Crown of Stars

by Kate Elliott

  “Hey! You, there!” cried a sergeant, coming around the corner of the byre. “We need help here!”

  Ivar settled the amulet around his neck. The sergeant pulled up short, whipped his head from side to side with a comical air, and scratched his head; giving up, he trotted away.

  But now Ivar could see a faint cloudy trail twisting and turning away past the farmstead cottage, around and under wagons, and cutting across open ground where it zigged and zagged in the manner of a drunken man weaving to avoid obstacles. He ran after them, praying under his breath. His hand hurt. Blisters rose on his palm, as though he had burned himself, and the scars on the stumps of his fingers began to ooze blood.

  He jogged between tents, stumbled on a guide rope, jinked sideways to avoid a line of men marching double-time who did not see him, and paused midway toward the lines to catch his breath, hand pressed to his side. The pain bit deep in his hand. His neck was beginning to itch where the amulet brushed bare skin. He tugged it down, but that pressure broke it, and it unraveled to spill like water onto the ground. Steam hissed over him and dissipated in a cloud of stinging gnats that buzzed around him in two swift circles before roaring heavenward and transmuting into a blaze of falling embers.

  “Hey! You there!” A brawny man armed in mail but no tabard strode toward him, brandishing an ax in each hand.

  Ivar drew his sword.

  “No, you fool! Take these axes and get east to Captain Sigulf’s line there just north of the ramp. Can you take a pair of spears as well?”

  “Best run with these and send another man after me,” said Ivar as he sheathed his sword and grabbed the axes. He took off. Without the amulet, he could not find their trail. He reached the road and ran toward the ramp visible in the distance because of its immense size. After a while, he had to stop to get his breath and to measure the lay of the land.

  The sun’s heat made him sweat. On all sides, dark clouds built as for a storm. Wind creaked and groaned in the far forest.

  The valley of Kassel was like an uneven bowl, with its steeper, higher rim to the north and east and a lower rim to the south and west. Most of the western ground was striped with fields, a long stretch of land that terminated where the slopes rolled up a shallow rise and sprouted trees. A line of unevenly spaced fruit trees ran through the middle of the fields, parallel to a narrow waterway. The Varren camp had been planted where the more rugged eastern and northern slopes gave them some protection, and also to straddle the Hellweg where it cut diagonally from northeast to southwest through the valley. Here, because of the contours of the earth, Ivar could sight easily both downslope and up, southwest and northeast.

  On the northeastern flank, the siege works were under assault by cavalry smashing through the lines. He watched, in awe of the power of the warhorses. Infantry advanced out of the town gates, pushing straight for the middle trenches and pickets. To the east and southeast, troops wearing the red and gold of Saony poured down off the hillside to press the outer works. The banner of Arconia flew above this line, moving up and back as troops needed reinforcement.

  The famous road, the Hellweg, was easily visible from here where the massive ramp lifted off the valley floor in a smooth incline that reached the low ridgeline and struck thereafter straight into the forest. Some idiot had thrown a barricade of wagons across the top of the ramp. He saw small figures poised there among the wagons. A rider—a tiny, toylike figure—galloped out of the forest along the road and pulled up before the barricade.

  “Hai! Hai! For Conrad!”

  The ground trembled beneath him. Several hundred horse trotted past, with Duke Conrad at their head. They moved twenty abreast, spilling to either side and splitting around Ivar where he stood on the road. He shut his eyes and held his ground and prayed, but they were past him before he finished the psalm. They thundered toward the northeastern flank.

  Only a fool would run to the east now. The fighting was fierce all along the line of the valley from north to east to east-southeast. How Wolfhere expected to get up that ramp, even with sorcery, he could not imagine.

  “God help me.” He threw down the axes and ran for the west. If he could escape into the woods, then he might hide and crawl and get to Hersford Monastery safely. It was better than dying here.

  The western siege works were lightly guarded as men peeled off in twos and threes when called to reinforce the entrenchments under attack. Ivar scrambled under a wagon whose wheels were wedged tight against blocks of wood. He skidded down the loose soil of a ditch and up the other side.

