by Tad Williams
Released from Hotvig’s grip, Vorzheva had dropped to her knees and crawled past her father to dab at Josua’s face with her tattered cloak. The prince gently caught her hand, holding it away as Geloë spoke.
“I said, I come and go as I please. For now, I choose to be here.”
“You are in my wagon, old woman.” The March-thane wiped sweat from his forehead with a hairy arm.
“You thought to hold Geloë your prisoner, Fikolmij. That was foolish. Still, I have come to give you advice, in hopes that you have more sense than you have shown so far this day.”
He seemed to fight an urge to strike out once more. Seeing his struggle, his strained look, Geloë nodded her head and smiled grimly.
“You have heard of me.”
“I have heard of a devil-woman with your name, one who lurks in the forest and steals the souls of men,” Fikolmij grunted. Utvart stood close behind him, mouth set in a tight line, but the tall man’s eyes were wide, and shifted as though he made certain of where the doors and windows were.
“You have heard many false rumors, I am sure,” Geloë said, “but there is some truth behind them, however twisted it may have become. That truth is in the tales that say I make a bad enemy, Fikolmij.” She blinked slowly, as an owl blinks when it catches sight of something small and helpless. “A bad enemy.”
The March-thane pulled his beard. “I do not fear you, woman, but I do not trifle with demons needlessly. You are no use to me. Go away, then, and I will not trouble you, but do not meddle in what does not concern you.”
“Fool of a horse-lord!” Geloë flung up her arm, cloak trailing like a black wing. The door burst open behind her. The wind that swept in extinguished the lamps and plunged the wagon into near-darkness, leaving only the fire glowing scarlet in its trough like a door into Hell. Somebody cursed fearfully, barely audible above the moaning inrush. “I told you,” Geloë cried, “I go where I please!” The door swung shut again, although the witch woman had not moved. The wind was gone. She leaned forward so that her yellow eyes reflected restless flames. “What happens to these people does concern me—and concerns you as well, although you are too ignorant to know it. Our enemy is your enemy, and he is greater than you can understand, Fikolmij. When he comes, he will sweep across your fields like a grassfire.”
“Hah!” The March-thane smirked, but the nervous edge was not gone from his voice. “Do not preach to me. I know all about your enemy, King Elias. He is no more a man than Josua here. The Thrithings-men do not fear him.”
Before Geloë could respond there was a rap at the door, which swung open to reveal Hotvig, bearing his spear and a puzzled expression. He was only a young man. despite his heavy beard, and he regarded the witch woman with undisguised dismay as he spoke to his chieftain.
“The prisoners are still in the bull run. None of the men outside saw this one leave. The gate is locked, and there are no holes in the fence.”
Fikolmij grunted and waved his hand. “I know.” The March-thane’s gaze shifted to Geloë for a brooding moment, then he smiled slowly. “Come here,” he ordered Hotvig, then whispered into the rider’s ear.
“It will be done,” Hotvig said, darting a nervous glance at Geloë before going out again.
“So,” Fikolmij said, and smiled broadly, showing most of his crooked teeth. “You think I should set this dog free to run away.” He shoved Josua with his foot, earning a swift glare of hatred from his daughter. “What if I do not?” he asked cheerfully.
Geloë narrowed her eyes. “As I told you, March-thane. I make a bad enemy.”
Fikolmij chortled. “And what shall you do to me, when I have told my men to kill the remaining prisoners unless I come to them myself before the next watch of the night to say otherwise?” He patted his hands on his belly in contentment. “I do not doubt you have charms and spells that can harm me, but now our blades are at each other’s throats, are they not?” In the corner of the wagon Utvart growled, as if excited by the image invoked.
“Oh, horse-lord, may the world be preserved from such as you,” Geloë said disgustedly. “I hoped to convince you to help us, which would be for your good as much as ours.” She shook her head. “Now, as you say, our knives are out. Who knows if they may be put away without causing many deaths?”
“I do not fear your threats,” Fikolmij growled.
Geloë stared at him for a moment, then looked at Josua, who was still seated on the floor watching all that transpired with odd placidity. Lastly, she turned her gaze on Utvart. The tall man scowled fiercely, not at all comfortable under her scrutiny. “I think there is still one favor I can do for you, March-thane Fikolmij.”
