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“I would not kill you, Cousin,” Conrad cried. “Surrender, and I’ll give you a grant of land, a wife of your choosing, and peace to live out your days. Once, I think, that was all you asked for.”
These words struck him as might a sword’s blow. They mocked him.
I don’t want to be king, he had told his father at Werlida, many years ago now. I want a grant of land, Liath as my wife, and peace.
What had changed? Was it only his oath to his father, sworn as Henry lay dying? Or had his heart changed? Did he now covet the very things he had long ago scorned?
All this passed in a heartbeat as he raised his sword and made ready to reply. It was strange how bright the sun was, and how high the dust bloomed where the horses rode, and how the music of war seemed muted once a man had fixed his will on the one who opposed him.
“Your son, or daughter, to marry my daughter, or son,” added Conrad, “and in this way your line and mine shall rule jointly in the years to come. I am legitimately born, you are a bastard. The army loves you, but the church does not. I have Tallia and my own royal claim. It’s the best offer you’ll get. What do you say, beloved Cousin?”
Ai, God.
The wind spun a whirlpool of bright air up onto the roadbed. It swirled around him, making him blink, and then flinch. A chilling touch bit at his mouth. An icy breeze stung his nostrils. He staggered.
It poured into him like the breath of winter, and when it grabbed his throat he could not speak and when it swallowed his eyes he could not see and when it filled his limbs he could not move.
In the empty darkness that closed over him, all he heard was an echoing, inhuman voice.
“Where is he, the one I love? Where is Heribert hiding? Is he not in here? Where has he gone?”
6
HANNA abandoned her horse. She scrambled under the barricade and ran down the ramped road into the valley on the trail of the fleeing Varren guards. How stupid this was she considered only fleetingly, knowing what was behind her. The battle raged to her right, and horsemen flying Conrad’s stallion banner galloped up from the left. To the east, Theophanu’s army brawled in the entrenchments. It was impossible to tell who was holding firm and who falling back. Ranks of cavalry danced through the western fields, too distant to make out clearly.
The fighting along the northeastern pickets and trenches had the look of men tiring, pacing their strikes, parrying more than charging, just trying to hold their position, but who was winning and who losing she could not tell. It was all a churning mass of men and horses running, crawling, limping among the ditches and dead men and scattered stakes and broken stockades.
She had gotten about halfway down the ramp and, miraculously, no arrow had stuck her when, just beyond the base of the ramp on level ground, a lone horseman wearing a magnificent dragon helm broke up out of the entrenchments and gained the road. Riders struggled after him. She bent to grab a spear fallen onto the road. Lifted her gaze. Stunned at what she saw, she dropped to her knees.
Conrad was charging, out in front of his men. The rest of his cavalry thundered in from the south. Even if his remaining troops reached him, King Sanglant was hopelessly outnumbered.
“Tsst! Sorgatani ahn na i-u-taggar.”
A cloudy swirl of air spun up the side of the ramp. A stout woman appeared on the road in a showering mist of white powder, out of nowhere. A moment before she had not been there.
She was not Wendish; she had a flat, reddish-brown complexion and wore stiff skirts and heavy boots very like those of Kerayit women. A scrap of dried vegetation fell from her neck. It hissed where it struck the stones.
“Berda!” A young male voice called out of empty air. Hanna heard scratching sounds, like squirrels scrabbling on rocks, but she saw no one nearby.
Below, Wendish riders pushed their horses up to the road, following their king. Above, the woman who had appeared out of nowhere dashed up the ramp.
Hanna shouted after her. “Come back! There are Eika—”
A pair of Eika strode into view at the top of the ramp. They paused to observe the battle with the kind of leisurely posture that a man might wear in contemplation of a pleasant run of hunting in a field overrun with grouse. One held a spear and the other a banner pole fixed with a crosspiece and hung with strips and strands that waved in the wind tearing along the heights. Storm clouds rose like a wall behind them, black towers piled high in the heavens. The woman ran straight up the broad ramp toward the invaders.
“Hanna!”
She recognized that voice.
She turned.
Wolfhere stood behind her.
She shrieked and jumped backward, ramming into another body. They both fell in a tangle. Now that she was touching him, she saw a young man dressed in lordly manner in a fine linen tunic dyed green and trimmed with handsome embroidery, leggings, and handsome calfskin boots well worn from walking. Laid flat on the slope just below the rim of the road were two other young men, one Wendish and the other—she could never mistake those looks—born to the Quman tribes.
“Where did you come from?” she demanded of Wolfhere.
“G-g-got to get out of here!” the youth said raggedly. He was out of breath. Blisters had blossomed around his neck, which was curbed by a crudely woven necklace of dried leaves and fern fronds. “But where do we go now, Berthold?”