  “Hey! You!” A soldier called to him from the pickets.

  Ivar got up onto the level ground of fields, put his head down, and ran, expecting an arrow to slug him in the back, but no arrow came. Finally, he was winded and hurting and so ragged with pain that he dropped to his knees. He was well away, out of range, surrounded by shootlings of wheat or oats, he wasn’t sure which because he was breathing hard and his eyes were watering and because anyway these fields had been trampled recently so there wasn’t really much growing here, not as there should be.

  His hand throbbed as if he had been stabbed. A shower of cold rain raked him and passed on, blurring the fields and rattling through the fruit lines standing a stone’s toss west of him. A shallow irrigation canal cut away the ground just in front of his knees. He stared at the streaming water until he thought he would drown.

  Must go on.

  He struggled to his feet. With one long dash, he could reach the forest. Thank God the Eika had not come up along the southwest road yet.

  Directly ahead, several score riders emerged from the cover of the woods and swept over the fields toward Varre’s now mostly-unprotected western flank. Horns blared an alert. He turned to look behind. Arconia’s banner swung neatly away from the battle along the southeastern entrenchment and, with several hundred horse, raced to cut off this new threat.

  He was trapped between. There was no chance he could outrun them. With a shout, he flung himself into the canal.

  After working the flank, Sanglant’s cavalry cleared the entire first line of defense. The Varrens retreated, or cowered in the dirt, or died, while the infantry advanced to the second line of defense built hard up against the base of the road where it ramped up the eastern slope. Here, trenches and barricades met them. Sanglant led the charge through gaps carved by the milites in the stockades. His lance was long since shivered in the corpus of some nameless Varren soldier, but he worked mayhem to either side with his sword. To his right, Liutgard’s cavalry leaped shallow trenches and low pickets but were at once caught in a maelstrom of fighting and could not advance.

  A rumble swelled as many hundreds of horsemen rolled down on them from the center of the Varren camp. A red stallion banner waved above the lead rank. Conrad was riding to meet him.

  A single line of pickets separated Sanglant’s line from the road, but the Varrens had massed here and were fighting fiercely as Kassel’s milites struggled, numbers thinning. The milites had taken the brunt of the assault, and had been outnumbered to begin with.

  Dust rose from the hooves of Conrad’s approaching troops, obscuring the battle joined to the southeast, where Theophanu was trying to break through. Best she hurry. He could no longer see Liutgard’s white tabard among the hundred riders stalled before a low berm off to the right. She—or her captain—was trying to get through to the road some hundreds of strides west, in order to come up behind.

  “Give me one more breach!” His hoarse voice rose over the tide of battle. “One more, and the day is ours!”

  But a quick survey showed he had only two-score horse still up, and at best several hundred infantry, some joined by riders who had lost their mounts but could still fight.

  A shout rose as the milites forced the barricade in three places, throwing down the pickets and fighting in the trench. Sanglant swung around. Fest jumped a trench and got up the berm to the roadbed, where they stood alone with the road open before and behind, fighting clashing all
along behind him, and a shallow slope leading south to the open ground before. Many hundreds of riders galloped out of the Varren camp toward Sanglant’s breach.

  Hooves rang on the road as the foremost rank of Conrad’s heavy horse, four abreast, gathered their charge. With spear held overhand, in blackened mail and black tabard and riding a fine black gelding, Conrad closed, pushing out to the front of his company.

  A score of Sanglant’s own good cavalry got up on the road behind him. He urged Fest to a trot, a canter, and the gelding broke into a full charge with Sanglant having nothing but sword and shield to fend off that long spear.

  For once, Sanglant was taken by surprise.

  As they closed, Conrad released his spear and veered so short that, although he pulled toward the shallow slope, his horse stumbled to its knees but rose with rider still on its back.

  The spear struck true, piercing Fest through the meat of the neck and coming to rest against Sanglant’s mail along the curve of his hip and thigh. The gelding crumpled, spilling Sanglant forward. The shaft of the spear splintered as Sanglant tumbled in a complete roll before pushing off his shield onto his feet.

