by Kate Elliott
Already the Quman archers fire at will, to soften up their enemy, but the Ungrians give as good as they get, and the Wendish legions swing wide and begin a steady advance toward the flanks. The Quman force seems larger than it is. From this height, like a hawk circling, she sees that the wings they wear make them seem as if they have more soldiers than they really do.
Brute force will win this engagement today, unless that magic she tastes in the air and feels like a prickling along her skin turns the tide.
A rumble like thunder rises as the armies shift forward and charge. Dust billows into the air. The Wendish and Ungrian forces shriek and cry out, voices ringing above the pound of hooves, but the Quman advance in uncanny silence, goaded on by their prince, whose griffin wings shine and glitter in the sunlight.
Just as the two armies meet in a resounding clash, she finds a thread spanning the wind. Aetheric hornets gleam along its length, buzzing and chattering as it extends toward the armies. She speeds backward along the thread. Beyond the Veser in a makeshift camp, desperate prisoners huddle, awaiting the outcome of the battle, but the thread leads her an arrow’s shot away from the groaning, helpless captives, back across the river to a low rise on the east bank overlooking the plain. The glimmering thread curls into a line of horsemen: a dozen guards, one light-haired person dressed in ragged Wendish garb, and a strange man stripped down to trousers patched together from a hundred different pieces of fabric. Blue-black tattoos cover his torso; they seem to writhe and shiver as he chants. Unlike the other Quman warriors, he wears no blackened and shrunken head dangling from his belt, but his ornaments are gruesome enough: earrings made from shriveled human noses, a needle piercing the septum of his nose and each end of it adorned with a withered human ear.
He is a shaman. The thread of hornets spins out from his voice, twisted into life through the words of his spell.
The woman beside him raises her head. In that first instant, Liath does not recognize her because of the hatred that mars her expression as she gazes over the field of battle. Hate distorts the heart, leaving scars, as it has scarred her own heart. Remembering this, she knows her.
“Hanna!”
Hanna shakes her head as though to chase away annoying flies. Her hands are tied in front of her; she is a captive, forced to watch as the battle unfolds. The smooth wood of Seeker of Hearts feels cool against Liath’s palms. One arrow will not rescue Hanna, not with a dozen guards, and because she does not exist on Earth in bodily form, she cannot manifest fire. It is only her consciousness that has fallen to Earth; her body remains above.
But the Quman shaman is up to some mischief. Ought she to kill him? Might his magic alter the outcome of the battle?
She rises aloft on wings to survey the field of blood where the invisible spirit of Jedu now roams, where men kill and struggle. Sanglant and his men have not yet come into view. The gleaming thread unwinds across the carnage. In close quarters, Wendish spears and swords and chain mail hold up well against the more lightly armed Quman. Seen from Aturna’s heights, as from a ridgetop looking into the future, Liath feels sure that Princess Sapientia and her allies will win.
They don’t need her help.
At that moment she hears the faint cry of a voice she has never heard before that yet reverberates in her heart. She rises, seeking a broader view; the battle recedes below her. In her last glimpse she sees the hornets swarming forward to buzz around the banner of the Ungrian prince, the commander. Far away, too far away to aid him, the ancient Kerayit woman screams in horror and rage. Clouds bear in from the east. Lightning blinds Liath. Thunder cracks, and back where Blessing stands among overturned wagons, turning her head to stare gleefully at the heavens, it begins to rain.
“Lady, blessed saint, defend us!”
A shrill scream, cut off with an awful gurgle.
Liath smells the sharp iron scent of galla. With one step she covers weeks of travel, she leaps the towering Alfar Mountains and tumbles down into a weird landscape of rock chimneys and narrow plateaus rising like pillars out of barren ground. Someone has carved a convent into one of these vast rock pillars, a refuge in times of war. A scream echoes again, and she slides between rock, seeking the one whose prayers have touched her heart and reached her ears.
