A Cast of Stones (42 page)

A short, red-haired man jumped from his seat at the back of the room and ran forward to snatch the lot from Errol's hand. With a practiced twist he rotated the pine. He gasped, the intake of his breath audible in the silence.

“It's true.” He pointed at Errol, his hand trembling. “He's an omne.”

The hall erupted into bedlam, and Errol found himself mobbed by men who'd barely acknowledged his existence before. Only the pounding of the primus's staff against the floor restored order.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please. We have work to do.”

At Enoch's direction he replaced the lot and the barrel spun again. An absolute stillness enveloped the hall as two hundred readers held their collective breath when Errol moved to select again.

“The Lot and Crown,” Errol said. The lot he'd drawn was linked to the largest inn the imperial city boasted, and it was not the barracks. Again one of the readers came forward to confirm his draw, but disappointment etched the pale man's face. With a sigh, he nodded after taking a brief look at the surface of the lot.

They spun the barrel eight more times at Master Quinn's behest. The intricacies of conclave protocol were under his purview and he stood at the right hand of the primus, directing the number of turns of the barrel.

Each draw produced a different lot.

The primus nodded in resignation. “They are not in the city. We must cast our net wider.”

The conclave reassembled at the map of the island, where Enoch wielded his piece of chalk like a weapon, dividing the island of Erinon first into circular sections akin to those on an archer's target and then with radial lines to yield a number of
arced sectors. Then he numbered each of the sections. There were fewer of these than before, so only the fastest readers crafted lots.

Once again the primus directed Errol toward the casting barrel. The lots cascaded against the hollow steel, and the sound of drumming filled the hall.

Errol reached into the darkened interior of the barrel and selected the cast. He turned it against the light, read the inscription, and held the sphere aloft. “Section seventeen.”

A tall, bald man, almost gaunt, with a neatly trimmed beard stepped forward and with a slow, serious nod confirmed Errol's draw. “Ayuh,” he said, drawing the word out. “That's mine.”

Errol replaced the lot, and Master Quinn stepped forward to spin the barrel himself.

His fingers trembled as he loosened the access panel on the barrel and selected a lot. Errol closed his eyes and grabbed the first sphere that fell against his suddenly clammy hand. When he saw the lettering, he thrust his arm into the air, jubilation pounding in his voice. “Seventeen!”

Two hundred blue-robed readers roared their approval until the hammering of the primus's staff restored order.

He addressed the tall reader with the beard. “Adept Gregoro, please confirm the draw.”

Errol surrendered the lot to the same man as before.

The nod and the smile that blossomed in the midst of his beard caused another round of cheers. Master Quinn called for silence and directed Errol to replace the sphere.

Eight more times the barrel spun.

And seven more times, section seventeen was chosen.

Cruk spoke with Luis and the primus and then left at a run.

The conclave worked at a fever pitch, narrowing the search to smaller and smaller portions of the map. And then they had the building.

According to the readers that knew the island best, Sarin hid in a large mill on the river to the north of the city. Cruk, his
face serious, reappeared at Enoch's shoulder, flanked by a full eight of the watch.

“Primus, the king sends his thanks. We are ordered to attack immediately. His Majesty directs Secondus Montari and Errol Stone to accompany us.” He glanced once in Errol's direction. “We don't know what we'll find, and their skills may be needed.”

The old man nodded, the wisps of his silver hair waving with the motion. “Have a care, Captain,” he said to Cruk. “The lad is irreplaceable.”

Cruk nodded. “I'm beginning to see that.” He turned to lead the way out of the conclave.

Minutes later, Errol rode Midnight at the back of a contingent of guardsmen. Five score watchmen led the procession at a gallop, followed by half of the palace guard deemed healthy enough to fight. To Errol, their numbers looked pitifully small. The jangle of tack and weapons echoed in counterpoint to the thunder of hooves, and the populace of Erinon melted out of their way as they rode north.

The affluence of the environs close to the palace faded, and within minutes large buildings, some dilapidated, surrounded them. Rats ran through the gutters, searching and feeding on garbage. They crested a small rise in the road and descended toward a large mill that backed up to the river. A succession of waterwheels turned with the swiftly flowing current, their paddles dipping and spilling with small splashing sounds.

