Corpses and body parts from both sides seemed to lie everywhere. Turning, Tristan saw a black-garbed Zorian wandering about blindly. Dazed and in shock, he was cradling his own severed arm like he was looking for someone who could magically reattach it. Turning his gaze toward the stars, he collapsed, his massive blood loss finally securing his eternal peace. As the great bonfire in the clearing’s center continued to crackle and burn, horses ran wildly, children cried, and the clan’s elderly bemoaned their losses in their strange, secret language.
Just then the Minions landed warily in the clearing. Tristan watched curiously as they immediately formed strict ranks, with Hector front and center. Taking a quick count, the prince realized that all twenty had survived.
Hector suddenly went to his knees and bowed his head. The other warriors followed suit. Hector drew his sword and held the bloody weapon vertically across his palms, humbly offering it up to hisJin’Sai. The other nineteen did the same.
Tristan understood the Minion gesture. Having been captured, the warriors believed that they had failed him. By giving up their swords they freely admitted their mistakes, and would gladly accept whatever punishment Tristan chose to mete out-including their deaths. Pulling his dreggan from the dirt, he sheathed it and walked over.
“Arise, all of you,” he ordered. At once the twenty warriors came to their feet.
“I refuse to accept your swords,” Tristan said. “The fault for your capture was mine, for not sending patrols aloft.” Turning, he looked across the bloody clearing, then back at them.
“Your fighting was exemplary,” he added. “It made the difference between victory and defeat. You should feel proud, rather than dishonored. Go now, and do what you can to help the highlanders tend to the wounded.”
Like they were of one mind, the warriors sheathed their swords with simultaneous precision. After giving Tristan a look of gratitude, Hector barked out some orders and sent the warriors about their new duties.
“Those flying creatures of yours fight well,” a voice said from behind him. “And so do you.”
Tristan turned to see Yasmin standing there. She was bloodied and dirty, but seemed unharmed. Reaching out, she handed him the dirk he had given her. He had no doubt that she had made good use of it. After wiping its blood onto his trousers, he slid it back into its quiver. Walking closer, he smiled.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes,” she said, “but you aren’t.”
She took him by his left hand. Tristan looked down to see that he had been wounded. A jagged, bleeding cut ran diagonally across his inner forearm.
“This is deep,” Yasmin said. “It must be tended to before infection sets in. Come with me.” Taking him by the hand, she started leading him across the ravaged clearing.
They walked for a while until Yasmin came to one of the few wagons that hadn’t been destroyed. Lowering its rear door, she bade Tristan to sit on it. Glad to be off his feet, he did as she asked. The beautiful highlander woman quickly went to work.
Reaching into the wagon, she removed an aged wooden box. She opened it to show various healer’s tools, some of which Tristan was familiar with. After cleaning the wound she produced a small amber bottle. Uncorking it, she spread the open wound wide, then poured some of the bottle’s contents directly onto it.
Shouting with pain, Tristan yanked his arm away. Not to be outdone, Yasmin scowled, then grasped his wrist again and commandingly pulled it back. She gave him a little smile.
“What in the name of the Afterlife is that awful stuff?” he shouted.
“Aged goat urine,” she answered, “tinged with certain herbs. There’s nothing better for a wound. Now stop being such a child! I know what I’m doing-I’ve sewn up plenty of men. Be still and let me do my work!”
Wondering what Abbey and Faegan would say about Yasmin’s potion, he finally gave in and let her do her worst. It hurt like blazes as she sewed the wound shut, but he knew it had to be done. Flexing his fingers, he left the wagon door to stand on the ground. He looked at his wound to see that Yasmin’s stitches were clean and precise.
“They will leave a scar,” Yasmin said. “But from what I’ve seen of you so far, it already has plenty of company.”
Tristan laughed, then pointed to the wooden box of healer’s tools. “How did you know those things would be here?” he asked.
“This wagon is mine,” Yasmin answered.
Without further ado, she closed the box and put it away. Coming closer, she looked into his eyes and placed her hands onto his chest. As she stared at him, her normally predatory gaze softened into something more curious than commanding.
