by Tad Williams
The light had worn away. The wind-scoured sky stretched above the grasslands like a purple awning. The first stars were coming out. Deornoth, wrapped in a coarse blanket against the chill, stared up at the faint points of light and wondered if God had finally turned away His face.
Josua’s people were huddled together in a bull run, a long, narrow pen of wooden palings driven deep into the earth and lashed together with rope. For all their seeming flimsiness—in many places there were gaps so wide that Deornoth could slip through his entire arm and most of his shoulder—the walls were strong as mortared stone.
As he looked around at his fellow prisoners, Deornoth’s gaze stopped on Geloë. The witch woman held Leleth in her lap, singing quietly into the child’s ear as they both stared up at the darkening sky.
“It seems madness that we should escape from Norns and diggers to end here.” Deornoth could not keep an aggrieved tone from his voice. “Geloë, you know charms and spells. Could you not have magicked our captors somehow—put them to sleep, or turned yourself into a ravening beast and attacked them?”
“Deornoth,” Josua said warningly, but the forest woman needed no defending.
“You understand little, Sir Deornoth, of how The Art works,” Geloë replied sharply. “First of all, what you call ‘magic’ has its cost. If it could be easily used to defeat a dozen armed men, the armies of princes would be full of hired wizards. Secondly, we have not been harmed yet. I am no Pryrates: I do not waste my strength in puppet plays for the bored and curious. I have a greater enemy to occupy my thoughts, more dangerous by far than anyone in this encampment.”
As if giving such a long answer exasperated her—and indeed, Geloë seldom said so much at once—she fell silent, turning away to stare at the firmament once more.
Frustrated with himself, Deornoth shrugged off his blanket and stood. Had it come to this? What sort of knight was he, that berated an old woman for not saving him from danger? A shiver of anger and disgust traveled through him; he clenched and unclenched his fists helplessly. What could he do? What strength did any of this ragged band have left to do anything?
Isorn was comforting his mother. Duchess Gutrun’s remarkable courage had held though any number of horrors, but she seemed to have reached her limit. Sangfugol was crippled. Towser had virtually given in to madness. The old man lay curled on the ground, his eyes fixed witlessly on nothing, seamed lips trembling as Father Strangyeard cried to help him drink from a bowl of water. Deornoth felt another wave of despair rise and break within him as he walked slowly to the muddy log on which Prince Josua sat, chin on hand.
The manacle that had once prisoned him in Elias’ dungeon still dangled on the prince’s slender wrist. Josua’s thin face was painted with deep shadows, but the whites of his eyes gleamed as he watched Deornoth slump down beside him. For a long while the two did not speak. The sounds of lowing cattle and the shout and clatter of horsemen could be heard all around as the Thrithings-men brought in their herds for the night.
“Welladay, friend,” the prince said at last. “I said it was a poor game at best, did I not?”
“We have done what we could. Highness. No one could have done more than you.”
“Someone has.” For a moment, Josua seemed to regain his dry humor. “He is sitting his skeletal throne in the Hayholt, drinking and eating before a roaring fire, while we sit waiting in the slaughter pen.”
“He has made a foul bargain, Prince. The king will regret his choice.”
“But we, I fear, will not be around when the reckoning comes.” Josua sighed. “I am almost sorriest for you, Deornoth. You have been the most faithful of knights. If you had only found a better lord to be faithful to…”
“Please, Highness.” In his present mood, such words brought Deornoth real pain. “There is no one I would rather serve outside the Kingdom of Heaven.”
Josua looked at him from the sides of his eyes, but did not reply. A party of horsemen rode past the stockade, the palings rippling as the horses thundered by.
“We are far from that kingdom, Deornoth,” the prince said at last, “but at the same time only a few breaths away.” His face was now hidden in darkness. “But death frightens me little. It is the hopes I have crushed that weigh down my soul.”
“Josua,” Deornoth began, but the prince’s hand on his arm stilled him.
“Say nothing. It is no more than the truth. I have been a lodestar for disaster since the moment I drew breath. My mother died birthing me, and my father’s greatest friend Camaris died soon after. My brother’s wife died in my care. Her only child has escaped my guardianship to suffer Aedon only knows what fate. Naglimund, a keep built to hold siege for years, fell beneath me in weeks; countless innocents died horribly.”
