“At them!”
Ivar wasn’t sure where the command came from, but it was firm. He started forward with the others, a whoop forced out of his lungs from fear and exhilaration.
Ai, God! He’d never been in battle before. Hadn’t he dreamed of this? Hadn’t he wanted to run away with Liath and go join the Dragons? Join any noble lady’s warband so he could escape the monotony of his life as Count Hart’s youngest child in the quiet backwater of the north country? Hadn’t certain noble fraters and even abbots fought on God’s behalf in just this way?
He was terrified and thrilled and on fire, and he didn’t hesitate. There wasn’t time to make it to a full gallop before the first lance broke upon the first shield. Like a pot dropping down a flight of stone steps, the crash rang as warrior after warrior crushed into a foe.
Ivar held his shield tight over his cheek and chest, and leaned into his spear. The blow was like the wallop of a smith’s hammer, and he felt his mount slide between his knees as he was propelled backward over his saddle. A lance had struck his helmet, but he knew he wasn’t dead as his back slammed into the ground. His horse bolted, and where that body had once sheltered him he now saw the wings of his foe silhouetted against the clouds. Yet between one frightened blink and the next, Lion shields passed over him as stout infantrymen leaped across his body, a heavy line of shouting men who themselves charged in good order at the stopped Quman line.
One of them, decorated with captain’s silks and protected by the shield line held fast before him, wielded a great hooked spear with which he yanked rider after rider from their seat. Ivar barely had time to scramble crablike backward before ten of the Quman had fallen prey to the Lions, and a few others been struck down in their charge. The remaining dozen winged riders turned and fled back toward the wood.
“Hold fast the line!” cried the Lion in captain’s silks, and his command was echoed first by Ekkehard’s captain, then by Ekkehard himself, and then by a latecomer, a nobleman wearing the heavy armor of shock cavalry who had just ridden up. One nervous horseman trotted forward a few paces in pursuit of the fleeing Quman only to rein back his horse when an arrow skittered at his feet.
Ivar struggled to his feet. His left elbow hurt terribly, and his hips ached. Baldwin appeared at his side, shaking him by the arm.
“Ivar! Ivar! Can you speak?”
“Ai! Don’t pull my arm off! I’m fine. I think I took the worst of it on my behind.” He hitched up his light chain mail coat and rubbed himself there, wincing.
“Udo’s dead,” said Baldwin as the others assessed the damage and a heavy line of sentries were posted along the forest verge. A party emerged from the shadow of the palisade and hurried toward them. Ivar allowed Baldwin to drag him over to poor Udo, who lay dead as dead on the ground. A lance had passed through the neck of his horse and then through his un-armored belly. The sight made Ivar queasy.
Prince Ekkehard knelt beside Udo, shedding a few noble tears. “Take his ring, Milo. We’ll return it to his sister.”
“He doesn’t have a sister,” hissed Milo, struggling to get the ring off Udo’s limp hand.
Ekkehard shook himself, glancing ’round quickly as if to make sure that his mistake hadn’t been noticed. His gaze flicked over Ivar, who wasn’t important enough to count. “Well, we’ll return it to his kin, as is proper.”
“My lord prince.” The Lion captain approached, prudently going down on one knee. “I did not know you were marching east to the war—” He was an experienced man, clearly, and obviously one who knew the king’s court well. Ivar could almost watch him think, sorting information and deciding that it might be wiser not to mention that he, perhaps, knew that Prince Ekkehard had been sent to Gent to become a monk. “I pray you, my lord prince. If you will lead our army, then we will all march in more safety until we reach your sister’s host.”
Ekkehard rose with dignity. “That would be well,” he agreed. “But what are these creatures who have attacked us? Are they monsters, or men?”
They had leisure to examine the dead while the rest of the army fell into marching order and a hasty burial was arranged for Udo. Apparently at least three men, out foraging with their horses, had not returned, and a party of twenty men went out searching for them.
The flat, demon faces and terrible wings and scaly bodies of the Quman were only ornament. The wings, crushed where the men had fallen in death, looked pathetic now; the feathers that had whistled so frighteningly were shredded, fragile. The flat expressionless faces were only bronze masks attached to helms. The Quman wore a strange kind of armor, leather scales reinforced by metal scales, each one about the width and length of three fingers held together. Yet underneath they were almost as human as he was: young men’s faces, olive-skinned, with narrow eyes and yellowing teeth. One was still alive, thrashing a little. A Lion cut his throat, and his blood was as red as any blood Ivar had ever seen.
