Child of Flame

by Kate Elliott

  “Then you’d not ask that question.” He snorted, but not entirely with contempt. “Any man in the tribes can turn his back on his begh and take his tent and his herds and his family out into the steppe. Any man among them can live like a prince and his wife like a queen, if he chooses to leave the tribe behind. If he doesn’t mind the solitude and is content with a small herd that he and his family can care for alone.”

  “Do you mean to say they’re entirely faithless?” demanded Druthmar. “Not even honorable enough to swear vows and keep them?”

  “They’re the most loyal soldiers I’ve ever seen. Never once would a Quman rider complain of hardship. They’d die rather than utter one word against the begh they follow.”

  Lord Hrodik had taken a liking to Druthmar, who put up with him, and he exclaimed loudly in protest, looking as if he would like to spit at the helpless prisoners. “If you love them so much that you praise them like kings, then why did you flee from them, Frater?”

  “I hate them,” said Zacharias softly. “Never doubt that. They treated me like a dog, and worse than a dog.” Sanglant had noticed now and again a certain expression on Zacharias’ face, a way the disreputable frater had of wrinkling up his nose as at a bad smell, or as if he were trying not to snarl contemptuously—or yelp in fright. He had that look now. The frater looked the prisoners up and down and even swaggered forward two steps, well out of reach in case one should try to kick him. The Quman studied him with those unnaturally blank stares, then glanced away dismissively. But Zacharias wasn’t done. A string of words emerged fluently from his lips, swift and sweet. The aloof demeanor of the Quman slaves snapped so fast that poor Lord Hrodik yelped, startled, and leaped backward. The slaves growled and swore, spitting. One yanked so hard against the cords that bound him that the post to which he and his comrades were tied, driven deep into the ground, rocked alarmingly. Druthmar drew his sword. Bayan’s Ungrian guards came running. Sanglant laughed, feeling the old familiar surge as his heart pounded and excitement raced along his limbs.

  Mistress Otlinde’s hired guards bolted forward with their staffs and began beating the bound prisoners into submission.

  It wasn’t a pretty sight. The Quman who had howled curses at Zacharias hunched over, taking hard blows without a whimper. In its own horrible way, it was an impressive display of toughness.

  But it was a waste.

  “For the sake of God,” said Sanglant harshly, moving in to drag off the most rabid of the hired guards, who was whacking away like a crazed man at the Quman now driven to his knees below him. “Hold!” The man whirled, thinking to strike the prince, but Sanglant caught his arm in mid-strike and held it, staring him down. After a moment, the hired guard shrank away, called off his fellows, and retreated to a safe distance, glowering. His victim spat out a few teeth and wiped blood off his chin. Staggering slightly, he stood, lifting his chin to look up at Sanglant, meeting his gaze. In the end, after a long battle, it was the Quman who looked away first.

  “What was that?” Sanglant grabbed Zacharias’ shoulder and spun him around. The frater was breathing hard, as though he’d been running, and sweat streamed down his face. “I would have been better amused if I knew what purpose it serves to beat them senseless.”

  “Forgive me, my lord prince.” Zacharias could hardly speak because he was panting so hard, flushing and almost stammering. “I only wish it were Bulkezu trussed up in their place. My mother always told me I was better armed with my tongue than many a man who carries spear and shield.”

  “If they hadn’t been tied up, they’d have torn you to bits,” observed Heribert, who had retreated a few steps, letting Lord Druthmar’s broad shoulders shield him.

  Zacharias spoke again, hoarsely, still catching his breath. “Griffin wings, my lord prince. They’d never stab in the back a man wearing griffin wings.” With a shuddering sigh, he strode off into the crowd.

  “Nay, Heribert,” said Sanglant quietly before the cleric could hasten after him, “he has his own demons to fight. Let him be for now. Yet I would gladly know what he said to them.”

  The Quman slaves had by now all picked themselves up, shrugging bruised shoulders, licking away blood that trickled down from their nostrils, all of it done awkwardly because their hands were tied up tightly behind their backs. Bayan and Sapientia hurried up, having heard the commotion.

