Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  “They're not men. They don't bleed.” Pikarus grunted back as he swung his sword. Brastigan could tell he'd struck one of the bone men in the chest, but it did no more good than Brastigan's throat slash. “They don't die!”

  Well, if finesse was out, brute force would have to do.

  “Chop off their sword arms!” Brastigan yelled to anyone who could hear. “Cut them down like trees if you have to!”

  Of course, that was easy to say. The bone men's withered skin was so tough, he could see why their masters didn't bother with mail. But any strategy was better than nothing. Brastigan and Pikarus stood shoulder to shoulder. Working in turn, blocking for each other, they managed to sever the wiry limbs. First one, then another, then a third wizened arm fell to the dusty rocks.

  Still the bone men stood. Still they fought. With just one arm they grappled and grabbed, dragging shields down or holding back sword blades with fingers that felt no pain.

  “Try the legs?” Pikarus called. After much hacking, they managed to hamstring two of their four foes. Even then they tried to come back, pushing themselves forward on their hands. Brastigan kicked one off by itself and straddled its skinny body. He chopped its head off before it could turn over. You couldn't say it truly died, but it finally stopped moving.

  Pikarus turned aside, aiding Yugo, who struggled against three bone men. Brastigan worked his way toward Javes. Beheading was easier from the unprotected rear. Of course, it meant he was by himself and vulnerable, too. Brastigan stopped thinking for a while, just chopping and dancing away from crippled enemies. Others didn't fare as well. One man was pinned down by two one-armed bone men while a third stabbed him. Another wasn't moving at all.

  “The black tower will never fall!” Brastigan cried as he charged to that man's aid.

  It was a long, ugly, exhausting battle. Brastigan had been in fights before, barroom brawls and bandit raids, but those were against men—bleeding, feeling pain, just as desperate to survive as he was. This one was different, so brutal and quiet. The bone men suffered in grisly silence, as if they didn't feel their arms being hacked off, their legs cut from under them. How could any creature suffer such wounds and not notice?

  At the end of it, his sword arm burned with exhaustion. His shield hand was numb from the power of his grip. Brastigan gulped in dusty air, felt the gambeson beneath his armor sodden with sweat. The ground was strewn with body parts: bone men writhing like enormous worms. Even now, the crippled, crawling things tried to come at them. Most disturbing was the complete absence of blood. There should have been blood. Brastigan, who had never shied from battle, felt his stomach turn at the cleanliness of this carnage.

  Only when he stopped to breathe did Brastigan understand the true horror. For beneath the leather caps were falls of stringy matted hair. Black hair, just like Brastigan's.

  It was Pikarus who put his outrage into words. “Can those be Urulai?”

  “They would never serve Sillets!” Brastigan snarled.

  But hundreds of warriors were missing in Urland, their fates unknown after twenty years. Somehow they must have been enslaved by sorcery. That would explain their poor condition, for who would concern themselves over an army of slaves?

  For years, Brastigan had heard stories about Sillets and its evil magic. He had never truly understood. Now, he loathed Sillets and its undying king with an intense, personal feeling. Whoever created such monstrous beings deserved to die.

  Brastigan needed something else to look at. He glanced around. The mules had been backed up against a fin of rock and stood in a huddle, heads down, ears hanging slack. Lottres sat in the midst of them, the reins loose in his hand. His face, oddly calm, gazed into nothing. Yriatt sat tall and alert with a hunting bow across her lap, an arrow ready. The three dogs lay in heaps of black fur. When did that happen? Brastigan hadn't heard her bowstring snap.

  Behind both of them, the girl sat on her horse with an expression of horror. He strode to her side, wondering if the fragile creature understood what was happening. He hoped it was just the noise that made her look that way, not the grisly work he had been doing.

  Brastigan patted her knee. “I'm fine.” It seemed to calm her.

  Finding his own mule, Brastigan got a waterskin. He took two deep gulps, and added, to his brother, “Thanks for all your hard work.”

  Lottres didn't respond, but Yriatt said in a brittle tone, “This is not over.”

