The Gathering Storm

by Kate Elliott

  “The governor does not trust us, Captain. Why should she welcome an army of our size into her territory? If she fights us, she may win, but she and her troops and her town will suffer. If she loses, then she loses all. I suppose she hopes we’ll take the brunt of the attack and allow her to finish off the rest.”

  “But we outnumber them.”

  “The governor? Or those Quman?”

  Fulk laughed. “They are wise to fear you, my lord prince.”

  “Are they?” Or was he simply a fool, chasing madness? The moment he first saw the port town and the broad grasslands spreading north from the sea, he knew he had ridden into a world unlike anything he had ever experienced. With Zacharias gone and possibly dead, he was more than ever dependent on Bulkezu’s knowledge. Bulkezu would have many opportunities to betray him or lead him and his army astray. Bulkezu was smart enough to kill them, if he chose to sacrifice himself with them. Yet in such a vast expanse, how could Sanglant track down griffins and sorcerers without the help of someone who knew the land?

  “Women!” said Lewenhardt, laughing. “There are Quman warriors with that troop, but there are women as well. Those towers are their crowns. They’re hats, of a kind.”

  “I didn’t know the Quman had women,” said Sibold, hefting his spear. “I thought they bred with wolf bitches and she-cats.”

  “It’s true that Quman women wear crowns like these towers,” said Breschius. “I’ve seen none of them close at hand, myself.”

  “Not more than two hundred riders,” said Fulk. “Look at their standard. They bear the mark of the Pechanek tribe.”

  “Ah.” Sanglant nodded. “That makes sense. They’ve come for Bulkezu.”

  “Do you think so, my lord prince? How would they know we were here, and that we had him?”

  “Their shamans have power,” said Breschius, “although nothing compared to the power of the Kerayit sorcerer women.”

  “Quman magic killed Bayan,” said Sanglant. “My lord!” said Fulk. “If they are after you—!”

  “Nay, do not fear for me, Captain. Their magic cannot harm me.” He touched the amulet that hung at his chest, but the stone made him think of Wolfhere and that made him angry all over again. He must not think about the Eagle’s betrayal, and his own gullibility. He must concentrate on what lay before him.

  The riders came to a stop at about the limit of the range of a ballista, close enough to get a good estimate of their numbers and appearance but not so close that the men in the fort could pick out details and faces. No more than sixty wore wings, but the griffin-winged rider shone beyond the rest, glittering and perilous. About thirty of the riders wore conical hats trimmed with gold plates. One of these hats was so tall, at least as long as Sanglant’s arm, that he could not imagine how a person could ride and keep it on her head.

  A youthful figure wearing neither wings nor one of the towering hats broke forward from the group, balancing a limp burden across the withers of the horse.

  “Lewenhardt, what is it the rider bears before him?”

  “It is a corpse, my lord prince.”

  When the rider reached the halfway point between the Quman and the fort, he tipped the burden off the horse and onto the ground.

  Lewenhardt winced. “I think that corpse may be the slave who ran from us, my lord prince.”

  “And into their grasp, may God have mercy on his soul. Captain, fetch the shaman, the one who calls himself Gyasi.”

  “Can you trust him, my lord prince?”

  “We’ve no one else who can interpret for us. He can prove his worth, or the lack of it.”

  Fulk clambered down the ladder.

  The rider approached to within arrow shot of the walls before reining in his horse.

  “That boy’s not more than twelve or fourteen years of age, I should think,” said Lewenhardt.

  “Showing off,” asked Sanglant, “or expendable?”

  “I know little enough about the customs of the Quman, my lord prince,” said Breschius, “but no boy among them can call himself a man and wear wings on his back until he has killed a man. Thus, the heads they carry.”

  Sibold shuddered all over. “A nasty piece of work, those shrunken heads.” He had a sly gaze, a little impertinent, but part of his particular value as a soldier was his reckless streak. “They say that Lady Bertha didn’t bury her mother’s head when she took it off Bulkezu but carries it with her as a talisman. Is that true, my lord prince?”

  “You can ask her yourself, Sibold.”

  The soldier laughed. “I pray you will not command me to, my lord. She frightens me. She’s cold, that one. I think she may be half mad.”

  “Sibold.”

