Crown Of Stars - Child Of Flame Part 29

"His Magnificence says these words: 'You escaped my sister's son on the battlefield, but now I have your life in my hands, as I was meant to, Brother.'"

"He's the one you fought?" exclaimed Benedict." He almost killed you!"

"Nay, it's some other one of them with those d.a.m.ned iron wings who fought me," said Ekkehard, looking increasingly nervous." He just said so himself. Why does he call me 'Brother'?"

It was just hard to remain calm with all those nasty shrunken heads dangling from every belt. Hanna eased up to her knees. Strange that they had no campfires. How did they mean to cook the three skinned deer strung up on branches? And what was that seen beyond the trees that edged the other side of the clearing? Chalk cliffs? A ridge of snow? She couldn't make it out.

"Princes are brothers, are they not?" replied the translator sarcastically." Unlike us poor bondsmen, who suffer at the whims of princes and pray only that we may live to see the next sunrise."

"Are you always so insolent?" demanded Frithuric." Don't you fear your master's anger?"

The interpreter's smile appeared sincere, but he had a way of thrusting his chin forward that betrayed his resentment." Only a fool wouldn't fear Prince Bulkezu's anger, for he almost never loses his temper, which makes him the worst kind of tyrant." He nattered on, a petty tyrant himself glad of the chance to lord it over folk more helpless than he was, but Hanna reeled and Ekkehard and his comrades swayed fearfully and changed color. Bulkezu.

Ai, G.o.d, this glorious man was Bulkezu? She'd thought their luck couldn't get any worse. But it had.

"Anyway," the interpreter continued, "none of these miserable Quman understand our tongue, so I can say what I wish. I could tell His Arrogance right now that you've insulted his mother, and then you'd be seeing something you'd rather wished you hadn't, like your guts spilled out on the ground before you're too dead to notice." Gleefully, he turned to Bulkezu and said several sharp sentences.

Ekkehard gasped out loud, but got control of himself as though he'd just remembered that, in the epics, the hero always died n.o.bly. Straightening up, he composed his face sternly to meet his doom.

Bulkezu laughed again. He clapped Ekkehard on the shoulder and gestured toward the large tent.

The interpreter spoke mockingly." Prince Bulkezu wishes to share wine with his Wendish brother, in token of their kins.h.i.+p."

"Is he going to poison me?" whispered Ekkehard, trying to look courageous and cool.

"Nay, my lord prince, he's going to do just as he says, share a cup of wine with you that he's taken off some poor G.o.d-fearing decent folk who are now dead and lying unburied, food for the ravens. I hope you enjoy it."

It seemed to Hanna that not one man there was paying attention to her. There were no obvious sentries anywhere. Most of the two dozen men in the small clearing stood around watching with various expressions of amus.e.m.e.nt the interplay between their prince and his prisoners. Off to the right, beyond the tents, seven men moved among the horses. These stocky creatures looked awkward compared to the bigger, prettier mounts captured with Ekkehard. One older man with a tattooed face and wearing a strange costume composed of dozens of sc.r.a.ps of cloth sewn into a patchwork stood off to one side, where he fingered the elfshot gashes torn into the roan's rump. With an absent, almost crazy smile, he smeared a yellowish paste onto the wounds, letting another man hold the horse's head so it wouldn't bolt.

She s.h.i.+fted sideways on her knees as Ekkehard made up his mind to approach the princely tent with as much dignity as his tied hands allowed. With everyone watching that little procession, she might have a chance to make a break for it.

But to what end? Would abandoning Ekkehard result in his execution? Could she really expect to escape when they had horses and she was on foot? Were the shadow elves still lurking in the forest?

Yet no matter what, no matter the risk or the consequences, she had to try to reach the king. He had to be made to understand that Quman raiding parties were overrunning the eastern borders of his kingdom.

Hanna got a foot under her, pushed up- -and saw a needle-thin arrow skate across the snow right in front of her. It dissolved into smoke, melting down into the snow. A cloud of air, puffing out from nose and mouth, shrouded her vision briefly, but the shadow forms of the Lost Ones were unmistakable once you knew them, old enemies returned to haunt her. She sucked in air, and the mist cleared. A dozen bows aimed down at the camp as the shadow elves gathered at the forest's edge At whose hands would death be worse?