At the front, Cruk raised his hand, then signaled left and right. The mass of soldiers split to come at the mill from two sides. A moment later he raised a fist, and men with bows fanned out to cover the river. Fifty paces from the building, they stopped, cutting off the escape of whatever men or ferrals were inside.

Nothing stirred.

Cruk dismounted and approached with a dozen of the watch. The mill stood lifeless, its interior dark through the windows and its chimneys cold. Errol held his breath as the black-clad soldiers crept toward the door.

At a signal from Cruk, a squat, black-haired watchman kicked the door in and jumped back, sword at the ready.

Nothing happened.

Backs flat against the wall with swords bared, the rest of the watch waited in the stillness. At another signal, two watchmen rushed the door, and Errol winced in preparation for the inevitable sounds of slaughter.

Nothing came.

Wary still, more of the watch entered. Now the sound of footsteps, men's footsteps, came to Errol on his mount. No snarls or growls split the air. No sounds came to them of fighting or even of traps set by a retreating enemy being sprung.

Cruk disappeared inside the mill only to reappear a moment later to wave Errol and Luis forward into the building. Errol walked Midnight to the entrance, dismounted, and entered with Luis at his side. He stopped and blinked in the gloom, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. When he could finally see, he fought to keep his stomach from emptying.

Food troughs, not tables, stretched through the center of the room. Before he could stop himself, he looked into the nearest one. It looked as though Grub had emptied his cook pot into it, spilling stew into the rough wood. That's what it looked like, stew. Errol bent and let his stomach empty.

When nothing remained of his breakfast, he straightened, turned away from the trough, and wiped his mouth. A rumpled line of rags ten paces wide, like an oversized dog's nest, ran the length of the far wall. He shuddered to think of the number of ferrals that slept there. Dizziness struck him at the realization they'd brought six hundred men and it wouldn't have been enough.

“Errol, Luis.” Cruk beckoned to them from the top of a broad set of wooden stairs. “Come,” he called. “This is something you need to see, I think.”

Errol followed the secondus, glad for any excuse to leave the empty ferral den behind. Watchmen held torches to light their
way, but what came to him first was the smell, almost overpowering as he descended the stairs.

Pine.

And then he saw it—row upon row of squared pine billets as thick around as his arm and a dozen feet long. Uneven piles of the wood lay stacked everywhere.

Errol tugged at Luis's cloak, pointed. “To what purpose? You could make thousands of lots with this. He couldn't use up this much wood in years.”

Instead of answering, Luis pulled him around by the shoulder, forcing him to look toward the far wall, toward the river where the waterwheels turned. Small mountains of sawdust filled the space. Next to each pile an axle turned, linked to its waterwheel on the far side of the wall. Curiosity pulled his feet forward. He rubbed the sawdust between his fingers, feeling the sticky texture of the powder.

Luis stood a few paces away, staring around the room as if Sarin had spelled him.

“What do you see?” Errol asked.

“It's what I'm not seeing that bothers me. Everywhere I look, there are signs of casting—sawdust, pine blanks, wood shavings—yet there are no lots. Follow.” The secondus led him across the room to a set of barred doors. “Here.” He yelled for Cruk, and the captain reduced the doors to firewood.

Inside, thousands of lots sorted into small groups filled the space. Luis pulled one from a pile, handed it to Errol.

“What am I seeing?” Errol asked.

“Perhaps an old evil come new again,” Luis said. “I think Sarin sorted his lots by cast. He's a very meticulous man.” He reached into the same pile and retrieved four more lots. “Tell me, Errol, did you notice anything different in the lots you've read that were crafted by other readers?”

Errol lifted his shoulders. “They've all looked pretty much the same.”

Disappointment twisted Luis's features. “I had hoped not. I've
always wondered, but only an omne would be able to see the difference between one reader's lots and another's.”

Understanding lit Errol from within. “Is that what you meant? Yes! Each lot's lettering looked different.”

Luis glowed with relief. “Thank the three, Errol. Here.” He thrust the lots toward him. “Tell me what you see.”

Errol checked each sphere. “Someone different made each one.”

