by Kate Elliott
“Give me a sword,” said Sanglant.
Malbert handed him a sword. He grabbed it before dropping down through the trap, practically sliding down the rungs and slats with a single hand for balance. His eyes had already adjusted for the dim light, although an oil lamp swung unsteadily to his right, creaking.
Movement flashed in his vision.
Leaping from the ladder he spun, sword raised, breaking the spear in two as Bulkezu thrust at the prostrate figure slumped against the opposite wall. Left with only a splintered half, the Quman chieftain hefted it and threw it as a javelin at Sanglant’s torso. With a cut of his sword, the prince struck it down in flight.
Bulkezu hit the limit of his chains and came up short, jerked back by unyielding stone. He was shaking—with laughter or with rage. It was impossible to tell. Was he mad, or merely feigning madness? How could any man stand to be chained and a prisoner for as long as Bulkezu had been without succumbing to insane delusions?
That ungodly cackle echoed within the stones. “I’m a cleaner man than you, prince, because I rid myself of the worms that crawl into my tent.”
“This one still lives.”
“Oh, God, Zacharias.” Without being asked, Hathui scrambled down the ladder to crouch beside her brother, who moaned and struggled, trying to get up. “Nay, don’t try to stand. You’re safe now.”
“Does the worm have a paramour?” Bulkezu whispered.
In the lamp’s mellow glow, Sanglant saw the chieftain’s lips still fixed in that mad smile.
Hathui looked up, more curious than frightened now that her brother’s assailant was disarmed. “Who is this, my lord prince?” Then her expression changed so entirely that Sanglant stepped sideways, startled, as if her gaze were an arrow that he had to avoid.
“I know who you are!” she exclaimed as Zacharias climbed groggily to his feet, a hand clapped to the back of his head.
Bulkezu’s smile vanished. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the Eagle, annoyed and puzzled. He was always at his most dangerous when exasperated.
“Hathui.” Zacharias staggered forward between his sister and the chained prisoner. “He’s dangerous.”
“I know that.” She stepped past him to confront Sanglant. “My lord prince, I demand satisfaction. His Majesty King Arnulf the Younger sent his subjects east to settle pagan lands and in exchange he promised they could rule themselves with the king alone, and no lady or lord, set over them as their ruler. The king’s law sets a price for certain crimes, does it not?”
“So it does,” said Sanglant, glancing at Bulkezu. The prisoner clearly had no more idea than his captor did what she was talking about.
“This man raped me when I was a virgin of but fourteen years of age. He cut me, too, and after that the wisewoman of my village said I would not be able to bear children. So I set my sights on the King’s Eagles. Otherwise, I would have stayed in my village and inherited my mother’s lands, and had daughters of my own to inherit in their turn. Do I not have a claim, my lord prince?”
“He raped you, Hathui?” croaked Zacharias. He looked around wildly, grabbed the broken haft of the spear, and hoisted it.
“Stay.” Sanglant yanked the spear out of the frater’s hand and tossed it against the ladder. “Do nothing rash, Brother. Is this true, Prince Bulkezu?”
Bulkezu laughed again. “One looks like another. I don’t remember. It must have been years ago. But I recall clearly what I did to the worm. Does she know, your paramour, that you have no cock, Zach’rias? That we cut it off because you told us you’d rather lose your cock than your tongue? Does she know that you let men use you as a woman, just so you could stay alive? Does she know that you watched others die, because you wanted yourself to live? That it is you who taught me to speak the Wendish language, so that I could understand the speech of my enemy without them knowing?”
Zacharias screamed with rage and leaped toward Bulkezu. Sanglant swung to grab him, but Hathui had already got hold of her older brother. She stood almost as tall and had the strength of a woman who has spent years riding at the king’s behest.
“Stay, Brother, do nothing rash,” she said, echoing Sanglant’s words. “What does it matter what this prisoner says to you or about you?”
Despite himself, Sanglant took a half step away from the ragged frater, a little disgusted by Bulkezu’s accusations and repelled by the thought of a man so mutilated. What kind of man would watch his own kind die without doing all he could to prevent it? What kind of man would submit to any indignity, just to save his own life? For God’s sake, what kind of man would rather lose his penis than his tongue?