  “Do they trouble you?” demanded Bayan. “I can have my men kill every one, but first I must wait on my mother. She sometimes likes to take one of these—” He spat at the feet of the nearest one, shoulders taut and one hand on his sword hilt as if he meant to cut their throats himself. “—as a slave. But such maggots as this are unworthy even to be slaves.”

  “I think they’re not really born of human blood,” said Druthmar in a low voice. “You’d think it hadn’t hurt them at all. There’s no shame in saying what hurts when a wound is honorably won, or dishonorably given.” He, too, glanced toward the hired guards, a motley-looking crew of mercenaries who had probably been bandits preying on innocent travelers two months ago.

  “No shame,” agreed Sanglant. He beckoned to Brother Breschius. “Do you know what my frater said to them? I know you have experience with the tribes.”

  “Nay, Prince Sanglant,” said Breschius. “I was a slave among the Kerayit, not the Quman clans. I know a few words of Quman, it’s true, and indeed I believe he made some comment about their mothers, but beyond that I could not understand what he said.”

  “What do you care what the frater said to them?” asked Sapientia scornfully. “They’re only Quman. More beasts than people.”

  “They’re soldiers. We have need of soldiers, I believe. If they aren’t Pechanek Quman, then there’s no reason we can’t take them into our army as well and use them to fight Bulkezu.”

  Bayan stiffened as though he’d been spat on, turned abruptly, and walked away into the market.

  Sapientia turned angrily on Sanglant. “You know how he hates the Quman. It was Quman who killed his son. How can you even suggest that we use Quman troops?”

  “I’ll use what I must to defeat Bulkezu. There is far more at stake here and now, Sapientia, even than this. As I will tell you when we have more privacy. Any man or woman who will fight for me, I will take into my army. If Bulkezu is not defeated soon, if the Seven Sleepers are allowed to act as they will without opposition because we quarrel about which men we deign to use to do our killing for us, then we will be no better off than that poor lad, led away in chains.” He gestured toward Lord Thiemo, loitering like a faithful dog a discreet distance away from the palanquin as he waited for Blessing. “Nay. We’d be lucky to be slaves. More likely we’d be dead and our father’s kingdom shattered and overrun.”

  The force of his words made her uncertain. He could see it in her eyes: ought she to believe him? Object? Walk on? Call for help? Give a command?

  He remembered the expression on Waltharia’s face that night she had offered him a gold torque. “To rule, you must lead, Sister,” he said softly, “or else stand aside.”

  Annoyance flared. “Where is your gold torque, Brother?”

  “I left it with my wife.”

  “Who does not ride with you, I see.”

  “Who does not ride with me, as you see.”

  “Lady help us, did she abandon you and the child? Just as your mother abandoned you.” She clucked reprovingly. “Alas, you and Father have left yourselves at the mercy of inconstant women.”

  But Sanglant knew how to play this game. “I pray you, Sister, do not speak so slightingly of your own blessed mother, Queen Sophia, for she was always kind to me even if all the other things they said of her were true.”

  Sapientia flushed bright red. She called to her ladies and strode off after Bayan.

  Heribert stepped up beside him. “A fruitless victory, I fear.”

  “True enough. And ill gotten, may Queen Sophia forgive me, for it’s true she was always kind to me. It was the Wendish clerics who would persist
in never trusting her, just because she was Arethousan.”

  Blessing’s childish giggle rang out, and she slid out from under the curtains, tumbled to her knees, and picked herself up before Anna could get to her. She allowed Anna to dust off the knees of her leggings and straighten her sleeves but hadn’t a chance to speak before Sanglant lifted her up.

  “That was rashly done, Daughter!”

  Her sweet little face trembled, her mouth turned down, and the shock of his stern anger made tears well up in her eyes as she stared up at him in surprise. But she had to learn.

  “You might as well stick your hand into a nest of wasps as crawl in where you’re forbidden to go!”

  “But—”

  “Nay, I’ll hear no more from you now, Blessing. You went where you were not permitted and did so without asking permission. Because of that, you may not walk around camp anymore today. Anna, take Blessing back to my tent and see that she stays there the rest of the day. Matto can help. Lord Thiemo, you’ll stand guard over her. Do please kindly recall that you take orders from me, not from my daughter, who is after all barely more than an infant.”

