Read Online Iron Winter (Northland 3) by Stephen Baxter - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Baxter
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city.
Arnuwanda spoke now. ‘The question is who they are. The Franks rarely come so close to the city and we can usually buy them off anyhow . . .’ The prince was no more than twenty years
old. He wore his hair long but loose, his upper lip was clean-shaven, his beard carefully shaped, and his young skin shone with expensive oils. He had a new tattoo on his cheek, a circles-and-bar
design that looked like a souvenir of his long summer visit to Northland. His accent was smooth, Kassu thought, but oddly spiced, probably thanks to the Greek and Northlander tutors who had been
imported to educate him. But he held himself like a warrior, having been educated in those arts by men like Himuili, and having ridden out in battle at the age of fifteen, or, some said, even
younger. The Hatti had always needed their princes to be generals. ‘If it’s nomads,’ the prince went on, ‘we might have more trouble. Difficult wretches who don’t know
when they’re defeated. They just scatter on their ponies hoping to lure you into traps—’
‘If they haven’t eaten their ponies already,’ Angulli said, and he giggled. This was the Father of the Churches, Brother of Jesus; he sounded slightly drunk to Kassu.
Himuili rolled his eyes. ‘We’ve ways of dealing with nomads, sir. The Turks are more persistent nuisances, especially now they’ve captured so much territory in eastern
Anatolia. Gives them a base to fight from, you see.’
Arnuwanda nodded. ‘But at least, again, we know what we’re dealing with. The problem will be, as always, raising the manpower. And feeding the men.’ Another swirl of snow came
down, thicker than before. Arnuwanda pulled his expensive-looking purple cloak tight around him.
‘Not the Turks,’ came a booming voice, immediately recognised by Kassu. ‘And not the Franks either.’
There was a commotion among the outer layers of the guard. Zida, for it was he, strode boldly towards the group of dignitaries. He had taken off his cloak and had wrapped it around some
kind of trophy that dripped deep-red blood as he walked.
‘Let him through,’ Himuili snapped. ‘Let him through, I say!’
Zida, standing before his general, panted hard. Even the King, Kassu noticed, peered out of his linen tent to see what the fuss was about.
‘You’ve been running,’ Kassu murmured.
‘Faster than you, farm boy.’
‘A dozen lashes for your failure to prostrate,’ Himuili snapped.
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Tell me what you have.’
‘The identity of our attackers.’ Zida held up his bloody bundle and pulled away the cloak – to reveal a human head, roughly severed at a neck from which blood still dripped, a
face pale with a heavy moustache. Zida held it up by a hank of red hair. There was a collective gasp, a wave of shock that spread out through the crowd of onlookers. Even the hooded supplicants
were distracted, even the King. Reflexively the guards clustered closer around their master.
Kassu spotted his wife Henti, on the edge of the crowd, dressed in her nuntarriyashas finery, the robe shabby, faded, old, as everything was in New Hattusa these days, but still she
looked radiant in his eyes. But she had come with her cousin Palla, the priest, who probably had business with Angulli. Side by side the cousins looked very alike. Kassu saw that Henti held the
priest’s arm firmly as she stared at the head.
Himuili stepped forward. With his thumb, he opened one of the relic’s closed eyelids, to reveal an eye as blue as the sea in summer. ‘Rus, ’ he growled.
‘In fact he found me before I found him,’ Zida admitted. ‘He crept up behind me. Lucky I got him first. Otherwise—’
‘Otherwise you would have died uselessly,’ Himuili murmured, gazing at the head. ‘And all that expensive training wasted. Careless, that. Make that two dozen
lashes.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘But he is Rus. You established that?’
‘Yes, sir. He lived long enough to convince me. But they
Arnuwanda spoke now. ‘The question is who they are. The Franks rarely come so close to the city and we can usually buy them off anyhow . . .’ The prince was no more than twenty years
old. He wore his hair long but loose, his upper lip was clean-shaven, his beard carefully shaped, and his young skin shone with expensive oils. He had a new tattoo on his cheek, a circles-and-bar
design that looked like a souvenir of his long summer visit to Northland. His accent was smooth, Kassu thought, but oddly spiced, probably thanks to the Greek and Northlander tutors who had been
imported to educate him. But he held himself like a warrior, having been educated in those arts by men like Himuili, and having ridden out in battle at the age of fifteen, or, some said, even
younger. The Hatti had always needed their princes to be generals. ‘If it’s nomads,’ the prince went on, ‘we might have more trouble. Difficult wretches who don’t know
when they’re defeated. They just scatter on their ponies hoping to lure you into traps—’
‘If they haven’t eaten their ponies already,’ Angulli said, and he giggled. This was the Father of the Churches, Brother of Jesus; he sounded slightly drunk to Kassu.
Himuili rolled his eyes. ‘We’ve ways of dealing with nomads, sir. The Turks are more persistent nuisances, especially now they’ve captured so much territory in eastern
Anatolia. Gives them a base to fight from, you see.’
Arnuwanda nodded. ‘But at least, again, we know what we’re dealing with. The problem will be, as always, raising the manpower. And feeding the men.’ Another swirl of snow came
down, thicker than before. Arnuwanda pulled his expensive-looking purple cloak tight around him.
‘Not the Turks,’ came a booming voice, immediately recognised by Kassu. ‘And not the Franks either.’
There was a commotion among the outer layers of the guard. Zida, for it was he, strode boldly towards the group of dignitaries. He had taken off his cloak and had wrapped it around some
kind of trophy that dripped deep-red blood as he walked.
‘Let him through,’ Himuili snapped. ‘Let him through, I say!’
Zida, standing before his general, panted hard. Even the King, Kassu noticed, peered out of his linen tent to see what the fuss was about.
‘You’ve been running,’ Kassu murmured.
‘Faster than you, farm boy.’
‘A dozen lashes for your failure to prostrate,’ Himuili snapped.
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Tell me what you have.’
‘The identity of our attackers.’ Zida held up his bloody bundle and pulled away the cloak – to reveal a human head, roughly severed at a neck from which blood still dripped, a
face pale with a heavy moustache. Zida held it up by a hank of red hair. There was a collective gasp, a wave of shock that spread out through the crowd of onlookers. Even the hooded supplicants
were distracted, even the King. Reflexively the guards clustered closer around their master.
Kassu spotted his wife Henti, on the edge of the crowd, dressed in her nuntarriyashas finery, the robe shabby, faded, old, as everything was in New Hattusa these days, but still she
looked radiant in his eyes. But she had come with her cousin Palla, the priest, who probably had business with Angulli. Side by side the cousins looked very alike. Kassu saw that Henti held the
priest’s arm firmly as she stared at the head.
Himuili stepped forward. With his thumb, he opened one of the relic’s closed eyelids, to reveal an eye as blue as the sea in summer. ‘Rus, ’ he growled.
‘In fact he found me before I found him,’ Zida admitted. ‘He crept up behind me. Lucky I got him first. Otherwise—’
‘Otherwise you would have died uselessly,’ Himuili murmured, gazing at the head. ‘And all that expensive training wasted. Careless, that. Make that two dozen
lashes.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘But he is Rus. You established that?’
‘Yes, sir. He lived long enough to convince me. But they
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