“—and one that not all Eagles can, or should, master.”
“Well,” said the prince. He beckoned, and Heribert came over to him and whispered in his ear. Sanglant smiled sourly. “We must go, if they are waiting only on us.” He glanced around the sprawl of his encampment, fires flowering into life as twilight spread its wings over the army: a few cloth tents but mostly men hunkering down to rest on their cloaks. Every man there kept his armor on and his weapons and helmet beside him, now that they knew the Quman were close by. They had marched through open woodland this day, an easy march, seeing nothing.
Too easy. The Quman scouts ranged wide and saw everything; everyone knew that. Bulkezu was sure to already know exactly where they were and how many soldiers they had. He was only playing with them, letting four enemy scouts escape the net of his own scouting line to lure his enemies into complacency. Zacharias had begun to entertain thoughts of running away, into the woods, but then he would only be caught by a Quman scout and dragged back to Bulkezu. But probably they were all going to die, anyway, in whatever battle was sure to come. He just hoped it would be quick.
“You’re pale, Brother Zacharias,” said the prince. “You’d best come with us. We’ll need to know what you know about the Pechanek clan. None here knows them as well as you do.”
He couldn’t even answer, only shake his head, fear choking him, as Sanglant picked out his most trusted commanders to attend him: Lord Druthmar, Captain Fulk, Sergeant Cobbo, even the lapdog, Hrodik, who at least had the knack of obeying orders.
Bayan and Sapientia held court at their huge tent, all the sides strung up from trees, making it an open air pavilion where every important noble could gather. The crowd parted to let Sanglant through. He took the place of honor at Bayan’s right hand, with Heribert and Zacharias given leave to stand behind him and the rest of his captains fading back to find places in the crowd. Blessing, as usual, sat on her father’s lap. She had a stick, carved into the shape of a sword, but she had learned patience in the last few days and now held it over her thighs, her little face drawn into an intent frown as she listened to Bayan quiet the crowd and call forward the surviving scouts.
Of the four scouts who had managed to return, three were Ungrians and the fourth a wily marchlander out of Olsatia, one of Lady Bertha’s trusted men-at-arms. Not one of Princess Sapientia’s Wendish scouts had come back. The marchlander had seen a man in Wendish armor strung up in a tree, missing his head, but she hadn’t stayed to investigate.
“The main army lies on the west bank of the Veser River,” said Bayan after the reports were finished. “We’ll cross the Veserling tomorrow and continue to march west through the rough country between the two rivers.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to move northwest along the Veserling, where the marching is easier,” asked Duke Boleslas of Polenie, aided by his translator, “and move directly to relieve the siege on Osterburg?”
Bayan shook his head. “The Quman rely on archery. If we approach through rugged country, they’ll have less chance to break up our line of march with arrow shot. We would be easier targets marching along the river valley.”
Prince Sanglant said little as Bayan outlined the order of march. There was little to say, reflected Zacharias. Bayan was an experienced soldier. He knew what he was doing.
A misty rain fell part of the night, enough to break the heat but not so much to make anyone miserable. In the morning the army set out, a process that took a goodly length of time as each legion or cohort or war band waited its turn and then moved forward. Because of the dampened ground, they raised little dust, a mercy for those marching in the rear. It also meant that they wouldn’t betray themselves to the Quman too soon, although surely by now the Quman knew exactly where they were.
It was the tenth day of Setentre, the feast day of St. Penelope the Wanderer, as Heribert was quick to remind him, warm and muggy with that coiled snap in the air that heralded a thunderstorm. But as they marched and the sun rose to zenith, as the trees sweated last night’s raindrops onto their heads, no thunderstorm blew through to break the heat. Zacharias rode two ranks behind Prince Sanglant, praying that he wouldn’t vomit out of plain fear. His stomach roiled, as disturbed as the air and the wind, waiting for the coming storm.
Once, shouts rose, and a messenger galloped down the line, pausing to speak to Prince Sanglant before continuing on, back to where Prince Bayan rode with his Ungrians. Rumor filtered back to the group around Zacharias. Outriders had clashed with Quman scouts. Skirmishes had broken out across their line of march. The Quman were retreating, falling back toward the Veser, still several leagues away. It was hard to know what was true and what falsely hoped.
They crossed the Veserling in the afternoon at a ford controlled by a contingent of Lions under Princess Sapientia’s command. She had crossed first, in the van, with three legions, and left soldiers behind in case Quman horsemen crossed the river and swept around in an attempt to divide their forces. The Lions left behind to guard the ford were already digging in, calling to each other as they worked.