  She was looking past the girl, past Brastigan. He spat another mouthful of water onto the stones and turned. Pikarus helped a limping Roari toward his mule, while Javes methodically struck heads off bone men. Then, beyond Javes, came noise and movement. A pair of black dogs burst over the hilltop. Yriatt's bow sang, and one of them tumbled over with a shriek. Behind them, a full squad of bone men crested the hill.

  “Get back in line!” Pikarus shouted. Javes leaped to obey.

  Brastigan dropped his waterskin and sprang forward. His heart hammered in a way it never had before. At least one man was dead, and it was a miracle that was the only loss. Two others needed help to stand. That made seven on the Cruthan side, if the injured men could fight, against creatures harder to kill than cockroaches. And they were already tired.

  But giving up wasn't possible. Javes and Pikarus called orders. The soldiers scrambled for their places, kicking dead bone men out of the way. Yriatt's bow sent arrows terribly close to their heads, trying to remove the second howling mutt. Brastigan took his place at the end of the line.

  “For the black tower!” His voice was a hoarse bark. Victory felt heavy as a log of wood. His speed was gone. But he didn't feel afraid. He just had a job to do.

  This time Brastigan hardly had the chance to strike a blow. Something else struck first, grabbing his leg as he stepped forward to swing his blade. He struck hard, then looked down. One of the bone men had escaped Javes's reckoning. It held him by the knee. Brastigan kicked, tried to pull away, blocked an incoming blow, and tried to cut off the creature's arm to get free.

  He lost his balance and fell awkwardly. The flat rocks made for a hard landing, and a shaft of pain ran up his arm. Biting back a cry, Brastigan curled inward, covering himself with his shield as best he could.

  When the pain cleared enough to think, he raised his head. He was nose to nose with the one-armed bone man. He drew a lungful of its fetid odor, stared into the shriveled pits of its eyes. Brastigan jerked back from the unpleasant proximity, tried to lift Victory and found he was lying on top of it. More bone men had both his legs, dragged at his shield, rained blows on his back. His armor did its job and kept the dull edges at bay.

  Through the thumping of blows on his helmet, he heard Javes bellow, “Protect the prince!” But Brastigan knew with cold clarity that the other soldiers were all in bad spots. It wasn't likely anyone could help him.

  He kicked again, struggling to free himself. When that was no use, he rolled onto his back enough to free Victory and jab upward. It was awkward, but it was all he could do.

  Vaguely, behind the Cruthan line, he heard strange, barking cries. Then came a loud snarl, like water poured on a pan of hot grease. After that, a rush of hot wind. The air boiled and churned above him. Bone men went flying like rag dolls. Cruthan men were shouting and swearing.

  At last, Brastigan could move his legs! He rolled over, finding Javes above him. The soldier relaxed a little, seeing him still moving, and offered a hand up. He took it gladly.

  “It's about time she did something,” Brastigan grumbled.

  “What did you say?” Javes yelled, as if he couldn't hear himself speak.

  Bone men and dead dogs were everywhere. Most lay broken, though a few picked themselves up and came on again. Pikarus was calling to his troops, trying to get them in order. Brastigan heard a racket behind him, and turned to look at the new trouble.

  The noise had shaken the mules out of whatever spell held them. They rolled their eyes and danced, squealing in terror. The girl was the source of the weird barking cr
ies. She stared at him and shrieked again and again, unable to put real words to her fear.

  Meanwhile, Yriatt struggled to guide her horse through the turmoil. Reaching the girl, she roughly grabbed her shoulder. All composure gone, the witch's voice was high and hard. “What are you doing? Stop!”

  “Hey! Let go of her!” Brastigan shouted. That was his girl the witch manhandled. Javes shouted beside him, and he had to turn to face the foe again.

  It wasn't easy to watch both situations at once. Mostly he fought, parrying blows and giving back as many as he could. In snatches, he saw Yriatt raise her hands. The beasts stopped their skittish prancing. When he next looked, Lottres was talking urgently, in a grieved tone. Telling tales on Brastigan, no doubt. Both their faced turned to Brastigan, and he spared a moment for a mocking wave.

  Most important, between bone men and sword blows, was the girl. She clutched her horse's mane and stared, her face drawn and anxious. She must have had quite a scare when the bone men pulled him down, to make her do... whatever it was she did.

