Child of Flame

by Kate Elliott

  “Turn my line about!” Sanglant’s anger cut the message short. What was Bayan plotting now, demanding that he turn his line away from the enemy and thus lose the honor of engaging the Quman in battle?

  “Look, my lord prince!” cried Sibold, who had been given the honor this day of carrying the banner.

  Only a short stretch of woodland separated them from the open fields where the Quman gathered. The vanguard of the Wendish army could be seen, banners flying, as they emerged from the wood and split apart into regular lines to face the Quman across the broad gap. For a moment Sanglant admired the brisk efficiency of Sapientia’s troops, drilled and trained by Bayan over the winter. Was it jealousy that made him hesitate? Did he fear that Sapientia would acquit herself well, as Bayan clearly meant her to do? Wasn’t it necessary to give her a chance to prove herself tit to command, and therefore to rule?

  He turned back to the messenger. “Go on.”

  “My lord prince.” The man loosened the strap on his helm and tipped it back for relief from the heat. “Prince Bayan orders you to turn your legion and ride to the aid of the rear guard. The Quman swung wide and sent an entire wing of their army to destroy the rear. Duke Boleslas and the Polenie are hard hit, and the rout has already reached the Saony legion, which is scattering—”

  “My daughter?” asked Sanglant, as the cold battle fury descended.

  The messenger flushed. “There is no news either of your daughter’s whereabouts or those of Prince Bayan’s mother. The entire rear has collapsed.”

  He waited for no more. “Captain Fulk! Send Sergeant Cobbo to alert Lord Druthmar that we are turning. He will ride at the rear of our unit. I’ll take the van myself. Sibold!”

  Horns rang out. The banners signaled the turnabout. These were not battle-hardened troops, as his Dragons had been, but he had seen their willingness to follow over the last few months. This would be their true test.

  Goaded by his fury and his fear, they rode recklessly, at full bore. He trusted them to keep up. Let the unworthy fall behind. He would kill every Quman himself if he had to.

  They swung wide through the open woodland as they pounded past Prince Bayan’s Ungrians, who whooped and cheered to give them courage but who nevertheless kept moving toward the plain. Why hadn’t Bayan himself turned around to meet the threat from behind?

  No time to think of that now.

  A gap had opened between the Ungrian rear guard and the van of the Saony legion, under the joint command of the two quarreling brothers. Stragglers appeared, running through the trees: soldiers on horseback, a few hapless camp followers on foot, screaming warnings when they saw the prince and his legion. He lifted a hand; Fulk blew the horn twice, and the entire mass of men—not less than six hundred riders including Druthmar and his marchlanders—came to a stop as Sanglant brought several soldiers to a halt.

  Their stories varied wildly. The entire Quman army had hit the baggage train. Lord Zwentibold was dead. Duke Boleslas was dead. Duke Boleslas was in league with the Quman. All the wagons were burning.

  One man had seen the Lions forming up around a knoll; from his brief, panicked description, Sanglant recalled the little hill. He had noted it, as he always noted strategic landmarks, when he had ridden past earlier.

  Signaling to Fulk, he started forward. Soon enough they heard the clash of battle ahead. Breaking into a gallop, Sanglant led the charge.

  The Saony legion, taken unawares from behind by the Quman, had dissolved into scattered bands of stalwart men fighting for their lives while the rest fled or were cut down from behind. Sanglant saw Wichman’s banner, still bobbing aloft, before he lowered his lance and let the weight of their charge carry them into the Quman line. In their heavy armor, his Wendish auxiliaries bore down and trampled the more lightly armed Quman riders, just overran them. Sanglant knocked one man from his horse, then thrust his lance deep into another Quman’s unprotected belly before letting go of the haft and drawing his sword. With a cry, he lay about on either side, driving his way through the Quman. Feathers drifted on the air. Bones cracked. Horses stumbled, wounded, and fell, plunging their riders to the ground. A shout of triumph rose from the Saony men who had so far survived, and they redoubled their efforts.

  “Call the advance!” cried Sanglant over the noise, pulling away from the fighting so that Fulk could gather his men again. Wichman had rallied half the remaining Saony troops. There was no sign of Zwentibold. Sanglant signaled, and Lord Druthmar joined him. “Use your men as the other claw of the pincer. Now that we’ve shaken up the Quman line, you can crush them between your group and Saony.”