“I cannot listen to this, my prince. Would you take all the world’s betrayals on your own back? You did everything that you could!”
“Did I?” Josua asked seriously, as though he debated a point of theology with the Usirean brothers. “I wonder. If things are fated, then perhaps I am merely a sorry strand in God the Highest’s tapestry. But some say that one chooses everything, even the bad.”
“Foolishness.”
“Perhaps. But there is no doubting that an evil star has hung over all I have undertaken. Hah! How the angels and devils both must have laughed when I swore I would take back the Dragonbone Chair! Me, with my ragtag army of priests and jugglers and women!” The prince laughed bitterly.
Deornoth felt anger boiling inside him once more, but this time it was his liege lord who was the cause. It was almost breathtaking. He had never thought he could feel like this.
“My prince,” he said between clenched teeth, “you have become a fool, a damnable fool. Priests, jugglers, and women! An army of mounted knights could scarcely have done more than your women and jugglers—and certainly could not have been braver!” Shaking with fury, he rose and stalked away across the muddy compound. The stars seemed almost to tile in the sky.
A hand closed on his shoulder, pulling him around with surprising strength. Josua stood stiffly as he held Deornoth at arm’s length. The prince jutted his head forward on his long neck, a bird of prey preparing to stoop.
“And what have I done to you, Deornoth, that you speak so to me?” His voice was tight.
At any other moment Deornoth would have fallen to his knees, ashamed at his own disrespectfulness. Now, he stilled his trembling muscles and took a breath before he spoke. “I can love you, Joshua, yet hate what you say.”
The prince stared at him, his expression indecipherable in the evening dark. “I spoke badly of our companions. That was wrong. But I said nothing ill of you, Sir Deornoth…”
“Elysia, Mother of God, Josua!” Deornoth almost sobbed, “I care nothing for myself! And as for the others, that was only a careless remark that you made out of weariness. I know you meant nothing by it. No, it is you who are the victim of your own crudest treatment! That is why you are a fool!”
Josua stiffened. “What?”
Deornoth threw his arms up in the air, filled with the sort of giddy madness felt on Midsummer’s Eve, when all wore masks and told the truth. But here in the bull run there were no masks. “You are a better enemy to yourself than Elias can ever be,” he shouted, not caring anymore who heard. “Your blame, your guilt, your failed duty! If Usires Aedon were to return to Nabban today, and again be hung on the Tree in the temple garden, you would find a way to blame it on yourself! No matter who is speaking the evil, I will listen to a fine man slandered no longer!”
Josua stared as if stunned. The terrible silence was broken by the creak of the wooden gate. Half a dozen men with spears pushed into the stockade, led by the one named Hotvig who had captured them on the Ymstrecca’s banks. He strode forward, peering around the shadowed pen.
“Josua? Come here.”
“What do you want?” the prince asked quietly.
“The March-thane has called for you. Now.” Two of Hotvig’s men moved up, lowe
ring their spear points. Deornoth tried to catch Josua’s eye, but the prince turned away and walked out slowly between the two Thrithings-men. Hotvig pulled the high gate shut behind them. The wooden bolt creaked back into place.
“You don’t think that…that they will harm him, do you, Deornoth?” Strangyeard asked. “They wouldn’t hurt the prince, would they?”
Deornoth sank down onto the muddy ground, tears rolling down his cheeks.
The interior of Fikolmij’s wagon smelled of grease and smoke and oiled leather. The March-thane looked up from his joint of beef to nod Hotvig back out the door, then returned his attention to his meal, leaving Josua to stand and wait. They were not alone. The man standing beside Fikolmij was half a head taller than Josua and only slightly less muscled than the broad March-thane himself. His face, clean-shaven but for long mustaches, was covered with scars too regular to be accidental. He returned the prince’s stare with undisguised contempt. One hand, clatteringly laden with bracelets, dropped to caress the hilt of his long curved sword.
Josua held this one’s narrowed eyes for a moment, then casually allowed his glance to slide away, taking in the vast array of harnesses and saddles hanging from the wagon’s walls and ceiling, their myriad silver buckles glittering in the firelight.