“What answer do you make to these accusations?” he asked, struggling to keep contempt out of his tone. It was remarkably easy to believe that Zacharias had done these vile things. The frater never acted like a real man. Whatever drove him—and he wasn’t without courage—he so often faltered, recoiled, and hid. Nor had he ever truly become a full member of Sanglant’s court. He loitered on the fringe, not quite accepted, never able to push himself forward to join with the others.
To the prince’s surprise, the frater wept frustrated tears. “All true,” he gasped. “And worse.” His expression was so bleak that pity swelled in Sanglant’s heart. “I’m sorry, Hathui. Scorn me if you must—”
“Sorry for having been a slave for seven years to this monster?” She dropped Zacharias’ arm, took three steps forward, and spat into Bulkezu’s face. The Quman chieftain flinched back from her anger, surprised rather than scared. “I will lay my case before the prince and demand full recompense. And for the crimes you committed against my brother as well.” She did not wait for his response. “Come, Zacharias. It was foolish of you to come down here, but I suppose you were afraid that I would turn away from you if I knew the truth.” Her anger hadn’t subsided; it spilled out to wash over her hapless brother. “I would never turn away from you. What a man suffers when he is a prisoner and a slave, under duress, cannot be held against him. Come now, let’s get out of this stinking pit.”
Zacharias croaked out her name, broken and pathetic, but he followed her obediently up the ladder. Malbert’s face appeared.
“My lord prince?”
“I’m coming,” said Sanglant, turning to pick up the two halves of the spear.
Bulkezu wasn’t finished. “She wore the badge of an Eagle. Are all the king’s Eagles also his whores?”
“A weak thrust, Prince Bulkezu, and unworthy of you.” He set a foot on the lowest rung, stretched, and handed the broken spear to Malbert, then passed up the sword as well.
Bulkezu’s lips had a way of quivering, almost a twitch, that Sanglant had learned to recognize as a prelude to his worst rages. “What weapons do you give me?” he asked in that voice, as soft as feathers but poisoned at its heart.
“I’ll give you a spear, as I promised, once you have guided me to the hunting grounds of the griffins. On that day you’ll go free—”
“And until that day? You’d have done better to kill me if you’re so afraid of me that you must shackle me, as a dog must a lion. At least Zach’rias is an honest worm. You call yourself a man but you act like a dog, slinking and cowering.”
Sanglant laughed. That surge of restlessness that had driven him from Ilona’s bed swept back twice as strong. For two years they’d made their slow and circuitous way eastward, delayed by blizzards, snow, high water, rains, and bouts of illness in the troops and the horses. He had never seen as much rain and snow as he had in the year and a half since the battle at the Veser. Rain had drenched the land, causing floods and mildew in the grain, and snow had buried it for two winters running, as if God were punishing them for their sins.
But God’s hand alone had not caused all their troubles. They had also been delayed by the necessity of making nice to King Geza, whose lands they had to cross. He didn’t like Geza nearly as much as he’d liked Bayan, and Sapientia’s presence was a rankling sore, a constant source of frustration.
Or per
haps it had just been too long since he’d had a good fight.
“Malbert!”
“Yes, my lord prince.”
“Throw me down the key and pull up the ladder.”
“My lord!”
“The key!”
Cursing under his breath, Malbert hauled up the ladder through the trapdoor, then threw down the key, which Sanglant caught in his left hand. Bulkezu did not move as Sanglant unlocked his wrists and tossed the key to the wall, but he struck first, still quick after months of being chained. Sanglant ducked the blow. Catching wrist and arm, he drove his foe headfirst against the stone wall. Staggered, Bulkezu dropped to his knees, only to dive for Sanglant’s legs. They went down together, rolling and punching, until Bulkezu sat for an instant atop Sanglant’s chest. Bulkezu’s hands closed on his throat, but he twisted out of the choking grip, flipped the Quman over, and sprang back to his feet, laughing breathlessly, flushed, his heart pounding in a most gratifying manner as he allowed Bulkezu to crawl back to his feet in grim silence.
