Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  A rapid knocking interrupted her thoughts. Margura went to the door, leaving Therula to gaze at her mother and hide her dismay. Surely Alustra couldn't be serious. It sounded like she intended to banish herself from public life. How could she, after so many years of service? What would Therula do without her?

  Just as Therula began to wonder what was keeping Margura, the handmaiden hurried back to the bedside.

  “Your majesty, the king has sent for you.” Margura spoke softly, urgently. She glanced at Therula. “Your highness as well, I'm sure. If you would finish that, your majesty, I will prepare a gown for court.”

  “Why?” Therula demanded.

  Margura had already turned away to open Alustra's wardrobe. Therula nearly missed the gleam in her eye of some strong emotion, perhaps fear.

  “A messenger has arrived,” Margura said. She drew one dress out of the cabinet, shook her head, and pushed it back in. “He rode day and night from Glawern. Crutham has been invaded.”

  “Carthell?” Alustra rapped out. For a moment, she looked like her old self, self-assured and indignant at the treachery. Margura continued shaking her head.

  “No, your majesty. Sillets.”

  Therula heard herself gasp. “Sillets? I thought they meant to negotiate for trade.” And Lottres's voice echoed in her memory, saying that Hawkwing House was in the north, near the Silletsian border.

  Alustra sighed deeply and rose from the bed. It seemed to take real effort. “Sometimes, my dear, there is little difference between an ambassador and a spy,” she said. “Clearly the Silletsian was seeking information, not trade, but don't worry too much. Crutham has faced this before. We have always prevailed on the battlefield.” She clasped Therula's hands briefly, then turned away. “That one is fine, Margura. Don't fuss about it. I'm coming.”

  “Yes, but...” Therula stopped. She swallowed heavily and murmured, “Yes, Mother. Excuse me.”

  A familiar sense of gloom closed over Therula as she hurried to her own chambers. Pikarus was in the middle of something terrible after all. Somehow, she felt she had known this would happen.

  THE BONE MEN

  Brastigan dreamed of the girl. Her cold fingers touched his eyes, his neck. He turned away, but still she was there, gently feeling his forehead, his nose. He awoke feeling exasperated, his groin hard and tight. Even as he rolled over, scolding words on his lips, he realized his mistake. The girl wasn't touching him. She lay still, wrapped in whatever dreams she might have. It was raining, and he needed to use the latrine.

  When his head had cleared enough to walk without stumbling, he went there. Returning, Brastigan yawned hugely. He knelt to get Victory and strolled toward the dim swath of the meadow.

  It was very early morning. Compared to the bite of a mountain sunrise, the air was mild here. Fading stars and layers of shadowy gray described the predawn world. The whitish clouds which had birthed the rain glided southward, trailing wisps of fog behind them.

  The sky soon stopped its spitting, and the eastern horizon took on a hint of purple. The griffins began their morning concert. It sounded farther off today. As the clouds blew off, mountains appeared, squat and rounded against the sky. A broadening of the land to the north suggested lowlands rather than more mountains. Altannath lay before them, and whatever power held Master Ymell prisoner.

  Of course, they had to get there before they worried about him.

  Soft stirrings told Brastigan the griffin serenade was rousing the men. He moved back through camp, taking care not to step on anyone. The faint light showed Yriatt and Lottres both lying near the fire ring. It was good to know they actually did sleep, though why he should worry over his brother, Brastigan couldn't say. However, they both sat up as he approached.

  Lottres was not one to wake quickly, so Brastigan didn't speak immediately. He prodded the fire into life. Yriatt and Lottres watched sourly, as if the flames crackled especially to annoy them. Both their faces had a stiff and crusty look, like a wet rag that has been dropped and allowed to dry where it fell.

  Through smoke that made the morning air shudder, Brastigan slanted a look at his brother. “Did you get enough sleep?”

  “I'm fine,” Lottres grunted. He ground the heels of his hands over his eyes in a way that made Brastigan doubt his words.

  “And you?” Brastigan asked of Yriatt. She wore her horned headdress even when sleeping, he noticed. Crazy female.

  She shrugged the irrelevancy aside. “Enough to serve.”

