Much Fall of Blood-ARC (62 page)

It had attempted to investigate. But so far there were just currents, and dark mist.

Bortai found herself worried about the legend-horse she was riding. Yes, that had been her intention, when she'd told the story. It had indeed spread like wildfire, even crossing clan-lines. Unfortunately quite a lot of people had embroidered on to it. Fat Tulkun for a start. He enjoyed storytelling and could be led into it, very easily, with just a small amount of Kumiss. He was being given enough to float a boat. And more he drank, the more grandiose the story got, with more embellishments. The Mongol loved it. Tulkun could probably live out his days in the Lands of the Golden Horde as a successful storyteller, growing fatter with every Ger he visited.

He was the one who had furnished the details about Orkhan Tortoise. Must be a lost clan, he'd said with a twinkle, from far off Iceland. She was sure that he'd said it as a joke. The only trouble was most of the Golden Horde Mongol—even the clan-heads—were, as often as not, illiterate. Many of them had never seen the sea . . . So: naturally their language had changed after all this time. That was why he struggled to speak it in a way that Mongol could understand . . . It was living in the ice that had made their hair so pale . . .

Of course he HAD to start that story
after
she had let a few people into the joke that Erik—Orkhan Tortoise, thought that she was just a soldier's daughter. She'd subtly pumped him as to what he thought her status was. The daughter of a warrior from the imperial guard? That was true, in a way. Her father had commanded that Khesig, before he became Orkhan. By now, it seemed, she would struggle to find a person in the entire Mongol nation who would not earnestly tell the foreign Orkhan that she was a humble Mongol maid. Some might even manage to keep a straight face. And they all thought it was ROMANTIC. It added a dimension to the story that brought all the women, even the ones whose clan had nothing to do with the Hawk, into an eager audience. She hadn't realized that she had had a reputation of being as unapproachable as the Princess Khutulun, before Khutulun had met and fought the Great Khan Ulaghchi—who was at that time a homeless, impoverished exile, traveling incognito as a wandering hire-warrior—and he had won her diamond-hard heart. She could see the parallels they drew. It wasn't true, of course. Erik was an outlander.
Not
a Mongol. How could they think he was a Mongol with his features and his fine white-blond hair?

It was gradually brought home to her that most of the women didn't care. And many of the respectable maidens would be very willing to drag him off to the nearest patch of woods, or just behind the family ger if there were no woods handy. A patch of snow would do. And he might need it, judging by some of the very leading questions being asked.

And Kildai,
dear
little brother, thought it absolutely, screamingly, funny. He had heard, from David, a fair amount of lore about Erik. It would seem her brother's horseboy friend, and closet advisor, knew a great deal about the man, and probably thought it just as funny, thought Bortai, savagely. "Well, brother," she snapped finally, "you are so full of big talk. You would be well served if it was true. If I ran off with some foreigner. What would you say then, eh?" Her suitors had all been arranged. But the clan—via its heritage from Princess Khutulun—believed in the right of refusal. So far she'd found little reason not to use it. Of course, being Bortai, she'd used the traditional way to get rid of the suitors. And unlike Khutulun, she'd found few men prepared to wager a hundred horses against her hand.

"I'd say it served both of you right." Then, as he occasionally did, her little brother surprised her with his own seriousness. "I think maybe Khan Ulaghchi had it wrong, Bortai. The Ilkhan still rules, and they allow intermarriage there. And let us be honest, it happened here too. Everyone claims that they're descended from Chinngis Khan himself. But half of them don't look any more Mongol that the Székely do. And look at David. He looks more like a Mongol than most Mongol do. But he isn't."

Bortai knew that was true. Some Golden Horde Mongols even had blond hair . . . Hair dye worked well. "But that is them. Not us. We DO know our ancestry. And I am not interested."

"That cuts both ways," said Kildai. "David says women everywhere try to get his attention. He doesn't even know that they're alive. David says he was in love with some Vinlander girl, and she got killed."

"Oh. Tell me about it? What else did he say?"

"I thought you weren't interested?"

