Hero's Lot, The (The Staff and the Sword Book #2)

by Patrick W. Carr

  The threat of swords held by those walking mountains rooted him where he stood. “Is it permitted?”

  The two guards flanking Hadari laughed until he looked their way. Errol recognized the reaction of soldiers to a superior’s displeasure.

  “It is permitted. I will have a guard trail us. If you seek to attack me, infidel, he will kill you where you stand.”

  Errol shrugged. “Death comes to everyone, some sooner than others, but I’m in no hurry to meet it.”

  Hadari smiled. “Have I not said you are wise? Come.” He turned and made his way out of the slave quarters. Errol hastened to catch up. He fell in step next to his warden, but now that the opportunity to speak lay open, words failed him. They walked in silence past a guard station within the arena. A motion along with a curt command in a lilting tongue brought a man with a bow and quiver from within that room to trail

  them.

  “You are quiet, infidel. Why is that?”

  He looked at the intricate patterns along the walls, the dominant form of decoration here in Merakh. The patterns repeated themselves on a smaller and smaller scale until they were lost to sight. “Your fellow guards called you kayeed?”

  Hadari smiled. “Ah. You are observant.”

  Errol cocked his head to one side. “I know the look of men confronted by their superior. No more.”

  “It is given to me to know much about you, infidel. There seems to be much you know, perhaps too much.”

  How Errol wished it weren’t so.

  “The other guards call me kayeed because I am their captain, the head of the ilhotep’s personal guard.”

  “Then why does the ilhotep not have his personal guard with him?”

  Hadari stopped, turned sideways to face Errol, and held a hand up, palm out, to the guard behind them. The guard following stopped. Hadari guided Errol farther along the hallway before speaking. “That is a dangerous question, infidel. You should find another.”

  Errol pulled at his jaw muscles, the bristle of whiskers raked against the palm of his hand. “Why do you call me infidel? None of the other men from Illustra have been called that.”

  Hadari’s black eyebrows crept up the dark charcoal of his skin toward his bald head, and his eyes widened in surprise. “Are you not? I have said much is known about you. Your refusal to acknowledge your Deas looms large in the ilhotep’s councils. It is one of the reasons the chief councilor desires you.”

  The accusation grated. His unbelief belonged to him. After everything he’d been through, he shouldn’t have to justify it to anyone, much less the Merakhi ruler who was trying to destroy his kingdom. He set his jaw.

  They passed another guard room. Hadari stopped to speak to the men within for a few moments before moving on. The halls changed, and Errol sensed they had passed beyond the confines of the arena. A tug within his chest pulled him left. He could have pointed without error to Sarin Valon’s chambers. How long would it be before the church’s compulsion took over his mind? “Where are we?”

  “Under the gallery of victories, the ilhotep’s storeroom. There is something within I wish to show you.”

  “Why?” Errol asked.

  Hadari laughed. “An interesting question, infidel, but not the right one. Come, you will see.”

  They climbed a narrow stone stairway that wound upward in darkness, Hadari in the lead, until they emerged into a domed-entrance antechamber. Torches burned in sconces beside an entryway, but no guards kept watch. Hadari led him to a door and produced a key from within the linen folds of his uniform.

  The door swung open. Hadari grabbed a torch and entered. “Follow.”

  Errol stepped behind him, but the other guard remained outside.

  With each step into the chamber, Hadari’s former ease diminished until the guard’s manner radiated intense anticipation. Stacks of artifacts surrounded them. Gold, silver, and precious stones reflected torchlight in a dozen different hues. Errol goggled at the fortune, but Hadari moved with purpose past rows of treasure to the far corner of the room. When he stopped, he lifted the torch high above his head to illumine a massive black marble obelisk, and his manner became deferential, reverent.

  On the obelisk sat an ancient book, tattered and yellowed with age. Smudges of handprints on the glassy marble surface around the book testified to recent visitations.

  Somewhere within Errol, a memory stirred but refused to surface. Hadari reached forward and opened the book as gently as hands nearly twice the size of Errol’s would allow. His expression as he faced Errol became closed, his eyes narrowed and probing.

