Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  The menhir is one of the oldest sites in Brittany where standing stones mark the passages of the old nine gods. This one in particular is sacred to Arduinna. Small offerings are propped against the two vertical stones, small bundles of the last of the harvest’s wheat, now dried and brown. A small egg, cracked and sucked dry by some wild creature, a green ribbon faded to almost yellow from its days out in the sun. There is no shortage of maids, young or old, beseeching Saint Arduinna for protection.

  We dismount to go forward on foot, then hang back at the edge of the trees, waiting. Just as I am counting heartbeats to be certain we are still alone, a rustling reaches my ears.

  “Hold! Do not move. Any of you.” A voice comes from the trees off to the left.

  I glance at Beast and reach for one of my rondelles.

  “And, Arduinnite!” the voice calls again. “Do not even think of reaching for your bow. We have four arrows trained on you even as I speak.”

  Aeva cuts an annoyed look Beast’s way. “I thought your scouts said it was clear.”

  He shrugs, embarrassed. “And I thought you could hear someone coming from twenty paces.”

  “Hush!” I tell them both. “That voice is—”

  “Beast! Is that you?”

  “Ismae!” Joy mingles with disbelief. “I’m turning around now, and if you shoot me, I will strangle you.”

  “Sybella?”

  And then all thoughts of caution and formality are cast aside as she comes running out from behind the hillock of hay, her crossbow forgotten. I meet her halfway, throwing my arms around her, my throat tightening at the sight and feel of my oldest friend. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

  “We’ve been so worried,” she says.

  “It is you!” Duval drops his own weapon and rushes forward, he and Beast coming together with the force of boulders crashing. “What are you doing here?” Duval asks.

  “Us? We were expecting Marshal Rieux’s garrison commander, or maybe the marshal himself—and we find you. That is a most favorable trade.”

  Duval shakes his head. “I should have known it was you, you cunning bastard.”

  “You did know it was him,” Ismae points out. “It was your first guess.”

  Beast’s pleased grin nearly splits his face in two. Duval claps a hand on his back. “Let’s go someplace less exposed so we may talk. I have a feeling this meeting does not bode well for our predicament.”

  Before we mount up, some introductions are in order. I pull Ismae over to where Genevieve waits with Aeva. “Ismae, I want you to meet your new sister, Genevieve.”

  Ismae rolls her eyes. “I wish she wouldn’t do that,” she tells Gen. “As if finding sisters lurking all over the country isn’t awkward enough.”

  Her honesty surprises a smile from Gen. “I am finding it not such a terrible thing to discover unexpected sisters.”

  * * *

  By the time we reach Rieux’s holding, I have filled Ismae in on most of the events of the last months. As we are ushered into the keep, keeping my voice low, I ask, “Have you heard anything from Annith?”

  “There have been no crows since you left Rennes. Although they would not know where to find me, as we had to leave shortly after you did.”

  Marshal Rieux comes out to greet us just then, thanking Beast for his timely intervention. “We’re glad to be able to help, and had hoped to speak with you to find out what exactly Rohan is planning and whether you could tell me how to find Duval. To have accomplished both in one fell swoop feels lucky indeed,” Beast says.

  “Why are you both here?” I ask Duval and Ismae.

  There is a moment of awkward silence before Rieux answers. “They came to accuse me of being involved in Rohan’s plans,” he says dryly. “At knifepoint.”

  Ismae rolls her eyes. “I did not pull my knife on him. I merely set it on the table.”

  “A fine distinction, indeed,” Rieux says, clearly not over the affront.

  “We were quickly disabused of our suspicions,” Duval says, trying to smooth things over, “but Rohan’s army arrived before we could take our leave. How many troops will the king be sending to combat Rohan’s forces?”

  Beast and I exchange glances. “None,” Beast says quietly, then explains why.

  When he has heard, Duval leaves the table where we are all gathered and heads for the window, to gain control of himself, I think. “It’s even worse than I thought,” he finally says.

