Crown Of Stars - Child Of Flame Part 65

But as shadowy figures fled through the forest on all sides, refugees from the fighting, Sanglant could think only of the baggage train. Pray G.o.d his daughter still lived. He should have left her at Walburg, with Waltharia; he knew it, and guilt burned him, but he had to push it aside. If he let guilt cloud his mind now, then he was risking the lives of the men he commanded. There would be plenty of time for guilt later, when this was done.

A crowd of prisoners came into view, being herded by a half-dozen Quman soldiers. At the sight of this new force, the Quman abandoned their captives and rode away, unwilling to stand and fight. The prisoners cheered hoa.r.s.ely at the sight of the prince and his golden banner. But Sanglant strained to see through the open forest. Was that the knoll, ahead? He heard cries, and the ring of fighting. He heard rain, and the growl of thunder." There!" cried Fulk.

A broad clearing opened before them. Wagons and carts had been abandoned all across the gra.s.sy expanse, now wet under a light rain whose front stopped, uncannily, just before the knoll. Careless Quman, lured by the riches carried in a prince's train, had given up the fight to loot. Not all of them were so undisciplined, however. Wagons had been thrown up to make a palisade around the knoll, but this line had now been abandoned as the remaining Lions were forced to retreat up the knoll. Despite the tiring run, Resuelto stretched out into a gallop, feeling his rider's antic.i.p.ation.

"Fulk! Take Cobbo's company and kill those looters." A third of the men peeled away, bearing down on the enemy now scrambling for their horses, trying to ready their weapons before they got trampled or swept away. A few Quman threw down their weapons and dropped to the damp ground, trying to surrender- He didn't see what became of them. The Quman's leader had pulled back from the attack on the knoll to meet Sanglant. Both men wielded swords. Sanglant parried, and cut, cleaving the other man through shoulder and wing. With a shove, he toppled him from his horse.

A Quman rider collided with Resuelto, but the steppe pony was dwarfed by the Wendish war steed. The jolt made the gelding stagger, but the Quman was knocked to the ground. Resuelto reared and plunged down. The Quman died quickly, but the pony still struggled, trying to rise.

At last Sanglant reached the overturned wagons. Above, a score of Lions fought desperately against the onslaught of winged warriors. A cheer rose from the Lions as they caught sight of their rescuers. They attacked with renewed strength, using their shields to shove the winged riders off-balance as Sanglant, now closely followed by Lord Hrodik and his Gentish followers, fell upon their flank.

Sibold and the rest of Sanglant's company had circled the base of the knoll to pinch off the attack from the other side. While many men who bore a banner simply followed and defended, not so Si-bold: the reckless fellow seemed to enjoy dropping the banner in the face of his foe and then closing for the kill while the enemy was still confused. Pressed from all sides, the Quman broke and scattered, running like deer.

The Quman who had pursued the attack up onto the hill were now cut off, and the hundred or so Wendish warriors at Sanglant's back whittled them down until there were not more than two dozen Quman left, many dismounted and wounded, now surrounded.

Sanglant knew one word in the Quman tongue." Surrender!" he cried now.

A few of the Quman cursed. The rest remained silent, unyielding.

Between one breath and the next, the rain stopped falling. Red-haired Captain Thiadbold stood at the height of the knoll,, commanding what remained of the stalwart Lions. He stepped forward." No mercy!" he shouted into the unexpected silence." Kill them all!"

With cries of glee and fury, the Wendish soldiers fell upon the cornered Quman. The fight was short and desperate. Lord Hrodik fell, pierced in the side, but soon the last of the Quman was beheaded by a Lion's ax after having been knocked p.r.o.ne by old Gotfrid, the Lion Sanglant had rescued from a slaver's chains.

Blessing burst into sight as though she had exploded out of a tree. She leaped for her father's arms. Sanglaht scooped her out of the air and held her tight, face pressed against her hair. She smelled of rotting logs. But she was alive.

"I was waiting for you," she cried, scolding him, "but it took you so long to come and kill the bad men."

"I know, sweetheart," he said, trying not to weep for joy at holding her, unharmed." They won't hurt you now. I must go to fight at the front. The battle against Bulkezu is yet to be joined." "Didn't you kill Bulkezu? Wasn't that dead man him?" "Nay, Daughter." Tears stung his eyes. They always did, when he had to view the carnage, so many good men down." This was only a feint, an attempt to roll us up from behind and catch us between two claws." He kissed her and handed her into Heribert's waiting arms as the cleric staggered down the slope, face pale and robes streaked with blood. Quman blood smeared Blessing's cheek and stained her tunic where she had pressed against her father's tabard.

