Child of Flame
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.
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.
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!”
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.
“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.