Deby Fredericks
www.debyfredericks.com
www.dragonmoonpress.com
THE DEAD DONKEY
“Where is he?” Therula fumed as she stalked from the stable of Crutham Keep. “Where is my worthless half-brother?”
Brastigan was supposed to be helping her with Fire Rose, the chestnut colt their father had given her. The young horse was so beautiful; she had been longing to ride him, but he was still too skittish. No one was better with horses than Brastigan, and he'd promised to help train Fire Rose. Instead, he went off to the low-town getting drunk again, no doubt. He did that far too often.
Therula stormed angrily across the packed earth of the castle courtyard. She realized what she was doing when a pair of serving maids bobbed in nervous curtseys. Therula drew a deep breath and slowed her pace, consciously assuming a calm expression. She could practically hear her mother telling her that a royal princess must not stomp and scowl, however frustrated she might be. She would simply have to find Brastigan later and express her disappointment directly.
As Therula continued toward the inner keep, a falcon winged between her and the granite towers. A shrill cry came, thin with distance. Therula paused, looking up and down the broad courtyard. No one was near the mewes, nor did she remember anyone planning to hunt with falcons today. If they had, Therula would have been invited.
The bird of prey banked and soared over Therula's head. It was a prairie falcon by its brown and buff coloring, but much larger than any she had seen before. She saw its wings with feathers spread wide, like hands with too many fingers. Something white was clutched in its talons perhaps a scroll of parchment?
What she didn't see was the dangling strap of a falconer's jesses. Intrigued, Therula turned to follow the falcon with her eyes. If this were a wild bird, what was it doing here, above the king's fortress?
The falcon banked again, still descending, and gave another shrill cry. A word came to her clearly over the air: “Unferth!”
Therula took half a step backward. Unferth was her father, the king of Crutham. Then she shook her head. Birds couldn't speak. She must not have heard correctly.
The falcon glided down toward the great hall, where King Unferth and Queen Alustra should be holding court at this time of day. It stretched out its talons and beat its wings to alight on the peaked roof. The falcon settled its wings and stood in proud silhouette. Therula could have sworn its fierce, pale eyes were fixed on her.
“Unferth!” the falcon shrieked.
There was no mistaking that time. Therula stared back at it, fear fluttering in her chest. Birds did not speak unless magic made it so.
“Unferth!” it cried again.
This creature was no mere falcon. Whatever it was, it wanted her father. Therula forced herself to move, lifted the folds of her riding skirt with a pretense of regal dignity, and hurried toward the great hall. All thoughts of Fire Rose and Brastigan had vanished from her mind.
* * *
“Hey!” Brastigan yelled. No one looked around. It took more than that to get yourself noticed in the Dead Donkey.
The Dead Donkey was a low-town alehouse, one of a dozen crabbed together and fighting for life along one narrow, cobbled way. The city guard's barracks were just down the street, and despite its name, the Dead Donkey was a favorite of the garrison. Not because it was a safe place, nor for the sake of good ale, clean women or honest games. The Dead Donkey boasted none of those things. What it did have was an evil reputation. Men liked to brag that they had been there and lived.
The gaming tables were crowded with folk of every size and description. It was hot as a smithy. The air was thick with pipe smoke and a reek of sour beer. Conversation was a deafening, constant roar, punctuated by shouts from the gaming tables. Fortunately, the senses numbed quickly.
A mixed lot of soldiers and tradesmen wenched and swilled. Others elbowed up to the bar, which defended itself with an array of splinters and nails. Many wore the black tower badge of the king's livery. Others wore a commoner's woolen trews, with shirts of coarse linen and heavy leather boots.
An even less promising assortment of women wove their way among the men, giving voice to easy laughter. A few carried pitchers to excuse their presence. It was these Brastigan called out to.
Brastigan sat alone against the back wall. His chair was tipped back to lean against the rough planks. One booted foot hooked under the near edge of his table. He seemed no more than a common sword for hire, clothing threadbare and none too fresh. A sword belt hung from the back of his chair. It and the blade were plain and serviceable. They were well worn, but cared for in a manner that belied their owner's unsavory appearance.
