The Bandit King h-2

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Twas a fine time to wish I were a hedgewitch. The bolt was an ugly thing; she would be lucky to escape a shoulder-halt. My lips moved as another bubble of warmth broke on my lips, Court sorcery flaming against my fingers, the bolt shivering. It had not gone all through, the barbed tip grated on bone, and I twisted, wood suddenly flexible in my hands and the metal of its head giving out a low note of distress unheard in the cacophony.

  Jierre was suddenly there, ashen, his hand under her shoulder as she thrashed. Her skirts tangled, her hair curtaining her face as she sought to breathe, a double shock of pain and sorcery she should never have had to bear. More warmth ran down my chin. I let out my own frantic cry, Jierre’s Court sorcery stinging my fingers as I pulled the suddenly-drooping bolt free. Weakened by sorcery, it bent instead of breaking, and did not tear muscle and skin overmuch.

  I clapped my hand over the wound. “Hedgewitch!” I screamed, blood spraying from my lips and dripping down my chin. “Fetch a physicker!”

  Vianne’s head tipped back. The Aryx boiled with light, silver blazing from its writhing curves. Shadows leapt, there was a breathless moment of stasis as they reloaded the siege machines below. Archers from our walls let loose, and the flaming city behind us convulsed.

  Her hand came up, clamped over mine at her shoulder. Her blood, slippery and hot against my fingers, sent a flare of nausea and weakness through me.

  Merely a nightmare. I will wake and find this a dream.

  But there was no waking. Her hair brushed the ground; I bent over her as her fingers bit with surprising strength. The Aryx spoke again, and her entire frame stiffened, the heels of her familiar pair of garden-boots digging into stone.

  The body will seek to escape mending from such a blow, if possible. It will thrash with surprising strength, thinking the charming is a fresh assault. I held her, and Jierre shouted something over my head. I turned my face to the side, coughed out a mouthful of hot copper, seeking not to foul her hair.

  She sagged, and the moment of breathlessness ended. The Aryx twinged sharply, power shaking me as a trained farrat will shake a caught mouse. I folded over, her only shield my aching, wound-racked mess of bones and meat, the scar on my face shivering madly as if I had the falling-sickness.

  Hands on me, seeking to draw me aside. I denied them until she twitched, her hair finally falling back as she shook her head as if to clear it. White as flour, two spots of hectic color high on her gaunt cheeks, blood spattering her face. Was it mine or hers? Mine, I hoped. The thought of her bleeding would unman even Danshar himself.

  She struggled against my grasp. I let her go and slumped aside into someone’s embrace—twas a hedgewitch, I caught a blur of green and a shocked face under a glaring, bloody head bandage. My chest was afire, and I coughed yet more blood.

  Vianne surged to her feet. Jierre lunged upward and caught her elbow, bracing her. She shouted something, pointing at me, and stumbled for her horse. Her dress flapped at her left shoulder, pale skin underneath.

  She had charmed the wound closed, and even now caught up her skirts. The horse sidled nervously, but Jierre laid hold of its reins and Vianne had the saddle-horn. She mounted with more determination than grace, wincing as she pulled herself into the saddle, cinders raining from the dark sky.

  The charm on my chest gave a burst of spiked agony. I coughed more blood and fluid; the hedgewitch rolled me aside. I cared little—I could still see Vianne, twas all that mattered. The Aryx flamed, and the globe of silver witchlight shimmered into being around her again. This time twas stronger, and her chin rose. The siege engines below released their cargoes of fiery death—and Vianne’s hands lifted.

  In the east, the first faint gray of dawn was rising, along with white veils of fog.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Dawn came up red as blood, again, through a screen of ground-cloud. The white horse stood braced, her head hanging, and Vianne looked at least as weary. Quiet had fallen, only a few whistling bolts from below, answered occasionally from one of our crossbows. Jierre conferred quietly with a haggard blond Luc di Chatillon—there had been another attack on the southron side while we had been occupied here. Ladders and grapples, and a swarm of men. They had been thrown from the walls with a vengeance, but di Chatillon was not sanguine about success on our side should another night such as this one pass.