  He ducked his head, but the grin still flashed. “Begging your pardon, my lord prince.”

  “Here is the shaman, my lord prince.” Breschius moved aside to make room on the platform as Fulk returned with Gyasi.

  “What does this mean?” Sanglant indicated the single horseman and the mass of riders beyond.

  “He are a messenger, great lord.” He lifted his hands to frame his mouth and let loose a trilling yell.

  The rider started noticeably but recovered quickly and urged his mount forward again, halting just beyond the shadow of the wall. He called out in the Quman tongue.

  “Great lord, this young worm names himself as the messenger of the mother of Bulkezu, who have come seeking the man who keeps as a prisoner her son.”

  “Go on.”

  “The mother of Bulkezu wish to know what you want to trade for her son.”

  “What I wish to trade?” Sanglant leaned against the wall. The heat of the sun washed his face, the swell of wind tugged at his hair. “Which of those is the mother of Bulkezu? Do you know?”

  “They are the mother of Bulkezu,” agreed Gyasi, nodding toward the troop of women and their winged escort.

  Sanglant glanced at Breschius, but the frater shrugged. It was hard to tell how well Gyasi understood Wendish. “I cannot trade Bulkezu. I have defeated him in battle and kept him alive in exchange for a chance to win his freedom. I need him to guide my army safely through the grasslands and lead us to the lands where we may hunt griffins and meet sorcerers.”

  “Is this what you truly wish, great lord? It is a troublesome road. Many troubles will kiss you.”

  “This is what I truly wish. I cannot give up Bulkezu. Yet what bargain might I strike with his tribe, so that they will not hinder me?”

  Gyasi hummed to himself in a singsong manner, a man pondering deep thoughts. “People are tricky. One man may promise life to his brother and after this stab him in the back.”

  “There are those who are still angry that you allowed Bulkezu to survive the battle whole and healthy my lord prince,” said Breschius. “I do not forget that he was the one responsible for Prince Bayan’s death. Neither does Princess Sapientia.”

  “Yet you ride with me, Brother Breschius.”

  “As does Princess Sapientia. Yet I do not think she had much choice in the matter, although she is the heir.”

  “Is she? King Henry has other children. He has a child by Queen Adelheid, do not forget, whom he may favor. Why do you remain with me, Brother Breschius? Whom do you serve?”

  “I serve the truth, my lord prince, and God.”

  “And me?”

  Breschius’ smile brought light to his face. He was a man too humble to be in love with his own cleverness but too wise to denigrate himself. “Whatever risk you may pose, my lord prince, I believe we are in more danger from those who seek to wield sorcery without constraint than from your ambition.”

  “I pray you, my lord prince,” said Hathui, who had remained silent until now. “I would object to Bulkezu returning to his tribe. He has never paid what he owes me for the damage he did to my person.”

  Sanglant turned back to the Quman shaman. “Tell the boy all I have said and say also that there is one among my servants who has a personal grievance against Bulkezu, who stole her honor and harme
d her body. She seeks recompense. For these reasons, we will not release him. Yet we do not seek war with his people. Once I have my griffins and have met my sorcerers, Bulkezu can go free. Until then, perhaps they will consider a truce.”

  Gyasi relayed the offer, and the messenger gave a shout of acknowledgment before returning to the troop. They watched him pull up beside the rank of women. After some time, the boy returned with two riders beside him, one of whom wore a tall, conical hat sheathed in gold plates, dazzling in the sun, and draped with bright orange-and-ivory beads strung together like falling curtains of color. Her tunic was bright blue, cut away at knee length and slit for riding, and beneath it she wore striped trousers of blue and green with beads sewn around the knee and the ankle. Beneath the weight of her garments he could barely make out her face, dark, unsmiling, with broad cheekbones and pale lips. The other rider was also a woman, but she wore only a soft felt hat, drab and unornamented, against the sun, and a plain leather tunic with loose trousers underneath. Her hair had the golden brown sheen of a westerner or a hill-woman; surely she was no Quman, most likely a slave if the thick bronze bracelets on either wrist indicated her status.

  The boy delivered his message and, once he had done speaking, tossed a cloth bundle onto the ground. Wings of cloth spread to reveal a dozen gold necklaces.