“I need no…”
“Quiet!” Geloë shouted. The March-thane fell silent, balling his fists, his reddened eyes bulging. “You are about to break your own laws,” she said. “The laws of the High Thrithings. I will help you avoid that.”
“What madness are you speaking, devil-woman?!” he raged. “I am the lord of the clans!”
“The clan councils honor no man as March-thane who breaks their old laws,” she replied. “I know this. I know many things.”
With a sweep of his arm, Fikolmij sent a bowl flying from atop his stool to clatter against the wagon’s far wall. “What law? Tell me what law or I will throttle you even though you burn me to ashes!”
“The laws of bride-price and betrothal.” Geloë pointed at Josua. “You would kill this man, but he is her betrothed. If another –” she indicated brooding Utvart, “—wishes to have her, he must fight for her. Is that not true, Thane?”
Fikolmij smiled, a great rancid grin that spread across his face like a stain. “You have outsmarted yourself, meddler. They are not betrothed. Josua admitted that from his own lips. I would break no law to kill him. Utvart stands ready to pay the bride-price.”
Geloë looked at him intently. “They are not married and Josua has not asked her. This is true. But have you forgotten your own customs, Fikolmij of the Stallion-Clan? There are other forms of betrothal.”
He spat. “None but fathering…” he broke off, forehead wrinkling in a sudden thought. “A child?”
Geloë said nothing.
Vorzheva did not look up. Her face was hidden by her dark hair, but her hand, which had stroked the prince’s bloodied cheek, froze like a snake-startled rabbit.
“It is true,” she said finally.
Josua’s face was a complicated puzzle of emotions, made even harder to read by the elaborate tracing of bruises and weals. “You…? How long have you known…? You said nothing…”
“I have known since just before Naglimund fell,” Vorzheva said. “I feared to tell you.”
Josua watched the tears cutting new tracks along her dusty cheeks. He lifted his hand to touch her arm briefly before allowing it to drop back into his lap, then looked from Vorzheva up to Geloë. The witch woman held his eye for a long moment; some communicated thought seemed to pass between them.
“By the Four-Footed,” Fikolmij growled at last, bemused. “A child-betrothal, is it? If it’s even his, that is.”
“It is his, you pig!” Vorzheva said fiercely. “It could be no one else’s.”
Utvart stepped forward, boot buckles clinking. His swordpoint thumped down into the floor boards, sinking half an inch into the wood. “A challenge, then,” he said. “To the death we fight.” He looked to Geloë, and his expression became cautious. “Vorzheva, the March-thane’s daughter, she is spoils.” Turning back to the prince, he tugged his sword free. The great curved blade came loose as lightly as a feather. “A challenge.” Josua’s eyes were hard as he spoke through torn lips. “God hears.”
Deornoth stared down at his prince’s battered features. “In the morning!?” he cried, loud enough to draw a scowl from one of the guards. The Thrithings-men, bundled in heavy woolen cloaks against the chill, did not look pleased with their assignment in the windy bull run. “Why do they not just kill you cleanly?”
“It is a chance,�
�� Joshua said, then surrendered to a fit of coughing.
“What chance?” Deornoth said bitterly. “That a one-handed man who has been beaten bloody can get up in the morning and outfight a giant? Merciful Aedon, if I could only get my hands on that snake Fikolmij…”
Josua’s only reply was to spit bloodily into the mud.
“The prince is correct,” Geloë said. “It is a chance. Anything is better than nothing.”
The witch woman had returned to the bull run to tend the prince. The guards had stepped back quickly to let her pass: something of her nature had traveled through the camp in swift whispers. Fikolmij’s daughter had not come with her. Vorzheva had been locked in her father’s wagon, tears of sorrow and anger still damp on her face.
“But you had him at a disadvantage,” Deornoth said to the witch woman. “Why did you not strike then? Why did you let him send guards?”
Geloë’s yellow eyes glittered in the torchlight. “I had no advantage at all. I told you once, Sir Deornoth, I cannot make warlike magic. I escaped this stockade, yes, but other than that it was all bluff. Now, if you will be silent about what you do not know, I will put my true skills to their proper use.” She returned her attention to the prince.
