All at once he was tired of the charade. What kind of contest was it, really, to fight a man chained up for almost two years? Bulkezu remained remarkably strong, yet what kind of man was he, to torment another as Bloodheart had once tormented him?
Bulkezu struck for his face. Sanglant blocked the blow and delivered his own to Bulkezu’s gut, knocking him back, then stepped in, turning sideways as Bulkezu kicked out so the blow glanced off his thigh. As he closed, Bulkezu lunged for his throat. Sanglant seized his wrists and they froze a moment, locked, motionless.
“No creature male or female may kill me,” Sanglant muttered, “so it was never a fair fight.”
With a curse, Bulkezu twisted his hands free, spinning to strike with his elbow. Sanglant caught the blow on his forearm and delivered a sharp punch below the ribs followed by a flurry of blows that made the men watching from above cheer. Bulkezu collapsed limply to the ground.
“On that day you’ll go free,” Sanglant repeated, “and we’ll see which man wins griffin feathers.”
Malbert pushed down the ladder and climbed down, eager to help shackle the prisoner.
“Nay, I will do it.” Let him do the dirty work himself, chaining a warrior who would rather die fighting than leashed like a slave—or a dog. But perhaps Bulkezu deserved no better than the fate he had meted out to the many people he had enslaved and murdered.
What was justice? What was right?
“Here’s the key,” he said, handing it to Malbert, glad to be rid of it, although he would never be rid of the responsibility for what he chose to do.
Yet his night’s work wasn’t done. He crawled up the ladder to discover that King Geza had been alerted by his own guard. Sanglant met him just outside the keep. The king came attended by a half dozen of his white-cloaked honor guard, young men with long mustaches and scant beards. Geza was about ten years older than Bayan, rather more burly, gone a little to fat, and keenly intelligent. He had the luck of the king, that powerful presence, but he lacked the wicked sense of humor that had made Bayan a good companion.
“A problem with the prisoner?” he asked through his interpreter. Was he suspicious, or amused?
“He insulted my father,” replied Sanglant.
“Ah.” Geza spat on the ground to show his contempt for the prisoner. “Is he dead now?”
“Not until he’s given me what I need.”
Geza nodded and took his leave, returning to his bed. He had been grateful enough to get Bayan’s body back, and he had stinted in no way in making Sanglant a welcome guest in the kingdom of Ungria, yet it remained clear that he was only waiting for Sanglant and his army to leave and that he was by no means happy at the thought of that same army returning to cross Ungrian lands on their road back to Wendar. He had even suggested that Sanglant take his army north into the war-torn Polenie lands. Yet he didn’t want to fight Wendish troops either; after all, he and King Henry were nominally allies. When Geza had offered one of his sons as a new husband for Sapientia, Sanglant had actually flirted with the idea—for the space of three breaths.
As Geza and his entourage crossed the courtyard to the hall, Sanglant caught sight of Hathui and Zacharias over by the stables, she with her arm around his waist as if she were holding him up. Wolfhere stood by the doorway, lighting their way with a lamp as they ducked inside. How had Zacharias hidden his mutilation all these months? No one had even suspected. But then, Zacharias kept to himself, never truly part of the group, and in truth he stank because he so rarely washed.
“My lord prince!” Heribert hurried up, hair mussed and face puffy with sleep. “Everyone is saying you killed Bulkezu.”
“Rumor has already flown, I see. Thank the Lord we’re moving on tomorrow. These Ungrians sing too much.”
“You haven’t complained of Lady Ilona’s attentions.”
“She’s worst of all! I’m nothing more than a stallion to her, brought in to breed the mare. No more women, Heribert.”
The cleric chuckled. “Isn’t that what you said in Gent?”
“I mean it this time!”
Mercifully, Heribert did not answer, merely cocked an eyebrow, looking skeptical as he ran his fingers through his hair, trying to comb it down. The first predawn birds cried out, heralding the day to come.
“The Ungrian camp followers will stay behind when we leave Geza’s kingdom. Who will be left to tempt me? Pray God the sorcerers we find will know how to get Liath back.”
“Yet what lies beyond Ungria? A trackless plain, so they say. How will we find these griffins and sorcerers you seek?”