“Tell me, Jin’Sai, ” she said. “Do you keep a woman of your own at the palace?”
Startled by her frankness, Tristan took a quick breath. He started to answer her, then he stopped. Instead, he reached up to wipe a dirt smudge from one of her cheeks.
“Where did you hear the phrase,‘Jin’Sai’?” he asked.
“From your flying warriors,” she answered. “But you’re avoiding the question.”
Remembering Celeste, Tristan looked at the ground. “It’s a rather long story, you see, and I-”
“There you are, dango!” they suddenly heard Rafe’s voice call out. “Leave it to you to be tended to by the camp’s most beautiful woman!”
Tristan and Yasmin watched Rafe and Balthazar walk up. They were each holding atachinga jug. Balthazar looked rather drunk. Rafe offered his jug to Tristan.
Smiling, the prince took it, then swallowed a long gulp, followed by another. After wiping his mouth, he gave Rafe a compassionate look.
“I am sorry about Casimir,” he said. “I’m sure he was a good man.”
Rafe’s face darkened. “He was,” he answered. “I am also sorry to see him gone. But in the end, his death served a noble purpose. We have taken a Zorian body count. By the looks of it, they came at us with every fighter they had. All but a few are dead. The Zorian threat is no more.”
“There are Zorian survivors?” Tristan asked.
Just then a terrible scream rang out across the clearing. It slowly faded away, to be replaced by outright begging. Tristan immediately understood that the Zorian survivors were being tortured to death. He was about to protest when Yasmin’s eyes caught his. She gave him a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. Understanding, he took a deep breath and resolved not to speak of it. Highlander business, he realized. He looked back at Rafe.
“What are your losses?” he asked.
Rafe shook his head. “They are very bad,” he answered. “Perhaps the worst ever suffered by our clan in one fight. More than half of our wagons are gone. And with them went many supplies, provisions, horses, and other livestock. More than one quarter of my men are dead, and several dozen more are wounded. The Zorian cowards struck down many of our women, elderly, and children. Two of the twelve council members are also dead. But we will somehow go on. We always do.”
Taking Rafe by one arm, Tristan pulled him nearer. “Then it is even more important that you and your council consider my offer,” he said. “After what happened tonight, we need each other more than ever. At the very least, come with me to Tammerland and let me resupply you with some of the things that you lost. I know nothing can make up for the death of your people. But you owe it to your survivors to take me up on at least that much.”
Rafe put one hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “I know,” he said softly. “To a great extent, we owe you and your warriors our lives. That’s why I have called for an emergency elders’ meeting to discuss your proposal.”
“When?” Tristan asked.
“Now,” Rafe answered.
“So soon after tonight’s calamity?” Tristan asked.
Rafe took back his jug and swallowed more of the potenttachinga. “Can you think of a better time?” he asked back.
Smiling, Tristan shook his head. “No,” he answered. “I suppose not.”
Balthazar walked up to
face the prince. After taking another enormous gulp, he belched loudly. Tristan smiled. The massive highlander would make a good drinking partner for Ox, he realized. Balthazar gave Tristan a crooked smile, showing the absence of several teeth. Leaning in, he poked an index finger into Tristan’s chest.
“You fight well for adango!” he said. Closing his eyes, he belched again, this time nearly dropping his jug. “Maybe we won’t ransom your scrawny arse after all!”
“Come, all of you,” Rafe said. “The meeting will start soon. Then we will see what we will see.” He gave Tristan a wary glance. “But I warn you-the elders can be a very uncompromising lot,” he added.
Wondering what the rest of the night would bring, Tristan started accompanying Rafe, Balthazar, and Yasmin across the moonlit clearing.
CHAPTER XXXIX
BY THE TIME TRISTAN, YASMIN, RAFE, AND BALTHAZARreached the camp’s meeting place, many highlander onlookers had already arrived. Tristan quickly realized that these meetings must be public affairs.
Like in the camp clearing, a large bonfire burned. An iron tripod stood over the bonfire’s flames, and a black pot hung from the tripod’s apex. A strange white fog billowed from the pot’s lip, its clouds disappearing as they drifted gently down.
