The Gathering Storm (23 page)

“These two are Jinna, are they not?” he asked Breschius. “Are they believers?”

“Do you see the brand on their cheeks?”

“Is that their slave mark?”

“Nay, my lord prince. Or rather, I should say, yes, but not in the way you think. Every young Jinna man marks himself in this way when he becomes an adult. It is the way he enslaves himself to the god’s worship. No Jinna man may marry if he has not branded himself a slave to their fire god.”

“Yet it’s men who made them slaves on Earth, not their god. Tell them they may go free if they wish.”

“I do not speak their language, my lord prince.” He spoke to them anyway, giving up when they made no response. “They must not be merchants, my lord, or they would know at least one of the languages commonly used by traders.”

“Then we must hope that gesture will suffice. What of these Quman? But you do not speak Quman as well as did Brother Zacharias, do you, Breschius?”

Anger flowed back quickly, although he had thought he
had banished it. He clenched his left fist and glanced toward Blessing’s cell. In the interval while he was gone she had fallen quiet. Maybe she had just screamed herself hoarse.

“Very poorly, my lord prince. I never preached among the Quman. I beg your pardon—”

Before Sanglant could respond, the old tattooed Quman man lifted both hands, palms facing the heavens. “Great lord,” he said in passable Wendish, “hear me, who goes by the name Gyasi. Many seasons ago, when I am young, the spirits speak into my ear at that day when the moon is dark and hungry. They tell—told—me that in the time to come, a child will save me from the iron rope. Her I must serve. So it happens, this day, that their prophecy comes to pass. I act as the spirits tell me. I do not disobey my ancestors. I will be as a slave to your daughter. These sons of my tribe will also follow her.”

“Where did you learn to speak Wendish?” asked Sanglant.

“In our tribe, we keep slaves from the western people. I can speak the language of all the slaves of my tribe. This way, they obey the
begh
and his mother. There is less trouble.”

“On their left shoulder they bear scars,” said Breschius. “The wolf’s muzzle, the mark of the Kirshat clan.”

“How did you come to be a slave?” asked Sanglant. “You wear the markings of a shaman. How can such a powerful man become a slave?”

“I refused to heed the call of the Pechanek
begh
when he calls for war against the western lands. I tell—told—the war council that Kirshat clan should not follow that Pechanek whore, Bulkezu. But they send their sons to him because they fear him. As punishment for bad advice, they sell—sold—me and my sisters’ sons into slavery. Three have died. These six, the strong ones, survive.”

“Bulkezu!” Sanglant laughed. “Bulkezu will trouble you no more. I hold him as my prisoner, here in this camp.”

The old shaman nodded, unmoved by this revelation. “The spirits told me of Bulkezu’s fate.” He turned to his nephews, speaking in the Quman language. Two spat on the ground. A third laughed; the last two grinned. There was something uncomfortable about the merry gleam in their expressions,
the crinkling of eyes, and the gleeful baring of teeth as they contemplated the downfall of their enemy.

“You are a great lord, in truth,” added Gyasi, “to humble Bulkezu. But you wear no griffin wings. How can you defeat the man who killed two griffins? Bulkezu is still greater than you.”

“We shall see. I march east to hunt griffins.”

The shaman’s eyes widened. He tapped his forehead twice on a clenched hand, touched both shoulders, and patted his chest over his breastbone, across a tattoo depicting a bareheaded man copulating with a crested griffin. “That is a fearsome path, great lord. You may die.”

Sanglant smiled, although he had long since ceased to find his mother’s curse amusing. “No creature male nor female may kill me. I do not fear the griffins. Can you guide me across the grasslands to the nesting grounds of the griffins?”

“Nay, great lord. Mine is the power of the wolf, to stalk the ibex and the deer. I am not a griffin fighter. The secrets of the nesting grounds have been lost to our people. No warrior in three generations among the Kirshat tribe has worn griffin wings. We are a weak clan now. Our mothers die young. Our
beghs
have forgotten how to listen to the wisdom of old women. That is why the war council did not refuse when Bulkezu demanded soldiers for his army.”

