A Draw of Kings

38

WITHDRAW





ADORA DUG HER HEELS into her mare. The horse rewarded her with a dispirited canter that lasted all of five strides before it settled back into a walk. Not for the first time, she regretted turning down the offer of better mounts in Escarion. Rokha and Waterson rode beside her without recriminations, but tension marked the way they leaned forward in their saddles as if they could somehow will their animals to greater speed. The two watchmen, Orban and Bartal, rode several paces behind, stoic despite the circumstances. No sign of censure or approval showed on their faces.

Waterson looked back, again. “I wish it hadn’t rained. If we’ve lost the strait, we’d be able to see the dust from that many men and animals.”

Rokha turned to look back, her deep brown eyes troubled by an obscure pain. “They’re back there.”


“How do you know?” Adora asked.

Rokha shrugged and shook her head. “I can feel them. That’s bad, Your Highness. The last time I could sense the presence of so many malus, we were surrounded by them in Merakh.”

Adora’s stomach tried to trade places with her liver. “But that would mean . . .”

“That’s right,” Rokha said. “There are malus-possessed with whoever’s back there.”

She groped for some argument. “Could it be Sevra?”

Rokha paused, then shook her head again. “I don’t think so, or rather, not just her. I never sensed her. It takes a greater number for me to sense them with my limited ability.”

“How can you feel them at all?” Waterson asked.

Rokha nodded. If she took offense at his blunt question, she didn’t show it. “Possession is similar enough to compulsion that I can pick up on it, but to sense either at a distance, there must be a great deal of it.”

“I should go back and scout,” Waterson said.

Adora cut the air with one hand in refusal. “No. Your horse is as spent as ours. If they spotted you, you’d never get away.” She jingled her purse. “If I have to, I’ll spend every last coin I have to buy fresh mounts at the next village.”

“If they have them,” Waterson pointed out.



They turned a bend in the road and once again came in view of the village of Aresco, but now nothing moved, and no sign of inhabitation presented itself. As they neared, Adora saw why and squeezed her eyes shut. Bodies, some of them too small to be adults, littered the streets, many of them cut down from behind.

Waterson waited until she regained her composure before dismounting and tying his horse to a nearby post, his face pale above the collar of his cloak. “I’ll check the stables.”

Rokha, her jaws tight, followed his lead. “Come, Your Highness. We’ll check the houses. There may not be horses—” she looked around and sighed—“but there will probably be food and perhaps other supplies as well.”

The watchmen looked at Adora as she slid from the back of her horse, plainly waiting for orders. “Guard behind us. If you see anyone, don’t wait to find out if they’re friendly. Get us out of here.”

Her mount hardly reacted when she cinched the long reins to the same column Rokha had used. A body lay sprawled on the threshold. Even in death the expression remained uncaring. “This is what we’re fighting, isn’t it? This disregard for life.”

Rokha sighed. “It goes deeper than that. The malus at the heart of the Merakhi army don’t just disregard life like a human would, they devour it. They prefer corruption over death.” She shrugged. “Death is only a moment, after all. They take pleasure in it, but it gives them no lasting satisfaction.” She pointed to a small wooden sign across the street that bore the mortar and pestle of a healer’s shop. “Let’s try there.”

A rough wooden counter ran the length of one wall, behind which lay an assortment of jars. Rokha made for them while Adora searched the bins to one side. They were empty except for one, which held a few bunches of withered carrots. She held them up for Rokha’s inspection.

“The horses will get more use out of those than we will. We might even get a gallop out of them if we have to.” She put her hand into a jar and brought out a finger coated in a fine yellow powder. She licked it, then spat, her face red. “Curren, and it’s potent. If we can get a bit of this in their hay, they’ll think they are yearlings again, but we’ll have to be careful. It makes them run hot. Too little water and we’ll lose them.”

There was nothing else. They returned to the street to find their horses gone.

Adora whipped her blade from its sheath, but the road to the west showed no signs of pursuit. Waterson came from the ruins of the stable, holding several sets of reins.

“The far end of the stable survived. I found a bit of hay and a watering trough out back. I think they’ll run better on decent feed. There’s a bag of oats that’s not too far gone.”

Rokha nodded. “We’ll mix in some of the curren we found.”

Waterson’s eyes widened, but after a moment, he gave a grim nod.

Adora could feel the gazes of the dead on her, accusing. She shook her head, focusing her thoughts on one she prayed still lived. “Let’s be on our way. Pursuit or not, we must get to Escarion.”

The brisk trot barely stirred a breeze, but the horses managed to sustain a decent pace for the first time in weeks. When they stopped for a few minutes’ rest, Adora fed them the carrots, and they whickered and snorted with more spirit than they’d ever shown.

Waterson climbed to the crest of a ridge behind them, where he lay watching, his body stretched on the downhill slope. After a few moments, Adora saw him jerk and slink away in an obvious attempt to avoid being seen.