In a warren of rock she finds six nuns cowering in a chamber carved into the stone. Seven windows admit a gleam of afternoon light, obscured by the terrible creature advancing down the length of the refectory. The table, laden with platters, cups, and a stern meal of porridge and bread, has been overturned. Cooling pease porridge lies in spatters on the floor. One of the women is screaming convulsively, utterly panicked. Back by the door lies a jumble of disarticulated bones, steaming slightly, as though the soul of the person who just inhabited that body is trying to form itself into a ghostly specter. The old mother abbess, golden Circle of Unity held high, limps forward, past her nuns, making the sign of exorcism to drive the creature away.
But a Circle of Unity and honest faith will not turn back a galla bound by blood. Liath fits arrow to string, draws—
And hesitates. Who bound the galla? Who has sent it on this deadly errand?
She has only one breath to decide. The galla is here, and before she draws her next breath it will consume the old abbess just as it consumed the poor woman who had been standing in the doorway.
She looses the arrow. The gold fletching gleams, and sparks, as the arrow explodes in the slender tower of darkness that is the galla’s insubstantial body. With a shriek of agony, and of joy, it vanishes, released from the bonds of magic that dragged it here to this world. Its unfulfilled purpose kicks back along the pale link that ties it to the sorcerer who called it. Briefly, Liath sees an elderly, apple-cheeked woman seated in a chamber with a bloody body nearby. The woman jerks as the rebound hits her, then faints.
“Go now!” cries Liath, trying to catch the attention of the six women. “Bind the sorcerer who has done this.”
Perhaps they hear her, even above the hysterical sobs of one of their number, who cannot be consoled.
The old abbess gestures. “Hilaria! Diocletia! Go at once to the guest hall to see if Sister Venia is safe. But take rope, and a sleeping potion.” Leaning heavily on a cane, she takes four steps forward and bends, picking up a gold feather. There is no sign of the arrow.
She glances up. All at once, staring, she seems to see Liath hovering in the air before her. Her eyes widen. “Who is there, in the shadows?” Despite her infirmities and great age, her voice remains strong.
“Fear not,” says Liath, but she thinks the old woman cannot see her, for she is no more substantial on Earth right now than the galla was.
Some eyes are keener than others. The old woman squints, looking surprised, puzzled, hopeful. “Bernard?” she asks, voice gone hoarse all at once, as though she might weep. “Is this my sweet son Bernard, who was torn from me? Your face— Nay, you’re a woman. Who are you?”
Who am I? And who are you, who sees in me the image of a lost son named Bernard?
Liath takes a step forward
and found herself back on the marble stairs of Aturna, almost at the top. Bow and arrow were gone. She was naked, alone; she had nothing, except herself.
The realm of the fixed stars blazed before her, white hot, as terrible as a firestorm.
But they were waiting for her, clustered at the lower limit of the border: spirits with wings of flame and eyes as brilliant as knives. Their gaze fell like the strike of lightning. Their bodies were not bodies like those known on Earth but rather the conjoining of fire and wind, the breath of incandescent stars coalesced into mind and will. The sound of their wings unfurling in pitiless splendor boomed and echoed off the curving gleam of Aturna’s sphere. Far below, the golden wheels spun madly, powered by that fiery wind that is the soul’s breath of the stars.
She recognized their voice.
“Child,” they said as she climbed the last step and without hesitation walked into their joyous embrace. “Y
ou have come home.”
3
THE Quman resisted the heavy charge at first, holding firm under the leadership of their prince, who rode with them. But the sheer weight of the Wendish cavalry at either flank and the Ungrian mass in the center broke them at last.
Zacharias watched, exulting, as first the left flank and then portions of the center sagged and gave way, as the infamous Quman soldiers, hardened and grim, began to turn their horses and flee. If Zacharias had believed in God, he would have offered up a prayer at that moment. He mopped his brow instead. Thunder pealed behind them. He smelled rain, although it was impossible to hear much of anything over the cacophony of battle that raged on the river plain before him. He waited at the rear with Bayan’s command group and the prince’s adviser, Brother Breschius. Prince Bayan had ridden forward with the charge, but he disengaged from the line and rode back to them, calling for a messenger.
“Ride to the Wendish banners. My wife must now pull back from the fighting. The day is won, and it makes no matter for her to keep fighting. In the rout, this is when folk may come unexpectedly to grief.” The messenger rode off at a gallop. Bayan called for water. Loosening the straps of his helmet, he tipped it back so that he could drink. “Brother Zacharias, what will Bulkezu do next? Surely you know him best of all of us.”
