The Stone of Farewell (70 page)

“Vorzheva ... is ... no ... whore.”

Fikolmij propelled him back against the wagon's door. The prince left his arms dangling, making no attempt to defend himself as he was struck twice more. “You stole what was mine,” Fikolmij snarled, his face so close to Josua's that his braided beard rubbed on the prince's bloody shirtfront. “What would you call her, then? What did you use her for?”

Josua's red-smeared face, despite his injuries, had been full of a terrible calmness. Now, it seemed to break apart, dissolving into grief.

“I ... used her badly ...” He hung his head.

Utvart strode forward, drawing his sword from its tooled and beaded scabbard. The tip clicked against a ceiling beam. “Let me kill him,” he breathed. “Slow.”

Fikolmij looked up, eyes squinting fiercely. Sweat dripped from his face as he looked from Utvart to Josua, then lifted his thick-knuckled fist over the prince's head.

“Let me,” Utvart pleaded.

The March-thane hammered three times against the wall. The harnesses swayed, tinkling. “Hotvig!” he roared.

The wagon door opened. Hotvig entered, pushing a slender figure before him. The pair stopped just within the doorway.

“You heard all!” Fikolmij bellowed. “You betrayed your clan and me ... for
this!”
He gave Josua's shoulder a push. The prince fell back against the wall and slid to the floor.

Vorzheva burst into tears. Hotvig's restraining hand held her back as she leaned forward to touch the prince. Josua slowly lifted his head, staring at her distractedly from eyes that were beginning to swell shut. “You are alive,” was all he said.

She tried to pull away from her captor, but Hotvig grasped her close, ignoring the nails that raked at his arm, leaning his head away when she tried to reach his eyes.

“Randwarders caught her in the outer grazing march,” Fikolmij growled. He slapped at her lightly, angered by her struggling. “Be still, you faithless bitch! I should have drowned you in the Umstrejha at birth. You are worse than your mother, and she was the evilest cow I have ever known. Why do you waste your tears on this piece of dung?” He prodded Josua with his foot.

The prince's absorbed look had returned. He regarded the March-thane with dispassionate interest for a moment before turning to Vorzheva. “I am glad you are safe.”

“Safe!” Vorzheva laughed shrilly. “I love a man who does not want me. The man who
does
want me would use me like a brood mare and beat me if I ever left my knees!” She struggled in Hotvig's grasp, turning to face Utvart, who had lowered his sword to the floor. “Oh, I remember you, Utvart! Why did I run away, except to get away from you, you raper of children—and of young sheep when you cannot get a child! You, who love your scars more than you ever could a woman. I would rather be dead than your bride!”

Grim-faced Utvart said nothing, but Fikolmij snorted in dour amusement. “By the Four-Footed, I had almost forgotten that jagged knife you have for a tongue, daughter. Maybe Josua here is happy to feel the blows of fists for a change, eh? As for what you prefer, kill yourself the moment the marriage ride is over if you wish. I only want my bride-price and the honor of the Stallion Clan made good.”

“There are better ways to do that than slaughtering helpless prisoners,” a new voice said.

All heads turned—evenjosua's, though he moved carefully. Geloë stood in the doorway, arms spread to the lintel, cloak rippling in the wind.

“They have escaped from the bull run!” Fikolmij shouted wrathfully. “Don't move, woman! Hotvig, saddle and bring the rest back. Someone will howl for this!”

Geloë stepped into the wagon, which was rapidly becoming crowded. With a muffled curse, Hotvig pushed past her and out into the darkness. The witch woman calmly pulled the door closed behind him. “He will find them still penned,” she said. “Only I can come and go as I please.”

Utvart lifted his broad blade and held it near her neck. Geloë's hooded yellow eyes touched his and the tall Thrithings-man stepped back a pace, brandishing the sword as though he were menaced.

Fikolmij looked her up and down with puzzlement and guarded anger. “What is your business, old woman?”

Released from Hotvig's grip, Vorzheva had dropped to her knees and crawled past her father to dab at Josua's face with her tattered cloak. The prince gently caught her hand, holding it away as Geloë spoke.

“I said, I come and go as I please. For now, I choose to be here.”

“You are in my wagon, old woman.” The March-thane wiped sweat from his forehead with a hairy arm.

“You thought to hold Geloë your prisoner, Fikolmij. That was foolish. Still, I have come to give you advice, in hopes that you have more sense than you have shown so far this day.”

He seemed to fight an urge to strike out once more. Seeing his struggle, his strained look, Geloë nodded her head and smiled grimly.

“You have heard of me.”

“I have heard of a devil-woman with your name, one who lurks in the forest and steals the souls of men,” Fikolmij grunted. Utvart stood close behind him, mouth set in a tight line, but the tall man's eyes were wide, and shifted as though he made certain of where the doors and windows were.

“You have heard many false rumors, I am sure,” Geloë said, “but there is some truth behind them, however twisted it may have become. That truth is in the tales that say I make a bad enemy, Fikolmij.” She blinked slowly, as an owl blinks when it catches sight of something small and helpless. “A bad enemy.”

The March-thane pulled his beard. “I do not fear you, woman, but I do not trifle with demons needlessly. You are no use to me. Go away, then, and I will not trouble you, but do not meddle in what does not concern you.”

“Fool of a horse-lord!” Geloë flung up her arm, cloak trailing like a black wing. The door burst open behind her. The wind that swept in extinguished the lamps and plunged the wagon into near-darkness, leaving only the fire glowing scarlet in its trough like a door into Hell. Somebody cursed fearfully, barely audible above the moaning inrush. “I told you,” Geloë cried, “I go where I please!” The door swung shut again, although the witch woman had not moved. The wind was gone. She leaned forward so that her yellow eyes reflected restless flames. “What happens to these people does concern me—and concerns you as well, although you are too ignorant to know it. Our enemy is your enemy, and he is greater than you can understand, Fikolmij. When he comes, he will sweep across your fields like a grassfire.”

