"I nearly got killed," said her brother's look-alike, still stunned.
The man with the hand cannons had pulled the cart up next to them. He said something. The boys staggered to his feet. Bortai noticed that the man who had taken control of the cart was patting him on the shoulder with a sort of rough kindness. She felt terribly guilty. They did not look alike, but what if it was his younger brother? "I'm sorry," she said humbly. "I did not expect this."
"You warned me, Lady," the serf David said, gratefully.
That actually made her feel worse. It was conduct without honor. And without honor the Hawk clan was nothing.
The knights who had sortieed, together with two of the Golden Horde Mongols, Tulkun and a second man, and two Arban of the Raven clan came riding up. Bortai noticed that Erik's huge companion had made his way there too.
Bortai let her fury explode within her. A little later, when she calmed down, she was not entirely sure quite what she had said to the commander of the Arban. It had included quite a lot of terminology that a wellborn Mongol lady should not admit that she knew. The leader of the Arban was bright red, and the serf boy David was laughing so much that it looked like he would fall over. Tulkun and his companion were looking at her with a mixture of shock and amusement.
The commander of the Arban stuttered out the start to a reply.
Bortai, now that she had vented some of her spleen, demolished him in a few well chosen words about the honor of his clan. And told him to go. Now. To remove himself from her sight, and to do the sort of job of patrolling that honor really demanded. She knew just as well as he did that the archer was from his own clan. She also knew that the humiliation would prevent them from trying in that manner again. It did not stop her from being badly embarrassed too, later.
* * *
"By Christ's blood!" said Manfred admiringly. "I don't understand a word of it, but I have heard drill proctors with thirty years experience give a gentler chewing out. She's quite some spitfire, that girl. Take my advice: stick to the meek and mild ones. They're not as much fun in bed but at least you get to keep your head on your shoulders."
"She certainly was as shocked and angry as any one can be. She . . . has quite a rough tongue. I thought at first that she'd set David up as a decoy—a false target. I was fairly angry with her. He's just a fool of a boy."
Manfred shook his head and looked at the leader of the Golden Horde's little patrol slinking away like a whipped cur. "Are you sure she's just some ordinary woman, Erik? She was behaving like an empress back there."
Erik blushed dully. "No empress would tell a man to do that. No empress would even know the words. I didn't even know half of them, but what I did understand . . . well, I think perhaps she is woman who cleans fish. They are . . . um inclined to speak like that."
"Still think you'd better take some steps. Fishwife or no, someone just tried to kill that boy. My suspicion has to fall on our escort."
Erik nodded. "Kari got lucky with a shot there. Normally those pistols of his are not particularly accurate, especially at that sort of range. Mind you, if they'd shot from close up they'd have killed him. I only had a few heartbeats of warning. I think he'll have to go inside the cart, and we'll have to put a full escort on it. I think, because I am trying to conserve our force, I will bring them inside your cordon."
"Makes sense to me," said Manfred. "If the targets are hidden inside that cart they can't tell just where they're dropping their arrows."
Chapter 36
Dana left the cart quietly, early, by the back. If she'd got up normally, before she'd covered thirty paces someone from the urchin pack would have joined her. And mother would have moaned, just like yesterday, and the day before.
Mother moaned about quite a bit, starting with the clothing she was wearing.
"It's a nice skirt mother."
"It's a gypsy skirt! It's dirty and . . .and vulgar. And how can you go barefoot, darling?"
"Tante Silvia says I have to look like the others, Mama, in case they come looking for us."
Mama had sighed. "Yes. But Dana. They're gypsies. Remember your position. And well, the men have a reputation. You must always stay with me . . ."
"Mama. It's hot. The cart stinks of solder and Tante Silvia's herbs. And you don't need to worry about the men, I can't go anywhere on my own. Ever. There are always at least three of those girls with me. Always, mother. And anyway, no one will ever know what I wore or did here. We're not going to tell them we hid with the gypsies are we, mother?" She didn't even try to explain that she'd found that the 'gypsies' thought it really funny that her mother thought they were gypsies, just like the other bands that traveled the country. Those people were new-comers, and had come from the south somewhere recently . . . within the last few hundred years. These people said they'd always been here.
