"The girl and—I gather the boy is her brother—come from the royal clan, if I understand it right. They got separated from their clan in a fight about the new ruler. In my misguided attempt to be polite, I offered them from what I can work out was an alliance and the protection of my clan. But our translator says that she understood that we foreigners don't have much of sense of honor and they don't expect us to abide by it."
Manfred raised his eyebrows. "And that is the core of the problem with our relationship with the Ilkhan, and probably the Golden Horde too. Erik, if I did not know you well enough to know you had already decided to do it, I'd order you to tell her that we foreigners have our own code of honor."
"No," said Erik. "This is not something that can be told. It must be shown."
Chapter 28
The great gray wolves ran on, covering the miles with an easy, distance-eating lope. They conversed as they did so, in the way of the wolf which is far more complex than mere words, communication at the level of scent, tiny movements and postures of the head, ears or tail, with the smallest yelp meaning many things through these filters. Human speech had its advantages, and a greater range of vocabulary. But now . . . this seemed very free. They had kept to human form for a long time.
They paused on the ridge-line, tongues lolling, with the folds of the world trailing out raggedly to the lowlands. If anyone had been watching they would have seen how the three blurred and faded and became three men, lean gypsies in ragged bright clothes.
"We should be there by the hatching."
"At least now that we can run properly."
"And hunt properly."
"Still. There is much weighted against him. Perhaps one of us should have stayed."
Angelo shook his dark ringlets. "No. He must find the path himself, without us. We have done enough. Too much, without the compact."
"Times and circumstances drive," said Radu.
Angelo took out his pipe and played. The ancient threnody, sad, sweet and compelling, came back in echoing snatches, as if the land itself was answering. Perhaps it was. He stopped and let the silence of the mountains return.
Eventually, he spoke. "We are creatures of the compact, born to it and shaped by it. Without it, we will die."
Grigori shrugged. "So will he. So will his people."
"This is true. But that will be of no help to us."
"It's in the blood," Radu said. "I could smell it. He will come to us. Blood calls to blood."
"But it is still his choice and ours," said Angelo. "The compact is a thing of willingness. The blood must be freely given."
"And if it were not? If it were taken forcibly?" asked Radu, curious. "That would not be easy, but it could be done. There are magics . . ."
"It has happened before," admitted Angelo. "The hunger born of it is terrible, as are the creations thereof. When the time came on them . . . The creatures of the shadows stalked the night and fed on the blood of innocents. Or any other blood they could find."
Grigori shook himself, and spat. "Half-creatures. Loup-garou."
"Indeed. Neither man nor of the old blood, and not constrained by the compact. The legends still remain," said Angelo, grimly. "They are hard to kill."
"I still think we should have told him more," said Radu.
Angelo shook his head. "Part of the magic requires innocence. To take the step willingly, not knowing entirely what the risk or the price will be. Humans take innocence as virginity."
"It has parallels, I suppose." Grigori grinned toothily. "Although it does assume that a piece of skin equates with innocence."
"A large assumption, and sometimes false."
A little later they set off again. The moon would be full in three days time and they had many miles to cover before then. The distance on a map it was not so great, but there was a complex terrain both physically and spiritually between them and the heartland in the Faragas Mountains and the Lacul Podragul.
And with steady inexorable precession, the syzygial dance of earth, moon and sun moved on to the point they had last occupied forty-four years and one month before. The exeligmos. The full turn of the wheel.
* * *
Duck eggs are frequently given to chickens to sit. Mother hen will dutifully turn them and them keep them the right temperature, until they hatch. To sit a wyvern egg, the wolf-people knew, you need a mountain. And not just any mountain. It had to be the one called Moldoveanu. It was a fitting place for such a thing.
Alchemists would pay a great deal for something as rare as a fragment of wyvern eggshell. The cave was littered with them, still golden in the candle-light.
