5

 He could not sleep.  Again.  Not even the soft bed and the voluptuous woman breathing softly beside him, her full breasts pressed against his arm, could soothe his agitated thoughts tonight.  He slipped from the bed as quietly as he could, pulled on his tunic, swept up leggings and belt and court shoes from the bench where they had been left in a heap.  Ilona did not wake.  She never did, when he was restless – not as Liath had, attentive to his moods – or perhaps she only pretended to sleep, having gotten what she wanted out of him and being unwilling to give more of herself than her body.

 She was loyal to Ungria, not to him, loyal to her estates and her young children, who would inherit her portion when the time came.  No reason she should offer him her heart, her confidences, any intimacy beyond that shared in the bed, two lonely people finding release.

 For some reason it bothered him mightily that, as much as she enjoyed his company, she seemed to harbor no actual love nor even any particular companionable affection for him at all.

 One of her serving women woke and, with barely a glance at him, no more than a respectful bob to acknowledge his princely rank, opened the door to let him out.  In this same way she would let out a scratching dog.

 He walked barefoot down the hall, down the stairs, feeling his way by touch to the entrance to the great hall.  The feast had ended.  Men snored in the hall, reeking of drink and urine.  A dog growled, and he growled right back, silencing it.

 The whole world seemed asleep, able to rest – as he could not.

 Yet that wasn’t all that was bothering him.  Something wasn’t right; he could smell it.  The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he stepped out into the open air, taking in a deep breath, listening.  His hearing had always been as good as that of a dog.

 Shouts and motion roiled the night over by the old keep, where the prisoners were kept.

 He ran, reaching the door to the keep just as Wolfhere did.

 “Trouble?” he asked.

 From inside a guardsman shouted unintelligible words and he heard the voice of the Eagle, Hathui, raised in fear.  Taking the stairs three at a time, he fetched up beside a clot of guardsmen, all crying out and exclaiming, one of them on his knees dropping stones through the open trap door.

 “Damn fool,” cursed one as Hathui tried to push past him to get to the ladder.  “The damn fool took a spear.  Now the prisoner’s got hold of it.”

 “Give me a sword,” said Sanglant.

 Malbert handed him a sword.  He grabbed it before dropping down through the trap, practically sliding down the rungs and slats with a single hand for balance.  His eyes had already adjusted for the dim light, although an oil lamp swung unsteadily to his right, creaking.

 Movement flashed in his vision.

 Leaping from the ladder he spun, sword raised, breaking the spear in two as Bulkezu thrust at the prostrate figure slumped against the opposite wall.  Left with only a splintered half, the Quman chieftain hefted it and threw it as a javelin at Sanglant’s torso.  With a cut of his sword, the prince struck it down in flight.

 Bulkezu hit the limit of his chains and came up short, jerked back by unyielding stone.  He was shaking – with laughter or with rage.  It was impossible to tell.  Was he mad, or merely feigning madness?  How could any man stand to be chained and a prisoner for as long as Bulkezu had been without succumbing to insane delusions?

 That ungodly cackle echoed within the stones.  “I’m a cleaner man than you, prince, because I rid myself of the worms that crawl into my tent.”

 “This one still lives.”

 “Oh, God, Zacharias.”  Without being asked, Hathui scrambled down the ladder to crouch beside her brother, who moaned and struggled, trying to get up.  “Nay, don’t try to stand.  You’re safe now.”

 “Does the worm have a paramour?” Bulkezu whispered.

 In the lamp’s mellow glow, Sanglant saw the cheiftain's lips still fixed in that mad smile.

 Hathui looked up, more curious than frightened now that her brother’s assailant was disarmed.  “Who is this, my lord prince?”  Then her expression changed so entirely that Sanglant stepped sideways, startled, as if her gaze were an arrow that he had to avoid.

 “I know who you are!” she exclaimed as Zacharias climbed groggily to his feet, a hand clapped to the back of his head.

 Bulkezu’s smile vanished.  His eyes narrowed as he stared at the Eagle, annoyed and puzzled.  He was always at his most dangerous when exasperated.

 “Hathui.”  Zacharias staggered forward between his sister and the chained prisoner.  “He’s dangerous.”

 “I know that.”  She stepped past him to confront Sanglant.  “My lord prince, I demand satisfaction.  His Majesty King Arnulf the Younger sent his subjects east to settle pagan lands and in exchange he promised they could rule themselves with the king alone, and no lady or lord, set over them as their ruler.  The king’s law sets a price for certain crimes, does it not?”

 “So it does,” said Sanglant, glancing at Bulkezu.  The prisoner clearly had no more idea than his captor did what she was talking about.

 “This man raped me when I was a virgin of but fourteen years of age.  He cut me, too, and after that the wise woman of my village said I would not be able to bear children.  So I set my sights on the King’s Eagles.  Otherwise I would have stayed in my village and inherited my mother’s lands, and had daughters of my own to inherit in their turn.  Do I not have a claim, my lord prince?”

 “He raped you, Hathui?” croaked Zacharias.  He looked around wildly, grabbed the broken haft of the spear, and hoisted it.