"He is a good man. Very kind. A clever Orkhan. I can want to know about him without being interested . . . like that." Bortai felt unusually foolish. As if it was she who was fourteen and he who was twenty three.

"Then ask him about it."

"I will."

"Her name was Svanhild."

"What a strange name."

* * *

She had resolved to let Erik know that this foolishness had gone far enough. Or possibly just to avoid the orkhan Erik. Unfortunately, when they met the next day she managed to do neither. He smiled. Looked faintly concerned. "You are pale. Let me get you a seat. Something to drink?"

And that brought back memories of his kindness when they had fled and he had rescued themon the edge of Illyria. She rubbed her eyes hastily. "I am fine."

"I haven't upset you . . . or offended you again have I? I am not very good at your language."

And that brought back his initial greeting and the offer of his ger to her. She really must make sure that he did not say that to any of the over-eager maidens. It could get him into all sorts of trouble. The thought of some of their probable reactions to this invitation brought a snort of laughter.

"That's better. I am more used to you laughing at me."

She rushed the ditch. "Orkhan Erik," she blurted. "Tell me about Svanhild?"

His face went bleak. More bleak than she'd ever seen it. "Manfred. He can't leave well enough alone . . ."

"N . . .no. It was David."

"Oh. He had it from Kari, I suppose. Kari was a Thordarsen retainer."

"I am sorry. I did not mean to offend . . ."

He smiled. It was a sad smile, but a smile none-the-less. "It's all right. I suppose . . . I suppose that it is just that everyone avoids mentioning her to me. You're the first person to do so, I think."

"Would you tell me? Tell me about her?"

He was silent for a while. And then he nodded. "Yes," he said. "Yes I think I would like to do that. I'm . . . scared to remember. But I am also afraid that I might forget. I loved her with all my heart," he said, quietly. "I would have died for her. I very nearly did. Benito saved me. Manfred kept me alive. And sometimes I wonder if they should have."

Bortai shook her head vehemently. "The Tengeri decide when it is your time. Besides SHE did not went you die. I know this." And it was true. She did.

She squatted down. Motioned to him to do the same. "Now. You will tell me. She would want the story told. I would want mine told. And she would not want you to be unhappy."

* * *

So Erik Hakkonsen talked. The language limited him, but he was a man who had always struggled to express emotion anyway. At first it was hard. A trickle of words, gently encouraged. And then it was like a torrent, as if a dam inside him that had wanted to burst for a year had finally given wat.

Then, when the last part had been told, Bortai said something which healed a wound inside him, that he thought would be open there forever. "Her spirit must run with the great horses across heaven. What more could any woman have desired: to have loved and been loved like that?"

"I wanted to give her so much more."

She looked at him sternly. She could be very imperious in her looks. "It is not what you wanted to give that is important. It is what she wanted to receive. You gave her that. Never doubt it."

"I had the slut killed, of course. But it does downgrade Vlad's value. And increase his sister's."

Mindaug nodded politely, to disguise his true thoughts. Elizabeth Bartholdy was far too reliant on demonic power. Did she not realize that in magic symbolism was vital—but that it was superseded by actuality in spells of these sorts? It was true enough that virginity was symbolic of innocence and purity. But in a rite such as this, what mattered was the spiritual, not the physical, reality. A woman who had been drugged before being violated was still pure, whereas a woman with an intact hymen did not necessarily qualify.

There were those who went to their weddings with that hymen intact, and had no more innocence than a brothel-keeper. Elizabeth knew nothing of Vlad's sister except her age. And that too was no guarantee that she had been allowed to stay virginal in the magical sense. Look at Elizabeth herself. She had probably not been spiritually virginal since the age of five.

They walked across the chapel. It would be impossible to tell, without the most minute examination, that the cross had been broken and rejoined with a mixture of excreta and menstrual blood. But the pentacle on the floor was easily enough seen once the carpet was rolled back. A carpet was very unusual in a chapel, but no one asked why she had had it placed there.

