The two forces hit right above him. The crack of the impact clapped louder than any storm. Hooves pounded around him as horses were yanked sideways or backward, as men pressed the enemy. Water slopped over his head. He scrambled for purchase on the slippery sides, gulping water, coughing, trying to get out from under. When a broken spear clattered onto his back, he dragged himself out of the ditch and scrambled for the line of fruit trees. Cutting zigs and zags through the seething push and pull of the skirmish, he got free of it, only to stumble over a dying man. He wrenched the man’s shield off his arm and ducked under it as he sprinted for the nearest tree. A line of riders broke off from the melee as a whip uncoils. He flung himself flat as they galloped over him. A hoof grazed his head, the merest clip, like the brush of the Lady’s Hand. A mercy. A blessing.

He crawled like a worm through the weeds, with the shield held over his back. One blow in passing shivered it, but it did not shatter. Dirt ground into his elbows. He tasted a coating of weeds as pollen shaken loose by the skirmish dusted his mouth. The line of trees loomed before him, and he stumbled under their cover, such as it was. He huddled against the thickest trunk he could find. A small green apple, early lost from the branches, got under his thigh, digging a painful knot. Scant shelter this proved. The trees were too far apart to provide cover. But it was the only shelter he had against the melee crashing around him. He peeked over the rim of the shield.

Wichman of Saony he recognized at once. No one else fought with such reckless disregard for life and limb. The lord yowled and cackled as if it was the greatest sport in the world as he drove a dozen of his riders in a wide sweep through a field and cut around to try to catch the flank of the guivre’s company where the banner of Arconia flew. This path took him right between the trees, his company the weft pushing through the warp of the row of trees. He rode full out, ducking under low hanging branches, bellowing like a madman.

“For the phoenix! For the phoenix!”

Sabella rode with her troops, although she lagged behind to let the front rank meet the charge between ditch and trees. An Arconian captain leaned forward to gain a clean shot at Wichman’s head. Lord Wichman’s lance caught the man high on the shoulder at the base of the neck and came out through his back with a spray of gore. Their horses collided. Wichman flew over the top of both horses and the other man’s slack body, and landed on his back not ten paces from Ivar. His helmet flew off and rolled along the ground. Arconian riders whooped, and pursued him.

Unsteadily, Wichman rose by sliding with his back against the tree as he reached for his sword. But another soldier’s lance struck him in the right shoulder, pierced armor and flesh, and pinned him to the tree.

The melee dissolved into chaos, spinning out to all sides as the fighting broke into knots of frantic battering and pressing. Only at this center did a weird lull descend.

Ivar caught his breath—two breaths—as his gaze was drawn outward over the field of battle; he could see everything, all the way to the walls of Kassel. The fighting was spread across these fields with no purpose or pattern he could discern, a jumble of motion punctuated by the ring of arms, the cries of the wounded, and the obstacles created by the now ruined siege works. Only the huge ramped road that led up the eastern slope into the forest stood clear, an easy landmark to spot from any distance.

Strangely, the only significant motion on that portion of the road was that of a runaway wagon flying down the ramp toward lower ground. A fence of men scattered on the high ridgeline, pouring away from the road. Thunder growled as the solid drumbeat that had shaken the air stuttered into an erratic hammer. Bells tolled. This deep throbbing so frightened him that he pushed up to his feet, meaning to bolt for the western woods. That resonance burned like fire along his skin.

Twenty men or more wearing Arconian tabards drew up before the trees. A single rider dismounted and pushed back her helm. Lady Sabella’s face was streaked with sweat, and she was clearly straining, red in the cheeks and white with fatigue about the eyes.

“So, Wichman.” She hefted a wicked-looking mace as she walked toward the helpless lord. “This will put a stop to your rebellion. You’re a pig of a man.”

Wichman grinned, although it was more a baring of teeth as he struggled against the lance that had torn through his shoulder. He was pinned tight to that trunk. “That don’t mean much, coming from you, Cousin.”

She snorted. Her gaze skipped over Ivar, but then she halted, looked a second time, and fixed her gaze on him in a way that made him squirm. “Good God above! I thought I recognized you. You were dead, you faithless liar! It’s your fault that I lost my noble prisoners and my pretty cleric. You son of a bitch.”