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Henry’s army—what was left of it—and Henry himself came to life. With cries of rage, driven almost to a frenzy by what they had witnessed and been helpless to prevent, they charged and hit Sabella’s line, which had fallen out of formation as they took the hill and killed their easy prey. The soldiers from Fesse and Avaria regrouped and slammed into Duke Rodulf’s stretched-thin line. Saony’s troops fell back, reformed, and drove for Sabella’s faltering center.
hesitated. Lavastine’s captain fell back from the front lines, seeing the count unhorsed. All at once the hounds surrounded Alain, growling and driving everyone back. No one dared strike them. Alain found the rose and drew it out.
“I pray you, Lady of Battles, come to my aid,” he breathed. And he brushed the petals of the rose over Lavastine’s pale lips, just below the nasal of his helmet.
Beyond, he heard the clash of battle. Here he was protected, caught in an eddy, surrounded by a black wall of hounds. Sorrow licked Lavastine’s face, and the count opened his eyes. He blinked and passed a hand over his helmet as if feeling it there for the first time. Then he sat up. Alain grabbed him under the arms and the hounds parted to let Sergeant Fell through. Together, Alain and the sergeant pulled Lavastine to his feet.
“What is this?” demanded Lavastine, staring at the chaos around them, his front rank of fighters pressing against the fighters from Saony. Fesse’s banner was retreating. In the center, Sabella’s banner moved up and farther up and came against the banner of the Lions. The guivre shrieked. The Lion banner toppled and disappeared from view. Henry, surrounded now only by his personal guard, did not move.
The captain pressed his horse through the knot of hounds and men, who parted to let him through. Sergeant Fell let go of the count and grabbed his horse’s reins before it could bolt. The guivre made all the horses nervous, and they shied at every harsh call and scream.
“We are marching with Sabella, against Henry,” said the captain.
“We are not!” cried Lavastine. “All of my men, withdraw from the battle.”
This command raced through the ranks like wildfire. Lavastine mounted his horse and pulled back, and step by embattled step his soldiers withdrew from the battle until the captains of Saony’s line realized what was occurring and, at last, let them go.
But Henry’s center was broken. Sabella was halfway through the Lions and still Henry had not moved. As Lavastine’s soldiers cleared the field, Alain stood his ground and their retreat eddied around him and ebbed until he stood among the dead and watched Saony’s cavalry wheel and turn to aid their king. He watched the guivre twist and turn, still battering against the wind and against its shackles, watched its baleful glare sweep across the ranks of Saony’s soldiers. Watched as half of Sabella’s company split off to strike at this new threat.
A few arrows and spears cut through the air from the ranks of Fesse’s troops to slide harmlessly off the guivre’s scaly hide and fall to the ground. The grass was empty around the guivre; Sabella’s soldiers, though protected against its gaze, gave it a wide berth. Not one soul had come within reach of its claws, circumscribed by the length of the chain that fettered it to the iron cage.
Slowly, Henry’s soldiers were cut down or retreated up the hill toward the king—for their final stand.
The rose fell from Alain’s suddenly nerveless fingers. He could not stand by and watch anymore. He could not judge the rightness of Sabella’s grievance against Henry. But he knew it was not right that she win by these means, as horrible as they were. Lackling had been murdered to gain Lavastine’s support. Henry’s soldiers could not fight, so as to pit honest strength against honest strength, but were scythed down like wheat.
He ran across the field, stumbling on corpses, jumping over men who writhed or struggled to drag themselves to safety. He ran toward the guivre, and paused only once, long enough to take a sword from a noble lord’s slack and bloody body. He did not even register the man’s face.
But another figure reached the guivre before he could. Someone else, riding a dun-colored horse. The man flung himself off the horse and slapped it on the flank. The horse bolted away.
And the frater—for it was Frater Agius, Alain saw that now as he ran, knowing suddenly that he would come too late—walked without fear into the circle of the guivre’s talons.
Its cry was as much delirium as fury, but it stooped and plunged. Half-starved and long since driven wild by captivity and the torment of its wasted and suffering body, it took the food offered it.
Agius vanished under a flurry of metal-hard wings and sharp talons. The guivre lowered its head to feed.
Henry’s army—what was left of it—and Henry himself came to life. With cries of rage, driven almost to a frenzy by what they had witnessed and been helpless to prevent, they charged and hit Sabella’s line, which had fallen out of formation as they took the hill and killed their easy prey. The soldiers from Fesse and Avaria regrouped and slammed into Duke Rodulf’s stretched-thin line. Saony’s troops fell back, reformed, and drove for Sabella’s faltering center.
Alain ran for the guivre. Already the first of Sabella’s men, shocked and not yet recovered from this reversal, stumbled backward past him. He ignored them, though Sorrow and Rage nipped and barked, protecting him so no man tried to stop him.
Why would any man try to stop him? The guivre loomed huge, this close, a stooped shape that was yet as high as two men, one standing on the other’s shoulders. Sun glinted off its scales, and it fed with the rapacity of a creature who has been denied pleasure for too long. Alain came up behind it, thought of striking but did not. It remained oblivious to him. He heard the crunch of bone and—Ai, Lady!—a horrible moan that pitched up into a strangled wail and was abruptly cut off.
He circled the great beast. Worms fell from its diseased eye to slither away on the ground. From this side it could not see his approach. And anyway, it was too busy feasting.
He raised the sword just as he heard a warning cry behind him and then a cry from farther away: “Hailililili!” and the thunder of hooves and shouts of dismay, carrying Rodulf’s name on the wind, and again and again the cry of “Henry! For King Henry!”
He brought it down with all his strength on the creature’s neck. It screamed aloud, deafening him, and lifted its great and ugly head from what remained of Agius. Lifting, casting first to its sighted side and then slewing round the other way, it beat its wings, sending him tumbling forward underneath it. It was an ungainly thing, not meant for the ground; it had only the one set of talons and wings.
It clawed for him, missed, because it could not see him, tottered, because it was so ill and could barely find its balance. Alain stumbled back and righted the sword, turning it so the blade pointed up. His heel met resistance and he fell to one knee. Glanced behind himself.
The guivre had opened Agius at the belly, to feed on the soft entrails. Horribly, the frater’s eyes caught on and tracked Alain; he was still alive.
The guivre screamed its fury and found its footing. Its shadow covered them, Alain and the dying Agius.
But, of course, as the old tales told, every great beast has its weak spot. Alain did not hesitate but plunged the sword deep into its unprotected breast.
Blood fountained, pouring over him like the wash of fire. He let go of the sword’s hilt and jumped back, grabbing Agius and tugging him as the guivre writhed in its death throes. Spitting and coughing, blinded by the stinging, hot blood, he stumbled backward, dragging Agius. The guivre fell and the impact jarred Alain off his feet. He collapsed on top of the frater. The guivre shuddered, a great convulsion, and was still.
Agius breathed something, a rattling word and then another. Alain bent, eyes streaming, his hands smarting. A body slammed up against him, and then Rage was licking his face and hands. He tried to chase her away. He could not chase her away and concentrate on Agius.