  “Y-yes, my lord prince,” stammered Thiemo, who had the grace to blush.

  Blessing began to shriek in protest, then broke down into hiccuping snivels as Sanglant handed her brusquely into Anna’s arms. “But, Daddy—”

  He grasped one of her little hands in his and caught her chin with the other, so that she had to look at him. “Is this how Emperor Taillefer’s heir returns through camp, crying like a helpless child taken prisoner in war? You’ll take the punishment you earned, and you’ll take it proudly.”

  She gulped several times, fighting down tears. Anger swelled, easy to see as she screwed up her mouth in a pout. She bit back several protests, then, finally, squirmed out of Anna’s grasp and marched away with her back stiff and her hands clenched in fury. Anna and Thiemo hurried after her.

  “Let me go,” said Heribert softly at his side.

  “Nay, my friend, she’ll only twist you into softening the blow. I can’t trust you with her when she’s in this mood. As soon as she starts sniffling, you’ll run out and fetch her honey cakes, anything to sweeten the punishment. I’ll keep you with me, in case I need sweetening.”

  “Well,” said Sapientia, sauntering up with an ill-disguised smirk on her face. She had seen the altercation and now returned with Bayan in time to savor the girl’s scolding. “I trust we have seen more here than we had cared to see.” She turned to her husband. “There are perhaps a score of slaves in the whole market worth freeing. I’ll have my stewards take care of the matter. I trust we may leave the rest to rot in their chains.” She indicated the Quman. “Don’t you agree, Sanglant?”

  Bayan kept quite still, neither speaking nor showing any emotion except that both his hands were clenched, and Sanglant thought it prudent to retire from the field on this matter, at least. “We’ve a long road, hunting Bulkezu,” he agreed mildly.

  She lifted her chin to examine Sanglant with what she evidently considered regal command. “Now that you have come to aid us with your troops, you may join our war council tomorrow night. We’ll be leaving Machteburg the day after.” She beckoned to her attendants and she and Bayan moved away together through the throng that had gathered, mostly soldiers come to survey the merchants’ encampment and get a closer look at their commanders.

  A youth pressed through the crowd in the opposite direction. When he saw Sanglant, he changed course.

  “What is it, Matto?” asked Sanglant as the lad hurried up.

  “The old man wishes to speak urgently to you, my lord prince. He says he’s seen news.”

  The phrasing sent Sanglant’s heart racing. He had a tremendous sense of impending action, that moment before a storm surge breaks over the wharf. They left the market. A ferry raft took them over the river to the neatly-laid-out encampment where his army, fully three hundred mounted cavalry as well as a number of other fighters, had set up their tents. The ditch being dug around the perimeter was almost complete, the easiest defense against a surprise cavalry attack should there be Quman lurking in the woods. Wolfhere waited for him in the shadow of his tent’s awning, out of the sun. Blessing had gone inside the tent to sulk. He could hear her companions talking in low voices; Lord Thiemo seemed to be telling the child some kind of story about a phoenix. Harmless enough, and it might serve to keep her out of trouble for the evening.

  “What news?” he asked Wolfhere. They walked away from the tent, giving them some privacy to converse. Only Heribert and Druthmar attended them. The rest of the pack waited restlessly under the awning, sipping mead.

  “I found Hanna;” said Wolfhere in a troubled voice. “I’d looked for her through fire and water both these past months. Since I couldn’t spy her, I thought she must be dead—”

  “Who is Hanna?” asked Heribert.

  “The young Eagle I rode with when we took you over the mountains,” snapped Wolfhere. “Or do you even remember her?”

  Heribert wisely did not answer, although it was clear by his puzzled expression that he did not really recall her.

  But for Sanglant the name sent off a cascade of memories: how he’d first seen Liath during a sally outside the walls of Gent; the way her braid swayed along her spine, sensuous and inviting although she wasn’t the kind of woman who meant to be inviting, not after the life she’d lived and the abuse she’d suffered at Hugh of Austra’s hands. Hanna had called Liath a fool for marrying him. “She seemed a wise and honest young woman,” he said at last, surprised to find himself smiling. It had been a long time since thoughts of Liath had made him smile.

