Sigfrid ran up beside Ivar, dropping to his knees. He was weeping, signing frantically: “No! No!”
But it was too late.
The glorious creature was dead.
Ivar staggered up and tottered over to the ravening crowd of celebrating young men, and of a miracle Wichman’s cronies made way for him. They didn’t even tease him or pinch him as they would otherwise have done as he pushed through them to the side of the beast. In death, it only looked grotesque, not sublime. It was just a monstrous dead thing with shining feathers and dull, lifeless eyes.
Baldwin was helping Prince Ekkehard to stand.
“Damned fool idiot,” Wichman was shrieking as Ekkehard tried to move his arms. “I told you to stay back. No charging in like a glory-mad fool. Just get out of my way next time!”
Blood leaked through chain mail, and the prince swayed a little as Baldwin held him up and his other young companions clustered around, with their bodies widening the distance between him and his massive cousin. Then he saw Ivar.
“I owe you my life,” said Ekkehard irritably. “What reward do you want in return?”
“Burn it,” said Ivar. Sigfrid had come up beside him, wiping fresh tears from his face. Ermanrich stood on the other bank, mouth an “o” of astonishment. “That’s all I ask, Your Highness. Just burn it.”
lamor of a particularly ugly skirmish rang in the air, wounded horses, a panicking man, a huffing grunt like erratic bellows, someone screaming over and over again about his arm. Ivar came into sight of the ford. Beyond it, where the wood fell away into open ground, the great creature beat above a churning clot of riders like a beaked angel shrouded in golden light. Basking in the glow were seven riders, chief among them Wichman, never one to shrink from a fight. Each time the beast came near the ground, they prodded and thrust with their spears, and each time, with great beats of its wings, it would lift out of reach. With a shout, Prince Ekkehard spurred forward from the group, trying to get a thrust up from underneath, and for an instant he was out of reach of the others. The beast curled sharply toward him, uncannily graceful, and its talons caught his shoulders.
The young prince’s arms were immediately pinned to his sides as talons dug deep into shoulders protected by a good mail coat. His spear fell to the ground, yet he didn’t shriek, although blood began to run. With strained wing beats it tried to raise him into the air. The horse bolted out from under him, and he kicked, flailing helplessly, as if trying to reclaim his mount although the horse had already bolted into the woods. His helm, knocked loose, spun to earth.
He struggled on, pumping and swiping with his feet, as the beast flew low toward the ford where Ivar stood frozen, quite unable to think or act. Wichman and the other five riders pounded after in close pursuit. Shouting and whooping, more came riding from the woods, calling out the prince’s name. As the beast closed, still beating low, Ivar could see Ekkehard’s face, white, grimacing as he twisted, and yet in an odd way almost exulted.
The wind off its wings blasted Ivar as it came right in over his head, still unable to gain height. Without thinking, he leaped. Springing from a crouch to the air in two steps, he caught hold of one of Ekkehard’s flailing legs.
At first he thought both he and the prince would be borne away as his toes left the ground, but in the next instant his feet were dragging in the water as the beast banked to one side, borne down by the extra weight. He heard Wichman shout, felt the press of horses nearby, driven in against their will. He didn’t see the blow, but he felt it shudder through Ekkehard’s leg, heard a grunt from the prince, a groan forced out between gritted teeth. The beast trembled, and all three of them fell to the ground. The slow strained beats had become the frantic fluttering of a wounded wing, splashing in the stream.
Letting go, Ivar rolled over to see hooves slashing air above him. A shower of iron points and wooden shafts whistled past, cutting the sky into ephemeral ribbons. The cruel beak struck a hand’s breath from his bare foot, and water sizzled from a weeping cut under one radiant eye; its blood scalded his toes. He threw himself sideways, rolling and rolling through the shallow water, gasping for breath and gulping more water than air until he was in the middle of the stream and outside the frenzied circle on the bank. He could see nothing but men and horses and spears, a frenzy of spears rising and falling like hammers beating death from life.
Gold feathers as delicate as anything crafted in the finest goldsmith’s hall and that pale viscous blood drifted in a spreading smear from the bank. The steaming blood stung, burning his skin where it flowed over and around him, and he scrambled and scraped over pebbles and slimy stones and heaved himself out on the grassy bank just as a shout rose from the men.
They had themselves become the beast, howling over their defeated prey.
Sigfrid ran up beside Ivar, dropping to his knees. He was weeping, signing frantically: “No! No!”
But it was too late.
The glorious creature was dead.
Ivar staggered up and tottered over to the ravening crowd of celebrating young men, and of a miracle Wichman’s cronies made way for him. They didn’t even tease him or pinch him as they would otherwise have done as he pushed through them to the side of the beast. In death, it only looked grotesque, not sublime. It was just a monstrous dead thing with shining feathers and dull, lifeless eyes.
Baldwin was helping Prince Ekkehard to stand.
“Damned fool idiot,” Wichman was shrieking as Ekkehard tried to move his arms. “I told you to stay back. No charging in like a glory-mad fool. Just get out of my way next time!”
Blood leaked through chain mail, and the prince swayed a little as Baldwin held him up and his other young companions clustered around, with their bodies widening the distance between him and his massive cousin. Then he saw Ivar.
“I owe you my life,” said Ekkehard irritably. “What reward do you want in return?”
“Burn it,” said Ivar. Sigfrid had come up beside him, wiping fresh tears from his face. Ermanrich stood on the other bank, mouth an “o” of astonishment. “That’s all I ask, Your Highness. Just burn it.”
When the boy came in, leading the bolted horse, he was sent to the village with the news. Wichman ordered half his men to seek out the rest of the lost horses. Poor Mindless, the only casualty, was dying fast of blood loss and trauma: the beast had ripped his arm from its socket. They didn’t bother to carry him anywhere, only made him comfortable on the ground and, squirting wine from their wineskins down his throat, got him drunk to kill the pain. Those who remained pulled feathers from the beast as well as they could, but they had to give up their looting because its blood blistered them even through gloves. When the villagers finally paraded in with cries of triumph and a garland of fireweed and pansies to drape around Prince Ekkehard’s bruised neck, they had brought flagons of ale and a lit lamp.
Ekkehard still couldn’t lift his arms, so he merely nodded when the old village woman offered him the lamp. “It injured you more than us,” he said magnanimously. “Let the one of you who lost the most livestock set it on fire.”
“But none of us lost any livestock, my lord,” she said. “It were so cruel and fearsome looking, living so nearby, that we feared it might begin to stalk us.”
Ekkehard blinked several times in quick succession, as if her words didn’t quite make sense to him. Then, with a shrug, he sent Milo forward to fling the lamp onto the corpse from a safe distance.