Luis grabbed his shoulder, squeezed until Errol felt fingernails against his skin. “Are you sure, absolutely sure?”

He checked the lots again, but there was no mistaking the difference in the words' appearance. Each reader's word was as unique as his handwriting. He nodded.

Spots of color bloomed on Luis's face. “The secondus has figured out how to make it work.” Luis clenched his fist and struck his forehead. “Of course. Stupid, blind fool that I am. I didn't see it.”

“See what?”

“Sarin's given himself to a malus. That's where he disappeared to. He went to Merakh. He couldn't do it in Illustra. The barrier prevented him. He's made a circle with other readers.”

Errol shook his head, perplexed. “I don't understand. What's a circle?”

Instead of answering, Luis gritted his teeth, cursed, and called to Cruk, who stood at the foot of the stairs. “Captain, we need to clear the building. Then it needs to be burned to the ground.” He turned back to Errol. “Think of joining the minds of a score or more readers together, all working as one.”

Now Errol understood. “He could cast any question almost instantly.”

“Captain!” A voice yelled from the stairs. A watchman stood leaning over the rail, alarm writ in his posture.

“Yes, soldier?” Cruk answered.

“We found ferral tracks, sir, headed toward the water.” The guard's words tumbled over each other.

Cruk nodded as if the soldier's information confirmed his suspicions. “Send men downstream on horseback. I want them found and stopped before they make open water.”

The soldier's face paled and he shook his head. “Sir, there's a bridge a mile downstream. Lieutenant Stern dispatched a pair of the watch to check with the guards there. They've returned.”

“And?” Cruk asked.

“Nothing has passed their way in the last two hours.” The soldier licked lips gone dry. “The ferrals must have headed back into the city.”

 31 
Flight

T
HE MILL EXPLODED
with motion as the watch and guardsmen poured out to remount their horses. Cruk led a mad dash of watchmen, guards, and two readers back to the palace grounds. No longer relegated to the back, Errol rode just behind the grim-faced captain.

Sarin had played them for fools. With knowledge of their coming, he'd pulled his circle from the mill and sent the ferrals back to the palace grounds, now stripped of half its forces.

Had that been his goal all along? To lure them out so he could kill the king and bring down the barrier? His throat tightened as a lump of fear settled in his stomach. Cruk's frantic shouts cleared the streets as they hurtled back to Rodran. Squawks of women and children filled the air as people fled the panic of their passing. When they arrived at the gates of the imperial compound, nothing moved, and for a moment Errol dared hope that the watchman had been mistaken.

But as they passed through, over the sound of the clatter of hooves came the screams of dying.

Errol rounded the barracks to terror. Ferrals swarmed over
fallen guards and watchmen as they poured through the door to the palace. Torn and ravaged bodies lay everywhere. Ferrals littered the ground as well, but too few. Far too few.

Cruk jumped from his mount in midgallop, rolled to his feet, and ran for the door, steel whistling through the air. He chopped like a butcher at the ferrals. Bits and pieces of the spawn flew from his blade and for a moment it looked as if he might force a way through the swirling pack.

Errol thrust the bladed knobblocks onto his staff and moved to Cruk's left, avoiding the rest of the guards. Rage and fatigue pounded in his blood as he struck, forcing himself to go ever faster. His guess back at the mill had been good. Too good. Ferrals filled the entrance, keeping them at bay, preventing them from reaching the king.

Jaws snapped at him from in front and behind. Without turning he thrust behind at the sound, felt the crunch of his staff striking deep, and then speared the thing in front of him through the throat.

Spinning, he cleared a space, moved around the edge of the broad doors that led inside. The press of ferrals was thinner there. If he could kill them quickly before they could react, he could force a way in.

Errol stabbed and sliced, aiming for eyes and lungs. With a surge, he forced himself past the last three ferrals guarding the left and pushed his way through the doorway. At once he found himself in the broad entrance hall of the palace with attackers swarming at him from the right and left and in front.

Errol retreated, tried to give himself space to move, but the press and tight quarters kept him from swinging his staff. He thrust and chopped, not daring to spin. A pair of jaws snapped at his legs. He launched a frantic kick.

“Errol!” Cruk's voice cut through the cacophony.

