by Kate Elliott
Curious, he took the side path that led to the upper meadows. In a clearing, his slaves were building their church.
It was rising fast. One among them had devised a cunning way of working with northern trees, many of which were too slender to be split into planks. Log-built, the structure had a squat, ungainly look. A few half-grown slaves, lackwits by the look of them, hung around at the clearing’s edge and stared, jabbering in bestial cries. These weak-minded beasts even got in the way of the laborers trimming branches from downed trees or scraping off bark or planing logs with stone adzes and axes.
Deacon Ursuline saw him and hurried over, followed by the male who acted as chieftain among the slaves, although he only called himself Papa Otto. A gull circled above the clearing, no doubt searching for scraps of food. Its “awk” was harsh and nagging, and soon a second gull coasted into view, hanging back along the tree line.
“My lord.” Ursuline used terms familiar to humankind, and he accepted them from her. Even though she was only human and therefore very like to the beasts, she was still owed some measure of the authority and respect granted to OldMother. Because she alone of all his slaves was no longer afraid of him, she spoke frankly. “You have treated fairly with us, my lord, as we both know. Although God enjoin that none should be held as slaves, both you and I know that slaves exist both among the Eika and among humankind. Because of that, we who were made captive still live captive to your will. But let me ask you this: Was it your will that some among us were taken away this morning with Rikin war parties?”
“So it was.” Although Alain no longer inhabited his dreams, he retained the fluent speech he had learned in that dreaming. “A few of your kind who are strong and clever have been taken to act as spies. They will travel with my own warriors to see if any of my new allies speak with a different voice when I do not stand before them. Those of your kind can speak with the human slaves among the other tribes, for it may be that the slaves those who have wit will have heard things that would otherwise remain concealed from us.”
“Why should the slaves of other tribes tell the truth?” demanded Papa Otto.
“Surely in this way word will spread,” observed Stronghand. “They will have hope of gaining such freedom as you have earned, as long as the Eika remain under my rule.”
“There is truth in what you say,” said Ursuline. She glanced at Otto, and an unspoken message—unreadable to any creature except another human—passed between them.
“Who are these working here?” Stronghand indicated the folk who, having paused in their labors to stare when he entered the clearing, had now self-consciously gone back to work.
“Have you any complaints of our labor?” asked Ursuline gently. “Has any task been left undone that you or your captains have requested? Is any animal untended? Are any fields left to the wild? Is there not firewood enough for the winter, and charcoal for the forges?”
“You are bold,” said Stronghand, but he admired her for it.
She smiled, as if she knew his thoughts. “You have no complaint, because we have worked harder now that you have fulfilled your share of the bargain laid between you and me.”
“Yet I am still troubled by these among you who roam as do the animals and yet provide neither work nor meat. They are only a burden. With the hardships of winter coming on, they must be disposed of.”
“How are we to choose among them, my lord?” asked Papa Otto.
“Kill the ones who remain animals. I see them here and there about the valley, no better than pigs roaming in the forest and quite a bit filthier. They are vermin. They are of no possible use to me, nor to you.”
“None of them are animals, my lord,” retorted Otto. He was a strong chief for the human slaves, but weak because he feared killing. “It is only that they have been treated as animals, and bred and raised as animals by your people. They have forgotten the ways of humankind.”
“That makes them useless to us, does it not?”
“Nay, my lord,” said Ursuline quickly. She laid a hand on Otto’s arm, a gesture which served to stop the words in his mouth. “It may be true that those of the slaves born and raised in the slave pens for many generations without benefit of the church’s teaching will never be able to work and speak as we do. But they are still of use to you.”
“In what way?”
“They can breed. Their children can be raised by those of us who were not crippled by the slave pens, and those children will serve you as well as any of us do. As long as you treat them as you do us. Perhaps those children will serve you better than we can, for they will only know loyalty and service to you. They will not recall another life, as we do.”
