“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?”
“I know little enough about the customs of the Quman, my lord prince,” said Breschius, “but no boy among them can call himself a man and wear wings on his back until he has killed a man. Thus, the heads they carry.”
Sibold shuddered all over. “A nasty piece of work, those shrunken heads.” He had a sly gaze, a little impertinent, but part of his particular value as a soldier was his reckless streak. “They say that Lady Bertha didn’t bury her mother’s head when she took it off Bulkezu but carries it with her as a talisman. Is that true, my lord prince?”
“You can ask her yourself, Sibold.”
The soldier laughed. “I pray you will not command me to, my lord. She frightens me. She’s cold, that one. I think she may be half mad.”
“Sibold.”
He ducked his head, but the grin still flashed. “Begging your pardon, my lord prince.”
“Here is the shaman, my lord prince.” Breschius moved aside to make room on the platform as Fulk returned with Gyasi.
“What does this mean?” Sanglant indicated the single horseman and the mass of riders beyond.
“He are a messenger, great lord.” He lifted his hands to frame his mouth and let loose a trilling yell.
The rider started noticeably but recovered quickly and urged his mount forward again, halting just beyond the shadow of the wall. He called out in the Quman tongue.
“Great lord, this young worm names himself as the messenger of the mother of Bulkezu, who have come seeking the man who keeps as a prisoner her son.”
“Go on.”
“The mother of Bulkezu wish to know what you want to trade for her son.”
“What I wish to trade?” Sanglant leaned against the wall. The heat of the sun washed his face, the swell of wind tugged at his hair. “Which of those is the mother of Bulkezu? Do you know?”
“They are the mother of Bulkezu,” agreed Gyasi, nodding toward the troop of women and their winged escort.
Sanglant glanced at Breschius, but the frater shrugged. It was hard to tell how well Gyasi understood Wendish. “I cannot trade Bulkezu. I have defeated him in battle and kept him alive in exchange for a chance to win his freedom. I need him to guide my army safely through the grasslands and lead us to the lands where we may hunt griffins and meet sorcerers.”
“Is this what you truly wish, great lord? It is a troublesome road. Many troubles will kiss you.”
“This is what I truly wish. I cannot give up Bulkezu. Yet what bargain might I strike with his tribe, so that they will not hinder me?”
Gyasi hummed to himself in a singsong manner, a man pondering deep thoughts. “People are tricky. One man may promise life to his brother and after this stab him in the back.”
“There are those who are still angry that you allowed Bulkezu to survive the battle whole and healthy my lord prince,” said Breschius. “I do not forget that he was the one responsible for Prince Bayan’s death. Neither does Princess Sapientia.”
“Yet you ride with me, Brother Breschius.”
“As does Princess Sapientia. Yet I do not think she had much choice in the matter, although she is the heir.”
“Is she? King Henry has other children. He has a child by Queen Adelheid, do not forget, whom he may favor. Why do you remain with me, Brother Breschius? Whom do you serve?”
“I serve the truth, my lord prince, and God.”
“And me?”