Willahelm was dazzled by the silver, and he didn’t realize he had been struck by an arrow until he coughed and felt something wet spatter from his lips. He looked down at the shaft protruding from his chest, pawing at it lightly as if it were not real. He heard a roaring noise, like thunder, and he glanced up in time to see something coming at his face. A small bird, he thought, wondering what it was doing flying in the midst of the battlefield, and then his vision splintered into a spray of glittering water.
My silver, he thought. It was slipping away from him. Falling out of his unresponsive fingers…
SIX
The road wound along the base of a narrow bluff, edged with pink-and-gray stone. A scraggly forest of pine and oak blanketed the northern end of the bluff, and individual trees poked defiantly out of the slope. On the eastern side of the road, fields that had been farmland a generation ago were being reclaimed by wild grasses and the isolated groupings of young saplings, eager to spread their branches without being hemmed in by older trees. A haze of dust lay over the valley.
Domarus had spotted the silver caravan earlier, hurrying back to alert the rest of the Shield-Brethren company. When they had spotted the rising dust, they had spurred their horses into a gallop, hoping they were not too late.
Feronantus rode in the second rank, behind the lancers. His helmet and the men in front of him limited his field of vision, and he was nearly upon the caravan of wagons before he could see the confusion into which they were riding. The wagons were in disarray; several were off the road entirely, moving in haphazard directions as their oxen teams wandered without drovers to direct them. One wagon was overturned, its team slaughtered. Scattered groups of men—some wearing blue-and-white surcoats, some wearing imperial colors—fought with one another. It seemed there were more men in blue and white.
“Alalazu!” The cry rose around him as the Shield-Brethren host engaged the caravan attackers. The rank of lancers, forming into a wedge, burst through the cluster of riders at the front of the caravan. Feronantus, with Rutger on his left, clashed with the few riders who had not been unhorsed by the lancers.
Guiding his horse with his knees, he slashed with his sword, cutting through the surcoat of a man holding a mace. He felt the tip of his sword rattle off maille, and he raised his shield as the mace-wielder retaliated, slamming the heavy head of his weapon against Feronantus’s shield. He grunted, feeling the impact through his arm, but it was better to take the hit on his shield than anywhere else. His maille might protect him against swords and arrows, but a crushing blow from a blunt weapon like the mace would easily break bones.
Feronantus peered over the edge of his shield. As his opponent raised the mace for another blow, Feronantus leaned forward, thrusting with his sword, and the tip of the blade caught the other man just below the jaw. He flicked his hand to the side and felt his sword slice through flesh, catching for just a second as it cut through the leather strap of his opponent’s helmet. As Feronantus’s horse jostled the other horse, the mace-wielder tumbled out of his saddle, blood spurting from his throat.
Out of the corner of his eye, Feronantus sensed another man coming from his left, and he drummed his heels against his horse as he ducked behind his shield. As his horse surged forward, he swept his shield outward, and he felt a sword scrape across the surface. He lowered his shield, twisting his body to the left so as to bring his sword to bear against his new opponent, but there was no need. The man had been concentrating on hitting Feronantus and had failed to notice Rutger, whose sword caught him in the side of the head, cleaving through the leather of his helm as well as his skull beneath.
He had no time to thank Rutger, though, as a crossbow bolt punched through Feronantus’s shield, the bolt piercing his surcoat and lodging in his maille. He didn’t think it had gone all the way through, but he knew that he might not even realize how badly he had been struck until after the battle. He caught sight of the crossbowman and directed his horse at the man. If he succeeded in reloading the weapon, Feronantus might not be as lucky a second time.
The crossbowman knew he was in race for his life, and he struggled to pull back the heavy string and get another bolt loaded. The man tried to not look up as Feronantus drove his horse at him; his hands shook as he fumbled with the bolt, trying to lay it down on the stock of the crossbow. He pulled the trigger before he had even raised the weapon all the way to his shoulder, and he looked up in time to see Feronantus’s sword arc toward his face.