  Her eyes lingered on the fire. Remembering what last burned there, Brastigan stared at the coals suspiciously. He was glad to see no shape of feather or bone remained among the ashes.

  Before he could think better of it, he muttered, “I'm sorry. About the bird.”

  Lottres blinked over his crooked fingers, as if he couldn't credit his hearing. Yriatt regarded Brastigan with something akin to respect. She nodded slowly.

  “As with all beasts, I knew he must die before me, but this was unexpected.” Her voice was slightly hoarse. “From here, the land changes. We will have no more trees to shelter us. I was counting on his eyes as our defense.” Lottres moved closer, offering comfort, but she shrugged him away. “What's done is done. We shall go forward, as we must.”

  “Could you take another?” Lottres asked. “Or, could I?”

  Yriatt smiled wryly. “It is too soon for that, Thaeme.” Lottres nodded, downcast.

  Brastigan cleared his throat. With an effort at nonchalance, he asked, “So, you were listening again last night. Hear anything interesting?”

  Where is the enemy, he meant. Yriatt seemed to understand that.

  “They come,” she said.

  “Soon?” Brastigan asked. She nodded.

  Brastigan glanced over his shoulder. The mules drowsed in the meadow and wisps of fog rose from the springs in the gray light. There was nothing here to help them if they were set upon.

  “If we move, we may avoid them,” Lottres suggested.

  “Let's move,” Brastigan decided.

  He tossed more wood onto the fire and rose. Looking over the whole camp, he called out, “Everyone up!”

  A kind of collective groan arose from the sleeping men, but training compelled their obedience. The camp was soon busy with men sitting up, stretching, shuffling to the latrine. Returning to his own spot, Brastigan gently shook his companion awake. She smiled up at him with eyes more blue than the lightening sky. It made him remember his dream.

  He scarcely fed her two bites when Javes walked by with his duffel over his shoulder. “You ready? I could use a hand.”

  “Be right there,” he answered. Brastigan rolled the blankets that served as his bed and stuffed his cloak into his own duffel. Then he turned to the girl's bedroll. She watched his hurried movements carefully, so he told her, “I'll be right back. Stay here.”

  The caution wasn't really necessary. She had never moved on her own before. Brastigan saddled mules for the soldiers and brought them into line, while Javes loaded the pack beasts. By the time Brastigan led the girl's horse to her, Pikarus was burying the fire. To his surprise, Brastigan found she had eaten the rest of her cheese without him telling her to do it.

  While the men huffed and hurried, Yriatt stood still, horns high, facing north. Brastigan looked over his mule's ears, where Lottres sat in the saddle, watching his mistress with rapt attention.

  “Something?” he asked.

  Lottres nodded, a quick jerk of his chin. Before he could speak, Yriatt hurried to take her horse's reins.

  “I've found Shaelen,” she announced to no one in particular. “Evading the enemy is well and good, but we must not be cut off from her. Come, we've little time.”

  They crossed the meadow quickly. The mules left a trampled path. That would provide a handy marker to any who followed, but there was no help for it.

  They found their familiar stream and a shallow spot to cross it, then struck east toward the nearest line of hills. The riders now passed beneath trees whi
ch seemed like spindly saplings compared to the forest giants they had seen a few days ago. This land had an open feeling, with sparse cover. It made them vulnerable. Brastigan wasn't the only one who glanced upward, watching for the black wings of spies above them.

  They crossed as much rock as dirt now, level sheets like coarse mud gone dry. At least they didn't raise much dust. All the hills were crowned with weathered stones. Unlike the sharp gray granite of the high peaks, these were low and blunt, the color of bleached bones. The odd bloody stripe added color. Stone fins and fangs thrust this way and that, like a madman's castle. Penetrating such a prickly barrier seemed impossible, but Yriatt remained confident.

  “We cannot cross the valley,” she said when Lottres asked. “The land is too open. There is a pass before us, and then we circle to the south.”

