“Kill him!” shouted Willibrod, but the bandits held still, whispering each to his fellow, fingering the amulets, lowering their bows.
“Or I will kill you!” shrieked Willibrod. “Eloie! Eloie! Isaba—” Bartholomew let the arrow fly.
It ripped through the tattered robes. Willibrod spun backward and slammed into the tent. Canvas ripped as the frame splintered, but he flailed and righted himself, still standing despite the arrow protruding from the center of his chest. He raised his hand to call down the curse.
“Eloie! Eloie!”
Sorrow leaped and got his leg in her jaws. The force of her bite overbalanced him. He staggered. With a horrible shriek he tottered, spun his arms, and lost his footing. His robes fluttered and his veil streamed open; he fell and hit the ground hard as Sorrow, yelping in pain, scrambled backward, shaking her head from side to side as though she had been stung. She buried her muzzle in the dirt.
Silence followed, hard and heavy. No sound of birds, no murmur of wind in the trees, no noise at all broke the unnatural hush.
Willibrod did not move. Around the camp, voices whimpered in fear. An infant squalled and was hushed by its terrified mother.
“Ai, God,” said one of the men.
His voice shattered the spell that held Alain. He knelt beside Willibrod and plucked at his robes. The body beneath shifted, clacked, and rattled. What was left of him? Although Alain sniffed, he smelled nothing like the stench of putrefaction, only a hint of that vinegary tang. Bracing himself against the awful sight he might see, he lifted away the veil and hat to reveal a grinning skull, jaw agape.
Willibrod was gone. Only his skeleton remained, darkening where sunlight soaked into pale bone.
Rage leaped, growling furiously, and Sorrow lunged.
Too late Alain sprang up. A staff smacked into the side of his head. He went down in a heap, hands and legs nerveless, paralyzed by the blow, while all around him he heard the snarling battle of the hounds, outnumbered, and the screams and cries of the bandits, closing in.
“Go,” he murmured, commanding the hounds, but he had no voice. His head was on fire, and the rest of him was numb.
Why had he turned his back? Even for that one moment, thinking that all of them were shocked by Willibrod’s death and disintegration; even that one moment had been too long. Anger and grief boiled up. What had he done to his faithful hounds? Better that they run and save themselves. He stirred, fighting to get up, to protect them, to save them.
A second blow cracked into his back, and a third exploded in pain at the base of his neck, this flare of agony followed by a long, hazy slide as he was caught in the current of a sparkling river flowing toward the sea. Now and again he bobbed to the surface, hearing voices but seeing only a misty dark fog.
“He knows what we are! He knows what we’ve done! I say we kill him!”
“Kill him! Finish him off!”
“Nay! Hold, there, Red! Put down your knife!” That was Bartholomew, speaking quickly. “What profit is in it for us if we kill him?”
“We must be rid of him!” That was Dog-Ears. “This Lord Arno will be after us soon enough, if what this cursed one says is true. We’ll have to abandon camp. We’ll have to run, even split up. I say we kill him.”
“Kill him! Kill him!”
“We could gain coin and bread if we sell him at the slave market with the women. He’s strong and healthy. He’ll bring a good price from the Salian merchants.”
Where were Rage and Sorrow? He could not see, nor could he hear any trace of them. Ai, God, were they dead? Had the bandits killed them? He had been careless, such a fool, to turn his back even for a moment.
The current caught him and dragged him under.
XXI
TRUST
1
SANGLANT slid from wakefulness to sleep so imperceptibly that the transition happened while she blinked. Heribert tucked blankets in around him as Liath beckoned to Hathui.
“I pray you, give me a report of what has transpired while I have been gone.”
“Have you a day for the telling?”
Liath smiled wryly. “I have not. Tell me what is most important. I can learn the rest later. Come, you can speak to me while I sit with my daughter.”
“I’ll stay with Prince Sanglant,” said Heribert.
Liath found Blessing attended by an old man whose naked torso was entirely tattooed with intertwined animals. His eyes widened when he saw her, and he backed away respectfully, humming in his reedy voice. The sound shuddered up and down her spine like the wandering of an unfinished spell, seeking an entrance.
Others bowed, acknowledging her: the Kerayit healer and a trio of anxious Wendish attendants—the young woman with the peculiar skin color called Anna, a youth by name of Matto, and a young lord named Thiemo who seemed sweet on Anna and annoyed with Matto, although he and the other youth were of an age and might surely otherwise be expected to be friendly companions.
