The Burning Stone

“Then do it,” said Ekkehard quietly. Sitting, he looked like a child vainly attempting to bully a roaring giant. Yet as the smoke poured off the pyre, it seemed to pool around his body. For an instant, Ivar thought he saw the golden shadow of the dead bird rising, wings outstretched, from the battered shoulders of the prince.



With a grimace, and some help from his companions, Ekkehard got to his feet. Even standing he was entirely outmatched by his brawny cousin, a big, stout, experienced fighter, survivor of the second battle of Gent, leader of that troop of reckless young men who, outnumbered and outmatched, had fought hit-and-run engagements against Bloodheart’s Eika raiders for half a year. Ivar had heard all the glorious stories. So had Ekkehard, and his admiration for his cousin had become both embarrassing and a nuisance to Wichman.



But something had changed.



“Do it,” repeated Ekkehard. “Just be sure my father knows who killed me, and who terrorized these helpless villagers. They’ve got no lady or lord to avenge them, to call out a feud on their behalf, to get repayment for any damages you do them. They’ve only got the pledge of the king that they are under his protection.” He turned then to address the villagers. To their credit, they hadn’t fled; they’d only slunk back like dogs about to be whipped who knew that bars hemmed them in with their captor. “Keep your daughters hidden,” he said to them before turning back to defy his cousin. “Now what will you do? Kill them one by one until they bring out their daughters? Don’t they have enough sheep to satisfy you and your companions?”



Wichman slugged him.



He fell, thrashing a little like the bird had as it died in the stream. His wounded arms fluttered, then stilled. With eyes rolled up in his head, he lay there limply.



Baldwin lunged for Wichman, and then there was a gasp of fighting, Ekkehard’s boys throwing themselves against Wichman’s men. Ivar would have leaped in, but Ermanrich restrained him and it was over in moments in any case. Half of Ekkehard’s boys had blackening eyes and the rest purpling cheeks, most of them now held at arm’s length like puppets.



“Let them go,” said Wichman with disgust. “Bring me my horse,” he called to his groom. He spat at the feet of the crone before mounting. The horse sidestepped, trying to get away from the pyre, and he yanked its head round. “Let’s go,” he said to his companions. “We can find better lodging than this. Get Altfrid’s ring so we can return it to his sister.”



They thundered off through the woods, making for the main road. Strangely, after their departure, the sun came out from its veil of clouds. The fire roared on, oblivious. Glittering stags poured out of the burning corpse, running in the sweet smoke until their shapes were lost in the light of the sun.



In the morning, Ekkehard still couldn’t move his arms well enough to ride, but he looked remarkably cheerful as the villagers fussed over him. He’d been given the best bed in the hamlet, roomy enough for three and, according to Baldwin, not more infested than usual with fleas. The householder had strewn the floor with tansy to keep away vermin, and rushes had been brought in plenty to make soft bedding for Ekkehard’s companions and servants.



But Sigfrid was missing.



They found him at the pyre. By the golden sheen of soot on his hair and nose and the state of his robe, they deduced he had snuck out sometime late in the evening after everyone else had gone to sleep and prayed all night beside the pyre. Seeing Ivar and Ermanrich, he grabbed a stick and scratched writing into the ashes.



“The Feast Day of St. Mercurius the Changeable,” read Ermanrich, who still had an easier time reading than did Ivar. “No doubt accounting for Prince Ekkehard’s noble behavior yesterday.” He took the stick from Sigfrid and poked at the coals still smoldering in the pyre. No smoke rose, but a low mist of ashes seemed to hang about the coals as though blown up by some vast creature exhaling below. The pyre still gave off heat. It smelled now like a vast grave of flowers, a hundred rich scents tangled into one.



“Euw!” Ermanrich leaped back, dropping the stick.



Within the bright embrace of the coals, a gleaming red-gold worm writhed.



Startled, Sigfrid flung out his hands to hold Ivar and Ermanrich back. He actually tried to speak—normally he never forgot about his missing tongue—but he was so excited now, trembling, mobile face working, that he made the most pathetic noises until, finally, he grabbed the stick and tried to write something in the ashes. But a hard wind came up and they had to jump back as the pyre swirled up in a cloud of golden ash, spinning, then settled.