"Thank G.o.d," said Heribert. That was all. Anna crept forward to sink down next to the cleric. A moment later young Matto and Lord Thiemo, limping but mobile, pushed their way out of the crowd as well. Were they all that remained of the men he'd left behind to guard Blessing?

Fulk and his company had slaughtered any remaining Quman and now hunted through the scattered remnants of the baggage train. None of the ill-gotten loot from the train would ever arrive in the eastern plains, nor would any of these rich fabrics and glittering jewelry ever adorn Quman women.

"My lord prince." Captain Thiadbold knelt before him, bloodied but not bowed. The groans of wounded men, Wendish and Quman alike, made a horrible din around them." What is your command?" "Set up a field hospital." Sanglant glanced around and caught sight of Wolfhere, who had done his part in the fighting but now moved through the battlefield, searching for wounded who could be pulled free." Eagle! You'll stay with the Lions. There must be men here who might still Jive if they're cared for. These wagons can be set to rights, and loaded. Be ready to march as soon as you can."

"What of the Quman who are injured?" asked Thiadbold." My men will kill them willingly enough."

Sanglant hesitated." Nay. Save those who can live. The Lord enjoins mercy, and I'll have it now. Our enemy may yet prove of use to us."

Wolfhere glanced at him, a strange expression on his face, but he said nothing. Instead, he hurried down the knoll to organize the freed prisoners and surviving soldiers into a work detail. Thiadbold merely shrugged and rose, calling to his men, Captain Fulk rode up." My lord prince. The Quman are routed."

"Sound the horn and rally the men. We must return to Prince Bayan."

Sibold raised the gold banner high so that all could spot the prince's colors as Fulk blew three staccato blasts on the horn. Almost all his men rea.s.sembled; Lord Hrodik had fallen and was possibly dead, but the prince guessed that he hadn't lost more than ten men in the attack. If only the Lions, and Duke Boleslas and his Polenie, had been so lucky. He could see the line of battle, and the dead, stretching east into the forest, a clear trail of bodies and blood showing the way the earlier battle had fallen out with the Quman chasing down the fleeing baggage train and the Polenie trying desperately to stop them.

No use dwelling over what was past. No time for regrets in the midst of battle. Knowing the real battle could be joined at any moment back on the Veser plain, Sanglant raised a hand to signal the advance. Paused. The skin between his shoulder blades crawled, as though an arrow had been aimed to pierce his back. He glanced back over his shoulder.

Captain Fulk moved up beside him." Do you see anything, my lord prince? I believe we killed them all. They'll not be back to trouble your daughter this day."

"Nay, it's not that, although we have to win the battle at hand before we can be sure we're free of trouble." Sanglant had a momentary illusion that hornets were swarming all around his head, but it sloughed off quickly. Yet he still could not shake the sense that someone was watching him." Ai, Lord, Fulk, it's hard enough knowing the danger my sweet child faces every day, that I've brought on her. Lord knows I've done things I'm not proud of these last months, but G.o.d forgive me, I still think of Liath constantly. Will I ever see her again?"

"I pray that you will, my lord prince."

At times like these, battle was almost a relief. Better to fight than to dwell on his grief and his fears. He lifted his hand again, calling for a new lance to be brought for him.

A crack of thunder splintered the air around them. Horses neighed, rearing. Men raised their voices in alarm, but as suddenly quieted. As though silence itself commanded attention, men began to look around. Sanglant, too, looked back over his shoulder to see a tiny figure descending from the knoll. A veil concealed her face, but her ancient hands, gnarled with arthritis, betrayed her age. Scarcely taller than a child, Bayan's mother wore rich gold robes elaborately embroidered with scenes of griffins and dragons locked in battle. When she commandeered a horse from a soldier-who promptly dropped to his knees as though felled-and mounted with a.s.sistance from one of her slaves, Sanglant saw that the robes were split for riding. Hastily, he rode over to her as soldiers reined away, made superst.i.tious by the stories they had heard and by the uncanny behavior of the rain.

