by Kate Elliott
“So be it,” said Adelheid. “God favors the virtuous.”
“Is there aught else?” Henry glanced around his court, made quiet by the gruesome sight now mercifully concealed. He looked toward Hathui and, last, at Rosvita. Hugh also regarded her, one handsome eyebrow lifted as though in a question. Words stuck in her throat. The sunlight flared as the wind whipped banners into a frenzy, dazzling her. Mute, she could only shake her head. Servants hurried forward to divest Henry of his robes and crown.
“Come, Lord Hugh,” said the king as his horse was brought forward. “Ride beside me.”
4
IN his youth, Helmut Villam had built a strong fort at the confluence of the Oder and Floyer Rivers. In the forty years since its founding, Walburg had grown into a substantial town ringed by two walls and further protected by the Oder River on one side and a steep chalk bluff on the other. The Villams had enriched themselves on the spoils won in their wars against the heathen Rederii and Polenie tribes, and in addition to founding two convents and a monastery, Villam had commissioned a cathedral.
Despite the drizzle, Zacharias could see its square tower from their fortified camp set up around a ruined watchtower that overlooked the steep river valley.
He could also see a Quman army encamped on the river plain outside Walburg’s palisade and double ditch.
If they captured him, he’d go for the quick death. Fear warred with hatred; neither could win. All that mattered right now was that he didn’t see the mark of the Pechanek clan displayed from any of the tent poles. As long as Bulkezu was far away, he could survive the morning with a stalwart heart.
“My lord prince.” Captain Fulk came in with the evening’s report. “Everwin and Wracwulf killed another Quman scout and brought in his wings.”
Under the shelter of an awning strung between the walls of the ancient round tower, Prince Sanglant lounged at his ease on a pillow while he rolled dice with his daughter and her nursemaid. Soldiers sat around them sharpening swords, polishing helmets, and repairing harness. A handful of young lords sat uncomfortably in this rustic camp, used, perhaps, to more luxurious campaigns, but Sanglant rode without the extravagance of camp followers, concubines, and an extensive baggage train. Unlike most nobles, he shared the conditions of his soldiers. It was one of the reasons they loved him.
Several braziers had been set out, over which strips of meat roasted; smoke stung Zacharias’ eyes as he ducked in from the back.
“This is the fifth group we’ve encountered and certainly the largest. Have we an estimate of their numbers yet?”
“Not more than two hundred, Your Highness.”
Blessing jumped to her feet and dashed over to present Fulk, one of her favorites, with two of the dice. “You roll ’em,” she said enthusiastically, as pure a command as Zacharias had ever heard. “You roll ’em, Cappen Fulk.”
He grinned. Like the rest of the company, he would have walked through fire for his little empress, as they called her. “I’ll roll them, Your Highness, but I’ve got to make this report to my lord prince first.”
She glanced at her father, stamped her foot impatiently, but quailed at once when Sanglant frowned at her. With a fierce expression of disgust, she crossed her arms on her chest and glowered.
“I pray you, Your Highness, come sit beside me while you wait.” The nursemaid’s hoarse little voice was like a soft echo of the prince. “We haven’t done carding that wool.”
“Don’t want to.”
“But you shall,” said Sanglant.
“Shall not!”
“Than I shall do it myself,” said the nursemaid tartly, sitting back and beginning to card wool over the comb. “Because I like to do it and I don’t want to share doing it with you.”
This was too much for Blessing. She trotted over on her short legs and crouched down to get a good look, biting her lip fretfully. “Can I try? Can I?”
“Here, you hold the handle like this—”
Zacharias wiped raindrops from his forehead and sat down beside Heribert, who was playing chess with Wolfhere. “I can’t take a turn around the camp without coming in to find she’s grown another finger’s span,” he said, examining the little girl uneasily. She had lost her infant roundness. Her face had gotten leaner, making her blue-green eyes stand out even more than they had before. Wisps of black hair curled everywhere around her face where it escaped from her braid.
Heribert glanced at him. “It’s not her doing.”
