The Gathering Storm

The sky lit so brightly that it blinded him. Thunder rolled in over them, wave upon wave of it, and a bolt of lightning ripped through the sky and hung against blackness for what seemed forever, burning itself into his vision so that when it flicked out he still saw it against the starry heavens like a twisting road delineating the path on which angels descended to Earth to collect the souls of the newly dead.



There were so many dead.



“My lord prince!” A man appeared out of the darkness with a comrade leaning on him, an arrow in his thigh. “Terrence here can’t walk, but there’s no room in the wagon.”



Sanglant dismounted and broke the shaft off near the leg. The man gritted his teeth and did not scream. “Put him on the horse,” he said.



“My lord!” cried Hathui.



Malbert and Sibold protested. “Ride our horses, my lord. We’ll walk.”



“Go on,” he said. “I’ll stay with the rear guard. We’ll all get free, or none of us will.” He had seen the bones of his Dragons covering the flagstones in Gent Cathedral. He had no wish to be the last to remain alive, not again. No wonder his mother’s blessing was in truth a curse. To survive might be a worse punishment than to die. How many people had he led to their deaths while he remained among the living?



A gust of wind rattled the trees and showered leaves and twigs down on them. As the line moved forward, he fell in with the last rank. The torches held by Henry’s soldiers flared a spear’s throw behind, but Henry’s men did not speak, only followed. An arrow hissed out of the night and struck his shield, hanging there to join the stump of the arrow left by one of Liutgard’s archers earlier that day. Lewenhardt moved up behind him, took aim, and shot. His arrow skittered away through brush. He heard laughter, followed by a captain’s command to draw back.



“No more,” he said quietly to Lewenhardt. “Save your arrows for daylight.”



“Yes, my lord prince.”



The archer stuck behind him, unwilling to leave, and Sibold came up as well, having given his mount to another man. Malbert might have come as well if he hadn’t been carrying the banner. Except for a dozen men with Captain Fulk, they were all that was left of his personal guard. Lightning flashed, illuminating a straggling line of men following their trail, a hundred or more within view and the noise of thousands marching up from behind. They were gone again as night returned, their line shrunk to the pitch fire of torches.



Lewenhardt whistled softly. “I never thought there would be so many.”



No one faltered. No one stepped out of line or wept with fear. They were good soldiers, the best; It was a curse to lead men to their deaths. He understood that well enough. He had done it so many times.



“Not this time,” he muttered. Anger built. Like the pressure in the air, it throbbed through him. Not this time. He might have lost this battle and far too many men and horses but he would not lose his army no matter what he had to do to save them.



To the north, from the van, he heard a cry. A horn blatted, sounding the alarm. Had Henry sent men through the forest to surround them?



Wendilgard and her banner had not yet been seen, although some of her force had reinforced the Fessians. Did she still hold the old ruined fortress to their north? Had his army retreated into another trap?



“Sibold. Lewenhardt. Hold this line together no matter what. Keep a slow retreat until you hear from me. Hathui! Sergeant Cobbo! You’ll come with me!”



Wounded Terrence he put behind the soldier now riding Sibold’s horse. Leading Fest, he jogged up along the line with the sergeant lighting his way. It was narrow going. Often there wasn’t room between wagon and trees and sometimes he had to wait with frustration welling while a wagon trundled past a gap before he could follow through; other times he cut through the undergrowth although Fest didn’t like the darkness and the footing. He passed wagons, marchlander infantry with spears resting on shoulders and grim expressions on their dust-stained faces, a quiet group of Ungrians with heads bowed, and at last he negotiated past the awkward wings of the Quman clansmen, not fit for the confines of woodland travel.



“Prince Sanglant!” Gyasi rode at their head. “I smell a powerful weaving taking shape. We must take shelter.”



The heavens caught fire, white and bright, but as he blinked everything went dark again. Thunder cracked over them. A net of lights sparkled high overhead before fading in spits and sparks.



Shouting broke out ahead on the road, echoed by the sudden ringing clash of a skirmish opening up at their rear. Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled. There was still no sign of clouds. The stars seemed so close he thought he might pull them down from the sky simply by reaching; they pulsed as if to the beating of his heart.