"My lady," he began in Wendish, "I pray you, forgive me for not knowing the proper address for a woman of your birth and rank." Though she was mounted now on a huge warhorse whose size dwarfed her, she did not look ridiculous. Sanglant towered over her." I beg you, you will be safer here in the rear now that we have- One of her slaves stepped forward." Stand not in the way of the holy woman." He was a huge man with a dark complexion and thick shoulders and arms, not the kind worth tangling with in a fight unless necessary.

"She is safer- She rode away. Her feet didn't even reach the stirrups.

"The holy woman has seen that her luck is in danger," said the slave." She must go."

Her luck?

That quickly, Sanglant remembered the old Kerayit custom, that a shaman woman's luck resided in the body of another person.

Her luck was her son.

This time when he raised a hand, twin horns blared. In the distance, he heard the answering bell of Druthmar's horn. Afflicted all at once with a horrible sense of foreboding, Sanglant signaled the advance. With his forces marshaled and Druthmar waiting farther down to join them, Sanglant led them back along the road at a trot.

Long ago, at besieged Gent, when she saw him for the first time, he had been wearing that same dragon helm, splendid and handsome. Just as he was then. Just as he is now. Desire is a flame, a torch burning in the night. No traveler can help but be drawn toward it.

Ai, G.o.d, she misses him. She misses the feel of him.

But she has to go on. She has to choose wisely, never forgetting that she isn 't truly on Earth but rather ascending the last sphere.

No creature male or female can harm him. Remembering this, she stayed her hand through the worst of the fighting. In battle, truly, Sanglant can take care of himself. She hasn't forgotten the lesson she learned in the sphere ofJedu, the angel of war.

She hasn 't forgotten the horror of being killed, over and over again, by the one she loves.

But those hornets bother her. She saw them as aetheric darts stinging at his face and hands. He shook them off, but it is obvious to her that another hand works magic, hoping to harm the prince. She touches the golden robes of the old woman, the veiled one, but although the crone starts around surprised, feeling her touch, the woman cannot see her, only sense her gaze. The old woman has a face so wrinkled that it is hard to see the soul beneath, like an insect protected by its carapace. Despite her great age, her hair is still as black as a girl's. Her complexion is dusky, and her dark eyes are pulled tight at the comers in the shape of an almond. These features mark her as a steppe dweller, a woman from the eastern tribes, the people who live on the endless plains of gra.s.s with their herds and their tents.

She has powerful magic, the air hums around her as though infested with bees, but it isn't her magic that threatens Sanglant. Regretfully, Liath leaves Sanglant, Blessing, and the old woman behind and speeds onward, an arrow on the aetheric winds binding the Earth. She has become the bow.

Skirmishes are being fought far into the woods and as far away as the twin rivers, flowing northward to join at the base of Oster-burg 's walls. Such melees do not warrant more than a glance. She seeks, and she finds two armies ma.s.sed for battle just beyond the woodland, gathered on open ground. The Wendish fly the banner of Princess Sapientia, the sigil of the heir ofWendar and Varre, six animals set on a shield: lion, dragon, and eagle, horse, hawk, and guivre. A large force of Ungrians bearing the sigil of the double-headed eagle comes up behind the Wendish line, ready to strike at the center of the Quman line.

Already the Quman archers fire at will, to soften up their enemy, but the Ungrians give as good as they get, and the Wendish legions swing wide and begin a steady advance toward the flanks. The Quman force seems larger than it is. From this height, like a hawk circling, she sees that the wings they wear make them seem as if they have more soldiers than they really do.

Brute force will win this engagement today, unless that magic she tastes in the air and feels like a p.r.i.c.kling along her skin turns the tide.

A rumble like thunder rises as the armies shift forward and charge. Dust billows into the air. The Wendish and Ungrian forces shriek and cry out, voices ringing above the pound of hooves, but the Quman advance in uncanny silence, goaded on by their prince, whose griffin wings shine and glitter in the sunlight.

Just as the two armies meet in a resounding clash, she finds a thread spanning the wind. Aetheric hornets gleam along its length, buzzing and chattering as it extends toward the armies. She speeds backward along the thread. Beyond the Veser in a makeshift camp, desperate prisoners huddle, awaiting the outcome of the battle, but the thread leads her an arrow's shot away from the groaning, helpless captives, back across the river to a low rise on the east bank overlooking the plain. The glimmering thread curls into a line of hors.e.m.e.n: a dozen guards, one light-haired person dressed in ragged Wendish garb, and a strange man stripped down to trousers patched together from a hundred different pieces of fabric. Blue-black tattoos cover his torso; they seem to writhe and shiver as he chants. Unlike the other Quman warriors, he wears no blackened and shrunken head dangling from his belt, but his ornaments are gruesome enough: earrings made from shriveled human noses, a needle piercing the septum of his nose and each end of it adorned with a withered human ear.