“You have discovered some of the virtues of comfort, Fikolmij,” Josua said, eyeing the rugs and stitched cushions scattered over the floor boards.
The March-thane looked up, then spat into the fire-trough. “Pfah. I sleep beneath stars, as I always have. But I need someplace safe from listening ears.” He bit at the joint and chewed vigorously. “I am no stone-dweller, who wears a shell like a soft-skinned snail.” A piece of clanking bone rattled into the trough.
“It has been some time since I have slept behind walls or in a bed myself, Fikolmij. You can see that. Did you bring me here to call me soft? If so, have done and let me go back to my people. Or did you bring me here to kill me? The fellow beside you has somewhat the look of a head-chopper.”
Fikolmij dropped the denuded bone into the fire and grinned hugely, his eyes red as a boar’s. “You don’t know him? He knows you. Don’t you, Utvart?”
“I know him.” He had a deep voice.
The March-thane now leaned forward, peering at the prince intently. “By the Four-Footed,” he laughed, “Prince Josua has more gray hairs than old Fikolmij! Living in your stone houses makes a man old fast.”
Josua smiled thinly. “I have had a difficult spring.”
“You have! You have!” Fikolmij was enjoying himself immensely. He picked up a bowl and tilted it to his mouth.
“What do you want of me, Fikolmij?”
“It is not me that wants, Josua, despite your sin against me. It is Utvart here.” He nodded at his glowering companion. “We spoke of age. Utvart has only a few years less than you, but he does not wear a man’s beard. Do you know why?”
Utvart stirred, rubbing his fingers on his pommel. “I have no wife,” he rumbled.
Josua looked from man to man, but said nothing.
“You are a clever man. Prince Josua,” Fikolmij said slowly, then took another long draught. “You see the problem. Utvart’s bride was stolen. He has sworn never to marry until the one who stole her is dead.”
“Dead,” Utvart echoed.
Josua’s lip curled. “I stole no one’s bride. Vorzheva came to me after I had left your camp. She begged to go away with me.”
Fikolmij slammed the bowl down, splashing dark beer into the fire-trough, which hissed as if startled. “Curse you, did your father have no male children!? What true man hides behind a woman, or allows one to have her way? Her bride-price was set! All was agreed!”
“Vorzheva had not agreed.”
The March-thane rose from his stool, staring at Josua as though the prince were a poisonous serpent. Fikolmij’s corded arms trembled. “You stone-dwellers are a pestilence. One day the men of the Free Thrithings will drive you into the sea and burn away your rotting cities with clean fire.”
Josua eyed him evenly. “The men of the Thrithings have tried that before. It is how we met, you and I. Or have you forgotten the uncomfortable fact of our alliance—an alliance against your own people?”
Fikolmij spat again, and this time did not bother to aim for the trough. “It was a chance to increase my strength. It worked. I stand today unquestioned lord of the High Thrithings.” He stared at Josua as if daring him to argue. “Besides, that treaty was with your father. For a stone-dweller, he was a mighty man. You are a thin shadow of him.”
Josua’s face was empty. “I am tired of talking. Kill me if you wish, but do not bore me.”
Fikolmij leaped forward. His broad fist crashed against the side of Josua’s head and the prince crumpled to his knees. “Proud talk, worm! I should kill you with my own hands!” The March-thane stood over Josua, his barrel chest heaving “Where is my daughter!?”
“I don’t know.”
Fikolmij grabbed Joshua’s tattered shirt and pulled the prince onto his feet. Watching, Utvart swayed gently from side to side, his eyes dreamy. “And you don’t care, either, do you? By the Grass Thunderer, I have dreamed of smashing you—dreamed of it! Tell me of my Vorzheva, child-stealer. Did you at least marry her?”
A bleeding welt showed at Josua’s temple. He stared back. “We did not wish to marry…”
Another blow rocked the prince’s head. Blood started from his upper lip and nose. “How you laughed at old Fikolmij when you sat in your stonehouse, eh?” the March-thane hissed. “Stole his daughter and made her your whore, then did not have to pay a single horse for her! You laughed, didn’t you?” He slapped hard at the prince’s face, pearls of blood flew through the air. “You thought you could cut off my stones and run away.” The March-thane struck again, but though fresh blood seeped from Josua’s nose, this blow was softer, dealt with a kind of savage affection. “You are clever, backhand. Clever. But Fikolmij is no gelding.”