Feronantus felt the shock of his sword hitting bone at the same instant he felt his horse stumble. The animal collapsed, and he leaped out of the saddle. His sword was wrenched from his hand, but he held on to his shield. The ground rushed at him, and for a moment, he was back in the darkness underneath Petraathen. The cold water rushing around him, the weight of the aspis pulling him under the surface. Never let go, his oplo had instructed him. Never let go of your shield.
He hit the ground, shield first, and rolled over it and to his feet. His chest heaving, his helmet slightly askew—blocking his left eye—he took stock of his surroundings. The crossbow bolt had struck his horse, and it had stumbled and fallen. Judging from the way it was thrashing on the ground, one of its legs had been broken. But the crossbowman was down, Feronantus’s sword jutting from his chest.
The general melee had moved off to his left. For a moment, he was out of the fighting.
Feronantus retrieved his sword, gave his horse a merciful death, and then started toward the wagons.
“There are three groups fighting,” Otto’s scout reported. “The imperial guard, some other group, and men wearing the red rose.”
“Shield-Brethren,” Bertholdus growled. He was Otto’s second-in-command. A sword cut to the neck had permanently damaged his voice, and the scar was a vivid line across his throat.
Otto nodded in agreement. “King Richard’s dogs,” he said. He jammed his helmet on his head. “Let’s just kill them all,” he said to Bertholdus.
Bertholdus smiled and raised his arm to signal the rest of Otto’s mercenaries. When he brought his arm down, the host charged, streaming out of the forest at the base of the bluff.
The field of battle was a chaotic mess. The imperial guard was fighting the men in blue and white, who—it seemed to Feronantus, judging by the language he heard some of them using when they shouted to each other—were French mercenaries. Some of the imperial guard recognized the red rose emblem of the Shield-Brethren, but there were still a few altercations between imperials and Shield-Brethren until it was clear that they were allies. At which point the French realized they were surrounded, and their efforts turned more to flight than conquest.
Then, as individual French fighters were throwing down their weapons and fleeing, a fourth group burst out of the forest and charged toward the bloodied fields. The new group attacked the fleeing French, and the imperials cheered the arrival of reinforcements, but Feronantus didn’t see their colors. His stomach knotted as he recalled Richard’s theory of betrayals and counter-betrayals.
“Where’s Geoffrey?” he shouted at Rutger, who was still astride a horse.
Rutger shook his head. His shield was missing, and a sleeve of his maille was stained red.
“They’re not allies,” Feronantus shouted.
“They seem friendly enough,” Rutger said. “They’re killing the French.”
“They won’t stop with the French,” Feronantus snarled. “Find Geoffrey. Rally our brothers.”
As Rutger turned his horse, Feronantus ran toward a nearby wagon and clambered up onto the plank. From his vantage point, he could see the approaching host more readily. He couldn’t count their number quickly, though he guessed there were more than four dozen. They wore no colors, and they carried no standard.
The cold awareness of the Vor churned in his guts. These men definitely weren’t reinforcements. They were Henry’s private mercenaries, and as he watched, a pair of men, running in front of the rest of the host, fell upon a Shield-Brethren
rider. One of the two dragged the knight out of his saddle, and the other one stabbed the fallen knight again and again with his sword.
“We’re under attack,” he screamed, his voice tearing.
The host, hearing his alarm, howled in response.
Shivering, Feronantus leaped off the wagon. If the Shield-Brethren had sustained no losses, they were still outnumbered two to one. But he knew some of his brothers had fallen. He had no idea how many imperials were left, but he doubted they had much stomach for more fighting.
He, too, was tired. He had started to feel an ache in his chest where the crossbow bolt had struck his maille, and there was blood dripping from the bottom of the right sleeve of his armor. He didn’t recall getting hit in the arm, but it had happened. His sword felt heavy.
