by Beth Brower
Eleanor turned to face Basaal. “There has not been much opportunity to speak since we left Ainsley.”
“No.”
Eleanor thought she saw Basaal place his hand on his sword.
“The men,” she said, “they are greatly relieved you’re with us.”
No answer came from Basaal. Eleanor sensed perhaps he did not want to speak of it, of the fight. Of his place in it. She searched for words that might express what she’d wanted to say, self-conscious. And, at the risk of Basaal not feeling the same way, Eleanor heard herself blurt out, “I can’t bear you going away without the assurance of return.”
Whatever spell or hesitancy had been holding Basaal back, whatever degree of soldierly calm he had carried with him on the march from Ainsley, almost broke—but not quite. Basaal lifted a hesitant hand but stopped short of touching her face.
“Promise me,” he said, “that you will retreat into the tunnel if this goes badly. Bar the way, and open it for no man.”
Eleanor did not promise, she frowned.
Basaal continued in a whisper. “There can be no promise to be made of return—”
“Promise me anyway,” she said.
“One man to every four.” Basaal spoke the odds calmly. But the sound of his voice did not match the expression on his face. “You know better than that, Eleanor. I am—” Basaal lifted his hand to her arm but didn’t continue.
“I need you to find your way through this,” she said so quietly that she could almost not hear the words she spoke.
Basaal kept his mouth in a solemn line as he breathed the air out of his lungs.
Eleanor wanted to speak again but thought better of it. And then, standing on her toes, she kissed his mouth. Basaal closed his eyes but did not respond.
“Basaal,” Aedon said, coming into the dark storeroom. Basaal opened his eyes, and Eleanor looked over her shoulder at what she could see of Aedon’s outline. Basaal did not take his eyes away from her as Aedon spoke to him.
“The crew is assembled. We go now.”
“Yes,” Basaal replied, and Aedon left. Eleanor stepped past Basaal, to follow Aedon, when his hand moved down her arm to her hand. His fingers wrapped around hers. And, together, they followed Aedon through the corridor, down the stairs, and out into the courtyard.
The silent crew was ready, with their horses, for Aedon and Basaal to lead them down the mountain. The remainder of the army still waited inside the tunnel. With his hand still holding Eleanor’s, Basaal weaved through the men to where his horse stood.
“All is accounted for,” Crispin said as he met them. “Are you and Aedon ready?”
“Yes,” Basaal replied.
Eleanor felt the brief sensation of his fingers sliding away from hers, and then his warmth was gone. She watched as Basaal adjusted his weaponry from habit, and he did not look back at her. Zanntal, who was standing with Refigh, handed Basaal the reins. It was too dark to truly see, but Eleanor thought that, perhaps, the prince had spoken to Zanntal before mounting.
“If all goes well,” Aedon was saying to her, “Basaal and I may be able to return before the attack.”
“I’m sorry?” Eleanor said, breaking her gaze away from the shadow that was the prince. “I didn’t hear all you said.”
Aedon put his arm around Eleanor. “There may be time to say good-bye later is all that I meant.”
Turning toward him, Eleanor wrapped her arms around Aedon and took a long breath. “Yes,” she said. “I will see you before it begins. Do not lose yourself in the woods.”
Aedon nodded then slipped away to his horse, mounting and taking his place beside Basaal. With the metal on their bridles and saddles wrapped, it was a quiet departure. Basaal exchanged a brief word with Crispin and then moved out. The men streamed past Eleanor, silent and somber as ghosts.
Ghosts. Eleanor lifted her hand to her mouth as she watched the men go. In the darkness, Eleanor thought Basaal saluted her as he passed and looked at her longer than it took to bring his hand back to the reins.
***
Crispin, Eleanor, and the remaining men of her council convened in the storeroom, around the crate.