How did she escape the stockade? Deornoth could not help wondering. One moment Geloë had been wandering in the shadows at the far end of the bull run, the next she had been gone.
He shook his head. It was useless to argue, and he had been little else but useless of late. He touched Josua’s thin arm. “If I may be of any help, my prince, only ask.” He dropped to his knees, then looked briefly to the witch woman. “I apologize for my unthinking words, Valada Geloë.”
She grunted an acknowledgment. Deornoth rose and walked away.
The rest of the starveling band was seated by the other fire. The Thrithings-men, being not entirely without mercy, had given them brush and twigs with which to build it. They were not merciless, Deornoth thought, but not stupid, either: such poor fuel would provide heat—barely—but could not be used as a weapon, as could a flaming brand. The thought of weapons set him to musing as he seated himself between Sangfugol and Father Strangyeard.
“This is a foul way to end things,” he said. “You have heard what has happened to Josua?”
Strangyeard swung his slender hands. “They are untutored barbarians, these grasslanders. Mother Elysia, I know all men are equal in God’s eyes, but this is atrocious! I mean to say, even ignorance is not an excuse for such…” He trailed off fretfully.
Sangfugol sat up. wincing at the pain in his leg. Anyone who knew him would have been astonished: the harper, previously meticulous in grooming and dress almost to the point of comedy, was as ragged, soiled, and burr-covered as a haystack vagabond. “And if Josua dies?” he said quietly. “He is my master and I love him, I suppose, but if he dies—what happens to us?”
“If we are lucky, we will be little better than slaves,” Deornoth said, hearing his own words as if from another’s lips. He felt quite hollow. How had things come to such a point? A year earlier the world had been as regular as supper bread. “If we are unlucky…” he continued, but did not finish his thought—nor did he need to.
“It will be worse on the women,” Sangfugol whispered, looking over to Duchess Outrun, who held sleeping Leleth on her lap. “These men are ungodly brutes. Have you seen the scars they give themselves?”
“Isorn,” Deornoth called suddenly. “Come here, if you please.”
Duke Isgrimnur’s son crawled around the meager fire to sit near them
“I think,” Deornoth said, “that we must prepare ourselves to do something tomorrow when Josua is made to fight.”
Strangyeard looked up, worried. “But we are so few…half a dozen in the midst of thousands.”
Isorn nodded, a grim little smile showing on his wide face. “At least we can choose the way we die. I will not let them have my mother.” The smile vanished. “By Usires, I swear I would kill her first.”
Sangfugol looked around as if hoping they would reveal their joke. “But we have no weapons!” he whispered urgently. “Are you mad? Perhaps we might live if we do nothing, but if we make trouble we will certainly die.”
Deornoth shook his head. “No, harper. If we do not fight, we will certainly be less than men, whether they kill us or not We will be less than dogs, who at least rip the bear’s guts as he kills them.” His gaze traveled from face to face. “Sangfugol.” he said at last, “we must plan. Why don’t you sing a song against the chance of any of these cow-herders wondering why we are gathered or what we speak of.”
“A song? What do you mean?”
“A song. A long, boring song about the virtues of quiet surrender. If it comes to an end and we are still talking, begin again.”
The harper was plainly agitated. “I know no tune like that!”
“Then make one up. Song-bird,” Isorn laughed. “We have been too long without music, anyway. If we die tomorrow, we should live tonight.”
“Make it a part of your plans, if you will,” Sangfugol said, “that I would prefer not to die at all.” He sat up straighter and began to hum tunelessly, searching for words. “I am frightened,” he said at last.
“So are we,” Deornoth replied. “Sing.”
Fikolmij swaggered into the bull run soon after dawn touched the gray sky. The March-thane of the High Thrithings wore a heavy embroidered wool cloak and a rugged gold stallion on a chain around his neck. He seemed to be in an expansive mood.
“So the reckoning comes,” he laughed, then spat upon the ground. His wrists were weighty with metal bracelets. “Do you feel fit, Josua Lackhand?”
“I have felt fitter,” Josua said, tugging on his boot. “Do you have my sword?”
Fikolmij waved; Hotvig stepped forward bearing Naidel in its sheath. The young Thrithings-man watched the prince curiously as Josua drew the sword belt around his hips, managing adroitly despite his missing hand. When it was buckled, Josua drew Naidel out, holding the slender blade up to catch the morning light. Hotvig stepped back respectfully. “May I have a whetstone?” Josua asked. “The edge is dull.”
