The Burning Stone

by Kate Elliott

  Everyone glanced nervously toward the small wagon. Two slaves waited, cross-legged, beside the steps, one a pale handsome man with an iron bracelet closed tightly on his left arm and the other a very tall, lean man whose skin had the blue-black color of ink. Not even Liath had skin so dark. Did the Kerayit princess wait inside? Hanna caught Brother Breschius’ eye then, and he smiled encouragingly at her, but at this moment he could say nothing.

  Bayan made a sharp gesture and the guards leaped to attention as one among their number blew into a ram’s horn.

  The call to arms blazed, and all activity in the camp came to a halt as everyone paused to look up at the hill, toward the royal pavilion. Bayan took Sapientia’s hand and they stepped forward so that they could be seen by most of the army. A great shout rose up, and then every man and woman there made ready for battle.

  The call to arms came unexpectedly, because it was late afternoon, only a few hours until dark. In all the great poems battle was joined at dawn, with the first glint of the rising sun splintering off the spears or swords of the enemy as they closed. But this wasn’t a poem.

  Ekkehard’s boys huddled together at the base of the hill, leaderless, confused, unsure what to do, while Prince Ekkehard himself still remained at the royal pavilion.

  “I say we bolt north, while everyone is confused,” Baldwin was muttering. “No one will notice we’re gone. Then we can cut back west to that village.”

  Ivar checked his saddle girth for the third time. “God Above, Baldwin! It would be dishonorable to desert Prince Ekkehard now. They’ll call us cowards.”

  “What do I care what they call us?” demanded Baldwin. His spear lay on the ground, rolling as he caught a foot on it and almost tripped. “I just want to get out of here before she finds me!”

  “How will we escape alone? We’ll more likely just get ourselves killed, and if we’re dead, we can’t preach the True Word.”

  “Why should God honor us with Her Truth if we act like base cowards?” said Sigfrid. He looked so frail and ridiculous with a spear clutched in both hands. He wasn’t strong enough to wear a mail coat, so he rode unarmored.

  “Just so!” said Ivar. “We have to stay, Baldwin. At least until the battle is over. Then I’ll do whatever you say.”

  Baldwin’s expression worked its way through about ten emotions, each of them equally pleasant to look upon. Ivar felt a sudden, stabbing moment of pity for him, doomed by his beautiful face to be nothing more than a mirror in which other people would see their own desires and dreams.

  “Ivar! Sigfrid! Baldwin! Look who I found! It’s a miracle!”

  Ermanrich stumbled out of the confusion of soldiers forming into units or running off on unknowable errands, of a troop of cavalry riding out past them and wagons pulling back to the river’s edge where, in pairs, they were being hauled over to the far shore. Weaving like a drunken man, he seemed oblivious to the army making ready for battle. He was clutching the wrist of a very filthy young woman who, like him, was weeping what were apparently tears of joy.

  “It’s Hathumod!” Ermanrich cried, and it was a good thing he identified her, for otherwise Ivar would never have recognized Ermanrich’s robust cousin in this thin, ragged woman. She looked more like a beggar, even had a red sore under one nostril and untrimmed, dirty fingernails.

  “Lady Hathumod!” Sigfrid looked astonished. “You were sent away from Quedlinhame with Lady Tallia. Is she here as well, the holy one who revealed the truth to us all?”

  “Oh, God,” cried Baldwin, grabbing Ivar’s arm so hard that Ivar yelped. “It’s her. It’s her.”

  Suddenly, armed and glorious, Margrave Judith descended the hill at the head of her cavalry, a massive force boasting more than one hundred and fifty heavily armored riding men. To her left, her captain carried the margrave’s helm tucked under one arm, and her banner bearer rode at her right hand, banner haft braced on his boot and the banner unfurling as they rode to the plain where battle would be joined.

  Baldwin shrank behind Ivar, but it was already too late. Perhaps she had discovered their position by asking where Ekkehard’s party rested. Perhaps she could simply smell him, the panther who has fed once upon the flesh of a delicate yearling buck and means to finish him off.

  “Ai, Lady!” cried Ermanrich. “Milo’s still holding the prince’s banner up! You idiot! We were supposed to be hiding.”

