Too Many Princes (54 page)

Really, the only place to sit was over the haunches. Perhaps he could do that and lean forward, stretching his length along its back to help balance his weight. If he held onto its neck with both arms, the wings should be able to move freely.

Since the griffins were still on the ground, Lottres approached the smaller one.

“
I'm a griffin,
”
Lottres thought at it.

Speaking softly, he stroked its flank with his hands. Lottres crouched against the griffin's side. He gradually leaned forward, taking care not to slide over its wings in a way that might break any feathers.

“
I'm your friend,
”
Lottres said.

He continued moving around, stroking the griffin gently and leaning against it briefly, until finally he stretched full length along its back.

Abruptly, the griffin turned and snapped at Lottres's head. He froze, not daring to breathe. The griffin pulled at a lock of hair that fell below Lottres's helmet. It mouthed the brown strands, released them, and took up another clump.

“
He is preening you,
”
Yriatt said, amused.

“
I'm sure I need it,
”
Lottres answered. It had been days since he last washed.

Lottres was still afraid to move, so he lay there and let the griffin comb his hair with its terrible beak. He had seen stable cats groom each other, but hadn't expected wild griffins to share the same behavior. Still, if it kept the creature from attacking, he would endure it.

A silent call alerted them a moment before Ymell's shadow darkened the sky.

“
Father is ready,
”
Yriatt announced. She stepped away, toward the edge of the rock slab. Then, with swift economy, she assumed her dragon form. Her body swelled and expanded, fair skin flushing dark. Robes became wings, hands turned into enormous talons. Her neck extended, and a long tail slid out behind to balance the weight. The dragon shook herself, like a cat rousing from a nap.

The change was so quick, Lottres could hardly follow the swirling energies that charged her flesh. What must it feel like, he wondered, to have such complete control over your body? Could a human like himself ever do that?

“
Time to go,
”
Lottres said to his griffin, though it couldn't understand. He moved to the side, gripping the griffin's neck with his arms and its waist with his knees. The griffin rolled to its feet easily, as if his weight were nothing. Lottres felt a slight pressure against his ribs as his steed opened its wings. Then with a leap, a rush of wind and dust into his eyes, they were airborne.

Lottres closed his eyes for a moment, fighting his dizziness. When he opened them again the rocky hills were dropping away below. Great, leathery dragon wings cut the air. Smaller, feathered griffin wings whistled after them. The lake glittered as they banked for a turn, and Altannath was gone.

This kind of riding would take some getting used to, Lottres discovered. You didn't ride a horse while lying on your belly! He looked around to see where the others were, and felt a twinge in his neck. Lying still, he shut his eyes, not in fear, but to experience the world as the griffin saw it.

Lottres felt the strokes of its powerful wings as if they were its own. He read the many scents of the air. He saw, with stunning clarity, the details of the land passing below them. Only one thing tempered his joy in flight. Somewhere to the south, a pillar of smoke rose black against the sky. Despite the distance, he heard faint screams. It told the griffin nothing, but Lottres understood its meaning all too well.

Glawern had fallen at last.

* * *

There was no need to wonder if his warning had reached Harburg. All the land was preparing for war. The king's highway, at the foot of the Dragon's Candle, was thick with traffic. Enemy soldiers meant looting and murder outside the town walls. The peasants from the countryside sought shelter in Harburg. For others, safety lay in flight to the south. Anyone who could get away from the war was going, and whatever they valued most went with them.

The soldiers followed Brastigan as he bypassed the jostling crowd by riding through fields beside the road. Hay wagons, loaded with people and possessions, struggled along beside them. Drovers wrangled herds of sheep, horses, and even geese. The smell of fear was as thick as the dust in the air.

On either side, farms and cottages stood shuttered and abandoned. Soldiers toiled in the green fields now, not farmers. Carrots and turnips were being torn from the ground at half their usual harvest size. Grain had been cut before it was ripe. It wasn't what you called a soldier's work, ordinarily. But they all knew a harsh truth: the invaders would make free with whatever they found outside the city walls. These soldiers would leave nothing that might help the enemy. No, not even the turnip greens. Whatever couldn't be carried into the city would be burned.