  “That’s why we’re here.” Beast’s voice is filled with such certainty, such assurance—as if he will make it happen through sheer will alone.

  Marshal Rieux looks up from the map. “You are but a handful of men.” It is not said unkindly, simply a recitation of the truth.

  Beast grins. “We are a handful of men with six kegs of powder and your garrison. Those are better numbers than we had yesterday.”

  Duval’s mouth quirks up at the corner, and he looks back to the map, as if seeing it with new eyes. “And what, pray tell, do you propose we do with such an overwhelming force?”

  “From my time in Brittany three weeks ago, I know Rohan has troops here, here, here, here, and here.” He points to Ancenis, Rochefort-en-Terre, Malestroit, Vannes, and Quimper.

  Marshal Rieux’s face turns gray. “He holds the south,” he says.

  “But not with a tight fist,” Beast says. “His men are drawn thin. And each of those holdings and cities has a garrison that can fight, if they can get out. How many troops do you have here at Châteaugiron?”

  “Four hundred.”

  “And here?”

  “Eight hundred.”

  In all, Rieux has two thousand troops spread out among his holdings.

  “Your holdings are our best crack in their defenses,” Beast says. “You have men garrisoned there who are loyal to you. They need only a way out and your blessing. I can provide the former,” Beast says solemnly.

  “And I will gladly provide the latter.” Rieux’s color has returned somewhat. “But you can’t mean for our success to rest on the few hundred men we can scrape up from my holdings.”

  Beast pushes away from the maps. “It will give Rohan several more fronts on which he must fight, spreading their numbers even thinner.”

  “Plus,” Duval adds, “it will be a major thorn in his side, poking at him to know who is behind it.”

  “Not only that.” Aeva speaks for the first time. “But the Arduinnites will join us.”

  “You can count on the charbonnerie as well.” Lazare turns to spit, thinks better of it, then simply clears his throat. “We’re not happy about France thinking we’re their country now, but we’ll be damned if this knob thinks he can come in here and undo everything we fought for.”

  “What can his endgame possibly be?” I wonder.

  Duval looks at me. “He has always believed he had a greater right to the duchy than my sister. I think he has decided now is the time to press that claim.”

  “You mean, he’ll fight for his own interests, but not his liege’s when she needed him?”

  “Precisely.”

  As he continues to look at the map, Marshal Rieux shakes his head, not in disagreement, but uncertainty. “The odds are not in our favor.”

  “By our estimations, Rohan can have no more than six thousand men,” Beast reminds him.

  The news we have brought of his sister, and her precarious position, has only hardened Duval’s resolve. “Brittany has a long history of overcoming superior numbers with smaller forces,” he reminds the marshal. “Besides, they’re the only odds we’ve got.”

   Chapter 77

  Genevieve

  The siege broken, Ismae and Duval leave for Rennes the next morning with half of Marshal Rieux’s forces, using the south postern gate to avoid Rohan’s decamping troops. Duval believes that the city garrison is loyal to the queen and needs only a spark of encouragement and a few extra hands to retake the city from Rohan’s control. The rest of us move south. We give wide berth to Châteaubriant
—a holding of Françoise de Dinan, the queen’s former governess and a traitor besides. That she was once Count d’Albret’s lover also ensures she will never be an ally of ours.

  At Marshal Rieux’s holding in Ancenis, our maneuver proves successful once more. Relieving the siege there goes off swiftly and smoothly as planned. Rieux’s garrison is greatly heartened by their liege and, I think, Beast. Next, we travel to Nantes, but it is a Rohan stronghold, so we skirt it and strike out for Rochefort-en-Terre, another of the marshal’s holdings, this one with a garrison of over seven hundred troops.

  By the time we arrive, we are a much larger party. And while it is good to have the presence of solid troops at our backs, they are incapable of moving as silently. Fortunately, we time it so we arrive two days before Rieux’s main force, giving us a chance to do our deeds well before Rohan’s troops are aware of our presence.