  But it was already too late. Maybe they had been foolish to think they could escape her.

  She lifted a hand, and her entire host clattered to a halt behind her as she turned her panther’s gaze on her prey. Baldwin fell to his knees with hands clasped at his chest and gaze lifted to the heavens as though he entreated God to bring down such a storm of wrath as would protect him from her notice.

  The great ram’s horn blared again, sharp and urgent.

  “The Quman! To arms! To arms!”

  Cries and shouts burst like thunder all through camp and, distantly, Ivar heard a faint, fine whistling noise that sent shudders through his body. He hadn’t imagined the sound of their wings could carry so far.

  “You will be punished for your disobedience, Baldwin,” said Margrave Judith, her mouth set in a satisfied line. “Do not think you will escape me.” But she took her helmet out of her captain’s hands and settled it on her head. With that, her banner raised high to stream behind, she and her cavalry moved forward toward the battleground.

  Ekkehard’s boys were mounting, making ready to ride out. Ermanrich grabbed Sigfrid, whose frail figure and slight body made him seem like a boy even among such a company of very young men. “Sigfrid.” He found Hathumod’s hand and tightened her grip around Sigfrid’s frail wrist. “Go with my cousin. She knows where the baggage train is. You have to stay there.” Then he surveyed the others belligerently. “He’s just not fit for combat. You all know it’s true! He wasn’t made for this kind of war. Go on, Sigfrid!” He gave both Sigfrid and the sniveling Hathumod a shove. “Go on!” They hurried off. He wiped away tears as he swung up onto his own horse, grunted at the strain of hitting the saddle hard and, belatedly, grabbed the spear and shield he’d forgotten on the ground, which a groom handed up to him.

  “Go with God, young lords,” said the groom, who like many of the other servants was falling back to the baggage train.

  To their relief, Prince Ekkehard rode up to the company, mounted on a bay gelding. He looked bright and lively, wearing chain mail and a polished conical helm with a bronze nasal. He had unsheathed his sword and waved it enthusiastically. “We are to take up a position on the right flank, along the north bank of the river.”

  Ivar stood in his stirrups, trying to get a view of the line. The Wendish cavalry stretched across the plain in front of the hill. The Lions formed a line midway up the hill; they were flanked by other infantry. According to Ekkehard, Bayan’s and Sapientia’s heavy horse waited in reserve hidden between the hill and the river, while more lightly-armed horsemen guarded the northern flank of the hill, keeping the ford clear. Bayan himself stood with Sapientia at the top of the hill, visible to most of the army. As Ivar settled back into his saddle, both Bayan’s and Sapientia’s banners were lifted high, once, twice, and the third time held there, upraised.

  Ivar felt a cool breeze pass through his hair, and it grew in strength until he had to shelter his eyes with a hand in order to keep looking up at the hill. It was a northwest wind, blowing hard toward the southeast, where the Quman approached. On the wings of that wind, the banner of Prince Bayan leaped as if it had suddenly sprung to life, and crisply snapped, so loud that Ivar thought he could hear it whip-sharp even from this distance. Through the gray clouds, a single wide ray of light shone down upon that banner and its simple device, a two-headed eagle, and upon the prince, standing in full battle gear while a groom held the reins of his horse.

  All up and down the line men murmured as the column of light shone, trembled, and faded as a cloud covered the sun. Surely they had just seen a divine omen. God marched with
them. Ekkehard chivvied his companions up through the loosely-spaced line of light cavalry so that they could reach the front. As Ivar came to the first rank of men armed in light mail hauberks, spears, and shields, he heard Baldwin gasp beside him. The Quman line ran like a sinewy fence over the nearest hill and down into the river valley. The contours of the land were accentuated by the long line of horsemen, which covered at least three of the visible hills.

  There was only one banner in the entire Quman host, and it sagged dark and still on the center hill, a black round of cloth marked by three white slashes. The Quman waited a full two bow shots from the Wendish host. They made no move. The entire host simply sat there on their horses, their wings still. How many birds had died to make so many wings?

