The Hero's Lot (16 page)

Martin pulled a chair and seated himself. Karele didn't wait for an invitation. Luis followed suit. Cruk remained where he was, standing like a plinth of granite, his hand on his sword.

“We need information on the villages to the east.”

On a thinner man, Bolger's scowl would have brought his eyebrows together. As it was, it only succeeded in bunching the flesh of his forehead into concentrated lumps of ire.

“It's not good.” The mayor's expression transformed him into a clothed bear. “So far we've only seen scouts and small raiding parties. But here . . . ” He pointed to the closest map in front of him, his pudgy finger covering the Sprata Mountains that lay east and north of Callowford. “The routes to Sligo and Muin are gone.”

“Gone?” Cruk asked. “What do you mean gone? Be clear, man.”

Bolger's face grew stiff. “There's no traffic in or out of those villages.”

“Why not?” Martin asked.

“Haven't you been listening, Pater? The Morgols have them.”

“Nonsense,” Cruk said. “There's no way to get enough men to stage a raid over the mountains, much less hold a pair of villages. They'd lose eight out of ten just trying. Then they'd have to fight their way past the garrison at Balinsloe first.”

Bolger didn't bother to refute Cruk's assertions—just gazed at him with the unassailable certainty of a man confident in his own knowledge. “Eight out of ten, you say? It makes you wonder what's so important here in the land of sheep and turnips that they'd sacrifice so many men.” His sarcastic growl answered Cruk's. “Balinsloe is gone, watchman.”

“How would you know that?” Cruk demanded.

“You rode past one of the few survivors of the garrison on your way to see me. Soldier Bier was scouting when the Morgols came pouring down out of the icy mountains like the vengeance of Deas.”

A knife of cold certainty pierced Martin's stomach. He knew. Luis could cast for it, but it wasn't necessary. The kingdom's enemies outpaced them. How many hundreds or thousands of Morgols had died in the mountains to get a raiding party into the Sprata region?

He pointed at the map. “How far have they come?”

The mayor's mouth pulled to one side in a gesture equivalent to a shrug. “I don't know for certain, but the best reports we have indicate that there are two contingents heading west toward this area.”

Martin watched with dread as Bolger's finger landed on an area marked with two names: Berea and Callowford. Karele stirred at his side. Dread chased acceptance across the healer's face. Martin put a hand against the splintered boards of the table to steady himself. What was happening in Callowford? A voice in Martin's head told him he was already too late.

“Pincer movement.” Cruk's brief assessment fell like the stroke of an executioner's axe.

Martin squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could deny the truth. His military experience amounted to listening to the occasional tale from one of the watch or the confession of some postulant who'd come to the priesthood from the guard. Even with his limited experience, however, he knew the fate of the villages they traveled toward.

Karele stepped forward, and Martin noted again just how
small the solis was. “Do you have any idea when those bands will reach Berea and Callowford, Mayor Bolger?”

The mayor considered the question while he squirmed. The joints of his chair squeaked in protest. “We don't know how fast they can travel. According to Soldier Bier, only one Morgol in ten had a horse. How fast can men bred to the saddle march?” One fat finger shifted significantly on the map. “They have to cover twenty leagues, all of it mountainous.”

“Have the villagers been warned?” Luis asked.

Bolger's neck waddled with his answer. “Not by us. But I'm sure someone from the garrison has gotten word to them by now.”

“Really?” Cruk's voice cut across the mayor's assertion like a crashing of boulders. “Assumptions like that kill people, Bolger.”

The mayor's eyes challenged Cruk's before he nodded. “True enough, but I can't spare a man to run messages. You tell them.”

Karele turned to Martin, a sudden air of authority lending him stature. “We must beat the Morgols to Callowford.” His eyes burned as he clutched Martin's sleeve. “We must.”

Cruk stepped forward. “I want to talk to Bier first. We need to know what happened at Balinsloe.”

Karele brushed aside his demand as if Cruk's concern were inconsequential. “We know what happened, Captain. The Morgols attacked with enough numbers to overrun the garrison, and brave men of Illustra died. Their bodies are lying in Balinsloe Pass, frozen in the snow. What else do you want to know?”

Cruk glared, but Karele's ruthless assessment silenced his dissension.

 16 
By Moonlight

T
HEY ROTATED HORSES
to pull every league possible from the beasts each day. Luis and Karele, thin and light, offered Martin's mount a breather as they rode up and down the slopes for Berea. The hardwoods sprinkled through the hills showed brilliant colors any weaver would envy, and the scent of pine and cedar in the cool moist air was like a friend's greeting after a long absence. But Martin's initial joy of reacquainting himself with the Sprata region turned to worry that left the muscles of his face weary with fatigue from constant frowning. After each change he found himself urging his new horse to a canter. Karele matched his pace, his lower lip tucked between his teeth, a mannerism of which the solis seemed unaware.