Yet it would not be easy for anyone to ever find this place in the roots of the mountain. Were they to somehow evade those who guarded the place from within the dark trees on the lower slopes, climb the ravine, pass the waterfall and the guardians in the water, they would find the place itself was full of strange and unpleasant sulfurous reeks. The breath of mountains can kill, and here it was so bespelled that it would, if necessary, to defend this place. Set on a small fissure that steamed gently, the egg rocked. And rocked again. There was a sharp sound, like the touch of fine crystal glassware. A tiny hairline crack shivered across the iridescent gold surface of the egg.
From long experience the wolf people knew that the shivering would be matched in the otherwise still waters of the Lacul Podragul. This was not a mystery that they had thought upon, it was just the way that the mountain was. They knew better than to set up camp too close to the lake edge, because they knew what was coming next. On the steep rocky bluff they sat above their multicolored carts and tattered tents in the moonlit darkness, looking out over the water. They watched how the water suddenly shivered although there was no breath of wind. No one spoke. It was a time both enchanted and fraught with perils. The little ones within would be weak, and the shells were close to being as hard as adamantine. When they were full-grown, adamantine would be as soft as velvet compared to them. But now, they had to fight free.
In the cave, Angelo waited, as was his duty and right as the oldest. He had with him a flask of the only food that could nourish a young wyvern. A second crack splintered into the surface of the egg. There was nothing musical about this one. Instead it sounded like a wagon-load of glassware crashing down a cliff.
Angelo knew that the Lacul would be a torment of waves now. He braced himself. There would be more. But at least there was a second crack. With creatures that had to be born as twins there was always the fear that only one would survive. He waited for the next assault on the egg and its membrane. A few moments later he was rewarded by a piece of shell ricocheting like shrapnel off the walls, and the appearance of a dragonish snout with a little sharp white egg tooth on the end. The baby snorted out egg-fluid, and sniffed, tasting the air. A second snout pushed its way next to it through the same gap, and repeated the performance.
Angelo realized that he had been holding his breath, and he exhaled in a long sigh of relief. The two noses twitched at him synchronously. The shell cracked and shattered with a noise like a chandelier cascading down several flights of stairs. Two pairs of little red slit eyes looked at him, and blinked simultaneously. Both gave a curious high-pitched creel and began struggling their way free of the egg membrane.
Mothers were reputed to gash their own breasts to feed their offspring. Perhaps they would, if they could survive laying the egg. Angelo had a flask of their mother's blood for them. No other substance would nourish the chicks. Fortunately, as long as it was kept from contact with the air, wyvern blood appeared to neither coagulate nor decay. Magic gave, magic took away.
It was a rare and wonderful blood and it was not only the chicks that needed it. Angelo did not know quite when the relationship between his kind and theirs had begun, or just how it had come into being. But their care of the hatchlings was an ancient and sacred trust. His people believed that without that blood the tribe would return slowly to its roots. Either a nomad or a wolf pack, depending on just
who told the story. Neither was an option that anyone wanted to take a chance on.
This land was full of old things, creatures from before man's settlement. Most were subject to the compact. But only Angelo's kind were unsure just where they stood in it all, if it failed. All they knew was that it would cost them half of themselves.
Chapter 29
In Odessa a very frightened little man made painstaking notes about the number of wagons passing beneath his window. He was unsure if or how he would get the information to his paymaster. But if he had nothing to sell, he would never have the money to leave.
The work was dangerous, but Count Mindaug paid well.
* * *
The work was not actually that dangerous. True, Jagiellon was wise to the workings of agents and double agents. Spies and betrayal were meat and drink to him. Anyone attempting espionage on a military or political target of concern to the grand duke was indeed taking a great risk.
But economics was not. The Black Brain knew a great deal about several planes of existence. Mindaug's estimate was that he knew the least about this earthly one. Trade was something Chernobog had always understood poorly.