  As before, cloaked by the darkness of night, the four of us slip into camp to foul the powder. Just as before, we are able to evade the sleeping men—eight of them this time—to reach the wagon. I listen for any change in their breathing patterns, but hear only the faint rustle of the night—the call of an owl, followed by the faint scream of some small prey. I pry off the corks of the two barrels Lazare has set before me, empty the wineskins of water into them, and shove the corks back in. I grow faster each time—we all do—and am ready to go while Lazare is still pissing into the last keg.

  When he finally jumps down off the wagon, I grab his arm. “You cannot mean to do that every time.” My voice is pitched so low that it makes less noise than the soft night air blowing in from the river. “It takes too long. And it is dim-witted besides.”

  Lazare pulls his arm away, but slowly. “Someday I’m going to give you a lesson on gunpowder. Piss and wine make it more potent. As it turns out, I’m full of both.”

  “But this is the enemy’s powder. Not ours.”

  “It will be once Rieux and his troops get here. They’ll confiscate it, spread it out to dry, and it will be good as new.” He winks. “Only better.”

  I roll my eyes, pull the shadows more firmly around me, then hurry to catch up to Sybella and Aeva, who have taken the lead. It is a good thing Lazare brings such a unique set of knowledge, because he is also uniquely annoying.

  The moon is only half full, enough to see by but not so much that I do not have to pick my path carefully to avoid stepping on a branch that could give us away. That is why I do not see the man until I am nearly upon him. He sits on a fallen log looking out at the night around him. Behind me, a boot crunch on the forest floor has me pressing back against the nearest tree and reaching for my knife.

  Sybella is six steps ahead of me, her knife already in her hand. Our eyes meet, and a silent question passes between us.

  “You’re late,” the man on the log says.

  The approaching sentry—for that is who he is, the changing of the guard—says, “Christ, I haven’t slept more than half a night in I don’t know how long.”

  “When are those other troops Rohan promised going to arrive? We’re spread too thin. That’s the only reason them loyalists have been able to get through.”

  “How many attacks did the messenger say there were?”

  “Two.”

  It has been three, so their news is old.

  “Told us the relief troops would be here mid-March. Still nothing.”

  “You don’t think he lied to us, do you?”

  More silence, as neither wants to answer that question. “Could be worse. At least we’re not still dragging all them cannon to Vannes.”

  “Hard, slow work, that.”

  “It’ll be worth it. That’ll convince Lord Montauban to surrender the city.”

  “Then we’ll be able to move on the city. Can’t wait to get let loose among them pigeons.”

  * * *

  Sybella does not even have to wake the others, as Beast will not sleep until she is safely back, and Yannic will not sleep until Beast does. “We have news,” she says.

  Beast motions to Yannic, who wakes up the rest of our party. When we have shared with them what we learned, Beast scratches his chin thoughtfully. “We knew our good fortune couldn’t last.”

  “Who says this isn’t a stroke of good fortune?” Lazare asks as he leans against a tree.

  “I’ve never known you to be an optimist,” Sybella says.

  He shrugs. “I’ll admit, troop reinforcements are not good news. They didn’t happen to mention how many reinforcements or where they were coming from, did they?”

  “If they had, I would’ve mentioned it.”

  Lazare grunts before continuing. “Well, they’re not here yet. And we have a chance to strike a hard blow.”

  “The cannon train,” Beast says.

  The smile that spreads across Lazare’s thin face makes him look like a feral fox. “Exactly.”

   Chapter 78

  Throughout the morning as we ride, we are joined by Arduinnites, in small groups of two and three at a time. They are easy enough to recognize—they all dress like Aeva, with their legs and arms covered in brown leather and their vests made out of fur. There is also a wildness about them, a sense of living close to both the forest and the gods. They are not threatening, they simply slip out from the trees and join our party. I have never seen so many before—nearly thirty.