He tightened his grip on his weapon.
The odds were bad, but that didn’t mean he was going to give up. The Shield-Brethren never gave up. They never lowered their shields.
SEVEN
“This doesn’t look good,” Will said, shading his eyes and peering down at the melee in the valley below.
Robin dropped two bundles of arrows next to him. “Which ones are the good guys?” he asked.
“We are, remember?” Will said.
Behind them, John finished stringing the last of the tall English longbows and tossed it to Robin. “Does that mean we’re supposed to kill them all?”
Maria stood on the other side of Will, scanning the valley below, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The silver wagons were scattered, and the field was littered with bodies, all wearing a number of different colors and emblems. Many of the dead appeared to be imperial guard, but there were a number wearing blue and white as well. She spotted a smaller group wearing long white surcoats over coats of maille. Their surcoats were emblazoned with a red rose.
Her heart beat quickly, both thrilled and saddened at what she saw. There were Shield-Brethren dead on the field. But there were more of them still standing. She wasn’t too late.
“The men in white with the red emblems on their chests,” she said quickly.
“They’ll make for easy targets,” Will said.
“No,” she countered. “Those are my friends.”
Robin laid an arrow across his bow and performed the still-odd motion of drawing the string back. “And the others?” he asked, peering down at the melee.
“Not friends,” she said firmly.
Robin released his first arrow.
Somehow Feronantus wound up shoulder to shoulder with Rutger. They had a wagon at their back, and Rutger’s left arm hung useless at his side. Feronantus was having trouble maintaining his grip on his own sword. No matter how hard he squeezed, it kept twisting in his grasp. The pommel was red with blood, and he could feel more of his life running down his arm.
Three of the mercenaries stood opposite them, armed with swords and shields. They were gauging the Shield-Brethren pair, deciding how best to kill them. Two of their companions lay nearby; they had been overly eager and had taken steel to the throats as a result. The remaining three were a bit warier.
Feronantus leaned against the wagon, and he could feel Rutger resting his weight, too. They were both tired and injured. He had lost track of how many men he had engaged, nor could he remember if they had all died. The battle was a blur, almost like a dream, but his muscles quivered and ached with all the exertion.
“This is it, I suppose,” Rutger said in a hoarse voice. “I can probably take care of the one on the left. Can you get the one on the right?”
“Aye,” Feronantus whispered.
“That one in the middle, though, he’s going to be a problem,” Rutger said. “Do you think he knows it yet?”
“Not yet,” Feronantus said.
As soon as the trio realized one or more of them was going to live, they would rush the pair of Shield-Brethren. They would take their chances.
The man in the middle suddenly threw up his hands. He still had his sword and his shield, and it was such an odd motion that everyone stared. Gradually, he dropped his arms, letting go of his sword and lowering his shield, too. Only then did Feronantus notice the bloody arrowhead protruding from his chest.
The other two mercenaries turned and looked behind them, trying to spot the archer. Feronantus pushed off from the wagon, intending on taking the fight to the mercenaries, but before he could close the distance, the man in front of him was knocked off his feet. He slid across the ground, nearly tripping Feronantus.
The third man grunted as he collapsed, too.
All three had been brought down by long arrows that had gone through maille, leather, and flesh as if all three were nothing more than thin cloth.
“The Virgin watches over us,” Rutger said.
Feronantus looked up at the nearby bluff, spotting the line of men along the edge. “She brought English longbowmen,” he said.
With the arrival of the bowmen, the mercenaries who had come out of the forest realized they were losing, and they scattered. There was no point in pursuing them into the forest. It would take too long to hunt down individuals, and there was the more pressing concern of securing the wagons.
Most of the imperials were dead, and the few who survived were wounded and would have to be left behind at the nearest city where doctors could be found. Some of the drovers were unharmed, having lain down flat beneath their wagons, pretending to be dead. The French ambushers were dead or gone, and a handful of the mercenaries were still alive. Some had surrendered; a few had been forcibly taken.
