Conrad and Sabella had reached Kassel before them, but there was no sign of the Eika. The Varren tents circled two thirds of the valley, which was anchored to the north on a wide slope so steep that a recent avalanche had torn through the trees. In the broad valley, men chopped and hauled and hammered and dug siege works. Work was particularly busy along the eastern edge.
Ivar tried to estimate the number of Varren troops but could not. Beside him, Wolfhere spoke in a low voice to Berthold.
“More than ten centuries, my lord, but less than twenty. Yet see what banners rise above the citadel!” Behind Kassel’s walls flew the Wendish banner, with eagle, lion, and dragon, and the Eagle of Fesse, together with a black dragon banner Ivar had never seen before. “Duchess Liutgard has returned. It must be true. Prince Sanglant has declared himself king.”
“It was always Henry’s wish, or at least so my father told me,” said Berthold. “Although it was never to be spoken of. I think that’s why Father wanted Waltharia to marry Sanglant. He had a good idea that she had a chance to become queen, and make his grandchildren royal.”
“He meant her to rule both Wendar and Varre and the marchland?” Wolfhere asked.
“Nay. I think my father meant the margrave’s ring to pass to me.” When Berthold grinned at the old Eagle, Ivar sulked, wishing the youth liked him better. His cheerful nature and bold determination gave him the charisma usually only found in an older man. Yet Berthold ought to have passed as many years on Earth as Ivar had; it was only magic that had stolen so much time from both of them.
“Here, now,” said the sergeant in charge of the men who had captured them. “Be quiet. Begging your pardon, my lord.”
Men turned to stare as their bedraggled company crossed fields and were herded into the outer reaches of the encampment. Two tents rose above the rest. One was striped red and gold and flew the banner of Arconia’s guivre, while the other boasted pure gold cloth blazoned all around its sides with the stallion of Wayland, bold and strong. To the ground before these tents they were brought, and made to wait in the lengthening shadows while the sergeant went inside and came out again.
“My lord duke is out hunting,” he said. In the distance they heard a chorus of cheers, and he looked up and in that instant his face opened to reveal all the loyalty and love he gave to his duke. “Well, here he comes. Get down now.”
Berthold did not kneel, and so none of the others did, not even Ivar.
The procession arrived, two-score men in mail and helmets, with swords and spears tucked and ready.
“We gave that bastard a scare!” said the dark man Ivar recognized as the duke. He was laughing until he saw the prisoners, shorn of their weapons and strange to look on.
“Good God!” He tossed his helm to one of his attendants, swung down, and crossed to stand before the prisoners, surveying them with a sly smile. A trio of whippets loped up to lick his hands. “Good lord! You are Villam’s son, the one that was lost. Can it be? What sorcery has restored you to the land of the living?”
“I was never dead,” said Berthold stoutly. “In truth, Cousin, I think I might have slept under a stone crown for many years. What sorcery bound me I cannot say. This man, Lord Jonas, is the only one who survived of the six who accompanied me. I pray you, do you mean to make me your prisoner in this rough way? Surely we are kinsman!”
Conrad laughed. “Come inside, then, Cousin! I’ll have drink and food brought. If you’ve been asleep for years, you must have developed a powerful thirst! Yet these others …” He stared for the longest time at Berda, shook his head, squinted at Odei, noted Brother Heribert, nodded at Wolfhere with the casual mark of a man acknowledging a servant he recognizes, and finally settled on Ivar. “Pull off that hood.”
Grimly, Ivar obeyed.
“Ah, indeed, the rufus boy from the North Mark. You keep flitting in and out of my path. What is your name again?”
“Ivar, son of Count Harl of the North Mark and Countess Herlinda.”
“Yes. Lord Berthold, you travel with a strange and puzzling retinue. A banished Eagle, a Quman barbarian, this … female person, whose origins I cannot account for, a cleric, and Lord Ivar who was last known to be dead. I am wondering how so many people who might long have been thought to be dead are walking on Earth like so many spirits roaming restlessly abroad at the Hallowing Tide.”
“We are not dead, my lord,” said Wolfhere. “I have news of your daughter, Lady Elene.”
Like a hound catching a scent, Conrad went rigid. He dismounted, cast his reins to a groom, and trod right up to the Eagle until his height and breadth and stature overwhelmed the old man. The Eagle did not back down.