He is a shaman. The thread of hornets spins out from his voice, twisted into life through the words of his spell.

The woman beside him raises her head. In that first instant, Liath does not recognize her because of the hatred that mars her expression as she gazes over the field of battle. Hate distorts the heart, leaving scars, as it has scarred her own heart. Remembering this, she knows her." Hanna!"

Hanna shakes her head as though to chase away annoying flies. Her hands are tied in front of her; she is a captive, forced to watch as the battle unfolds. The smooth wood of Seeker of Hearts feels cool against Liath's palms. One arrow will not rescue Hanna, not with a dozen guards, and because she does not exist on Earth in bodily form, she cannot manifest fire. It is only her consciousness that has fallen to Earth; her body remains above.

But the Quman shaman is up to some mischief. Ought she to kill him? Might his magic alter the outcome of the battle?

She rises aloft on wings to survey the field of blood where the invisible spirit of Jedu now roams, where men kill and struggle. Sanglant and his men have not yet come into view. The gleaming thread unwinds across the carnage. In close quarters, Wendish spears and swords and chain mail hold up well against the more lightly armed Quman. Seen from Aturna's heights, as from a ridgetop looking into the future, Liath feels sure that Princess Sapientia and her allies will win. They don't need her help.

At that moment she hears the faint cry of a voice she has never heard before that yet reverberates in her heart. She rises, seeking a broader view; the. battle recedes below her. In her last glimpse she sees the hornets swarming forward to buzz around the banner of the Ungrian prince, the commander. Faraway, too far away to aid him, the ancient Kerayit woman screams in horror and rage. Clouds bear in from the east. Lightning blinds Liath. Thunder cracks, and back where Blessing stands among overturned wagons, turning her head to stare gleefully at the heavens, it begins to rain.

"Lady, blessed saint, defend us! "

A shrill scream, cut off with an awful gurgle. Liath smells the sharp iron scent of galla. With one step she covers weeks of travel, she leaps the towering Alfar Mountains and tumbles down into a weird landscape of rock chimneys and narrow plateaus rising like pillars out of barren ground. Someone has carved a convent into one of these vast rock pillars, a refuge in times of war. A scream echoes again, and she slides between rock, seeking the one whose prayers have touched her heart and reached her ears.

In a warren of rock she finds six nuns cowering in a chamber carved into the stone. Seven windows admit a gleam of afternoon light, obscured by the terrible creature advancing down the length of the refectory. The table, laden with platters, cups, and a stern meal of porridge and bread, has been overturned. Cooling pease porridge lies in spatters on the floor. One of the women is screaming convulsively, utterly panicked. Back by the door lies a jumble of disarticulated bones, steaming slightly, as though the soul of the person who just inhabited that body is trying to form itself into a ghostly specter. The old mother abbess, golden Circle of Unity held high, limps forward, past her nuns, making the sign of exorcism to drive the creature away.

But a Circle of Unity and honest faith will not turn back a galla bound by blood. Lialhfits arrow to string, draws- And hesitates. Who bound the galla? Who has sent it on this deadly errand?

She has only one breath to decide. The galla is here, and before she draws her next breath it will consume the old abbess just as it consumed the poor woman who had been standing in the doorway.

She looses the arrow. The gold fletching gleams, and sparks, as the arrow explodes in the slender tower of darkness that is the galla's insubstantial body. With a shriek of agony, and of joy, it vanishes, released from the bonds of magic that dragged it here to this world. Its unfulfilled purpose kicks back along the pale link that ties it to the sorcerer who called it. Briefly, Liath sees an elderly, apple-cheeked woman seated in a chamber with a b.l.o.o.d.y body nearby. The woman jerks as the rebound hits her, then . faints.

"Go now!" cries Liath, trying to catch the attention of the six women." Bind the sorcerer who has done this."

Perhaps they hear her, even above the hysterical sobs of one of their number, who cannot be consoled.

The old abbess gestures." Hilaria! Diocletia! Go at once to the guest hall to see if Sister Venia is safe. But take rope, and a sleeping potion." Leaning heavily on a cane, she takes four steps forward and bends, picking up a gold feather. There is no sign of the arrow.