  Because he knew it wasn't Yriatt who made the air boil. It was the girl. She wasn't perfect and pure at all. Some kind of witchery touched her, just like Lottres.

  Frustration gave Brastigan new strength. He hit the bone men harder, faster, wanting to cut them, beat them, because if he looked at his brother now he might do something much worse. Save his sword for his enemies; that's what he had to do. It wasn't easy.

  The first battle had seemed to take forever. This one was over too quickly. When the last bone man fell, Brastigan stood aching all over and cold as the grave.

  Javes hadn't left his side. Now he asked, “Your highness, are you all right?”

  “Get the men up,” Brastigan snarled.

  Javes jerked back, and threw a hasty salute. Brastigan prowled the field, looking for a moving enemy to lop something off of. Those who didn't move, he stomped on with vengeful kicks.

  When no further targets offered themselves, Brastigan looked over the battlefield. Javes was helping bandage Yugo's bloody shoulder. Pikarus rolled a fallen man over and knelt beside him. It was Aglend. As Brastigan watched, Pikarus took up the dead man's sword. He pulled a ring from Aglend's hand and cut a lock of his hair, placing these in a small leather bag. He drew it tight and tied the ends about the haft of the sword.

  Brastigan's fury turned cold. Numbly he cleaned Victory and sheathed her. Aglend and Roari, both dead. Their bodies would have to be left behind. He knew that. The battered Cruthan force had no way to care for them. And Brastigan knew full well how lucky he was to live out the battle. If not for the girl, it could have been him staring sightless into the hostile sky.

  He trudged back to his mule, and finally looked up at the distraught girl. She gazed down, joy lighting her face through tear tracks and dust. Her lips moved, but she no longer tried to speak. Cursed thing that she was, Brastigan had to hold himself back from kissing her. Too many eyes about, judging. Instead he clasped her hands, forgiving her already.

  Yriatt wasn't so tolerant. She stared down at Brastigan from her horse, eyes dark and terrible beneath her crooked horns. “What have you done?” she demanded.

  “You're the witch,” Brastigan snapped back. He loosened the girl's hands and swung into the saddle. “You tell me.”

  Lottres made a coughing sound. “This isn't the time for games, Brastigan.”

  “I'm not playing,” he answered. “I'm no magician. If she doesn't know what's going on, how should I?”

  Yriatt's dark hair crackled with the energy of her anger. Lottres tensed with fury, hands balling into fists. Before either could speak, Pikarus shouldered his mule between them.

  “We cannot stay,” he said with quiet urgency. “Everyone is upset, I know, but we must move on. Please.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Brastigan responded cheerfully, baiting Yriatt. “Do you lead, or shall I?”

  Yriatt stared at Brastigan, relenting not a hair in her rage. “This is not over,” she said.

  She turned her horse, and they were away.

  SHADOW WOMEN

  Trust Brastigan to ruin everything, Lottres thought fiercely. He and Yriatt had had everything under control. Especially the mules. Lottres had felt what Yriatt did. He had copied her and held the mules all on his own. Even if they were merely beasts, Lottres had reveled in his power—until Brastigan turned his triumph to ashes.

  He and Yriatt had been so careful to conceal their magic. There might have been a chance to beat back the assault and keep the eppagadrocca from sensing their presence. But no, Brastigan had to play the hero and nearly get himself killed, and the girl went mad with fear. How she got such power, Lottres didn't know, hollow as she was. What mattered was that the enemy knew for certain there were wizards approaching who weren't eppagadrocca. Whatever danger they had faced before, it was doubled now.

  The Cruthans made the best speed possible, tending southward when they could. Through gaps in the stony palisades, Lottres caught glimpses of Altannath. It wasn't a friendly sight.

  The valley below was broad, shallow and bare of trees. Clumps of tawny grass and heaps of crumbled stone were scattered around a green lake that shimmered beneath the sun. Near the center of the barren vale was a jutting butte, easily taller than the hills ringing in the valley. At its knees were a cluster of tents and a makeshift corral. Weather had dulled the crimson cloth, but there was no mistaking the standard of Sillets.