Each time Martin and the healer kicked their mounts to a gallop, Cruk would call to them in his voice like breaking rocks, telling them to keep it to a trot or risk losing the horses altogether. After the fourth time in the same day, Martin ground his teeth.

“Walk the mounts,” Cruk said.

Martin tried not to take the command as a personal insult.
“Why? We're still ten leagues out, and they don't seem that tired yet.”

Cruk didn't bother to nod or shrug, he merely pointed at the empty road ahead as if that explained everything.

For the last six hours Martin's mind had conjured scenes of their return to Callowford, each more disastrous than the one before. Caught within a product of his imagination where everyone and anyone who could help them had been killed, he snapped his reply. “Explain your command, Captain.”

Cruk's eyes widened, then narrowed at the tone and the use of his rank. He pursed his lips and bowed, deep and extravagant for being on horseback. “There's nothing on the road,
Pater
. We haven't seen a farmer or merchant since before noon. In the last day, not one caravan loaded with Callowford stone has passed us going west.” He pointed ahead to the peak of the long hill they climbed. “We have to get off this road. Let's circle around that hill.”

“Impossible,” Martin's frustration at his ignorance boiled over. “We have to get to Callowford.” He turned to Karele, searching for an ally against Cruk's suggestion.

The solis shook his head. “If the captain is here to guide us in matters concerning combat, then, in the absence of any other knowledge, we should defer to his experience.”

“Well said,” Luis murmured.

Cruk nodded as if that settled the matter. “We need to make a decision.”

Martin forced his voice to a neutral tone. “Which is?”

“Do we make for Berea or Callowford?”

The intent of the captain's question was plain. Berea was closer, but Callowford was more likely to hold the answers they sought. Unbidden, a score of faces rose before him, all residents of Berea whose names and grips were known to him. How could he just ride past them, leaving them unwarned?

“Berea,” Karele said before Martin could answer. When they looked in his direction, his posture gave no hint of apology or compromise, but Martin sensed an odd reluctance within him. “Adele is there. I must speak with her.”

“Did Aurae tell you this?”

The solis shook his head.

Martin nodded. “My heart says Berea as well. At the very least we need to warn them of the Morgols—if it isn't already too late.”

Cruk's response was a twitch of the reins that took his mount off the road into the woods that lay south. Martin followed, his imagination resuming its assault.

The trees thickened, and they picked their way through the underbrush at a walk. Cruk eschewed any path that showed signs of recent use. Time and again, the captain had them wait until he scouted the area ahead. When they stopped for the night, they were still five leagues short of Berea.

They tethered the horses, and the four of them sat in a rough circle around the spot where a fire would have given them warmth had they dared risk such a beacon. A gibbous moon cast shadows, giving them the look of phantoms. Luis stirred, his hands twitching in the moonlight as if they itched to cast.

Martin allowed himself a smile. In moments Luis would retrieve wood and steel from his pockets or saddlebags and find some pressing question that required the use of his craft. When he rose a moment later, Karele put out a hand to stop him.

“It would be unwise to cast just now.”

The moon glinted briefly off Luis's eyes, turning his pupils green for a split second as he turned. “Why? I think we should check to see if the Morgols are in Berea before us.” He paused. “Adele may have left already.”

Karele nodded. “True, but if the Morgols have brought theurgists over the mountains, we will all be in danger.”

The healer's tone suggested more than just familiarity to Martin. “What do you know of the Morgols and their religion, Karele?”

Karele shrugged. “The people of the Jhengjin have a reverence for horses. Much of their religion comes to them from so long ago that the origins have been lost, but their legends tell of a tree that both saves and condemns the world.” Moonlight reflected from the healer's gaze.

“That sounds a bit like our own history,” Luis murmured.

Karele nodded. “Yes, before the book was lost to us. The Morgols do not have a rich tradition of writing like Illustra or Merakh. Their tradition is oral, and many of the truths that Aurae placed into their tradition have been corrupted.”

Karele stirred, but it appeared as if the shadows moved the man. “They are ruled by a jheng, a type of clan chief, and by their theurgists, those who are born with the same talent that gives Illustra its readers and Merakh its ghostwalkers.” As he turned to face Luis, the moonlight lit half his face, but the other half lay in complete shadow.

“If they have a theurgist with them, the exercise of your talent will call to him, Secondus, like a lodestone to iron.”

“What of Aurae?” Martin's voice sounded clipped, brusque in the confines of their circle. He didn't care.

“As I told you before, Aurae has not spoken to me since I was told to come with you.”

“That's pretty inconvenient,” Cruk said.

Karele nodded, but now the moonlight glinted off his amused smile. His hand lifted to take in their small camp. “I have often thought so myself, but Deas does not answer to me.”

Karele's imperturbability grated. The only time Martin had seen him show concern of any type was when they discovered the Morgols had crossed the mountains and that Adele and Radere might be in danger. Martin had liked him better then. The solis seemed more human when he looked worried. This unflappable peace the healer exuded unnerved him.

