The Hero's Lot

by Patrick W. Carr

  “How do we keep from joining them?” Rale asked. He and Merodach held bows.

  Hadari stepped into the room. Rents in his clothing and armor testified to a struggle. Rale and Merodach trained their bows on him, but he ignored the threat to address Errol. “Come with me, brother. We must get you out of the palace. The ilhotep is dead. Belaaz rules now.” Tear tracks lined his cheeks and his eyes were red.

  “What of Martin and Luis?” Cruk asked.

  “My brother has them near the stables with the one that knows horses,” Hadari said.

  “What about Adora?” Errol asked.

  “I’m not leaving without my daughter,” Ru said.

  Hadari shook his head. “No harm will come to the ilhotep’s harem. I will send one of my brothers for them.”

  Errol shook his head. “No. I will go to her.”

  “I’m not leaving without Rokha,” Ru said.

  Rale stood from a bunk. “We stay together—to the women first.”

  The charcoal skin of Hadari’s face wrinkled into a scowl. “Foolish kingdom men. You seek the lion’s maw when you should be running away.”

  Ru nudged one of the dead guards with his foot. “We could wear these. There’s no blood on them.”

  Hadari looked heavenward and sighed. “Quickly, then, and we’ll need weapons.”

  They scrambled into the uniforms and made for the armory. The sounds of fighting outside intensified, and the screams of dying men echoed and reechoed around them. Errol grabbed Dextra and Sinistra and was belting the sheaths that fastened them to his waist when he noticed the metal rod. He grabbed it, his hands automatically seeking the balance point toward the center, as if it were his wooden staff.

  “Leave it, boy,” Ru said. “Merakhi don’t use the staff.”

  “I will carry it,” Hadari said. Grabbing the rod, he broke into a quick trot, leading them away from the skirmishes, always working his way toward the palace. They came upon a squad of white-robed guards who saw Hadari and attacked. Errol slashed at his opponent’s head with his swords. By the time it was over, his comrades’ white uniforms bore stains and streaks of red.

  Pain, like a tug in his mind, pulled Errol’s attention to the west. He put out a hand to steady himself. Valon was moving.

  “Everyone?” Rale asked.

  Cruk had a cut on his leg, but besides that, the blood on their uniforms belonged to the guards.

  “You all fight well,” Hadari said. “Were you Ongolese, I would have placed you in the royal guard.” He moved up a narrow hallway. “Come.” He moved toward the ilhotep’s throne room. Away from Valon.

  Errol grabbed Hadari’s sleeve. “Valon’s moving. I have to take him now. Save her, please.” At the man’s nod, he set off.

  An instant later an echo of boots behind startled him, and he swung the sword in his right hand. The shock of steel and Naaman Ru’s face registered at the same time.

  Ru gave him a wicked smile. “You’re almost fast enough, boy. But not quite. Now hurry and find this reader you have to kill so I can get my daughter.”

  Errol didn’t bother to thank him. Ru didn’t want his gratitude.

  As he ran the corridors, Errol tried not to think about getting trapped in a blind hallway. They avoided the skirmishes when they could. If Ongolese were not involved, it was impossible to determine who fought for whom. When forced to, they fought. Naaman Ru moved through opposition like a phantom, and the touch of his shadow brought death. Most men never saw the strike that killed them.

  They ran on, following the tug in Errol’s head. As they raced up an inclined hallway, a stench of animal musk and corruption filled the air. He swallowed against the gorge rising in his throat and covered his nose with his sleeve.

  When they turned a corner into a broad hallway, Valon stood before him, surrounded by a mass of ferrals. The renegade stood relaxed in expectation, the hint of a smile showing above his neatly trimmed beard. He looked down his nose at Ru, dismissed him before returning to Errol.

  The ferrals scented the air, their muzzles showing jagged teeth, their eyes burning. They gnashed at Valon’s upraised hand, straining to attack. The spawn seethed, a boiling mass of barely restrained violence.

  “Come, Errol Stone,” Valon said. The glare of his eyes belied the honey smoothness of his speech. “You cannot win. Even if you kill this body, I will simply find another. There is no lack of people willing to accept us for a chance at immortality.” Valon smiled and his eyes vibrated. “Join us. As omne within my circle, you will be second only to me.”