“Vorzheva…is…no…whore.”
Fikolmij propelled him back against the wagon’s door. The prince left his arms dangling, making no attempt to defend himself as he was struck twice more. “You stole what was mine,” Fikolmij snarled, his face so close to Josua’s that his braided beard rubbed on the prince’s bloody shirtfront. “What would you call her, then? What did you use her for?”
Josua’s red-smeared face, despite his injuries, had been full of a terrible calmness. Now, it seemed to break apart, dissolving into grief. “I…used her badly…” He hung his head.
Utvart strode forward drawing his sword from its tooled and beaded scabbard. The tip clicked against a ceiling beam. “Let me kill him,” he breathed. “Slow.”
Fikolmij looked up, eyes squinting fiercely. Sweat dripped from his face as he looked from Utvart to Josua, then lifted his thick-knuckled fist over the prince’s head. “Let me!” Utvart pleaded.
The March-thane hammered three times against the wall. The harnesses swayed, tinkling. “Hotvig!” he roared.
The wagon door opened. Hotvig entered pushing a slender figure before him. The pair stopped just within the doorway.
“You heard all!” Fikolmij bellowed. “You betrayed your clan and me…for this!” He gave Josua’s shoulder a push. The prince fell back against the wall and slid to the floor.
Vorzheva burst into tears. Hotvig’s restraining hand held her back as she leaned forward to touch the prince. Josua slowly lifted his head, staring at her distractedly from eyes that were beginning to swell shut. “You are alive,” was all he said.
She tried to pull away from her captor, but Hotvig grasped her close, ignoring the nails that raked at his arm, leaning his head away when she tried to reach his eyes.
“Rand-warders caught her in the outer grazing march,” Fikolmij growled. He slapped at her lightly, angered by her struggling. “Be still, you faithless bitch! I should have drowned you in the Umstrejha at birth. You are worse than your mother, and she was the evilest cow I have ever known. Why
do you waste your tears on this piece of dung?” He prodded Josua with his foot.
The prince’s absorbed look had returned. He regarded the March-thane with dispassionate interest for a moment before turning to Vorzheva. “I am glad you are safe.”
“Safe!” Vorzheva laughed shrilly. “I love a man who does not want me. The man who does want me would use me like a brood mare and beat me if I ever left my knees!” She struggled in Hotvig’s grasp, turning to face Utvart, who had lowered his sword to the floor. “Oh, I remember you, Utvart! Why did I run away, except to get away from you, you raper of children—and of young sheep when you cannot get a child! You, who love your scars more than you ever could a woman. I would rather be dead than your bride!”
Grim-faced Utvart said nothing, but Fikolmij snorted in dour amusement. “By the Four-Footed, I had almost forgotten that jagged knife you have for a tongue, daughter. Maybe Josua here is happy to feel the blows of fists for a change, eh? As for what you prefer, kill yourself the moment the marriage ride is over if you wish. I only want my bride-price and the honor of the Stallion Clan made good.”
“There are better ways to do that than slaughtering helpless prisoners,” a new voice said.
All heads turned—even Josua’s, though he moved carefully. Geloë stood in the doorway, arms spread to the lintel, cloak rippling in the wind.
“They have escaped from the bull run!” Fikolmij shouted wrathfully. “Don’t move, woman! Hotvig, saddle and bring the rest back. Someone will howl for this!”
Geloë stepped into the wagon, which was rapidly becoming crowded. With a muffled curse, Hotvig pushed past her and out into the darkness. The witch woman calmly pulled the door closed behind him. “He will find them still penned.” she said. “Only I can come and go as I please.”
Utvart lifted his broad blade and held it near her neck. Geloë’s hooded yellow eyes touched his and the tall Thrithings-man stepped back a pace, brandishing the sword as though he were menaced.
Fikolmij looked her up and down with puzzlement and guarded anger. “What is your business, old woman?”