Child of Flame (Crown of Stars #4) 00

Blessing tugged him and Bayan over to a ragged group of captives bound hand and foot. They had the look of defeated soldiers, the kind of troublemakers who needed to be trussed up so they couldn’t escape on the long march.

A Polenie merchant hurried up, bobbing up and down anxiously as he took in Sanglant’s Wendish clothing and noble bearing and Bayan’s Ungrian flair. He wore the typical Polenie hat, a pointed leather cap with a folded brim. “Your Most Excellencies,” he cried in passable Wendish, “here have I strong men who I take south to the slave markets of Arethousa. Have you a care to purchase them now? I can give you good price.”

Blessing marched up to the youngest of the captives, a lad of perhaps sixteen years with a blackened eye, bare feet, and the scarring of frostbite on his nose and ears. “I told you I would come back.” She turned to the merchant, expression fierce. “Thiemo is mine.”

“My lady—” began the merchant, glancing at Sanglant, not wanting to insult a prince’s daughter.

The youth began to weep, although it was hard to tell whether his tears were those of joy or thwarted hope. “My lady, is it true? Have you come to ransom me and my comrades?” Then he, too, noticed Sanglant and Bayan.

“Your Highness!” cried the lad, flushing hotly. Five of the men with him dropped hard to their knees. Under their dirt, Sanglant recognized the tabards of Lions.

“God save us,” murmured Bayan. “The heretics.”

Sapientia came up beside Bayan. She frowned, and when she narrowed her eyes in that particular way one could almost actually see her thinking. “Can it be? Are these the heretics banished after the trial at Handelburg? How did they get here? Where are the rest of them?”

“Dead,” said the eldest of the Lions. “Or better dead, considering what we ran into. Your Highness.” He bowed his head respectfully toward Sanglant. “I know you are Prince Sanglant. It’s said you’re a fair man. I pray you—”

“Daddy, I want him.”

“I don’t know.” Sapientia wrung her hands. “Biscop Alberada excommunicated them for heresy. How can we go against the church? We could be excommunicated, too. It’s God’s judgment upon them that they be sold into slavery as punishment for their sins.” But she wasn’t sure. Sanglant saw how she looked at Bayan, waiting to see what he would say. She was afraid to pass judgment herself.

Sanglant turned to the merchant. “These men are King Henry’s Lions. I will ransom them from you for a fair price.”

“One nomia apiece,” said the merchant instantly.

“Remember,” said Sanglant with a warning smile, “that I have an army and you have twenty guards. I could take them as easily as buy them, and since we stand on Wendish ground, I would be well within my rights to restore their freedom because they are Henry’s sworn soldiers.”

“Forsworn,” objected Sapientia, “because of heresy—”

“As long as the Quman army rides on Wendish soil, I do not care if they are heretics, foreigners, two-headed, or painted blue, as long as they will fight loyally for the king.” He turned to the old Lion. “What is your name?”

“Gotfrid, my lord prince. We are none of us disloyal to the king. What God chose to reveal to us has nothing to do with how faithfully we’ll fight.”

Sanglant called to Heribert, who had been trailing behind with the rest of his retinue. “Give the merchant ten sceattas for his trouble.”

“May God bless you, Your Highness,” said Gotfrid. “We’ll serve you well, I swear it. And so do these others swear.”

The other four swore oaths hurriedly, with every appearance of gratitude and sincerity. Only the merchant didn’t look happy, but he knew better than to protest.

Bayan stepped forward and spoke to the redeemed captives in a low voice. “The Eagle? Prince Ekkehard?”

Beneath the grime, Lord Thiemo’s clothes had the cut, color, and richness of a lord’s garb, and when he rose to his feet he had the slightly bow-legged stance of a young man who has grown up spending more time in the saddle than walking. “Dead,” he said raggedly.

“Is this true?” asked Bayan.

“I fear it must be, my lord prince,” said the old Lion. “It was winter. It was snowing like to drown us. And we were attacked by shadows.” His voice dropped to a whisper and he glanced around as though expecting to see them materialize out of nowhere. “The Lost Ones.”

Flushing, he struggled to contain the memory, and the fear. His companions murmured to each other, huddling together as if the mere mention of the creatures who had attacked them was enough to bring down a snowstorm.