She glances up. All at once, staring, she seems to see Liath hovering in the air before her. Her eyes widen." Who is there, in the shadows?" Despite her infirmities and great age, her voice remains strong.

"Fear not," says Liath, but she thinks the old woman cannot see her, for she is no more substantial on Earth right now than the galla was.

Some eyes are keener than others. The old woman squints, looking surprised, puzzled, hopeful." Bernard?" she asks, voice gone hoa.r.s.e all at once, as though she might weep." Is this my sweet son Bernard, who was torn from me? Your face- Nay, you're a woman. Who are you?"

Who am I? And who are you, who sees in me the image of a lost son named Bernard?

Liath takes a step forward and found herself back on the marble stairs of Aturna, almost at the top. Bow and arrow were gone. She was naked, alone; she had nothing, except herself.

The realm of the fixed stars blazed before her, white hot, as terrible as a firestorm.

But they were waiting for her, cl.u.s.tered at the lower limit of the border: spirits with wings of flame and eyes as brilliant as knives. Their gaze fell like the strike of lightning. Their bodies were not bodies like those known on Earth but rather the conjoining of fire and wind, the breath of incandescent stars coalesced into mind and will. The sound of their wings unfurling in pitiless splendor boomed and echoed off the curving gleam of Aturna's sphere. Far below, the golden wheels spun madly, powered by that fiery wind that is the soul's breath of the stars.

She recognized their voice.

"Child," they said as she climbed the last step and without hesitation walked into their joyous embrace." You have come home."

THE Quman resisted the heavy charge at first, holding firm under the leadership of their prince, who rode with them. But the sheer weight of the Wendish cavalry at either flank and the Un-grian ma.s.s in the center broke them at last.

Zacharias watched, exulting, as first the left flank and then portions of the center sagged and gave way, as the infamous Quman soldiers, hardened and grim, began to turn their horses and flee. If Zacharias had believed in G.o.d, he would have offered up a prayer at that moment. He mopped his brow instead. Thunder pealed behind them. He smelled rain, although it was impossible to hear much of anything over the cacophony of battle that raged on the river plain before him. He waited at the rear with Bayan's command group and the prince's adviser, Brother Breschius. Prince Bayan had ridden forward with the charge, but he disengaged from the line and rode back to them, calling for a messenger.

"Ride to the Wendish banners. My wife must now pull back from the fighting. The day is won, and it makes no matter for her to keep fighting. In the rout, this is when folk may come unexpectedly to grief." The messenger rode off at a gallop. Bayan called for water. Loosening the straps of his helmet, he tipped it back so that he could drink." Brother Zacharias, what will Bulkezu do next? Surely you know him best of all of us."

Zacharias chuckled nervously, not liking the way everyone was looking at him." Bulkezu is as clever as he is mad. I cannot know his mind."

"I pray you, Your Highness, put your helmet back on," said Brother Breschius." A stray arrow might come from anywhere."

Bayan grunted, finished his drink, and pulled his helmet back down. For a quiet moment, such as could be had watching over the battle as the Quman line retreated even farther and began to break up all along its length, he watched, measuring the movement of the various units, their strengths and weaknesses, commenting now and again to his captains and sending messengers or receiving them. Princess Sapientia had not yet disengaged from the fray.

"d.a.m.n," swore Bayan, swatting at his helm. With a curse, he undid the straps of his helmet again." d.a.m.n hornet." He pulled it up, exposing his face as he tried to bat away something Zacharias could not see." It stung me!"

The arrow, coming out of nowhere, took him in the throat.

Without a sound, he slid neatly from his horse. His blood drenched the ground.

And the world stopped breathing.

No man spoke. The air snapped, stung-and screamed, like a woman's voice. No person ought ever to have to hear a woman scream like that, naked grief, raw pain. Thunder boomed directly over them. Wind howled out of the east, flattening Zacharias. The horses spooked, bucking in fright, and he actually fell right back over the rump of his mount and hit the ground hard while around him Ungrian captains and lords fought to control their horses. He cowered under the fury of the storm while Bayan's life's blood trickled across the ground to paint Zacharias' fingers red.

As abruptly as the storm had hit, it ceased. Leaves fluttered through the air, stilled, and fell. A deadly quiet shrouded the land. Below, the conjoined armies seemed to pause.

As though Bulkezu had been waiting for this moment, the griffin-winged rider called for the advance, and the fleeing Quman gathered themselves together and struck hard at the faltering Wendish and Ungrian line. Princess Sapientia's banner was driven back as if before the lash.

