“Who were they?” asked Berthold. “My view was blocked by these damned branches.”
“I did not have a good view, but in any case I saw no banner. Given that they’re riding from the west, I must assume they are Conrad’s men.”
“Should we cross the stream and head south?” asked Berthold.
“That will bring us closer to the main road. We might be caught between their main force and this scouting group. I think we must press north and see if we can swing around in a circle and avoid them that way.”
The mud sucked and slurped as Ivar pulled his hand free. He crawled backward, stood, and wiped his hand on his tunic, which was already so caked with dust and dried mud that he shed it in flakes as he walked. He itched, but no blisters had broken out, so God had shown him this small mercy at least, that he had not hidden among the nettles.
They cut north off the path and trudged through the sparse field layer, spacing themselves a body’s length apart so they might hide more easily behind the boles of trees should they spot armed men. It was a warm afternoon, with no wind, but not hot. Ivar had forgotten what it meant to be hot, just as he had begun to forget the nature of the sun in its glory, bright and fierce and blinding, like the angels. The servants of God—sun and moon and stars—were steadfast, never failing in their duty; he must serve likewise. He walked, and because he was tired, he fixed his gaze on his feet so he could keep from tripping over some small obstacle, a crumbling branch, a splintered stump, or a growth of sedge, now in flower. Everything was blooming late. It was hard to remember what he meant to do. Warn the noble commanders about the Eika attack, save Constance, find Hanna. He no longer particularly cared to what woman or man he gave his message. He just wanted a wash to ease the ache in his feet.
“Hush! Halt!” The Eagle raised a hand.
They staggered to a halt in their broken line. The old man looked east, and so did they all, hearing what he heard: the clash of arms, a man’s high shout, and a great deal of crashing and cracking as men fought through the underbrush in the distance. Despite the open vista of beech forest, the rise and fall of the land hid the skirmish, but its ring and clamor sang clearly enough.
“Follow me!”
Wolfhere set off at a brisk walk north by northwest, heading away from the skirmish. They pushed through the low field layer easily, moving at a steady jog, and although Ivar thought he would probably die as his thighs ached and trembled and his lungs burned, he refused to fall behind and be seen as less of a man than the others. Even the foreign woman loped as easily as a panther, never tiring.
Jonas tripped, and the Quman soldier—the others called him Odei, but Ivar could not bear to think of him as a human being with a name—swung down to help him up. All heads turned back to watch. Shapes moved in the distance as one flank of the melee whipped into view: A trio of mounted riders lashed their horses as half a dozen others pursued them.
Wolfhere swore. Ivar dropped to the ground and scrambled on hands and knees toward Wolfhere as the others hid in whatever cover they could find. Only the cleric stood, staring not at the fighting but at the treetops as though he were gazing toward an angel hidden within the trembling flash of leaves.
“Heribert!” Wolfhere grappled the cleric’s legs, and they tumbled down together, but it was too late. The blow hit from an unexpected direction.
From the west came the pounding of footsteps and men panting as they closed in. “There! There!” they called. “Grab them! Give it up! Lay down your arms, and you’ll be given quarter.”
The riders had vanished into the wood, but as Ivar pushed up to kneel he found their party surrounded by a score of infantry, men whose tabards were blazoned with the stallion of Wayland and whose faces were streaked with dirt, as though they had tried to hide themselves in the forest cover by appearing as shadows and light. Each one carried a spear. All had bows and short swords. They were impressively armed.
“Move! Move!” said their leader. “We’ve been on your trail since yesterday. My lord duke wants a word with you.”
“Damn,” said Wolfhere as he rose. He looked around once as if he had a notion to cast magic into the air and confound their captors so that he and Berthold and the rest could escape. But he couldn’t possibly do that.
“I’ve twisted my ankle,” said Jonas sourly.
Wolfhere sighed, shoulders sagging. He glanced at Berthold, and the young lord shook his head slightly. The other two—Odei and Berda—looked at Berthold, and the young lord lifted both hands, palms out and open, to show that it was, alas, time to surrender.