  “What does he say?” demanded Sanglant.

  “The gold, to pay for honor stolen.”

  Hathui’s eyes widened as she leaned over the brick rampart, staring at the bounty of gold lying below. “I accept!” she said breathlessly. “God Above! I can dower my nephews and nieces with such riches!”

  “And the two women?” Sanglant asked.

  Gyasi scratched the tattoo of the eight-legged horse and its rider decorating his scrawny chest. The rider wore a conical hat like those of the mothers, but its features showed no markedly female cast. He hummed and mumbled to himself, bobbing his head and hopping on one foot like a nervous crow. At last, he spoke. “The mother will see Bulkezu before she negotiate further. That way she can see if he are truly living, and not dead.”

  Sanglant grinned, feeling the familiar rush of exhilaration as he considered not whether but how far to leap. He called to the men at the gate. “I’m coming down. Throw a plank over the ditch. Keep your arrows and spears ready.”

  “My lord!” Their astonished cries were answer enough, but they obeyed, as they always did. Otherwise they would not have followed him so far and on such a dangerous road.

  He scrambled down the ladder, leaving most of his attendants above to keep watch, and jogged over to the barrier. Clambering over the wagons, he set foot on a broad plank just now thrust out over the ditch by one of the soldiers. From below, Bulkezu’s mocking laughter rose to greet him. The prisoner’s figure stood half lost in the shadow, face upturned to study him, features ghostly and indistinct.

  “Is the prince come to fight me? Will the dog leap into the pit to battle the griffin? Or does it fear me still?”

  Sanglant heard the approaching hooves, and his blood sang with the pitch of approaching battle as he strode over the plank. The wood rocked beneath him, but he did not lose his balance. He did not fear a fall.

  “Throw down the worm, so that I might make a meal of it. Or does the dog-prince take his pleasures with the crawling things?” He jumped lightly onto solid ground as the riders rounded the corner of the fort and stopped, as he stopped. They faced each other. The woman was too young, surely, to be Bulkezu’s mother; her nose was too flat, more stub than nose, for her to be handsome, but she had brilliant black eyes, as wicked as those of a hawk, and a ferocious frown so marked that his grin faded and he paused, wondering if he had miscalculated their intentions.

  The slave woman beside her looked Sanglant over quite frankly, as though appraising his worth and his possibilities for stud, while her mistress, ignoring Sanglant, rode to the lip of the ditch and looked down. The slave really had quite an attractive shape under that leather tunic, full, round breasts, red lips, an amorous gaze—

  It was too quiet. No one was talking.

  Looking down into the pit, he was so startled he almost lost his balance and fell.

  Bulkezu had bolted away from the shadow of his kinswoman. Up against the far end of the pit, he cowered like a rabbit run into a corner. The fearsome begh who had united the Quman hordes, slaughtered untold hapless Wendish-folk, and defeated Prince Bayan in battle was utterly terrified.

  Sanglant’s soldiers cried out, jeering at the man they had all come to hate. They pressed up along the walls, against the wall of wagons, every one of them, crowding next to each other to see him shamed.

  “Silence!” cried Sanglant.

  They gave him silence.

  The woman lifted her gaze to look at Sanglant. A hawk might look so, measuring its prey. He kept his gaze steady on hers, neither retreating nor advancing, and after a moment she reined her mount away. By now, Gyasi had reached the wall of wagons, standing up on the bed of one to survey the scene with alarm.

  “Great lord! Have a care!”

  The gold-crowned woman reached her attendants and spoke to the lad. When she had finished, the boy spoke.

  “What does he say?” asked Sanglant when the lad stopped.

  “She ask if you are the stallion to be held in kind until Bulkezu is returned to them.”

  “She wants a hostage to ensure our good faith.”

  “It is common among the tribes to exchange a valued daughter or son for another, to keep the peace. She makes a powerful offer, great lord. If you give her yourself in surety, then her tribesmen will grant you escort across the plains. This we call the gift for the knives.”

  “The gift for the knives?”

  “So no man will stab you in the back.”

  “Will other Quman tribes respect that, should we come across them?”

