“The other will take her place on the pyre.”
“No!”
“What madness is this, kagan?” Edeco demanded. Skilla had blanched, looking at his king in bewilderment.
“She refused a better bargain when I offered it two nights ago. So let her make one now. Which of her suitors does she choose to kill?”
“I cannot make that choice. It’s monstrous!”
“Then I will lock you back to that pyre with the other women and set fire to it now! Which one!”
I felt sick, things spiraling out of control. Where were my allies? Would Attila really kill Skilla instead of me? What kind of unjust game was this, to play with people’s lives, to threaten the three of us with the arbitrary fate he had given poor Rusticius? How many innocents must this tyrant condemn? As I watched Ilana stand there, stricken, horrified, confused, my rage boiled over. Maybe it was Chrysaphius who was right, not Aetius. Eliminate Attila and our greatest problem was solved!
I shoved, butting him; and because of the surprise, I, Attila, and the sword went sprawling on the ground. Before the surprised older man could gather himself I’d wrestled myself behind him with the blunt but still-lethal sword at his neck, dragging both of us toward the pyre so I could use it as a shield for my back. The sword was so long it was like holding a pike pole against his throat.
“This sword has become his curse!” I cried. “Harm us and I take off his head!”
“Roman trick!” Edeco roared. His hand was at his sword.
Other Huns raised weapons. But all hesitated because Attila was my shield. Eudoxius, I noticed from the corner of my eye, was slipping sideways out of sight. Now what?
“No trick, warlord!” another voice cried out. “Beware its curse, Attila!”
At last! Two figures on horseback were pushing through the small mob of Huns that was gathering around us, ignoring their angry muttering like men ignoring the growl of dogs. They were on a single horse, the smaller one looking at my desperate stance with wonder.
“So you have found a lover, Alabanda,” Zerco called.
Hun attention swung momentarily from me to the newcomers.
“Think what has happened to your people since you found that sword!” the tall one was shouting. “Think where it has been, with the Romans!”
“What is this?” Attila gasped in frustration against my hold. “Can any man in the world walk into my camp?”
A chieftain in escort fell to his knees and looked in stu-pefaction at the tableau we presented: Attila and I locked like wrestlers, Ilana and Skilla white-faced in shock, Edeco looking murderous. “He said he had an urgent message from Aetius,” the Hun pleaded. “He said if I didn’t let them through it would doom us all. I remember the dwarf. He’s a demon, lord. But most of all I remember this holy man.”
“Holy man?” Attila squinted harder. “By the gods! The hermit!”
Edeco started, too. He seemed to recognize a man I knew as Bishop Anianus.
“The halfling I loathe,” Attila said. “And you, I remember you. . . .”
“As I remember you, Scourge of God,” said Bishop Anianus. I was baffled. Had these two met? “You have scourged the West of its sins as intended. Now it is time to go back to where you crawled from. Leave the sword. The thing you lusted for has been corrupted for your kind.”
“Corrupted?”
“Bathed in holy water, blessed by high bishops, and anointed by a vial of blood from the savior. Do you think Aetius is fool enough to let this youth give back a tool of Hun power in exchange for a single woman! This is no longer the sword of Mars, Attila. It is the sword of Christ.
For you, it has been cursed, and if you take it with you, your people will be utterly destroyed.”
Attila twisted angrily, so I pressed the blade anew. “Let us go and I let you go,” I whispered.
“You dare come here to offer bad prophecy?” the king challenged the bishop.
“I come here to offer fair warning. Think! Could this young fool steal the sword from the tent of Aetius? Or did the general let him have it? Ask him.”
Attila twisted his head. “What is true?”
“Aetius said he wanted you to survive—”
“Think!” interrupted Anianus. “That sword has brought you no luck, Attila.”
I could almost feel the king calculating. “Then it curses the Romans as well,” he tried. “Look at the battlefield, warlords. They lost more than we did.”
Zerco laughed. “Which is why you cower in your laager!”
Now Edeco’s sword was half out of its sheath, but I shouted warning. “Don’t!” I bent to the king’s ear. “My life for yours. Ilana for the sword. I can’t hold you much longer.
I must slice and kill us both, or leave.”
There was silence. Sweat spotted us both. Ilana seemed to have turned to marble. Skilla seemed dazed by all that was happening.
Finally Attila grunted. “All right.” None of us moved, not certain we had heard him right. “Go. You and the witch. Go, and be a plague on Aetius instead! You’ve both cursed my camp since you came to it. Leave the sword and I give you safe passage.”
I sensed movement at the edge of the pyre, coming behind me. We didn’t have much time. “I have your word?”
“You have my word. But if I see you in battle again, I will kill you.”
I released him and stepped away, holding the old sword at the ready and careful of treachery. Attila’s eyes were like the point of a spear, but he made no move toward me and issued no command. Eudoxius, I saw, had been trying to sneak behind the pyre to get a shot at my back with a bow and arrow, but now he stopped, too, the arrow half drawn.
Attila rubbed the red welt at his neck. “The sword, Roman.”
Stooping carefully, I laid it in the grass, then began backing for Diana. “I need a horse for Ilana,” I said.
“Give her one,” the kagan growled.
I swung up onto Diana and Ilana mounted her horse.
Skilla looked at us with quiet sadness, finally accepting that he’d never have her.
“Skilla, come with us,” I tried.
He straightened then, proud, contemptuous, confident. “I am a Hun,” he said simply.
“Skilla . . .” Ilana spoke, her voice breaking. “I know what you’ve—”
“Get out of here,” Attila interrupted, “before I change my mind.”
Skilla nodded. I wanted to offer my strange enemy-friend something, but what? Not Ilana. She was quietly weeping, tears running down her cheeks.
“Go,” Skilla said in a choked voice. “Go, go, Romans, and stop corrupting us.”
I was dazed that I was alive, that Ilana was behind me, that Anianus had appeared, that the sword I had carried so long lay untouched in the grass. Our horses began to move, Huns reluctantly stepped aside, our own lines glinting on the horizon. It might work!
I heard a familiar voice. “Here’s a better ending, kagan.”
Our heads swiveled and I saw Eudoxius, his face con-torted with hatred, draw his bow. The iron of the arrowhead trembled slightly as he aimed at Ilana.
He shot as Skilla leaped without thinking, trying to spoil the aim. Instead the arrow struck him and the Hun was pitched forward by the impact, falling onto his back. He looked in disbelief at the shaft jutting from his breast.
Eudoxius gaped in horror.
“A Hun keeps his word,” Skilla gasped, a red froth at his lips.
There was a roar of outrage, and the Greek turned and flinched. Edeco’s sword came whistling down and cleaved the doctor nearly in two.
“Now, now!” Zerco cried. “Ride! Ride for our lives!”
