“Which of you rates this banner, then?”
Ekkehard and company stood stubbornly silent.
The Wendish man spat on the snow. “Oh, for the love of the blessed Daisan, do you want yer cock cut off or not, for they’ll not be hesitating if you don’t give them satisfaction. Don’t be thinking there’s any bargaining with His Pompousness here.” As he spoke the insulting name, he bowed with outward respect to the man with the glorious hair. “Because let me tell you, you’re lucky you’re not all lying dead. He wants to know whose banner it is, and if any of you have the right to it.”
As boldly as he could, given the rope binding his wrists, the condition of his hair and face, and the rips and stains in his clothing, Prince Ekkehard stepped forward. “I am Ekkehard, son of King Henry, royal prince of the realm of Wendar and Varre. I wear the gold torque to mark my kinship to the royal house. Spare our lives, and I vouch that my father will pay a worthy ransom for us.”
The interpreter stopped listening after the words “gold torque,” and spoke quickly to his master.
The Quman prince listened intently. He seemed to have forgotten Hanna, or else he was the kind of man who only did one thing at a time. Cautiously, she ventured to sit all the way up.
The Quman camp consisted of one large round tent imperfectly camouflaged by a coating of snow and about a dozen smaller round tents, each one big enough for four men to sleep in. A long and slender standard dangled from the center post of each tent, white cloth marked with three raking stripes. After a moment, she recognized what it must be: the claw’s rake, mark of the Pechanek clan. Lady Fortune was surely laughing at Hanna today: she had fallen in with a raiding party from the tribe of Bulkezu himself, leader of the Quman army.
The prince stepped forward to unpin Ekkehard’s cloak, pull down the front of his tunic, and run a finger along the twisted gold braids of Ekkehard’s torque. For an instant, Hanna expected him to rip the torque right off Ekkehard’s neck, because surely that’s what savages did in their lust for gold. But he only grunted and stepped back without further molesting Ekkehard. With a grand gesture, he spoke, then waited for the interpreter’s translation.
“His Magnificence says these words: ‘You escaped my sister’s son on the battlefield, but now I have your life in my hands, as I was meant to, Brother.’”
“He’s the one you fought?” exclaimed Benedict. “He almost killed you!”
“Nay, it’s some other one of them with those damned iron wings who fought me,” said Ekkehard, looking increasingly nervous. “He just said so himself. Why does he call me ‘Brother’?”
It was just hard to remain calm with all those nasty shrunken heads dangling from every belt. Hanna eased up to her knees. Strange that they had no campfires. How did they mean to cook the three skinned deer strung up on branches? And what was that seen beyond the trees that edged the other side of the clearing? Chalk cliffs? A ridge of snow? She couldn’t make it out.
“Princes are brothers, are they not?” replied the translator sarcastically. “Unlike us poor bondsmen, who suffer at the whims of princes and pray only that we may live to see the next sunrise.”
“Are you always so insolent?” demanded Frithuric “Don’t you fear your master’s anger?”
The interpreter’s smile appeared sincere, but he had a way of thrusting his chin forward that betrayed his resentment. “Only a fool wouldn’t fear Prince Bulkezu’s anger, for he almost never loses his temper, which makes him the worst kind of tyrant.” He nattered on, a petty tyrant himself glad of the chance to lord it over folk more helpless than he was, but Hanna reeled and Ekkehard and his comrades swayed fearfully and changed color.
Bulkezu.
Ai, God, this glorious man was Bulkezu? She’d thought their luck couldn’t get any worse.
But it had.
“Anyway,” the interpreter continued, “none of these miserable Quman understand our tongue, so I can say what I wish. I could tell His Arrogance right now that you’ve insulted his mother, and then you’d be seeing something you’d rather wished you hadn’t, like your guts spilled out on the ground before you’re too dead to notice.” Gleefully, he turned to Bulkezu and said several sharp sentences.
Ekkehard gasped out loud, but got control of himself as though he’d just remembered that, in the epics, the hero always died nobly. Straightening up, he composed his face sternly to meet his doom.
Bulkezu laughed again. He clapped Ekkehard on the shoulder and gestured toward the large tent.
