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.

Blessing burst into sight as though she had exploded out of a tree. She leaped for her father’s arms. Sanglant scooped her out of the air and held her tight, face pressed against her hair. She smelled of rotting logs. But she was alive.

“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?”

“Nay, Daughter.” Tears stung his eyes. They always did, when he had to view the carnage, so many good men down. “This was only a feint, an attempt to roll us up from behind and catch us between two claws.” He kissed her and handed her into Heribert’s waiting arms as the cleric staggered down the slope, face pale and robes streaked with blood. Quman blood smeared Blessing’s cheek and stained her tunic where she had pressed against her father’s tabard.

“Thank God,” said Heribert. That was all.

Anna crept forward to sink down next to the cleric. A moment later young Matto and Lord Thiemo, limping but mobile, pushed their way out of the crowd as well. Were they all that remained of the men he’d left behind to guard Blessing?

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.”

Wolfhere glanced at him, a strange expression on his face, but he said nothing. Instead, he hurried down the knoll to organize the freed prisoners and surviving soldiers into a work detail. Thiadbold merely shrugged and rose, calling to his men.

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.