It was well past noon when Brastigan's troop approached the gates of Harburg. His stomach pinched with hunger as they joined a line of folk waiting to enter the city. A familiar banner hung over the massive gate. It snapped in a brisk breeze, scented with the stale-salt smell of the harbor. Brastigan regarded the walls of Harburg with a newly critical eye.

The battlements looked in good condition, at least. Boom cranes, borrowed from the wharves, extended over the walls. Sections of wooden hoarding were being raised up to the towers. Other workers dragged garbage from the dry moat or checked the grates over the sewage outfalls. A series of locks connected the harbor to the moat, which likely would be flooded soon.

That, Brastigan had seen before. It was done once or twice a year, when the sewers needed flushing. Every time they did it, the cellar at the Dead Donkey flooded, too. The memory provoked a sour grin.

As they drew nearer the gate, Brastigan realized not everyone was being admitted to Harburg. It seemed the aldermen had forbidden camping in public squares, and the inns were already full. Refugees who didn't have a place to stay were being turned away. This caused a storm of cursing and argument. A full complement of the city guard were on hand to stop fights and help get the bulky wagons turned around.

Brastigan felt almost guilty by the time he finally reached the gate. Since he was a recognizable figure, his party was quickly admitted. They rode through the Butcher's Gate and into Bloody Square. Livestock could only be brought into town through this one gate. Here the butchers of the city did their work. Only a faded odor now remained of those tradesmen. Their market stalls had been replaced by row upon row of barricades.

Barriers nearly blocked the streets leading out of Bloody Square, too. Around the courtyard, Brastigan saw archers in the shops laying out quiver upon quiver of arrows. If the gate was overrun, this would be a bloody square, indeed.

All these brave preparations should have lifted Brastigan's heart. They didn't. He remembered all too well the forces Yriatt and Ymell wielded so casually. Why, the dragons were big enough to stand up against the walls. A simple breath, and the city would be in flames. That didn't even consider their ability to fly, or their magic.

Brastigan shook his head, scolding himself for these fancies. Trouble enough was coming without him inventing any more in his mind.

Pikarus caught the motion and spurred up beside Brastigan.
“
Your highness?
”

“
Nothing,
”
Brastigan said.

Jitters before combat, that's all it was. Ysislaw wouldn't come at the walls himself. He had an army of bone men and
eppagadrocca.
They would do the menial work for him.

Once past Bloody Square, the troop moved more quickly. The city's cobbled streets were quiet. Not surprising, with the populace being shut out. Many shops were closed. A few commoners hurried along with shoulders hunched, starting at shadows and strange travelers. The inns were busy, but not noisy. The only crowds were at the wells, where women drew water. They would hoard it, if they were smart.

They reached the ramp leading up to Crutham Keep. After answering another challenge, they started the ascent. Hoardings were up here, too. Wooden faggots were stacked beside barrels of oil, with great cauldrons in place to be used. Brastigan's sense of disorientation grew as they turned switchbacks and passed beneath spyholes. He knew these walls well, yet they seemed strange now, as if they had changed during his absence.

He didn't think he was the only one who was worried, either. The Cruthan forces seemed to be in good order, proud in their polished harness, but these men weren't sure of themselves. They were too quiet, not strutting and bragging as warriors should. Their eyes, under helms of steel, were shadowed and afraid.

Then they were back under the yawning portcullis. Brastigan's return was the opposite of his dramatic leave taking. In fact, it was distinctly anti-climactic. Grooms scurried from the stables to meet them, but the keep's grand courtyard was empty otherwise. It seemed that they and their noble quest had been forgotten.

Pikarus moved up beside Brastigan.
“
It seems quiet,
”
he observed, not quite asking the question Brastigan was sure he had in mind.