“The men will begin their descent to the edge of the woods within the hour,” Crispin said, pointing to the torn map. Eleanor watched as his fingers traced the edge of the woodland at the base of the foothills, leading out into the plain before the Imirillian camp. “The ground troops will take their positions farther south, as planned,” he continued. “Briant will lead them in. Once Prince Basaal and Aedon send word that the explosives are in position, I, with Sean, will be ready with the cavalry. Only a small company is assigned to Colun Tir,” Crispin said, looking up at Eleanor, “consisting of Hastian, Zanntal, a dozen men around the perimeter—”
“Yes,” Eleanor asserted. They had argued about this earlier. Crispin had insisted on leaving a stronger guard at Colun Tir. Eleanor refused, arguing they needed every spare man on the field if they were to have any hope of victory. She had won but not because Eleanor had convinced Crispin but rather because she had stated her decision as his sovereign and would not negotiate. Her war leader had acquiesced.
“We better start the men out of the tunnel now,” Sean said as he placed his hands on his hips and frowned. “It will take longer than we expect.”
“You’re probably right.” Crispin folded his arms. “I will position myself here, at the tower, until it’s time to ride down. Sean, Briant, start directing the soldiers to the edge of the woods, and, for the sake of old Ainsley, keep those horses as quiet as you can.”
***
The remnant of Eleanor’s war council was wise enough to stay inside when Eleanor and Crispin went out onto the balcony that overlooked the valley. Across the plain, up on the rise where the Imirillians held camp, Eleanor saw that there were thousands of fires, blinking and burning, a reflection of the moonless sky.
“Basaal and Aedon should be placing the explosives now,” Crispin said through his nervousness. In a quick movement, he snapped the bones in his hands, stretching his fingers out before him.
“That’s an awful sound,” Eleanor said, pulling her cloak closer around her shoulders and sat on the edge of the battlement.
“I know you hate it,” Crispin replied, his eyes watching the fires ahead. “The explosives along the western lines are in place,” he said aloud, his own ears needing to hear it one more time. “Our company of men will cover the east and the north. There will be few, if any, explosives to the south. Thayne’s women, two of the women who wash and launder for the Imirillians, should have helped the supply men place the barrels of explosives in the very center, beside the soldiers’ tents this evening. Within an hour, maybe two, most of our men will be positioned at the edge of the forest: two thousand five hundred men on horseback, five hundred on foot—” He paused, drumming his fingers on the stone next to Eleanor, and then clenched his fist together in another spackle of snaps. “Sorry, Ele. I’m just so nervous.”
“I know.”
“I hope the Marions have done their work,” Crispin said, drumming his fingers again. “With no word from Thayne, how are we to know if he got through?”
“He got through,” Eleanor said. “They placed their powder.”
“You’re not certain.” Crispin looked at Eleanor. “I’m not certain. There is no sense pretending we are.”
They did not speak more. Fires began to blink out, though the perimeter remained lit, and the occasional blaze through out the camp was still watched and tended. The rest fell, one by one, into darkness.
Within the hour, a report came: the first wave of soldiers and their mounts were in position. As the darkest hours of the night crept into the forest, Aemogen’s soldiers continued to move cautiously, carefully. The second report, over an hour later, said that the tunnel had been emptied. All the men would be in position soon. Crispin would constantly disappear and then come back to the balcony where Eleanor sat, watching the diminished fires, gripping the hilt
of her ceremonial blade.
***
Thistle Black had been waiting for them in a string of trees halfway across the valley. Each man in what Basaal had nicknamed Thistle’s Crew carried a satchel of the explosive devices, wrapped individually in heavy cloth, and Thistle Black reviewed exactly how they were to set their lines.
“There’s an unpatrolled dip to the north of the Imirillian encampment,” Thistle reminded them, repeating what they had already studied on the map. “We’ll take the horses down, and you’ll tie them in the little tree cover there. It is there we will set the lines. The Marions have placed most of their devices, even a few bigger ones, at the southern end. Prince Basaal, with Aedon, will be the lead team, planting their devices the farthest west. I will stay behind, in the trees, if any group needs me. Into your groups now, and remember, get those lines as close to camp as you can, but be quiet as a shadow. No sound, no noise.”
