The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

“Didn’t look like no brother or cousin, if you ask me. Mayhap they were fostered together.”

“No doubt. Whist! You stubborn ass! Get along!”

The donkey brayed a mighty protest, but the cart jerked and they set off again as the sun glared down, burning his skin, scalding his eyes, making tears run from the face of a dead man who wasn’t dead at all.

But Baldwin would never know.

5

THE merchants who lived and traded in the emporium of Medemelacha had wisely surrendered without a fight, warned by their Hessi compatriots that it were better to yield than die, but upstream on the Helde River the duc d’Amalisses had retreated inside a fortified town, seat of his power. By the time Stronghand reached the scene of the siege, Quickdeath had forced a battle by driving prisoners up against the walls at the point of Eika spears and, on their bleeding and mangled backs, swarming the walls.

The river was choked with corpses as the Eika burned and looted the town.

“This is not what I intended,” said Stronghand when Quickdeath came before him to gloat over his victory. “This town cannot serve us burned to the ground. The fields cannot yield grain if no farmer is left to till and harvest.”

“But we are rich!” Quickdeath had brought a score of warriors and two score dogs as escort; they shouted and cheered, displaying the baubles, fine cloth, and silver coins they had plucked from the ruins. “And the chief of this town is dead!”

Bodies dangled from the burning palisade. As the wind shifted, smoke chased away carrion crows come to seek their own fortunes.

“You are rash.” Stronghand did not rise from the chair where he sat. A choice few of his littermates stood at his back while the handful of chieftains who had joined up with him in Medemelacha kept their distance. Ironclaw stood foremost among them, watching and waiting. The bulk of Stronghand’s army remained in Alba under the command of Trueheart, but in the months since the death of the Alban queen he had sent out smaller groups to strike hard along the coast, casting a net of terror as widely as they could. “We are not yet ready to push inland. If we stretch ourselves too thin, we will break. War bands are more susceptible to ambush than large armies. Your orders were to harry the coast, nothing more.”

Quickdeath laughed, baring his teeth. “And if I do not wish to heed those orders? Maybe I am rash. But you are too cautious!” He gripped his ax more tightly as his men pressed forward threateningly. If the lesser chieftains chose to stand by and not intervene, then Quickdeath’s party easily outnumbered his own.

Stronghand did not smile. He no longer needed to make explicit threats, to puff himself up, to make himself appear bigger and fiercer for, in truth, Quickdeath was far more impressive in appearance than he ever could be. “You mistake caution for cowardice because you do not understand it. A cautious man watches and guards, and uses forethought, a skill I do not think you have yet mastered.”

Quickdeath snorted disdainfully and hefted his ax, knowing he had the advantage in numbers. The blood of his men was hot with victory. Before them, Stronghand seemed so small.

“Yet it is true that any leader needs a reward,” continued Stronghand. “Let this precious jewel serve to reward you as you deserve, for the victory you have achieved this day.”

“Do you think to bribe me?” asked Quickdeath, but like any Eika warrior, he hesitated.

Last Son brought the chest, carved out of ivory, banded with gold, and ornamented with cabochons of pale aquamarine and dark red garnets, and placed it on Stronghand’s thighs, then retreated to stand by the others.

“I will not have it said I give grudgingly to those who fight in my army.”

Quickdeath flashed a smile, leaped forward with a laugh, and grabbed the chest off Stronghand’s lap. “Now both your army and your treasure will be mine!” he cried as he flipped open the lid.

Stronghand’s men knew this as the signal. They froze in place, as did Stronghand, knowing stillness was his weapon now.

The rash ones did not understand caution, or stillness.

The ice wyrms were deadly, but fragile. Even starlight burned them. They were sightless, but Quickdeath’s startled movement offered target enough. He dropped the chest. The tiny ice wyrm scuttled across the dirt to the closest thing that moved. And stung.

Quickdeath’s scream pierced the heavens themselves. His warriors scattered in fear, except for two bold and loyal dogs who jumped growling into the fray, but the sun had already blasted the tiny creature to dust. Stronghand signaled, and Last Son struck down the dogs while Quickdeath twitched and croaked in agony as the venom coursed through his body. Their blood spattered his writhing body.

“Leave him,” said Stronghand, rising. He picked up the ivory chest and frowned at it while two of his brothers collapsed his chair and made ready to leave. “A pretty thing,” he said, “but the knowledge possessed by the craftsman who made it is worth far more than the object itself, however brilliant these gems shine.”

The chieftains approached.

“Did you know he would challenge you?” asked Ironclaw.

“I knew he was rash, and scorned caution. That was all I needed to know.”

“How did you come by that ice wyrm?”

Stronghand bared his teeth to show the jewels drilled there, as sharp as starlight. “Any one of us may brave the sands where the ice wyrms dwell.”

“Yet how many would think to do so? And survive the attempt?”