  “Do you know what this is, infidel?”

  Errol shook his head. “How could I know something I’ve never seen before? It’s a book. I’ve seen lots of books.”

  His answer appeared to frustrate his companion. Hadari huffed, and his hands wandered in aimless gestures, as if he no longer knew what to do with them. “It’s from your kingdom,” he said at last. “It is very old.”

  Errol’s natural curiosity had been so dulled by the revelation of his ultimate fate he could not muster an interest in the Ongolese guard’s convoluted guessing game. “If there is something you want me to know, tell me.”

  Sorrow wreathed Hadari’s face. “I cannot give you the knowledge that way.”

  A sigh building in Errol’s chest came out in a soft hiss. “You speak in such riddles. Are you sure you are not a priest? You sound like Martin.”

  Hadari laughed and stepped back from the book. “Would you like to read it?”

  Errol leaned forward, preparing to take that first irrevocable step to discovering Hadari’s secret. He stopped. There was no point. Someone had to die, and it didn’t take a scholar to see that the kingdom needed Liam more than it needed a former drunkard like himself. No, let Hadari keep the knowledge of his book. Errol’s destiny lay in the arena.

  “No. I am done with books and secrets. Whatever you want from me is beyond my ability to give.”

  For the barest instant, the guard’s large face, dark and blunt, showed a longing almost beyond human capacity to express. Hadari wheeled, his shoulders taut, and closed the book. “Perhaps another time, then, infidel.” His tone carried a note of finality, and the way he said infidel no longer spoke of teasing but of wrenching loss.

  Errol followed him from the ilhotep’s treasure room. The other guard fell in line behind them, and they followed a twisting route that Errol could never have duplicated back to the slave quarters underneath the arena. Neither Errol nor Hadari made any further attempts at conversation.

  Back in the sleeping room, Errol sat on his bunk amidst the sound of men dozing around him. His subconscious found a spot in the upper part of the wall through which an unobstructed arrow would find Valon’s heart. Books and questions faded from his awareness.

  When the morning meal and light through the slits announced sunrise, the guards came for Naaman Ru and Merodach. Both men returned within an hour, dusty but hardly out of breath. Merodach, his silver blond hair glinting in the light, returned to his whispered consultations with Rale, his blue-eyed gaze darting often to Errol.

  Ru, meanwhile, walked about the quarters snorting and voicing his disgust. “We’re wasting time. The ilhotep’s councilors will tire of our easy victories and begin sending us against their best.”

  “How would you propose we escape?” Rale asked. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Errol returned to his bunk. There would be no escape, and until whatever end awaited him arrived, there was little to do except eat, sleep, and fight. He was ready to accept his fate, but when he thought of Adora . . . He tried not to think of the princess.

  He slept often and spent his waking hours following Valon’s movements as surely as if the man walked before him.

  Cruk and Rale visited the arena and returned as quickly as Ru and Merodach. Hadari came for Errol the next day at noon to lead him to his next battle. “The crowd does not like you or your friends, infidel.”

  “Why
is that?” Errol asked.

  “They are here for a show, and you disappoint them with your quick kills.”

  “Then they should send us better opponents.”

  Hadari laughed as if Errol had made a great jest. “Well spoken. The men you have defeated were counted fierce among the bandits and criminals they lead. It is a great honor to have three captains of the watch fighting in the arena, but who is this other man, Naaman Ru?”

  Errol did not trust Hadari’s companionship despite their visit to the treasure room. “He is a caravan master who is good with a sword.”

  “You weave a rug with missing threads.” Hadari smiled. “There are some who have noticed Ru is . . . comfortable here, as if he has seen Merakh before.”

  Errol let the unasked question slip by. “I’ll wager he would rather be in the kingdom right now.”

  “Perhaps we will talk on this again, infidel.”

  Errol couldn’t tell if the man’s words were an invitation or a threat. But thoughts of Hadari and his secrets faded as he entered the glare of the arena to choose his weapon. Swords or staff? He moved along the rack toward his sword case and stopped, his attention arrested by a smooth, gray rod.

  “What is this?”

