“We’d best find shelter,” said Ivar. He dismounted and held his nervous mare right up at the mouth, trying his best to calm her, but the storm seemed to shake the entire world.
“Do you think we’ll survive the night?” Erkanwulf’s voice trembled and broke.
“Come on!” Fear made Ivar angry. “I’ve survived worse than this! We’ll get back to Biscop Constance. Princess Theophanu charged us to do so, and we mustn’t fail her.”
“Charged us to take a message, but sent neither help nor advice! And how are you going to get back into Queen’s Grave when you left as a corpse?”
“We won’t fail her,” Ivar repeated stubbornly, even though he wasn’t sure it was true.
The rain hurt as it pounded them, and it didn’t seem to be slacking up. He’d never seen it come down like this, as though rain from every land round about had been pushed over this very spot and now, letting loose, meant to drown them. They pulled their mounts under the spreading boughs of an old oak tree. Acorns thudded on dirt and hit them on the head. Rain drenched them. The horses tugged at the reins. Water streamed around their feet, and already the path had turned into a muddy, impassable canal, boiling and angry.
“Look!” cried Erkanwulf. “Look there!”
Out in the forest lights bobbed and wove. Erkanwulf took a step toward them and called out, but Ivar grabbed his cloak and wrenched him backward.
“Hush, you idiot! No natural fire can stay lit in this downpour! Don’t you remember who attacked us before?”
“Ai, God! The Lost Ones! We’re doomed.”
“Hush. Hush.”
The lights turned their way.
When you have lost, discipline is everything.
Sanglant allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction when he reached the edge of the forest with what remained of his army just as dusk spread its wings to cover them. They hadn’t routed. When the call came to retreat off the field, they had moved back in formation and in an orderly manner, without panic. Now, perhaps, night would aid them and hinder Henry. So he hoped.
He had chosen to remain with the rear guard, letting Fulk lead the battered army northwest alongside Capi’ra and her centaurs. The remnants of the Quman clans, Waltharia’s heavy cavalry, the Ungrians, the marchlanders, and his Wendish irregulars and cavalry followed Fulk and Capi’ra. He held shield and sword, with stalwart Fest beneath him and his banner and the last surviving members of his personal guard close at hand. Together with the griffins, a tight line of Villam infantry and marchlander archers under the command of Lewenhardt was all that separated him from the press of Henry’s army. Although he had no real way to communicate with the griffins, they had sensed his need and during the entire retreat across open ground had roamed along the last rank roaring and shrieking whenever Henry’s pursuing army came too close. Once or twice they pounced, but the press of spears and swords against them was heavy, and they did not like to get so close. Even iron feathers weren’t proof against steel, although few arrows had enough force to pierce their skin.
Hathui stuck beside him despite the danger from arrows and the occasional spear chucked at them from the front line of Henry’s advancing army. Henry’s banner he could not see, but he recognized Henry’s presence with each step that he retreated and with each lost, dead soldier he had to leave behind.
“He isn’t pressing us as hard as he could,” he remarked.
There was some jostling of position as the infantry shifted formation in order to move from open ground into the woods. A man in the final rank fell forward to his knees as a halberd hooked his shield and dragged him out of place. An ax blow felled him, but his fellows screamed and leaped forward to yank him back to safety. A moment later the injured man was carried out of the line past Sanglant and his mounted guard to the wagons, which trundled at an agonizingly slow pace down the narrow road that led through the forest. Two days ago they had followed Adelheid’s army through more open land just south of the forest, on the narrow coastal plain, but open ground gave Henry’s superior forces too much of an advantage. The forest offered cover, yet it had its own dangers. Sanglant recognized this road as the one Wendilgard had used yesterday when she had pulled back her troops.
ia did not fear God’s displeasure. She welcomed it. She would survive the coming storm. She would rule the remnant, and all would be well.
The road Ivar and Erkanwulf followed ran straight west through the Bretwald, a vast and ancient forest in western Saony close to the borderlands where Wendar met Varre. All day, clouds gathered and the sky turned black as a storm approached. At dusk, rain poured down so hard it tore leaves off trees and gashed runnels into the ground. They were stuck out on a path in the middle of the forest, riding in haste, trapped by nightfall, and now sopping wet.
“We’d best find shelter,” said Ivar. He dismounted and held his nervous mare right up at the mouth, trying his best to calm her, but the storm seemed to shake the entire world.
“Do you think we’ll survive the night?” Erkanwulf’s voice trembled and broke.
“Come on!” Fear made Ivar angry. “I’ve survived worse than this! We’ll get back to Biscop Constance. Princess Theophanu charged us to do so, and we mustn’t fail her.”
“Charged us to take a message, but sent neither help nor advice! And how are you going to get back into Queen’s Grave when you left as a corpse?”
“We won’t fail her,” Ivar repeated stubbornly, even though he wasn’t sure it was true.
The rain hurt as it pounded them, and it didn’t seem to be slacking up. He’d never seen it come down like this, as though rain from every land round about had been pushed over this very spot and now, letting loose, meant to drown them. They pulled their mounts under the spreading boughs of an old oak tree. Acorns thudded on dirt and hit them on the head. Rain drenched them. The horses tugged at the reins. Water streamed around their feet, and already the path had turned into a muddy, impassable canal, boiling and angry.
“Look!” cried Erkanwulf. “Look there!”
Out in the forest lights bobbed and wove. Erkanwulf took a step toward them and called out, but Ivar grabbed his cloak and wrenched him backward.
“Hush, you idiot! No natural fire can stay lit in this downpour! Don’t you remember who attacked us before?”
“Ai, God! The Lost Ones! We’re doomed.”