  With the broadening light, Brastigan kept his vigilant watch. Even the girl's adoring gaze couldn't relieve the tension in his gut. Higher they climbed, risking exposure with every mule's step. Looking back and downward, he could see winged things moving in the treetops. Black things. The rocks loomed above them. From a distance they had seemed solid, like the scales on a lizard's back, but close up there were many breaks and crannies between them. Yriatt led a sharp turn, and they entered a cleft in the rocks. That would give them some cover. Brastigan relaxed, a little.

  Even as he did, a sound echoed among the rocks. It wasn't a raven's gargle, but the shrill rasping of a crow. Two long caws and a short coughing sound. The men reined in, looking around. Only rocky spires stood above them. There was no sign of their winged betrayer. Farther off, there came a faint echo. Word was being passed.

  Yriatt kneed her horse forward, and the others hurried to follow. Some strung bows and rode with heads cocked, ready to silence the spy. Mocking caws followed as they wound upward on the knees of the rocky hill. They scratched at Brastigan's nerves. Hooves grated on solid stone with a din that announced their presence as much as the crows did. Then came a new sound, through the riot of hooves over stone: the belling of hounds.

  Yriatt paused often, listening. She might continue ahead, or take a turn away from the cries. The way the rocks echoed, those ominous sounds could come from anywhere. Now they mounted a ridge, feeling the sun's heat reflected from the pale stones. As they topped that rise the baying came suddenly clearer, and all too near.

  Brastigan spurred forward, momentarily drawing even with Yriatt. “We're being tracked like wild game. If you know this area, find us a place to stand.”

  Because he bestrode a mule, the shorter of the steeds, Brastigan had the disconcerting sense that she, with her horned hat, was now taller. He didn't like it.

  The witch merely said, “Perhaps you're right,” and urged her horse forward. Impatiently, he fell into place behind her.

  The way down was steeper than up had been, and chancy over the smooth rocks, yet they didn't dare take it slow and cautious. They rode for the scant tree cover. Then it was too late for hiding. Brastigan saw movement through a gap in the rocks—men on foot, running up the slope toward them.

  “Hold!” Brastigan reined in, and the racing mules piled up behind him, jostling and squealing.

  “We're found!” Pikarus echoed, struggling to control his startled mount. “Circle up! Get the pack beasts in the center! Soldiers to the outside!”

  As the men frantically sorted themselves out, Brastigan stood in the saddle, counting the oncoming enemy. Racing at the fore were a trio of black dogs. These were no floppy-eared, fawning hounds. They had the heavy shoulders and docked tails of fighting dogs. A few yards off, they skidded to a halt and stood bristling, cropped ears pressed flat to their skulls. They showed no fear, but stared with the utter intensity only a dog can possess.

  Impressive as they were, the more serious problem was the oncoming file of soldiers. He counted eight, twelve, seventeen, twenty. Gangly fellows, wearing leather caps and carrying swords, but with little body armor. They came at a good pace despite the cant of the hill. A mounted man followed them, armored and wearing a surcoat with the dragon of Sillets. An officer, no doubt, commanding the footmen.

  Brastigan turned his mule to see the soldiers form a rough crescent between the mules and the onrushing foe. He looked twice, and then he was sure. The dogs weren't staring at him. Their malevolence was fixed on Yriatt.

  That was as good a reason as any to spur to her side. Lottres was there, of course, looking like he had no idea what to do in this situation.

  “It's you they want,” Brasatigan said to Yriatt. “Do you fight?”

  “I will shoot,” Yriatt answered. “Anything else is only at greatest need.”

  He lowered his head for a moment, gritting his teeth. What was the point of having a witch along if she didn't use her powers?

  Lottres looked torn. Combat had never been his skill, for all he had Joal's teachings. Yet it was a man's place to fight. There were only nine soldiers on the Cruthan side, Brastigan included, to twenty of the enemy.

  Beside them, the girl looked alarmed at the confusion around her. Much as he wanted to, Brastigan knew he couldn't stay with her. And Lottres still held mum.

  “Stay here, then,” he told his brother. “Protect the women.”

  Lottres looked both relieved and guilty, and Yriatt coolly put in, “He can calm the animals, if that would help.”