  “Why are they here?” I ask Aeva.

  She regards me a long moment. “They are offering their aid in this venture.”

  “I am glad of it, but why? This does not seem like their fight.”

  She glances at the Arduinnites trailing behind us. “Our mission is to protect the innocent. That mission does not stop with a Frenchman sitting atop the throne. That is still our work. And,” she adds after a moment, “what better way to protect innocents than avert war?”

  I cannot argue with her reasoning, so do not.

  We spend nearly the entire day talking about the cannon train and how best to approach it.

  “We could simply free their horses,” Aeva points out. “Then they would have nothing to pull them with.”

  “But they could still be used at a later date. Would it not be better to destroy them?” Poulet suggests.

  “You mean destroy the powder like we have been? Won’t they just get more?” Aeva asks.

  “No. I mean destroy the cannon themselves.”

  “Easier said than done, I think,” Beast says. “It takes eight pounds of powder to launch a cannonball. I can’t imagine how much it would take to destroy a whole cannon.”

  “Not as much as you’d think,” Lazare says. “They’re all made of metal, but most have been pieced together so they’re vulnerable at the joints. It only takes a little more powder, loaded in a slightly different way, to make the entire thing explode.”

  Beast steers his horse away before it nips at Lazare’s. “I have seen that happen in the field. One minute the cannoneer is putting the flame to the powder, the next everyone within spitting distance has been killed by the explosion.” He shakes his head. “It is always tragic.”

  “Except when it is our enemy,” Lazare points out.

  “What if we do both?” I suggest. “What if we cut the horses loose and ensure they are far away by the time we set off an explosion?”

  Lazare picks up where I leave off. “Which we will do by picking a few cannon in strategic positions. When they go off, they will destroy not only themselves, but those close to them. If nothing else, they will incinerate the wagons and carts they’re carried on and will be unable to be moved until new ones are built. But once we do this, it will become too dangerous for us to remain nearby. The explosion will be seen for miles.”

  “So we go north,” Beast says. “To where Duval and Ismae are. Rohan will keep looking for us here, but we will move on. And if we stay ahead of those expected reinforcements, we can do some damage up there. At the very least, we can harry the supply trains, disrupt the food sources, take out bridges—generally slow th
em down and make it harder so the garrisons we have freed will have a chance to fight back.”

  One by one, we all nod.

  “The cannon train,” Beast says. “Then north.”

   Chapter 79

  We spend two nights following the cannon train, paying close attention to how it settles itself for the night. There are twenty cannon, each pulled by ten horses. Two drivers are assigned to each transport, and one man to follow alongside to shout out a warning should anything start to slip or go wrong. That is sixty men and two hundred horses, plus grooms and handlers and an additional twenty armed guards. This will not be easy.

  On the second night, Lazare and two other charbonnerie sneak into the camp to test both their alertness and, more important, to see what kind of powder they have brought. The sleeping guards stir not at all, which answers one question.

  When Lazare and the others return, he is rubbing his hands in glee. “It is corned powder, not serpentine.”

  “Good,” Beast says, although it is clear that it means little to him. “What kind of watch did they post?”

  “A dozen guards camped near the horses, but only two that are awake. They change every four hours. There are another two posted on watch at the main camp, just outside the perimeter.”

  “Perfect,” Sybella says.

  On the third night, we make our move. “Horses first,” Aeva reminds us. “Once they are free, the other Arduinnites will encourage them to scatter before the explosion goes off. But first we must deal with their guards.”

  “Do we kill them?” I ask.

  Aeva gives me a mocking look. “They are transporting weapons to destroy hundreds of innocents in the city. Of course we kill them.”

  “It just seems different when they’re asleep,” I point out.

  “Yeah, it’s easier,” says Lazare.

  I spread out with the others. When Lazare reaches the closest guard, a second heart starts up inside my chest, stopping as Lazare coshes him on the head—killing him instantly and releasing his soul.