  As Ivar scanned their line, he began to see a pattern to it. Their heavy cavalry massed in the center and left, with light troops on their right. The lighter troops had lances fixed upright along their high-backed saddles, and they held their bows at ready. The heavy troops held lance and shield. All of the riders had wings and several, spread randomly among the host, had wings that glinted as brightly as if the sun were upon them, yet no sunlight fell in the east. The Quman army was shrouded by low-hanging, dark clouds.

  “There!” said Baldwin, pointing. Beside the sagging banner waited one rider without wings. Because of this, he didn’t have the spreading breadth of the other riders, but even at this distance his presence and his posture left no doubt in Ivar’s mind that this wingless rider was the fearsome Prince Bulkezu.

  “What happened to his wings?” muttered Milo. His spear, with Ekkehard’s battle banner affixed just below the lugs, dipped as he shifted in the saddle. No one answered.

  Both armies waited, soldiers staring across the gap in a disconcerting silence. Their nervous mounts snorted, flicking ears, stamping hooves. Horn blasts rang out at intervals, two sharp blasts that reminded the Wendish forces to hold.

  Yet after every blast a flood of obscenities flowed from Lord Wichman’s mouth. He waited impatiently with his band just to the left of Ekkehard’s position.

  “He thinks he knows so much,” said Ekkehard. “But Prince Bayan knows better. If he sends this line to the attack, then we’d be wrapped around by the Quman flanks and they could cut us off from the ford, and from our stoutly defended hill.”

  “Will we sit out here until sunset?” Ivar demanded. The hour was late, and with the heavy cloud cover dusk would come sooner than usual. “I can’t believe the Quman would attack a defended hill at night.”

  “Then we can sneak across the river and fight another day,” muttered Baldwin.

  “Nay,” said Ekkehard boldly. “God have given us a sign. This day will not end without a battle, and God will show Their Hand by choosing a victor.”

  “Look there!” cried Ermanrich, who rode to the right of Milo. In unison, three Quman riders rode forward from their line, one from each flank and one from the center. Each rider carried three spears. When they had crossed a third of the distance between the armies, each man planted a spear in the ground. Red pennants hung limply from these planted spears.

  Halfway between the armies, the riders each thrust a second spear into the ground. Still they cantered forward. Soldiers shifted restlessly in the Wendish line, but at that moment, as if Prince Bayan sensed their disquiet, the horns rang out again, the two sharp blasts ordering the hold.

  But not everyone was listening. Lord Wichman broke free of the line and galloped toward the nearest rider, who still bore his third spear. The Quman man, in answer, lowered his lance to the charge while his two distant companions brought up their horses a sling’s throw away from the Wendish line and planted their third lances hard into the ground, like an insult.

  Wichman and his Quman opponent met at a charge. A shout rose up from the Wendish host just as wild ululations rang from the Quman. The Quman’s spear glanced from Wichman’s shield, while his own spearpoint, wavering, missed the rider’s head. But the haft of Wichman’s spear, striking the rider’s faceplate, staggered the Quman. He flipped off the right side of his horse, with his right leg still caught in the stirrup and his wings dragging and disintegrating in the dirt, the wood frame splintering and feathers flying everywhere.

  The Quman pony continued to run as Wichman wheeled about and gave chase. The Quman warrior lost both helm and spear as he was dragged through the grass toward the Wendish line, his arms flailing as he struggled to get hold of his saddle. Wichman shrieked in frustration as the Wendish line, where Margrave Judith’s banner flew, parted to admit the spooked pony. A cry of triumph erupted as the line quickly closed again. Moments later, the head of the hapless rider decorated a lance. Wichman’s oath could be heard all along the line, and at once a roar of laughter erupted from the Wendish line as every man there relaxed, sure now that a great victory was at hand.

  Wichman turned his horse to face the Quman host, as if contemplating pursuit of the other two riders, who were returning to their own side, but at that moment, beside the Quman commander, pennants rose and fell in a complicated scheme and the enemy line advanced smoothly and with an unnatural silence, no battle cries, nothing but the steady sound of hooves.