Basaal nodded and lifted the satchel Thistle handed to him. It was very heavy as he placed it over Refigh’s withers. With a silent signal, they headed out.
It was a dark walk across the north end of the valley. As quiet as they managed to be, each noise echoed in Basaal’s heartbeat. It wasn’t long before they dropped into the ravine on the north side of the encampment.
“We’re close to the tents,” Basaal whispered to Aedon after they had moved quite a ways. “The night guard walks the perimeter just above us.”
Aedon nodded.
They secured their horses in the trees and then hefted the satchels to their shoulders, moving towards the edge of camp. After stopping behind the black form of a tent, Aedon unwrapped his first device. Basaal pulled a wound-up line from the outside pocket of his heavy satchel, and Aedon took a shorter line, already imbedded in the weapon, fusing it with the longer line Basaal had given him.
They moved along the edge of the tents, setting explosives, and gathering the long lines together. Every five explosives, they would twine the lines together and run them back down the hill, towards the ravine where a soldier waited with flint. They had completed three sets of these lines when Basaal froze at the sound of footsteps. He grabbed Aedon’s wrist and motioned. A pair of night guards were walking the perimeter of the camp near the edges of the tents.
Basaal motioned for Aedon to lie down and remain still, and then prayed that the darkness would cover them. Basaal was certain they could hear his breathing, labored and loud. His heartbeat almost covered the sound of the patrol’s footsteps, and he could feel his pulse in his wrist, beating into the soft earth beneath his arms.
One of the guards stumbled and cursed. Basaal froze. The man must have tripped on a line.
“A branch or something,” the guard said in reply to his companion’s question. “Cursed place.”
Basaal and Aedon looked at each other, and finally, when the patrol had moved farther down the line, they finished setting the explosive and retreated back to the edge of the ravine.
“They tripped on a line,” Basaal hissed to Aedon. “In the next hour, there will be hundreds of lines. This is madness.”
After counting the remaining explosives in their bags, they moved farther west to set up another group of the devices.
“Let’s finish setting these lines and get back to the ravine,” Aedon said grimly. “We can’t risk being seen.”
***
“There is no hiding the tunnel now,” Crispin said once he had rejoined Eleanor. “The forest is trampled down. I’ve instructed the few guards inside the tunnel door to keep it locked and closed, just as a precaution.”
“Yes,” Eleanor nodded.
“I wish you would consent to wait inside the mountain,” Crispin added as he stood beside her, the sheath of his sword softly sounding off the stone battlement.
Eleanor lifted her fingers to the cold metal of the battle crown, shifting it slightly. Tonight, more than at any other time, it was too heavy. She cleared her throat and straightened her back, looking up at Crispin. “You were a ragtag boy when my father spoke for you. Come in off the streets, with adventures and travels. I was in awe. I made you tell me all your stories.”
“I didn’t mind.” She could hear Crispin’s carefree smile through his words. “I was flattered you wanted to hear them; the princess royal, the heir apparent, the meticulous copper-headed girl, who insisted on getting a bigger horse because I had one, was interested in me.”
“An older brother was quite a novelty,” she answered. “I loved you from the first day.”
Turning away from the west, Crispin sat down beside Eleanor, pressing his shoulder against hers. They leaned into each other as they had countless times in their youth whenever they had wished to discuss something just between the two of them. “If your father, the king, had not spoken for me, I can’t image I would even still be in Aemogen. I would have left, drifted into some port and disappeared. I am so grateful, you know. Ainsley, my room in the travelers’ house—it’s the home I had always dreamed for. And who ever gets what they dream for?”
“Few, I’d imagine.” Eleanor put her hands around his.
“On the heart of Ainorra Breagha, I hope you will,” Crispin said quietly. “But I don’t think many of us will come away from this, and I’ve no reassurance for you.”
“And I none for you,” Eleanor admitted. “Perhaps by tomorrow this time we shall know our fates.”
“Well, I’ll not badger you about it,” Crispin said, and then he ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “I can either be too shaken to be much good or I can pretend it’s a day on the battle run and that there will be drinking and dancing and maybe a pretty girl at the end of it.”