Mama had sighed. And cried. "I still think we ought to try and go to cousin Dorrotea. Maybe they will have stopped searching by now. Maybe we'll be safe with my family. They could hide us in a situation more fitting to our station. It's so demeaning, this." The Dowager Princess had waved at the cart that was their meager kingdom these days, as if it were a gaderobe. "And they're gypsies, Dana. You know what people say about gypsies."
Dana did. She had said some of it herself. They were rude, crude and vulgar, below contempt, he poorest of the poor, and of less regard than a serf. Only . . . something was wrong with that. They laughed at being called gypsies and sneered at. Not openly, but they had laughed. They'd only been among these "gypsies" for a few hours when she'd worked out that even the poorest ragged urchin looked down on her . . . well, not as far down on her as they did on ordinary people. She was of the house of Valahia. Almost as good as them, she gathered.
That would have done to her what it had done to mama—driven her to sneer back . . . except for one of Dana's two besetting sins. The first—her temper tantrums and black fury, her mother tolerated. That was Valahia—as Valahia as her long straight black hair and pale skin. It was the second sin that drove her mother to despair, hre insatiable curiosity.
It was a curiosity that had saved them. That was how she had found out that orders had come through for her to be taken to Buda, because Vlad—about to be transported there and crowned, had somehow escaped from his prison. Mama had not been able to bear the thought of losing another child . . .thought what dire fate she thought was in store for Dana, she had not said. Instead, in a panic, she had sent them both fleeing.
And so here they were. Among the 'gypsies' . . . who looked down on them and treated them like charity cases instead of their rightful lords. "We were here long before you, Valahia. It's our land. You merely live on it." And worse . . . she, Dana, was among people with some sort of secret . . . which they had no intention of telling her.
Well, she was going to find it out. So she'd pretended to be charmed by their rude songs, and joined in with their rustic behavior as if it was a great treat. Actually—having held up her nose at such things all her life—after a few days she'd got very used to them. She quite liked some of the pastimes they had showed her, involved her in. Some of the games—when she forgot to be superior and got carried away with the game—were clever and fun too. She discovered that she liked winning.
She realized that they weren't quite games either after a while. They were teaching the young ones how to steal, and how to trick the settled people, which seemed to be their equivalent of schooling. She had to admit it was more challenging than deportment lessons. She decided that—as long as no one knew—being a traveler was possibly more fun than merely being a Princess. Well, not the fishing in the lake. The fishing part was all right. It was catching the slimy things that wasn't. Blackberrying too. When you were hungry—and she had discovered hunger too, along with the 'gypsy' dances, and crude jokes and wild music—blackberries were good eating, despite the thorns.
"Look at your fingers, Dana!" Mama had cried in horror the first day. Then she had taken in some of the other details "What
have done to your face? And your hair?" she had demanded icily.
"Green walnut juice. And Tante Silvia did my hair with hot sticks. I like it, I think."
"You look like a filthy gypsy girl. Not a Princess."
She'd avoided rolling her eyes because it made her mother despair of her. But she wanted to; how could her mother be so—obtuse? "That's the idea, mama. I need to look like one."
But this morning she had a very different agenda. She had noticed that at least two of the three main men, Radu, Angelo, and that eternally grinning Grigori sneaked off somewhere every morning. At least one of them was missing all day.
She'd even tried asking about it. Angelo had laughed at her. "Run and play little girl," he'd said, cheerfully tousling her hair. She'd nearly exploded with shock and rage at his presumption. Then he'd said. "It's not for you to know."
She'd bottled her rage and tried to flutter her eyelashes at him, as she had seen some of the older girls doing. He'd laughed again. "The tricks you have learned among the pack, eh? Your brother is a dangerous man. You will be a dangerous woman one day. You'll need it. You'll be tall, just like him. I hope you ride better. He could hardly sit in the saddle when we brought him east."
