They watched him in the manner of folk who are not sure if the dog is crazy or only needs a few moments to relieve itself. Far away they heard a shout. He still held his sword, and with a murmured curse he sheathed it and returned to them.
“Come,” he said. “Best we get back to camp without disturbing Lady Wendilgard’s peace.”
Wichman returned at midday having lost a third of his men. His horse was in a lather, and he dismounted and flung its reins into the face of a waiting groom. The prince stood on a rise looking over the city walls and the coastal shoreline where the retreating sea had uncovered all manner of ancient refuse—slime-covered rocks, bones, an encrusted anchor, the ribs of several boats, as well as what appeared to be the old straight track of a paved road. Evidently when the road had been built what was now the bay had rested above the waterline.
“Cursed bad news!” cried Wichman with a coarse laugh as he strode up. Men scattered from his path as he shoved aside one fellow rather than stepping around him. He halted beside Sanglant, glanced incuriously toward the sea, and turned to regard the men hard at work filling in the gaps in their defenses.
“Why hasn’t Queen Adelheid attacked?” he demanded. “That ring of wagons won’t hold off a determined sally from within the town walls. You haven’t half the ditches dug that’ll be needed.”
“Well met, Cousin,” said Sanglant, changing the ground before Wichman could get started. “What of the river?”
Wichman shook his head. “Drought. Someone tried a diversion of the trickle that was left up above the bluff where there’s a bit of a waterfall, but in truth there’s just no water coming down from the mountains. Fields are drying to nothing. We saw some mighty odd lights in the sky last night, I’m telling you. I lost six men to elfshot.”
“Elfshot!”
“That’s what the sentries said, but I’m thinking it was partisans skulking in the woods, scouts for the army that’s marching right up on us as we speak. We heard shouts and screams in the distance, over to the west of our position.”
Sanglant’s escort turned. Each man and woman there stared at Wichman as though he had sprouted feathers.
“What do you mean?” asked Sanglant softly. “What army?”
“The one whose forward scouts caught a dozen of my men watering their horses at a pond this morning, that’s who. A damned big army, for I saw them myself.”
“I pray you, Wichman, slow down and speak more clearly. Is there an army marching this way? From what direction? How many? Who are they?”
Wichman grinned, enjoying the attention. “It seems you called, Cousin, and Papa heard you. There’s a large army moving this way from the east out of the highlands.”
The sky hadn’t a cloud in it, but a rumbling roar of thunder shook through the heavens at that instant as though Wichman were its herald. The ground shuddered, rocked, and stilled. Men cried out, rushing here and there as if they could find steadier ground a few steps to left or right, but just as the yelling in the camp subsided a new noise arose as sentries pointed to the north above the distant line of trees. The griffins flew toward camp, growing larger; behind them, well into the woodlands to the northwest, a thread of smoke curled up into the sky. Was Lady Wendilgard marking her position for her father?
“What banner does this army fly?” asked Sanglant, voice tight.
“They’re flying the banner of the regnant of Wendar and Varre as well as the crowns of Aosta, and a new flag as well.”
“That of the skopos?” It was difficult not to grab Wichman by the throat and choke the information out of him.
“Nay. I saw no banner bearing the mark of the skopos. Only one I have seen a single time before, in the chapel at Autun: a banner embroidered with Taillefer’s imperial crown.”
Henry had crowned himself emperor!
All around the men whispered: Emperor. The word itself had magic, one that griffin feathers could not dispel.
Their murmuring died as they waited for Sanglant’s response. The day, too, had gone utterly quiet, a strange, hard pressure in the air that made his ears seem full and muted his hearing. No wind stirred the banners in his camp; even Adelheid’s pennants up on the walls of the town hung limp, curls of color. The world seemed to be holding its breath. The blue of the midday sky had faded to an eerie silver cast until he felt he stood on the inside of a drum, waiting for the thump of a stick overhead to wake them up. To shatter the silence.
To bring Liath and Blessing back to him alive.
From far away, too faint for any man born solely of humankind to hear, a horn’s ringing call caught his ear.