Above, the lantern rocked as men crowded around the trapdoor to stare down. He heard their whispers as they laid wagers on how many blows it would take their prince to lay the prisoner out flat.
All at once he was tired of the charade. What kind of contest was it, really, to fight a man chained up for almost two years? Bulkezu remained remarkably strong, yet what kind of man was he, to torment another as Bloodheart had once tormented him?
Bulkezu struck for his face. Sanglant blocked the blow and delivered his own to Bulkezu’s gut, knocking him back, then stepped in, turning sideways as Bulkezu kicked out so the blow glanced off his thigh. As he closed, Bulkezu lunged for his throat. Sanglant seized his wrists and they froze a moment, locked, motionless.
“No creature male or female may kill me,” Sanglant muttered, “so it was never a fair fight.”
With a curse, Bulkezu twisted his hands free, spinning to strike with his elbow. Sanglant caught the blow on his forearm and delivered a sharp punch below the ribs followed by a flurry of blows that made the men watching from above cheer. Bulkezu collapsed limply to the ground.
“On that day you’ll go free,” Sanglant repeated, “and we’ll see which man wins griffin feathers.”
Malbert pushed down the ladder and climbed down, eager to help shackle the prisoner.
“Nay, I will do it.” Let him do the dirty work himself, chaining a warrior who would rather die fighting than leashed like a slave—or a dog. But perhaps Bulkezu deserved no better than the fate he had meted out to the many people he had enslaved and murdered.
What was justice? What was right?
“Here’s the key,” he said, handing it to Malbert, glad to be rid of it, although he would never be rid of the responsibility for what he chose to do.
Yet his night’s work wasn’t done. He crawled up the ladder to discover that King Geza had been alerted by his own guard. Sanglant met him just outside the keep. The king came attended by a half dozen of his white-cloaked honor guard, young men with long mustaches and scant beards. Geza was about ten years older than Bayan, rather more burly, gone a little to fat, and keenly intelligent. He had the luck of the king, that powerful presence, but he lacked the wicked sense of humor that had made Bayan a good companion.
“A problem with the prisoner?” he asked through his interpreter. Was he suspicious, or amused?
“He insulted my father,” replied Sanglant.
“Ah.” Geza spat on the ground to show his contempt for the prisoner. “Is he dead now?”
“Not until he’s given me what I need.”
Geza nodded and took his leave, returning to his bed. He had been grateful enough to get Bayan’s body back, and he had stinted in no way in making Sanglant a welcome guest in the kingdom of Ungria, yet it remained clear that he was only waiting for Sanglant and his army to leave and that he was by no means happy at the thought of that same army returning to cross Ungrian lands on their road back to Wendar. He had even suggested that Sanglant take his army north into the war-torn Polenie lands. Yet he didn’t want to fight Wendish troops either; after all, he and King Henry were nominally allies. When Geza had offered one of his sons as a new husband for Sapientia, Sanglant had actually flirted with the idea—for the space of three breaths.
As Geza and his entourage crossed the courtyard to the hall, Sanglant caught sight of Hathui and Zacharias over by the stables, she with her arm around his waist as if she were holding him up. Wolfhere stood by the doorway, lighting their way with a lamp as they ducked inside. How had Zacharias hidden his mutilation all these months? No one had even suspected. But then, Zacharias kept to himself, never truly part of the group, and in truth he stank because he so rarely washed.
“My lord prince!” Heribert hurried up, hair mussed and face puffy with sleep. “Everyone is saying you killed Bulkezu.”
“Rumor has already flown, I see. Thank the Lord we’re moving on tomorrow. These Ungrians sing too much.”
“You haven’t complained of Lady Ilona’s attentions.”
“She’s worst of all! I’m nothing more than a stallion to her, brought in to breed the mare. No more women, Heribert.”
The cleric chuckled. “Isn’t that what you said in Gent?”
“I mean it this time!”
Mercifully, Heribert did not answer, merely cocked an eyebrow, looking skeptical as he ran his fingers through his hair, trying to comb it down. The first predawn birds cried out, heralding the day to come.
