The Burning Stone

by Kate Elliott

  As they came to a bend in the road that cut off their view of the village, she glanced back, and perhaps it was only the darkening clouds or perhaps it was a shadow over her eyes, sowing fear and doubt and premonition.

  Carts and wagons emerged from the palisade, laden with hastily packed clothing and chests and barrels, overflowing with crates of chickens and baskets of turnips. The villagers had panicked. As the Lions marched east on the trail of Margrave Judith and the host of Princess Sapientia, Hanna stared as the villagers began their flight westward toward the fortress of Machteburg, all strung out with their crying, clinging children and such weapons as villagers had: pitchforks, spears, shovels. They only paused to spit on the corpses of the dead Quman.

  She rode toward them, shouting: “Stay in your village. You’ll be attacked on your way west. Don’t go.”

  But they wouldn’t listen.

  She had already lost sight of the rear guard in the forest. She had her own duty. She’d done what she could here.

  She turned her horse and rode east down the now-empty road. The drizzle only made it worse because every drip, every snap of a water-logged branch, made her start round, ready for those dozen Quman who had escaped to come whistling down on her and cut her to pieces. Cut her head off and blacken it and burn it until it became one of those horrible little shriveled heads. She’d noticed that the raiders they’d met didn’t carry heads at their belts. Didn’t that mean they were young men who hadn’t made their first kill yet? Wouldn’t that make them more dangerous, because they were desperate to prove themselves?

  She heard a shout, and abruptly relaxed as she came round a corner to see a dozen Lions waiting on the road, her old comrades Ingo, Folquin, Stephen, and Leo among them.

  Ingo had a good grip on his spear and shield, so he used a lift of his chin to indicate the road behind her. “Alain noticed you’d fallen behind. Did you see aught?”

  “Only those poor fool villagers. They’re running west to Machteburg.”

  “Ai, God,” said Ingo. “No doubt they’ll run right into those raiders. Poor souls. But we can’t wait for them. Come, lads.” They turned to follow the army.

  As Hanna made her way up through their ranks, knowing that she ought to ride in the vanguard, she overheard Alain speaking to Folquin.

  “Poor souls,” he said softly. “I pray that God protect them until this war is over and peace returns.”

  They camped that night within sight of the Salavii village. A rough palisade protected the village, which boasted more houses than that of the Wendish settlement, but while the Wendish built longhouses, the Salavii favored smaller, rounder homes with curved roofs whose low eaves made storage shelters around each house. They looked poorer, hadn’t as much livestock but seemed overflowing with little black-haired, pale-complected children who stared at the soldiers and had to be dragged inside the log palisade by their more cautious older siblings.

  The deacon came to greet them. She had bare feet, was astoundingly filthy, had lost her two front teeth, and needed a cane despite her youth, but was otherwise cheerful. “What do you recommend, Eagle?” she asked after she had made an awkward courtesy to Prince Ekkehard and Lord Dietrich. She had come from the west and had no discernible accent. Two Salavii men trailed behind her, one young and one quite old.

  “Your Wendish neighbors have fled,” said Hanna. “I would recommend you take these folk to the other village, which is better fortified.”

  “They won’t want to go,” she explained. “They don’t trust the Wendish settlers.”

  “If they trust you, then you must persuade them, Deacon. We fought a Quman raiding party hours ago. There will be others. Brace for it here if you will, or find stronger shelter if there are other fortified settlements nearby. War may yet be averted, but it is better to be ready for anything.”

  “Wise words, Eagle. I will do what I can.”

  The rain slackened finally. She sought out Prince Ekkehard’s tent, looking for Ivar, and found him at prayer with the others. The frailest of their number led them, a thin-faced and very young man with a persuasively sweet voice. Every word seemed fraught with a deeper meaning, one she couldn’t understand, but she understood that it made her terribly uncomfortable.

  “We pray you, Lady, watch over us as you watched over Your Son—”

  The words thrilled through her with a kind of horror. But she waited stubbornly until they finished, and Ivar, seeing her, rose and came out to speak with her.