  “Perhaps, great lord. They scatter to the winds after the fall of Bulkezu. Maybe there are wolves who will nip at your heels, but no army will fight you when you have so many soldiers to yourself. No tribe will be so bold to fight the man who defeated the dreaded Bulkezu. He is the man who killed two griffins. No other begh in the generations of our tribes have done so.”

  “An escort and a pledge of safe conduct—in exchange for a hostage? One valuable enough to me, and to them, that they will expect me not to abandon my hostage into their hands? One of worthy rank? One too valuable to lose?”

  “Until you depart this land and return Bulkezu.”

  Brother Breschius appeared beside Gyasi, looking wan and troubled. “You know what savages the Quman are, my lord prince. How can you seal a treaty with them, knowing they are Wendar’s great enemy?”

  “Who is not, these days? I do not trust the Arethousans, nor have I any reason to believe they have guides who can lead us where we need to go. Nay. Lady Eudokia cannot help us, nor can we trust her.”

  “Do you know the customs of the steppe peoples, my lord prince?” Breschius pressed his case fervently. “If the lady wishes you to attend her tribe as a hostage, it is not only your presence she wants. You are a great lord strong enough to defeat her son. Among these people, the old mothers breed men like horses. They’ll want your seed for her bloodline and her tribe.”

  “God help me,” said Sanglant. “A stallion brought in to breed the mares.” Lady Ilona had warned him, in her own way. But he hadn’t believed her. He hadn’t thought he’d be making bargains so soon.

  The sun bled gold across the grass as its rim touched the western hills. Soon it would be dark. The soldiers waited in a remarkably uneasy silence. Even Blessing had, at long last, stopped shrieking.

  “Yet I am not the only valuable hostage in this troop,” he said with a thrill of triumph coursing through his heart. He laughed. Sometimes it was possible to kill two birds with one stone.

  “Gyasi, tell the mother of Bulkezu that I have a proposal. Tell her, I pray you, that I have a noble princess who would be most suitable to travel with the mothers of Bu
lkezu as surety for his safe return.”

  VII

  A BEE’S STING

  1

  THE longships ghosted out of the fog wreathing the Temes River to beach along the strand below the walled city of Hefenfelthe. Two river gates pierced the massive wall, but they remained chained and sealed, as impregnable, so it was rumored, as the land gates and the infamous sewer canal. Behind the wall, the towering hall and citadel built by the Alban queens rose like the prow of a mighty ship. Stronghand knew its reputation. Because of the power of the queens and their tree sorcerers, Hefenfelthe had never been taken in war, although many armies had broken their strength on those walls in the hope of gaining the riches guarded within.

  Tenth Son lifted the battle standard. The first wave of Eika swarmed from the lead ship, followed by their brothers up and down the strand. The shroud of fog concealed them, but Stronghand could sense each one, whether running on two feet or on four. Even the dogs ran silently. They knew what reward awaited those who survived the day.

  The red glare of a torch flared by the easternmost river gate. Gate chains rumbled and, as the vanguard raced up to the wall, the gate swung open. Three men scuttled out through the gate, arms waving as they signaled the army to pour into the city.

  One moment only Stronghand had to study them: three rich merchants clothed in silk and linen, weighted down by necklaces of gold and rings studded with gems. When brought before him at the emporium of Sliesby, they had proved eager to betray their queen in exchange for coin and the promise of new markets to conquer. But no man can serve two masters. Tenth Son himself, running in the lead, cut the first one down, and the others followed, hacked down by swift strokes. They didn’t have a chance to cry out. His army rushed heedlessly past the bodies, although some of the dogs stopped to feed on the corpses and had to be driven forward through the open gate.

  He waited on the stem of his ship as the sun rose, still obscured by a mist steaming off the waters. The chain of the western gate growled, and a second portal opened into the city. Torches sparked into life along the walls of the citadel as the Alban soldiers and their queen came awake to danger. A shrill horn, a clanging bell, and a piercing scream sounded from inside, but it was too late. Smoke twisted from buildings close by the outer wall, melding with mist. Fire rose from the houses within, lifting on those flames the cries, curses, and anguished wails of the beleaguered inhabitants, a terrible, beautiful clamor. The sun cleared the low-lying bank of river fog and poured its light across the mighty walls of Hefenfelthe, proof against weapons but not against treachery.