 “Stay.”  Sanglant yanked the spear out of the frater’s hand and tossed it against the ladder.  “Do nothing rash, Brother.  Is this true, Prince Bulkezu?”

 Bulkezu laughed again.  “One looks like another.  I don’t remember.  It must have been years ago.  But I recall clearly what I did to the worm.  Does she know, your paramour, that you have no cock, Zach’rias?  That we cut it off because you told us you’d rather lose your cock than your tongue?  Does she know that you let men use you as a woman, just so you could stay alive?  Does she know that you watched others die, because you wanted yourself to live?  That it is you who taught me to speak the Wendish language, so that I could understand the speech of my enemy without them knowing?”

 Zacharias screamed with rage and leaped toward Bulkezu.  Sanglant swung to grab him, but Hathui had already got hold of her older brother.  She stood almost as tall and had the strength of a woman who has spent years riding at the king’s behest.

 “Stay, brother, do nothing rash,” she said, echoing Sanglant’s words.  “What does it matter what this prisoner says to you or about you?”

 Despite himself, Sanglant took a half step away from the ragged frater, a little disgusted by Bulkezu’s accusations and repelled by the thought of a man so mutilated.  What kind of man would watch his own kind die without doing all he could to prevent it?  What kind of man would submit to any indignity, just to save his own life?  For God’s sake, what kind of man would rather lose his penis than his tongue?

 “What answer do you make to these accusations?” he asked, struggling to keep contempt out of his tone.  It was remarkably easy to believe that Zacharias had done these vile things.  The frater never acted like a real man.  Whatever drove him – and he wasn’t without courage – he so often faltered, recoiled, and hid.  Nor had he ever truly become a full member of Sanglant’s court.  He loitered on the fringe, not quite accepted, never able to push himself forward to join with the others.

 To the prince’s surprise, the frater wept frustrated tears.  “All true,” he gasped.  “And worse.”  His expression was so bleak that pity swelled in Sanglant’s heart.  “I’m sorry, Hathui.  Scorn me if you must--”

 “Sorry for having been a slave for seven years to this monster?”  She dropped Zacharias’s arm, took three steps forward, and spat into Bulkezu’s face.  The Quman chieftain flinched back from her anger, more surprised than scared.  “I will lay my case before the prince and demand full recompense.  And for the crimes you committed against my brother as well.”  She did not wait for his response.  “Come, Zacharias.  It was foolish of you to come down here, but I suppose you were afraid that I would turn away from you if I knew the truth.”  Her anger hadn’t subsided;  it spilled out to wash over her hapless brother.  “I would never turn away from you.  What a man suffers when he is a prisoner and a slave, under duress, cannot be held against him.  Come now, let’s get out of this stinking pit.”

 Zacharias croaked out her name, broken and pathetic, but he followed her obediently up the ladder.  Malbert’s face appeared.

 “My lord prince?”

 “I’m coming,” said Sanglant, turning to pick up the two halves of the spear.

 Bulkezu wasn’t finished.  “She wore the badge of an Eagle.  Are all the king’s Eagles also his whores?”

 “A weak thrust, Prince Bulkezu, and unworthy of you.”  He set a foot on the lowest rung, stretched, and handed the broken spear to Malbert, then passed up the sword as well.

 Bulkezu’s lips had a way of quivering, almost a twitch, that Sanglant had learned to recognize as a prelude to his worst rages.  “What weapons do you give me?” he asked in that voice, as soft as feathers but poisoned at its heart.

 “I’ll give you a spear, as I promised, once you have guided me to the hunting grounds of the griffins.  On that day you’ll go free–-“

 ”And until that day?  You’d have done better to kill me if you’re so afraid of me that you must shackle me, as a dog must a lion.  At least Zach’rias is an honest worm.  You call yourself a man but you act like a dog, slinking and cowering.”

 Sanglant laughed.  That surge of restlessness that had driven him from Ilona’s bed swept back twice as strong.  For two years they’d made their slow and circuitous way eastward, delayed by blizzards, snow, high water, rains, and bouts of illness in the troops and the horses.  He had never seen as much rain and snow as he had in the year and a half since the battle at the Veser.  Rain had drenched the land, causing floods and mildew in the grain, and snow had buried it for two winters running, as if God were punishing them for their sins.

 But God’s hand alone had not caused all their troubles.  They had also been delayed by the necessity of making nice to King Geza, whose lands they had to cross.  He didn’t like Geza nearly as much as he’d liked Bayan, and Sapientia’s presence was a rankling sore, a constant source of frustration.

 Or perhaps it had just been too long since he’d had a good fight.

 “Malbert!”

 “Yes, my lord prince.”

 “Throw me down the key and pull up the ladder.”

 “My lord–!”

 “The key!”

 Cursing under his breath, Malbert hauled up the ladder through the trap door, then threw down the key, which Sanglant caught in his left hand.  Bulkezu did not move as Sanglant unlocked his wrists and tossed the key to the wall, but he struck first, still quick after months of being chained.  Sanglant ducked the blow.  Catching wrist and arm, he drove his foe headfirst against the stone wall.  Staggered, Bulkezu dropped to his knees, only to dive for Sanglant’s legs.  They went down together, rolling and punching, until Bulkezu sat for an instant atop Sanglant’s chest.  Bulkezu’s hands closed on his throat, but he twisted out of the choking grip, flipped the Quman over, and sprang back to his feet, laughing breathlessly, flushed, his heart pounding in a most gratifying manner as he allowed Bulkezu to crawl back to his feet in grim silence.