  “As you command, my lord prince.” Druthmar called out orders as Sanglant withdrew from the battle with half of his soldiers.

  Fulk blew the advance. Sibold raised the banner high, thrice, and with Sanglant still in the lead, they rode in haste for the baggage train. Behind, the battle raged on as Druthmar drove his soldiers back upon the flank of the Quman, catching them front and rear.

  But as shadowy figures fled through the forest on all sides, refugees from the fighting, Sanglant could think only of the baggage train. Pray God his daughter still lived. He should have left her at Walburg, with Waltharia; he knew it, and guilt burned him, but he had to push it aside. If he let guilt cloud his mind now, then he was risking the lives of the men he commanded. There would be plenty of time for guilt later, when this was done.

  A crowd of prisoners came into view, being herded by a half-dozen Quman soldiers. At the sight of this new force, the Quman abandoned their captives and rode away, unwilling to stand and fight. The prisoners cheered hoarsely at the sight of the prince and his golden banner. But Sanglant strained to see through the open forest. Was that the knoll, ahead? He heard cries, and the ring of fighting. He heard rain, and the growl of thunder.

  “There!” cried Fulk.

  A broad clearing opened before them. Wagons and carts had been abandoned all across the grassy expanse, now wet under a light rain whose front stopped, uncannily, just before the knoll. Careless Quman, lured by the riches carried in a prince’s train, had given up the fight to loot. Not all of them were so undisciplined, however. Wagons had been thrown up to make a palisade around the knoll, but this line had now been abandoned as the remaining Lions were forced to retreat up the knoll. Despite the tiring run, Resuelto stretched out into a gallop, feeling his rider’s anticipation.

  “Fulk! Take Cobbo’s company and kill those looters.”

  A third of the men peeled away, bearing down on the enemy now scrambling for their horses, trying to ready their weapons before they got trampled or swept away. A few Quman threw down their weapons and dropped to the damp ground, trying to surrender—

  He didn’t see what became of them. The Quman’s leader had pulled back from the attack on the knoll to meet Sanglant. Both men wielded swords. Sanglant parried, and cut, cleaving the other man through shoulder and wing. With a shove, he toppled him from his horse.

  A Quman rider collided with Resuelto, but the steppe pony was dwarfed by the Wendish war steed. The jolt made the gelding stagger, but the Quman was knocked to the ground. Resuelto reared and plunged down. The Quman died quickly, but the pony still struggled, trying to rise.

  At last Sanglant reached the overturned wagons. Above, a score of Lions fought desperately against the onslaught of winged warriors. A cheer rose from the Lions as they caught sight of their rescuers. They attacked with renewed strength, using their shields to shove the winged riders off-balance as Sanglant, now closely followed by Lord Hrodik and his Gentish followers, fell upon their flank.

  Sibold and the rest of Sanglant’s company had circled the base of the knoll to pinch off the attack from the other side. While many men who bore a banner simply followed and defended, not so Si-bold: the reckless fellow seemed to enjoy dropping the banner in the face of his foe and then closing for the kill while the enemy was still confused. Pressed from all sides, the Quman broke and scattered, running like deer.

  T
he Quman who had pursued the attack up onto the hill were now cut off, and the hundred or so Wendish warriors at Sanglant’s back whittled them down until there were not more than two dozen Quman left, many dismounted and wounded, now surrounded.

  Sanglant knew one word in the Quman tongue. “Surrender!” he cried now.

  A few of the Quman cursed. The rest remained silent, unyielding.

  Between one breath and the next, the rain stopped falling.

  Red-haired Captain Thiadbold stood at the height of the knoll, commanding what remained of the stalwart Lions. He stepped forward. “No mercy!” he shouted into the unexpected silence. “Kill them all!”

  With cries of glee and fury, the Wendish soldiers fell upon the cornered Quman. The fight was short and desperate. Lord Hrodik fell, pierced in the side, but soon the last of the Quman was beheaded by a Lion’s ax after having been knocked prone by old Gotfrid, the Lion Sanglant had rescued from a slaver’s chains.