  Errol shook his head. Revulsion and loathing turned his stomach.

  “If you’re concerned about the compulsion those churchmen laid on you, you have no need. We supersede that authority.” Valon beckoned as if to an old friend. “Come. This conflict is pointless. Rodran’s breaths are numbered. At his death I and my brothers will become invincible. Even now we have power you cannot withstand.”

  Errol spat. “I’ve seen your kind die before. You’re not invincible.” He smiled as a passage of the book sprang to his lips. “‘In that moment, Eleison bound the malus so that they could never return in physical form. The evil ones were imprisoned beyond the great circle of the earth.’”

  Valon threw back his head and howled like a dog, and the ferrals attacked in a seething wave. Errol and Ru parted, met the swirling rush. The mass of bodies pushed them back, and they fought at first simply to avoid being swamped by sheer numbers.

  Valon and Ru vanished from his awareness, hidden by blood and fangs and fur. Again and again, he was forced to give ground. Dextra and Sinistra jumped almost by their own accord, and in a small part of his mind not occupied with staying alive, he exulted in their use. Rula’s swordsmith had crafted weapons that anticipated his commands, and the touch of their edge was death.

  Months of using a heavy staff had given him unexpected endurance with the swords. By increments, the press of ferrals thinned, until Errol fought and finished one alone. A moment later Ru dispatched the last of the spawn with a contemptuous thrust. A long, low mound of dead filled the hallway. At the other end, Valon stood, his smile amused. He toyed with a long rapier, flicking the tip at the dead ferrals at his feet.

  “It’s really too bad, you know,” Valon said. His face was wreathed in mock sympathy. “You could have joined us, but it’s too late now.” He smiled. “Death has come to you at last, Errol Stone.”

  He picked his way through the mass of the dead without looking down, his steps sure and confident.

  Errol took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. “This isn’t your fight, Ru. Go save Rokha.” He took a step back, away from the treacherous footing of the ferrals’ blood.

  One step sounded behind him, then another. “I can’t, boy. The compulsion won’t allow it.”

  Valon stepped forward, his eyes vibrating.

  Pain blossomed in Errol’s front hand before his mind registered Valon’s stroke. Ru lunged, his body and arm stretched, thrusting for Valon’s throat, but the renegade countered. The hall thundered with the crash of steel as Errol and Ru attacked. It was impossible for Valon to counter them both.

  But he did. The rapier flicked in and out of Errol’s perception as every slash and thrust he and Ru attempted was countered. Valon’s swordsmanship lacked skill, his stance unbalanced, but the rapier danced and forked in the air like lightning. Errol shuddered to think of the inhuman strength required to push that length of steel to such extremes.

  He and Ru were forced back. Valon’s grin stretched as he sensed their fatigue. A cut blossomed on Errol’s forearm, his parry a fraction too slow. Ru took a shallow slice across the ribs.

  They couldn’t win.

  With the strength of the malus driving him, Valon would wear them down. Another cut opened higher up on Errol’s arm, deeper this time. Beside him Ru growled a curse. With a yell, Errol put his all into an attack, striving to open a line Ru could use.

  It failed. Valon twisted and coiled like a viper, beat
ing the attack with a series of strokes that nearly pulled the swords from Errol’s grip. Ru threw himself back to keep from losing his head.

  Valon laughed. “Now, Errol Stone, you will die.”

  With a savage beat, he swung to knock Ru’s sword from its line.

  It never landed.

  Naaman Ru lifted his arm, allowed the stroke to take him in the side, and wrapped his hand around Valon’s rapier, holding it.

  Valon’s eyes widened. Unable to follow with a slash against Errol, he pulled the rapier toward himself, out of Ru’s grasp.

  But the move gave Errol the opening he needed. Lunging as he swung, he cut for Valon’s throat. The tip of Dextra passed through the soft tissue as if it didn’t exist. Blood oozed from the cut. Valon clamped his hand to the wound, tried to speak, his mouth working.

  He fell to his knees instead. The madness cleared from his eyes as they stilled, replaced by a knowing horror.