He stabbed at another muzzle, felt the crunch of blade hitting bone. “Over here!”

And then, like a wave that pulled sand from beneath the
feet, Cruk broke upon the ferrals from behind, hewing with his sword like a woodsman. A final attacker leapt for Errol's neck, fangs bared, but he had room to move now, and his staff took the demon spawn in the throat even as Cruk split the creature through the spine.

Cruk ran toward the king's hall, screamed for Errol and the rest of the guard to break away and follow. Errol pounded after him, accompanied by a score of watchmen and guardsmen. Isolated ferrals attacked out of the side hallways. Men peeled off to fight in ones and twos.

The hall lay just ahead, its doors battered, but still closed.

Errol breathed relief even as a boom of thunder filled his ears and the doors cracked and splintered.

A swarm of ferrals aided by a few men pushed forward, pounding at the doors with a heavy beam, forcing the opening. Screams of effort sounded from inside the hall as men worked to close the gap. Another blow like the boom of a drum sounded against the door, and a pair of ferrals squeezed through to attack the men inside.

Errol shouldered his way to Cruk's side and they fell on the pile from the rear, hacking desperately, trying to keep the spawn from reaching the king. Yelps and screams of surprise filled the air as the men and ferrals rounded to fight.

Now it was the spawn that had no room to move. Pinned between the king's men and the doors, they couldn't bring their greater numbers to bear.

Trapped, the attackers threw everything into breaching the doors. Another boom sounded and the doors sprang from their hinges. Ferrals and men poured inside, and at their center, bellowing in rage, stood the abbot of Windridge and his watchmen. Cruk threw himself at them, ducked under a panicked swipe, and took the first watchman through the chest. Before Errol could close the distance between them, Cruk parried a blow, spun, and caught the second man with an elbow to the face. With a snarl, he took him through the throat.

Spawn filled the space between the abbot and Errol. Side by side he and Cruk mowed down ferrals and men, clearing a path.

At the far end of the hall, behind the throne and surrounded by six guards, stood King Rodran, his arm trembling with the effort to raise his sword. In front of the throne stood Liam, sword bared and flanked by the sons of Escarion—Derek and Darren.

The attackers poured toward them.

Errol fought to close the distance. He no longer tried to kill the ferrals—simply aimed blows at their hamstrings, crippling them.

A melee formed in front of the king.

Errol chopped away a pair of ferrals and came face-to-face with the abbot. He flipped his wrists as he struck the abbot in the head so as not to hit him with the knobblock blade. The abbot dropped like a discarded puppet. Without pause, a trio of demon spawn leapt for the body, teeth bared.

Errol fought to keep them away, cutting, thrusting.

Then the space in front of him cleared.

Errol turned toward the throne and stopped, gaping at the sight of Liam with a sword.

Illustra's hope stood between Rodran and a knot of ferrals ten strong. He should have been swarmed under, but he flowed and moved like a dance of water. Ducking and spinning, Liam mowed the demon spawn down. Twice he thrust behind him, taking ferrals in the throat as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

Then only two ferrals remained. As one they launched themselves at Liam's throat, screaming for blood. Liam spun, his sword flashing, and cut through them both with the same stroke. The pair dropped to the floor.

“I've never seen anything like that in my life,” Errol said. “Even in the stories, I've never heard of the like.”

At his side, Cruk grunted. “Me neither.”

Scattered knots of men filled the hall, hands on knees, gasping for breath. Cruk shouted orders, but Errol couldn't make them out. Fatigue hit him like a hammer. He'd never been so tired. Uncaring, he sat on the floor and watched as guardsmen
moved from one body to the next, aiding wounded defenders or dispatching enemies.

Cruk came to him, spattered with blood. With a snarl that sounded eerily like the bark of a ferral, he nudged the abbot with his foot. “Is he dead?”

Errol shook his head. “No. Shouldn't be. I rapped him on the head. I don't think any of that blood on him is his.”

“I wouldn't mind changing that.” Cruk put fingers to his lips and whistled for a pair of guardsmen. “Search him for weapons and bind his hands behind his back. Take him to the king, then wake him with a good dose of water. Let's find out what he knows.”

