The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

She lifted her chin. “Truly, Your Highness, if it were King Henry, we might expect mercy. But the man we face will only wear Henry’s face and speak with his voice. I saw what manner of daimone they forced into his body. I heard his voice condemn Villam, but I know King Henry would never have done so. If we surrender, we will be baring our throats to those who will show as little mercy to us as they did to him!” Without leaving him, her gaze shifted focus, seeing onto a scene he could not share: the events which had led her to take refuge with the regnant’s rebellious son.

“So be it.”

Sibold stepped back, having finished, and Sanglant mounted Resuelto and took his lance from Everwin. Raising it, catching the attention of the men making ready to fight, he called out in the voice that would, soon enough, ring above the fray. “Upon every field, there is a victory to be found. Let us find ours.”

Malbert handed up his helm, burnished, trimmed with the figure of a dragon so like the one he had once worn as captain of Henry’s Dragons, back in the days when he had been his father’s obedient son. So he was, still; it was Henry who had changed, not him. Yet did it matter what story he told himself, now that the hour was upon them? Last night, with Wendilgard’s departure, he had felt angry, sullen, worried, irritable. All that sloughed off him now. The decision had been made. He had ridden a long way to reach this moment. Now. At once. The anticipation of battle lightened his heart and lifted his mood. The griffins beat past overhead, heading out over the town.

As he rode with his escort behind him to the southern apex of such siege works as they had had time to throw up, he held his lance so the pennant tied on the shaft could dance in the breeze made by Resuelto’s pace. He was already sweating freely. There wasn’t a breath of wind.

The infantry had dug in to the northeast of the river along a line leading from the bluff where the river left the forest all the way to the shoreline. Because they had wanted to keep a portion of the river within their lines—if this trickle of water over stones still warranted such a noble title—the river split his force. Even over the course of the single day they had camped here the water level had fallen. When he pressed Resuelto down the bank and into the channel, the water came scarcely higher than the gelding’s fetlocks. Companies of Wendish, marchlanders, Quman, and centaurs followed him to the field, muddying what remained of the waters.

The infantry manned the defensive works, such as they were, with some of the ditches only half dug. There were too few soldiers to withstand an attack at multiple points. Still, infantry weren’t the strength of his army. They crossed beyond the defensive works into the dusty open ground where he had room to maneuver, most of it level but crossed by a dry streambed that had once been a tributary of the river. He and a dozen men from his entourage rode up onto a rise from which they could survey the field while his army took their places.

He had thirty centuries of cavalry, more or less. The Quman clans formed up on the left flank and marchlanders on the right. His Wendish cavalry, a motley crew nominally under the command of Wichman but actually controlled by Captain Fulk, held the center—which should have belonged to Wendilgard’s Avarians. What remained as a reserve force spread out as a second rank, broken up in groups of fifty to a hundred riders made up of his marchlanders and renegade Ungrians under Captain Istvan, Waltharia’s picked heavy cavalry under the banner of Lord Druthmar, his own personal guard, and the Bwr. The griffins had flown out over the exposed flats to the water’s edge, where they began to make their ponderous turn to come back in.

Few epics from heroic ages past ever sported such a strange array of beings and peoples. No poets had ever sung of such an army, many kinds joined together against a common foe.

Certainly he had had problems on the march. He had heard mutters against sorcery. He had heard men whispering that it wasn’t right to consort with pagans and heretics, or whether it was right for a child to challenge a parent or a lord to challenge the wisdom of the skopos. But their fear and their doubt was also their strength. They had, most of them, thrown over their old prejudices out of loyalty to him. The Wendishmen might distrust the Quman, but they granted them a measure of respect. And frankly, for the men, there was something heartening about fighting alongside centaurs, that ancient race that had once burned the holy city of Darre. Their inhuman nature was always visible to any man with eyes, yet they had a kind of beauty as well. Now and again Sanglant had seen a man stare dreamily at one of their Bwr allies, and more than a few times he had caught himself admiring their robust figures clad in nothing beside the accoutrements of war and wondering at the mystery of their existence. Now and again he had to remind himself that they weren’t women at all. Now, like the rest of his army, they waited with spears or bows or swords held ready.

It was so damned hot. He prayed that he had not moved too soon, that this wait in the stifling heat would not sap his army, and indeed it was midafternoon before Henry’s army marched into view and began to form up in battle array. Two well ordered contingents of infantry, one wearing the tabard of the King’s Lions and the other Wendish milites out of Saony, flanked a mass of cavalry riding under his father’s banner, the conjoined sigils of Wendar and Varre. The banner displaying the imperial crown flew gloriously above all the rest as a bannerman hauled it back and forth to let the fabric stream.

Henry’s farthest left and right flanks were held by alternating bands of cavalry and infantry belonging to various nobles from Aosta. Missing was the banner of Duchess Liutgard of Fesse. Wichman had noted this force but a few hours ago and now they were gone.