Truly, she was a clever person. He knew that she used words to coax and cozen. In his dreams—when he had had dreams—he had seen that lying and cheating ran rife among humankind. A knife is a knife, after all, a tool used for cutting or killing. No need to give it pretty words to pretend that it was something other than what it was. Yet perhaps they could not help themselves. Perhaps, like cattle chewing their cud, they twisted words and flattered and deceived because it was part of their nature.
“What you say may even be true. Yet it seems to me that there are many from the slave pens who will not breed and who can never learn. I have no use for tools that are broken. In two months my men will cull the herds for the winter. At that time any among the slaves who cannot speak true words to me will be culled along with the rest of the animals.”
“Two months is not very long,” objected Otto. “Even in our own lands a child will not speak for two years or even three, and truly five or six years must pass before any child can speak like to an adult.” Otto had fire in him, a passion for life and what humankind called justice. That was what had brought him to Stronghand’s attention in the first place. “Surely if we must teach them to speak as we do, as well as to obey the simple commands they already know, we need as much time as it would take to teach a child of our own people to speak.”
“I weary of this debate. Now you will listen to what I command.” He stretched his claws, letting them ease out of their sheaths, sharp tips grazing the air. “Rikin tribe will not carry useless burdens. We have far to go, and everything we carry must be useful. I will allow no argument on this matter.”
He paused, but neither of them replied. Otto’s age lay heavily on him. Deep lines scored his face. The harsh winter wind and bright summer sun had weathered his skin. Even his hair had turned color, washing brown to white, so that in a way he seemed to be mimicking the coloring of his Eika masters, even though Stronghand understood that this happened to be the way age marked humankind. Deacon Ursuline simply listened, face composed and silent.
“In two months, the herds will be culled. If you cannot or do not choose among the slaves, then I will. My choice will fall heavier than yours would, so accept now the responsibility or give it back to me and abide by my decision.”
Ursuline was as persistent as she was patient. “Let me ask one boon of you, then, my lord.”
He was tired of bargaining. He was tired of the sight of mewling, whimpering, dirty slaves, who were of less use to him than the scrawniest of his goats and cattle because their flesh was too sour to eat. He cut off her words with a sharp gesture. Turning, he lifted a foot to walk away—
Confined within white walls, it pushes restlessly against its prison, but it is too weak to do more than nudge up against its prison wall before the bath of warm liquid in which it floats soothes it back into lassitude. Awareness flickers dimly. Hunger smolders. Shapes, or thoughts, spin and twirl in its mind before dissolving. It remembers ancient fire, and a great burning. Is it not the child of flame, that all creatures fear? Voices whisper, but it cannot understand the meaning behind such sounds, and within moments it has forgotten what a voice is. Memory dies. The waters of forgetfulness rock beneath it. It sleeps.
Stronghand’s foot hit the ground, jolting him back to himself.
He had to blink, because the we
ak autumn sun seemed so strong that his eyes could not adjust. Stark terror flooded him, surging like a tide through his body. In the spawning pools of every tribe, the nests of the RockChildren ripened. Once he, too, had been a mindless embryo bathed in the waters of forgetfulness, seeking nothing more than his next meal. In the nesting pools, those hatchlings lived who devoured their nest brothers rather than being devoured themselves. Those that ate matured into men, and those that simply survived instead of being eaten remained dogs.
Yet before Alain freed him from Lavastine’s cage, he had been, like his brothers, a slave to the single-minded lust for killing and war and plunder that still afflicted most of his kind. How close had he come to being a dog instead of a thinking man? How close was any creature to unthinking savagery, forgetting what it was?
With effort, he forced the fear back. He had not bathed too long in those waters. He had clawed his way free. Alain had freed him from his cage, and he meant to remain the way he was. He would not let memory sleep, and instinct rule.
Slowly, the world came clear around him and he could see again. He tightened his grip on his staff. Deacon Ursuline and Papa Otto had averted their eyes, careful not to be seen noticing his weakness. But even so, they looked startled, utterly amazed.
Let them not believe he had changed, or faltered.
