Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars 7)

“Move! Move out!”

“What about the townspeople of Autun?” Constance asked.

“Do you think we can fight so many, Your Grace?” he said, more with despair than anger. “Better if we get the word to those who can. Here, Johannes!” He pointed at one of his youthful soldiers. “Take a spare horse. You’ll ride, and walk at night, until you reach the lady. She must learn of this.”

“Ivar,” said Constance. “Go with Johannes.”

Hooves drummed from below. The rear scout galloped into view around the screen made by the trees. He was hanging over his mount’s neck, barely holding on, and as he saw them, his mouth worked but no sound came out. He slipped sideways and tumbled to the ground. An arrow angled out of the meat of his shoulder.

“Move!” bellowed the sergeant.

The soldiers driving the wagons whipped the cart horses forward. The sergeant rode down to the scout, grabbed the man by the arm, and tugged him over the back of his saddle.

The riderless horse trotted along behind as the sergeant turned to follow the party. Even the pair of mules, ridden by Hathumod and Sister Eligia, caught the scent and kicked up their pace. They toiled upward, but everyone kept staring behind, seeking, listening, knowing that the enemy would race into sight at the next moment. Wind rippled in branches. Leaves flashed. The horses put on a burst of speed, anxious to move ahead.

The sergeant caught up to the main group and thrust the reins of the loose horse into Ivar’s hands. “Go!” he said. “You and Johannes. Go! At least if the rest of us are caught, you may get the message to Lady Sabella.”

The soldier lying over the horse groaned. Without slacking his pace the sergeant pushed him off the horse and into the second wagon. The wounded man shrieked. The road struck into woods, and as they passed under the trees, Ivar shivered. He looked back one more time.

A pair of tall men appeared on the road far below. They did not seem to be wearing armor, but their skin gleamed. They pointed after the retreating group with their spears and shook their shields, then turned and waved their arms as though gesturing to companions still out of sight.

“Brother Ivar!” Constance’s voice pulled him to attention. “You must ride quickly! Go!”

The rumps of Johannes’ horses receded into shade and vanished around a bend in the road. Ivar urged his horse forward, and the spare followed eagerly. For a bit he rode alone on the shadowed path, seeing no one before or behind.

Then a voice called him.

“Ivar!” He looked back to see Baldwin galloping after him, holding the wounded man’s sword and scabbard. Catching up, Baldwin gave him the weapon. “Go! Go!”

A terrible scream ripped out of the trees ahead. Both of Ivar’s horses shied, sidestepping and flattening ears. They wanted to go forward no more than they wanted to go back.

Caught betwixt and between.

He and Baldwin pushed on to find Johannes stalled in the middle of the road, staring at a man’s fly-ridden corpse sprawled on the road. Baldwin dismounted and bent over the body. The flesh had been gnawed, the abdomen torn open and innards devoured. The archway of ribs flashed white. The eye sockets were empty, sucked clean, and maggots and flies crawled in and out of the gaping mouth. One arm below the elbow was missing. The dead man had a dart lodged in his neck. When Baldwin jiggled the shaft, the slender arrow fell free and rolled along the dirt.

“That’s a shade’s arrow,” said Ivar. His throat was dry, and his heart pounded.

“What do we do?” whispered Baldwin. “Those others—the Eika—coming up from behind. This—in front.”

“That’s days old,” said Johannes. “See how the body is torn up.”

The rumble of wheels became audible. Ivar swung down, grabbed the dead man by the ankles, and dragged him off the road. No time to bury him. No possibility of hauling the extra weight. He shoved the limp corpse out of the way and, as he straightened, the little cavalcade came into view: two wagons, a dozen guardsmen, Biscop Constance, the wounded man, Sigfrid, Ermanrich, Hathumod, and Sister Eligia. The scouts had moved up, leaving only the sergeant trailing behind.

A paltry, doomed retinue.

Two soldiers had dismounted to walk at the heads of the cart horses. Hathumod stared white-faced at him.

“Brother Ivar!” said Constance reprovingly, but then she saw the dead man tumbled in the undergrowth, and she turned her gaze away. Her face was pale, and her expression grim.

Baldwin did not move.

“I told you to ride!” shouted the sergeant. “Move!”

Ivar mounted and slapped Johannes’ horse on the rump with his reins. “Let’s go!”

The two riders pushed on, leaving the rest of the party behind. After a while, as the wind and their path twisted up a hillside, they heard shouting far behind. The sound faded at once; maybe he had only imagined it. Around them, there was nothing to see but trees, a tangled prospect of holm and oak most likely cut back a generation ago and now grown thick with young trees and vigorous undergrowth. He halted, turning in the saddle to listen, as Johannes kept riding toward a half seen switchback. Hooves drummed behind. Someone was coming up fast.

“Come on! Come on, my lord!” cried the lad. He was so scared that he sounded indignant.