The demon was not subtle, no matter that he thought he was. To him, power meant that you took what you wanted. The only purpose of trade was to corrupt and to move spies into the territories of those who did not understand absolute power. Right now, Jagiellon judged that it was more important to keep his enemies in the dark concerning his preparations than it was to maintain the regular commerce of Odessa. So, he'd ordered the port closed. The cargo that would normally have been shipped out was piling up in the warehouses at the docks.
That also meant that Odessa was slowly starving. Mindaug's agents reported that people were even beginning to mutter against the voivode. At this stage, all that was involved were frightened and resentful mutterings. Things would have to get much worse for the utterly cowed population to even contemplate rebellion.
Mindaug knew that the voivode of Odessa poorly understood his overlord. He thought Jagiellon was merely a cruel and monomaniacal man who could possibly be reasoned with.
He would learn the truth, soon enough. And, unlike Mindaug, he would not have had the perspicacity to organize a means of escape before the demon's jaws closed on him.
Mindaug moved to the shelves to seek another book. All things considered, as vile a creature as she was, working for Countess Elizabeth was considerably safer than working for Chernobog. She was not actually a demon herself, after all. Simply someone who suffered from the delusion that she could trade with the greatest of demons and come out ahead on the deal.
* * *
Jagiellon had had reports, but he preferred to see things for himself. So, in a supply tent in Odessa, a blank eyed man roused himself from where he lay, rather uncomfortably. He was cold and stiff and walked, as a result, with difficulty and with a jerky and unsteady gait. No one spoke to him as Chernobog looked around the shipyard. They knew the nature of the blank-eyed man.
Neither Jagiellon nor Chernobog knew very much about shipbuilding. Jagiellon had never chosen to interest himself in such mundane tasks before he encountered Chernobog. Ships such as these that plied oceans of water did not occur in Chernobog's normal realm. However, both of them could recognize the signs of industry. There was plenty of that. Rigging and ratlines were being strung on some of the vessels already. Others were still being clad with their outer planking. That ran to plan too: if they were going to be forced to wait for another season, they may as well build more vessels.
Chernobog left the human-vessel right there. Someone would take it back to the tent. Instead he occupied the body of a cavalry commander and looked out onto the vast parade ground. Jagiellon kept a far closer grasp on military matters than commercial ones.
Levies from across the lands that gave fealty to the grand duke Jagiellon were engaged in drill. The levies came from several linguistic groups. Many of them were hereditary enemies. To a greater or lesser extent the Black Brain managed and controlled their officers. That required a vast capacity. But Chernobog had that, even if he sometimes poorly understood human soldiers' abilities and limitations.
The army being readied for the round ships—some forty thousand men, now—was but a small portion of the force that Jagiellon was mustering. He would have to strike in the north and the center, once he held the gate to the Mediterranean. For the last few years he had kept up a slow war of attrition, without major attacks, while building more reserves. He'd learned that it would take large numbers to bring down the Holy Roman Empire, given the capabilities of its current ruler.
This time they would feint north. The war hardened Empire, led by the knights of the Holy Trinity would stop that attack, as they had many others. But the attack would be merely a diversion. Jagiellon thought the underbelly of Europe was soft and unprepared. With any luck, Emeric of Hungary would attempt to take advantage and attack either Italy or the Holy Roman Empire—not realizing that this would leave him vulnerable on his own eastern borders. Jagiellon would settle for a bridgehead into the heart of Europe through Hungary. The part of Jagiellon that was the Black Brain, Chernobog, cared little for these geographical conquests. But they were physical prizes which were not without value in the spiritual world. And besides, pouring across the northern Carpathians from the lands of the Kievan Rus would allow Chernobog to seize the physical earthly holdings of an old enemy, Elizabeth Bartholdy. There was a certain satisfaction in that.