  She was so disturbed that it came in a flood. “You’re still involved in that heresy. And you’ve corrupted Prince Ekkehard. Why aren’t you with Margrave Judith? Or in a monastery? Don’t you understand what a dangerous path you’re treading?”

  “It isn’t a heresy, Hanna.” He had changed. He rested a hand lightly on her arm and spoke with the same persuasive fervor as had his frail friend, although his voice hadn’t the same music in it. “It’s truth. You didn’t see the miracle of the phoenix. If you had, you’d not wonder why Prince Ekkehard prays with us now when he only tolerated us before.”

  “What kind of miracle?” she asked, although she did not like to do so: this new Ivar made her nervous. Once, like a climbing rose, he had grown luxuriantly and with spontaneity. Now, he seemed like a vine trained to a fretwork that some other person had constructed.

  “A miracle of healing—” Then he caught sight of the ring, and his expression changed again. “But what’s this? Has some great lord seduced you with the wealth of worldly goods?”

  “The king gave me this as a reward for my service!” she retorted, furious. “How dare you accuse me—”

  “It’s what Liath did!” he cried. Then, perhaps hearing that name, Margrave Judith’s pretty husband called to him, and Ivar hesitated only a moment before walking away with a curt farewell. Had they grown so far apart? Was their old closeness so quickly ripped into nothing? She walked away, agitated and disturbed, nor did the warm night promise anything better. No matter where she lay down her blanket, dampness seeped through as soon as she settled her weight onto it. She didn’t sleep well, and when she lay awake, she twisted the emerald ring round and round on her finger.

  At dawn, as they made ready to leave, the deacon came to them again with her two Salavii companions.

  “There’s been word,” she said, translating as the old man spoke in a harsh, impenetrable language. “An army has been sighted east of here carrying the Wendish banner. These people will retreat to an old hill fort north of here. There they’ll hope to weather the storm. But he’ll lend you the boy to guide you to the other army, if you’ll swear by God and to my satisfaction that you’ll not harm the lad and that you’ll release him as soon as you’ve met the scouts of the other army. As I said,” she added when the old man was done talking, “they don’t trust the Wendish.”

  The deal was done, and certain objects changed hands: the young man came to stand nervously beside Hanna’s horse, and Captain Thiadbold saw fit to reward the old Salavii man for these services with a good wool tunic, linen leggings, and a pair of boots—they had belonged to the Lion who died of dysentery, and no one wanted to wear them because of the agony in which he’d died.

  The Salavii lad was skittish. He would not accept food or drink from them, nor did he speak a single word for the rest of the day as he led them first east, then south down a narrower track, and then northeast along a broad but shallow stream running through woodland and meadows. In late afternoon they were challenged by half a dozen mounted scouts, and by the time Hanna had established that they had, indeed, met up with Princess Sapientia’s army, the lad was gone, vanished into the ash and aspen that lined the stream, which she now saw was only a tributary of a larger river.

  At the confluence of stream and river, where the river itself curled around a small hill, Bayan had set up camp with his usual keen eye and cunning. To the north lay denser forest, mostly oak and pine, and to the west and south scattered woodland and grass. To the east, hills rose in a steep esc
arpment, and the rise which Bayan had chosen seemed like the last straggler, or first scout, of that army of hills. Some ancient people had built a structure on this hill, worn now into low earthen ramparts that crowned the height. It reminded her of a fort gone to ruin, the kind of place where people and livestock could defend themselves against an enemy. There might have been some tumbled stones there as well, but from this distance, and angle, it was hard to make out. Bayan—for she’d no doubt that Bayan had overseen the placement of the encampment—had pitched the royal pavilion on the hill itself where one rampart, like a curling finger, gave it shelter. The wagon in which his mother traveled rested about ten strides away, hard up against a curve in the rampart. Was the Kerayit princess still with the old woman? Or were Hanna’s dreams true dreams?

  Now she would find out.