“Hey, sweetheart!” Brastigan called again. He grinned ruefully. Usually he didn't have this much trouble catching a woman's eye.
Brastigan had the fair skin and bright, dark eyes of an Urulai warrior. Glossy black hair fell well past his waist, beaded and braided in the fashion of that barbaric race. His features were narrow, almost angular, and he looked no older than five-and-twenty. Even seated he was a tall fellow, wide shouldered, narrow waisted, well muscled.
One of the alewives passed nearby. She was a cozy blonde with a peasant blouse and bodice barely laced. Her full skirt was stained with ale, and perhaps other things. Brastigan spied his chance.
“Hey, are you busy right now?” He pitched his voice low, but she heard the familiar invitation.
The alewife smiled and sauntered over. “I'm never too busy,” she crooned. “What can I give you?”
Brastigan turned his tankard over, sprinkling the last few drops of ale on the tabletop. The alewife leaned forward to refill it. As she did, her sleeve slipped off her shoulder.
“Anything else?” she asked hopefully.
“Well...” Brastigan drawled. He flipped her a copper bit. “You can stand there for a while, if you want to.”
The alewife straightened. She plucked the coin from the air with an offended snap and strutted away. Brastigan grinned over the rim of his dented tankard and took another pull at his ale. It was his third or fourth. He hadn't bothered to keep track, and he was feeling fine. The alewife glanced back at him. Brastigan grinned at her, a laughing wolfish grin. It was probably her first blush in years.
Mirrors were no stranger to Brastigan. He was better than good looking. He knew it, and he reveled in it. What he didn't know was that while he was staring at the alewife, someone else was staring at him. And not happily.
What little light filtered through from the door was abruptly blotted out. On the opposite side of the table was a man as big as a house, with straw-colored thatch of hair cropped at ear length. His face was brutally flattened, as if his horse had run him into a wall or two. It seemed luck had deserted him at the gaming tables, for he wore no shirt, but there was no hint of softness in the massive exposed chest.
The table creaked warningly as the fellow set both fists on it and leaned over. He squinted mean, pale eyes. “That's my girl.”
Typical Cruthan. No beating around the bush, just an open challenge.
Brastigan came easily to his feet, with a greasy clap of chair legs hitting the floor. Around them, others turned sharply, alerted by the sound. Alewives squeaked and scurried for cover.
“No problem, friend.” His voice was lazy, mid-ranged, but his grin was a little dangerous now. He extended his right hand, as if in greeting. “Brastigan.”
The house looked from him to his hand and back. He straightened slightly, suspicion evident in the set of his shoulders. Then an answering smile whitewashed his blunt features.
“Herut.” He smirked confidently.
Herut's huge fist closed over Brastigan's long one. Closed and clinched hard. Brastigan responded
with equal pressure. The two men stood there, eye to eye, smiling and trying to break each other's hands.
This went on for several minutes, as those around them tensely looked on. Gamblers whispered, calculating the odds. A fine sheen of sweat appeared on Brastigan's face. Herut more grimaced than grinned. Neither would yield.
Who can say what would have happened? Before the contest could be won or lost, violent shouts erupted from one of the gaming tables. Everyone turned to look. As they did, Herut suddenly yanked on Brastigan's arm, trying to pull him into a bear-hug. The swordsman tensed, pushing back against the edge of the table. With a shriek of wood over flagstones the table lurched forward, catching Herut in the groin. He doubled over and Brastigan pulled free. He danced backward, grabbing for his weapon. Not that he needed her yet, but Victory had been with him for a long time. He didn't want her damaged.
Within moments, the whole place was a-brawl. Ale splattered everywhere. Cheap furniture shattered, or was ripped up for cudgels. Fists and bodies flew. Brastigan crouched low against the wall, working his fingers to restore circulation. He grinned unconsciously at the familiar, primal roar. In all the world, there was nothing better than a good brawl.
Then he recalled the alewife, and his grin widened. Maybe there was one thing better.