  Tieris di Siguerre crouched easily at my side. He had come to bring word of the fires—still raging in a third of the city, there simply were not enough hedgewitches to corral them. Also crouching over me was a young peasant boy—a hedgewitch with a bandaged head and a torn, much-mended lace ruff, his hand glued to my chest as he repaired the torn charming. Every so often, coughing and shuddering would rack me. At least I had ceased spitting blood, and the fever was receding.

  Vianne, atop the white palfrey, clutched at her right shoulder. Morning breeze played with her dark curls, and she gazed down at the fogbound Damarsene army, expressionless. The silver protection-globe was pale in the morning light, drops of water vapor scintillating as it shifted. At least they had ceased to shoot at her.

  She dismounted, awkwardly and unremarked. I ached to help, but my limbs would not obey me. “Tieris,” I croaked, my throat slick and foul. “Attend her.”

  He rose in a rush and was at her side in a moment. “Your Majesty?”

  She handed over the palfrey’s reins. “My thanks.” Hoarse and weary. “Find someone to take her to stable, an it please you, and Tris and Jierre’s horses as well. Treat them well; they have endured much this dawning.”

  “Aye, Your Majesty.” Was it worship on his young face? No doubt. “Is there aught else I can do?”

  “No, sieur. I thank you for your pains.” She still clutched at her shoulder, and Jierre broke away from di Chatillon as she swayed.

  “D’mselle—” Jierre was pale, too.

  “The city?” She did not look at him. Instead, her dark gaze lit upon me. Twas welcome, even if I was filthy with soot and blood, not to mention struck to the ground and unable to rise.

  “Fully third of it burning. We shall not last another such serenade. There is a ship prepared to bear you to the Citté. Please, d’mselle—Vianne. Please.”

  A slight, weary smile. She was still looking at me. “There is no need, Captain. I shall remain here until we are relieved. Continue evacuating the children, the old, and the wounded.”

  “There is no relief,” he pressed. “Were there hope of one, we would know by now. The Citté—”

  “The Citté is safe enough for the moment. Here is where I am needed, else this collection of wolves will descend upon the heart of Arquitaine. We must merely hold a little longer.”

  “D’mselle.” Luc di Chatillon approached. Bloody, singed, but unbowed, his golden hair grimed until twas near as dark as Jierre’s, he made as if to bow and she waved the courtesy away. “Jierre has the right of it. We will not hold another night, and their strength has not diminished. If anything, they have received reinforcement from their fellows in the Dispuriee. I am loath to flee as any nobleman, but—”

  “Here is where I stay, chivalieri. Do you wish to seek refuge downriver, I release you.” She dredged up a smile, and it took the sting from her tone. “If you do not, there is much work to be done to ease the suffering of those under our care.”

  Di Chatillon was no match for her, but he still tried. “D’mselle. I would beg you to take more care with yourself.”

  “And take my ease?” She shook her head. Even now, her hair loose and tangled, drying blood a river down the right side of her dove-gray dress, she was, in a word, magnificent. “Or flee when I have asked them to hold? No, Luc. The gods have spoken. If you would be of use, find some breakfast and return to your tasks.”

  He accepted the rebuke and the command with equal grace, swept her a bow, and was on his way.

  Jierre sighed. “I suppose if I were to ask…”

  I waited to hear what he would ask of her.

  Her weary smile broade
ned. “I would tell you that I know, and it is enough.” She winced, peeling her fingers away from her shoulder. The hedgewitch next to me muttered, and a fresh wave of coolness slid through my body from head to toe. “Mauris, is it?”

  The boy nodded, his attention all on my chest. “Aye, tis. The fever’s down, but the charm here unravels ’lessits refreshed. Fine work, but he’s torn it to shreds.”

  “He is most enthusiastic, yes.” She approached, slowly. Jierre offered his arm, and she accepted with a grateful glance. Then she was beside me, looking down, a ghost of amusement in her worn, beautiful voice. “I begin to think I should lock him in a donjon cell to force him to rest, but I have proof twill not work. Here, sieur, let me help.” She bent to touch his shoulder. “Take what you need.”

  I opened my mouth to protest—she was well-nigh dead on her feet, as were we all—but the flood of sorcery roared into me, the spiked mace in my chest receding. The unhealthy heat of fever faded, and I shivered, suddenly aware I had been lying on damp stone for hours.