Geoffrey and six other Shield-Brethren knights were dead. Most of the rest had been wounded in one fashion or another, but most of their injuries were superficial—they were used to gathering scars.
One of the mercenaries was a dark-haired man with a knotted scar across his throat. Feronantus gauged the way the other prisoners were maintaining their distance from him, and suspected this man was one of their commanders.
“What is your name?” he asked, and the man replied by spitting at him.
Rutger backhanded him with a mailled fist, and when the man spat at Feronantus again, there was blood in his spittle.
Feronantus turned his attention to one of the other prisoners. “What is his name?” he asked the cowering man.
The man shivered and stuttered. “Berth…Bertholdus,” he said.
“Is he your commander?” Feronantus asked.
“Yes,” the man said. “No,” he amended.
“Who paid you?” Feronantus asked.
The man looked past Feronantus, his eyes drawn to the silver still lying in the road, glittering in the late-afternoon sun. He muttered something that Feronantus could not make out.
Bertholdus glared defiantly at Feronantus, and Feronantus was glad the man was bound. Otherwise, he suspected Bertholdus would attack him bare-handed.
“They were promised a piece of treasure,” Rutger said. “Weren’t you?” he asked the prisoner who had been talking.
Bertholdus laughed harshly, and the other prisoner flinched. “Shut up,” the cowering man screamed.
“It doesn’t matter,” Bertholdus growled, fixing his hate-filled gaze on Feronantus. “The man who bought their services is dead. They were promised a pittance of what is in those wagons, and only now do they realize what fools they were.” He looked at the other prisoners. “You were stealing from your emperor. Do you understand now how worthless your lives are? If these men don’t kill you, the emperor will put such a price on your heads—”
“We aren’t going to tell the emperor,” a voice intruded. It was a woman’s voice, and the sound surprised Bertholdus enough that he shut his mouth.
Feronantus looked over his shoulder and saw Maria. Trailing behind her were three scruffy-looking men—one broad, one fair-haired, and one with long hair and a piercing gaze. “Maria,” he said, finding himself pleased to see her again.
She smiled at him, and he felt suddenly awkward at the sight of her equal delight at seeing hi
m. Behind her, the long-haired man scowled.
Maria stood beside Feronantus and regarded the prisoners. “We have been charged by the king of England himself to ensure that this caravan reach the imperial court. We do not care who you are or what your grievance is with the emperor. The Shield-Brethren are merciful, but they are not fools. Try their patience, and no one will say a word if they slit all of your throats and leave your bodies for the wolves.”
Rutger glanced at Feronantus with a raised eyebrow.
The prisoner who had spoken earlier whimpered and Bertholdus glared at Maria, but when she held his gaze, he deflated. His shoulders drooped and he lowered his head.
Maria turned to Feronantus. “We should gather those who can travel and disperse the silver from the damaged wagons among those who can ride. We need to be gone from here by nightfall.” She touched his arm briefly and then turned away, walking toward the trio of Englishmen nearby.
“Who put her in charge?” Rutger asked quietly.
“She did,” Feronantus replied.
“Who is she?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Feronantus admitted.
John nudged Robin. “I think she likes him,” he said, nodding toward Maria and the pair of knights.
“Shut up,” Robin snapped, and Will laughed gently.
Robin ignored his fair-haired friend. “Are all these wagons filled with silver?” he asked Maria as she rejoined them. “I thought you said we were saving the king of England.” He glanced around. “He’s not here.”
“He’s being held captive by the Holy Roman Emperor. These wagons are the first portion of the ransom that is to be paid for his release.”
“Ransom?” Robin growled. “What ransom? Where did it come from?”
Maria hesitated before replying. “I do not know,” she said, “but I assume it was raised by England.”
Foreworld Saga 01 SideQuest Adventures No. 1 The lion in chains, the beast of Calarrava, the shield maiden Page 5