“Hah!” The March-thane smirked, but the nervous edge was not gone from his voice. “Do not preach to me. I know all about your enemy, King Elias. He is no more a man than Josua here. The Thrithings-men do not fear him.”

Before Geloë could respond there was a rap at the door, which swung open to reveal Hotvig, bearing his spear and a puzzled expression. He was only a young man, despite his heavy beard, and he regarded the witch woman with undisguised dismay as he spoke to his chieftain.

“The prisoners are still in the bull run. None of the men outside saw this one leave. The gate is locked, and there are no holes in the fence.”

Fikolmij grunted and waved his hand. “I know.” The March-thane's gaze shifted to Geloë for a brooding moment, then he smiled slowly.

“Come here,” he ordered Hotvig, then whispered into the rider's ear.

“It will be done,” Hotvig said, darting a nervous glance at Geloë before going out again.

“So,” Fikolmij said, and smiled broadly, showing most of his crooked teeth. “You think I should set this dog free to run away.” He shoved Josua with his foot, earning a swift glare of hatred from his daughter. “What if I do not?” he asked cheerfully.

Geloë narrowed her eyes. “As I told you, March-thane: I make a bad enemy. ”

Fikomij chortled. “And what shall you do to me, when I have told my men to kill the remaining prisoners unless I come to them myself before the next watch of the night to say otherwise?” He patted his hands on his belly in contentment. “I do not doubt you have charms and spells that can harm me, but now our blades are at each other's throats, are they not?” In the corner of the wagon Utvart growled, as if excited by the image invoked.

“Oh, horse-lord, may the world be preserved from such as you,” Geloë said disgustedly. “I hoped to convince you to help us, which would be for your good as much as ours.” She shook her head. “Now, as you say, our knives are out. Who knows if they may be put away without causing many deaths?”

“I do not fear your threats,” Fikolmij growled.

Geloë stared at him for a moment, then looked at Josua, who was still seated on the floor watching all that transpired with odd placidity. Lastly, she turned her gaze on Utvart. The tall man scowled fiercely, not at all comfortable under her scrutiny. “I think there is still one favor I can do for you, March-thane Fikolmij.”

“I need no ...”

“Quiet!” Geloë shouted. The March-thane fell silent, balling his fists, his reddened eyes bulging. “You are about to break your own laws,” she said. “The laws of the High Thrithings. I will help you avoid that.”

“What madness are you speaking, devil-woman?!” he raged. “I am the lord of the clans!”

“The clan councils honor no man as March-thane who breaks their old laws,” she replied. “I know this. I know many things.”

With a sweep of his arm, Fikolmij sent a bowl flying from atop his stool to clatter against the wagon's far wall. “What law? Tell me what law or I will throttle you even though you burn me to ashes!”

“The laws of bride-price and betrothal.” Geloë pointed at Josua. “You would kill this man, but he is her betrothed. If another—she indicated brooding Utvart, ”—wishes to have her, he must fight for her. Is that not true, Thane?”

Fikolmij smiled, a great rancid grin that spread across his face like a stain. “You have outsmarted yourself, meddler. They are not betrothed. Josua admitted that from his own lips. I would break no law to kill him. Utvart stands ready to pay the bride-price.”

Geloë looked at him intently. “They are not married and Josua has not asked her. This is true. But have you forgotten your own customs, Fikolmij of the Stallion-Clan? There are other forms of betrothal.”

He spat. “None but fathering ...” he broke off, forehead wrinkling in a sudden thought. “A child?”

Geloë said nothing.

Vorzheva did not look up. Her face was hidden by her dark hair, but her hand, which had stroked the prince's bloodied cheek, froze like a snake-startled rabbit.

“It is true,” she said finally.

Josua's face was a complicated puzzle of emotions, made even harder to read by the elaborate tracing of bruises and weals. “You... ? How long have you known... ? You said nothing ...”

“I have known since just before Naglimund fell,” Vorzheva said. “I feared to tell you.”

Josua watched the tears cutting new tracks along her dusty cheeks. He lifted his hand to touch her arm briefly before allowing it to drop back into his lap, then looked from Vorzheva up to Geloë. The witch woman held his eye for a long moment; some communicated thought seemed to pass between them.

“By the Four-Footed,” Fikolmij growled at last, bemused. “A child-betrothal, is it? If it's even his, that is.”

“It is his, you pig!” Vorzheva said fiercely. “It could be no one else's.”

Utvart stepped forward, boot buckles chinking. His swordpoint thumped down into the floor boards, sinking half an inch into the wood. “A challenge, then,” he said. “To the death we fight.” He looked to Geloë and his expression became cautious. “Vorzheva, the March-thane's daughter, she is spoils.” Turning back to the prince, he tugged his sword free. The great curved glade came loose as lightly as a feather. “A challenge.”

Josua's eyes were hard as he spoke through torn lips. “God hears.”

Deornoth stared down at his prince's battered features. “In the morning!?” he cried, loud enough to draw a scowl from one of the guards. The Thrithings-men, bundled in heavy woolen cloaks against the chill, did not look pleased with their assignment in the windy bull run. “Why do they not just kill you cleanly?”

“It is a chance,” Joshua said, then surrendered to a fit of coughing.

“What chance?” Deornoth said bitterly. “That a one-handed man who has been beaten bloody can get up in the morning and outfight a giant? Merciful Aedon, if I could only get my hands on that snake Fikolmij ... ”

Josua's only reply was to spit bloodily into the mud.

“The prince is correct,” Geloë said. “It is a chance. Anything is better than nothing.”