Child of Flame

So when the horns rang and a gold banner emerged from the wooded lands farther east, she could not help but cry out in hope and triumph. Who bore the gold banner? What prince or noble lady had come to Sapientia’s aid?

Dust obscured the scene. The guards muttered nervously around her as the clamor of battle drifted up to them on a stiff breeze blowing in from the east. It was impossible to see who was winning, and who was losing. Impossible to know anything except interpret the shouts and cheers and commands ringing faintly from the field.

At first, she didn’t recognize the rider making a dash for their line, galloping out of the haze of battle with about a dozen Quman soldiers at his heels. The shattered wood frame of his wings trailed over him, shedding bright feathers. Griffin feathers.

As Bulkezu rode up, she laughed to see him humbled, but when he yanked his battered helm and featureless face mask from his head, her laughter choked in her throat. Blood ran down his face from a gash at the corner of one eye where the mask had been driven into his skin. A flap of skin hung loosely; she even saw the white of bone. His terrible expression made her shudder as, with the tip of his spear, he poked his brother’s corpse. Without comment, he turned and, signaling, headed south at a brisk pace. By now he had about thirty soldiers following. She saw no sign of Prince Ekkehard and his companions.

They swung south a ways before cutting east, pushing their horses to the limit. Twice they came across knots of Wendish soldiers and, after a skirmish, broke free. But they always left a few men behind, wounded or dead. After the first time she tried to escape under cover of such fighting, Bulkezu tied a rope around her neck and, using it like a lead line, forced her to ride directly behind him. When she let her mount lag too far behind, the noose choked her. When she crowded him, hoping to injure his horse or make it stumble, he turned and whipped her across the face with the only weapon he had left: a stick.

Her nose was bleeding and her hip had gone into spasms by the time it got too dark to ride any farther. In any case, the horses were winded, blown. It was at least a week past the full moon, and the waning crescent hadn’t yet risen. They had to stop, taking the time now to eat and drink what little remained to them.

There were about two dozen left, creeping through the forest, signaling to each other with hisses and whistles. From ahead, they heard shouts and the noise of horses and fighting. Bulkezu yanked her rope and dragged her forward. By this time she could hardly walk; the pain in her hip stabbed all the way up to her head, and her teeth ached. They took refuge in dense cover on the edge of a clearing. Leaves tickled her face.

He pressed a hand over her mouth so that she couldn’t cry out. Where he held his head against hers, blood from his wound seeped onto her cheek, warm and sticky, and where the blood snaked in between her lips, she swallowed reflexively, tried to jerk away, but could not. No one had ever called Hanna, born and raised to hard work, a weakling, but Bulkezu had a grip like iron chains, almost as though he wasn’t really a man at all but some kind of unnatural daimone.

A party of Wendish horsemen, at least fifty strong, had cornered a much smaller party of Quman soldiers in a little hamlet. The fleeing Quman had taken refuge in two cottages and now used this cover to take shots at the enemy.

A lord rode into view, followed by a dozen lordlings, all swearing and laughing as they taunted the trapped Quman. It made no difference to them that they trampled the gardens and kicked over the fences and now-empty chicken coops of the fanners who lived here. Probably the families had taken refuge in Osterburg. Hanna recognized Lord Wichman as he called forward six archers. Fire bloomed along six arrows and made a beautiful arc as the arrows lofted into the air and landed on thatch roofs.

A few of the Quman tried to break free of the burning death traps but were shot full of arrows. The rest chose to die, burned alive, in silence.

Bulkezu grunted, retreated back into the wood, and they moved on. The damp ground made the going rough. Soon enough her boots were caked as she shed mud and picked it up with every step. After a while the soldiers had to take turns carrying her. After an interminable gray journey, bounced and jounced while the throbbing in her hip slowly receded into a merely agonizing torment, she smelled horse manure, heard the rush of a river, and was dumped unceremoniously into the rotting remains of an old hovel. She could see nothing, only hear, as Bulkezu and his surviving men whispered to each other, settling in around her.

Under the collapsing roof the ground was dry. She grimaced as she straightened out her leg, rolled onto her back, and used her palms to massage the knot in her hip. The pain eased.

That was when she heard the Lions.