  Hadari approached. “It is a metal staff. Your priest, the one you call Martin, had it with him.”

  Errol lifted it from the rack, amazed at its light weight. Despite the sweat on his hands, the metal gripped well. It did not slide from his grasp. He stole a glance across the circular stretch of ground. His opponent stood impassive under the noise of the crowd, waiting.

  Foolishness, he told himself. Only an idiot would take an untried weapon into battle. Doing so practically begged for death.

  He grabbed the staff and returned to Hadari.

  “You would face a sword with a glorified stick, infidel? I thought you wise. I see my estimation was in error.”

  Something about the feel of the metal staff, lighter than ash and stronger than oak, made him want to laugh. “You may be surprised, Hadari, what may be done with a stick.”

  The guard nodded, and Errol left him to approach the center of the ring.

  The jeers of the crowd faded as his opponent came forward. “I see you, northlander,” the man said. A thick black beard covered his face and waggled when he spoke. “You insult me with your choice of weapon. Do you not realize I have killed over a hundred men, both northlanders and countrymen alike? Pig.”

  Errol stepped forward, the staff moving slow circles in preparation.

  Moments later Errol replaced the staff in the rack with a pang of regret, the crowd silent behind him. Hadari inclined his head in acknowledgment, less than a bow, more than a nod. “You surprised many today, northlander. There has never been a warrior in the ring who has chosen to fight with a stick.”

  “Staff,” Errol corrected.

  “Hardly the weapon for a warrior of renown, but now it is easier to believe the tales,” Hadari said.

  “I never wanted renown or to be a warrior.” His voice thickened as his detachment cracked and a wash of emotion that threatened to become a tidal wave came through. “Maybe I should have. But getting other things I wanted hasn’t helped much.”

  A glint appeared in Hadari’s visage, of cunning or something else Errol couldn’t tell, but the big guard escorted him back to the slave quarters with the abstraction of a man making plans. When he stopped at the door and motioned Errol inside, he gave a cryptic smile. “It would be good for you to rest now, infidel. Unforeseen circumstances come to us all.”

  It was barely an hour after noon. Sleep seemed a ridiculous notion, yet conversation with the rest of the company did not interest him. He lay down on the bunk. His gaze traced invisible paths along the upper part of the wall, following Valon’s movements. Errol’s mind wandered through the days of the past year, seeking an escape from the pull of the Judica’s compulsion.

  The message. If he had refused to take the message, Luis would never have discovered his talent. There would have been no compulsion to force him to Erinon. He would have remained in Callowford with Cilla.

  With Antil.

  He rolled, tangling himself in the thin blanket that covered his pallet, found himself staring at the stone slabs that formed the floor. His answer must lay further back. The face of his adoptive father, Warrel, loomed before him again, pale and closed with pain.

  The fracture in Errol’s detachment widened, threatened to burst, allowing emotions he’d locked away to drown him. When had he ever been in control of his own life? He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to shut away the useless memories. What would have been different if he had never crawled into the ale barrel?

  No. It was no use. The seekers for the church would have tested him at fourteen and taken him to Erinon. He would have been spared Antil’s abuse and his own intemperance, but in all likelihood he would be dead now. The conclave would have uncovered his talent as an omne. Valon would not have left him alive. A knot of rage built in the back of his throat. The grip of destiny had its foot as firmly planted on his future as it did his past. There had never been any escape for him.

  The struggle to keep his emotions in check exhausted him. He slept.

  A hand on his shoulder brought him to wakefulness. The sighs of men dreaming of freedom surrounded him. Hadari’s silhouette hovered over his bunk. Errol rose and followed the guard as before, but this time Hadari seemed uninterested in conversation.

  At the entrance to the slave quarters, guards removed Errol’s clothes and outfitted him in the white linen of a Merakhi soldier. A guard bent and belted a curved sword, a shirra, at his waist. Curious, Errol tested the edge with his thumb. It was dull, so dull it could only be used as a club.

  Hadari stepped in front of him and wrapped Errol’s face with the linen cloth attached to the shoulders of the uniform. “With your sun-browned skin and dark hair you could almost pass for a Merakhi.” He leaned close. “Keep your hands empty. To draw that weapon is to die. Do you understand?”