“They’re back there, all right. They don’t have many horses, but they’re moving quickly even so.” He looked at Adora and Rokha, his eyes pinched. “I think they have ferrals with them. If the spawn see or smell us, they’ll run us down. There’s at least one malus with them.”

“We knew that,” Rokha said.

Adora pulled a shuddering breath into her lungs. “Let’s get as much distance as we can out of the mounts before we give them the curren.” She pulled herself into her saddle.

They raced east as fast as their mounts could take them, slowing only when one of the horses stumbled with fatigue. Waterson watched behind as Rokha scouted ahead, but the terrain betrayed them. Too often they were forced to ride around the hills to avoid being seen cresting the ridges.

The next morning, two of the horses went lame. No food or spice would coax them into anything more than a limp, their heads bobbing in time. Rokha and Adora dismounted. Waterson stopped to run his hands from shoulder to hoof. His mouth tightened. “They can’t be ridden any time soon.”

The watchmen dismounted and presented their reins to Adora and Rokha. Adora shook her head in refusal, commanding with as much authority as she could muster. “We’ll double up.”

Bartal and Orban exchanged a glance before Bartal, the older of the two, spoke. “No, Your Highness. That is not an order we will obey. Once before the watch allowed their sovereign to die before them. We will not do so again.” He held the reins out to her, his face as impassive in sentencing himself to death as it had been in keeping guard.

“I won’t take them.”

“You must,” Orban said. “We will not ride. If you refuse to do so, then we all die needlessly. Rodran is dead. You are the last of the line.”

She shook her head. “You know that’s not true.” The temptation to bring out the bas-relief made her hands itch.

“What may be true is for the Judica and the conclave to decide, Your Highness.” He stepped forward to loop the reins of his horse around her wrist and went on in a lower voice. “Besides, we do not intend to die. A watchman can cover nearly as much ground in a day as his horse.”

Bartal handed his reins to Rokha. Then the two watchmen faced the rising sun and set off at a jog. Adora watched them, dumbfounded.

Waterson spoke in a slow drawl. “If you want to continue the conversation, Your Highness, we’ll have to mount up and ride after them. I’m not much of a runner.”

They passed the watchmen a couple of hours later. The next day, the malus behind them faded from Rokha’s awareness, and the following morning they crossed the river that marked the western border of Escarion.




Errol wove his way through the thick columns of men moving north and entered an area cordoned off by black-garbed members of the watch. There was no tent or pavilion available for the meeting of captains. He stepped into the seclusion of the barn and nodded in response to a salute from the pair of watchmen who guarded the privacy of the meeting, their gesture still strange to him.

Cruk and Rale stood at opposite ends of a table consisting of three planks of wood scavenged from one of the doors. An iron hinge askew and black with age still clung to one of the boards. A map of Gascony covered the table. Darkened spots on the map might have been ink, or perhaps blood.

“How did we lose the Pelligroso?” Cruk asked. His arm was bandaged, and his voice, always harsh, carried accusation.

“It hardly matters,” Rale said before anyone could speak. He tapped the map. “We have to man the next best defensible line.”

Cruk refused to be put off. “It matters. I don’t fancy repeating a mistake.” He turned toward Indurain and Merkx, where they stood on Errol’s left. “What happened?”

Indurain sighed. “The blame cannot be denied. Captain Merkx and I were appointed to hold the southern end of the range. In this, we failed. The Merakhi brought a beast against us, a spawn I had not heard of before. It was no mere ferral. The head was armored with horns like a ram, though it bulked larger than any of our horses.”

“Bezahl,” Cruk said.

Indurain licked his lips. “It cut through our lines like a blade slicing gossamer. Arrows, even swords, would not draw blood. Lieutenant Gale sacrificed his horse to get close enough to the fell creature to jump on its back. He thrust his dagger through the thing’s eye, killing it, but the spawn crushed him in its death throes.”

Merkx nodded. “Our lines were ragged, but we restored order, thinking we had taken the worst the enemy had to offer.” He drew himself up. “The malus commanding their army mocked us even as they withdrew, shouting in a strange tongue, and five more of the beasts, hidden until then, charged our line.”

“Water,” Cruk said. He looked toward Rale. “We encountered one—I had hoped the only one—on the eastern edge of Bellia. The bezahl can’t swim.”

Rale grimaced and his brows drew together over his broad nose. “The spring melt will keep us safe everywhere except on the south. The only river on that side is the Clearwash, and it sits in sight of Duke Escarion’s fortress. It’s deep enough to stop most spawn but too slow to keep horsemen from swimming it.”

Captain Rimor, a blocky Fratalander standing opposite Errol, cleared his throat. “Where are the other captains?”

Errol’s guts twisted at the question and the tense silence after it.

Rale shifted his weight from foot to foot. “The rest of the captains have moved north to aid Liam and Merodach.”

He couldn’t help himself; the question came tumbling out of Errol’s mouth before he could clench his teeth to keep it in. “He’s alive, isn’t he?”