It was painful to watch Crispin’s face as he imposed the usual canter of his bravado on himself.
“These are my boys, though, my men,” he continued. “Clearly, you are our queen, you are our sovereign, but I’ve a responsibility for their lives now too, and I can’t see the end of what that means.”
“Don’t look yet,” Eleanor cautioned. “My father spoke of the times when you have to focus on your decided action—human emotion and feeling be hung—until the thing was done.”
“Yes, well—”
“I know.”
“Perhaps this will come out better than we’ve thought,” Crispin said, turning his golden smile on Eleanor and bumping her shoulder with his.
Split!
An explosion shattered the darkness into a million pieces. Eleanor jumped up, and Crispin almost knocked her over he spun so fast. Distant yelling began coming from the Imirillian camp.
“Old Ainsley,” Crispin said. “Now we’re in for it. What happened?” He turned and ran into the fortress, calling for the men who remained. Eleanor followed. “It’s off! It’s been set off! Accident or devil, we’ve got to make a go!” Crispin was shouting as Eleanor rushed along behind him. Hastian ran up behind Eleanor as they burst into the courtyard.
“The horses!” Crispin called as they ran through the confusion of men and officers who were mounting. “Aedon and Basaal will be expecting me to send the men out.”
They heard another explosion—and then another. The sound made Eleanor wonder if they were ripping the sky from its place. Zanntal brought Crispin’s mount just as Crispin turned to Eleanor. Sean was beside him.
“What happened?”
Men were rushing around, horses brought out.
“What have they done?”
“It’s on!” Crispin yelled. “Make a go! Make a go!”
“Go!” Eleanor spoke hurriedly as Crispin pulled at the belt of his sword and called for his officers to mount, looking dazed.
“I don’t know what happened!” he said.
“Go!” Eleanor said, pushing him towards his horse.
Crispin nodded, pulling her along with him until he turned, kissed her cheek, then her hair, and mounted, calling out to his company as they rode down the moonless trail.
Night was again shattered as explosion after explosion rattled between the sou
nds of screaming horses and trumpets. Hastian, Zanntal, and the small company of men left behind all gathered around Eleanor as the riders disappeared, chasing their day of battle as fast as they could ride.
***
“Go! Go! Get the far lines lit!” Aedon yelled towards the miners near him. Basaal came running back to Aedon, hitting the ground beside his friend.
“The east—” Basaal was out of breath. “The lines to the east are being lit.”
“What of the central barrels the Marions planted?” Aedon screamed over the sound of a close explosion, dirt raining down over their heads. “Why have they not gone off yet?”
“They should—” The sky sounded as if it would snap and collapse in on itself. With a flash of light, the entire eastern line exploded into turmoil. Horses screamed in pain. Another sound, louder than thunder, rang from the center of camp. Men were shouting in terror. As their cries hit Basaal, his heart sank, and he ducked his head against his arms to protect himself from another explosion, trying not to think of the devastation.
“There went some of the Marion barrels,” Aedon shouted, sounding relieved and irritated at the same time, shaking his head for the ringing in his ears.
It had been an accident; the lines were not to be lit for another two hours. But somehow, somewhere, a spark must have grabbed at a line, and the explosions had begun. Basaal and Aedon both knew that if an explosion went off early, they would have to light every line immediately to bring the necessary devastation. So Aedon had sent his men to rush the attack, hoping that Crispin would soon lead the army out of the woods.
Explosion after explosion continued to flash throughout the Imirillian camp. The men were throwing Thistle Black’s devilish instruments. There was screaming, yelling. Confusion. As another barrel lit, the earth rumbled against it. Basaal’s ears screamed in pain. Several fires were rushing through the Imirillian camp.
There it was. Basaal turned to look back down onto the plain, surprised he could still even hear it. The sound of more than twenty-five hundred horses roaring across the earth. Explosions still rang out, especially on the western lines, where their Marion counterparts continued to follow the Aemogens’ lead.