“Ho, there, Folquin, you idiot! Don’t drop that log on my head, if you please.”
“Lady’s Tits, Ingo, if you keep getting in my way I’ll scar that handsome face of yours, and then your sweethearts won’t want you anymore, and the Quman will probably refuse to cut off your head for a trophy!”
It was amazing how quickly a crude palisade could go up when the workers were lashed by the goad of fear. Strange how these kept joking as they labored. Zacharias felt he could hardly speak, as though he’d lost his tongue.
How would Bulkezu cut it out? Where would the knife’s edge first touch flesh?
The jolt of water on his legs brought him back, hazy, clinging to the saddle as his horse plunged into the river. The current streamed past, trying to drag him off, but he had clung to life for this long that he hung on with bitter strength as the horse made for the opposite bank. This time of year the river was wide but shallow, a silty greenish-brown color. A branch swirled past him, then, strangely, a mangled glove. At last the horse struggled up the shore and he was at once directed to the right, leaving a trail of water drops as he followed the others along a narrow trail cut through the forest, mostly oak and hornbeam here along the river, fairly open, with a dense layer of crocus, hellebore, and wild strawberry carpeting the ground. They regrouped north of the ford where someone had years ago cut a clearing into the wood. An old shack lay tumbled down, good for nothing more than breaking into firewood. In all, as they gathered into their command groups, Zacharias estimated they had about five hundred mounted soldiers: Sanglant’s legion, made up of his own personal retinue, Gent’s irregulars, and Waltharia’s levies.
“We’ll make camp here, with the river at our back,” said the prince. Lord Druthmar and Lord Hrodik hurried off to give their captains the order to dig in for the night.
Bayan and his Ungrians had just crossed when a scout rode up to Sanglant’s position. “Come quickly, my lord prince. There’s news! The siege has been lifted!”
A cheer rose raggedly from the men standing around, echoed by others, farther away, as the news was relayed out to them. Sanglant only frowned. “I’ll come,” he said, hauling his daughter up on the saddle in front of him. “Heribert! Lord Thiemo. Zacharias. Wolfhere. Fulk. Lord Druthmar. You’ll attend me. The rest, be mindful that we must be ready. An attack might come at any moment.”
At the ford, Duke Boleslas and his Polenie were crossing; behind them waited the baggage train, lost to Zacharias’ sight where it snaked back into the woodland on the other side of the Veserling. Sanglant’s party rode on upstream, where Bayan’s Ungrians had made camp next to Sapientia’s Wendish legions.
The princess and Bayan held court where three logs had fallen together in such a way that planks could be thrown over them and chairs set up on this raised platform. As they rode up, and Sanglant handed his horse over to Captain Fulk to hold, an argument broke out between two lords standing right in front of the makeshift platform. One of them Zacharias had never seen before; the other was the infamous Lord Wichman, second son of Duchess Rotrudis of Saony, known throughout the army for impressive deeds of valor as well as an absolutely vile temperament. Some said he couldn’t be killed, for many had tried, and not all of them were Wendar’s enemies.
s the tenth day of Setentre, the feast day of St. Penelope the Wanderer, as Heribert was quick to remind him, warm and muggy with that coiled snap in the air that heralded a thunderstorm. But as they marched and the sun rose to zenith, as the trees sweated last night’s raindrops onto their heads, no thunderstorm blew through to break the heat. Zacharias rode two ranks behind Prince Sanglant, praying that he wouldn’t vomit out of plain fear. His stomach roiled, as disturbed as the air and the wind, waiting for the coming storm.
Once, shouts rose, and a messenger galloped down the line, pausing to speak to Prince Sanglant before continuing on, back to where Prince Bayan rode with his Ungrians. Rumor filtered back to the group around Zacharias. Outriders had clashed with Quman scouts. Skirmishes had broken out across their line of march. The Quman were retreating, falling back toward the Veser, still several leagues away. It was hard to know what was true and what falsely hoped.
They crossed the Veserling in the afternoon at a ford controlled by a contingent of Lions under Princess Sapientia’s command. She had crossed first, in the van, with three legions, and left soldiers behind in case Quman horsemen crossed the river and swept around in an attempt to divide their forces. The Lions left behind to guard the ford were already digging in, calling to each other as they worked.
“Ho, there, Folquin, you idiot! Don’t drop that log on my head, if you please.”
“Lady’s Tits, Ingo, if you keep getting in my way I’ll scar that handsome face of yours, and then your sweethearts won’t want you anymore, and the Quman will probably refuse to cut off your head for a trophy!”