She saw:
Far below a battle rages. On a knoll a child brandishes a useless wooden sword while all around her Lions fight and die under the assault of winged riders, the Quman. Is that Thiadbold, calling out commands? The Lions fight bravely, but their numbers thin as the winged riders attack again, and again. It is only a matter of time.
As though struck by lightning, she recognized that dark-haired girl. She plunged down into the world below the moon, bow in hand.
How has Blessing come to be so old, four years of age at least? Ai, Lady! Has so much time passed? Has the child grown, knowing nothing of her mother? Will she die likewise, motherless and abandoned?
Liath sets her arrow to the bow, makes ready to draw.
But whom shall she shoot? There are fifty, or a hundred, or two hundred Quman riders swarming around the knoll and, farther away, another equally large group attacks and routs the rear of a legion of Wendish soldiers. She recognizes the banner of Saony, but this is only a minor distraction.
She must save her child.
Yet against so many, one arrow will not be enough to save her.
To shoot now is to waste the only weapon she has left.
Ai, Lord. Where is Sanglant?
They had at last gained a good view of the plain and the Quman army set in battle order not far beyond when one of Bayan’s Ungrians came galloping up.
“My lord prince!” The captain had served in several embassies and spoke Wendish well. “Prince Sanglant! Prince Bayan commands you to turn your line about—”
“Turn my line about!” Sanglant’s anger cut the message short. What was Bayan plotting now, demanding that he turn his line away from the enemy and thus lose the honor of engaging the Quman in battle?
“Look, my lord prince!” cried Sibold, who had been given the honor this day of carrying the banner.
Only a short stretch of woodland separated them from the open fields where the Quman gathered. The vanguard of the Wendish army could be seen, banners flying, as they emerged from the wood and split apart into regular lines to face the Quman across the broad gap. For a moment Sanglant admired the brisk efficiency of Sapientia’s troops, drilled and trained by Bayan over the winter. Was it jealousy that made him hesitate? Did he fear that Sapientia would acquit herself well, as Bayan clearly meant her to do? Wasn’t it necessary to give her a chance to prove herself tit to command, and therefore to rule?
He turned back to the messenger. “Go on.”
“My lord prince.” The man loosened the strap on his helm and tipped it back for relief from the heat. “Prince Bayan orders you to turn your legion and ride to the aid of the rear guard. The Quman swung wide and sent an entire wing of their army to destroy the rear. Duke Boleslas and the Polenie are hard hit, and the rout has already reached the Saony legion, which is scattering—”
“My daughter?” asked Sanglant, as the cold battle fury descended.
The messenger flushed. “There is no news either of your daughter’s whereabouts or those of Prince Bayan’s mother. The entire rear has collapsed.”
He waited for no more. “Captain Fulk! Send Sergeant Cobbo to alert Lord Druthmar that we are turning. He will ride at the rear of our unit. I’ll take the van myself. Sibold!”
Horns rang out. The banners signaled the turnabout. These were not battle-hardened troops, as his Dragons had been, but he had seen their willingness to follow over the last few months. This would be their true test.
Goaded by his fury and his fear, they rode recklessly, at full bore. He trusted them to keep up. Let the unworthy fall behind. He would kill every Quman himself if he had to.
They swung wide through the open woodland as they pounded past Prince Bayan’s Ungrians, who whooped and cheered to give them courage but who nevertheless kept moving toward the plain. Why hadn’t Bayan himself turned around to meet the threat from behind?
No time to think of that now.
A gap had opened between the Ungrian rear guard and the van of the Saony legion, under the joint command of the two quarreling brothers. Stragglers appeared, running through the trees: soldiers on horseback, a few hapless camp followers on foot, screaming warnings when they saw the prince and his legion. He lifted a hand; Fulk blew the horn twice, and the entire mass of men—not less than six hundred riders including Druthmar and his marchlanders—came to a stop as Sanglant brought several soldiers to a halt.
Their stories varied wildly. The entire Quman army had hit the baggage train. Lord Zwentibold was dead. Duke Boleslas was dead. Duke Boleslas was in league with the Quman. All the wagons were burning.
One man had seen the Lions forming up around a knoll; from his brief, panicked description, Sanglant recalled the little hill. He had noted it, as he always noted strategic landmarks, when he had ridden past earlier.