“My Lord,” swore Lord Thiemo, staring into the woodland as a misty fog coursed through the trees.
Only it was not mist but a hundred, or more, pairs of wings.
The Lions cried out warnings. They broke into a trot, and the cursing driver of their wagon whipped the mules forward.
Behind, men shouted and screamed, and for one horrible moment as they jolted into a broad clearing, she heard a cry ringing out above the clamor.
“Duke Boleslas is down!”
Panic broke through the line of wagons. Riders scattered, and in the chaos the only thing Anna could think was that the Lions were holding formation as they shouted at the wagon drivers to head for a little knoll, topped by a copse of trees, that sat at the far end of the clearing. The rain of arrows thickened.
“Ai, Lord, Thiemo,” cried Heribert, “if this is a Quman patrol, then each of them must be shooting four bows at once.”
More of the wagons broke free into the clearing, but it was already too late. The foremost group of Polenie horsemen had charged left into the trees to head off the Quman attack. As the lines collided a noise like rumbling thunder filled the air as weapons clashed.
Blessing woke. “Where’s Daddy?” she cried.
Lewenhardt leaped onto the wagon, standing literally over the child, bracing himself with a foot on either side of her body. Thiemo, Matto, Surly, Everwin, Den, Johannes, and Chustaffus made a ring around the cart. Heribert hastily mounted Lewenhardt’s horse, falling behind as more wagons raced forward, desperate to escape the Quman.
Anna got to her knees, staring. Back in the woods, the Polenie standard bobbed awkwardly. The battle was all confusion, half lost under the shade of trees now that the sunlight burned her eyes. It seemed like everywhere she saw Quman wings, crowding into the ranks of Polenie horsemen. A horn blew another long blast before stuttering to silence as the first Quman horsemen broke through the Polenie line, as the handsome Polenie riders scattered from the battle, fleeing or dying.
Blessing tried to push to her feet, but Anna shoved her back down as another rain of arrows spattered around them. Everwin swore, yanking off an arrow that lodged in his chain mail. Matto was bleeding where an arrow had cut into the leather cheek strap of his helmet.
The worst thing about the Quman attack was its silence: no horns, no trilling cries, only the whistle of their wings where the wind sang in them. At last, inevitably, the Polenie standard sank into the fray and the last of Duke Boleslas’ cavalry—had there really been three or four hundreds of them?—were lost to sight, leaving only infantry, half of them running, or falling, or battling as well as they could against superior numbers.
“We’re going to die,” said Thiemo.
“Shut up,” snapped Surly. “I hate whiners.”
The wagon surged forward, neck and neck with the painted wagon in which Bayan’s mother rode. Her slaves trotted alongside, easily keeping up. Their calm expressions, almost of indifference, hadn’t changed.
“Ho! Princess!” An old Lion gestured wildly. “Move along!” The first line of the Lions had reached the knoll and already were frantically digging in, chopping down trees, anything to make a barrier against the horsemen.
Back in the forest, it had begun to rain. Thunder grumbled ominously, and wind whipped the treetops. The Quman were everywhere. Was this their entire army, that had cut around to attack them from behind? A large contingent galloped past, far off to the right side, heading toward the rear of the unsuspecting Saony legion. Others surged up to catch the last of the wagons. A carter was killed, cut down from behind as he whipped his horses. Another man threw himself from his cart and tried to take refuge under the bed, but he got trampled before he got to safety. Without dismounting, Quman warriors began to pull the contents from the carts. Chests were spilled open and bags dumped in the mud to see if they held anything of value.
Half of the Lions fell back to form a line between the forward half of the baggage train and the part that was already being overrun. A number of other infantrymen joined up with them, although in truth hundreds must have already died or fled into the forest, hoping to escape back the way they’d come.
“Get down, girl!” cried Lewenhardt as he dropped to his knees. A shower of arrows fell around them. Someone was hit; Everwin, maybe, or Den. Anna threw herself forward over Blessing. The child wriggled and protested, trying to get free so she could see.
“Lie still!” Terror made Anna’s voice no better than a croak.
Lewenhardt jerked to one side as an arrow passed his ear. It buried its point in the neck of the driver, whose head kicked forward. He twitched a few times, slumped as the reins slipped from his hand, and toppled from the wagon. At once, Chustaffus slid gracefully from his mount to the driver’s seat and got hold of the reins with his good arm. Behind the twelfth rank of wagons, all they could now hope to save, the rear guard of the Lions stepped back in good order, a single step at a time. The Quman, those who weren’t looting the rear wagons, hesitated, unwilling to assault the well-ordered company now that they didn’t have surprise on their side.