Child of Flame

Gotfrid went on harshly. “I never knew what happened to the others, except for two of my men who were cut down by elfshot in the forest. We got scattered. We found Lord Thiemo, here,” he nodded toward the youth, “in the woods, and escaped as best we could. In the end we got taken by bandits. They were merciful. They took our weapons, cloaks, and belts, but they sold us to the slavers instead of killing us.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “That Eagle, she was a good woman. It pains my heart to have lost her.”

Bayan murmured under his breath so softly that Sanglant knew the words were not meant even for Sanglant’s ears. “As it does mine.”

“Ekkehard is dead?” asked Sapientia. “Young fool.” She wiped a tear from her eye as though she’d copied the movement from the old Lion.

“I heard otherwise,” said Sanglant. “There’s a rumor heard as far north as Walburg that Ekkehard has turned his coat and is riding with Bulkezu.”

Lord Thiemo leaped up. “It’s not true! Ekkehard would never act the traitor. He’d never betray the king. If his father had only given him what he deserved—”

“Quiet!” Blessing’s voice cracked like a whip over the youth’s protest. “Don’t yell at my Daddy. I don’t like that.”

Just like that, the youth dropped to one knee before her and bowed his head obediently. “Yes, my lady.”

No one snickered or even grinned as Blessing extended a hand to touch him lightly on the head. “Stand up, Lord Thiemo,” she commanded. “But don’t yell.”

“I think such rumors are not true,” said Bayan. “Maybe he fell, and his armor off his body was took, and now is being worn by a Quman thief.”

“I think it’s true,” muttered Sapientia, “or at least that it could be true. If you dangled enough sweets and enough flattery in front of Ekkehard, I swear I believe he would do anything.”

“Even that?” demanded Sanglant.

“You don’t know him as well as I do.”

It was hard, seeing the resentful purse of her mouth, the weakness that had troubled her heart for her entire life, to believe that she knew what she was talking about. She was always afraid that the person next to her at table was going to get a bigger cut of beef than she did.

“Come, Sapientia,” said Bayan hastily, appearing to know his wife’s moods very well, “you will judge which prisoners come free to serve in our army.”

“Come! Come!” echoed Blessing, dancing from foot to foot. “I want to see.” Not waiting for the others, she raced ahead, Anna and, belatedly, Lord Thiemo hurrying after her. “What’s that?” the girl shrieked, pointing toward the far wall of the old hill fort where, seen through various carts and stalls, the palanquin belonging to Bayan’s mother had come to rest. Her four slave bearers had hunkered down to wait. With the curtains pulled closed it was impossible to know from this distance what the Kerayit shaman was looking at, but Sanglant felt sure she was examining something worthy of interest. With Bayan and Sapientia beside him, he hastened after his child. His companions followed him.

Here in this quarter of the little market the slaves included Quman prisoners trussed up or shackled; even the children were considered dangerous enough to be bound. As they approached, poor Zacharias began nervously twisting one hand about the other wrist, as if remembering the chafing hold of a shackle. His right eye blinked alarmingly the closer they got to one sullen display of Quman prisoners.

“They stink so effusively,” said Heribert, waving a scrap of linen cloth in front of his nose as they approached the wagons belonging to a Wendish merchant, a stout woman with the gaze of a stoat spying on an untouched nest of eggs. “Is there any way to clean them up?”

Zacharias’ giggle was cut through by hysteria, barely suppressed. “Throw them in the river. They hate water.” He wiped his brow and looked ready to jump in the river himself.

“Courage, Brother Zacharias,” said Sanglant softly. Zacharias glanced at him in surprise and, with an effort, steadied his breathing and squared his shoulders like a man preparing for battle.

The merchant hurried forward to greet them. “My lord prince, I pray you are well come to this terrible place, and that you may find what you need here among my wares. I am called Mistress Otlinde, out of Osterburg, where your most noble aunt, Duchess Rotrudis, rules her subjects with a steady hand. My lord Druthmar! I have bided several times most rewardingly in the fine town of Walburg. Perhaps you may recall the fine silver silk damask my lady Waltharia selected from among my wares for your youngest son’s naming day?”