A shout rose from the guard on watch, followed by the call of the horn, three Mats, signifying that an enemy approached. Soldiers hurried out of the shade where they had been resting, lifting shields, hoisting bows or spears, and headed for the vulnerable gate. The slaves looked up, but did not rise. Sanglant jogged over to the guard tower that flanked the gate. Up on the walls facing northeast, men gestured and pointed. Fulk and Hathui followed him while Sergeant Cobbo herded the remaining slaves back to the cell where Blessing broke her silence and began to cry out again.

“Let me out! Let me out! Anna! I want you! Daddy!”

Sanglant clambered up on the wall to the crumbling guard tower with Fulk and Hathui beside him. The pair of guards on duty—Sibold and Fremen—muttered to each other as they watched. They had marked the riders because of dust,
although the troop was still too far away to make out numbers and identifying marks.

Below, in the gate, a dozen men were pulling back the bridge of planks thrown over the pit. Shadow concealed the depths of that steep-sided ditch where Bulkezu was imprisoned. Was Bulkezu moving along the base of the pit, alert to the new development? Already Sanglant heard the unmistakable flutter and whir of wings, faint but distinctive. He shaded his eyes as he squinted westward at the riders approaching the fort through rolling grasslands that stretched out north and west to the horizon.

“Quman,” he said to Fulk.

Fulk shouted down into the courtyard. “Get Lewenhardt up here!” He shaded his eyes, peering at the cloud of dust. “Are you sure, my lord prince? I can’t see well enough.”

“I hear wings.”

“Sibold,” ordered Fulk, “sound the horn again. I want every man along the wall and a barrier thrown up at the gate to reinforce the ditch.
Quman
.”

Sibold swore merrily before blowing three sharp bats on the horn. Half the men had assembled and the rest came running, buckling on helmets or fastening leather brigandines around their torsos. Above the clatter and shouting Sanglant heard his daughter’s muffled shrieks from the cell where he had ordered her shut in.

“My lord prince!” Lewenhardt scrambled up the ladder to the watchtower platform and leaned out as far as he dared over the railing. He wore a ridiculous floppy-brimmed hat that shaded his eyes better than a hand could.

Sanglant set fists on the wall, rubbing the coarse bricks until all thought of Blessing was rubbed out of his mind and he could concentrate on the distant sound that he alone, so far, could hear. He blocked out all other distractions, the sound of planks being dragged across dirt, boots scraping on steps and ladders as men climbed into position along the walls, the sobs of Blessing, a bell ringing in the town… as he listened for the sough of wind through grass, the beat of the sun on earth, the rumble of distant hooves, and the whistle of wings. He listened to their pitch and intensity.

“Griffin wings.” He braced himself to get a better look.

Was that a thin shriek caught on the wind, a man crying out in fear and pain? It happened too fast, cut short. He could not be sure.

The wings sang, not in a great chorus and yet more than a few individual voices.

“Not much more than fifty,” he said. “Certainly less than one hundred.”

“That’s a fair lot of dust they’re kicking up,” commented Fulk. “Can they be so few?”

“More than one hundred,” said Lewenhardt. “Perhaps as many as two hundred. They don’t all have wings.”

“How can they not have wings?” demanded Fulk.

“Where is Brother Breschius?” asked Sanglant.

“Fremen,” said Fulk, “fetch the good brother.”

Sanglant looked back toward town, visible from here as a jumble of walls and roofs broken by the high tower of the governor’s palace and the pale dome marking the Jinna temple. The steady slope of the ground toward the sea caused the land to melt into a shimmering dark flat, the expanse of peaceful waters. Ships were cutting loose from the quay, oars beating as they moved away from the port to escape a possible attack on the town. The ship Wolfhere had escaped on was already out of sight; according to Robert of Salia, who had found Blessing and her new retinue and escorted them back to the camp, that ship had left the harbor before Sanglant had even got the message that Blessing had vanished.

Ai, God, what was he to do with his unnatural daughter?

How had he been so stupid as to trust Wolfhere?

“I see their wings!” cried Sibold triumphantly.

“God Above!” swore Lewenhardt as other men along the wall got a better look at the riders. The restless glimmer of wings flashed in the light drawn out across grass, sun caught in white and gray feathers.

“What do you see?” He brushed his fingers along his sword hilt.

“I see griffin wings, my lord prince. One pair. And towers, fitted with gold.”

Men hammered away down, knocking beams and wagons into place on either side of the pit.

