The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3)

With a gasp of thanksgiving, he and Baldwin reached the hill and scrambled up onto a curling rampart of earth where two Lions stood, steadfast and still untouched by the battle. The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

“Well done, young lords, you carried yourselves well out there,” said one of the Lions jovially as he helped Ivar up the muddied slope.

“But Prince Ekkehard has fallen.” Baldwin was weeping. “We left him out there!”

“Nay, nay, fear not, you’ve not broken your oaths. One of Lord Wichman’s men pulled the young prince from the battle. I think he yet lives.”

Their blithe words infuriated Ivar. He felt dizzy, and sick, and hopeless. “Why do you just stand here watching?” he cried. “Why haven’t you marched onto the field to bring us victory?”

The older of them snorted. “The battle will come to us soon enough, alas. But if we left this hill, we would be more like to wheat among a harvest of horsemen.”

“And where would fancy young nobles like you have to run when their horses are lost and their comrades dead, if not for our station here on this hill?” asked the other, and though the words were spoken in a merry tone, they stung as badly as did his wounded hand.

An arrow struck earth between the Lions. “Go on now, lads,” said the elder. “There’s a ford on the other side. If you hurry, you can get there in time.” Arrows peppered the ground around them as a group of Quman riders closed on the hill but held back, reluctant to attempt a mounted assault up those steep banks.

Halfway up the hill, shielding themselves behind yet another low rampart, Ivar and Baldwin stopped to look back. The mounted archers had closed to within a dozen paces of the slope and were shooting arrows at the two Lions, who slowly skidded up the hill on their behinds, covering their bodies with their large shields. Both seemed wounded in their legs; he hadn’t noticed that before. Arrows glanced off their helms and stuck in the woven front of their shields, dangling and bouncing with each movement.

A horseman urged his horse up the slope, but it slipped onto its side, and rider and horse washed down the slope in a slide of mud. Far over to the left, where the slope was less steep, a knot of Lions had formed into a square of shields that bristled with spears. In tight formation, they slowly retreated toward the top of the hill. Now and again a rash rider drove toward them to strike a blow, but always their spears drove the attacker off. As Ivar watched, a rider was hooked and dragged behind the shields. His corpse appeared a moment later, left behind as the wall of shields steadily backed up the hill.

Baldwin was panting, holding his side. “There’s too many of them,” he said hoarsely.

It was true enough. The Quman gathered at the base of the hill fort like a swelling tide. Only when the metal-winged Quman rode in among them did they begin to disperse, riding away toward the river.

“They’re going for the ford.” Baldwin had gone very pale, and he could barely speak through his labored breathing. “We’ll be cut off.”

“Then we’d better hurry if we want to escape.” Ivar’s hand throbbed, and he stared at it absently as Baldwin rose to a half crouch. Blood oozed from the severed flesh. He really should bind it, but he couldn’t think of what to use to stop the bleeding.

“Come on, Ivar!” Baldwin’s voice cracked with fear. “Let’s go that way.” They lost all sight of the battlefield as they moved around the west side of the hill where the cold, muddy ramparts made a maze of their path.

“God be praised! My friends!” Ermanrich slid out from a screen of brush, causing Baldwin to yelp. Ivar merely staggered. “What are you laggards doing hiding up here?”

“Ermanrich!” They pounded each other on the back, wept a few tears, and then started all around, looking for the enemy. The clash of arms still rang ominously, muted now and again by the rumble of distant thunder.

“What happened to you?” Baldwin demanded. “I never saw you again after the first charge.”

“My shield was cut in two. I lost my spear. When my horse was struck out from under me, I decided perhaps God hadn’t meant for me to be a warrior. So I ran.”

“Very brave, dear Ermanrich,” said Ivar.

“I see I called it quits two fingers ahead of you. Let me see that.” Ermanrich’s tunic was shredded and he easily ripped off a strip of wool and bound Ivar’s hand tightly. “It’s swelling. Does it hurt?”

Ivar shook his head, feeling more and more numb. “Yes. No. Little darts of pain up my fingers—I mean, where my fingers were. Nothing else. And it aches.”