The Gathering Storm (131 page)

Indeed, Wichman left the center and rode back to inform him of this fact, galloping up onto the rise with a gleeful grin on his face.

“D’ya see that?” he called breathlessly as soon as he came within shouting distance of the prince. “That bitch will have taken a force around our flank. They’ll go north into the woods and swing around to hit our defensive line from the northwest, where we’re thinnest. Best to send the reserve to meet them.”

“Do you think so?” Sanglant shook his head. “Henry will stall to give her time to arrive. He’ll have her attack at the same time he’ll signal Queen Adelheid to sally forth from the walls.” Check, his father would say in a confident way that encouraged one to resign the game right then. “Nay, Wichman. The next move is mine. We’ll not spread ourselves thin. We’ll win this battle before Liutgard can get all the way around our position.”

Wichman snorted. “Henry outnumbers us! That’s just what’s on the field. Who knows how many wait with the queen to attack us from the rear.”

“Numbers aren’t everything. We have winged riders, and Bwr, and griffins. We are bold, not cautious.” He stood in his stirrups, lifting his lance as he gestured toward the imperial banner, then shifted his gaze to stare down his cousin. “I challenge you! Will it be you, or me, that captures the banner bearing the sigil of the crown of stars?”

Wichman laughed outright, outraged and delighted, and reined his horse around before Sanglant could say another word.

“Look there,” called Hathui. A dozen riders rode forward from Henry’s front line bearing the Lion, Eagle, and Dragon flag of Wendar. “They want a parley.”

Sanglant nodded at Chustaffus, who lifted the black dragon banner once, twice, and thrice. They rode down the rise and advanced to the forefront of the host, dust spitting up where hooves struck. As they passed through the Wendish
line, a cheer rose and continued until he gestured and Chustaffus raised the banner for silence. They stood at the edge of the tributary stream. Across the cracked and stony bed waited those who spoke for the emperor.

He recognized three of these noble courtiers, two armed and one a cleric.

It was the cleric, one of Henry’s schola, who spoke. “Sanglant, the emperor Henry, your father, begs you to lay down your arms and embrace him as a son should. Have you forsaken God and parent alike? How can you rebel against the one who gave you life? He weeps, wondering what madness possesses his beloved son.”

All suffered under the sun’s hammer. Sweat flowed freely. Resuelto twitched his ears. The heat would drain them long before courage flagged.

Sanglant rode forward four paces and cried out in a voice meant to reach as great a distance as possible. “Know it to be true: Henry is not himself. Those who call themselves his allies have abused his trust and insinuated a daimone into his body, so that he walks and talks to their command. If you do not believe me, then wonder why Henry did not return to Wendar when his Eagles brought him news of troubles in the north. He is a puppet dancing to the command of those who use him to their own ends. I have ridden across months and leagues to save my father, not to fight him. Will he come before me so that I may look into his eyes and know that he is truly himself?”

“The parent does not attend on the child! You are the one who must beg forgiveness of your father, my lord prince!”

“So I will, when he is free!” He turned to Sergeant Cobbo. “Sound the advance.”

With his heels he urged Resuelto forward. The horn blew three sharp blasts, but before the second blast finished, Wichman was halfway across the stony bed at the front of the charge.

Taken completely by surprise by this breach of etiquette, the parley band broke into a full rout and raced helter-skelter back to their line. One mount stumbled, spilling the cleric to the earth. He rolled to his feet and ran.

Resuelto surged up the far bank, muscles bunched, ears
forward; behind, Sanglant’s guard pressed the charge. Before them the Wendish cavalry of Henry began to lumber forward, for they were heavily armored enough that it was difficult to get speed quickly, then rolled forward in a wedge, slow at first but gaining momentum. A cloud of dust rose behind them, blocking the view of the emperor’s banner. From away to the left rose the eerie whistle of Quman wings as the winged riders began their own attack.

The lines met with a roar.

Sanglant veered left and thrust right to gain the unshielded side of a Wendish knight.
My countryman
. The thought was fleeting, vanishing as quickly as it sparked in his mind. He struck true; his lance pierced the man through his abdomen and passed clean through his body. With a backward yank Sanglant tried to rip the lance free, but the mail links of the other man’s shirt held firm and their grip pulled the lance out of the prince’s hand. Now the clamor of battle joined swallowed him like a wave.