“A hard barrier to cross,” observed Sanglant as he looked down, “but not impossible. Here comes the frater. Perhaps he knows the secret of these towers.”

Fremen came running back with the middle-aged frater in tow. Breschius had some trouble with the ladder because he only had the one hand, but he used his elbow to hook the rungs and hold himself while he shifted his remaining hand and moved up his feet. By the time he got to the top, the approaching riders were slowing down as they neared the fort. The soldiers setting the barricade in place on the outer side of the pit ran across the last two planks, which were then drawn back into the fort. The town had sealed its gates. The great bell ceased tolling.

“We’re on our own,” said Fulk, a little amused. “We’ve no friends among the townsfolk. Did the governor not like you, my lord prince?”

“The governor does not trust us, Captain. Why should she welcome an army of our size into her territory? If she fights us, she may win, but she and her troops and her town will suffer. If she loses, then she loses all. I suppose she hopes we’ll take the brunt of the attack and allow her to finish off the rest.”

“But we outnumber them.”

“The governor? Or those Quman?”

Fulk laughed. “They are wise to fear you, my lord prince.”

“Are they?” Or was he simply a fool, chasing madness? The moment he first saw the port town and the broad grasslands spreading north from the sea, he knew he had ridden into a world unlike anything he had ever experienced. With Zacharias gone and possibly dead, he was more than ever dependent on Bulkezu’s knowledge. Bulkezu would have many opportunities to betray him or lead him and his army astray. Bulkezu was smart enough to kill them, if he chose to sacrifice himself with them. Yet in such a vast expanse, how could Sanglant track down griffins and sorcerers without the help of someone who knew the land?

“Women!” said Lewenhardt, laughing. “There are Quman warriors with that troop, but there are women as well. Those towers are their crowns. They’re hats, of a kind.”

“I didn’t know the Quman had women,” said Sibold, hefting
his spear. “I thought they bred with wolf bitches and she-cats.”

“It’s true that Quman women wear crowns like these towers,” said Breschius. “I’ve seen none of them close at hand, myself.”

“Not more than two hundred riders,” said Fulk. “Look at their standard. They bear the mark of the Pechanek tribe.”

“Ah.” Sanglant nodded. “That makes sense. They’ve come for Bulkezu.”

“Do you think so, my lord prince? How would they know we were here, and that we had him?”

“Their shamans have power,” said Breschius, “although nothing compared to the power of the Kerayit sorcerer women.”

“Quman magic killed Bayan,” said Sanglant. “My lord!” said Fulk. “If they are after you—!”

“Nay, do not fear for
me
, Captain. Their magic cannot harm me.” He touched the amulet that hung at his chest, but the stone made him think of Wolfhere and that made him angry all over again. He must not think about the Eagle’s betrayal, and his own gullibility. He must concentrate on what lay before him.

The riders came to a stop at about the limit of the range of a ballista, close enough to get a good estimate of their numbers and appearance but not so close that the men in the fort could pick out details and faces. No more than sixty wore wings, but the griffin-winged rider shone beyond the rest, glittering and perilous. About thirty of the riders wore conical hats trimmed with gold plates. One of these hats was so tall, at least as long as Sanglant’s arm, that he could not imagine how a person could ride and keep it on her head.

A youthful figure wearing neither wings nor one of the towering hats broke forward from the group, balancing a limp burden across the withers of the horse.

“Lewenhardt, what is it the rider bears before him?”

“It is a corpse, my lord prince.”

When the rider reached the halfway point between the Quman and the fort, he tipped the burden off the horse and onto the ground.

Lewenhardt winced. “I think that corpse may be the slave who ran from us, my lord prince.”

“And into their grasp, may God have mercy on his soul. Captain, fetch the shaman, the one who calls himself Gyasi.”

“Can you trust him, my lord prince?”

“We’ve no one else who can interpret for us. He can prove his worth, or the lack of it.”

Fulk clambered down the ladder.

The rider approached to within arrow shot of the walls before reining in his horse.

“That boy’s not more than twelve or fourteen years of age, I should think,” said Lewenhardt.

“Showing off,” asked Sanglant, “or expendable?”

“I know little enough about the customs of the Quman, my lord prince,” said Breschius, “but no boy among them can call himself a man and wear wings on his back until he has killed a man. Thus, the heads they carry.”