“
I know what you mean,
”
Brastigan answered.
“
Get the mules unloaded. Then take your gear back to the barracks. My things to my quarters as well, please. Let the men wash up and find their families. I'll go to Father, or he'll send someone for me. You go see Tarther, or... whoever it is you report to.
”
He let his lips twitch into a grin, remembering Pikarus's fond farewells to Therula.

The man-at-arms didn't acknowledge the jest.
“
Very good, your highness.
”

“
Oh,
”
Brastigan paused, remembering.
“
Let me know if Duale's a daddy yet.
”

Pikarus did smile at that.
“
Of course. I'll send word.
”

A groom stood near Brastigan. He was a skinny adolescent with a pronounced Adam's apple. The lad stared at Shadow as if he had never seen her like before. Maybe he hadn't.

“
This one is mine,
”
Brastigan told him.
“
I'll see to her, and I don't want anyone else fooling with her. Got it?
”

“
Yes, your highness.
”
The lad's voice cracked, and he ducked his head with humiliation. Except for the pale hair, he reminded Brastigan of himself at the same age.

“
But you can send someone to let my father know I'm here,
”
Brastigan added as he led his horse toward the stable.

The groom tore his eyes away from Shadow to stare at Brastigan. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously.

“
Yes, your highness,
”
he squeaked.

The groom walked off. A moment later, he glanced over his shoulder and broke into a run. Brastigan watched after him, unable to understand his reaction. Then he led Shadow into the stables. He watered the mare and rubbed her down well. Shadow accepted his attentions with a regal bearing, as if this were her natural due.

Brastigan didn't hurry at his work. He was measuring grain for Shadow when the stable boy scuttled back in. Shortly afterward, a page approached Brastigan.

“
The king will receive you, your grace,
”
the man said in a soft, neutral tone.

Brastigan eyed the fellow as he washed his hands in Shadow's trough. This wasn't a mere page, as he had thought, but a court gentleman. Rodrec, that was his name. He wore a sober robe of dark blue velvet, its shoulders puffed up in the Tanixan style. A very tall hat with a square crown perched precariously over his long yellow hair.

“
Lead on,
”
Brastigan said.

He let his helmet dangle from his hand and gave Shadow a final brisk pat before following his guide. Behind Rodrec's back, he made a face. If the hat represented a new style, he was glad he'd been gone for a while.

Down the courtyard then. Brastigan longed to wash up, as Pikarus's men must be doing by now. But even more, he wanted to see Unferth. It was ironic, Brastigan thought. This was probably the first time he ever went gladly to see the king. It was a shock to think he truly needed Unferth. Of all people in the world, only a father would listen to Brastigan's tale without arguing, and sympathize with all his woes.

They approached the great hall, and Brastigan felt a stroke of disappointment. He had been hoping for a private conversation. Well, it wouldn't do for people to think he was getting sentimental over the old man, anyway. So what if he went before the king in dirty harness? Call it a reference to his past misdeeds. Unferth would recognize the jest. Alustra wouldn't approve at all, of course, which made it all the better.

They passed by windows as big as the queen's ego and turned into the ornamental archway. It was crowded inside. The air smelled sweaty. Everyone but Brastigan was dressed in their most fine and formal, but a lot more of the Tanixan puffery was showing these days. Lots of the new, tall hats stood up from the crowd. They made it harder for Brastigan to see over heads, as he was used to. When Rodrec stopped, his hat blocked most of Brastigan's view into the room.

He quickly realized he wasn't the only armored man in the hall. No merchants and supplicants came before the court today. These were military men, even the ones in velvet. Before the throne, an aide was reading a summary of the troops gathered to defend Crutham's capital.

Brastigan frowned as he picked out faces in the watching crowd. There was Habrok at the base of the steps. Not unusual, with battle coming, but he didn't so often see his other brothers, Calitar and Axenar, Leolin, Eskelon and Sebbelon. Brastigan hadn't seen so many of his older half-brothers together in years. In fact, almost all of Unferth's adult sons were here. The invasion had turned into a family reunion.