Like firebrands being quenched in water, arrows hissed and smoked through the brittle air. Two struck into the snow, first at one side of her and then, as she rolled away, to the other. Tiny trails of smoke rose where the arrows melted into the snow.

It seemed impossible for such delicate threads to be so deadly.

A scream pierced the quiet clearing. A Quman soldier reeled backward, hands grasping his head. Blood leaked between his gloved fingers as he staggered and fell, although his scream echoed on and on in time to the pounding of her heart.

She scrambled backward. An arrow streaked toward the Quman prince. Whether by luck or calculation, he twisted, catching the dart on his griffin wings. A shower of sparks like a hot iron forge lit up the dawn.

Bulkezu shouted unintelligible orders. Those with horses near turned them to become s.h.i.+elds against the shadow foe. A few Quman loosed arrows in reply, but their shots flew wildly, clumsily drawn, and the shadows always faded into bush or tree before Quman arrows could strike a target.

A half-dozen Quman soldiers shoved Prince Ekkehard and his company toward the big pavilion. Lord Welf fell, although Hanna did not see where he was. .h.i.t. A burly soldier hooked him under the armpits and dragged him on after the others.

The patch-cloak man let out a sudden whoop, dancing toward the prince, who had slapped his helmet back over his head. The shaman stripped off his cloak to reveal a naked torso, his chest and back covered with fantastic blue-black tattoos. As he babbled and pranced, the designs, wild and magical animals, scenes of battle, celestial forms, began to writhe and come to life.

Hanna shook her head hard, thinking she was seeing things, and found shelter behind a stalwart pony too stupid to be scared. She could not keep her gaze from the dancing man, his stocky, hairless torso, muscular legs, and powerful arms. In each of his ears he wore a chain of three human noses. A golden needle pierced the septum of his nose, with a human ear, dried and withered, skewered on each end. His hands were gloved in skins from human feet and his feet in skins from human hands.

Bulkezu ducked, catching a shower of arrows in his wings again, and took cover behind the captured roan. But the shaman crouched in plain sight and sang. With each phrase he hunkered lower and lower until Hanna thought he meant to dig himself entirely into the snow. A white haze rose around him, like wind blowing the top layer off a snowy field, and his tattoos actually slipped off his body onto the snow and like a thousand wriggling worms climbed up onto Bulkezu, and the horse, spreading and growing until a half-dozen men and then a dozen more were dappled with his tattoos.

Bulkezu mounted the horse and shouted a command. With bows and spears and swords, the Quman charged up the hill. A hail of darts fell among them, but neither Bulkezu nor his soldiers flinched. As the shadow arrows struck, the tattoo beasts and warriors caught and swallowed them, and any harm they might cause. Neither horse nor rider could be wounded. With Bulkezu in the lead, they crested the slope and fell upon the shadow elves.

The battle thrashed away into the trees as the Quman drove off their attackers. Prince Bulkezu was nowhere in sight, a dozen men scurried to corral the spooked horses, and the shaman, rising from the snow, threw his patchwork cloak back on and with a few a.s.sistants got busy tending to the wounded, including poor Lord Welf.

No one was paying attention to Hanna, no one at all.

Lady Fortune had a strange way of showering her favor over the hapless. Hanna got as far as the tree line before, amazingly, she tripped over that same d.a.m.ned trip line that had caught her in the first place. She fell hard, wind knocked out of her. Her head ached, and her hands had gone numb. But by G.o.d she was going to get out of here. She forced her elbows under herself and began to push up, just as hands grabbed her ankles.

She swore helplessly as a soldier dragged her back into camp. It was as much as she could do to keep her head up off the ground so she didn't smother in snow. Her captor didn't let go of her until he reached the entrance to the great tent. There, he let go of her ankles and rolled her over the threshold-a ridge of wood that bruised an arm and hip as she was tipped over it-onto a miraculously soft carpet that had no snow on it. She lay there, gasping for breath, as melting granules of snow trickled from all the creases in her clothing to numb her skin under her clothing. She wanted to weep, but she didn't have the luxury.

