PROLOGUE (57 page)

"My lord p prince." The voice was ragged and almost incoherent with fear. Four of the young lordlings had taken refuge behind a massive elm, now stripped of foliage. They had three horses between them. As soon as they saw that Ekkehard was safe, they all blundered out into the snowy forest, aiming in no certain direction but only away from the refuge where they had so hopefully taken shelter the night before.

Hanna glimpsed a handful of other figures retreating far off to one side. Was that Gotfrid? She couldn't be sure, and she dared not call out to him, and anyway, he was already gone, lost beyond the veil of snow and the ranks of evergreens. Maybe she had only dreamed them. Maybe it was the shadow elves, circling around in order to ambush them somewhere else.

One of the boys was weeping, "Lothar's dead. Lothar's dead."

Ekkehard said, in a breathless voice, "Shut up, Manegold. They'll hear us."

"As if we aren't making the noise of an army," muttered Frithuric.

Lord Welf still had hold of the banner, although the haft had got
child
or
flame
ten broken off halfway, and the young man was so dispirited that he dragged it through the snow as he stumbled on. Snow fell densely around them, soft and silent, until Hanna thought they would be buried alive.

After a long time, Benedict said in
a
whisper, "I think we've escaped them."

They all stumbled to a stop, breath billowing white in the cold air. The horses whickered nervously. Frithuric coughed. Ekkehard hissed a warning. They stood there with the trees all around them half invisible through the falling snow. It was utterly silent, except for the delicate shift of snow through branches and the merest whisper of wind through the crowns of trees. Because of the falling snow, Hanna couldn't see more than a stone's toss in any direction, but it all looked the same anyway: snow and trees, trees and snow.

"We're lost," said Lord Benedict finally in a very small, very frightened voice.

"I'm going to barf," said Lord Welf suddenly.

"My foot hurts," said Ekkehard, sounding surprised.

"We're all going to freeze out here," said Hanna sensibly, "if we don't keep moving. We mustn't believe we've escaped those those shades. Whatever they were."

"They're the ancient ones," whined Manegold, half frantic, almost babbling, "who were cursed for being pagans and foul murderers who cut up babies on their altars. They were cursed to walk as ghosts forever. That's why they hate us. My old nurse told me stories—"

"All the more reason to keep moving," snapped Hanna, hoping a firm hand would get them going.

So it did. She'd learned that trick from her mother when it came time to get drunken men out of the inn and off to their homes late at night.

She grabbed the reins out of the prince's hands and pushed forward. There was no point in caring what direction they went now, except away from where they'd come. She supposed that the shades of the Aoi would have no trouble tracking them down no matter what the weather, but she'd be damned if she'd stand here waiting for them to take her unawares from the back. Let her die if she must, but as she'd said to Gotfrid not that many hours before, she'd really prefer to keep on living even if she wasn't going to get a nice hot cup of spiced wine for her trouble.

Ekkehard and his comrades followed smartly. For all their complaining, they were strong young men, well fed, strengthened by riding and weapons drill, and so scared that none of them wanted to be the one to fall behind.

Hanna's feet felt like ice and her hands were freezing. Flakes of snow stuck to her eyelashes. She flinched at every least crack and hiss from the snow-laden trees around them, but she pressed on determinedly. As long as they were moving, they weren't dead.

That was the only thing she was sure of right now.

The trees looked denser up ahead, although it was hard to tell anything for sure through the snow. A crowded line of trees like that, matted with underbrush, usually signaled a settlement or a stream. If it were the former, then they'd have shelter. If the latter, then they could follow its frozen path more easily through the forest, hoping it would lead them eventually to a place of refuge.

She reached the edge of the trees and found a deer trail, still visible because the snow made a trough where the path cut through the trees. Was that smoke she smelled? But the smell was gone quickly, nothing but a wish fled like mist under the morning sun. It began to snow harder. If they didn't find shelter soon, they would die.

The path cut around a corner. She glimpsed an opening through a curtain of branches.

"Wait!" cried one of the young lords behind her.

Too late she remembered caution. The shadow elves weren't the only enemies they were running from. But she had already taken enough of a step. Her calf caught on a trip wire, and she flew headlong, hit a slope tumbling, and slid and rolled down until she came to rest, dizzy and shaken, on her back in the snow under a cold, hard sky. It had, abruptly, stopped snowing.

The spear point came first, neatly shoved right up to the bridge of her nose. With an effort, eyes almost crossing, she focused away from that light but deadly pressure. Someone was holding that spear, someone big and very solid, not a shade at all but quite horribly real.

The hideous and most menacing thing about him was that he had gleaming iron wings and no face, only a flat iron-gray visor with eyeholes.