  Blessing burst into sight as though she had exploded out of a tree. She leaped for her father’s arms. Sanglant scooped her out of the air and held her tight, face pressed against her hair. She smelled of rotting logs. But she was alive.

  “I was waiting for you,” she cried, scolding him, “but it took you so long to come and kill the bad men.”

  “I know, sweetheart,” he said, trying not to weep for joy at holding her, unharmed. “They won’t hurt you now. I must go to fight at the front. The battle against Bulkezu is yet to be joined.”

  “Didn’t you kill Bulkezu? Wasn’t that dead man him?”

  “Nay, Daughter.” Tears stung his eyes. They always did, when he had to view the carnage, so many good men down. “This was only a feint, an attempt to roll us up from behind and catch us between two claws.” He kissed her and handed her into Heribert’s waiting arms as the cleric staggered down the slope, face pale and robes streaked with blood. Quman blood smeared Blessing’s cheek and stained her tunic where she had pressed against her father’s tabard.

  “Thank God,” said Heribert. That was all.

  Anna crept forward to sink down next to the cleric. A moment later young Matto and Lord Thiemo, limping but mobile, pushed their way out of the crowd as well. Were they all that remained of the men he’d left behind to guard Blessing?

  Fulk and his company had slaughtered any remaining Quman and now hunted through the scattered remnants of the baggage train. None of the ill-gotten loot from the train would ever arrive in the eastern plains, nor would any of these rich fabrics and glittering jewelry ever adorn Quman women.

  “My lord prince.” Captain Thiadbold knelt before him, bloodied but not bowed. The groans of wounded men, Wendish and Quman alike, made a horrible din around them. “What is your command?”

  “Set up a field hospital.” Sanglant glanced around and caught sight of Wolfhere, who had done his part in the fighting but now moved through the battlefield, searching for wounded who could be pulled free. “Eagle! You’ll stay with the Lions. There must be men here who might still live if they’re cared for. These wagons can be set to rights, and loaded. Be ready to march as soon as you can.”

  “What of the Quman who are injured?” asked Thiadbold. “My men will kill them willingly enough.”

  Sanglant hesitated. “Nay. Save those who can live. The Lord enjoins mercy, and I’ll have it now. Our enemy may yet prove of use to us.”

  Wolfhere glanced at him, a strange expression on his face, but he said nothing. Instead, he hurried down the knoll to organize the freed prisoners and surviving soldiers into a work detail. Thiadbold merely shrugged and rose, calling to his men.

  Captain Fulk rode up. “My lord prince. The Quman are routed.”

  “Sound the horn and rally the men. We must return to Prince Bayan.”

  Sibold raised the gold banner high so that all could spot the prince’s colors as Fulk blew three staccato blasts on the horn. Almost all his men reassembled; Lord Hrodik had fallen and was possibly dead, but the prince guessed that he hadn’t lost more than ten men in the attack. If only the Lions, and Duke Boleslas and his Polenie, had been so lucky. He could see the line of battle, and the dead, stretching east into the forest, a clear trail of bodies and blood showing the way the earlier battle had fallen out with the Quman chasing down the fleeing baggage train and the Polenie trying desperately to stop them.

  No use dwelling over what was past. No time for regrets in the midst of battle. Knowing the real battle could be joined at any moment back on the Veser plain, Sanglant raised a hand to signal the advance. Paused. The skin between his shoulder blades crawled, as though an arrow had been aimed to pierce his back. He glanced back over his shoulder.

  Captain Fulk moved up beside him. “Do you see anything, my lord prince? I believe we killed them all. They’ll not be back to trouble your daughter this day.”

  “Nay, it’s not that, although we have to win the battle at hand before we can be sure we’re free of trouble.” Sanglant had a momentary illusion that hornets were swarming all around his head, but it sloughed off quickly. Yet he still could not shake the sense that someone was watching him. “Ai, Lord, Fulk, it’s hard enough knowing the danger my sweet child faces every day, that I’ve brought on her. Lord knows I’ve done things I’m not proud of these last months, but God forgive me, I still think of Liath constantly. Will I ever see her again?”

  “I pray that you will, my lord prince.”