After a moment, she pushed up to her hands and knees, staggered slightly, and stood, aware that about a dozen men had crowded into the pavilion, eager to watch the final tawdry scene unfold.

Bulkezu sat on a stool at his ease, watching her. He still wore his armor, but his wings and his helmet had been set aside and his skin and clothing bore no sign of the tattoos that had protected him. If the fight had discomposed him at all, she saw no sign of it in his posture or his serene expression. He said a few casual words to the interpreter, who like Hanna was still breathing hard, looking relieved to have escaped death.

"His Imperiousness Prince Bulkezu suggests with all politeness that you not try to escape again. He's quite taken with your blonde hair. If you're lucky, he'll like you well enough to keep you to himself for a bit before he throws you to the wolves."

"I wonder that he can't hear what a b.a.s.t.a.r.d you are just from your tone of voice," said Hanna." I'll thank you, traitor, to let His Most Gracious Prince Bulkezu know that he'd better not touch me, because I'm a King's Eagle, and my person is sacrosanct."

The interpreter merely snorted, then repeated what she hoped were her words. Bulkezu only laughed as he rose and approached her. Miraculously, her cloak hadn't come unpinned despite all the dragging and tumbling about. He grabbed hold of her bra.s.s Eagle's brooch and ripped it clean off. Her cloak slid down her body to land in a heap on the carpet, all ridges and rumpled valleys. Her tunic, torn, drooped a little, revealing skin.

Bulkezu sighed, lifting a hand to fondle her hair.

"Sorry to tell you," said the interpreter, who hadn't moved from his place beside the prince's stool." The Quman believe that blonde hair is good luck. I've seen a man killed fighting to get possession of a light-haired bed-slave."

She was really getting frightened now, knowing how ugly it was probably going to get, and her fear made her angry and reckless. She hated the feel of Bulkezu touching her like she was an animal, or already his bed-slave. Grabbing his wrist, she yanked his hand down from her hair.

He hadn't expected her to defy him, and anyway, she'd worked hard all her life and wasn't a weakling. For the s.p.a.ce of two breaths they stood poised there, she holding his wrist away and he gone tense, resisting her. They were almost exactly the same height. This close, she saw a shadow flicker in his eyes, the spark of anger. Something about him changed, his posture, the cant of his head, the tension in his shoulders. The atmosphere in the tent altered completely. The interpreter made a strangled noise in his throat, catching back a gasp of fear.

The ugly scene was upon them.

Bulkezu forced her hand down slowly, slowly. It wasn't easy for him to do it, but in the end he was stronger although she fought him all the way. He just held her arm down by her hip to prove that he had her, that she'd lost, that nothing she could do would change the fact that she was his now, to do with as he willed. He kept his gaze locked on hers, to drive her into utter submission.

She didn't flinch. In this contest, he could kill her if he wished, but he would never win. She refused to be beaten.

Fluttering up from the depths of her memory in that moment before the worst happened, she remembered Brother Breschius.

Without looking away from the Quman prince, Hanna spoke clearly and strongly." I pray you, traitor, tell your master that he'd rather be dead than touch me because I'm the luck of a Kerayit shaman."

She saw the word "Kerayit" strike Bulkezu as might an arrow, right in the eyes. His grip on her slackened, just for an instant, but hesitation is usually fatal. She twisted her wrist within his fingers and jerked out of his grasp.

The interpreter made a gagging noise in his throat, as though a bone had stuck there. But he spoke words nevertheless. Prince Bulkezu stepped back from her at once, alarmed and surprised. He snapped an order in his own tongue. It seemed like every man there gaped at her, faces white or flushed, as one darted out of the tent. He returned quickly with the man dressed in the patchwork cloak.

