Child of Flame

“I understand that Lady Bertha, Judith’s daughter, remains unmarried.”

This sent Wichman into howls of laughter, picked up by his cronies once they had heard the joke, and the conversation quickly grew so crude that even Sanglant could not stand to hear more of it. He rode ahead with Fulk and Wolfhere beside him, falling in with the solemn nobles who attended Princess Sapientia at the van.

South of the city they came to the battlefield, swarming now with looters, ravens, crows, scavengers, and the ever-present vultures circling overhead, waiting their chance. Most of the Wendish nobles had been hauled off the field last night, and now the common soldiers were being carted off to mass graves. The Ungrian priests had their own rites, which he purposefully ignored. The Quman, of course, would be burned. Feathers torn off broken wings rose like chaff on the dawn breeze. A woman wept over the body of a loved one. A cart rumbled past, piled high with corpses.

Farther away, ragged folk wandered the edge of the battlefield like ghosts, stunned and bewildered. Was that young woman with long black hair as lovely as she seemed from this distance? She walked at the head of a pack of about a dozen thin, frightened people, some of them children. They huddled for a while staring over the battlefield while Sanglant watched them. At their backs stood a line of trees set along the length of a fallow field, still green from the recent rains. At last, they turned and trudged toward Osterburg, the towers of the palace stark against the pale rose sky as the sun lifted free of the eastern forest.

The army picked up the pace but hadn’t gotten halfway through the open woodland toward the Veserling ford when they met a triumphant band of Lions marching in their direction with the last of the baggage train—that which hadn’t been able to get in last night—rolling along in two neat lines behind them. Their ragged banner flew proudly, and Captain Thiadbold called the halt and gestured to a Lion next to him to step forward and greet the prince.

“Prince Sanglant! Your Highness, I am called Ingo, sergeant of the first cohort. See what a fine prize we have brought you!”

Sanglant saw the Eagle first. She looked exhausted, and when she saw him she wept.

“My lord prince,” she cried, pressing forward on the horse they had given her to ride, “is Liath with you?”

She needed no answer, nor had he any to give her, knowing that his expression spoke as loudly as words might. She covered her eyes with a hand, hiding fresh tears.

She wasn’t the only prize the Lions had brought in. Beyond all expectation they had captured the greatest prize of all, trussed and tied and forced to walk like a common slave. His face looked horrible, the flap of skin torn away from his cheek still weeping blood although someone had attempted to treat it with a poultice. Impossible to know how much pain he was in. His gaze had a kind of insane glee in it as he laughed, hearing Hanna’s question.

“I should have known a Kerayit shaman’s luck would not crack so easily. You lied to me, frost woman!”

“Yes!” she cried, turning to him in fury. “I lied to you! I lied to you! She was never at Osterburg!”

“Silence, I pray you!” When he had silence, Sanglant spoke again, a single word: “Bulkezu.”

The Quman prince’s wings were completely shattered, but a few bright griffin feathers remained to him, dangling by threads from what remained of his harness.

“Hang him,” said Hanna hoarsely.

“Nay, let me kill him!” cried Wichman, riding up, and the cry rose throughout the ranks as soldiers clamored for the honor.

Sapientia drew her sword and rode forward, calling to the Lions to haul Bulkezu out in front of the line. “I’ll have his head in recompense for the death of my husband!”

Men crowded up from the back to see the spectacle, all of them yelling and taunting the twenty or so Quman prisoners, who stood their ground with expressions of blank indifference. Bulkezu laughed, as though to spur Sapientia’s anger further. She shrieked with fury and lifted her sword.

“Quiet!” Sanglant’s voice rang out above the outcry. He rode up beside Sapientia and caught her arm before she could strike. “Nay, Sister, we’ll have no killing of prisoners. Not when they can serve us in another way.”

“Hang him then, as the Eagle says! Then everyone will know with what dishonor we treat heathens!”

“He’ll serve us better alive than dead.”

The words brought disbelieving silence as men murmured and Sanglant’s pronouncement was passed by means of whispers to the rear ranks. Only one person had the courage to speak up.

“He’s a monster,” cried Hanna. “You must see that justice is done for all the ruin he’s caused. I witnessed it, in the name of King Henry!”