He unsheathed his sword. Its point rapped against his shield as he drew it over his head, that tiny sound in counterpoint to the cries of men and the screams of horses, each a melody of exhilaration or surprise or death. Slashing ever forward he drove on. No man could stand before him. In truth, each poor soldier he faced, however briefly, seemed incapable of grasping his peril amidst the dust and chaos, as if they loitered there expressly to be cut down in their confusion. Lifting his shield he caught a man across the face, unhorsing him as he hacked across the hindquarters of a mount, causing the beast to buckle and collapse to the ground. His eyes burned from the dust, and the heat, as he cut his way through the mass of cavalry in search of Taillefer’s crown.

The glint of jewel-bright colors caught his eye: the stars in Taillefer’s crown rising above the haze. He made for the banner, but slowed, seeing a wall of infantry placed between him and his goal. Turning to his left, he faced another stalwart wall of unmounted Lions, advancing one measured step at a time. To his right another wall of infantry bristled with spears. Too late he realized he had pressed forward of his own troops.

“Yaaa aaah!” The cry came from behind him as Wichman, at full gallop, charged into the front wall, his mount leaping at
the last moment. Fully half a dozen spear points pierced the horse’s belly but its collapse created a huge breach. Sanglant and a dozen others pressed through the gap, which widened as men were cut down or broke formation. A last knot of horsemen stood between them and the emperor’s banner, yet the regnant’s banner of Wendar and Varre was nowhere to be seen nor was Henry and his distinctive armor and white-and-gold tabard anywhere in sight.

The defenders fought bravely and with skill but could not stand before Sanglant and his men. Yet as their numbers dwindled, so did Sanglant’s, and even as he hacked his way closer to the imperial banner, so did the Lions re-form and close in behind them. Out beyond, within the dusty haze, new figures appeared, a fresh line of cavalry, and they charged.

Sanglant parried a blow, cut a man down as he thundered past, but as he was twisted to one side wrenching his sword free a spear slid past his thigh deep into Resuelto. The gelding convulsed, yet struggled forward bravely. Slowly, they fell away from the spear, as if it were possible to escape a blow already struck. Slowly, Resuelto crumpled. Blood gushed over Sanglant’s leg, and he flung himself forward to escape being crushed, falling across Resuelto’s neck as the horse collapsed completely, blood pumping from its flank. His sword skittered out of his hand. A broken lance rolled between Resuelto’s forelegs, maybe even the same one that had killed him. A horseman leaped right over them, striking down.

Sanglant ducked under the broken remains of his shield, then grabbed the hilt of his sword and brought it up hard. He wasn’t sure what he hit; blood had got in his eyes, but he tumbled sideways as the horse stumbled to the ground and when the rider pitched forward Sanglant took him under the arm, cutting into the unprotected armpit.

“The crown of stars, the crown of stars!” The cry rose up from the Saony milites who hemmed them in, yet his countrymen seemed hesitant to strike down one of their own. The imperial banner had fallen and was lost from view.

Of his own soldiers he saw none, only a crowd of unfamiliar tabards and sharp blades. He jumped forward, lashing out first to his left and then to his right to keep them off-balance.
His shield was shattered and his body pierced by inconsequential cuts, but he fought on.

Checkmate
, his father would say.

He sensed it coming, but in his fatigue he was slowed. He spun to parry, but he was late. The point had just tipped his mail below the heart, inevitable in its trajectory, when it went flying as if by magic and the rider who wielded it was carried backward off his horse. The butt spike on the shaft of the imperial banner had taken the man down, and grasping this most noble of spears was Wichman, dragging the huge banner and its brilliant crown of stars in the dust.

With a smile, blood leaking from his lips, he spun the shaft in his hands to lift the fabric off the ground. “I win!” Wichman shouted.

They stood in an eddy, in that moment cut off from the ring and hue surrounding them, locked in a silence and stillness that captured them within its net.

Wichman laughed. In truth he blazed, shining in his glory, and the enemy scattered and shrieked, scrambling backward as the sun itself plummeted to the battlefield, so bright Wichman had to shield his eyes against its unexpected glare and Sanglant stepped back as the downrush from their wings struck him.