"My brother?"
"I have said too much. What you don't know you can't tell."
As far as Dana was concerned as what she didn't know could very easily drive her mad. But other than the fact that he had plainly met her brother, he was not saying any more. She really hated that.
And they were up to something else. Something that kept the "gypsies" camped on this mountain in the late summer, when they would be normally be working the countryside. The other children let that much on, and they were so plainly pregnant with knowing something she did not, that it had even got her up early, before the sun had even peeked above the horizon. The grass was heavy with dew . . . and it was relatively easy to see where someone had walked out of the camp, heading away from the dark waters of the lake into the pine forests, up on the steep slopes of the mountain.
Looking carefully she just caught a glimpse of them disappearing into the forest margin. The dew was cold and wet on her bare feet as she hitched her skirts up and ran after them. She even had her blackberry basket as an excuse.
They moved faster than she possibly could, she knew. They'd never know she was behind them . . .
And then she caught a brief sight of grey brindled fur, white teeth and a very red mouth in between the shadows. She gave a small strangled gasp of a scream . . . but before she could open her mouth for a full-blooded bellow, Grigori stepped out from behind the low branches of a tree on the other side. "What are you doing here, little girl?" he asked roughly.
Dana was totally startled out of any pretense of hauteur. "L . . .looking for berries."
"Go down to the lake-side. They grow there. Go."
"There's . . . there's something in the woods. I saw it. Fur and teeth. A bear . . . or a wolf. I can't go on my own."
"Ah." Grigori said. "It is dangerous up here. It'll kill and eat the soft, tender meat. Now run. I will distract it. Run. Run quickly and do not stop until you are back in the camp. Quickly. Go."
From the forest came a menacing growl and Grigori drew his knife.
She needed no more urging. In a panicky headlong flight she ran downhill, jinking through the trees and tearing through the underbrush.
But she did not get very far. Less that three hundred paces. She hooked her toes on a tree root and went flying, landing so hard that all the breath was knocked out of her. She lay there gasping weakly, too stunned and breathless to get up, let alone run on, despite her fear. Even so, she tried, because of that, and as she struggled to a sitting position, she realized that the forest was still. There was no sign of a monster chasing her. It would have caught her and eaten her by now. There were no sounds of a desperate struggle while Grigori fought it off. There was nothing but early morning silence broken by a dove's mournful call.
She'd managed to sit up now, and inspect her ripped skirt and—by hitching the skirt up—her knees. They were both grazed and one dripped a little blood. Sore and with the increasing realization that she'd been made a fool of, Dana stood up. She did not turn down slope. Instead she walked determinedly—if a little cautiously—back up to where she had met Grigori.
There was no body. No mutilated dark skinned gray eyed man with his throat ripped out, and his entrails wrapped around the trees.
Dana took a deep breath as her temper ruse. Not yet there wasn't. There might be when she caught up with them. The were laughing at her, no doubt. It had been Angelo growling, of course. And whatever she'd seen . . . well, they let the children wander around, freely; she'd discovered that the 'gypsies' took good care of their own, contrary to their reputation. She'd seen how the older ones appeared as if by magic when two of the littlest children went too close to a landslip by the lake. Therefore there was no dangerous beast on the loose in the forest. They had just wanted to frighten her off from whatever they were doing in these woods.
She was of the house of Valahia. She didn't frighten. Not much, or for long anyway, damn their black hearts. She began to walk uphill again, far more determinedly now. It was steep going, and the pine trees grew thicker. It was quite a bit later when it occurred to her that they might not have been going this way at all. There were no tracks. There was not even a well-defined pathway—just the faintest of trails, which only existed in that several of the branches had been broken, possibly by some wild animal. She peered at the thick coating of old pine needles. Looking back she could see how she'd exposed little wet patches of their damp underlayer, just by struggling up the steep slope. Looking around there was no sign that the two larger, heavier men had made their way up here. No sign of any other disturbance . . . except on a tree about ten paces away, there were four deep gouges, cut at least a fingertip deep through the rough bark into the flesh of the tree. It bled gummy sap, in thin sticky pine resin trails.