“Nor did I say it was. But you must admit it’s uncanny to see a child grow so quickly. It isn’t natural. She must age a week for every day that passes.”
“I thought it might stop once the daimone left us,” murmured Heribert, looking round to see if the prince was listening, but Sanglant appeared to be deep in conversation with Captain Fulk. “But God know it hasn’t. Lord bless us. She was born on the seventh day of Avril, on the feast day of St. Radegundis. One year and three months ago. Yet she looks like any well-grown three-year-old.”
“It’s your move,” said Wolfhere patiently.
“Do you know, Eagle,” said Zacharias irritably, “I think I particularly dislike that smirking little smile you wear on your face all the time. You know a lot more than you are telling us.”
“So I do, but in the matter of the child I know as little as you do.”
“Spoken contemptuously!”
“Hush, now,” said Heribert. “No need to quarrel. If I’ve made peace of a kind with Wolfhere, so can you.”
“I’m not meaning to quarrel,” replied Zacharias, angry at himself for letting his envy of Wolfhere’s knowledge get the better of him. “I just don’t like secrets. You know well enough, Wolfhere, that I’d be your pupil in whatever you cared to teach me, if you had a mind to. But you’ve made clear it that you won’t teach me or anyone else. Except the absent Liath who, I swear to you, I’m beginning to quite dislike even though I’ve never met her.”
“You jealous bastard,” said Heribert with a laugh.
“It’s still your move,” said Wolfhere.
“I’ll go.” Zacharias ducked back outside, stepping over ropes staked down to hold the awning in place. Summer twilight painted the western forest, shrouded by low-lying clouds, in haze. Wind murmured through the trees, a counterpoint to the patter of rain. A mist had come up from the river, wreathing both cathedral tower and fortress tower in white. Beyond the palisade and ditch lay trampled fields, all that golden grain leveled by a malicious heart that reveled in destruction. A few abandoned hovels, homes of fisherfolk or tanners, stuck out as blackened hulks. Even the orchards had been hacked down, although intact gardens and orchards flourished within the safety of the walls.
The main force of the Quman army lay in wait by the front gates, but smaller encampments were scattered along the valley in a pattern Zacharias could not read. He wasn’t a strategist. He’d never trained for war. Perhaps Bulkezu was only hiding in his personal tent, waiting to ambush him—
Nay, no use letting his thoughts tend in that direction. Fear crippled you. He had to beat it out of himself. That was the only way to defeat Bulkezu.
He had other angers he could nurse, to keep his mind off his fear of the Quman.
Why was Wolfhere so stubborn? What use were secrets? Knowledge only mattered if it was shared; people ought to be allowed to learn rather than be kept in ignorance. The thought of that old man sitting on everything he knew, the way a dragon might hoard gold, rankled.
“Out here,” said the empress’ voice, and Blessing appeared with her nursemaid and young Matto, her constant attendants. She had a little wooden sword in her left hand and was waving it about enthusiastically. “Now we fight! Now we fight, Matto.” When she saw Zacharias and the vista that lay beyond the low wall, she darted over to the wall, jumped several times trying to get a good look over it, and tested toeholds at the base of the wall before returning to Zacharias. “Lift me up!”
He hoisted her up in his arms and there she clung, hands o
n his shoulders, staring out with her eyes wide as she struggled to actually stand up on his arms to get an extra hand’s breadth of height to see. “What’s that?”
“That is Margrave Helmut Villam’s city, called Walburg. Can you see that banner on the tower? That means his heir is in residence. All the people in the town have been besieged by the Quman army.”
“Those Quman are bad,” she announced.
“Yes, they’d like to break into the city and burn everything.”
“But Dada won’t let them. Dada will kill them all and make them go away.”
Because Zacharias didn’t reply at once, strangled by that plaguey fear, Matto strode forward indignantly. “Of course he will! There isn’t anyone who can stand against the prince.”
“Of course, lad,” said Zacharias weakly as he gazed down on the distant army, their pale tents like dead maggots littering the ground.
Blessing wriggled out of his grasp and set out to climb the wall with Matto hovering behind her to make sure she didn’t fall until at last, disgusted, she glared at him to make him move back a step.
