Child of Flame
The 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.
“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?”
“Thank God,” said Heribert. That was all.
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.”
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.