Some of the surviving wagons had been wheeled to this place. Thirteen chairs, each upholstered in red velvet, stood in a nearby circle. Ten elders sat waiting while three of the chairs remained vacant. It was obvious that news of Tristan’s proposal was filtering through the camp, because more curious highlanders were arriving by the moment. Although many were tired and bloodied, they seemed highly interested in this stranger who had killed their enemies as if they had been his own.
Walking toward the circle of chairs, Rafe bade Tristan to follow him. Before Tristan went, Yasmin touched him on the arm.
“Good luck,” she whispered. “The elders are stern, but wise. State your case strongly, then be quiet unless spoken to. You are still adango, after all.”
After nodding back, Tristan walked to join Rafe. The chieftain indicated that Tristan should sit. Before doing so, the prince thought for a moment. As a gesture of goodwill he unbuckled his baldric and quiver, then laid his weapons in the dewy grass. Only then did he take his seat.
As she watched, Yasmin sensed a familiar presence arrive by her side. She looked over to see Sonya, one of her sisters who had danced with her. Sonya gave Yasmin a coy look, then turned her attention back to the prince as he sat waiting for the meeting to start.
“You have eyes for him,” Sonya whispered conspiratorially. “I can tell! Tell me-is he as clever as he is handsome?” She ran her gaze over Tristan, then looked back at her sister. “Does he have brothers in Tammerland?” she whispered eagerly.
Scowling, Yasmin turned to glare at Sonya. “Be still, you harpy!” she admonished her. “I wish to listen!” Smiling, Sonya returned her gaze to the meeting.
Tristan looked politely at the council elders. “Elder” was an apt word, he realized. Each of the surviving five men and five women had to be at least seventy Seasons of New Life, perhaps older. Several of the men had long white beards. The women’s hair was equally white, and their faces were deeply creased by decades of hard nomadic life. But regardless of their gender, each clan elder looked commanding. These were people who would not be easily swayed, Tristan realized.
Without ceremony, one of the male elders started speaking in the clan’s secret language. He spoke for some time, then finally went quiet. After looking over at Tristan, Rafe came to his feet. He bowed to the man who had spoken.
“I understand, Gunther,” he said. He then turned to look at the crowd. “To all those present this night, I suggest that we speak only Eutracian. Thisdango has risked his life for us. It seems only right that he understands what we say.”
After conferring with the other elders, Gunther nodded. “Very well,” he said. “You may tell us what thedango has in mind.”
For the next quarter hour Rafe outlined Tristan’s proposal. He looked over at the prince several times to ensure that he was delivering Tristan’s offer correctly. The prince nodded his agreement but did not speak. Rafe was forceful and concise, just as Yasmin had counseled Tristan to be when his turn came. Rafe was doing a good job, making the prince wonder whether he would need to speak at all. When he had finished, Rafe sat down. Gunther looked commandingly at Tristan.
“Tell us, dango, ” he said. “In return for commanding our horsemen, will you really give us all the things you promise? Are you in fact the crowned prince of all Eutracia? Or are you merely some poseur commanding a pack of flying beasts?” Even from across the wide circle, Tristan felt Gunther’s eyes boring their way into his.
“If you are lying to us,” Gunther added menacingly, “we will kill you here and now, regardless of how many Zorians you and your warriors slaughtered. We do not tolerate deceivers in our midst.”
Tristan looked over at Rafe. The chieftain nodded. Tristan stood and looked at each elder in turn.
“I am indeed who I claim to be,” he said respectfully. “And if your clan follows me to Tammerland and allows me to command your horsemen for a time, I will grant you all that I have promised. You have my word on it.”
Not knowing what more to say, Tristan reclaimed his seat. He could only hope that his words had somehow been enough. He was asking much from these people, he knew. But if they would only believe him, they would gain much, as well.
Gunther huddled again with his council members. He looked back at the prince.
“Before making such a huge decision, we will need proof,” he said simply.