Indeed, Wichman left the center and rode back to inform him of this fact, galloping up onto the rise with a gleeful grin on his face.

“D’ya see that?” he called breathlessly as soon as he came within shouting distance of the prince. “That bitch will have taken a force around our flank. They’ll go north into the woods and swing around to hit our defensive line from the northwest, where we’re thinnest. Best to send the reserve to meet them.”

“Do you think so?” Sanglant shook his head. “Henry will stall to give her time to arrive. He’ll have her attack at the same time he’ll signal Queen Adelheid to sally forth from the walls.” Check, his father would say in a confident way that encouraged one to resign the game right then. “Nay, Wichman. The next move is mine. We’ll not spread ourselves thin. We’ll win this battle before Liutgard can get all the way around our position.”

Wichman snorted. “Henry outnumbers us! That’s just what’s on the field. Who knows how many wait with the queen to attack us from the rear.”

“Numbers aren’t everything. We have winged riders, and Bwr, and griffins. We are bold, not cautious.” He stood in his stirrups, lifting his lance as he gestured toward the imperial banner, then shifted his gaze to stare down his cousin. “I challenge you! Will it be you, or me, that captures the banner bearing the sigil of the crown of stars?”

Wichman laughed outright, outraged and delighted, and reined his horse around before Sanglant could say another word.

“Look there,” called Hathui. A dozen riders rode forward from Henry’s front line bearing the Lion, Eagle, and Dragon flag of Wendar. “They want a parley.”

Sanglant nodded at Chustaffus, who lifted the black dragon banner once, twice, and thrice. They rode down the rise and advanced to the forefront of the host, dust spitting up where hooves struck. As they passed through the Wendish line, a cheer rose and continued until he gestured and Chustaffus raised the banner for silence. They stood at the edge of the tributary stream. Across the cracked and stony bed waited those who spoke for the emperor.

He recognized three of these noble courtiers, two armed and one a cleric.

It was the cleric, one of Henry’s schola, who spoke. “Sanglant, the emperor Henry, your father, begs you to lay down your arms and embrace him as a son should. Have you forsaken God and parent alike? How can you rebel against the one who gave you life? He weeps, wondering what madness possesses his beloved son.”

All suffered under the sun’s hammer. Sweat flowed freely. Resuelto twitched his ears. The heat would drain them long before courage flagged.

pics from heroic ages past ever sported such a strange array of beings and peoples. No poets had ever sung of such an army, many kinds joined together against a common foe.

Certainly he had had problems on the march. He had heard mutters against sorcery. He had heard men whispering that it wasn’t right to consort with pagans and heretics, or whether it was right for a child to challenge a parent or a lord to challenge the wisdom of the skopos. But their fear and their doubt was also their strength. They had, most of them, thrown over their old prejudices out of loyalty to him. The Wendishmen might distrust the Quman, but they granted them a measure of respect. And frankly, for the men, there was something heartening about fighting alongside centaurs, that ancient race that had once burned the holy city of Darre. Their inhuman nature was always visible to any man with eyes, yet they had a kind of beauty as well. Now and again Sanglant had seen a man stare dreamily at one of their Bwr allies, and more than a few times he had caught himself admiring their robust figures clad in nothing beside the accoutrements of war and wondering at the mystery of their existence. Now and again he had to remind himself that they weren’t women at all. Now, like the rest of his army, they waited with spears or bows or swords held ready.

It was so damned hot. He prayed that he had not moved too soon, that this wait in the stifling heat would not sap his army, and indeed it was midafternoon before Henry’s army marched into view and began to form up in battle array. Two well ordered contingents of infantry, one wearing the tabard of the King’s Lions and the other Wendish milites out of Saony, flanked a mass of cavalry riding under his father’s banner, the conjoined sigils of Wendar and Varre. The banner displaying the imperial crown flew gloriously above all the rest as a bannerman hauled it back and forth to let the fabric stream.

Henry’s farthest left and right flanks were held by alternating bands of cavalry and infantry belonging to various nobles from Aosta. Missing was the banner of Duchess Liutgard of Fesse. Wichman had noted this force but a few hours ago and now they were gone.

Indeed, Wichman left the center and rode back to inform him of this fact, galloping up onto the rise with a gleeful grin on his face.

“D’ya see that?” he called breathlessly as soon as he came within shouting distance of the prince. “That bitch will have taken a force around our flank. They’ll go north into the woods and swing around to hit our defensive line from the northwest, where we’re thinnest. Best to send the reserve to meet them.”

“Do you think so?” Sanglant shook his head. “Henry will stall to give her time to arrive. He’ll have her attack at the same time he’ll signal Queen Adelheid to sally forth from the walls.” Check, his father would say in a confident way that encouraged one to resign the game right then. “Nay, Wichman. The next move is mine. We’ll not spread ourselves thin. We’ll win this battle before Liutgard can get all the way around our position.”