  The rest of the encampment straggled down from that central point in rings, each ring of tents protected by fresh ditches, none particularly deep but enough to break up a cavalry charge. Riding at the van, she could see the doubled sentries as well as restless scouts roaming in pairs and half dozens on horseback. Woodland covered the western vista; to the east, woods followed the river’s valley where it cut a wide pass into the hills. The camp was ready for war. On high alert, men napped in their armor with their spears lying as close beside them as might lovers. Many of the horses remained saddled, and the rest were being groomed or watered. To the northwest, riders oversaw the foraging of perhaps forty or fifty horses in the open woodland.

  Half the camp came out to welcome them. Hanna wasn’t sure she’d ever seen so many soldiers assembled in one place before, except at the battle of the Elmark Valley, near the town of Kassel, when Henry had defeated Sabella. Princess Sapientia’s banner stirred in the breeze. There were other banners as well at tents and pavilions only somewhat less grand than that of the princess, but she only recognized one of them: the leaping panther of Margrave Judith.

  As they came into camp, the army split into factions according to a complicated and confusing maneuver which she couldn’t follow, but in the end she approached the royal pavilion in the company of Prince Ekkehard, Lord Dietrich, who led the cavalry sent by King Henry, and Captain Thiadbold, representing the Lions.

  The princess sat at her ease beneath the awning of her pavilion, eating a plum as she watched her husband roll dice with a young Wendish nobleman and a flamboyantly dressed Ungrian who boasted mustachios so long that he had tied them back behind his neck to keep them out of the way of his game. Brother Breschius stood quietly in attendance, and it was he who delicately interrupted the game, although by this time Sapientia had risen, seeing Ekkehard or, perhaps, Hanna. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a joyous reunion.

  Bayan hadn’t forgotten her. He leaped up enthusiastically. “The snow woman to us returns!”

  “You have come from my father,” said Sapientia, more coolly, glancing at her husband with the sudden pinched mouth common to those who distrust their intimates. “And who is this? Ekkehard?”

  “Sister! Aren’t you glad to see me?” He dismounted and came forward, not waiting for permission. She embraced him in a sisterly fashion, kissing him on either cheek. He was taller than Sapientia, but she had gotten a little stouter in the past months, broader in the shoulders, and set against his youthful slimness she looked quite able to out arm wrestle him, should they set to it.

  “God help us, little Cousin,” said the young nobleman who had been playing at dice with Bayan, “I thought for sure you’d be eaten alive by the Quman.”

  “No thanks to you, Wichman!” retorted Ekkehard, and for a moment they looked ready to come to blows, but Bayan stepped neatly between them.

  “God have blessed us,” he exclaimed. “New troops to us come. With this number, we can meet the Quman.”

  Tallies were quickly made, but Sapientia’s humor did not improve. “Two hundreds of Lions? Thirty heavy cavalry and no more than two score inexperienced light? Arid Ekkehard with twelve untried boys and a few servants? Is this all my father could spare, Eagle? Didn’t you tell him how urgent our situation is here?”

  “I relayed your message faithfully, Your Highness,” said Hanna.

  “Come now, wife,” said Bayan, interceding. “The lioness must not upon the Eagle pounce who is the messenger only.” He seemed amused by his own wordplay and laughed heartily. “Also the margrave’s forces we have, and so this is more than what before we had, is it not?”

  “So it is,” agreed Sapientia grudgingly as he caressed her shoulder. “But where is my father? I thought he would understand how grave our situation is and ride here himself. Where is he, Eagle?”

  “Riding south to Aosta, Your Highness.”

  “Aosta! Always Aosta!” She flung the plum, which narrowly missed striking one of her attendants and instead rolled off into the dirt. “Why is he wasting his substance in Aosta when the real threat is here? He hasn’t—” She broke off. But a moment of stillness exhausted her resources. “There hasn’t been word of Sanglant, has there?”

  Hesitation is always fatal.

  “I knew it!” cried Sapientia in cold triumph. “Tell me what you’ve heard—!”

