The Gathering Storm

Page 34

“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 chieftain’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 wisewoman 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?