 Above, the lantern rocked as men crowded around the trap door to stare down.  He heard their whispers as they laid wagers on how many blows it would take their prince to lay the prisoner out flat.

 All at once he was tired of the charade.  What kind of contest was it, really, to fight a man chained up for almost two years?  Bulkezu remained remarkably strong, yet what kind of man was he, to torment another as Bloodheart had once tormented him?

 Bulkezu struck for his face.  Sanglant blocked the blow and delivered his own to Bulkezu’s gut, knocking him back, then stepped in, turning sideways as Bulkezu kicked out so the blow glanced off his thigh.  As he closed, Bulkezu lunged for his throat.  Sanglant seized his wrists and they froze a moment, locked, motionless.

 “No creature male or female may kill me,” Sanglant muttered, “so it was never a fair fight.”

 With a curse, Bulkezu twisted his hands free, spinning to strike with his elbow.  Sanglant caught the blow on his forearm and delivered a sharp punch below the ribs followed by a flurry of blows that made the men watching from above cheer.  Bulkezu collapsed limply to the ground.

 “On that day you’ll go free,” Sanglant repeated, “and we’ll see which man wins griffin feathers.”

 Malbert pushed down the ladder and climbed down, eager to help shackle the prisoner.

 “Nay, I will do it.”  Let him do the dirty work himself, chaining a warrior who would rather die fighting
than leashed like a slave--or a dog.  But perhaps Bulkezu deserved no better than the fate he had meted out to the many people he had enslaved and murdered.

 What was justice?  What was right?

 “Here’s the key,” he said, handing it to Malbert, glad to be rid of it, although he would never be rid of the responsibility for what he chose to do.

 Yet his night’s work wasn’t done.  He crawled up the ladder to discover that King Geza had been alerted by his own guard.  Sanglant met him just outside the keep.  The king came attended by a half dozen of his white-cloaked honor guard, young men with long mustaches and scant beards.  Geza was about ten years older than Bayan, rather more burly, gone a little to fat, and keenly intelligent.  He had the luck of the king, that powerful presence, but he lacked the wicked sense of humor that had made Bayan a good companion.

 “A problem with the prisoner?” he asked through his interpreter.  Was he suspicious, or amused?

 “He insulted my father,” replied Sanglant.

 “Ah.”  Geza spat on the ground to show his contempt for the prisoner.  “Is he dead now?”

 “Not until he’s given me what I need.”

 Geza nodded and took his leave, returning to his bed.  He had been grateful enough to get Bayan’s body back, and he had stinted in no way in making Sanglant a welcome guest in the kingdom of Ungria, yet it remained clear that he was only waiting for Sanglant and his army to leave and that he was by no means happy at the thought of that same army returning to cross Ungrian lands on their road back to Wendar.  He had even suggested that Sanglant take his army north into the war-torn Polenie lands.  Yet he didn’t want to fight Wendish troops either; after all, he and King Henry were nominally allies.  When Geza had offered one of his sons as a new husband for Sapientia, Sanglant had actually flirted with the idea – for the space of three breaths.

 As Geza and his entourage crossed the courtyard to the hall, Sanglant caught sight of Hathui and Zacharias over by the stables, she with her arm around his waist as if she were holding him up.  Wolfhere stood by the doorway, lighting their way with a lamp as they ducked inside.  How had Zacharias hidden his mutilation all these months?  No one had even suspected.  But then, Zacharias kept to himself, never truly part of the group, and in truth he stank because he so rarely washed.

 “My lord prince!”  Heribert hurried up, hair mussed and face puffy with sleep.  “Everyone is saying you killed Bulkezu.”

 “Rumor has already flown, I see.  Thank the Lord we’re moving on tomorrow.  These Ungrians sing too much.”

 “You haven’t complained of Lady Ilona’s attentions.”

 “She’s worst of all!  I’m nothing more than a stallion to her, brought in to breed the mare.  No more women, Heribert.”

 The cleric chuckled.  “Isn’t that what you said in Gent?”

 “I mean it this time!”

 Mercifully, Heribert did not answer, merely cocked an eyebrow, looking skeptical as he ran his fingers through his hair, trying to comb it down.  The first pre-dawn birds cried out, heralding the day to come.

 “The Ungrian camp followers will stay behind when we leave Geza’s kingdom.  Who will be left to tempt me?  Pray God the sorcerers we find will know how to get Liath back.”

 “Yet what lies beyond Ungria?  A trackless plain, so they say.  How will we find these griffins and sorcerers you seek?”

 Sanglant smiled, but in his heart he felt no peace, knowing that some choices were ugly, made for expediency’s sake rather than being ruled by what was just.  “That is why Bulkezu still lives.  He’ll guide me to the griffins in exchange for his freedom –- and a chance to kill me.”