When the guards left, Cruk took a look around the hall, nodded once, and sat down on the polished granite floor next to Errol.

Errol panted for breath. “Is this what it was like when you fought the Morgols?”

Cruk nodded. “Every battle's different, but they all feel the same—hot and desperate. Six months ago I would never have guessed you'd be a fighter to make the watch proud.”

Errol grimaced. The images of killing filled his mind, his eyes, and the coppery smell of blood came to him from everywhere. “I think I'd just as soon be back in Callowford trying to get Cilla to filch me a tankard of ale.”

“I thought you'd given up ale.”

He laughed. “I have, but if this keeps up I may take it up again.” Errol thought about that and then shook his head. “Not really, but mercy, I sure am tired of fighting.”

Cruk nodded. “Somebody's got to do it.”

As word traveled through the city of the attack, people flooded into the king's hall until the press of bodies encroached upon the spot where Errol and Cruk rested. Cruk signaled to a guardsman who passed by with a flagon of water. He took a long pull from it and then handed it to Errol. “Let's go see what the abbot can tell us.”

Errol moved to follow, then stopped to search the crowd.

He found her kneeling on the floor beside the king's steward, pressing her hands against a gaping wound in his side. The man wouldn't live, she had to know that, but no hint of it showed in her face or the glorious green of her eyes. Errol couldn't hear her words, but her face and posture carried assurance and comfort. Blood soaked her gown.

He followed in Cruk's wake. As he approached the throne he watched Lord Weir advance toward Rodran holding a sword bereft of nicks or blood and surveying the hall like a conqueror—his blue doublet as crisp and clean as ever.

Rodran, his legs trembling with the effort, lowered himself onto his throne. Six watchmen circled him, blades drawn. The primus and the archbenefice stood just outside the protective ring. Off to the left, Martin and Luis conferred, heads close and speaking in tones that didn't carry.

A palace guard poured water over the unconscious figure of the abbot, and two men of the watch hauled him to his feet. He hung in their grip, shaking his head.

Cruk knotted a fist in the abbot's hair and lifted his head. “Who ordered the attack?”

Morin spluttered, and at first Errol thought he must be coughing. Then the abbot's voice firmed and Errol stepped back in disbelief. The abbot of Windridge was laughing.

Rodran pushed himself up out of his chair and gave a curt nod to Cruk. “Bring him to my private audience chamber.” The grand leonine head of the king surveyed his throne room. “And alert my chamberlain. Tell him to have the staff clean this mess.”

Errol turned to make his way toward his quarters. If he slept for a week, it might be enough to wash away a fatigue so deep it made his bones ache.

Before he'd taken two steps, Luis touched him on the elbow. “I think you should be there, Errol. The king may need to know your part with the abbot.”

He let his shoulders slump in surrender. With a sigh he turned and followed the group from the hall.

Compared to the throne room, the king's private audience chamber seemed cramped. The dais that held a more comfortable version of the throne rose three steps from the floor and the low-backed benches that lined the walls only accommodated scores, not thousands. Other than that, the two rooms were decorated in similar styles—rugs lined the floors, marble busts filled small alcoves along the wall, and the deep purple banners that signified royalty hung behind Rodran's seat.

In addition to the king and his six guards, the primus, the archbenefice of Erinon, Cruk, Captain Reynald, and Luis stood in attendance near the throne. At least a score of other people crowded toward the front, where a pair of watchmen kept a tight grip on the abbot.

Rodran settled himself in his chair, then pointed at the abbot of Windridge, his hand shaking with rage or age or both. “I will have the information I want, Abbot. Whether you give it to me willingly or unwillingly is of little concern. The conclave will test your words to see if they are true and if they are complete.” He leaned forward, his rheumy old man's eyes boring into the despised churchman. “You will not be allowed to die until I am certain you have told us everything.” His lips curled in an imitation of a smile. “It takes a lot to make me certain.”

Errol sagged onto one of the benches, sweat soaking his tunic to leave patches of darkened cloth that clung to his skin. He hardly cared. Blood from a shallow ferral bite flowed down his leg, warm and ticklish. He'd have to see one of the healers. The wound would foul if he didn't.