Too Many Princes (46 page)

Brastigan's rage gave way to a strange exhilaration. For the first time in days, he felt relaxed and powerful. The enchanted arrows only added excitement.

But the bone men were endless in their numbers. However many he cut down, yet more came on. Brastigan lost track of time. It could have been hours later, or just a few minutes, when a powerful wind whipped sand into his face. He looked up to see the endless black expanse of a dragon's belly. Ebony claws gripped the top of the slanted rock that roofed the shelter, and an eye the exact color of flame blazed down on him. With a toss of its crooked horns, the dragon indicated he should get out of its way.

Under that malevolent regard, some vestige of self-preservation returned. Brastigan dispatched his current opponent and ran toward the rock shelter, stumbling over pieces and parts of the fallen. Bone men swarmed after him, but even as he cut around the makeshift wall, a deafening roar made the very earth tremble.

Once more fire came from the sky, blasting the enemy back down the hill. The dead on the ground were set alight. Black billows of smoke rose to join the night. Over the sheet of dancing gold, Brastigan saw a second dragon gliding on the air. It, too, bellowed out a blazing breath to scour the hillside.

Pikarus appeared at Brastigan's shoulder, raising his voice to be heard over the roaring flames.
“
Your highness, you could have been killed!
”

Brastigan shrugged.
“
So what?
”

He brushed past Pikarus to join his fellows as they all eased back from the heat and fumes. The soldiers regarded him with a kind of horrified awe. He cared no more for their regard than he did for the boot-lickers at Harburg. Farther back, he saw Shaelen and Lottres at the fire. Shaelen stood poised and confident, an arrow ready to pull. Her eyes roved restlessly, seeking any other targets. Lottres knelt, panting, a sheen of sweat on his face in the fire's unsteady light. Strangely, he looked happier than Brastigan had seen him in days.

Looking at his brother, Brastigan felt his energy desert him. His head was suddenly heavy, shoulders burning with exhaustion. His bruised elbow throbbed in time to his heartbeat, the minor injury inflamed by too much hard use. Brastigan glanced at Victory. The blade was clean, of course. He gratefully slid her into her sheath.

Aimlessly, then, he shuffled to the rear of the shelter, circling wide around the two witchlings. What was the point of all this, anyway? He'd laid dozens of the bone men low, giving them the clean death they deserved, but all the bloodletting in the world couldn't bring the girl back to him. If you could even call it bloodletting, when the victims didn't bleed.

He found his way to the Urulai horse that had been the girl's. The shadowy gray pricked its ears, recognizing him. Brastigan let his shield and helmet drop to the sand. He leaned on the dumb beast, longing to sit down but knowing if he did he might not have the strength to get up again. He felt the prickling of its hair under his cheek, and the hard round shapes of beads woven into its mane. The horse turned its head. Brastigan felt the warmth of breath as a soft muzzle brushed his hair. He let go a harsh breath.

There was a stirring, as of swords suddenly drawn, and Javes barked,
“
Who goes there?
”

“
I do,
”
a familiar voice answered. Brastigan looked around to see Yriatt stride into the shelter. Just behind her came a man who looked Cruthan except for the high, wavy horns on his head. Shaelen and Lottres fairly ran to meet them. Pikarus advanced more slowly.

“
My father, Ymell,
”
the witch said with a curt gesture.
“
Make him welcome.
”

Ymell bowed to the soldiers with such grace they might have been standing in a royal court rather than a crudely fortified redoubt.
“
I am indebted to you all,
”
he said.

Brastigan held his place and watched. He could see no mark of Ymell's imprisonment, though Yriatt commended Shaelen for discovering how it was done. There was little resemblance between the dark haired sorceress and her blond father. Ymell looked like a man of Crutham, with a blocky build and yellow hair falling to his shoulders. Only his horns set him apart. Oddly, he seemed no older than Yriatt. You'd think her father would be older than she was.

This was Leithan's father, too. That made him Brastigan's grandfather. He shook his head with an angry jerk. He couldn't think of this stranger in such intimate terms.

Ymell was undeniably charismatic. Brastigan could sense that, and the man hadn't even spoken to him yet. Still, like Yriatt, he had a reserve as well. After all, they weren't really humans. What was it Lottres had said about the girl? Oh, yes. That she only looked human.

Yriatt and Ymell might look normal, but Brastigan knew better. Yriatt had said it herself, that humanity was just a shape she wore. Brastigan hadn't understood what she meant, then. Now he knew. Father and daughter didn't have to resemble each other. They could make themselves look like whatever they wanted. They weren't wearing hats with dragon horns attached, either. They had horns because they were dragons.

Legend told of dragons, the most powerful creatures in the world. Brastigan would have bet that Ysislaw was a dragon, too. Who else would Yriatt fear but another dragon?

And what did that make Brastigan? Not really Urulai, not really Cruthan, but no horns on his head, either. He was nothing but a patchwork of a man, and none of the pieces matched.

Yriatt turned toward him, saying something to Shaelen. Her eyes met Brastigan's across the chamber. For a moment he saw an expression that might have been guilt, but more likely was contempt. Lottres, beside her, mirrored her expression. Then Brastigan was glad he had no horns, because that would have meant he was like Yriatt, a creature without conscience or compassion. Someone who would take an innocent life without a second thought.

The night continued to burn behind Yriatt, but if she sensed his hate she gave no sign. She turned toward Ymell, and her cool voice came to him faintly across the sand.
“
Oh, yes, Father. Leithan's boy is here.
”

Ymell turned as if she'd bitten him.
“
Where?
”

The witch gestured and his eyes followed, finding Brastigan among the other dumb beasts. Ymell's stunned expression was not unlike Unferth's when Brastigan last spoke to him.