Herut had recovered from his momentary distraction. With all the subtlety of a bear, the man bellowed and charged. Brastigan tucked Victory under his left arm and waited. At the last moment, he leapt aside. Herut caught himself just short of the wall. As he spun, Brastigan reached down. Magically, as if from nowhere, he produced a brawling pin. Crusher was another of his most trusted old weapons, a foot-long hardwood club, well seasoned and lovingly tended in the hope of just such need. He tossed the club, caught it lightly. Herut charged again. This time when Brastigan leapt away he delivered a smart rap to the chin. It couldn't have hurt the fellow, but it added insult to injury.
Whatever control he'd had was gone in an instant. Herut charged, flailing his brawny arms. Again he missed Brastigan. This time, he blundered into a pair of off duty soldiers who were almost as big as he was. Brastigan leaned against the wall, laughing silently as they instantly turned on Herut. He almost felt sorry for the fellow. Almost.
Brastigan had survived enough brawls to know that danger could come from any direction. He kept an eye out as the two soldiers demolished Herut. That habit saved his life. He caught a flicker of motion in the corner of one eye. Instinct took over before his brain understood what it saw. Long legs collapsed, sending him to his knees in a controlled fall. There was a sharp, splintering smack. Brastigan hugged Victory as he rolled and came to a limber crouch. He wasn't laughing any more. A long dagger quivered in the wall where his chest had been only a moment ago.
He spared it but a glance. Dark eyes searched for signs of the assassin, without success. It could have been anyone in the struggling mob, maybe even one of the alewives.
The melee was over as quickly as it began. Howling riot gave way to shouts of alarm as a column of big, black-clad men forced their way in from the door. Suddenly no one wanted to be seen fighting. Weapons dropped to the floor, or vanished up sleeves. Men stood apart, allowing the soldiers passage. Some showed innocent, empty hands. Even Herut, breaking free of his assailants, thought better of coming after Brastigan again.
A heavy silence fell, broken by much shuffling of feet and a single semi-conscious moan. The soldiers parted, roughly clearing an isle. Between them strode one who was even more imposing.
Prince Habrok, Champion of Crutham, stopped in the center of the room. The cloth of his surcoat would have been enough to make shrouds for a trio of lesser men. A hauberk gleamed beneath it, though the prince didn't seem to feel the weight. Silently, great arms akimbo, he surveyed the wreckage of the Dead Donkey's common room. The injured man groaned again. The prince's helmeted head turned in that direction.
“Somebody help that man,” Prince Habrok ordered. His voice was deep as a bull's. Four of the soldiers leapt to obey.
Habrok beckoned to his sergeant. “I want the names of every man involved in this.”
The off duty soldiers in the crowd suddenly looked apprehensive.
“At once, my lord.” Though Stam was by no means a small man, he sounded like a boy compared to his commander.
Then Habrok turned in Brastigan's direction. Cold eyes, surprisingly blue, glinted in the shadow of his helmet's heavy nasal bar. A blunt, gloved finger thrust out. “You. Come with me.”
The tension was thick enough to cut with a sword as Brastigan unbent his lanky knees. For a moment, the onlookers thought—feared? hoped?—he would defy Prince Habrok. Then long fingers touched his forehead in a sketchy salute. With a sweep of black hair, he turned to seize the dagger that still stood in the wall. The blade grated as it came free. He paused a moment more to lock eyes with Herut.
This time it was Brastigan who smirked. “Good fight, friend. Have to do it again sometime.”
Herut ground his teeth, but the presence of so many soldiers restrained him.
“Prince Brastigan!” Habrok's voice rang impatiently from within his helm.
Brastigan had the pleasure of seeing Herut's fury turn to alarm. It was never wise to provoke a royal prince, even if there were dozens of them in Harburg. He flashed another mocking grin.
Jauntily, then, Brastigan strode out past the watching soldiers. Shards of crockery and splintered wood ground under foot as his half-brother followed him through the door. The porch shuddered with each step.