  As they reached the first red lance, a hail of arrows rained on the left flank of the Wendish. Horses screamed, but from his position on the far right, Ivar couldn’t see how much damage was done there. The Quman continued at a trot, and at the second red pennant a new flight of arrows fell into the Wendish forces even as the Quman riders made the transition to a canter, gaining power and speed. Yet as the Quman line approached the third lance, the sky above them suddenly turned as black as smoke, and a stab of white light struck amidst the Quman archers. A resounding clap of thunder boomed, and for several breaths Ivar could hear nothing, no screams, no horns, no hooves even as he watched the Quman line reach the third lance at a gallop. Another thick hail of arrows blackened the air before falling furiously into the Wendish ranks. The first thing Ivar heard as the ringing in his ears faded was the horrible whistle of a thousand streaming wings.

  Horns rang out from the old ring fort where Bayan and Sapientia watched the unfolding battle, staccato blasts that signaled the charge. The Wendish cavalry jolted forward, gaining speed, to meet the oncoming assault. Ivar lowered his spear as he gained momentum, got his weight forward, tucked his spear under his arm. The Quman line loomed close ahead, but because of the looseness of their lines, he faced no enemy. To his left, a Quman rider bore down on Baldwin; to his right, another winged rider fixed his lance toward Milo.

  Ivar had hardly any time to think, much less choose. He struck to his left. The Quman rider batted Ivar’s spear thrust aside with his own square shield just as Baldwin caught him high in the chest with the point of his own spear. One of them went flying, and Ivar wheeled around to his right just as Milo’s riderless horse collided with him. Staggered, Ivar kicked his horse back toward the safety of his own line even though all lay in chaos around him, lines hopelessly mixed together. On the ground in front of him Milo lay dead, a shattered lance protruding from his open mouth.

  For too long the gruesome sight of Milo held his gaze. He felt the sword strike more than saw it, parried it with his spear, felt the blow catch and hang there, and then, oddly, his spear fell from his hand. He hadn’t lost his grip, and as he panicked, driving forward to try to reach the clot of riders massing around Ekkehard, he saw blood oozing from the stumps where two of his fingers had been only moments before.

  It was an oddly unaffecting sight. He grabbed for his long knife, the only weapon left to him, and was pleased to note that his hand still functioned. The Quman with the sword had vanished into the melee. Ivar closed on another Quman rider from behind and, unable to reach the rider through the wooden contraption that was the frame of his wings, he drove his knife deep into the ribs of the pony. He twisted the knife hard around and yanked it free as he passed, and then he was beyond it, using his shield to slam a Quman rider to his left, trying to get by.

&n
bsp; There, to his right, the banner of Ekkehard wavered in the hands of one of the escorts from Machteburg. The prince himself struck wildly around with his long sword as three Quman drove down on him. The wing feathers of one of the riders shone like metal, a hard, unpleasant glitter as though he wore at his back a hundred steel knives. Wielding an ax, Baldwin joined Ekkehard, striking down a Quman as he did. But the metal-winged Quman hit Baldwin at a charge, his lance shattering on the jaw of Baldwin’s mount. The horse stumbled and fell; Baldwin vanished. The rider, barely slowing, drew his sword, and with two Quman flanking him he made for Ekkehard.

  “To the prince!” cried the standard-bearer.

  Ivar kicked his mount forward into the fray. He blindsided one of the flank riders, a stunning crash that sent both men and both horses to the ground. Ivar groped for his knife, lost in the trampled grass. A blow struck him in the side of his helm, and he parried, caught the arm instinctively as a gloved fist trimmed with metal knuckles swung at him again. With all his weight, he drove the man’s elbow to the ground, held the wrist down while wrenching the arm over, driving the man’s shoulder into the churned grass and then, with another twist, straining the arm until it cracked.

  The Quman rider’s metal faceplate muffled his scream. Ivar hooked his fingers into the eyeholes of the mask and tried to twist the head around, but instead the man’s helmet gave way and slipped free, throwing Ivar off-balance. Pushing off with his unbroken arm, the Quman rolled free. He was young, younger than Ivar, and his face was perfect, as pretty as that of a maiden. Long silken black hair tumbled down over his shoulders. With his left hand, the Quman drew a knife and lunged at Ivar. Without thinking, Ivar struck him across the face with the helmet, knocking him back, and then again Ivar struck, and again and again, and with each blow those beautiful youthful features were scarred and mangled until that face was merely a red smear in the mud.