  The compulsion in Errol’s mind vanished. He dropped, kneeling in blood at Ru’s side, his hands trying to staunch a wound that went halfway through the caravan master’s torso.

  “Don’t bother, boy,” Ru said. “It’s too deep.” His brown eyes glared for a moment before softening. “This is what comes . . . from getting involved with the church.”

  Errol nodded. “I know. The compulsion made you do it.”

  Ru gave a weak shake of his head, pushed his sword toward Errol as his gaze grew distant. “No . . . I chose . . . Tell Rokha.” He pulled a shuddering breath. “Tell my father . . . and Rula . . . I . . . chose.”

  43

  Flight

  ERROL ATTEMPTED to backtrack away from the bodies. In moments he’d lost his way. Sounds of fighting drifted down the massive hallways. The ilhotep’s palace held as many twists and turns as the entire imperial compound in Illustra, and he had no compulsion to guide him.

  He didn’t even know where Adora and Rokha were being kept, and without a knife or blanks, he had no way to cast for their position. Every hallway seemed familiar, but the absence of bodies in many of them told him he hadn’t been there before.

  He rounded a corner to see a royal guard, one of Hadari’s brothers, and a handful of white-clad janiss fighting a greater number of soldiers. Even so, the contest looked even. The Ongolese counted as three or even four of the janiss. Errol moved to the flank and began mowing down soldiers. Three men were down before they turned to counter. That gave the rest the advantage they needed.

  The soldiers broke and ran. Errol grabbed the Ongolese by the arm. “I need to find Hadari.”

  With a nod, the guard moved in the opposite direction from the council’s forces. “I am Bamba. Follow.”

  Leaner than his brother, Bamba set a pace that left Errol straining. They came to the ilhotep’s slave quarters as Adora and Rokha stepped through the wreckage of the doors with Hadari behind. At the sight of Errol, Adora gave a cry of greeting and hugged him, her fingers digging into his arms.

  Another Ongolese, showing the blood and sweat of fighting, joined them. “It is done,” he said to Hadari. “The false one is dead.”

  “Who betrayed the ilhotep?” Errol asked. He prayed his instinct was wrong, but the tightness of sudden pain at the corner of Hadari’s eyes told him otherwise.

  “Fairhan, the youngest of us.”

  Errol nodded.

  Hadari squeezed his shoulder. “Have I not said you are wise? Those of us that live, if any, will mourn for him. We must leave. They will block us from the horses if they can.”

  Rokha’s eyes sought Errol’s. He shook his head, trying to think of some way to lessen the blow. He stepped forward and placed Naaman’s sword in her hand. She pivoted, ran after Hadari, weeping as she went. Errol wanted to offer her some word of comfort, but he was the reason behind Ru’s death. She would not welcome his solace. Ahead, Adora ran, her golden hair reflecting the torchlight. A catch in his throat made it difficult to breathe.

  They moved down a long passage of rough stone. The smell of horses came to him. A pair of royal guards, sweating and bloody from a dozen minor cuts or more stood at the entrance.

  “Where are the rest?” Hadari asked.

  The two shook their heads. “Adar led four of us and some of the janiss loyal to the ilhotep against the council forces to keep them from taking the stables. They cannot win. Time is short.”

  The taller one, who looked even bigger than Hadari, pointed into the stable. “The northern slaves wait with the horses. The short one has left three for us. The rest of the mounts are sleeping and will not awake for some time.”

  Hadari caught Errol in a bear hug, his head held against the big guard’s sternum. “Go now, little one. Merakh is lost. You must carry word back to your kingdom, to Illustra—war will certainly come.”

  “Come with us,” Errol pleaded, “you and your brothers. There is nothing left for you here.”

  Hadari smiled, glanced in the direction of the ilhotep’s palace and treasure room. “There you are wrong. Go now. If you ride swiftly you will beat pursuit back to the strait.”

  They thundered through the streets of the city, Merodach clearing the way of guards with unerring shots from his bow. The soldiers at the gate, confused by the sight of several of them wearing the white of the guard, did not recognize them for northerners until too late, and they had no means to pursue.