Rale’s shadowed gaze offered no comfort. “He’s north of us. That we haven’t had reports of the enemy coming from that direction is testament to his skill.” He sighed and shook his head in defeat. “But they will have to pull back and retreat with the rest of our forces. Once we’ve crossed the river, we’ll take down the bridges and defend the ford. It’s narrow. As long as the spring melt lasts we can keep them at bay.”

Rale didn’t bother to explain what would happen when the waters subsided.



It took them two days to reach Cruin’s Gap, which held a broad road that led into the Arryth through a saddle in the hills. Liam’s and Merodach’s command fought a scant five leagues south of the river. A single day’s march would put them back in sight of Duke Escarion’s fortress. Rale and Cruk placed their men under temporary command of Indurain and Merkx and sought Errol early in the morning.

“You should come with us, lad,” Rale said. Cruk’s lumpy face twisted into an approximation of discomfort, a witness to some prior conversation between the two men.

“Why?”

Rale’s face hardened, the first time Errol had ever seen that expression directed toward him. “Because we do not know the time or the hour.”

“Or the man,” Cruk added.

He understood. Errol inhaled a deep breath, held it as he wondered just how many remained to him. He reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled the lots he’d carved last night, the cast that had told him Liam still lived. With a flick of his wrist he tossed them aside. The time for lots was past. The entire conclave couldn’t tell him his fate; why should he try?

His foot slid into the stirrup as he mounted Midnight. Rale had never asked for the return of the horse, and Errol hadn’t offered. Midnight’s presence had become a fixture for him.

They ascended the road to Cruin’s Gap in eerie silence. Ahead, men stood in formation—still, as though some sorcery had spelled them. Yet when the three of them approached, men stepped back, making way for their horses. Somewhere ahead a deep-throated challenge split the air.

Cruk spewed a string of curses as he dug his heels into his mount. “That’s Liam.”

Rale followed. Errol felt for the reassurance of his staff as he swung Midnight into line behind. After a hundred paces the columns of archers, pikes, and swords ended, leaving a broad flat space between Illustra’s forces and those of the enemy.

Liam stood another fifty paces beyond, alone. He brandished his sword and mocked the Merakhi army some hundred and fifty paces away. “Craven! Dogs possessed by dogs. Do you think I fear you?” He drew back his foot and kicked an object toward their line. It fell hopelessly short, but the army drew back as if it might reach them.

Errol squinted. It was a head, but too big to be human.

Cruk grabbed Merodach by the arm. Errol hadn’t noticed him before. “What in the name of Deas and all that’s holy does he think he’s doing? Challenging one of the malus? And you let him do it?”

Merodach turned to face Cruk, his face placid. “This is his command, Captain, not the other way around.” He shrugged. “Besides, it would seem he is up to the task. That head he just kicked belonged to the Merakhi troops’ leader, a malus Captain Liam defeated.”

Cruk’s mouth worked. “Impossible.”

Merodach shrugged. “Evidently not.”

“Which one?” Errol asked.

The three captains of the watch stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Which of the malus did Liam kill? Was it Belaaz?”

Merodach shook his head. “No. He called himself Azak. I recognized him as one of the ilhotep’s council of nine, but it wasn’t their leader.”

Cruk grunted. “That’s a shame.”

Rale pointed. “It would seem Captain Merodach is correct. The other malus don’t seem interested in answering Liam’s challenge.”

A stir at the back of the Merakhi line warned him. “Bowmen!” Errol grabbed the shield of the closest pikeman and raced toward Liam.

Cruk bellowed behind him. “Curse your wormy guts, Liam! Get back here!”

A hail of arrows soared into the sky as Errol pushed his legs to go faster. He cursed himself for looking up and sacrificing the speed it took to do so. Liam raced to meet him, his face angry.

They crashed together and huddled under the pitifully small shield as broadheads thunked into the dirt or struck sparks from stone. The sound of tearing cloth reached Errol’s hearing, and Liam hissed.


“This is the first time I’ve ever seen you do anything stupid,” Errol said as he and Liam backed toward their lines under cover of the shield. The hail of arrows diminished, died to a trickle as they retreated.

Liam nodded. “I didn’t think the malus’s caution would outweigh their pride.” He darted a glance at Merodach, Cruk, and Rale. “The other gaps have fallen?”

“The south is lost. We have to fall back to the river.”

When they reached the safety of their lines, Cruk’s face seemed unable to settle on a single shade of red. He spluttered unintelligibly—the captain’s extensive vocabulary had failed him at last.

“Give over, Cruk,” Rale said. “Captain Liam seems mostly unharmed.”

“More than I can say for myself once Archbenefice Arwitten hears of this.”

“I can answer for myself, Captain Cruk,” Liam said.

“Splendid,” Cruk snorted. “You do that.”

Liam nodded, but Errol thought he saw a hint of doubt in his eye. That would be another first.

Rale outlined their strategy.

Two days later, Errol crossed the Clearwash River with the last of Illustra’s forces. Duke Escarion’s fortress loomed in the distance.

There was nowhere left to run.