“Let her take a few falls, Matto,” said Anna as she watched the determined child struggling with a toehold in the wall. “She’ll learn better that way.”
Zacharias chuckled. “Where did you learn such wisdom, child?”
Anna shut her mouth tight. She hadn’t trusted him since the day she learned that he refused to pray to God.
With a sigh, he turned away. The rain had stopped and a dense humidity settled in, almost thick enough to lick out of the air. Twilight closed in and restlessness seized him though he hadn’t anywhere to go. He just had to be patient. He’d survived seven years as a slave of the Quman. Certainly he could survive one night of waiting and wondering. He could survive Wolfhere’s damnable secretiveness.
He ducked back under the awning just as a cocky young soldier, windblown and rather dirty, entered from the other side to approach captain and prince.
Sanglant sat up with sudden alertness, setting down his cup. “Sibold. I’m glad to see you back safely. What’s your report?”
Sibold had a rakish grin and a knife scar under his left ear, just the kind of reckless young man who would volunteer to ride out closer to the Quman lines to reconnoiter. He sauntered forward. “My lord prince. The ditches were well pleased to hide me, hating the Quman as they do. There are three banners flying in the Quman force. The siege is placed before the main gate, but there are two smaller camps, one southwest by the Floyer shore and the other north and east past the ferry. I saw four scouting parties, none above seven men.”
Sanglant glanced at Wolfhere, who was still intent on his game with Heribert. “An Eagle’s sight is as keen as rumor has it.”
“Even if princes do not always trust it,” murmured Wolfhere without looking up from the board.
The prince smiled but made no answer. He slipped a ring off his finger and handed it to the young soldier. “You risked your life to bring us that report. It will serve me well.”
“Your Highness.” With a sly grin, Sibold backed away before swaggering out into the misting rain, no doubt to boast to his companions and show off his prize.
Sanglant picked up the dice still scattered on the carpet. “We’ll attack in the morning.”
Now his noble companions roused.
“But my lord prince,” objected Lord Hrodik, “all the Quman soldiers are mounted. Three hundred of them! We have only one hundred and thirty, even if they are all horsemen.”
Sanglant grinned. “Therefore they will not be at too great a disadvantage.” The prince took his dragon helmet from the sergeant who had been polishing it and turned it in his hands, examining the fearsome gleam of the dragon ornamentation from every angle before he balanced it on one leg. “Do you have a better plan, Hrodik?”
Thus challenged, the young lord fell all over himself apologizing and finally Zacharias could stand his whining and awkward flattery no longer. He slipped away to the corner given him to sleep where, rolling himself up in his cloak, he dozed off.
Only to wake, later, feeling Heribert’s warmth at his back. The pad of a sentry’s footsteps drifted to him on the breeze. Fear, like a breath of cold night air, had already gotten its claws into him. What if the Quman overran their camp? What if Prince Sanglant lost the battle sure to come in the morning? Would it be better to end his life by his own hand, or would that merely damn him forever? Had he the courage to throw himself in the path of a Quman arrow or spear? Or would they drag him away and make him a slave again?
He shuddered, thinking of the mark on his shoulder. What if they captured him and, seeing the rake of the snow leopard’s claw on his shoulder, returned him to Bulkezu?
Death would be better. If he only had the courage to embrace it.
The night was hazy, the stars half hidden. The camp lay silent, shrouded in mist. A fire burned in front of the prince’s awning, and two men sat there without speaking as the flames leaped and crackled: Wolfhere with his back to Zacharias, and a second person, fainter than the Eagle, sitting opposite Wolfhere. But that second person was no man; it was a woman, all bent with age, so thin she seemed without substance, like a shadow.
Zacharias shifted, raising himself up on an elbow. For an instant, he could see the other side of the fire without the flames sparking and twisting in his vision.
There was no one there.
He dropped, breath punched out of him. Mist streamed over the stars. Out in the forest, a wolf howled. Closer, a night creature rustled through the rocks.