  A league from the city, they left the lush vegetation that bordered the river and entered the barren sand that filled Merakh between the loops of the Altaru. Rale held out his arm, palm down, and they slowed the horses to a trot. The moon tracked overhead, washing the brush and rocks in the sandy landscape with silver hues. Soon after slowing, Karele called for a halt.

  “Why are we stopping?” Cruk asked.

  “I want to check the horses. Even such power as theirs must be tended. The Morgols would prize them above their finest.” The solis moved from mount to mount, his hand sliding down the foreleg and checking the occasional hoof. “Keep a tight rein on your mounts. They’ll want this.” He untied a bag from behind his saddle and began broadcasting bits of something that glinted in the darkness.

  “What’s that?” Rale asked.

  Karele smiled. “The ilhotep prized my knowledge of horses. When I requested extra apples they never questioned me. Those slices I just laid across the road are laced with cardamom. The horses will pick up their scent from a mile away.”

  Errol’s horse jerked on its reins, trying to get at the fruit Karele had so generously distributed along the road.

  “So?”

  “They’ve also been soaked in sleepwell. Any horse that eats it won’t be able to manage more than a walk for at least a day.”

  Cruk laughed. “You’re starting to come in handy, solis. You really are a master of horses.”

  Karele gave a mocking little bow. “Thank you. I thought it would be better than poison. I don’t like killing.”

  In the distance the sounds of pursuit drifted across the sands.

  Merodach pulled his horse around to face the others. “Go. I will stay here and make sure the horses don’t gallop past their refreshment.” He unlimbered his bow.

  “I’ll stay with you,” Rokha said.

  The moonlight glinted off Merodach’s white hair and his stricken expression. “No. You cannot. They’ll almost certainly have bows.”

  Her mouth set. “I’ve already lost one man I loved tonight. I will not lose the other.” She glared at him. “And curse you, you stone head, for making me say it first.”

  The cold reserve of Merodach’s face melted. A smile blazed forth in the moonlight that turned the stoic captain into a boy. He urged his mount next to Rokha’s and caught her in an impassioned kiss that lasted long enough to embarrass the rest of the company.

  “There,” she said with a voice both rough and breathless, “that’s how you’re supposed to treat the woman you love.” She loosened the bow attached to her saddle. Merodach nodded.

  They left the pair there and set
a ground-eating trot that ate up the miles. Five hours later they stopped as the sun cleared the horizon. Errol’s legs and midsection ached from the ride. He stopped at moments to stretch as he cooled his horse.

  The sight of Martin breathing his mount filled him with an obscure guilt, as if he’d deceived his friend. In halting words, he told Martin of his encounter with the ilhotep and of the existence of the book.

  Loss and pain wreathed Martin’s face. He spun south to face Guerir. Even from such a distance, smoke from the city was visible. “We have to . . .” He swallowed. “Oh, Deas, it’s lost. We’ve lost it again.”

  Errol looked at the ground, abashed by the priest’s anguish. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think to retrieve it.”

  Martin put one hand on the back of Errol’s head. “You were fighting for your life, lad. You’ve given the kingdom the chance to fight another day. It’s not your job to do it all.”

  Errol nodded, but in his heart he wondered. They walked their horses over to Karele. The master of horses moved down the line of mounts, checking the legs and hooves of each. He pried a stone out of the frog of one, then ran his hand up and down the leg before giving a satisfied nod.

  “They need water,” he said to Rale. “We’ll have to give them a longer rest at the next loop of the river.”

  Rale nodded, not looking pleased.

  “We need some way to slip through the towns without attracting attention,” Cruk said.

  “It’s going to be a little hard to go unnoticed with most of us wearing blood,” Rale said.

  “What if we pose as merchants?” Martin asked.

  Rale shook his head. “Ru’s not here to bluff us through.”

  A touch on Errol’s arm diverted his attention from the discussion. Adora stood behind him wearing the ilhotep’s silks and an expression that conveyed hope and doubt at the same time.

  “Are you well, Errol?” she asked.

  The sun glinted off her gold hair. The sprinkling of freckles around the delicate perfection of her nose only made her more beautiful. With everything in him, he wanted nothing more than to sweep her into an embrace as fierce as Merodach’s with Rokha, but he schooled himself to stillness. Still, he allowed his smile to communicate everything he would not grant his body.