  At times like these, battle was almost a relief. Better to fight than to dwell on his grief and his fears. He lifted his hand again, calling for a new lance to be brought for him.

  A crack of thunder splintered the air around them. Horses neighed, rearing. Men raised their voices in alarm, but as suddenly quieted. As though silence itself commanded attention, men began to look around. Sanglant, too, looked back over his shoulder to see a tiny figure descending from the knoll. A veil concealed her face, but her ancient hands, gnarled with arthritis, betrayed her age. Scarcely taller than a child, Bayan’s mother wore rich gold robes elaborately embroidered with scenes of griffins and dragons locked in battle. When she commandeered a horse from a soldier—who promptly dropped to his knees as though felled—and mounted with assistance from one of her slaves, Sanglant saw that the robes were split for riding. Hastily, he rode over to her as soldiers reined away, made superstitious by the stories they had heard and by the uncanny behavior of the rain.

  “My lady,” he began in Wendish, “I pray you, forgive me for not knowing the proper address for a woman of your birth and rank.” Though she was mounted now on a huge warhorse whose size dwarfed her, she did not look ridiculous. Sanglant towered over her. “I beg you, you will be safer here in the rear now that we have—”

  One of her slaves stepped forward. “Stand not in the way of the holy woman.” He was a huge man with a dark complexion and thick shoulders and arms, not the kind worth tangling with in a fight unless necessary.

  “She is safer—”

  She rode away. Her feet didn’t even reach the stirrups.

  “The holy woman has seen that her luck is in danger,” said the slave. “She must go.”

  Her luck?

  That quickly, Sanglant remembered the old Kerayit custom, that a shaman woman’s luck resided in the body of another person.

  Her luck was her son.

  This time when he raised a hand, twin horns blared. In the distance, he heard the answering bell of Druthmar’s horn. Afflicted all at once with a horrible sense of foreboding, Sanglant signaled the advance. With his forces marshaled and Druthmar waiting farther down to join them, Sanglant led them back along the road at a trot.

  Long ago, at besieged Gent, when she saw him for the first time, he had been wearing that same dragon helm, splendid and handsome. Just as he was then. Just as he is now. Desire is a flame, a torch burning in the night. No traveler can help but be drawn toward it.

  Ai, God, she misses him. She misses the feel of him.

  But she has to go on. She has to choose wisely, neve
r forgetting that she isn’t truly on Earth but rather ascending the last sphere.

  No creature male or female can harm him. Remembering this, she stayed her hand through the worst of the fighting. In battle, truly, Sanglant can take care of himself. She hasn’t forgotten the lesson she learned in the sphere of jedu, the angel of war.

  She hasn’t forgotten the horror of being killed, over and over again, by the one she loves.

  But those hornets bother her. She saw them as aetheric darts stinging at his face and hands. He shook them off, but it is obvious to her that another hand works magic, hoping to harm the prince. She touches the golden robes of the old woman, the veiled one, but although the crone starts around surprised, feeling her touch, the woman cannot see her, only sense her gaze. The old woman has a face so wrinkled that it is hard to see the soul beneath, like an insect protected by its carapace. Despite her great age her hair is still as black as a girl’s. Her complexion is dusky, and her dark eyes are pulled tight at the corners in the shape of an almond. These features mark her as a steppe dweller, a woman from the eastern tribes, the people who live on the endless plains of grass with their herds and their tents.

  She has powerful magic, the air hums around her as though infested with bees, but it isn’t her magic that threatens Sanglant. Regretfully, Liath leaves Sanglant, Blessing, and the old woman behind and speeds onward, an arrow on the aetheric winds binding the Earth. She has become the bow.

  Skirmishes are being fought far into the woods and as far away as the twin rivers, flowing northward to join at the base of Osterburg’s walls. Such melees do not warrant more than a glance. She seeks, and she finds two armies massed for battle just beyond the woodland, gathered on open ground. The Wendish fly the banner of Princess Sapientia, the sigil of the heir of Wendar and Varre, six animals set on a shield: lion, dragon, and eagle, horse, hawk, and guivre. A large force of Ungrians bearing the sigil of the double-headed eagle comes up behind the Wendish line, ready to strike at the center of the Quman line.