With something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, he twisted off his helmet without letting slip his grip on the spear. Glossy black hair spilled over his shoulders like silk. Still stupefied, Hanna stared up into the face of the handsomest man she'd ever laid eyes on: A Quman warrior wearing the wings of a griffin.

THEY had blundered into the camp of the Quman raiding party.

Of course. Their luck could hardly get any worse.

She didn't dare move, even though the snow was leaking in through her clothing, making her skin sting. Men called out to each other in an incomprehensible language. A horse neighed in challenge.

Was that the sound of a skirmish? Or only the ring of cooking pots clanging together? She listened for Ekkehard's voice but heard nothing.

The warrior lifted his spear point from her face and handed it to someone unseen. He dropped to his knees beside her and, with an expression of astonished delight, reached down to touch her hair. She clenched her jaw, willing herself not to react as he traced a line down to her ear and picked up what remained of her braid, fingering it as if it were the most precious substance he'd ever encountered.

The unexpected beauty of his face, together with the knowledge that she was probably just about to have her throat slit, stunned her. He had a dark complexion, piercingly dark eyes, a scant mustache, and a wisp of a beard, but it was the elegant shape of his face, the dimple in his left cheek, and the brightness of his expression that marked him most. By this time his hair had fallen down over his

shoulders, spilling everywhere, so glorious that she had an insane urge to touch it.

Until, that is, her gaze fastened on the gruesome ornament dangling from his belt. The shrunken head swayed gently. Its grisly face, so revolting with those distorted features and blackened skin, swung in and out of her view. There was something nause-atingly familiar about it, maybe only that it was a human face and had once, not long ago, ornamented a living, breathing person rather than a savage's belt. The hair that crowned it had a sickly orange-brown hue, as though the poor dead man had once had hair as light as her own before it had been dipped in a noxious dye.

A voice called out. Her captor stood up, attention skipping so quickly away from her that she risked levering herself up on an elbow. No one leaped in to slaughter her, so she was able to watch as the prince—what else could he be, with those griffin wings and that swagger?—walked across the clearing to regard his captives.

They had Ekkehard and his four remaining comrades trussed up like birds being taken to the cooking pot. One of the Quman soldiers tossed a scrap of cloth to the prince. At first, the breadth of his wings hid him from Hanna's view. From this angle she saw clearly the harness attached to his lamellar armor, curving wood wings fletched by griffin feathers. Breschius had told her about griffin feathers. Only the greatest Quman heroes wore them, since they had to kill and pluck the beast themselves.

He turned sideways to shake out the banner, laughing as he saw Ekkehard's standard embroidered there: a golden harp and lion salient on a red field. He seemed to find the strangest things amusing. With a sharp whistle, he summoned to his side a man of indeterminate years but classic Wendish features. They spoke together. The Wendish man turned to regard the five youths with a sour frown.

"Which of you rates this banner, then?"

Ekkehard and company stood stubbornly silent.

The Wendish man spat on the snow.” Oh, for the love of the blessed Daisan, do you want yer cock cut off or not, for they'll not be hesitating if you don't give them satisfaction. Don't be thinking there's any bargaining with His Pompousness here." As he spoke the insulting name, he bowed with outward respect to the man with the glorious hair.” Because let me tell you, you're lucky you're not all lying dead. He wants to know whose banner it is, and if any of you have the right to it."

As boldly as he could, given the rope binding his wrists, the condition of his hair and face, and the rips and stains in his clothing, Prince Ekkehard stepped forward.” I am Ekkehard, son of King Henry, royal prince of the realm of Wendar and Varre. I wear the gold torque to mark my kinship to the royal house. Spare our lives, and I vouch that my father will pay a worthy ransom for us."

The interpreter stopped listening after the words "gold torque," and spoke quickly to his master.

The Quman prince listened intently. He seemed to have forgotten Hanna, or else he was the kind of man who only did one thing at a time. Cautiously, she ventured to sit all the way up.

The Quman camp consisted of one large round tent imperfectly camouflaged by a coating of snow and about a dozen smaller round tents, each one big enough for four men to sleep in. A long and slender standard dangled from the center post of each tent, white cloth marked with three raking stripes. After a moment, she recognized what it must be: the claw's rake, mark of the Pechanek clan. Lady Fortune was surely laughing at Hanna today: she had fallen in with a raiding party from the tribe of Bulkezu himself, leader of the Quman army.

The prince stepped forward to unpin Ekkehard's cloak, pull down the front of his tunic, and run a finger along the twisted gold braids of Ekkehard's torque. For an instant, Hanna expected him to rip the torque right off Ekkehard's neck, because surely that's what savages did in their lust for gold. But he only grunted and stepped back without further molesting Ekkehard. With a grand gesture, he spoke, then waited for the interpreter's translation.

"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 damned 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, God, 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.