“I pray that was the worst of it,” said Rosvita as she lowered her hand. “We must find water and food.”
“We must decide what to do next, Sister. It will take days for this army to recover, if it ever does. There should be twice as many people. Are they all still hiding, or have they fled?”
Or died?
Rosvita glanced toward the collapsed tent in which she had sheltered. Fortunatus lifted up the heavy canvas as Ruoda and Gerwita crawled out. Gerwita, seeing the camp, burst into tears.
“We are faced with a difficult choice, Eagle. Do we flee on foot, knowing we may perish from hunger and thirst?” She gestured toward the hazy south and west. “I do not like the look of that. I would not turn my steps in that direction unless I had no other choice. But by traveling north and east we remain in Dalmiakan country, under the suzerainity of the Arethousan Empire. Yet in such circumstances, is it better to be a prisoner so we can be assured a bowl of gruel each day?”
“I don’t think there are any assurances any longer, Sister. I pray you, let me scout the camp while you get the rest of our party ready to move out. Perhaps there is a bit of water or food you can find in the wreckage.”
“Who will accompany you?”
“Alone, I may pass unnoticed in this chaos. I’ll see what I can see. See what has become of kings and queens and noble generals.”
Rosvita nodded grimly before kissing Hanna on either cheek. “Go carefully, Eagle. We will be ready when you return.”
Hanna had lain all night on top of her staff and her bow and quiver. She had a bruise down her chest and abdomen from their pressure into her flesh, but she hadn’t dared lose her weapons to the wind. She grabbed them now as Aurea crawled out from under the wagon and helped silent Petra emerge into the dusty air. She slung bow and quiver over her back and walked into the camp with her staff held firmly in her right hand, gaze flicking this way and that, but the people she saw crawling through the debris or standing with hands to their heads seemed too stunned to think of doing her harm.
A slender hound whimpered in the dirt; its hips were bloody, and though it kept trying to rise, it could not stand on its hind legs. A man scrabbled in the ruins of a wagon that had, somehow, completely overturned.
“Help me!” he said, to no one. “Help me!”
She came over and with her help he heaved up the heavy wagon, just enough so he could look underneath.
“No! No! No!” he cried in Arethousan, and he leaped back, releasing his hold on the wagon. The abrupt increase in weight caught her off guard. She barely released the slats and jumped back herself, scraping her fingers, as the wagon’s bed crashed back onto the ground.
“Hey!” she called, but he ran off through the camp, still crying, “No! No!”
“Ai, God!” she swore, sucking on her fingers. She had picked up two splinters, one too deep to pry loose. “Oh, damn! Ouch!”
She wasn’t eager to see what lay under the wagon, so she walked on through the ruins of the camp. As she neared the central compound, she saw more signs of life, soldiers hurrying about their tasks, some of them leading horses. A line of wagons was being drawn into position. A handsome bay so spooked that it shied at every shift and movement was being calmed by a stolid groom. Even here, the royal tents lay in heaps and mounds, fallen into ridges and valleys over whatever pallets and tables and benches sat inside. A rack of spears had toppled to spill all over. She glanced around to see if anyone was looking, bent, and snatched up one of the spears. No one stopped her. A gathering of some hundreds of people milled and swarmed in a clear spot beyond the collapsed tents. She edged forward into the crowd and wove and sidestepped her way far enough in that she could see what was going on.
Nothing good: a storm of nobles arguing. That didn’t bode well. She used her hip to nudge her way past a weary soldier and her height to see over the heads of the shorter, stockier Arethousans. No one seemed to notice her in particular; the ash had turned her white-blonde hair as grimy as that of the rest.
“But you promised me!” Princess Sapientia was saying. She had weathered the night better than many. Her face was clean and she didn’t have dark circles under her eyes.
King Geza had not fared so well. He was pacing, hands clenched, and his gaze touched his wife’s figure only in glances. He was looking for something; Hanna wasn’t sure what.
“I have five adult sons. Any one of them may believe this disaster is a sign from God for him to usurp my place.”
“They would not have done so before, after you left?”
“No. My officials were in place. Who knows what has become of them? This was no natural storm. The priests will speak in many tongues, all arguing among themselves. The Arethousans will scold the Dariyans. The old women will creep from their huts and start scouting for a white stallion. I must go home and see to my kingdom lest it fall to pieces.”
“This storm may not have touched Ungria! It’s so far away.”
Geza stopped for long enough to look at Sapientia with disgust. “Only a fool would not recognize this storm for what it is. As soon as my soldiers are ready, we march.”
“But you promised me—!” She choked on the words. She could not get them out of her throat. “I married you!”
“Come with me, then. Once Ungria is safe—”
“What of my kingdom?” she exclaimed.
“By the blessed Name of God, woman! All that lies south of here is blasted, so the scouts say. To the west, toward Aosta—who can see for the smoke and fire? Do not be blind. I will not ride to Wendar. I turn my back on Aosta, just as God has.”
“You promised me!”