  Errol nodded.

  “Good. Do not speak. Your voice would give you away.”

  With two guards in front of them and another two behind, Hadari led them through the tunnels that connected the buildings of the ilhotep’s city until they arrived once again at the treasure hall of Merakh’s ruler.

  This time all five guards accompanied Errol into the room. Without preamble, he was escorted to the back corner where the book lay. When they turned the corner, Errol stopped short. In front of him, surrounded by another five guards, all of them as big and dark as Hadari, stood the ilhotep.

  The guards with Errol knelt. Oversized hands moved to pull him down before the ilhotep’s raised hand stopped them. On impulse, Errol completed the gesture on his own, his right knee cold against the polished marble floor. When he rose, Errol looked upon a man who wore the ilhotep’s features and rich clothes, but whose posture and personality bore no resemblance to the indolent pouting man he’d seen in the palace.

  41

  MAGIS’S FOLLY

  ARE THE ENTRANCES SEALED?” the ilhotep asked.

  Hadari bowed. “Yes, my ilhotep. None may enter without your knowledge or permission.”

  Merakh’s ruler turned his eyes to Errol. Away from the indulgence of his throne room, the ilhotep seemed more like a panther than a kitten. Black, shoulder-length hair accentuated the intensity of his face. His eyes, dark to match his hair, had lost their heavy-lidded somnolence, burning instead as they scrutinized Errol from eyes to soles, noting every detail. Yet the smile that appeared in the midst of his neat beard seemed welcoming enough.

  “Doubtless, Earl Stone, you wonder why I would have you brought here in the middle of the night.”

  Errol nodded. “Ilhotep, I’m surprised that you would address me by a title few of my own countrymen use. To most of them I’m a boy, or a peasant.”

  The ilhotep’s eyes blazed. “Yes, so my informants have told me. Yet you have accomplished gre
at things, and the hope of Illustra rests on your shoulders.”

  “No,” Errol said. “I do not think so, or they wouldn’t have sent me on this fool’s quest.”

  Laughter greeted his statement, showing the ilhotep’s white, even teeth. “Do not confuse those who vie for power with those who work for good. Men like your Duke Weir would rather perish as king than live as duke. Unfortunately, he is powerful enough to obtain his desire.”

  “Pardon me, Ilhotep, but why are you telling me all this? If you know as much about me as Hadari says, you know I must kill Sarin Valon or go insane. Merakh will be at war with the kingdom when Rodran dies, at any rate.”

  The ilhotep stepped closer. Errol kept his hands in plain view, away from his sword, surprised to discover the ruler was his own size. The intensity of his face and manner had made him seem larger. “What would you think if I said I do not desire war?”

  Hunger flared in Errol, then died almost as quickly. “I have seen too many men die, Ilhotep—some of them by my own hand—to wish for anything but peace, but I must kill Sarin Valon or lose myself.”

  The ilhotep brushed aside his objection. “Valon will die. He is insane and serves Belaaz rather than me. The spirits—the ones we call the roukh—have eaten his mind. The intelligence you see looking out from his eyes does not belong to a man. After you left the throne room he went mad with fear. He knows why you are here.” The ilhotep paused to laugh. “And now that he knows he cannot see you coming, he is petrified along with the rest of the council. Beware, Earl Stone, they will not be content with waiting. Every moment you draw breath is one in which a sword stroke may deprive the roukh of their host.”

  The ilhotep ran his fingers along the edge of the book, then nodded to himself. “The matter is simple. In four days we will celebrate the feast of the god Belaaz.”

  Errol started.

  The ilhotep’s lips parted in a sardonic grin. “No, northlander, it is not a coincidence. My chief councilor has taken the name of the roukh that possesses him. His feast will be our opportunity.” His face grimaced in disgust. “The roukh drive their hosts relentlessly on such occasions as they indulge their . . . appetites. Eventually, even they must rest. On that day you will be provided with a map and allowed to escape. If you wish to avoid war, as I do, kill Valon and the council.”