Chapter 30
The sun kisses the high places, the cold roost of eagles and fugitives, before it shines upon the rest of the world. In the pale clarity of dawn, Vlad gazed out from the craggy edge above their small camp, loving the sheer limitless immensity of the folded shadowlands below. It had frightened him a little at first. Now he would die before he let anyone shut him away again. For a brief while his soul was at peace, in the vast tranquility of the place, away from the turmoil of conflicting desires and a world he understood poorly.
Could death somehow be like this? An endless, quiet, shadowy country.
The sun climbed slowly higher, becoming harsher and stronger, and people began to stir. They'd camped in a picturesque spot, in a small dell beneath a gray scree, with a craggy peak above it. To the right on the edge of the scree, a col led into another valley and deeper into the mountains.
Far, far below, Vlad's eye was caught by flash of light. Vlad had discovered that he had very keen eyesight. He peered intently now, wishing that he had one of those telescope devices. Staring, his eyes picked up movements eventually. A column of horses, working their way up one of the valleys. Soon they would be hidden behind the ridge line as the valley turned away in its meandering.
Vlad knew all too well that that valley would eventually bring the horsemen to their camp. And it was very unlikely that it was a friendly column of several hundred horsemen.
He made his way quickly back to his camp. It was a very makeshift camp, tents constructed from a few ragged tarpaulins, and some lean-tos set around several cook fires, one of which was being blown into life.
"Best leave that," said Vlad. "The Hungarians are coming. I have seen a column of them heading up our valley. Wake everybody. No shouting," he added, seeing the startled fire-maker take a deep breath to do just that.
A few minutes later, two of the younger boys were leading the horses up to the col while those for whom there were no mounts began to slither and scramble over the broken cliff and down into the next valley. That left Vlad and twenty-one men waiting nervously amongst the top edge of the broken boulder scree near the col.
When he had planned the last ambush he had been filled with a kind of rash fury that expressed itself in cold-blooded, calculated killing. Now, he was just afraid. How had they found him here? The wait seemed interminable. He wished, desperately, that he had the experience, or that someone else here with him that knew what to do.
At last, a pair of troopers appeared at the foot of the little mountain del
l they had used for their camp. They were moving cautiously and halted their horses when they saw the rough tents. They turned, quietly, to ride away.
And then, while he was still holding his breath, Vlad saw it all come apart. Someone decided to shoot one of the scouts. He hadn't actually told them not to . . .
It was good shooting, all things considered. The one scout gave a gurgling scream as the arrow hit him on the breastplate and ricocheted upward, striking just under the jaw. His companion did not wait. He put his spurs to his steed and got away, as less well aimed arrows clattering impotently on the rocks, spearing the thin soil. Vlad heard a horn being sounded. And then, something worse—the sound of screaming from the valley behind them, where those without horses had fled.
Vlad simply did not know what to do. The Hungarians had obviously another column of horse coming up to take them from behind. Vlad's men were outnumbered, and would have been surrounded. Before Vlad could take a decision—something his little army were looking for him to do—the Hungarians came sweeping into the dell, lances out.
"Loose!" someone yelled. A ragged volley of arrows fell among the Hungarian knights, busy spearing canvas and flattening lean-tos. The knights were heavily armored, the horses less so. Some horses screamed. A few men fell, but the rest were now charging at the scree slope. Vlad's makeshift troops were no match for them. A handful loosed again, but most of them were scrambling for the col. Vlad stood up. He was damned, he decided, if he would flee merely to run into the second column. He would die here, and die free.
Seing him stand his ground with a sword in his hand, steadied three or four of his men who had not yet started to run. They began firing more arrows, yelling to their companions to come back and aid them.
Then, the invincible and terrifying Magyar charge slowed. It was not the pinprick of the few light arrows that affected them. Rather it was the utter folly of trying to gallop a heavy horse up a steep loose scree slope. The earlier flight of Vlad's men had started some rocks rolling down. A cascade of boulders knocked one knight from his horse.
Much Fall of Blood-ARC Page 22