Too Many Princes (40 page)

Most important, between bone men and sword blows, was the girl. She clutched her horse's mane and stared, her face drawn and anxious. She must have had quite a scare when the bone men pulled him down, to make her do... whatever it was she did.

Because he knew it wasn't Yriatt who made the air boil. It was the girl. She wasn't perfect and pure at all. Some kind of witchery touched her, just like Lottres.

Frustration gave Brastigan new strength. He hit the bone men harder, faster, wanting to cut them, beat them, because if he looked at his brother now he might do something much worse. Save his sword for his enemies; that's what he had to do. It wasn't easy.

The first battle had seemed to take forever. This one was over too quickly. When the last bone man fell, Brastigan stood aching all over and cold as the grave.

Javes hadn't left his side. Now he asked,
“
Your highness, are you all right?
”

“
Get the men up,
”
Brastigan snarled.

Javes jerked back, and threw a hasty salute. Brastigan prowled the field, looking for a moving enemy to lop something off of. Those who didn't move, he stomped on with vengeful kicks.

When no further targets offered themselves, Brastigan looked over the battlefield. Javes was helping bandage Yugo's bloody shoulder. Pikarus rolled a fallen man over and knelt beside him. It was Aglend. As Brastigan watched, Pikarus took up the dead man's sword. He pulled a ring from Aglend's hand and cut a lock of his hair, placing these in a small leather bag. He drew it tight and tied the ends about the haft of the sword.

Brastigan's fury turned cold. Numbly he cleaned Victory and sheathed her. Aglend and Roari, both dead. Their bodies would have to be left behind. He knew that. The battered Cruthan force had no way to care for them. And Brastigan knew full well how lucky he was to live out the battle. If not for the girl, it could have been him staring sightless into the hostile sky.

He trudged back to his mule, and finally looked up at the distraught girl. She gazed down, joy lighting her face through tear tracks and dust. Her lips moved, but she no longer tried to speak. Cursed thing that she was, Brastigan had to hold himself back from kissing her. Too many eyes about, judging. Instead he clasped her hands, forgiving her already.

Yriatt wasn't so tolerant. She stared down at Brastigan from her horse, eyes dark and terrible beneath her crooked horns.
“
What have you done?
”
she demanded.

“
You're the witch,
”
Brastigan snapped back. He loosened the girl's hands and swung into the saddle.
“
You tell me.
”

Lottres made a coughing sound.
“
This isn't the time for games, Brastigan.
”

“
I'm not playing,
”
he answered.
“
I'm no magician. If she doesn't know what's going on, how should I?
”

Yriatt's dark hair crackled with the energy of her anger. Lottres tensed with fury, hands balling into fists. Before either could speak, Pikarus shouldered his mule between them.

“
We cannot stay,
”
he said with quiet urgency.
“
Everyone is upset, I know, but we must move on. Please.
”

“
My thoughts exactly,
”
Brastigan responded cheerfully, baiting Yriatt.
“
Do you lead, or shall I?
”

Yriatt stared at Brastigan, relenting not a hair in her rage.
“
This is not over,
”
she said.

She turned her horse, and they were away.