Author: Kate Elliott
Category: Science
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Another Aoi warrior emerged from the birthing hut, this one a young woman clad, like the others, in a bronze breastplate fitted over a short tunic. The feathers woven into her hair gave her a startling crest, and her mask had been carved into a peregrine’s hooked beak. She carried a small round shield and a short spear.
Alain struck with his staff. She barely had time to parry. Her companion, hampered by the infant, contented himself with thrusting again, but Adica’s reflexes were too good. She sprang back and swung her staff hard around, aiming for the woman instead of the man, and caught the Aoi warrior a glancing blow to the jaw. Blood dribbled out from the young warrior’s neck as she bit back a yelp of pain. Alain circled right to close the two against the wall of the birthing house. He heard shouts from behind, Kel’s voice, and suddenly Kel and his brother came running with their spears ready.
The Aoi man dropped the infant and bolted for the trees, following his companion; Alain clipped the woman as she tried to follow, and she fell heavily. Adica stepped back Kel and Tosti shrieked with glee as the Aoi woman rolled over, lifting her shield to protect herself.
“No!” cried Alain, for truly, she was helpless before them, and it would be more merciful to take her captive. But they hated her kind too much. He winced as they pinned her to the ground with angry spear thrusts. Her blood ran over the dirt.
The baby wailed.
“Weiwara!” cried Adica, dashing inside.
He looked away from the dying warrior thrashing on the ground. Tosti had run inside after Adica. Kel wrenched his spear free and grabbed Alain by the shoulder.
He shouted a word, indicating the woman. Beyond, fire sparked and caught in the thatched roof of one of the village houses.
“Come! Come!” Kel stooped to pick up the screaming baby.
About ten Aoi warriors fitted in bronze armor and wielding weapons forged of metal emerged from the last bend in the earthworks.
“Come!” cried Kel with more urgency, gesturing toward the village and its closed gates. A man lay prone by the outer ditch. Farther out, five of the enemy clustered behind the shield of a ruined hut. From this shelter they shot flaming arrows toward the village, an easy target over the low stockade.
Adica and Tosti appeared at the door with Weiwara’s limp body between them. Blood ran down the side of her face, and a nasty bruise discolored her left cheek, but she breathed.
“The other baby!” cried Alain. He pointed to the shrieking infant and then to the forest.
“No!” said Adica, indicating the threat to the village.
The horn rang out again. Armed adults sallied out from the village, yelling defiantly. Beor led them; Alain recognized him by his height and his shoulders, and by the bronze spear he carried. A half dozen split off from the main group to hurry toward the birthing house, among them Weiwara’s husband and Urtan.
“Go!” said Alain, because it was a word he knew, and because help was coming. “I go get baby.”
Kel shrieked with glee and shoved the infant into Tosti’s arms. He grabbed the dead woman’s bronze spear from the ground. “I go!” He struck his own chest with a closed fist, and then Alain’s. “We go!”
There wasn’t time to argue. The ones they sought had already gotten a head start, and Alain wasn’t going to let that baby be stolen, not when God had welcomed him to this village by granting it the blessing of living twins on the day he had arrived.
He grabbed the shield off the corpse and ran for the forest as the sun split the horizon behind them. Adica called after him, but the clamor of battle drowned out her voice. They hit the shadow of the trees, and he raised a hand for silence as he and Kel and the hounds came to a halt. They heard the headlong flight of the other two as cracks and rustles in the forest ahead. Rage bounded away, so they followed her trail as she pelted through the trees.
Alain saw the two Aoi when he burst out of the woods at the border of the burial field. Sorrow and Rage loped after them, big bodies closing the gap. They hit the man limping behind without losing momentum and he tumbled to the ground beneath them. Kel reached him first. Before Alain could shout for mercy, Kel stuck him through the back. As the bronze leaf-blade parted the man’s skin, Kel screamed in triumph.
The sound shook Alain to his bones, made bile rise in his throat. He had known for a long time that he couldn’t serve the Lady of Battles by killing. But he could save the child.
The hounds matched him stride for stride as he ran after the third warrior, the one who carried the crying infant under his arm. The warrior cut left, and then right, as if expecting to dodge arrows. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Alain and the hounds and that made him run harder, although he seemed to be grinning like a madman, caught in an ecstasy of flight and fury. But Alain knew fury, too, rising in his heart, goaded by the memory of a tiny body coming to life beneath his hands.
By now they had moved well away from the river, but a stream cut down from a hill on the eastern side of the burial field. When the other man tried to head up the stream, he found himself boxed in by the hillside and by a cliff down which a cataract fell, not more than twice a man’s height but too rugged to climb without both hands.
The warrior was no fool. He kept hold of the baby and brandished his spear threateningly as he sprang back to put the rock wall behind him. The baby hiccupped in infant despair, exhausted by its own screaming, and fell silent. Far behind, Kel shouted Alain’s name.
He threw down shield and staff as Sorrow and Rage stalked forward on either side of him. “Give me the child, or strike me down, I care not which you choose.”
The warrior’s eyes widened in fear or anger, flaring white, all that could be seen of his face behind the grinning dog mask he wore.