“The Ungrian camp followers will stay behind when we leave Geza’s kingdom. Who will be left to tempt me? Pray God the sorcerers we find will know how to get Liath back.”
“Yet what lies beyond Ungria? A trackless plain, so they say. How will we find these griffins and sorcerers you seek?”
Sanglant smiled, but in his heart he felt no peace, knowing that some choices were ugly, made for expediency’s sake rather than being ruled by what was just. “That is why Bulkezu still lives. He’ll guide me to the griffins in exchange for his freedom—and a chance to kill me.”
IV
THE SUMMER SUN
1
AT the Ungrian town of Vidinyi, King Geza made his farewells and turned his court west to return to the heartland of his kingdom. A small fleet of broad-beamed merchant ships and a dozen smaller, swifter galleys had been put at the disposal of Prince Sanglant. After off-loading their cargoes of wine, oil, and silk from the Arethousan Empire, they took on grain for the return journey downriver as well as the two thousand horses, eight hundred soldiers, and two hundred or more servants with their miscellaneous carts and pack animals.
The river seemed as broad as a lake to Sanglant as he stood on deck, Heribert beside him, watching the lengthy and difficult process of horses coming up onto the ships. Beyond the wharves, earth-covered fires burned along the strand. Because there was no wind and the air lay heavy and humid, wraithlike streamers of smoke from these fires stretched out along the shoreline, screening willow scrub and sapling poplars.
“They can’t get much more charcoal near town,” Heribert said. “Look how far back the woodland is cut.”
“They’re using charcoal for their ironworks, to forge more weapons. Ungria grows stronger every year and expands its border eastward.” Sanglant gestured toward the new palisade wall surrounding Vidinyi. “They say it’s a seven-day trip downriver to the Heretic’s Sea. We won’t be gone from Ungria fast enough for my taste.” “Missing Lady Ilona already?”
“I suppose I deserve that! Missing Bayan, more like. He was the best of them.”
“If what Brother Breschius and Zacharias say is true, and considering the example of Bulkezu, you may look more kindly on the Ungrians once we are out on the plains at the mercy of the Quman and the Kerayit.”
“Maybe so. But Geza delayed us here for his own reasons. He’s a stubborn man and more conniving than he seems.”
“Hoping to convince Sapientia to marry one of his sons? Or hoping to loose us into the wild lan
ds so late in the season that the winter finishes us off?”
“Hard to say. He’s not simple. No doubt the barbarians are more honest about what they want.”
“Our heads? Our horses?”
“Our selves as their slaves and puras?” He laughed curtly, wiping sweat from the back of his neck. “Something like that.”
The woodland had indeed been cut back on all sides of the town, but when they at long last cast off and the press of the current took them round a bend out of sight of Vidinyi, forest gradually took hold on either side until it became a monotonous fence of trees broken at intervals by clusters of low houses dug into the ground. The folk about their daily chores stared as they passed; some of the children shouted greetings; then the little village would be lost behind a new screen of forest as if it had never existed.
In those stretches of wilderness between holdings, he heard nothing except the intermittent beat of oars keeping them in the main channel and the lap of water at the bows. Once he saw a hawk half hidden among the branches of a poplar. Above, the sky was a vivid blue. In the distance the rugged mountains lifted up from a horizon untouched by haze, as though the air were somehow purer there, closer to the heavenly aether.
If he looked hard enough, could he see Liath shining in the heavens? But the air was clear, only scraps of clouds and the bright sun, concealing neither angels nor daimones. He had seen no sign of her since that awful day at Gent. Two and a half years had passed since then; it was almost as though their brief life together was only a dream remembered as if it were real.
“Do you suppose she is dead, Heribert?” he asked finally.
Heribert sighed. The slender cleric had never been one to tell him only what he wanted to hear. That was why Sanglant prized his companionship. “How can we know? I’m sorry.”
“Papa! Look at me!”
Blessing had got herself into the furled rigging of the lateen sail and shinnied halfway up the mast, clinging to a rope.