  “I know nothing official, Your Highness. But it has come to the king’s attention—” She had no chance to finish. Her cautious recital was interrupted by the arrival of Margrave Judith with a retinue of servants and companions at her back. The margrave was, manifestly, in a cold anger.

  “Is it true that Prince Ekkehard has arrived among us? By God, so it is. Where is he?”

  “Ekkehard is here,” said Sapientia, although it was obvious to everyone else that Judith knew exactly where Ekkehard was.

  To give him credit, he did not shrink away from her. “He wants a divorce,” he said as calmly as any lad of fifteen or so years could to a furious, formidable, and armed woman old enough to be his grandmother.

  Someone in her crowd of followers tittered and was hushed. “A divorce is within my right to obtain, not his. He has no grounds for divorce, nor has his family power enough to abrogate our agreement. Nor can the marriage be annulled since I recall quite vividly that it was consummated. So the marriage remains binding. Where is he?”

  Ekkehard was not a king’s son for nothing. “I swore that I would protect him. If I give him up to you, then I cannot count myself an honorable man.”

  “You are not even a man, Prince Ekkehard. You are only a very foolish boy.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that!”

  “Of course I can. I am sure your father feels affection for you, but you are only the third of his three healthy, and adult, children. Princess Sapientia is all but crowned as his heir. You are not necessary to your father’s rule. I am. And I want my husband back.”

  The one called Wichman broke into snorting laughter. “Ai, Lord! Now you’re reaping what you’ve sowed, little Cousin. Which one of those delightful boys is the missing bridegroom? Nay, it all comes clear now, it must be the angel. Not one of the others would have been missed, ugly little rats. Although I fear that Baldwin can scarcely be called an angel now since who knows how many have shared his favors.”

  Margrave Judith was generous with her anger. “I recall, Lord Wichman, that your reckless behavior caused problems at Gent. Do not forget that your mother and I are old friends. Pray do not forget either that while a king’s third son may be of minor utility to him, a duchess’ superfluous sons are even less valuable than that.”

  “Come now, Cousins,” said Bayan. He set a deceptively light hand on Wichman’s shoulder, more like that of a doting uncle, but steered him nevertheless away from Margrave Judith. “Arguing among ourselves we must not.” He swore in his own language and said something hurriedly to Brother Breschius.

  “Prince Bayan reminds us that this is not the time to argue,” said Breschius with the amiable smile of the accomplished courtier. “We have a war to fight, and none of us knows when it may come to a fight—”

  Perhaps God had a sense of humor, except, of cours
e, that war was only amusing in the odd detail, never in the naked face of battle.

  “Make way!” guards shouted, and scouts rode up in that instant.

  “Prince Bayan! Your Highness!” Two men flung themselves to their knees before their commander. “News of Prince Bulkezu! His outriders have been sighted not an hour’s ride east of here, coming down along the river valley.”

  “Ale for these men,” said Bayan.

  The news spread from the royal pavilion as though carried by a plague of flies, lighting everywhere. Hanna could almost see it wash through the camp as men bolted up from their naps or huddled in groups or hastily threw saddles over their mounts. Bayan remained calm.

  “Where do we fight them?” asked Judith.

  “Surely we won’t retreat again?” cried Sapientia.

  Bayan took his time. He asked many and more detailed questions while the army made ready below. He interviewed the two scouts thoroughly, and when a second pair came galloping up, he had ale brought for them as well. They had seen the van of the Quman army, a terrible, whistling many-headed beast swarming over the ground along the northern bank of the river. One of their number had fallen to Quman arrows, and they had themselves been slightly wounded and only barely escaped capture.

  “We must hold our ground here,” he said at last, speaking in Ungrian and letting Breschius translate. He could not afford to be misunderstood. “This hill fort gives us strength. But, in addition, if their numbers are overwhelming, we can hold the ground to the northwest and retreat that way, across the river. They will hesitate because they are superstitious about crossing water. Also, this summit will give my mother the sight necessary to aid us.”