There was a little inscription in Latin beneath the cross. Hard to read unless you came very close.
Pater noster, qui erat in caelis
. "Our father who was in heaven." Foolish to have such visible evidence. But that was an intrinsic part of the worship and the magic of the path she had chosen to follow. To flaunt and taunt. To claim that one's survival was a demonstration of their master's power.

It was none of his business. If she wanted to take chances, that was her problem. Mindaug was merely here to help her set her trap. The altar would be well used, for the orgy of blood she needed. The dungeon was already filling with the material she had collected for it. It just lacked its prime victims.

The trap would remove much of the dragon's magical power. Make him—or the girl—an easy prey for her spells. Make the reversal and defilement she planned possible.

The count wondered if Elizabeth realized that it would affect her too, inside the circles. She would be as mortal as Vlad, when she went inside the area of containment, to the altar. Mindaug himself would certainly not take such a risk. The dragon was . . . dangerous.

* * *

Not since she had discovered the wyverns, had Dana had so much excitement. It wasn't entirely pleasant. Miu had returned from the north. Alone. With bad news for the tribe. They were in shock and mourning. And yet there was some good news—in the shape of a letter from her brother. Dana was beginning to wonder if words could wear out with reading. Her mother was certainly trying.

And then came a further surprise, in the shape of three scruffy looking men. The gypsies were suspicious. But Miu recognized the leader of the party as just what he claimed to be: one of Vlad's trusted sergeants. Emil respectfully informed Dana's mother that they had been sent to help guard them, and to provide escorts for them. Prince Vlad was deeply concerned about their safety.

They'd had a flurry of snows and cold, bitter weather, and then the skies had cleared a little. Vlad took advantage of the lull in winter's fury to organize some exercises with his mounted infantry. He also took this as an opportunity to visit and put his stamp on the Székely fortified villages. He went further south along the mountains than he'd been before. The Székeler were, if anything, too hospitable. They had been the barrier to Mongol raiders for centuries. The Buz u river valley—which the Mongol called the Iret, had been one of the routes that Vlad had followed. It was steep, snowy and forested. The tale of his exploits on the plains had spread, and besides, some of the new cannons had arrived in their fortress. Cannon from their overlord! Overlords took, they did not give, especially not weapons that might be used against them! He was plainly mad, but great. The Székelers there took him to a ridge line where he could see far into the lowlands. And pointed out something no prince fighting a war wants to see.

A large army. At least twenty thousand strong. On the move. In winter.

The Mongols had done that historically, Vlad knew, using frozen rivers as roads, using speed and the unexpectedness of an attack in winter to destroy their enemies. "It's all right Drac. They're not coming up here. They're hunting the women and children from the local Mongol clans. We saw them root a bunch out. They have them in a stockade a bit further down the Iret. There is a war going on down there."

Vlad took a deep breath of the dry, cold air. "Do you know where the stockade is?" he asked, weighing matters in his mind.

The Székeler nodded. "You can see it from Coltii."

"Take me there. And I will need two of your best riders to bear a message for me back to Primore Gabor Peter who is in Berek with my troops. I need it done as fast as possible. They must get a change of horses at Csomak rös. The Primore Peter will carry the message further."

Within the hour the messengers were off, eager to prove to their Count just how fast they could be. And Vlad was off to go and look at the stockade.

It was pale predawn. Erik and Manfred were at their usual morning's fencing. The always attracted a few watchers. Manfred noticed, with amusement, that Bortai was always there, despite the cold and the hour. She and Erik seemed, heh, to be frequently seen together. "Prince!" called someone from the sidelines.

"Up swords." They stopped.

Manfred recognized the fellow as the taciturn scarred man who had commanded Vlad's handful of Székeler cavalry on the plains. He did not speak much Frankish. But knew enough to say "Message for you, Prince," and hand Manfred the roll of vellum.

The fellow was staying in Berek with Vlad's growing corps. He seemed, for his sins, to have been saddled with preparing Vlad's gun-wagons and their crews. Vlad's encampment was a good mile and half further into the mountains. The Székeler Captain must have left well before first light to be here already.