What caught their attention was the two men pulling a narrow cart up the hill and the armed company following them.
The company was dressed in mail—from coifs to chausses—and their long surcoats were white. Each carried a shield, along with a plethora of swords, axes, and maces. The insignia painted on a number of the shields was a red cross surmounting a down-turned sword. Knights, Cnán realized, like her present company in their armament and in the way they carried themselves. There, however, the similarities ended, for their faces were hard and pitiless, set with grim expressions that told her that these men were of a different breed from her companions. She counted heads. They numbered closer to thrice the number of her present company.
In comparison, the two men pulling the cart seemed almost nonhuman. Both wore filthy and threadbare robes that hung stiffly over their gaunt frames, and the heads that protruded from the robes were topped with tangled masses of hair and beard, so encrusted with dirt and other matter that it was nearly impossible to discern any sort of face. The rickety cart was not much more than a plank nailed to a pair of boards to which rough wheels were awkwardly attached. Piled on the cart was, at first glance, a stack of filthy hides, but Cnán saw a flash of pale movement and realized the bundle was another figure like the two hauling the cart.
Someone spotted the Shield-Brethren and a shout went up from the column of knights.
The company of knights stopped, turning in a block to face Cnán and the Shield-Brethren. The two ragmen began pulling their cart faster. A shriek floated down from the palisade at the top of the hill, more an exhortation of panic than the cry sounded by a bird of prey as it dove on its victim.
One of the knights stood nearly a head taller than the rest of his company, and they parted like water for him as he came down the slope. As he reached the tail of his column, he drew his sword and walked unhurriedly toward them. His men reformed in his wake, like a worm folding back on itself, and fell in behind him.
“Hold,” Feronantus said quietly to the other Shield-Brethren. “Let him make his intention clear.”
Cnán heard the sound of stretching sinew, and glancing over her shoulder, she saw R?dwulf draw his bowstring back. He appeared unconcerned that he might have to hold that position for some time. Behind him, Eleázar was looping the reins of his horse around the knob of horn mounted on his saddle. He needed both hands to wield his two-handed monstrosity of a sword, she noted, and the only way to control his mount would be with his legs. Should the situation come to that…
She shivered, suddenly chilled, and she wondered if this sensation was what they all felt at the approach of violence. She wanted to vomit.
The tall knight stopped a few horse lengths from them. Tufts of sandy hair curled out from the edge of his coif, and his beard was streaked with red. He laughed, and Cnán caught sight of strong white teeth. “Feronantus,” the knight called, “you are far from your rock, old man.”
The familiarity with which the man spoke stunned all of them, save Feronantus, who remained unmoved by the man’s taunt. If anything, Cnán thought, he was even more like a stone than per usual.
“And you wear the colors of an order that fell ignobly, Kristaps,” Feronantus replied.
Kristaps spat. “Schaulen. We were betrayed.”
“The only betrayal you faced was that of your master leading you into that trap.”
“Heermeister Volquin was a great leader, Feronantus, and a better man than you—”
“His leadership is no use to anyone now that he is dead,” Feronantus said sadly. “What am I to make of your motley band? Is this all that remains—this sad bunch of deserters—or is there some mischief brewing that requires you to dress ill-informed fools as real knights?”
Several of the knights behind Kristaps drew their swords and shuffled back and forth, clearly eager for an order to engage the Shield-Brethren. Istvan’s horse snorted and began to fidget, mirroring the Hungarian’s own restlessness. Cnán heard the thin creak of R?dwulf’s bowstring.
“I wonder the same of you, Feronantus,” Kristaps replied, unswayed by the tension between the two groups. “Are you lost?” He raised his hand. “Petraathen lies that way, does it not?” He gestured somewhat aimlessly as if he could not be bothered to make certain of the correct direction. “Though perhaps it will be gone by the time you get back.” He showed his teeth. “A long time has passed while you have been hiding on the rock, old man. The world has passed your Shield-Brethren by.”
Feronantus replied with a humorless smile. “Is this all that is left for you now—wandering far from your home, like mad dogs, rooting for scraps left on the battlefield?”