  Along the lake shore, patterns were scratched into the dry ground: a grid work of paths between blocks of flattened grass. This had been a much larger encampment until recently. Of more immediate concern, however, were the plumes of dust swirling above the valley. Lines of bone men crept beneath them, patient and mindless as worms.

  Lottres could feel the eppagadrocca, too. He heard bits of their talk, and felt them probing, seeking. His rage against Brastigan could be a weakness, Lottres knew—something the enemy might detect. He kept his guard up while Yriatt shielded both herself and the girl. Whatever Lottres had to say to Brastigan would have to wait.

  * * *

  The riders descended quickly, losing themselves in the rocky warrens. Anger and confusion rode with them, filling the air like the dust the mules raised. Mostly it was the girl that tangled Brastigan's thoughts. Whenever he turned toward her she was looking back, anxiously, as if he might vanish from her sight.

  When she looked at him like that, he knew exactly what she wanted. It was the same thing he wanted of any female he kept company with. Brastigan had never waited for any woman. If she wasn't prepared to get physical, he moved on. Now he wondered if he had been waiting, after all. Waiting for the girl to be ready.

  And yet, this one was worth waiting for. She was like a flower, opening from a tightly closed bud, so perfect in her innocence and silence. Her growing awareness of the world around her was a kind of revelation. Brastigan saw himself, through her eyes, as a supreme figure, admired and adored. Whatever his relationships with women had been before, none of them had ever made him feel worthy of such regard.

  Rocks served to conceal the Cruthan force, and they held no tracks. Perhaps that was why they were able to outpace the enemy. Yet no one was in the mood to take it slowly. They pressed the animals hard, until even the Urulai horses were flagging.

  Brastigan called to Lottres, whose mule lagged behind Yriatt's horse, “If we don't take pity on these beasts, we'll be walking!”

  Over his shoulder, Lottres gave Brastigan a look of supreme irritation. He nodded, but didn't speak. Brastigan shrugged to himself. Let Lottres go ahead and ignore him. He'd soon find out what happened when you over-taxed your steed.

  A while later, though, Yriatt turned aside. Soon they came to a sluggish stream, its banks thick with scrubby willow trees. They halted at last, and crowded the mules beneath the trees.

  It wasn't easy getting down from the saddle. Brastigan's muscles had grown cold as he rode, leaving him stiff and sore all over. The others seemed to feel little bette
r. Javes had his hands full keeping the beasts from guzzling the tepid water. Pikarus got the wounded men down to rest under the trees. Both Henrick and Yugo seemed lucid, though Yugo's blood had soaked through his bandages. Brastigan reminded himself to speak with them soon. They deserved to be thanked for their efforts.

  Considering recent events, however, Brastigan didn't want to leave the girl alone for long. Limping like an old man, he went to get her down from her horse. She practically fell into his arms, drawing fresh complaints from his many bruises. It hardly seemed to matter. For a moment Brastigan couldn't move. It felt so good to have a girl clinging to him that way. He gazed into her trusting eyes, knowing she would gladly give him whatever he wanted. Whatever a man wanted.

  He swallowed hard, and gently moved her back.

  Then came Yriatt's imperious voice. “Give me the girl.”

  Brastigan turned, confronting the witch in the shifting shadows of the willow trees. Yriatt was haughty with anger. Lottres was at her shoulder, harried yet smug. Like Oskar preparing to bully someone, Brastigan thought, and that was a comparison he had never thought to make.

  Brastigan attempted a pleasant tone. “No, I will not. But I will talk to you about it.”

  “She is under my protection,” Yriatt replied. Her lips hardly moved as she spoke. “Give her to me.”

  “I said, no,” Brastigan answered. “She isn't a thing to be handed around.”

  “You act like she is,” Lottres interrupted. “Like she's a toy.” His eyes gleamed. Brastigan thought he must be enjoying that he was right, and his brother wrong.

  It grated, but Brastigan knew his brother was partly correct. The girl had been the witch's creature to begin with, but no force on earth was going to make him walk away from her now.

  “I told you, it isn't like that,” Brastigan said, holding to his temper. “I'm trying to consider her feelings.”

  In a choked voice, Yriatt said, “She is not supposed to have feelings. If she does, then you are to blame.”