The March-thane chuckled and produced his own kit from a pouch on his wide belt. “Sharpen it, stone-dweller, sharpen it. We want the only the best sport, as you have at your city tournaments. But this will not be quite the same as your castle-games, will it?”
Josua shrugged, smearing a thin film of oil along Naidel’s cutting surface. “I have never cared much for those, either.”
Fikolmij’s eyes narrowed. “You seem very fit indeed, after the lesson I gave you last night. Has this witch cast some spell on you? That would be dishonorable.”
Joshua shrugged again to show how little he cared about Fikolmij’s ideas of honor, but Geloë stepped forward. “There have been no charms, no spells.”
Fikolmij eyed her distrustfully for a moment, then turned back to Josua. “Very well. My men will bring you when you are ready. I am glad to see you up. It will make for a better fight.” The March-thane strutted out of the paddock, followed closely by three of his guard.
Deornoth, who had watched the whole exchange, cursed quietly. He knew what effort it had taken his prince to act so unconcerned. He and Isorn had helped Josua climb to his feet in the hour just before first light. Even after the healing draught Geloë had given him—an unmagical concoction to bolster Josua’s strength; Geloë had bitterly regretted the lack of a sprig of mockfoil to make it truly efficacious—the prince had still found it difficult to dress himself. The beating Fikolmij had given him had taken a terrible toll on his undernourished frame. Deornoth secretly doubted that Josua would even be able to stand after swinging a blade for a short while.
Father Strangyeard approached the prince. “Your Highness, is there truly no other way? I know the Thrithings-men are barbaric, but God despises none of His creations. He has put the spark of mercy in every breast. Perhaps…”
“It is not the Thrithings-men who wish this,” Jo
sua told the one-eyed priest kindly, “it is Fikolmij. He bears an old hatred for me and my house, one that even he will not fully admit.”
“But I thought the Stallion Clan fought for your father in the Thrithings War,” Isorn said. “Why should he hate you?”
“Because it was with my father’s help that he became war-thane of the High Thrithings. He cannot forgive the fact that it was the stone-dwellers, as he calls us, who gave him the power his own people would not. Then his daughter ran from him and I took her with me, losing him a bride-price of horses. To our friend the March-thane, that is a terrible dishonor. No, there are no words, priestly or otherwise, that will make Fikolmij forget.”
Josua took a last look at Naidel’s keen blade, then slid it back into its sheath. He gazed around at his assembled people. “Heads high,” he said. The prince seemed strangely clear-eyed and cheerful. “Death is no enemy. God has prepared a place for us all, I am sure.” He walked to the gate in the fence. Fikolmij’s guards opened it, then formed a spear-bristling escort as Josua walked across the wagon-city.
A swift, cool breeze was blowing across the grasslands, an invisible hand that ruffled the meadows and thrummed in the tentlines. The low hills were dotted with grazing cattle. Scores of grimy children who had been dodging in and out among the wagons left their games to follow Josua and his makeshift court as they trudged toward the March-thane’s paddock.
Deornoth looked at the faces of children and their parents as they came to join the swelling procession. Where he expected to see hatred or bloodlust, he found only eager expectancy—the same eagerness he had seen as a child on his brothers’ and sisters’ faces when the High King’s Guard or a painted peddler’s wagon had passed their Hewenshire freeholding. These people hoped only for some excitement. It was unfortunate that it would take somebody’s death, most likely that of his beloved prince, to provide it.
Golden ribbons flapped on the fenceposts of Fikolmij’s enclosure, as if this were a festival day. The March-thane sat on a stool before his wagon door. Several more bejeweled Thrithings-men—other clan leaders, Deornoth guessed—were seated on the ground beside him. Several women of various ages stood nearby, and one of them was Vorzheva. The March-thane’s daughter no longer wore the rags of her court dress. She had been dressed in a more traditional clan costume, a hooded wool dress with a heavy belt studded with colorful stones and a band across her forehead that tied at the back of her hood. Unlike the other women, whose bands were of dark hues, Vorzheva wore a white ribbon—no doubt indicating, Deornoth reflected sourly, a bride for sale.