Brastigan paused to restore Crusher to his boot-sheath and belt Victory on. Then he took a good, long look at the dagger that someone had tried to sheath in his heart. It was, unfortunately, a completely ordinary blade. Well worn, cross-wrapped leather on the haft. Dung. There could be hundreds like it in Harburg alone.
“So, brother,” he inquired casually, as Habrok loomed over him. “How did you find me?”
Prince Habrok pulled off his round helm and the attached mail coif, revealing square, solid features. Blond hair was neatly tucked under a quilted arming cap. He eyed Brastigan with a mixture of envy and disgust.
“Easily,” he rumbled with what might have been humor. “I just looked for the fight, and there you were. As for why...” he shrugged with a muted whisper of mail links. “Father sent me to find you.”
“And you never asked why?” Brastigan snapped. Habrok was by no means his least favorite half-brother. Still, there were times when the great hulk seemed to be deliberately dense.
“I ask when it's my business,” Habrok retorted. He proved it by jabbing a finger at the unsheathed dagger. “Where did that come from?” he demanded.
Brastigan glanced up. He hadn't been mistaken. There was a current of suppressed alarm in his half-brother's voice.
“I don't know,” he replied softly, for Habrok alone to hear. “But if I were just a bit slower, you'd be carrying me home on a table. You might ask Stam to keep an eye out for a man with an empty sheath. I'm taking this up to show Eben. If anyone can find out where it came from, he can.”
Habrok might be slow, but he wasn't stupid. No less than four of King Unferth's illegitimate sons had died within the past year. Aric had been killed by bandits, Mathas choked on a bone, Rickard in a hunting accident, and young Luvan drowned while fishing on the Great Bay. Brastigan would have been the fifth. Given his well-known liking for such places as the Dead Donkey, who would have questioned it? Nevertheless, the surviving Princes of Crutham were watching each other's backsides these days.
“I'll stay myself and see what I can find out,” Habrok decided. He gave Brastigan a clout on the shoulder that fairly knocked him over. “You get up to the keep. It took me almost an hour to find you.”
Brastigan grimaced, but stepped off the porch.
“And make yourself presentable,” Habrok called after him. “It's for official business.”
Brastigan glared over his shoulder. “The only time I ever see our father is for official bus
iness,” he growled, not really meaning Habrok to hear.
It didn't matter. His half-brother was already plowing a path back into the inn. A pair of soldiers passed him on the way out, unceremoniously dumping an unconscious man into the horse trough just outside the alehouse. The resulting fountain of water restored Brastigan's humor somewhat.
* * *
The most important thing in Harburg was the great, gray keep. There lived King Unferth of Crutham with his wife, several consorts and numerous offspring. Theirs was a sizable court, bustling with soldiers, officials, servants and assorted other hangers-on. Not surprisingly, since it housed all these people—and their chickens, pigs, cows, horses, goats, dogs and falcons—the keep was easily the largest thing in Harburg. That wasn't saying a lot. Crutham wasn't much as kingdoms went. Queen Alustra had pointed this out to her husband on more than one occasion.
The keep was built from the gray stones of the craggy mountains that loomed behind it. It stood on a promontory overlooking the rolling plains of Daraine. From the uppermost tower, one could see well in every direction. Alas, there was little more to see than mountains. Mountains to the north, in Verelay. Mountains to the south, in Gerfalkan. Mountains in Firice and Begatt. Crutham would have been twice the size if so much of it weren't vertical. They weren't even wild or dangerous mountains, but sad old peaks, worn down like the teeth of an aged dragon. To the west, the sea ran out and away. Far, far across the Great Bay was the desolate coast of Urland. That was where the real mountains lived.
The city swirled, like a raggedy skirt, out from the knees of the keep. Neither looked as though it had been washed in quite a few years. Thus, Harburg was known to be very strong, and in more than one sense of the word. Especially so on an afternoon in spring, with the day almost visibly lengthening toward summer.
Long legs carried Brastigan rapidly down the street. He skirted vendors and heaps of refuse. The common folk gave way before him, and not just because of the knife he bore. His lips twitched in what could have been a grin but wasn't. Brastigan swished his dark mane and stalked on.
Too Many Princes Page 1