The shaman groped in one of his barkskin pouches. He came up with a handful of powder and flung it at her. Coughing, she waved the white powder away as it settled down into her hair and on her shoulders, drifting to the carpet. Its stink ate into her and woke the wasp sting in her heart. The shaman's eyes got very wide. He babbled in a high, anxious voice, made a number of signs that looked like the kind of gestures witches made when casting protection about themselves, and became so agitated, drooling and spitting froth, that most of the men fled the tent. His nose earrings swayed as he shuddered and twitched. Finally, he sank down into a huddle on the floor, exhausted. As well he might be, after fighting off the shadow elves with his magic.

There was silence. Hanna began to wonder where Ekkehard was, or if he was even still alive.

And then, of course, Prince Bulkezu laughed, as if he'd just heard the best joke of his life. That easy laughter was beginning to make her nervous.

Her wrist hurt, and her stomach and b.r.e.a.s.t.s ached from the jolting drag across the ground, and her feet especially were freezing with flashes of hot and cold. But she couldn't afford to look weak now.

With an amused smile on his handsome face, Bulkezu sat back down on his camp stool and gave some orders, nothing she could understand. The old shaman unrolled himself from his stupor, rose, and hurried away without any sign he'd had a fit. He returned with a fine copper basin engraved with griffins devouring deer and a copper pitcher filled with hot water. Where on Earth had they come by hot water in this G.o.dforsaken wilderness when they had not even one campfire burning to alert enemies to their position?

He gestured toward a curtain while Bulkezu watched her with avid interest. Other men hurried out, sent on errands. Hanna allowed the shaman to show her behind the curtain. Here lay pillows and furs, the plush sleeping quarters of a nomad prince. The shaman ignored them, indicating that she should wash herself.

Why not? She washed her hands and face and cleaned up the worst of the stains on her clothing, then, daringly, took off her boots and bathed her freezing feet in the cooling water. Maybe she had never felt anything so wonderful in her life up to then as that water pooling over her toes. She dug out her wooden comb from her pouch, undid her braid, and untangled her hair before braiding it up again.

The shaman watched her with interest and respect. Strangely, he didn't scare her, despite the gruesome ornaments he wore. He had tended his own people and Lord Welf with equal skill. Nor he did look likely to rape her. And at least he didn't dangle a shrunken head at his belt like the rest of them did. As horrible as the noses and ears were, she could pretend that they were just dried apricots, discolored and withered into peculiar shapes. If anything, he looked a little crazy, but in a mellow way, as if he'd inhaled too much smoke and spoken to the G.o.ds once too often.

"Thank you," she said to him when she was finished. She made to wrap her leggings back on, but he indicated that she should hang them up to dry instead. He poked about among the prince's spa.r.s.e belongings and came up with a gorgeous silk robe. She shook her head, sensing all at once that someone was peering in through a gap in the curtains." No, I thank you. I'll keep my own clothing on, if you please. I don't want His Gracious Highness Prince Bulkezu to believe for one instant that I am giving in to him or indeed taking anything from him that might lead him to believe I feel myself indebted to him."

The shaman smiled beatifically, nodding his head in time to the rhythm of her words. Obviously he couldn't understand a single thing she'd said. She rose, crossed to the curtain, and pulled it aside to reveal Prince Bulkezu himself, lounging just on the other side. He had gotten out of his armor and now wore a silk robe dyed a lush purple that set off his eyes. His hair had been combed out, and it lay draped over the robe in all its luxuriant beauty. He had that same irritating smile on his face. Had he been peeking, to see if she stripped?

If he laughs, she thought, I'll strangle him.

He merely indicated a neat semicircle of felt-covered pillows set in the center of the pavilion. Prince Ekkehard and his fellows were already seated there, trying to look as comfortable and relaxed as if they dined every day in the tent of their enemy, the man whom Bayan hated above all others in the whole wide world. Even Lord Welf, looking much recovered from his elfshot wound, sat with them, although he was pallid.

"His Mightiness begs that you honor him with your presence, Honored One," said the interpreter to Hanna with considerably more politeness than he'd shown before." Now that the Cursed Ones have been driven off, there is time to celebrate the victory, and your fortuitous meeting."

"One wonders who it was lucky for," muttered Lord Benedict.