  If I survive this, I shall not stir from a comfortable bed for a month. Twas a comforting thought—I had it at least once each time I found myself exhausted and in danger.

  Her knees buckled. Jierre braced her. She opened her eyes and lifted a hand, touching her forehead as if unable to quite credit her head was still on her shoulders. “Jierre?”

  “Here, d’mselle.” Hushed and respectful.

  “See to his comfort.” She gained her balance and stepped away. “I will be here.”

  “But surely, breakfast and—”

  “You may send breakfast up with Adersahl; I would speak to him. Something to drink would not be amiss either, I am parched.”

  “Vianne,” I croaked. “If you stay, I stay.”

  She looked about to command me to close my mouth, then visibly checked. Our gazes locked, and the hedgewitch next to me muttered something about a tisane. He seemed supremely unconcerned otherwise.

  We eyed each other, my Queen and I. Flat on my back was not a position to bargain from, but I would not be carried hence without some protest.

  Finally, she nodded. “Very well. Send something more comfortable for him to rest upon, Jierre. And, Mauris, tell sieur di Yspres what you require for tisane.” And she turned away, making her way to the edge of the wall. She took care that her head did not show above the parapet, though, and I held my peace.

  * * *

  The fog was a living thing. Muffled clanks from the Damarsene below, closed in its thick white curtains, billows of ground-cloud snaking through the city. The walls were patrolled, the river-harbor under heavy guard, and Vianne leaned with her back against the parapet, safely hidden behind stone. The witchfire shield had drained away, and she closed her eyes. Did I not catch her peering out from under her lashes, I would think she slept afoot like a weary horse.

  In a little while, braced on a stack of sleeping-rolls, I swallowed mouthful after mouthful of foul tisane. The hedgewitch boy, Mauris, spoke little, and moved with amazing precision for one half-asleep himself. There is a certain point of exhaustion at which a man will simply act, doing what is needful and no more, slack-faced and absent. The youngling in his torn Merúnaisse ruff had passed that point and was grimly hanging to consciousness, determined not to miss a single event.

  Adersahl had brought mince pies, hot broth, and waterskins. Vianne had gratefully drained a skin, and I had attempted the other. Now twas used to dilute the tisane, and I was glad of it—except dilute meant more to swallow, and I was not glad of that. It tasted of donkey byre and burning pathweed.

  Adersahl paced, well back from the parapet in the event of odd bolts from below. Midmorn came and went, the fog thinning slightly. The guards patrolling this section of the wall gave us a wide berth.

  “Unnatural,” I finally rasped.

  Adersahl halted, glanced at Vianne. “The fog?”

  “Aye. And I should know.” My voice evened as I used it, though my throat still tasted foul. Mauris blinked sleepily, pouring out a fresh measure of tisane.

  Adersahl stroked his mustache. He looked remarkably fresh, having had a chance to clean himself before bringing breakfast. Still, his eyes were red, and another decade’s worth of lines had graven themselves onto his countenance. “Mayhap they shall attack the harborage. Tis what I would do.”

  And I. “Except they would pay for it in blood, and they have the rest of Arquitaine to subdue afterward. Easier simply to starve us, perhaps?”

  “Your optimism fills me with hope.” He glanced at Vianne again. “The Dispuriee is ravaged, of course. There could be another army marching through.”

  I settled myself a touch less uncomfortably. “Their banners are not just from the border provinces, as those in Arcenne were. Most are from Thuringe and Hessanord. Which means…”

  “What does it mean?”

  I spoke not merely for his benefit, but for Vianne’s. “Which means the royal House did not send any of its provincial units. We may be viewing a way to cause havoc and clear some of the troublesome nobles from Damar. Which will give us leverage, do we find some means of defeating this army.”

  “Which will be just as easy as setting cats at cream?” A bitter snort of laughter. Adersahl resumed his pacing. “I am all agog to hear how we will set about doing so.”

  My friend, I have no idea. Perhaps Vianne will hear reason in this, though. “Not here. The Citté, perhaps. If we can hold there long enough for my father to bring an army… perhaps. I do not know.”