Brastigan couldn't face that searching gaze. Instead, he looked to Yriatt. He might despise her, but at least she was familiar.

“
So, are we done now? Do we stay here, or go on?
”

His harsh voice brought a lull, during which Yriatt's dark eyes took in the exhausted men around her. And, maybe, the amount of packing to be done before the troop could move anywhere.

“
We stay,
”
she said.

She spoke as if she were granting some special favor, but you took what you could get with Yriatt. The battle lines quickly dissolved as soldiers put their weapons away and fell to talking among themselves.

Ymell was still staring at Brastigan. He took a step forward, raising one hand, but let it fall as Brastigan turned away. It wasn't as if he felt anything for the man. He wanted no more of witchery. What Brastigan wanted was to lie down. To get out of his harness, too, but mostly just to lie down.

Before he reached the pile of clothes where his bags used to be, Pikarus strode over to join him.
“
Do you want a hand?
”
His quiet tone suggested he would back away if Brastigan wanted it that way.

“
You don't have anything better to do?
”
Company was not what Brastigan wanted, but his elbow hurt enough that he wouldn't refuse the offer.

“
Nothing that can't wait.
”

Soon Pikarus was easing off the mail hauberk. Without it, Brastigan felt as light and insubstantial as the girl had been. There wasn't a proper rack, so the two men laid it flat on the ground, where the dry sand could absorb some of the sweat.

“
You could have been killed, your highness.
”
Pikarus said, so calmly he might have been discussing the weather.
“
That would have been disastrous.
”

“
Disastrous for whom?
”
Brastigan retorted wearily.

“
All of us.
”

Next was the quilted gambeson, slimy and stinking like a patch of toadstools. Brastigan closed his mouth on a grunt of pain as Pikarus twisted his sore elbow. Fortunately, the rank odor of sweat dissipated quickly in the open air.

“
Because your orders were to protect me?
”
the dark prince mocked.

“
No,
”
Pikarus answered patiently,
“
because the men depend on you. Prince Lottres may be intelligent, and he is often correct, but he doesn't fight like a soldier. You told me earlier today, we'll get through this. I still believe that.
”

Brastigan remembered the conversation only vaguely, as if it had happened months ago. He made a bitter sound that might have been a laugh.
“
I was kidding myself.
”

“
Your highness...
”
Pikarus was silent for a moment.
“
We all saw how you fought just now. I've never witnessed the like.
”
He quickly added,
“
Please, don't ever do it again.
”

“
No promises.
”
Brastigan shivered as the cool air met his sticky, damp skin.

“
You may be feeling low now,
”
Pikarus said.
“
Nobody blames you for that. But you really are the greatest swordsman in Crutham. I know you will survive this.
”

The unexpected repeat of his habitual boast made Brastigan swallow a lump in his throat. He forced a smile.
“
The greatest in the world, you mean.
”

Pikarus chuckled, but his gaze was steady.
“
Could be.
”

“
Maybe that's my problem,
”
Brastigan said, almost to himself.
“
No one gave me any orders, except to get out of Harburg.
”

The soldier surprised him with a dry chuckle.
“
The only one who can give you orders is King Unferth, and he only sometimes.
”

Pikarus went off to organize something. Brastigan's arms trembled as exhaustion really set in. He jerked on the first clothes he could find, not caring what they looked like, and kicked open his bedroll.

It wasn't easy to get comfortable on the hard ground. Bruises mottled his skin, like spots on rotten fruit, and each one had a pain to go with it. But that wasn't what kept Brastigan awake. It was the absence of the girl.

Was it really such a little while ago he fed her bread and cheese? Her last meal, as it turned out. Brastigan felt he had known her forever, but it was really just a handful of days. Such a short time to be the whole of someone's life. It seemed impossible that she was gone.

* * *

The fire burned low and the floor of rock shelter was paved with sleeping men. A sentry was still awake, and so was Lottres. Yriatt and Ymell sat near the fire. He could feel them communing on a level much deeper than he was capable of. Even though he was exhausted, Lottres was far too excited to sleep.

The evening battle had been exhilarating, even better than the afternoon's. For one thing, Lottres had done more. It had felt so good to act without hiding, and Shaelen, his fellow
thaeme,
gave so much encouragement. She had showed him how to make fire follow his arrows. It was so simple! Lottres had never been able to fight this way before. For the first time, he understood why Brastigan liked it so much.

“
I am worried, heart-kin.
”
Shaelen's voice came from the darkness in a thread so fine Lottres wasn't sure if she spoke aloud or directly to his mind.
“
Will Brastigan be all right?
”

“
I don't know,
”
Lottres answered with his mind. Any mention of Brastigan irritated him, these days.

“
Can't you do something?
”
Shaelen persisted.
“
He is your brother.
”

Lottres raised himself on his elbows just enough to see the glint of Shaelen's eyes in the darkness. He didn't understand why Shaelen even cared, after the way Brastigan had treated her.

“
No one can do anything for him,
”
Lottres said.
“
You've seen how he is.
”

Shaelen seemed to sigh in the darkness. Lottres sensed her affectionate dismay.

“
You listen to fire and wind, heart-kin,
”
she said.
“
You hear condors, mules and crows. But do you listen to your own brother?
”

“
It would be nice if he listened to me,
”
Lottres retorted.
“
Anyway, I've heard what he has to say.
”

“
Then listen to what he doesn't say,
”
Shaelen answered gently. Her mind-touch slipped away, leaving Lottres suddenly alone in the darkness. He eased back down.

All the men had been talking about how Brastigan went berserk in battle. Brastigan was grieving, and that anguish was real. Yet his brother had brought this on himself. Lottres was tired of running after Brastigan, picking up his messes. It was past time for Brastigan to do his own dirty work.