  The ranks hit each other, passed through—as cavalry sometimes did—with a few men going down and the rest reining hard to get their horses turned around to strike again.

  As Conrad approached, high above, he drew his sword and whistled sharply. His men circled, but did not move in on Sanglant’s unprotected back.

  “I would not kill you, Cousin,” Conrad cried. “Surrender, and I’ll give you a grant of land, a wife of your choosing, and peace to live out your days. Once, I think, that was all you asked for.”

  These words struck him as might a sword’s blow. They mocked him.

  I don’t want to be king, he had told his father at Werlida, many years ago now. I want a grant of land, Liath as my wife, and peace.

  What had changed? Was it only his oath to his father, sworn as Henry lay dying? Or had his heart changed? Did he now covet the very things he had long ago scorned?

  All this passed in a heartbeat as he raised his sword and made ready to reply. It was strange how bright the sun was, and how high the dust bloomed where the horses rode, and how the music of war seemed muted once a man had fixed his will on the one who opposed him.

  “Your son, or daughter, to marry my daughter, or son,” added Conrad, “and in this way your line and mine shall rule jointly in the years to come. I am legitimately born, you are a bastard. The army loves you, but the church does not. I have Tallia and my own royal claim. It’s the best offer you’ll get. What do you say, beloved Cousin?”

  Ai, God.

  The wind spun a whirlpool of bright air up onto the roadbed. It swirled around him, making him blink, and then flinch. A chilling touch bit at his mouth. An icy breeze stung his nostrils. He staggered.

  It poured into him like the breath of winter, and when it grabbed his throat he could not speak and when it swallowed his eyes he could not see and when it filled his limbs he could not move.

  In the empty darkness that closed over him, all he heard was an echoing, inhuman voice.

  “Where is he, the one I love? Where is Heribert hiding? Is he not in here? Where has he gone?”

  6

  HANNA abandoned her horse. She scrambled under the barricade and ran down the ramped road into the valley on the trail of the fleeing Varren guards. How stupid this was she considered only fleetingly, knowing what was behind her. The battle raged to her right, and horsemen flying Conrad’s stallion banner galloped up from the left. To the east, Theophanu’s army brawled in the entrenchments. It was impossible to tell who was holding firm and who falling back. Ranks of cavalry danced through the western fields, too distant to make out clearly.

  The fighting along the northeastern pickets and trenches had the look of men tiring, pacing their strikes, parrying more than charging, just trying to hold their position, but who was winning and who losing she could not tell. It was all a churning mass of men and horses running, crawling, limping among the ditches and dead men and scattered stakes and broken stockades.

  She had gotten about halfway down the ramp and, miraculously, no arrow had stuck her when, just beyond the base of the ramp on level ground, a lone horseman wearing a magnificent dragon helm broke up out of the entrenchments and gained the road. Riders struggled after him. She bent to grab a spear fallen onto the road. Lifted her gaze. Stunned at what she saw, she dropped to her knees.

  Conrad was charging, out in front of his men. The rest of his cavalry thundered in from the south. Even if his remaining troops reached him, King Sanglant was hopelessly outnumbered.

  “Tsst! Sorgatani ahn na i-u-taggar.”

  A cloudy swirl of air spun up the side of the ramp. A stout woman appeared on the road in a showering mist of white powder, out of nowhere. A moment before she had not been there.

  She was not Wendish; she had a flat, reddish-brown complexion and wore stiff skirts and heavy boots very like those of Kerayit women. A scrap of dried vegetation fell from her neck. It hissed where it struck the stones.

  “Berda!” A young male voice called out of empty air. Hanna heard scratching sounds, like squirrels scrabbling on rocks, but she saw no one nearby.

  Below, Wendish riders pushed their horses up to the road, following their king. Above, the woman who had appeared out of nowhere dashed up the ramp.