Alain took another step forward, showing his empty hands but keeping his gaze fixed on his opponent. “Just give me back the child. I want nothing else from you.”
The warrior shied nervously, keeping his spear raised, and he made a testing thrust toward Alain, who did not step back but instead came forward once again.
“As you see, I do not fear dying, because I am already dead. Nothing you can do to me frightens me. I pray you, give me the child.”
Maybe it was Kel, shouting as he came up from behind. Maybe it was the silent hounds. Maybe the warrior had simply had enough.
He set down the child, turned, and scrambled as well as he could up the cliff face. Alain sprang forward to grab the infant just as the warrior lost hold of his spear and it sailed down to land in the cataract with a splash. The haft spun, rode the cascade, and lodged up between two rocks as water roared over it. With an oath, the man vanished over the lip. Pebbles spattered down the cliff face, then all trace of him ceased.
Kel whooped as he came up behind Alain. The baby whimpered, more a croak than a cry. Kel waded out to fetch the spear and offered it to Alain.
“Nay, I won’t take it!” Alain snapped. Kel flinched back, looking shaken. “Here,” said Alain more gently, giving him the man’s shield. With a hand free again, he took up his oak staff.
They went swiftly back, but cautiously, skirting the corpse sprawled in the burial field and taking a deer trail through the forest, not knowing what they might find at the village or if they would need to fight when they got there. Luckily, the newborn fell into an exhausted sleep.
Easing out from the forest cover, they saw the village with the first slant of morning sun streaming across it and figures moving like ants, in haste, scurrying here and there. As they watched, trying to understand what they saw, a cloud covered the sun and the light changed. Thunder rumbled softly. Rain shaded the southeastern hills.
“Beor!” said Kel softly, pointing.
Alain saw Beor walking down through the earthworks with a spear in his hand, his posture taut with battle anger. At least fifteen adults accompanied him, all armed, some limping. Smoke striped the sky, rising from the village, but it had the cloudy vigor of a newly doused fire. A few corpses lay evident, some clad in bronze and one, al
as, the body of a villager. It seemed strange that these people would strike with such determined ferocity and swiftness only to retreat again, like a thunderstorm opening up overhead with fury and noise that, as suddenly, blows through to leave fresh puddles and cracked or fallen branches in its wake.
Halfway between the river path and the birthing house, Alain saw a lump on the ground. Fear caught in his throat. He ran, only to find, as he feared, Adica’s leather bundle bulging open on the ground right where she’d dropped it when she first ran for Weiwara’s house. It seemed wrong that rain should fall on the gold antlers. As he wrapped up the bundle, he found her polished mirror lying beneath.
Adica never went any where without her mirror. At that moment, the same choking helplessness gripped him that had strangled hope on the night when Lavastine had been trapped by Bloodheart’s revenge behind a locked door.
Voices called from the village. He slung the bundle over his shoulder and rose just as Kel hurried up with a scared look on his face.
“No. No,” he repeated, over and over, pointing to the bundle. Alain ignored him and hurried on. He had to find Adica.
Weiwara had been taken to the council house and settled upon furs there together with the other wounded folk, not more than six, although six was too many. When Alain gave the lost infant into her arms, she burst into tears. Both Urtan and Tosti were among the wounded. Urtan had taken a blow to the head and he lay unconscious, with his young daughter Urta moistening his mouth with a damp cloth. Tosti drifted in and out of awareness, moaning; he had two nasty wounds in his right shoulder and left hip. Kel dropped down beside him, keening, scratching his chest until it bled.
Mother Orla shuffled in, leaning heavily on her walking stick as she surveyed the injured. She called for her daughter, Agda, who brought potions and poultices. Exhaustion swept Alain, but as he tried to make his way to the door, to find Adica, Mother Orla stopped him, her expression grim. He heard voices outside, but it was Beor who entered, not Adica.
The moment Beor saw Alain, he spat on the floor. It took Mother Orla herself, raising her walking stick, to restrain him from charging through the crowd and attacking. The hounds, waiting outside, barked threateningly.
Although Beor was almost beside himself with a warrior’s hot anger, he contented himself with a hard glance at Alain before launching into an involved and desperate tale. Certainly something far more serious than a man’s jealousy had afflicted the village this day. As Beor spoke, Mother Orla’s stern features showed not one sign of weakness even as those around her and the ones who crowded outside set up a moan in response to his words.
Thunder cracked and rolled, bringing a moment’s silence in its wake. It began to rain.
“Where be Adica?” Alain demanded, swinging down the bundle containing her holy garments so that they all could see that he had recovered it for her.
Beor roared like a wounded bear, overcome by fury. The others wailed and cried out. Although they had few words in common, it didn’t take Alain long to understand.
Adica was gone, stolen by the raiders.
VI
A COMPANY
OF THISTLES
1
ON the roads traveling north from the Alfar Mountains, following the trail of the prince, Zacharias found it easy enough to ask innocuous questions when opportunity arose and to make himself inconspicuous when necessary. After an unfortunate detour to escape a pack of hungry wolves, in the course of which he lost one of his two goats and picked up a nagging infection in his left eye, he found himself among a trickle of petitioners and pilgrims walking north to see the king. Some of these humble souls had heard tell of a noble fighter who had single-handedly vanquished a pack of bloodthirsty bandits.