  Vianne stirred slightly. Her hand still cupped her right shoulder, though she had shown she could move her right arm and hand with little discomfort. Perhaps she was thinking of how close the bolt had been to piercing something else—her chest, perhaps. Her head. Was she trembling at the thought?

  Good. She is not made for this. She should listen to Jierre and Luc, and take ship. “The Citté is a far better place to hold them, though. And did we leave, they will still have to invest Merún. Twill bleed their strength.”

  The boy next to me said nothing, but his jaw tightened. Of course, a Merúnaisse would not take kindly to the thought of their city left so.

  Vianne pushed herself away from the parapet. She approached, dangling the empty waterskin in her right hand. Flakes of ash clung in her hair, and two of her side-laces had broken. The neckline slid aside, showing a slice of her shoulder; more flesh was visible through the rent made by the bolt. “Take heart, Mauris.” Her tone was gentle, and she halted before me. “These fine gentlemen may take ship to the Citté, but I’ll not leave until we are relieved. Just a little longer.”

  He made no answer, swishing the tisane in the heavy wooden goblet that had been found for his use.

  “The Queen speaks, boy.” I sought to sound menacing.

  “Leave him be, Tristan.” She winced. The Aryx, still glowing, writhed on her chest. “When I wish for you to bludgeon younglings in my honor, I shall inform you of the event.”

  The Blessed know I have done much more in your honor. But to say such would not do well. “My apologies, Your Majesty.” Quiet and brittle. You are being a fool, my tone said.

  No more than you, she replied silently, with a fractional lift of her eyebrows and a slight movement of her mouth. She might have been tempted to say more, but she halted, her head tilted slightly.

  “Vianne?” I cursed my weakness. The hedgewitch boy proffered the goblet. I pushed it aside, and, irritated, he slapped my hand down and put the cup to my mouth.

  Vianne turned. Her shoulders came up. The fog flushed gold, the Sun showing his face with a vengeance. Adersahl’s pacing ceased. I gagged on the foulness of tisane.

  “What is that?” di Parmecy asked, his hand to his rapier-hilt. My fingers sought my own, but I was half-drowned, swallowing as fast as I was able, thin trickles of the brackish concoction sliding against my stubbled chin.

  Vianne straightened. Her hands fell to her sides, and she dropped the empty waterskin. It made a slight sound against
the paving, and there was a different noise intruding on the morning hush.

  A rumble and a clashing, as the fog steamed and thinned, pulling aside.

  “What?” Adersahl asked again, and she turned to him with a smile of such utter radiance I choked.

  “Tis aid, my Guard.” Her eyes lit from within, and in that instant every echo of the lovely girl she had been and the beautiful woman she had become was left in the dust. Now she was purely splendor itself—ashen and bloodied, disheveled and draggled as she was, still the most glorious thing I have ever witnessed.

  Thus it was that I was gagging on tisane when she looked to me, joyous and half-disbelieving. “Tis aid,” she repeated. “We are relieved.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  They fell upon the backs of the Damarsene like ravening wolves. Instead of one thin screen of fog to mask them, they had a whole contingent of hedgewitches reinforcing several charms to hold the morning’s vapor and thicken it. They had marched long and ridden hard; they were not so large as the besieging force, but they had the advantage of complete surprise.

  The hounds of Damar are well-trained, and they fought well. Yet by the time the fog vanished completely, showing the dimensions of the battle, twas too late. They struggled to move the siege engines, struggled to form and re-form their shattered lines. The Pruzians struggled as well, for they do not retreat easily—if at all.

  Yet the fourth charge broke even the horsehair-crested Pruzians, and though much is sung of the Battle of Merún, none of the songs speak of the cries of the dying. Or the smell of the field after twas soaked in blood and fouler matter. There was precious little difference between the screams of the city under siege and the cries of the Damarsene and their fellows falling beneath the blades of the army flying the devices of Arcenne, Siguerre, Timchaine, Markui, and other provinces that had declared for the Hedgewitch Queen. Peasants with pikes and scythes were also much in evidence—but the measure that tipped the balance was the detachments of ragged Shirlstrienne bandits and less-ragged Navarrin under a strange device, a simple red flag.