  Hanna shouted after her. “Come back! There are Eika—”

  A pair of Eika strode into view at the top of the ramp. They paused to observe the battle with the kind of leisurely posture that a man might wear in contemplation of a pleasant run of hunting in a field overrun with grouse. One held a spear and the other a banner pole fixed with a crosspiece and hung with strips and strands that waved in the wind tearing along the heights. Storm clouds rose like a wall behind them, black towers piled high in the heavens. The woman ran straight up the broad ramp toward the invaders.

  “Hanna!”

  She recognized that voice.

  She turned.

  Wolfhere stood behind her.

  She shrieked and jumped backward, ramming into another body. They both fell in a tangle. Now that she was touching him, she saw a young man dressed in lordly manner in a fine linen tunic dyed green and trimmed with handsome embroidery, leggings, and handsome calfskin boots well worn from walking. Laid flat on the slope just below the rim of the road were two other young men, one Wendish and the other—she could never mistake those looks—born to the Quman tribes.

  “Where did you come from?” she demanded of Wolfhere.

  “G-g-got to get out of here!” the youth said raggedly. He was out of breath. Blisters had blossomed around his neck, which was curbed by a crudely woven necklace of dried leaves and fern fronds. “But where do we go now, Berthold?”

  She pulled away from him and pushed to her feet. Eika above, battle on all sides, and below a tableau that fixed Hanna’s gaze as though she looked down a tunnel. A man wearing blackened armor and riding a black horse charged solo against the dragon-helmed king, the two closing along the road, weapons raised.

  In one breath, they would collide.

  “It is time to go, friend,” said Wolfhere as though talking to himself. “Go find him.”

  One breath caught in a gasp of exhalation as, beside Wolfhere, a cleric fell to his knees with gaze lifted heavenward and mouth open. Light spun in the air, like the flash of a mirror catching the sunlight, but when she blinked to protect her eyes, it winked and vanished. The cleric crumpled to the ground.

  The crash of men meeting resounded. One horse stumbled, but came up with rider still on its back, while the other horse staggered and fell, tumbling its rider onto the ground. Men cried out in fear, while others shouted “huz-zah!” or called frantic commands.

  The young lord crawled whimpering back to his fellows, off the road. “For God’s sake, let’s get out of here. We’re right in the middle of the worst of it, and we have no weapons! We’d be better hiding in th
e byre!”

  Wolfhere knelt beside the fallen cleric and shook what appeared to be little more than skin and bones wrapped in tattered robes.

  “What’s happened to him?” Hanna knelt beside him.

  “He’s dead.” Wolfhere grabbed the body by the ankles and dragged him off the road.

  “What are you doing?” cried Hanna. She was stuck there, standing and staring first at Wolfhere, whose behavior made no sense and then at the appalling sight of Sanglant alone on the road, unhorsed, with only a shield and sword and no more than a score of riders to protect him against hundreds of mounted riders armed with spears and lances under the command of Conrad the Black.

  Maybe if she could reach the duke before he struck the killing blow.

  She took a step, and a second. A hand closed on her ankle and tugged her so hard she felt flat and barely caught herself on her hands before her face smacked into stone. The impact jarred up through her wrists and arms.

  She shouted in pain. “What are you doing? Let me go help him.”

  “I cannot,” Wolfhere said, his grip like iron chains. “I swore an oath long ago. Now, at last, I must pray it is fulfilled.”

  Stronghand’s men cut a path through the barricade wide enough to allow the Eika army to pass through four abreast, and wide enough to admit the little wagon that bore the Kerayit shaman in whose body was woven a spell that killed. Stronghand pressed through the van and, together with Last Son, paused where level road hit the impressive ramp that carried the road down into the valley.

  “Easy pickings,” said Last Son. “Look there!”

  A person dressed in stiff skirts bounded onto the road and ran right toward them. Halfway down the long ramp, the white-haired Eagle, who had been allowed to pass by his troops unharmed only a short while ago, hesitated out in plain sight where she was a target for every arrow and anxious spear. Five other men scrambled up the rim where the ramped road gave way into a sloping side.