“This is my decision. It is true that these half-wits are your family just as the dogs who swarm around our halls are my brothers. If you can take care of these half-wits, and if it does not interfere with your labors, then I will not touch them. But I lay the same obligations on you that I did when we agreed to the bargain over your god’s house. As long as their presence among you does not interfere with the tasks set for you by your masters, then you may deal with them as you see fit. If I am dissatisfied, then I will act swiftly.”
“We cannot ask for more than that,” said Deacon Ursuline, quick to seal the bargain.
“No”, he agreed, “you cannot.”
Before he could make any more rash bargains, he walked away, still shaken. Yet because of his keen hearing, he heard them as they spoke to each other in low voices.
“These slaves served the Eika for many years in such tasks as cleaning out the privies. We ought not to waste the labor of those who are clever on that kind of mindless work when they could be doing other things like tanning or building. Surely we can find a place for each person to do some task, even the ones who act little better than dogs.”
Deacon Ursuline did not reply right away. He heard her suck in her breath, as at a blow to the stomach. Where the path knifed into the forest, he paused to listen. Her words drifted to him as faintly as a sigh.
“I served a lord in Saony who was less just than this one.”
Papa Otto made no reply.
Silently, Stronghand followed the path into the forest. There was wisdom in what Papa Otto said, of course. By releasing the strong from tasks that could be as easily done by the weak, all would prosper.
He had acted too hastily in this matter of the half-witted slaves. A wise leader gives enough rope to those clever enough to use it well, as he would need to pay out rope to Tenth Son. Do not keep the loyal ones lashed up too tightly; their obedience is bought by trust, not by fear.
His slaves had not failed him yet, even if they thought, now and again, of rebellion and of freedom. He had no need to say more, or to act other than he had just done. They knew what the consequences would be if they failed him, and they knew what would happen to them if his rule over Rikin Fjord ended.
It was in their interest to keep him strong.
2
“IT’S uncanny, it is,” said Ingo that night at the campfire in the tone of a man who has said the same thing the day before and expects to repeat himself tomorrow. “Rain behind but never before. At least my feet are dry.”
“It’s that weather witch,” said Folquin impulsively. “She’s making it rain on the Quman army and not on us.” His comrades shushed him violently, glancing around as though they feared the wind itself might carry their words to the powerful woman about whom he spoke.
Hanna cupped her hands around a mug in a desperate attempt to keep them warm, for although it was dry, the wind out of the northwest stung like ice. “Have a care, Folquin. Prince Bayan’s mother has an eye for good-looking young men to be her slave bearers, and she might take a liking to you if you come to her attention.”
Ingo, Leo, and Stephen laughed at her jest, but perhaps because Folquin wasn’t the kind of young man girls flocked around, her words stung him. “The way Prince Bayan has an eye for you, Eagle?”
“Hush, now, lad,” scolded Ingo. “It isn’t any fault of Hanna’s that the Ungrians think her light hair a sign of good luck.”
“No matter,” said Hanna quickly as Folquin seemed ready to fall all over himself apologizing for his wretched tongue. “Mind you, Prince Bayan’s a good man—”
“And no doubt would be a better one if he could only keep his hands to himself,” said Folquin with an appeasing grin.
“If a roving eye is the worst of his faults, then God know, he’s better than the rest of us,” replied Ingo. “I’ve no complaints about his leadership in battle. We’d all be heads dangling from Quman belts if it weren’t for his steely nerves at the old high mound last month.”
“If it had been Prince Sanglant leading us,” said taciturn Leo suddenly, “we’d have won, or we’d not have engaged at all, seeing that the odds were against us.”
“Ai, God, man!” exclaimed Ingo with the sneer of a soldier who has seen twice as much battle as his opinionated comrade, “who was to know that Margrave Judith would fall dead like that, and her whole line collapse? She had a third of our heavy cavalry. With her Austrans routing we hadn’t a chance. Prince Bayan made the best of a bad situation.”
