descent toward the startled Merakhi cries. “Good luck, Captain Stone. We’ll await your signal.”

He coaxed Midnight back toward the apex of the road, where he watched the vanguard of the Merakhi army halt. He nodded with satisfaction as the long stretch of men and spawn bunched together, shields raised to try and lessen their casualties.

A runner sprinted toward him as the deadly rain trickled. “Muen says they’ve finished, Captain.”

Errol nodded. “Have the men wait for my signal. If we break too soon, the Merakhi will flank us by withdrawing to the valley.”

The opposing army frothed like a river at flood, shifting as if they suspected another volley. Then, with a massive roar, they began their charge up the long slope. Errol stood in his stirrups and circled his arm, as if ordering a charge.

But instead of rushing to meet their opponent, every man rushed from the gap back down the other side of the road leading to Escarion, out of sight of the Merakhi. Handlers stood with the horses, waiting for the last of the men to escape. Errol rode by, his throat clutching at the sight of a massive draft horse and the thick ropes that connected it to the rocks at the base of the cliff. Up on top a thick-bodied Soede stood ready with a length of iron.

Lieutenant Hasta pulled his sorrel in beside him.

“Deas help us. I hope this works,” Errol said.

The lieutenant gave a terse nod.

The first of the Merakhi entered the gap, a mix of men and spawn howling for blood with every stride and leap. The handlers loosed the horses, riding just ahead of them on the last mounts. The animals, their noses filled with the scent of predators, needed no other urging. They plunged forward, thick ropes snaking behind them.

Errol and Lieutenant Hasta rode just ahead of the handlers. The cry of terrified horses filled his ears, and he fought to keep Midnight under control. A straggler went down beneath a wave of ferrals, their teeth flashing white, then red.

A trickle of scree warned him, and he jerked the reins to the left. Midnight shifted, a wrenching change in momentum that almost unhorsed him. On the heights above, his neck cording with effort, Sven strained to break a massive boulder loose from the side of the cliff. With a crack like the bones of the earth breaking, it came free, moving as if through water. Wherever it touched, more rock and earth broke loose to join it.

Slabs of rock crumbled and shifted. The Merakhi forces at the front tried to retreat, but the men and spawn behind them advanced, filling the road as the side of the cliff gave way. Struggling to escape the path of the avalanche, Sven’s draft horse pulled a monstrous boulder.

Merakhi and spawn cried out, mouths and muzzles stretching in panic as the avalanche grew, washing them down the slope, burying them beneath tons of debris. The draft horse faltered, its legs fighting to move but unable to budge the growing weight of rock against the thick ropes trailing behind it.

Ignoring Hasta’s warning, Errol turned and raced back to the animal. The slide of rock grew closer as he dismounted and sawed at the thick hemp as he clutched the reins. Stones the size of his fists pelted him as he worked the blade back and forth in panicked strokes.

It snapped with a popping sound and the rough fibers lashed him. With a lunge, he threw himself onto Midnight’s saddle. The river of earth and rock slowed. Where the road had been lay a vast hill of stones. He sighed, his hands shaking with relief. Nothing stirred.

“How many of them do you think we killed, Captain?” Hasta asked. The lieutenant held a waterskin toward him.

Errol washed the dirt from his throat. “Not enough. The survivors on the far side will regroup to pursue us through the valley, but we’ve given ourselves some time. I hope it’s enough for us to make it back.” He gave Midnight a nudge with his heels.

A voice ghosted to him from above. “Could you wait up for me, Captain? I’m not as nimble as those skinny pikemen.”

He searched the trail.

“Where’s the supply wagon? I’m hungry.”

Errol looked up to see Sven scrambling down the cliff. He scrubbed away sudden tears that turned the dirt on his face to mud.