  Wolfhere’s smile in answer was as soft as a tender kiss. “Truly, Hanna is more than she seems, so I’ve discovered. She wasn’t dead at all but held captive and concealed by Quman sorcery.”

  Sanglant swung round. “Quman sorcery!”

  “Bulkezu’s taken her prisoner.”

  “Ai, Lord. A grim fate, indeed. Was Ekkehard with Bulkezu as well?”

  “I did not see him, my lord prince. I saw her only briefly because—” It was so unlike Wolfhere to hesitate, to show any uncertainty, that Sanglant set a hand on the old Eagle’s arm to coax him. Druthmar had the patience of an ox, if rather more virility, and he had evidently heard so many awful things about Wolfhere from Hedwig that he found the old man fascinating, in the same way one stands watching from the safety of a bench as a scorpion skitters around the room.

  At last, Wolfhere sighed. “Because of the owl.”

  “Owl?”

  “Many eyes watch,” observed Wolfhere cryptically. “But what I saw where the owl dispelled the mists I recognized easily enough. It was the royal palace at Augensburg, burned now, all in ruins. That’s where I saw Hanna. As briefly seen and as briefly gone again, but without question it was her, surrounded by Quman soldiers. That means that Bulkezu and his army ride north along the eastern bank of one of the tributaries of the Veser River.”

  “God save us,” said Druthmar. “Bulkezu has struck into Wendar. I thought he still wandered in the marchlands.”

  “Duke Burchard took a force south to Aosta, to support Henry,” said Sanglant. “There’s no one to stop Bulkezu from riding all the way north along the Veser to Osterburg.”

  “How can he hope to take Duchess Rotrudis’ city?” asked Druthmar. “He’d have to besiege it for months.”

  “Truly, perhaps we’re going at this wrong. Why lay in a siege at all, if he can just ride around them? Why go north to Osterburg when he could as easily strike west into Fesse and western Saony? Duchess Liutgard also rode south with my father. Who is left to protect Wendar?”

  Yet the next night at the war council their debate hung up time and again not on the threat Bulkezu and his army posed but on the veracity of Wolfhere’s testimony.

  “You’ve no proof Bulkezu is in Avaria riding north along the Veser,” said Sapientia for the third time as certain of her attendants nodded agreement. “I can’t bel
ieve you let that Eagle Wolfhere ride with you, after the king outlawed him. That’s as good as rebelling outright against Father’s authority—”

  “Which I have not done, Sister.” Like an ill-trained hunting dog, Sapientia kept veering back to the already gnawed bone instead of forging forward on the trail of fresh meat. “Yet he has served me well. I might never have found you and Bayan if not for his Eagle’s sight.”

  “Dearly bought,” she retorted, “if it means losing Father’s trust.”

  “How much trust can any of us place in the words of an outlaw?” demanded Lady Brigida, Sapientia’s favorite, a florid woman with, Heribert had murmured, more hair than sense.

  The lords standing at Sapientia’s back murmured in agreement with Brigida’s complaint. Even Thiadbold, the scarred, redheaded captain of the two cohorts of Lions who marched with the princess, nodded his head uneasily.

  “Yet I wonder what news Father gains of us in Aosta?” mused Sapientia. “Surely he has reached Darre safely by now. Can’t your Eagle tell you that?”

  “His army has come to Darre, so it seems. No Eagle’s sight is perfect, and there are certain glamours and amulets that can veil that sight.”

  Murmurs rose from the assembly, hearing of such witchcraft.

  “Nor have we heard from Princess Theophanu,” interposed Lady Bertha, who despite being Hugh of Austra’s half sister seemed to Sanglant the most sensible of the nobles traveling in Sapientia’s train. “None of her messengers have gotten through to us, if indeed she has been able to send any.”

  “All the more reason to return to this matter of Bulkezu’s army.” Sanglant hoisted his cup and found, to his annoyance, that he had drained it. Bayan’s Ungrian servants, two of them eunuchs, were as well trained as Bayan’s Ungrian soldiers. A smooth-cheeked man hurried up with a pitcher of wine, a strong vintage that had already begun to make Sanglant’s head swim. The Ungrians didn’t cut their wine with water.

  “If Bulkezu does intend to march on Osterburg,” said Sapientia, “he’ll be trapped for months in a siege.”