The Gathering Storm

“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.”

Sibold shuddered all over. “A nasty piece of work, those shrunken heads.” He had a sly gaze, a little impertinent, but part of his particular value as a soldier was his reckless streak. “They say that Lady Bertha didn’t bury her mother’s head when she took it off Bulkezu but carries it with her as a talisman. Is that true, my lord prince?”

“You can ask her yourself, Sibold.”

The soldier laughed. “I pray you will not command me to, my lord. She frightens me. She’s cold, that one. I think she may be half mad.”

“Sibold.”

He ducked his head, but the grin still flashed. “Begging your pardon, my lord prince.”

“Here is the shaman, my lord prince.” Breschius moved aside to make room on the platform as Fulk returned with Gyasi.

“What does this mean?” Sanglant indicated the single horseman and the mass of riders beyond.

“He are a messenger, great lord.” He lifted his hands to frame his mouth and let loose a trilling yell.

The rider started noticeably but recovered quickly and urged his mount forward again, halting just beyond the shadow of the wall. He called out in the Quman tongue.

“Great lord, this young worm names himself as the messenger of the mother of Bulkezu, who have come seeking the man who keeps as a prisoner her son.”

“Go on.”

“The mother of Bulkezu wish to know what you want to trade for her son.”