Cruk rose. “I'm going to scout. There must be a reason for the lack of traffic on the roads.” His shape melted into the forest. Martin's gaze followed him for as long as the moonlight allowed, but the watchman moved through the underbrush with the ease of a deer. When Martin blinked, his friend was gone.

Curiosity warred with his discomfort. As usual, curiosity won. “You speak as if you'd journeyed to the steppes, Karele. Your words have the ring of firsthand experience.”

The solis nodded. “You're perceptive, Pater. I was taken captive by the Morgols in the Steppes War twenty years ago.”

Luis's gasp of shock was slightly louder than Martin's. He wouldn't have heard it otherwise. “The horsemen don't take captives.”

Karele shrugged, and his teeth flashed again in the silver gleam of the moon. “True. As a general rule they do not.”

The solis paused, whether in memory or unwillingness to remember, Martin couldn't tell.

“What was it like?” Luis asked.

“It was the life of any slave,” Karele said. His voice dipped so that Martin had to lean forward to catch every word. “I served Ablajin. His rank would have been equivalent to a lieutenant, I think. He made me a menial servant, and I waited upon him with all the diligence I could muster.” Karele shrugged. “He was a very practical man. Ablajin did not believe in wasting slaves or supplies. Competence he rewarded with life, incompetence with death.” His chuckle nestled behind Martin's ears. “I tried very hard to be competent.”

“Why do they fight us?” Martin asked. He wished very much that the kingdom would not have to fight a two-front war. Even the most incompetent soldier knew the likely outcome of such an eventuality.

“The Morgol society is at once simple and complex,” Karele said. “Like the Merakhi, they hold the family and the clan as the means to govern. Their language has a beauty and economy of speech that makes even the dullest conversation sound like poetry.”

The solis let forth a stream of syllables that fell on Martin's ears like a clarion call to battle, and his heart raced in spite of his incomprehension. “I just said the weather looks to be turning colder.” He sighed, his breath catching the moonlight in the cool air like the hint of mist. “Yet unlike the men of the southern continent, they do not maintain cities as such, and interclan fights over water and pasture are common.”

“Perhaps their numbers are not as great as we've heard,” Luis said. The pitch of his words rose toward the end, the effort of a man trying to sound hopeful.

“They are greater and yet not so great,” Karele answered. “The steppes stretch for a thousand leagues to the east, and the Morgols rule all of it through their cunning and horsemanship. Yet, the far eastern Morgols have no interest in the kingdom.”

He turned toward Martin. “But to answer your question, the Morgols of the western steppes see the kingdoms as nothing more than an opportunity ripe for plunder. They have no interest in our religious war with the Merakhi, but once we've committed to the southern flank, I expect they will come pouring through the gaps in the mountains in a tide that will make the Steppes War of twenty years ago look like a border skirmish.”

“How do you know all this?” Martin asked, his tone holding a hint of demand.

“I told you, Pater. I was a slave among them.” Karele's voice and the tilt of his head in the gloom held hints of amusement as if at some unspoken jest.

Luis leaned forward, caught the healer's attention. “How long were you a slave, Karele?”

“Over nineteen years.”

“But . . . that's impossible.”

Karele's voice came to him gently mocking. “Don't you say that with Deas all things are possible, Pater?”

He spluttered, trying to find words—no, trying to find thoughts that wouldn't come. “How did you get away?”

“Nine years ago, Ablajin made me master of his horses. You must understand; the horselords worship their mounts. For him to make me master of his horses was like a man of the kingdom adopting a servant as his heir. A Morgol barbarian raised me from the status of slave to son.”

Karele grew silent, then continued. “There is much in the Morgols that is worthy of redemption, Pater.”

“Why didn't you return to the kingdom then?” Luis asked. “Why did you stay?”

“The briefest answer is that Aurae didn't tell me to—” a brief catch, almost a sob, interrupted Karele's words, but he quickly continued—“but the truth is that I had come to see Ablajin
not just as my master, nor as my adoptive father, but my father, in truth. My own father is unknown to me, and I discovered a hunger for Ablajin's approval that surprised even me.” His exhale sounded like a soft moan of loss and regret. “The word of Aurae came to me . . . a year ago, telling me to return to the kingdom. I made my way at last to Windridge.”

“How did you escape?” Karele's words held him spellbound, as if the solis had learned the theurgy of the Morgols and was using it to hold Martin captive.

“I didn't,” Karele answered. “I went to Ablajin and told him everything. I think I was secretly hoping that he would lose his temper and enslave me, but I underestimated Deas's call. My father embraced me as a son and gave me the best of his horses.” The healer's voice cracked, splinters of pain filled Martin's ears. “Do you know what that means to a horselord? No, of course not. It took me nearly two decades to learn.