She laughed. So that was what this was all about. Rosin. The right to collect rosin was a Lord's right, which, of course they would get their peasantry to do. She'd heard tell that it was sticky, unpleasant work, saved for peasants not fit for much better. Still: It was a Lord's right, just as the venison and wild boar were his. They would not take kindly to some gypsies stealing their property, even if they were not harvesting it themselves. She laughed again, louder this time.
And in the tree above the long scratches something stirred. Something of shifting colors, sinuous, and reptilian and spiky. With bat wings. The shape stared at her with slitted eyes that seemed to slide between a liquid copper and a fiery glow.
She wanted to scream, but she was actually too terrified to do so. Her eyes wide, and her heart racing, she began to turn ever so slowly, making no sudden moves. And then she nearly jumped clear at the top of the pine trees. Because, with a clatter and a thump, a second creature flapped down to the forest floor. The opalescent creature stood there on a pair of feathered legs, great curved talons digging into the moss, a long spiked tail snaked back among the trees. It cocked his head and looked at her. And then, very obviously, sniffed at her. The other of the creatures flapped down, landing barely five paces away. She was trapped between the two of them. The second one stuck its scaly snout forward at her, and sniffed at her knee. The worse grazed knee.
Strange, liquid fiery-coppery eyes with crescent pupils looked at her. It was not, despite the bat wings, talons and long barbed tail, a very large creature. Barely the size of a graze-hound in fact. And skinny. She could see the ribs under the shifting greenish silver color of its scales. She could also see long sharp white teeth set into a red maw.
Then it said . . . "food."
While she'd been looking at it the other one had also come forward. "Hungry" that one said, and a long, forked, snaky tongue quivered out of its mouth, flickering over her foot and onto her leg with a ghostlike brushing touch.
Dana managed her scream.
"I wo
uldn't do that if I were you," said Angelo, standing and looking at her from where she would swear he had not been in a few heartbeats before. "They're young and hungry. They can smell the blood."
"Help me . . ."
He smiled wickedly. "They are supposed to like tender young maidens. And the more royal the blood the better. Here." He reached into the sack by his side. Drew out a haunch of venison. Took a long thin bronze blade from his belt. Handed them both to her. "Feed them. Feed them before they feed on you." His tone did not suggest that he was joking.
Dana looked at the greenish-silver bat-winged creatures in terror. Then the one that had not tasted her with its tongue butted her in the stomach so that she sat down. She was on face level now, and she could see the drool, and feel their breath on her face. And then the Valah fury came to her rescue. If she was going die it would not be with a poor traveler mocking her. She got to her feet, and cut a long thin sliver off the venison. Ha. Stolen, poached venison! Royal game. The knife was razor sharp. It cut almost effortlessly. One of the creatures tugged at the bloody strip while she was busy. "Wait," she said sternly, and pulled the meat away from it and gave it to other one. She cut another strip while it stared at her, startled, and hurt looking. She fed it. The other was already demanding more.
The two creatures ate with noisy and messy abandon, and with as much haste as they could get the meat into their faces. The pace did slow down, as the haunch became a bone.
"Give them the bone, and come away," said the gypsy. "They'll argue about it, and then play with it and then eat it. They need it for their teeth."
"What are they?" she asked as she tossed the bone between them.
"Wyverns. Young ones. The last of their kind," said Angelo, taking his knife from her hand and cleaning it on the pine-needle mat, then on a scrap of cloth, before finally slipping it back into his pouch. "Now. You must promise me you will not come up here without us. Your word of honor as part of the house of Valahia, girl. We watch them . . . but they are hungry. And you are food to them, remember that. They do not yet care if food talks."
Much Fall of Blood-ARC Page 28