"Oh, Lord, I beseech you, spare his life," said Brother Breschius, dismounting to kneel beside the prince. He took hold of the prince's limp hand, touched a finger to gray lips, then wept." My good lord Bayan is-dead."

Just like that, the command group disintegrated. The cries and ululations of the Ungrian lords resounded off the hilltop. They had lost their prince, their luck, their commander; for them, the battle was over. The double-headed eagle banner was furled, and along the center of the army, as Ungrian soldiers caught sight of the furled banner, the center bowed backward as they retreated.

"Ai!" cried Zacharias, scrambling up. Blood dripped from his hand. He caught sight of his mount galloping away toward the woods. He was trapped on the rise, easy prey for Bulkezu. With a groan of despair, he threw himself back down on the ground." We are lost!"

Horns belled in the distance. A great shout of triumph rose from the rear lines as the gold banner of Prince Sanglant burst out of the trees at the head of his troop of hors.e.m.e.n, many hundreds strong.

Sanglant recognized a line about to break, and he knew what to do about it. With one comprehensive glance, he took in the situation on the field: Bayan's furled banner, the retreating Ungrian troops, Sapientia's wavering troops on the flanks. Only Lady Bertha's Austrans, on the left flank, were holding their own. That would change if the rest of the army lost heart. Was Bayan wounded, or even dead?

No time to consider. He lifted his hand. Fulk raised the horn to his lips and blew the charge. Drums rolled in time to hoofbeats.

The noise deafened him, but even so he shouted, letting his voice ring out." For Wendar!"

Urging Resuelto forward, Sanglant led the charge. The discouraged Ungrians parted before them. At the sight of his banner, they rallied, falling in to form up behind his soldiers. With Sibold at his right hand and Fulk, Malbert, and Anshelm around him, he slammed into the forefront of the Quman line. It broke, riders falling, the press of the Quman disintegrating. Yet another line of enemy riders closed from the second rank. He set his lance and directed his charge for a small group of wingless riders, Wendishmen perhaps, traitors seduced by the promise of gold and slaves. Something about their shields- One of the soldiers pushed his horse past the leader to take the brunt of the impact. Sanglant's lance struck him right over the heart, and the man fell to the ground. As he drew his sword, he slammed a Quman rider hard with his shield to unseat him, got his sword free, and cut at the wingless leader. Only then did he recognize the scarred and battered shield of the boy cowering before him.

"Ekkehard!" With an effort, he twisted his wrist so that the flat of the blade caught his young half brother in the helm, knocking him to the side, although the lad at least had enough horsemanship to keep his seat and ride past. His three other companions threw down their arms and yielded. Only the one lay dead, trampled by his own horse.

"Get them out of here!" he shouted before he pressed forward with Fulk and Sibold on either side and the rest of his men moving up around him as Anshelm dropped back to take care of Ekkehard. Druthmar's banner flew proudly over to the right. Along the left flank, Lady Bertha had pushed her advantage and now swung wide to roll up the struggling Quman flank arrayed against her. Away to the right, past Druthmar, Sapientia was acquitting herself well enough, emboldened by his success.

But he knew that the Quman would not fall until their leader did. Griffin wings flashed in sunlight as the clouds scudded away on a stiff wind. With a cry of triumph, he carved his way to Bulkezu. This fight would be very different than the one six years before when the Quman begh had ruined his voice and almost taken his life.

Bulkezu turned to face him. Even through the clash of battle, Sanglant heard him laughing as they closed. Sanglant had the advantage of height-the Wendish horses were simply larger than the stolid Quman ponies. He rained blows down on Bulkezu, but the griffin warrior parried every one with shield or sword. Sparks flew as his griffin feathers notched Wendish steel. But in the end brute strength won, and a ma.s.sive blow sent Bulkezu's sword spinning from his grasp.

Bulkezu threw himself into Sanglant, punching with his shield. Grabbing hold of Sanglant's belt, he dragged the prince from his mount. They both tumbled to the ground as the horses broke free and bolted, leaving them on foot as the battle raged around them. Bulkezu pulled his dagger as he tried to break Sanglant's grip, but Sanglant wrapped his shield around Bulkezu's back and struck him in the face with his pommel. With each blow a large dent appeared in the face mask and the iron began to crack. A trickle of blood oozed from the eye slots as Sanglant struck a fourth time.