The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars 3)

“That’s mine!” objected Ekkehard as the fit passed.

“So it is, little Cousin, but right now I’m having a look.” Wichman handed it to one of his companions and quickly it was passed around among the older horsemen as Ekkehard fumed.

Wichman and his fighting men were not unlike a gang of bandits, Ivar reflected. Ermanrich had taken to calling them Lord Reckless and his noble companions Thoughtless, Careless, Heedless, Senseless, Mindless, Wordless, Useless, the three Thundering brothers, the six Drunken cousins, and of course the infamous Thruster, who had once been discovered doing unspeakable things to a ewe. Sigfrid did not approve of this levity, but he always ended up laughing anyway because Ermanrich had such a wicked ability to mimic.

“It’s gold,” said Thruster wisely as he twirled it, “and God damn it but I’d like to see those acrobat girls perform dressed in nothing but a skirt of these. I know what I’d do with’em then!” Known otherwise as Lord Eddo, he was the most single-minded person Ivar had ever met.

“Can’t be gold,” said Thoughtless who, like all the rest of Wichman’s cronies, was a fat-headed, bored young nobleman from somewhere in Saony. “Ain’t any birds made of gold.”

“Is too gold,” said Useless, snatching it from his hand. “‘Tisn’t a bird feather at all. It’s a Quman feather. They have wings, too, you know.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Wichman, which ended the matter. “But I’d like to see what bird it comes from. Here, Father Ekkehard.” He handed it back with a smirk. “Perhaps you educated churchmen can make more sense of it. Oh, God!” The groan came from him quite unexpectedly, and everyone started round to stare. He slapped his own forehead. “I forgot all my clerics at Gent!”

It had become a very old joke, but he and his companions still found it hysterical.

Amazingly, Prince Ekkehard had learned to keep his mouth shut at such times. He merely handed the feather to Baldwin for safekeeping.

They had passed the first signs of a village some time ago, woods logged out for firewood and buildings, grazed meadows, a litter of pig bones, and fields left fallow. It had been a quiet ride; there were remarkably few birds in the woods. Now as the sun sank into the afternoon, light filtered mellowly through spring leaves. They rode alongside a flowering orchard. Three half grown boys sprinted out from the cover of the trees to stare.

“Look at them spears!” cried one of them, whose face was at least as dirty as his feet.

“Come you to kill the beast?” cried another, galloping alongside the road until a ditch cut him off. Their friend had already taken off across a side path, leaping a rivulet, and vanishing into a crowd of waist-high berry bushes as if all the Enemy’s minions pursued him.

Word flew before them, and when they reached the village, they were met by a delegation of village elders, three old women and two bent men who seemed to have about a dozen teeth between them. What must have been the rest of the village population crowded behind: matrons; men and boys of all ages; little girls. Strangely, there seemed to be no young women of marriageable age among them. Dogs barked, and Thoughtless took a swipe at one scrawny yapper with his spear, nicking the poor creature in its hindquarters. Ivar had seen this scene before as they had traveled at a leisurely pace south and east from Gent: the village elders would offer a few poor gifts as a transparent bribe and then suggest that the group travel to a manor house or monastic farm farther up the road, one more fit to entertain a party of their consequence. Wichman would refuse because he preferred lording it at villages, where there was inevitably a handier supply of reluctant young women.

“God’s mercy,” cried the eldest of the sages, an old woman who had to lean on a stick to support herself. She had an odd way of clipping off her words at the end, the local dialect. “Our prayers are answered, my lords. Say that you have come to kill the beast!”

“What sort of beast might that be?” asked Wichman, scanning the huts and outlying sheds. Beyond, long fields tipped with green striped the ground, interspersed with ranks of fruit-bearing bushes and trees. Something pale flashed between two trees, escaping to the safety of the woods: a dog? a goat?

“Ai, a terrible creature not born of earth! Since Margrave Villam and Duchess Rotrudis drove back the Rederii these twenty years and brought them into the Light of God, we’ve had no trouble here. But now!” Several folk wailed out loud. “Shades in the forest there’ve always been, but this! First all manner of unGodly lights up in the old stones, and now the beast. Why has God seen fit to torment us?”

“What manner of beast is it?” repeated Wichman. He had his most irritating little smirk on his face.

“A terrible creature never meant to walk on earth. It come from the stones one night, flew out of a blinding light. As big as a house, it is, like an eagle, only it’s a monster sent by the Enemy to plague us. Its claws could lay open a cow with one rake. First it only took the deer, but we fear that—”

“Haven’t you any daughters but those little ones?” demanded Thruster suddenly. He was rubbing one thigh obsessively, sweating a little although it wasn’t very warm.

Every man and woman in the place went still and white. One child, piping up, got a slap on the mouth.

“Eaten!” said the woman in a quaking voice. She had warts on her nose and a stubborn gleam in her eye. “The beast took the deer first, and then our daughters.”

“I would have taken the daughters first and then the deer,” said Useless, “but this must be some agile relative of Eddo’s.” They laughed uproariously, including Thruster.

“Hold your tongues!” said Wichman, who hadn’t laughed. “Whose land is this?”

“It’s our own, my lord. I come with my husband, God rest him, to settle here when there wasn’t nothing but savages living here. It were the agreement made with King Arnulf’s stewards. We’re beholden to no lady but only to the king.”

He grunted thoughtfully. His horse, getting restive, danced a little sideways, and he yanked it back. “But I must keep my companions happy, or they won’t want to risk their lives. What can you offer us?”

“Food and shelter, my lord.”

“I know what you’re hiding,” said Wichman. “And I want it for myself and my men.”

“What’re they hiding?” cried Thruster eagerly.

Prince Ekkehard pressed his horse forward. Compared to his older cousin, he looked slight and almost frail, but he held his head as proudly and he was of course dressed magnificently. “I am Ekkehard, son of King Henry,” he said in a bold voice. “I have come to save you. I ask no reward for my companions and myself no matter what the risk to our lives, for I know my duty as a prince of this realm. Tell me more of this beast that afflicts you.”

In this way, Ivar found himself pressing through grass and chest-high foliage along an overgrown trail, following his guide, a thin and rather frightened boy whose speech was almost unintelligible. As Ekkehard’s least favorite companion, Ivar had been sent ahead to scout the stones, the lair of the mysterious and horrible beast, and his guide had evidently been chosen because he was one person the villagers wouldn’t much mind losing, poor lad.