Zacharias chuckled nervously, not liking the way everyone was looking at him. “Bulkezu is as clever as he is mad. I cannot know his mind.”
“I pray you, Your Highness, put your helmet back on,” said Brother Breschius. “A stray arrow might come from anywhere.”
Bayan grunted, finished his drink, and pulled his helmet back down. For a quiet moment, such as could be had watching over the battle as the Quman line retreated even farther and began to break up all along its length, he watched, measuring the movement of the various units, their strengths and weaknesses, commenting now and again to his captains and sending messengers or receiving them. Princess Sapientia had not yet disengaged from the fray.
“Damn,” swore Bayan, swatting at his helm. With a curse, he undid the straps of his helmet again. “Damn hornet.” He pulled it up, exposing his face as he tried to bat away something Zacharias could not see. “It stung me!”
The arrow, coming out of nowhere, took him in the throat.
Without a sound, he slid neatly from his horse. His blood drenched the ground.
And the world stopped breathing.
No man spoke. The air snapped, stung—and screamed, like a woman’s voice. No person ought ever to have to hear a woman scream like that, naked grief, raw pain. Thunder boomed directly over them. Wind howled out of the east, flattening Zacharias. The horses spooked, bucking in fright, and he actually fell right back over the rump of his mount and hit the ground hard while around him Ungrian captains and lords fought to control their horses. He cowered under the fury of the storm while Bayan’s life’s blood trickled across the ground to paint Zacharias’ fingers red.
As abruptly as the storm had hit, it ceased. Leaves fluttered through the air, stilled, and fell. A deadly quiet shrouded the land. Below, the conjoined armies seemed to pause.
As though Bulkezu had been waiting for this moment, the griffin-winged rider called for the advance, and the fleeing Quman gathered themselves together and struck hard at the faltering Wendish and Ungrian line. Princess Sapientia’s banner was driven back as if before the lash.
“Oh, Lord, I beseech you, spare his life,” said Brother Breschius, dismounting to kneel beside the prince. He took hold of the prince’s limp hand, touched a finger to gray lips, then wept. “My good lord Bayan is dead.”
Just like that, the command group disintegrated. The cries and ululations of the Ungrian lords resounded off the hilltop. They had lost their prince, their luck, their commander; for them, the battle was over. The double-headed eagle banner was furled, and along the center of the army, as Ungrian soldiers caught sight of the furled banner, the center bowed backward as they retreated.
“Ai!” cried Zacharias, scrambling up. Blood dripped from his hand. He caught sight of his mount galloping away toward the woods. He was trapped on the rise, easy prey for Bulkezu. With a groan of despair, he threw himself back down on the ground. “We are lost!”
Horns belled in the distance. A great shout of triumph rose from the rear lines as the gold banner of Prince Sanglant burst out of the trees at the head of his troop of horsemen, many hundreds strong.
Sanglant recognized a line about to break, and he knew what to do about it. With one comprehensive glance, he took in the situation on the field: Bayan’s furled banner, the retreating Ungrian troops, Sapientia’s wavering troops on the flanks. Only Lady Bertha’s Austrans, on the left flank, were holding their own. That would change if the rest of the army lost heart.
Was Bayan wounded, or even dead?
No time to consider. He lifted his hand. Fulk raised the horn to his lips and blew the charge. Drums rolled in time to hoofbeats.
The noise deafened him, but even so he shouted, letting his voice ring out. “For Wendar!”
Urging Resuelto forward, Sanglant led the charge. The discouraged Ungrians parted before them. At the sight of his banner, they rallied, falling in to form up behind his soldiers. With Sibold at his right hand and Fulk, Malbert, and Anshelm around him, he slammed into the forefront of the Quman line. It broke, riders falling, the press of the Quman disintegrating. Yet another line of enemy riders closed from the second rank. He set his lance and directed his charge for a small group of wingless riders, Wendishmen perhaps, traitors seduced by the promise of gold and slaves. Something about their shields—
One of the soldiers pushed his horse past the leader to take the brunt of the impact. Sanglant’s lance struck him right over the heart, and the man fell to the ground. As he drew his sword, he slammed a Quman rider hard with his shield to unseat him, got his sword free, and cut at the wingless leader. Only then did he recognize the scarred and battered shield of the boy cowering before him.
