Child of Flame
Captain Fulk rode up with the latest reports: Lady Bertha had followed a large contingent west, toward the Veser; Lord Wichman, recovered from the near rout of his forces earlier, was engaged in a lively slaughter of any Quman soldier he and his men could get their hands on; Thiadbold’s Lions had captured a lordling, son of a begh, but it wasn’t Bulkezu. Prince Bayan’s mother had been found, with her slaves keening around her: she, too, was dead.
“Where is my brother Ekkehard?” asked Sanglant quietly, not wanting Sapientia to overhear. He could not predict how she would react to the news of Ekkehard’s treachery.
Fulk nodded wisely. “We’ve taken him to the baggage train and put him in the custody of the Lions, my lord prince. They’re levelheaded enough to treat him calmly. What of Bulkezu? Do we pursue?”
“Nay. I doubt we’ve more than an hour of daylight left to us. Send Druthmar to the baggage train. I want my daughter escorted forward at once under heavy guard. I’d best go pay my respects to my aunt and remind her whom she has to thank for saving her city and her duchy. Sapientia and I will ride to Osterburg together, with Bayan’s corpse.”
“But Prince Bulkezu got free—” objected Sibold. He stood in his stirrups, alive with excitement as he held the gold banner aloft in victory, as his gaze scanned the field beyond. Broken wings littered the field, obscuring bodies. Feathers drifted on the wind. A roan kept struggling to get up but could not stand. Carrion crows circled. In their haste to retreat the Quman had scattered into packs of two or ten or twenty, hard to catch but easy to kill once they were ridden down. Many escaped into the forest, fleeing east like frightened rats toward their distant home.
“And if he does not?” asked Fulk.
“I’ve never heard that any Quman can swim. He’ll have to cross at a ford or ferry. My soldiers will be ready for him.”
FROM a rise on the east bank of the Veser River, Hanna watched in silent exultation as the two armies engaged. Even from a distance she could see that the Wendish were better armed, and that the weight of their larger horses and bigger shields gave them an advantage despite the crippling heat. Sweat streaked her forehead, and her tunic stuck to her back. With her bound hands, she swatted at a cloud of gnats swarming around her face. The ropes made her awkward, so she couldn’t hope to escape, or to interfere.
Dead.
She knew then, seeing Cherbu’s solemn face, that the Quman shaman had killed him with magic. He sighed, dismounted, and laid himself flat on the ground, all four limbs pointing out like those of a sea star, as though he were awaiting his fate. Was that a single tear, trickling down one cheek?
The storm hit.
The first blast of wind actually tossed her from her horse. She hit the ground, taking the brunt of the fall on one hip, and lay there, stunned, while thunder cracked around them and lightning flashed so close that horses screamed and she smelled burning. A cloudburst swept through, flattening the grass.
Stiffly, cautiously, she got to her feet, gritting her teeth as pain shot through her hip and up into her shoulder. The stink of charred flesh made her gag.
Cherbu was dead, his body blackened and contorted. He had been struck by lightning. Her stomach clenched. She stumbled away, dropped to her knees, and vomited.
A ragged cheer rose from the ranks of her guard. Surprised to hear their cry, she raised her head in time to see Bulkezu, his griffin wings a glittering beacon on the distant field, leading a charge to smash the Wendish army. The Ungrian legion began to retreat. Tears stung her eyes, but she choked them back, swallowing bile as she stared helplessly. Yet wasn’t this her duty? To witness and remember, so that she could report to the king? She straightened up proudly, though it hurt to stand. No matter what happened, she had to be strong enough to defy Bulkezu. If he defeated her, then it would be as if he had defeated King Henry. Maybe that was the game Bulkezu had been playing with her all along.