Prince of Dogs (Crown of Stars 2)

Dismissing the captain, he went inside with Sorrow and Rage at his heels. He lay down on a pallet, still in mail and tabard, with his helmet, sword, and shield beside him. Behind the pavilion he heard horses snuffling, that group of riders under the command of the captain who would remain with him here on the hill. His hand, drifting over the side, came to rest on Sorrow’s head. Rage whined, turned a few tight circles, and settled down.

Perhaps there would be no battle. Perhaps if Henry arrived in time, then peace might be forged between Henry and Bloodheart. Perhaps Fifth Son dreamed of peace as well.

But peace did not come to his dreams.

Battered and still weakened by loss of blood, he sat as silent as stone in his chains and listened as the Eika held a war council. His six dogs ringed him. They scratched at the flagstone floor, sensing the excitement. Blood and death: At times like this Sanglant wondered how much the dogs understood, how intelligent they really were. Voiceless they might be, but they did not act mindlessly—yet neither had they the cunning of men, or of their Eika masters.

Bloodheart conferred with his son, the one in disgrace.

“One army,” said Bloodheart.

“Many fewer in number than our own people, if my dreams are true dreams, and I believe they are.”

“So you believe,” said Bloodheart. “What standard flies at the head of this army? That of the king?” He leaned forward, claws extended, his great, scarred face a gleam of iron and shadow. The scent of his anticipation lay sodden over the assembly of Eika soldiers.

“Black hounds on a silver field,” said the son. “A red eagle. A tower attended by ravens.”

Sanglant shut his eyes, fighting back the pain. If he shifted on the floor to find a more comfortable position, stone scraped his flesh raw. His wounds had healed, licked clean by his dogs, but the touch of Aoi magic had somehow scoured his senses so every touch of his skin on stone or on the harsh coat of the dogs or on the coarse metal of his chains flamed like fire through his body, every smell—even and especially his own—made him reel, every taste of such food as he could glean from the garbage tossed aside by Bloodheart and his sons nauseated him.

Black hounds on a silver field. That would be the Count of Lavas. This much he dredged from his memory. A red eagle: Fesse. A tower attended by ravens: his aunt, Constance, if indeed she still presided as biscop in Autun.

But not King Henry.

He shifted his shoulders to try their strength. The dogs, sensing his movement, growled softly.

Bloodheart sighed and sat back. “So my scouts report also. The chieftain of this army is not the king, then. Well enough. The king is coming, or so you report. And I sense him, likewise, like a rot breathing in my bones.” When he grinned, his jewel-studded teeth flashed in the light that lanced in low through the western windows. He looked toward his prisoner. “But he won’t arrive in time. A little army, this first one that troubles us.” He fingered the bone flute at his belt, tugged it out, and lifted it to his lips. “I’ll chew up each little army piecemeal, as it comes to me, and let the dogs fight over what remains.

“All but you.” Abruptly he jabbed at the son, who danced back and then had to slap away the sudden assault of growling dogs—Bloodheart’s pack, those who hadn’t transferred their allegiance to Sanglant.

The Eika prince’s own dogs bolted forward, teeth bared, but he kicked them back and, slowly, all the dogs settled down while Bloodheart watched their interplay with unholy glee.

“You! You returned here without my permission, and so you will taste no blood in the coming battle. So will you remain behind, still in disgrace, to watch while your nest-brothers run forth to the glory of slaughter.”

The son did not protest this judgment, but an unfathomable expression flashed across his sharp face before he retreated to the accompaniment of his brothers’ howls and jeers.

Bloodheart laughed, settling himself deep in his throne. He lifted his flute and began to play while beyond, in the vast nave, the scrape and ring and grunt of Eika preparing for battle filled the vault with reverberations as complex as those of a congregation singing a hymn.

Outside, like a pulsing echo, drums began to beat.

7

LIATH and ten lightly armed riders bearing spear and shield started south at dawn the morning after the destruction of the Eika ship at the river’s mouth. They rode through woods and fallow fields, many grazed, some growing wild after last year’s burning. Beside a stream that drained downslope toward the Veser River they stopped to water and graze the horses, and to eat.

Soon they cut inland to avoid Eika patrols. The rough country above the river plain made for hard going. They rode too deep in the woods, sundered now from the river bottoms by the bluffs, to see the river or any indication that they neared Gent.

When they stopped at nightfall, the cavalry captain took her aside. “How far to Gent?” he asked.

“I don’t know. A day or two from the river’s mouth—that’s what Mistress Gisela told us—but none survived in Steleshame who’d made the journey themselves and I’m thinking now that the day’s trip they mentioned from Gent to the sea was by boat, running with the current.”

These skirmishers had come from the county outside Autun, and swore allegiance to Biscop Constance. Now, smiling wryly, Captain Ulric indicated the full moon rising through a gap in the trees. “If we can make our trail where there’s light enough to see, then perhaps we can ride farther tonight. I don’t like riding out here alone. God know the Eika might leap out from behind any tree.”

So, after a rest, they went on, nervous and watchful.

heart conferred with his son, the one in disgrace.

“One army,” said Bloodheart.

“Many fewer in number than our own people, if my dreams are true dreams, and I believe they are.”