“Ekkehard!” With an effort, he twisted his wrist so that the flat of the blade caught his young half brother in the helm, knocking him to the side, although the lad at least had enough horsemanship to keep his seat and ride past. His three other companions threw down their arms and yielded. Only the one lay dead, trampled by his own horse.
“Get them out of here!” he shouted before he pressed forward with Fulk and Sibold on either side and the rest of his men moving up around him as Anshelm dropped back to take care of Ekkehard. Druthmar’s banner flew proudly over to the right. Along the left flank, Lady Bertha had pushed her advantage and now swung wide to roll up the struggling Quman flank arrayed against her. Away to the right, past Druthmar, Sapientia was acquitting herself well enough, emboldened by his success.
But he knew that the Quman would not fall until their leader did. Griffin wings flashed in sunlight as the clouds scudded away on a stiff wind. With a cry of triumph, he carved his way to Bulkezu. This fight would be very different than the one six years before when the Quman begh had ruined his voice and almost taken his life.
Bulkezu turned to face him. Even through the clash of battle, Sanglant heard him laughing as they closed. Sanglant had the advantage of height—the Wendish horses were simply larger than the stolid Quman ponies. He rained blows down on Bulkezu, but the griffin warrior parried every one with shield or sword. Sparks flew as his griffin feathers notched Wendish steel. But in the end brute strength won, and a massive blow sent Bulkezu’s sword spinning from his grasp.
Bulkezu threw himself into Sanglant, punching with his shield. Grabbing hold of Sanglant’s belt, he dragged the prince from his mount. They both tumbled to the ground as the horses broke free and bolted, leaving them on foot as the battle raged around them.
Bulkezu pulled his dagger as he tried to break Sanglant’s grip, but Sanglant wrapped his shield around Bulkezu’s back and struck him in the face with his pommel. With each blow a large dent appeared in the face mask and the iron began to crack.
A trickle of blood oozed from the eye slots as Sanglant struck a fourth time.
Bulkezu jerked back, twisting his shoulders to one side so that the griffin feathers cut into Sanglant’s left arm. His shield fell to the ground, its leather straps severed. Bulkezu caught his lower arm and shoved it hard, twisting all the while, to drive the sword into the ground. He thrust with his dagger at Sanglant’s head. The blow scraped gold flakes from the dragon helm. Sanglant caught the frame of a wing with his boot and shoved. The wing snapped off. They rolled on the ground. Bulkezu’s other wing snapped, shedding griffin feathers along the earth as they wrestled, each trying to get the upper hand.
Sanglant caught sight of a Quman rider bearing down and barely got hold of his sword, whipping it up to parry the blow that would have crushed his head. Bulkezu kicked him away and scrambled up, lost at once in the turbulent sea of fighting. Sanglant killed another Quman rider before Fulk cleared a space for him to remount Resuelto.
“Bulkezu?” he shouted as Resuelto pranced away from the griffin feathers, which could even cut into hooves.
Bulkezu had vanished, impossible to trace without his griffin wings. The Pechanek standard swayed and, abruptly, collapsed under a Wendish charge. A roar of triumph rose from the Wendish troops as the Quman line disintegrated. The Ungrians, rallying round, cried out Sanglant’s name.
Between one breath and the next, battle turned to rout. The bravest Quman warriors soon found themselves isolated and surrounded and in this way they perished in the midst of their enemies.
“Send messengers!” the prince called to Fulk. “Let all the fords and ferries west and east be on their guard.”
He and his captains withdrew from the field, letting the soldiers do the rough work of slaughter, those who could catch the fleeing Quman now scattering in all directions. Back on a rise they found Brother Breschius and a dozen Ungrian noblemen preparing Bayan’s body for transport, stripping him of his armor. Sapientia was already there, keening like a lost child, scratching at her cheeks in the old way as she mourned her dead husband. Her attendants had to restrain her twice from throwing herself onto his bloody body.