“Truly, he must have been a prince among men,” he said more than once to the folk he met, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. At last one fellow agreed that he had heard from a steward riding south that indeed Prince Sanglant had returned to the king’s progress.
When he came to the palace complex at Angenheim and found the court in the throes of making ready to leave, he hoped to press forward among the many plaintiffs come to beg alms or healing or justice from the king. He didn’t look that different from the filthy beggars and poor farmers camped out in the fields and woodland outside of the palace fortifications. Most people liked to gossip. Surely no one would take any special notice of a few innocent questions put to the guards.
But after seven years as a slave among the Quman nomads and a year traveling as an outcast through the lands of his own people, Zacharias had forgotten that his ragged clothing, disreputable appearance, and easterner’s accent might cause people to distrust rather than simply dismiss him.
In this way, he found himself hauled up past the impressive fortifications and into the palace grounds themselves. Once they had taken away his goat and searched his battered leather pack for weapons, guards marched him through the handsomely carved doors of one of the noble residences. By prodding him with the butts of their spears, they tried to make him kneel before an elderly lord seated on a bench with a cup of wine in one hand and a robust and handsome young woman next to him.
The old lord handed the cup to her and looked Zacharias over with a frown as he tapped his fingers on a knee. “He refuses to kneel.” He had a touch of the east about his voice, blurred by the hard stops and starts characteristic of the central duchies.
“I mean no offense, my lord,” said Zacharias quickly. “I am a frater and sworn to kneel before none but God.”
“Are you, then?” As the lord sat back, a slender, middle-aged servant circled around to whisper in his ear. When the guardsman had finished, the lord shifted forward. “Do you know who I am?”
“Nay, I do not, my lord, but I can hear by your speech that you’ve spent time in the east.”
The lord laughed, although not as loudly as his young companion, who gestured toward the embroidered banner hung on the wall behind a table laden with gold and silver platters and bowls. The profusion of food made Zacharias’ mouth water—apples, pears, bread, cheese, leeks, and parsley—but the sigil on the banner made his blood run cold and his mouth go dry with fear. It was only then that he noticed that the lord had only one arm; one sleeve had been pinned back so that it wouldn’t get in his way.
“The silver tree is the sign of the house of Villam, my lord,” he said, cursing himself silently. That had been his mistake among the Pechanek tribe: he had let those in power notice him, because in those days he had still believed in the God of the Unities and thought it his duty to bring their worship to the benighted, those who dwelt in the darkness of ignorance. “Can it be that you are Margrave Villam? I crave your pardon, my lord, for truly he was an old man in my youth, so it was said, and I thought the old margrave must be dead by now and the margraviate gone to his heirs.”
“I pray to God you are not dead yet,” said the woman boldly. “I trust you have enough youth in you to play your part on our wedding night.”
Villam had an honest smile. “They say a horse may die if ridden too hard.”
She was, thank God, not a giggler, but she laughed in a way that made Zacharias uncomfortable because it reminded him of what Bulkezu had cut from him. “I hope I have not chosen a mount that will founder easily.”
“Nay, fear not on my account, for I’m not in my dotage yet.” He took the cup of wine from her and gestured to a servant to refill it. “I pray you, beloved, let me speak to this man alone.”
“Is this intrigue? Do you fear I will carry tales to Theophanu?”
If her youthful teasing irritated him, he did not show it. “I do not wish the king disturbed on any account, since he means to leave in the morning. If I am the only man to hear this tale, then I can assure myself that it will go no farther than me.”
She did not retreat easily from the field. “This frater—as he calls himself—may carry tales farther than I ever would, Helmut. He has a tongue.”
The horrible fear that they
, who had the power, would take from him the one thing he prized above all else caught Zacharias like a vise. His legs gave out and he sank to his knees. It was hard not to start begging for mercy.
“So have we all a tongue, Leoba,” replied Villam patiently. “But I will have solitude in which to interview him.”
Although clearly a woman of noble station, Leoba was young enough to be Villam’s granddaughter and therefore, whatever equality in their stations in life, had to bow to the authority that age granted him. She rose graciously enough, kissed him modestly on the cheek, and left. The old man watched her go. Zacharias recognized the gleam in his eyes. The sin of concupiscence, a weakness for the pleasures of the flesh, afflicted high- and lowborn alike.
Once she was gone, the old margrave returned immediately to the matter at hand. “I do not wish to know your name, but it has been brought to my attention that you have been asking questions of the guards regarding the whereabouts of Prince Sanglant.”
“You seem to me a reasonable man, my lord. Now that I am thrown into the lion’s den, I may as well make no secret of my quest. I seek Prince Sanglant. Is he here?”
“Nay, he is not. He has as good as declared open revolt against King Henry’s authority. I feel sure that a man of your learning understands what a serious offense that is.”
“Ah,” said Zacharias, for a moment at a loss for words. But he had always had a glib tongue, and he knew how to phrase a question to protect himself while, perhaps, gaining information. “Yet a man, even a prince, cannot revolt alone.”