“It could have been much worse,” agreed Stephen, but since he was accounted a novice, having survived only one major battle, his opinion was passed over in silence.
The fire popped. Ashy branches settled, gleaming briefly before Leo set another stick on the fire. All around them other campfires sparked and smoked as far as Hanna could see up along the cart track that the army followed as it retreated toward Handelburg. But the sight of so many fires did not make her feel any safer. She sipped at the hot cider, wishing it would warm the chill that constantly ate away at her heart.
Ivar was missing. She’d searched up and down through Bayan’s retreating army and not found a trace of him. She hadn’t even found anyone who remembered seeing him on the day of the battle except the injured prince, Ekkehard, who was so vexed at having lost his favorite, Baldwin, that he couldn’t be bothered to recall where and when he’d last seen Ivar.
“Only God can know the outcome of battles in advance,” she said at last, with a sigh. “It’s no use worrying over what’s already happened.”
“Have you any milk to spill?” asked Ingo with a laugh, but he sobered, seeing her grief-stricken expression. “Here, have more cider. You look cold, lass. What’s the news from the prince’s camp?”
“Princess Sapientia has taken a liking to Lord Wichman, now that he’s recovering from his wounds, and you know how Prince Bayan humors her in everything. But that Wichman and his lordly friends—” She hesitated, but she could see by their expressions that her comments would shock no one here. “Truly, I’d as soon run with a pack of wormy dogs. Sometimes I think the princess—well, may God bless her and I’ll say no more on that score. But she’d be better served in attending to her poor brother.”
“He still can’t use his spear arm?” asked Ingo.
“For all I know he’ll never regain use of it, for he was sorely wounded. Lord Wichman is insufferable precisely on that account, for he was the one who rescued Prince Ekkehard from the Quman prince who was about to cut him down.”
“I tell you truly,” said Folquin in a low voice, “and not meaning to speak ill of the princess, may God bless her, but I wonder does she know what Prince Ekkehard does
in the evening here in camp?”
“What do you mean?” demanded Hanna.
Folquin hesitated.
“You’d better show her,” said Ingo. “There’s been some fights about it already, in the ranks, and an army in our position can hardly afford to be fighting among itself.”
“Come on,” said Folquin reluctantly.
Hanna drained her mug and gave it to Ingo. The four Lions had stationed their campfire where wagons had been lined up in a horseshoe curve to form a barrier between the rear guard and the outlying sentries. The wooden cart walls gave some protection against the winged riders who dogged them persistently as they retreated north just ahead of the most astoundingly bad weather. There always seemed to be a rainstorm following at their heels, and as Hanna followed Folquin she could hear it like a storm front breaking in front of her. Wind and rain agitated the woodland behind them, but no rain ever touched Bayan’s army. The dry ground they walked on surely was churned to muck behind them, hindering their pursuers so badly that the main mass of the Quman army had never been able to catch up and finish them off.
Such was the power of Prince Bayan’s mother, a formidable sorcerer, princess of the dreaded Kerayit people.
But even with her magic to aid them, they had had a miserable month following their defeat by Bulkezu’s army at the ancient tumulus. The Ungrians had a saying: a defeated army is like a dying flower whose falling petals leave a trail. Every dawn, when they moved out, the freshly dug graves of a few more soldiers, dead from wounds suffered at the battle, were left behind to mark their path. Only Prince Bayan’s steady leadership had kept them more-or-less in one piece.
But even his leadership had not been enough to save Ivar.
The Lions formed the rear guard together with the stoutest companies of light cavalry left to Bayan, now under the captaincy of Margrave Judith’s second daughter and her admired troop of fighters. Lady Bertha was the only one of Judith’s Austran and Olsatian commanders who hadn’t lost her troops to rout when the margrave had lost her head on the battlefield. A popular and unquenchable rumor had spread throughout the army that Lady Bertha had so disliked her mother that the margrave’s death had emboldened rather than disheartened her. It was to the fringe of her bivouac that Folquin now led Hanna.