"Those shades would probably have tracked us down and killed us if we hadn't stumbled upon Prince Bulkezu," said Ekkehard crossly to his companion. He glanced back at the interpreter." Is the Eagle to sit with us as though she's n.o.bly born?"

"If I were you, my sweet prince," said the interpreter insolently, "I'd keep my mouth shut about her."

"Does Prince Bulkezu mean to take her as a concubine? I've seen prettier, but I suppose her hair is striking."

"You're an ignorant young sot, aren't you? Don't you know what she is?"

"She's a d.a.m.ned Eagle, and deserves the respect with which the king has honored her. I recognize the ring on her hand, the mark of my father's favor. I can't believe your savage master hasn't cut that emerald off her finger yet."

"Or that he hasn't cut off your head for your insolence," added Lord Frithuric.

Prince Bulkezu cleared his throat suggestively as he ushered Hanna up to a pillow and, with the manners of a courtier, indicated a wine-colored pillow decorated with clas.h.i.+ng eagles. Once she sank down cross-legged, uncomfortable sitting as an equal among Wendish lords, Bulkezu placed himself on the remaining vacant pillow, between Hanna and Ekkehard. He clapped his hands, once, and his soldiers hurried to serve them on perfect wooden trays carved with filigree done to resemble twining vines. The cups were cruder, plain ceramic, but warm to the touch, and she almost laughed out loud when she breathed in the aroma: hot spiced wine.

A pang struck her, clawing at her heart. What had happened to Gotfrid and his fellows? Had they escaped, or did they lie dead in the snow?

But Gotfrid surely wouldn't begrudge her a moment's pleasure after everything they'd been through. Gotfrid would probably be the first to say that it was well worth enjoying what you had while you had it, since you didn't know how quickly it might be taken from you.

As Bayan had said, no war was ever lost if there was still wine to drink.

Bulkezu examined her in the silence as they sipped their wine and nibbled on hard cakes flavored with coriander. Truly, there was a war going on right now in more ways than one, and she didn't suppose it would be over very quickly. After all, despite their fear of the Kerayit, she was still his prisoner.

A soldier entering carrying an odd-looking two-stringed lute. He settled himself to one side and serenaded them in a grating, nasal voice that droned on and on. After a long while, he finished, and they were permitted to go to sleep. Although she was most graciously offered the use of Bulkezu's furs, she took herself to the opposite wall of the tent, near the entrance, and wrapped herself tightly in her cloak. She was so exhausted that she fell asleep at once.

She woke to snoring. Without raising her head or otherwise giving herself away, she studied the dark interior. Prince Ekkehard and his comrades lay sleeping nearby, sprawled in ungainly postures on the floor of the pavilion. Each of the young lords had a partner in sleep, a Quman soldier at rest beside them, so that if their prisoner stirred, they would wake, too. Only Hanna wasn't guarded.

Or maybe she was.

One person wasn't sleeping. In the center of the pavilion, illuminated by the pool of light afforded by a single burning lamp hung from the center pole, Prince Bulkezu still sat on his gold-braided pillow. He had an easy posture, cross-legged, one elbow braced on a knee while the other fiddled with the stem of an elaborate ceramic pipe. Steam bubbled up from its belly. He took a puff from the pipe, exhaling softly. A veil of smoke hazed the air around him as he watched her. Did he know she'd woken?

The strangely-scented smoke filled her lungs and made her consciousness drift on hazy currents out through the smoke hole, lofting above the camp. There lay the prince's pavilion, below her, glowing with a faint golden ring of protection, and the other tents, ranged in a circle around it, seemed marked by yet more magical wards. There stood the horses, restless in the cold night, and their stalwart guard. To one side, unseen before, she noticed a corral and, within that fence, the patchwork cloak of the shaman. He cooked meat over a kettle filled with coals, and abruptly glanced up, as if he sensed her. But her awareness already ranged beyond him, to the sentries in their concealed posts, the glittering trip lines laid high and low, and a pair of hawks perched on a branch, waiting for dawn.