Wolfhere did not move. From this angle, Zacharias saw through the flames again.
The woman’s figure was still there, faded but clear. She was a shadow. He was seeing the shadow of a woman through the flames.
He began to push himself up just as a man crouched silently beside him and a strong hand gripped his shoulder.
“Let it be, Zacharias,” murmured the prince. “Now is not the time.”
“When will that time come?” he whispered harshly.
Sanglant did not relinquish that grip, forcing him down firmly until the ground pressed against his back. “When we’re no longer fighting for our lives.”
“That’s me! That’s me!” cried Blessing exultantly as her father rode out at dawn, resplendent in armor, tabard, scarlet cloak, and his magnificent dragon helm, with his army arrayed behind him. His banners carried no sigil; he rode with simple cloth-of-gold standards streaming behind him, in recognition of his royal birth, however left-handed it might be, and his daughter’s imperial descent.
For Anna, waiting out the skirmishes was the hardest part of traveling in the prince’s war band. Prince Sanglant was a grand fighter, but a reckless father.
“Come down from the wall, Your Highness,” said Heribert nervously. “You might fall.”
Blessing ignored him, bouncing up and down excitedly on the ruined wall as she watched the soldiers ride away. “I’ll fight next time!” She brandished her wooden sword, which was about the size of a kitchen knife, poking and thrusting and hacking at the wind. Pebbles clacked and clattered off the wall to thump onto the ground in time to the pounding of hooves fading into the distance as the prince and his soldiers vanished down the track.
Anna shifted anxiously as Heribert simply swept Blessing off the wall and carried her—the little girl was too dignified to struggle—to the half-ruined watchtower. They had to skirt the traps; Matto and Everwin set the last two in place once they had all ducked into the tower. The camp lay silent around them, awning, tents, traveling gear stacked neatly, although in fact everything of real value had been stowed in the watchtower. She scrambled up the stairs after Heribert and found a place beside him at the top, where she could see out over the valley. Blessing had tucked her face into Heribert’s shoulder, yawning mightily.
Fog concealed the valley except for the flames burning at the top of the two gate towers, symbols of Villam resistance. The defensive walls of Walburg looked stout and welcomin
g right now, compared to the crumbling watchtower and the little band of six men, not counting the clerics and the Eagle, left behind to defend Blessing. At times like this she was sorry she had left Gent and the safe routine of Mistress Suzanne’s workshop. Fool, fool, fool. She squeezed back tears, sure a sob was about to burst out of her, but Matthias had trained her well. If she cried, the Eika might hear her. She had never forgotten the lessons she had learned hiding from the Eika in Gent. She knew how to swallow her fear and keep still, no matter what.
The sun was rising in the east, but the wind had died. Fog thinned into wisps along the two rivers. The sound of drums beating loud and fast rose from within the castle walls. This was surely not the doing of the prince, who preferred to approach a fight in silence. Horns joined into the rancor, incoherent blasts dragged out like the wailing of a stubborn two-year-old. Between the towers, the gate of stout timbers braced with thick iron bands swung open. Armored warriors advanced one by one to form a line before the open portal.
The Quman, whose defensive works were set more than a bowshot from the towers, scrambled for their horses, expecting the keep defenders to charge at any moment. For every mounted warrior who appeared at the gate, five Quman riders came forward to counter them. The wings made them seem ominous and even greater in number than they were. At last, after the banner appeared at the portal, drooping in the dying wind, the lord of the keep rode out to take up the foremost position. He turned to face his troop of four dozen mounted soldiers, his back to the Quman as if daring them to charge. Yet the Quman only formed up, waiting for orders or suspicious of a trap.
After a short span the lord of Walburg turned to face his foe, lowering his lance as if in salute.
Prince Sanglant’s force, having reached the bottom of the wooded slope, broke out of the forest and onto the river plain. They advanced at a trot. As yet, a copse of scrub and open orchard obscured them from the main Quman army, assembled before the gate. The scouts stationed to guard against a flank attack fled back toward their camp, occasionally loosing an arrow toward the prince’s force to keep them off guard.