  “It would help a lot,” Brastigan told her. The mules were hardy, but they were still just beasts. The soldiers couldn't fight while controlling them, and it was no good if they panicked and ran off. Brastigan grabbed Victory, his helmet and shield, and swung down from the saddle, tossing the reins to Lottres.

  “Take care of the girl,” he told his brother. “The witch says we need her.”

  Lottres frowned, maybe objecting to the rude classification of his teacher, but Yriatt ignored it.

  “Come, Thaeme, I will show you how,” she said. The girl turned in the saddle, trying to keep Brastigan in sight as Lottres led her horse away. He watched her a moment more, and then turned back to business.

  Which was drawing nearer by the moment. Brastigan strapped on the helmet and shield, and stamped to loosen his saddle-stiff legs. Around him, men were stretching, shrugging, cutting the air with swords. Brastigan checked their line and found it troublesome. With so much space to cover, they couldn't stand as close as he would have liked. He located Pikarus, directly on his right, and Javes, four men down on the left. Turning, he focused his vision over the rim of his shield and fixed his attention on the approaching foemen.

  They were a sorry lot, not the kind of force he expected from an empire of Sillets's reputation. Their swords were of crude workmanship, and they had no shields or body armor. Threadbare clothing in mismatched patterns hung over angles of bone. Their sole uniform was a scanty red tabard.

  Aglend, on his left, muttered, “This is an army?”

  Brastigan had to agree, except his initial impression that these were youths had been wrong. Brastigan knew skinny—he was skinny. These men weren't skinny. They were gaunt, shriveled flesh corded over their bones, and with them came a peculiar odor like that of something long dead. What he didn't understand was how starving men could mount the rocky slope at such speed.

  He answered, “Don't take them lightly. If they serve the black magicians, they may be more than they seem.”

  Still they came on, silent except for the tramp of ill fitted boots. No war cries to rouse the blood, no warrior's scowl. No expression at all.

  The bone men were scant yards away, now. Brastigan drew deep breaths, full of waiting. His muscles felt tight, coiled. Unlike his brother, Brastigan had never been afraid of a fight. He flexed his fingers eagerly, shifting their grip on sword and shield.

  “The black tower will never fall!” Brastigan shouted.

  Farther down the line, Javes cried, “Cut them down!”

  A roar went up from the Cruthan line, then a crashing as steel met steel. Brastigan stepped between two of the foes, blocking to th
e left with his shield and to the right with Victory. Right away, he knew this wouldn't be easy. Brastigan had always been faster than the heavy set Cruthan men, able to avoid their clumsy blows. He had no such advantage now. The bone men were just as fast, and very strong. He blocked two blows that left his sword hand tingling, then lunged in return. He twisted Victory, forcing the enemy blade aside, and jabbed at the gap in the bone man's defense. The point struck exactly where he aimed it—and stuck!

  It was like stabbing into a chunk of wood. Victory's tip scarcely penetrated the leathery skin. But there was no body jerk, no cry of pain, no blood. The enemy brought his weapon around, ready to retaliate. Brastigan managed to wrench Victory free and fell back a pace, reassessing. Maybe he'd struck a rib?

  The first cries of pain went up along the Cruthan line. Pikarus was crying, “Stand fast! Let them come to us!”

  Brastigan tried again. He blocked right with Victory, then turned as the man on his left raised his weapon. He lunged at the exposed throat, this time, and saw the blade strike true. The enemy's blade descended, but Brastigan raised his shield and pushed closer. As he felt the punch of Victory shearing through the man's throat he shoved with his shield and turned again, blocking an enemy strike from the right.

  Even as he raised his shield and positioned himself to guard against the right-hand foe, he realized the one on the left hadn't fallen. He blocked automatically, staring at the black line, angled slightly upward, across the bone man's leathery neck. This time he knew he'd struck true. The man should have fallen. But still there was no blood.

  Brastigan fell back again, glancing toward Pikarus. The sergeant was hard pressed, his face a snarling mask of war. Brastigan knew his face bore the same distorted expression. He aimed a cut at the neck of the bone man pressing Pikarus back. Again, he struck clean and hard. Again, there was no reaction.

  Over the irregular beating of swords, he called to Pikarus, “What do you think? I got a clean thrust to the throat, and nothing.”