The Gathering Storm

by Kate Elliott

  “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.

  “The men are falling back as we arranged, to hold the siege line. I’ve thrown Lord Druthmar in at the hinge where the streambed meets the river. Bands of Aostan light cavalry had broken past and were harrying the camp. One group of Bwr has lent support to the center.”

  The captain in charge of the centaurs, a big, stocky mare whose cream coat and blue-black hair made her stand out from a distance, galloped up to him. “My lord prince.” She had been designated captain in part, Sanglant supposed, by reason of age and seniority, in the manner of mares, and in part because she could speak Ungrian. “We thought you lost.”

  “I am not, Capi’ra, as you see. How many of your folk have yet to be committed to the field?”

  She stamped one hoof. “Two centuries wait.” She indicated the Bwr reserve just visible behind the clouds of dust that marked the field of battle.

  “Ride with me to the wood. Fulk, I’ll need a new mount. Fest, if you have him close by.”

  The bay gelding was being held in reserve, and when he was brought forward, Capi’ra eyed him sidelong. Like the other centaurs she had unusually mobile, elongated ears, which she flicked now, but he could not discern emotion in her bland expression. “Have you no pura to ride?”

  “No.” He said it more sharply than he intended.

  “What is your plan, my lord prince?” Fulk asked.

  He took a last swig of wine. “We must hold our line on this field at whatever cost. Adelheid’s forces will attack at a prearranged signal, so be on your guard against it. I think they will wait until Liutgard can flank us. That will be the crux of the battle. Right now her forces are strung out through the woods. We must rout them there before Henry can catch up to them. I need a shield.”

  “Your Highness.” Hathui stepped forward. “Would it not be better for you to command from the rear? Send someone else?”

  Sanglant’s mood changed and he laughed. “Nay, Eagle. I trust Fulk for his steadiness, and steadiness is what is needed on the field. If we’re not quick, we’ll be engulfed. As well, there is a chance I may meet my father in the woods.”

  He took the shield Malbert brought, and as soon as the captain called her troops in, they rode, the centaurs falling in behind him and Capi’ra.

  “We must rout Liutgard’s forces quickly and turn back to support the Quman left,” he told her.

  The centaurs had exceptional stamina, and the heat did not seem to bother them as much as it did him and Fest. They raced up along the western side of the river to the bluff, moving in among the trees below the western slopes. Their pace slowed once they were in the wood, where shade gave relief from the sun. It was now the hottest part of the afternoon and Sanglant knew that as many men would fall to the heat as to the enemy.

  It seemed that they traveled well into the forest before the lead scouts of Liutgard’s troops were spotted with the rest of her riders strung back along the path, hidden from view, moving single-file or two abreast. The Bwr communicated with snorts and stamps whose meaning was unintelligible to him, but they moved away to form a line two deep winding through the woods parallel to the path. Those in the second rank had bows at the ready while the front rank held spears and shields.

  Too late Liutgard’s forward troops realized the threat. Capi’ra blew a sharp blat on a ram’s horn and her centaurs closed at a trot. The Bwr had horn bows and they loosed arrows as they advanced, surprisingly agile at fending off tree branches and leaping around or over bushes as they plunged through the woods. Their skill with a bow was unsurpassed even by the Quman, who were renowned and dreaded as horse archers, and this skill began to take a toll. By the time he reached Liutgard’s vanguard most of the forward soldiers were down although only one horse had been hit. There was no one to fight. Fest leaped corpses as he followed the centaurs back into the trees; the gelding had steady nerves but lacked imagination and thus was well suited for this kind of skirmish. Their group wheeled around to attack again.

  He heard Liutgard’s voice—he could scarcely fail to recognize it, since they had grown up together at court—as she shouted for her people to form up for a charge. Yet as the centaurs drove forward again, shooting at will, whistling and calling in their high-pitched voices, the mounts belonging to the human soldiers did not shift, as if under a spell. Liutgard and her soldiers were stuck on horseback, unable to move, absorbing one after another flight of arrows. Her men began to panic as the front line of Bwr closed with spears lowered.

  They hit the central rank of Liutgard’s line with a resounding crash. Spears that did not strike flesh stuck in shields, and as the centaurs passed through the line, cutting to each side with long knives or thrusting with their spears, the horses began to buck and kick. Riders were dumped onto the ground. Men trying to fight back could not hang on or even get in a good blow, but it was the betrayal of their mounts that panicked them most. In ancient legend it was said that the Bwr spoke to horses, and now it appeared to be true. One by one, unhorsed, Liutgard’s soldiers broke into reckless flight.

  “At them,” cried Sanglant, encouraging the pursuit. The centaurs answered with shrill, inhuman calls. He pressed Fest forward. The pursuit must be swift; Liutgard could be allowed no time to regro
up. Yet the forest favored men on foot. Sanglant himself traded only a few blows, wounding one man before that one and his two companions leaped into a bristling thicket of thornbush and scrabbled away through its branches where he could not follow without dismounting.

  Some centaurs pursued men through the woods while others shot arrows into those clumps of men hiding in the underbrush. Circling, the centaurs chose each shot carefully, seeking the best angle around a shield or a favorable gap in the branches.

  They had not the numbers to keep the advantage for long. Behind the skirmishing line rose a cry.

  “To me! To me! Fall back to the Eagle of Fesse!”

  Duchess Liutgard, still mounted on a black mare and herself carrying her banner, rallied her men. A shield wall swelled around her as dismounted men overcame their fear. It was natural to him that the ebb and flow of battle would dictate each move, each objective. Liutgard and her banner must fall to complete the rout.

  A bristling wood of spears formed up in front of the duchess. A dozen centaurs joined him as they probed around the right flank of Liutgard’s position. He saw his cousin clearly, just as she saw him: she was a proud, experienced fighter who knew how to shift ground in a skirmish depending on changing circumstances. She shouted commands, directing men to fill gaps or pointing out targets for her few archers, but it was obvious she knew exactly where Sanglant was.

  He charged, not at her line but at a group of men seeking to join her, scattering them and dropping two before he continued around to the thinnest point in the wall of spears and shields.

  “We must take her! Now!”

  Capi’ra sounded her horn. More centaurs joined him, and they pressed forward through the trees as others attacked from the flanks. He was almost unhorsed when he glanced aside for one moment only to be thwacked hard on the helm by a tree limb. He fell sideways, caught himself on Fest’s neck, and dragged himself upright in the saddle.

  In close formation, the dismounted men had the advantage over the centaurs, but Capi’ra urged her troops on and they went without hesitation. He chased after them, ears still ringing, and where the clash unfolded he pushed forward to try to break a gap through to Liutgard herself, who had retreated a few paces back on the path. The melee had a muffled sound, arrows fluttering through leaves, the grunt of a man absorbing a spear blow to his shield, a yelp where a centaur was hit, the crack and snap of branches and dry leaf litter under the press of feet and hooves as soldiers shifted their position or fell. Some among the centaurs sat back and took leisurely aim, but with shields held close it was more difficult to pierce the enemy’s ranks. This slow dance of attrition would not aid his cause. He pushed forward and struck hard to either side. Men gave way before him. He punched spear thrusts away with his shield. The line bowed inward as they gave ground.