Tristan’s mind raced. He looked over at Rafe for guidance, but the chieftain seemed equally stymied. Tristan looked back at Gunther.
“Proof of what?” he asked.
“That you are indeed the prince,” Gunther answered, “and that you are telling the truth about your many promises. Once we have it, we will vote on the matter.”
Tristan thought for a moment. Other than his word and the items hanging around his neck, he had little to offer. Standing again, he grasped the Paragon and gold medallion with one hand and lifted them from his chest for everyone to see. They twinkled brightly in the bonfire’s orange-red light.
“I bear a medallion carrying the heraldry of the House of Galland,” Tristan answered. “There are only two such discs in the entire world. My twin sister, the princess, wears the other. The red jewel around my neck is the Paragon, which allows all magic to flow into those of endowed blood. Surely you have heard of it! Moreover, I alone command the Minions of Day and Night-the flying warriors who helped bring you victory this night. Are these things not enough to prove my identity?”
Shaking his head, Gunther folded his gnarled hands in his lap. “Tell me,” he said. “If I suddenly appeared to you wearing two unremarkable baubles and commanding but twenty fighters, would those things be enough for your citizens to suddenly give up the lives they had known for centuries, and follow me into the unknown? I think not! As I said, we need proof. There is one among us who can either verify or dispel your claims. If we summon her, do you agree to honor her pronouncements about you, whatever they might be?”
Tristan looked quizzically at Rafe. Standing, the highlander chief placed his mouth near the prince’s ear.
“If you have been lying, you must tell me this instant!” Rafe whispered urgently. “If this goes no further, I might be able to convince the elders to spare your life. But if you have been truthful then I suggest you agree with their demands. The one they will call forth will unquestioningly uncover the truth. She is never wrong.”
“Who is she?” Tristan asked.
“Agree, and you will see,” Rafe answered. “Until she is summoned, by highlander law that is all I am allowed to tell an outsider about her.”
Tristan remained adamant. He looked over at the seated elders. “Then bring her, whoever she is,” he said aloud. “I welcome the opportunity to prove myself.”
Gunther nodded. “So be it,” he answered. He looked at Balthazar. “Go and fetch Arwydd,” he ordered. Balthazar obediently disappeared into the crowd.
Tense moments passed. As the bonfire crackled and burned, the pot hanging over its flames continued to spew its mysterious fog. Then Balthazar returned to stand at the crowd’s inner edge. The crowd gradually parted, allowing a narrow pathway to form.
At first Tristan could see no one. Then he heard a strange mixture of sounds. As the crowd parted wider, a woman shuffled into the meeting area. Tristan hadn’t known what to expect. Even so, her appearance surprised him.
The woman named Arwydd was old and haggard. Her feet and hands were bound by rusty chains. Gray hair fell to her shoulders. Unlike the other highlanders’ colorful dress, she wore only a tattered robe. Simple leather sandals adorned her dirty feet. Despite her weathered condition, her brown eyes were bright and missed nothing as they darted around the camp. Her hooked nose rested over a wide mouth. Because she was chained, Tristan guessed that she might be dangerous. Then Tristan discovered another striking feature about the mysterious woman, and his heart went out to her.
A heavy oxen yoke lay slung across her shoulders. Deep and long, the smooth wooden yoke forced her upper body down. Her arms raised to cradle the yoke at either end, the woman shuffled into the circle’s center. More chains led from iron rings in the yoke’s ends to wrap around her body. The chains collected before her abdomen and were secured one to another by a rusty padlock.
As she trod toward the circle’s center, Tristan heard the sounds of tinkling glass. Looking closer, he was again surprised. Many small bottles sat atop the yoke, secured into holes that had been carved into the yoke’s upper surface. Suspended from eyehooks, strange-looking iron tools dangled from the yoke’s ends. They too knocked lightly together as she walked. Tristan noticed that the tools and bottles were positioned in such a way that they were unreachable to her unless she was freed from her chains. The combination of the clinking chains, tinkling bottles, and dangling tools conspired to form an odd chorus that would surely announce her presence wherever she went.
A March into Darkness dobas-2 Page 42