When the griffins landed, the earth shook. Their feathers gleamed even through the swirling dust that coated every man, every horse, and every weapon.

They pounced, falling upon the nearest men as hawks would upon a nest of baby mice. Their talons, and the touch of their feathers, shredded flesh and metal. Undone by this assault, many soldiers—ai, God, his own countrymen—fell to their knees to pray while others dropped their weapons and ran.

Sanglant sheathed his sword and shook the remnants of his shield off his arm.

“Wichman! Follow me!”

He ran for Domina and leaped up onto her back, swinging a leg over and pushing himself up onto her shoulders. His armor saved him from the worst lacerations, but he bled all over her feathers from a hundred tiny gashes, and where his blood touched her plumage, it sizzled and gusted as tendrils
of steam. Wichman ran for Argent, but it leaped skyward before he could reach it, and Domina with a harsh cry launched herself awkwardly at the same time, legs dragging as she thrashed to gain height with so much weight bearing her down.

The wings beat dust into his face. He lost sight of Wichman and the banner as the griffin rose into the air although he heard the duchess’ son cursing, and he almost lost his seat as she swayed and plunged and rose again. Arrows chased them into the sky.

Below, the field of battle was chaos, obscured by dust so thick that he couldn’t tell where his line ended and Henry’s army began. It was quieter along the camp’s inner siege wall, but Adelheid’s defenders were firing blazing arrows into the ground in front of the line of wagons. Small fires scorched the dry grass, sending up billows of smoke, but the fires didn’t threaten the wagons. Not yet. Behind the worst of the dust, the reserve held its ground, waiting for a signal.

It was a bumpy ride, nothing like a horse and far less comfortable. He had never been so frightened in his life, wondering if he were going to pitch right off and fall to his death, and although his gaze took in the scene below he found he could not utter a single word or call out to those below, so choked was he with fear.

At last, as the griffin circled in toward Fulk’s position in the center rear, Sanglant caught sight of Henry’s banner. It had moved far to the left, heading toward the woods. About ten centuries of cavalry rode with his father, a substantial force. Through the heat haze he saw the front rank of Liutgard’s troops moving slowly up and over the wooded bluff. They hadn’t yet negotiated the steeper downward slope on the western side. He couldn’t count her forces because the trees concealed their numbers.

Ai, God! Taillefer’s banner had been a feint all along. Henry played chess with a subtle mind and a strong will. He would never let himself be taken easily, but he had taken his own son for a fool and dangled a line and caught him.

So be it.

He had only one course of action left. Already the sun sank
quickly toward the west. Night would come, but Henry would not wait for dusk to make his final move.

The griffin shrieked a warning and landed with a rattling thump. Horses bolted; soldiers ducked; the impact shook him so hard that he slid, slipped, and tumbled to the ground. As soon as his weight was off her, she launched herself back into the air with a
whuff
.

Fulk came running, helmet off and hair matted to his head with sweat and grime. Blood streaked his right hand, and as Sanglant got to his feet, Fulk turned and joyously signed toward a soldier coated with dust. It took Sanglant a moment to recognize Sibold through the filth. The young soldier whooped out loud, seeing the prince, and hoisted up the black dragon banner, torn, bloody, and stained, but not lost. A ragged cheer went up from the defenders. His troops pressed forward with renewed vigor.

“My lord prince! We thought you were lost!” cried Hathui, weeping, coming up in Fulk’s wake. She handed him a square cloth so that he could wipe the dust and blood out of his eyes.

His palms and hands were sticky with blood. He was cut everywhere mail had not protected his skin, cloth torn and tattered, but the gashes were shallow, a mere nuisance. He bent down and carefully picked up two gleaming griffin feathers. Shoving his knife between boot and leggings, he thrust the feathers into its sheath, although the leather showed signs of splitting where their edges sliced.

“How many of my men returned?” he asked.

Hathui stepped back to let Fulk approach. “None, my lord,” said the captain, “except Sibold, who took the banner out of Chustaffus’ dead hand.”

There was no time for grief. Later, sorrow would stalk him, but he had to act now.

“What news?” Blood spattered the dirt around him. His tabard was in ribbons. Malbert ran up and offered him a full wineskin. Taking a swig, he rinsed his mouth and spat before swallowing an even larger mouthful.