What waited beyond Bulkezu's little camp struck dismay into her heart. As her awareness lifted higher, caught on an aetherical breeze, she saw that Prince Bulkezu's was only one campsite situated among many-more than she could count in the darkness. The tents of the Quman lay scattered through the forest like uncounted pebbles.

This wasn't a raiding party at all. It was the Quman army.

Bulkezu had swung wide around Handelburg. He'd abandoned Bayan and his shattered army, left them holed up and impotent in the east, and now was driving west toward the heart of Wendar itself.

The Quman weren't the only ones waiting in the cold night. Dread creatures stalked the Earth, patient and single-minded. Beyond the trip lines and other protective wards, the shadows of elves waited, arrayed in hunting groups, their thwarted rage like the throb of a lute string in the air. Would she never escape them? Why did they pursue her, she who had never glimpsed such creatures before? How had she angered them, or called attention to herself? Had they, like the hideous galla, learned her name?

A breath of cold air brushed her lips, like a kiss, and she came cras.h.i.+ng back into her body, heart pounding with fear. But she hadn't moved, nor had anyone touched her. The night wind had teased the entrance flap open. Through the gap she saw outside into the open s.p.a.ce between the tents. It had been snowing again. The tracks of the battle lay buried under a fresh blanket of snow, white and pristine.

The owl glided into view and came to rest on the unbroken snow. It blinked once, and she knew then that it was looking right at her.

She had seen this owl before. This was the owl who had appeared at the abandoned village, just two nights ago, before disaster had broken over them. This was the owl Liath had spoken to at the palace of Werlida just as though it could understand her.

She knew now what it was. This was the centaur woman's owl, that Hanna had seen in her dreams.

It waited golden eyes staring. Silence settled like snow Bulkezu laughed. He sucked on his pipe before speaking in comprehensible Wendish." Nay, dreaded one, I will not harm the woman with the frost-white hair. I fear your power too much. But now she's mine. Get her back if you can."

XI THE NOISE OF THEIR WAKING.

ON the first fine spring day, Adica walked down from the stone loom after a weary afternoon of meditation. The gorgeous weather had not helped her keep her mind focused, not when the song of birds kept distracting her, and primrose and blooming flax painted the ground in pale yellows, blues, and violets. She kept wondering where her husband was, and what he was doing.

As usual, she had no trouble finding him. She had only to follow the sound of laughter, to walk down to the river where it seemed most of the village had gathered, whooping and hollering over some ridiculous male contest. Spring had come, and that of course meant men became infected with the Green Man's mischief.

Alain stood knee-deep in the river shallows, having challenged all comers to a wrestling match. She arrived in time to see him flip poor Kel into the deep water, dunking him. Kel came up shrieking from the shock of the cold water. A half-dozen other men stood s.h.i.+vering and wet on the bank, egging their fellows on.

"Throw him in!"

"It's more than he deserves! Hold him under!"

"Whoo! Ha! That water's so cold it'll be summer before my wife gets any pleasure out of me!"

"Well, then," called his wife from the crowd, "the Black Deer traders come through this time of year. I'll have to please myself with them until you're fit for use." She started a rowdy chorus of "My man can't even walk up the path to his own house," and most of the other women joined in.

Alain was laughing as he helped Kel out of the water. He had stripped down to a simple loincloth; it was the first day warm enough to do so. Even though Adica knew his body intimately by now, she still admired his lean hips and broad shoulders. Usually she combed and braided his hair for him, but it had all come loose around his shoulders. A man's beard had grown in over the winter, thus proving to the last of the skeptics, such as they were, that he had not one drop of the Cursed Ones' blood running in his veins.

Weiwara moved over to stand beside her. She held the elder twin, Blue-bud, in her arms. Adica ached to hold the baby, beautiful and plump as it was, but dared not ask." You'd think you were married yesterday instead of last autumn the way you ogle him," said Weiwara with a chuckle, s.h.i.+fting the baby to her other hip." Look, here comes Beor."

Kel, still whimpering, staggered out of the river and grabbed a skin cloak to wrap around himself just as Beor stalked up to the sh.o.r.e and stripped off his knee-length tunic.

"Now you'll see what a real man can do," growled Beor.