“More than traders, m’lord,” Willum replied humbly. “For the past two days there’s been a brace of horse barbarians with the traders as well. I fear this means no good for the town.”
“I knew about the barbarians,” Howard replied, leaning back in his padded chair and staring at the flickering shadows on the wall behind Willum thoughtfully. Indeed he did know about the barbarians—twins they were, with hair like a summer sun; he’d spotted the girl riding her beast with careless grace, and his loins had ached ever since.
“I fear he grows far too friendly with them, m’lord. His wife and child spend much of the day at the trader’s camp. I think that, unlike those of us who are loyal, he has forgotten where his duties lie.”
“And you haven’t, I take it?” Howard almost smiled. “M’lord knows I am but an honest tavernkeeper— “And has the honest tavernkeeper informed my father of this possibly treacherous behavior?”
“I tried,” Willum replied, his eyes not quite concealing his bitterness. “I have been trying for some time now. King Robert will not hear a word against the man.”
“King Robert is a senile old fool!” Howard snapped viciously, jerking upright where he sat so that the chair rocked and Willum sat back on his heels in startlement. “King Robert is far too readily distracted by pretty toys and pliant wenches.” His own mouth turned down with a bitterness to equal Willum’s—for the talented flame-haired local lovely that had been gracing his bed had deserted it last night for his father’s.
Willum’s eyes narrowed, and he crept forward on his knees until he almost touched Howard’s leg. “Perhaps,” he whispered, so softly that Howard could barely hear him, “it is time for a change of rulers—”
Chali had been banished to the forest as soon as the bright golden heads of the Horseclans twins had been spotted in the grasslands beyond the camp. She was not altogether unhappy with her banishment—she had caught an unwary thought from one of them, and had shivered at the strength of it. Now she did not doubt the rom barn's wisdom in hiding her. Dook that strong would surely ferret out her own, and she did not want to betray the secret gifts of her people until they knew more about the intent of these two. So into the forest she had gone, with cloak and firestarter and sack of food and necessaries.
Nor was she alone in her exile; Petro had deemed it wiser not to leave temptation within Howard’s reach and sent Bakro, the king stallion, with her. They had decided to explore the woods—and had wandered far from the encampment. To their delight and surprise, they had discovered the remains of an apple orchard deep in the heart of the forest. The place had gone wild and reseeded itself several times over, and the apples themselves were far smaller than those from a cultivated orchard, hardly larger than crabapples. But they were still sweet—and most of them were ripe. They had both gorged themselves as much as they dared on the crisp, succulent fruits, until night had fallen. How both were drowsing beneath a tree in Chali’s camp, sharing the warmth of her fire, and thinking of nothing in particular—
—when the attack on the Rom tsera came.
Chali was awake on the instant, her head ringing with the mental anguish of the injured—and God, oh God, the dying! Bakro wasn’t much behind her in picking up the waves of torment. He screamed, a trumpeting of defiance and rage. She grabbed a handful of mane and pulled herself up onto his back without being consciously aware she had done so, and they crashed off into the darkness to the source of that agony.
But the underbrush they had threaded by day was a series of maddening tangles by night; Bakro’s headlong dash ended ignominiously in a tangle of vine, and when they extricated themselves from the clawing branches, they found their pace slowed to a fumbling crawl. They slower they went, the more frantic they felt, for it was obvious from what they were being bombarded with that the Rom were fighting a losing battle.
And one by one the voices in their heads—lost strength. Then faded.
Until finally there was nothing.
They stopped fighting their way through the brush, then, and stood, lost in shock, in the blackness of the midnight forest—utterly, completely alone.
Dawn found Chali on her knees, exhausted, face tear-streaked, hands bruised from where she’d been pounding them on the ground, over and over. Bakro stood over her, trembling; trembling not from fear or sorrow, but from raw, red hatred. His herd had survived, though most had been captured by the enemy two-legs. But his two-leg herd—Chali was all he had left. He wanted vengeance—and he wanted it now.
Slowly the hot rage of the stallion penetrated Chali’s grief.
/ hear you, prala, / do hear you, she sent slowly, fumbling her way out of the haze of loss that had fogged her mind.
Kill! the stallion trumpeted with mind and voice. Kill them all!
She clutched her hands at her throat, and encountered the thong that held the little iron cross. She pulled it over her head, and stared at it, dully. What good was a god of forgiveness in the light of this slaughter? She cast the cross—and all it implied— from her, violently.
She rose slowly to her feet, and put a restraining hand on the stallion’s neck. He ceased his fidgeting and stood absolutely still, a great bay statue.
We will have revenge, prala, I swear it, she told him, her own hatred burning as high as his, but we will have it wisely.
Kevin was shoved and kicked down the darkened corridor of the king’s manor house with brutal indifference, smashing up against the hard stone of the walls only to be shoved onward again. His head was near to splitting, and he’d had at least one tooth knocked out; the flat, sweet taste of blood in his mouth seemed somehow unreal.
He was angry, frightened and bewildered. He’d awakened to distant shouts and screams, run outside to see a red glow in the direction of the Rom camp—then he’d been set upon from behind. Whoever it was that had attacked him clubbed him into apparent submission. Then he had his hands bound behind him—and his control broke; he began fighting again, and was dragged, kicking and struggling, up to the manor house. He’d seen, when his vision had cleared, that his attackers were some of King Robert’s own meres. He’d stumbled and nearly fallen on his face from the shock— he’d figured that the town had been taken by Ehleenee or some marauding band.
The door to King Robert’s quarters opened and Kevin was shoved through it, skidding on the flagstone floor to land sprawling on his face at someone’s feet.
“And here is the last of the suspects, my lord,” he heard Willum say unctuously.
He wrenched himself up onto his knees by brute force. Lounging at his ease in King Robert’s favorite chair was Howard, sumptuously clad and playing with his father’s new sword. Beside him, in the blue and red of Howard’s livery, was Willum.
“What the hell is that shit supposed to mean, asshole?” Kevin was too angry to mind his tongue, "and a blow from one of the meres behind him threw him onto his face again, made his brains rattle in his head and jarred his teeth to their sockets. His vision swam and he saw double for a long moment.
He pulled himself back into a semi-kneeling posture with aching difficulty.
“Keep a civil tongue in your head in the presence of your king, boy,” Willum told him, with a faint smile. “You’re suspected of conspiring with those false traders—”
“To what? Invade the town? Don’t make me laugh!” Kevin snorted. “Take over with a handful of men when— What the hell do you mean, king?”
“My father has met with an accident,” Howard purred, polishing the blade of the sword he held with a soft cloth. The steel glinted redly in the firelight. “He went mad, it seems. I was forced to defend myself. I have witnesses.”