“A hard barrier to cross,” observed Sanglant as he looked down, “but not impossible. Here comes the frater. Perhaps he knows the secret of these towers.”
Fremen came running back with the middle-aged frater in tow. Breschius had some trouble with the ladder because he only had the one hand, but he used his elbow to hook the rungs and hold himself while he shifted his remaining hand and moved up his feet. By the time he got to the top, the approaching riders were slowing down as they neared the fort. The soldiers setting the barricade in place on the outer side of the pit ran across the last two planks, which were then drawn back into the fort. The town had sealed its gates. The great bell ceased tolling.
“We’re on our own,” said Fulk, a little amused. “We’ve no friends among the townsfolk. Did the governor not like you, my lord prince?”
“The governor does not trust us, Captain. Why should she welcome an army of our size into her territory? If she fights us, she may win, but she and her troops and her town will suffer. If she loses, then she loses all. I suppose she hopes we’ll take the brunt of the attack and allow her to finish off the rest.”
“But we outnumber them.”
“The governor? Or those Quman?”
Fulk laughed. “They are wise to fear you, my lord prince.”
“Are they?” Or was he simply a fool, chasing madness? The moment he first saw the port town and the broad grasslands spreading north from the sea, he knew he had ridden into a world unlike anything he had ever experienced. With Zacharias gone and possibly dead, he was more than ever dependent on Bulkezu’s knowledge. Bulkezu would have many opportunities to betray him or lead him and his army astray. Bulkezu was smart enough to kill them, if he chose to sacrifice himself with them. Yet in such a vast expanse, how could Sanglant track down griffins and sorcerers without the help of someone who knew the land?
“Women!” said Lewenhardt, laughing. “There are Quman warriors with that troop, but there are women as well. Those towers are their crowns. They’re hats, of a kind.”
“I didn’t know the Quman had women,” said Sibold, hefting his spear. “I thought they bred with wolf bitches and she-cats.”
“It’s true that Quman women wear crowns like these towers,” said Breschius. “I’ve seen none of them close at hand, myself.”
“Not more than two hundred riders,” said Fulk. “Look at their standard. They bear the mark of the Pechanek tribe.”
“Ah.” Sanglant nodded. “That makes sense. They’ve come for Bulkezu.”
“Do you think so, my lord prince? How would they know we were here, and that we had him?”
“Their shamans have power,” said Breschius, “although nothing compared to the power of the Kerayit sorcerer women.”
“Quman magic killed Bayan,” said Sanglant. “My lord!” said Fulk. “If they are after you—!”
“Nay, do not fear for me, Captain. Their magic cannot harm me.” He touched the amulet that hung at his chest, but the stone made him think of Wolfhere and that made him angry all over again. He must not think about the Eagle’s betrayal, and his own gullibility. He must concentrate on what lay before him.
The riders came to a stop at about the limit of the range of a ballista, close enough to get a good estimate of their numbers and appearance but not so close that the men in the fort could pick out details and faces. No more than sixty wore wings, but the griffin-winged rider shone beyond the rest, glittering and perilous. About thirty of the riders wore conical hats trimmed with gold plates. One of these hats was so tall, at least as long as Sanglant’s arm, that he could not imagine how a person could ride and keep it on her head.
A youthful figure wearing neither wings nor one of the towering hats broke forward from the group, balancing a limp burden across the withers of the horse.
“Lewenhardt, what is it the rider bears before him?”
“It is a corpse, my lord prince.”
When the rider reached the halfway point between the Quman and the fort, he tipped the burden off the horse and onto the ground.
Lewenhardt winced. “I think that corpse may be the slave who ran from us, my lord prince.”
“And into their grasp, may God have mercy on his soul. Captain, fetch the shaman, the one who calls himself Gyasi.”
“Can you trust him, my lord prince?”
“We’ve no one else who can interpret for us. He can prove his worth, or the lack of it.”
Fulk clambered down the ladder.
The rider approached to within arrow shot of the walls before reining in his horse.
“That boy’s not more than twelve or fourteen years of age, I should think,” said Lewenhardt.
“Showing off,” asked Sanglant, “or expendable?”