In the Ruins (Crown of Stars 6)

“REFUGEES,” said Fulk as he reined in beside Sanglant where the regnant rode in the vanguard of the army.

They had begun the climb into the foothills through dreary weather with scarcely a drop of rain and not a single glimpse of the sun. They had lost a hundred horses in the last ten days and still had the crossing over the mountains ahead of them with winter coming on. It had, at least, been unusually warm, but in the past two days the bite of winter had strengthened.

Fulk indicated a trail that led off the road into a hollow where some twoscore desperate travelers had taken shelter under wagons and canvas lean-tos against evening’s approaching dark.

“I know this place,” said Sanglant. “This is where we found those men with their throats cut, after the galla attacked us.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty. I see no sign of the massacre now. It’s a good camping spot. Do we stop here for the night? These folk may ask for food and water and we haven’t any to spare.”

“The Aostan lords are shortsighted,” remarked Sanglant. “Every village we passed has already been looted. If there is no one to till the fields because the farmers have all died of starvation, if there is no seed grain, they will not be able to feed their war bands. So be it. We’ll camp here.”

Sanglant urged Fest forward and with Fulk, Hathui, and a dozen of his personal guard at his back he rode into the hollow. He feared no violence. They could not kill him, and in any case it was obvious that these ragged fugitives posed no danger to an armed man. They hadn’t even posted a sentry, only thrown themselves to the ground in exhaustion.

Hearing horses and the noise of men’s voices, the refugees staggered up, huddling in groups of two and three.

“Who are you?” he asked.

When they heard him speak, half fell to their knees and the rest wept.

“Is it possible?” asked one middle-aged man, creeping forward on his knees with arms outstretched in the manner of a supplicant. “You speak Wendish.”

“We are Wendish,” he began, but a woman in cleric’s robes hissed sharply and tugged on the first man’s sleeve.

“It is Prince Sanglant, Vindicadus. Look! There is the banner of Fesse!”

“Who are you?” he asked again, not dismounting.

The one called Vindicadus rose as others urged him forward. It was a strange group, only adults in their prime and youths. There was one suckling infant in arms, no young children, and no elderly. Under the dirt they were sturdily and even well clothed, and several by their robes he identified as clerics.

“We are Wendish folk, my lord. We are those from King Henry’s progress who were left behind in Darre because we belong to the households of clerics and presbyters.”

“Why are you here now?”

In their silence, their hesitation, their indrawn breaths, he heard an answer. Some looked away. Some sobbed. A pair of servants clung to the sides of a hand-cart on which a man lay curled, hands in fists, eyes shut. He was dressed in the torn and stained robes of a presbyter. There was blood in his hair, long dried to a stiff coppery coating.

“They attacked us, my lord,” said the one called Vindicadus at last. “Because we were Wendish. They said we had angered God by our presumption. They said we had caused the storm of God’s punishment. We are all that remains of those of Wendish birth and breeding who served in the palaces in Darre. Our companions were slaughtered that day, or died on the way. I pray you, my lord, do not abandon us.”

“Who attacked you?”

“Everyone, my lord.” He wept. “The Aostans. The people of Darre. The city took terrible damage in the winds and the tremors that followed. Fissures belch gas out of the earth. Toward the coast, fire and rock blasted up from the Abyss and destroyed everything it touched. At least three mountains spew fire all along the western coast. It is the end of the world, my lord. What else can it be?”

“True words,” murmured Hathui.

“Will you help us, my lord? We are unknown to you, but many of us served in King Henry’s schola.”

“You are dressed in frater’s garb. Are you such a one?”

“Nay, my lord. I am a lowly servingman from Austra, once bound to the service of Margrave Judith but later coming into the service of her magnanimous son, Presbyter Hugh.”

Sanglant felt a kick up inside his ribs. Hathui looked at him sharply, as though he had given something away, and maybe he had. She knew Liath’s history as well as he did. “You served Lord Hugh?”

“I did, my lord. Of his schola and retinue, six remain. The others are dead—” He choked on the word and for the space of five breaths could not go on. Sanglant waited, hearing the army toiling up the road just beyond the low ridge that separated the hollow from the main path. “They are dead.” He was not an old man but he had seen better days; grief made him fragile. “The rest went north months ago with the presbyter.”

“Hugh went north? When was this?”

“Months ago, my lord. In the month of … aye, let me see. It seems years ago. I don’t recall now. It was late summer. Yes, that’s right.”

indicated a trail that led off the road into a hollow where some twoscore desperate travelers had taken shelter under wagons and canvas lean-tos against evening’s approaching dark.