Lazare’s fingers on the hand cannon he is hefting into position grow still, and for one minute I fear he will strike her. “I thought you weren’t going to say it?”
She smiles sweetly. “I didn’t. I gave Beast all the credit.” That is how she bears it, I realize. She harries others to relieve the tension I know is coursing through her. “Is it ready?”
Lazare points behind him down into the gateyard. Beast had not wanted to leave the city without defenses and insisted we keep two of the catapults within its walls. Just behind their lowered buckets, wide, shallow metal bowls as large as wagon wheels sit over charcoal braziers.
“Excellent,” Sybella says. “But we are to save it for the infantry. Do not launch it too soon.”
Lazare rolls his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Do you have time to show us how to fire the hook guns?”
A long, slow smile spreads across his face. “That’s what I like about you—always willing to try something new.” He leads us back to the guns placed against the wall. They are not small. Some look like miniature cannon, while others are more complex. Lazare picks up one of the complex ones.
“The others take longer to load and are less reliable, so use these until you can’t. All in all, it’s fairly simple,” he says.
But it’s not remotely simple. He holds up one flask of powder. “This goes into the barrel, then the wad, followed by the ball. Then ram it all in nice and tight with this rod here. Next, take this powder”—he holds up a second flask—“and place it in the primer pan. This here hook holds a small piece of slow-burning cord—we call it a match. When you pull this lever, the cord touches the powder in the primer pan and then boom! Got it?” There is a challenge in his eyes—as if he knows it is far more complicated than that and wants Sybella to ask him to explain it again.
“We’ve got it,” Sybella says, grabbing the weapon from him.
“Oh, and this hook here is so you can prop it on the wall. They’re only good for about two hundred paces, so don’t waste it on targets farther away than that. And for the love of the Dark Mother, don’t go shooting our own men.”
Sybella looks as if she would like to use him for target practice, but sets the gun down against the wall and reaches for another one—to practice on.
By the time we have five of them loaded, a cry goes up from the eastern watchtower. I glance up from my work to see the standard-bearer. Behind his yellow and blue flag ride four knights in full suits of armor. Behind them ride more mounted knights, as far as the eye can see. Their visors are down, their horses lathered, as they gallop toward us. Any hint of humanity is hidden by the heavy metal that protects their bodies and those of their horses.
“Sweet Jesu,” I mutter.
“They will not expect to have to fight so quickly,” Sybella says. “The dance of chivalry allows for both sides to take their positions on the field before engaging, but Beast has chosen to force the fight on his timing.”
Down below us, Beast calls out, “Archers! Take your positions!” The Arduinnites disappear into the nearby trees, except for the thirty who will remain before our defensive line.
“Steady,” Beast reminds everyone. “Do not move until I give the order.”
The silence grows heavy as we wait for Pierre. One of the horsemen detaches from the rest of the unit and rides forward, Pierre’s lathered horse prancing as he catches the scent of the other stallions.
“You cannot think to fight with so few men,” Pierre calls out for all to hear. “Here are my terms. If Anton Crunard is among you, send him out and I will accept your unconditional surrender with no retaliation.”
“He does not recognize Beast,” Sybella whispers. “Or know about the destruction of the English fleet.”
“Or he is lying.”
No one makes any move to accept his offer. Perhaps they too know he is lying. Maraud’s horse paws at the ground, bringing him one pace forward. “If you are too afraid to fight,” he says, “simply say so.”
Pierre’s helmet swivels in Maraud’s direction. “You will pay for this. You have betrayed me, destroyed our can—”
“That was no betrayal—I never agreed to fight for you.”
Sensing his rider’s temper, Pierre’s horse rises up, pawing at the air. “I will cut out your heart myself,” Pierre says.
Maraud raps his gauntlet on his breastplate. “If you can find it.”
As Pierre swings his horse around to ride back to his waiting forces, Maraud calls out, “Hey, Pierre! Exactly how many balls do you have left?”
Guffaws of laughter erupt from our line as Pierre puts his spurs to his horse and gallops away.
Sybella nods in appreciation. “Invoke his intemperate fury. This boy of yours has some wits.”
Stupidly, I feel a glow of pride.
Pierre does not lead the charge himself, but gives the signal by bringing his gauntlet down in a swiping motion. His first assault surges forward, the three knights that rode with him in the lead. I wonder which—if any of them—is Maraud’s father, or if he is already dead, killed by Pierre for Maraud’s escape.
The five hundred knights riding toward us do not slow down, or fall back, or veer to the left or right. Indeed, as they draw closer, the knight in the center stands in his stirrups and raises his helmet’s visor. From the ramparts, it appears as if he is looking directly at Maraud. With their gazes locked, he rides forward, never checking his stride. He is the first to reach the ditch hidden by branches and brambles, the first to pitch forward into it, his limbs flailing and his horse’s legs tangling with his own.
The other knights are too close to turn back. They, too, ride forward, plunging into the ditch and the sharpened spikes that wait there. Shouts of surprise, screams of terror, the crunch of bone and metal fill the air as scores of knights go pouring in after them, like water over a cliff.
Those in the vanguard take the worst of it. Behind them, the riders veer to the left and the right, hoping to avoid the ditch. But Beast and Maraud have thought of that and have more waiting for them on either side. More screams, more clashing and crunching as the first line of attack is swallowed. I can no longer tell if the thudding that reverberates through my body is the thunder of the assault or the heartbeats of all the dying.
A few are lucky. Their horses throw their riders over their heads so the men avoid being crushed by their own mounts’ bodies in the fall. Others are luckier still and are tossed completely over the ditch, landing on the far side—but are met by Arduinna’s arrows.
It takes mere minutes, but by the time it is over, the casualties of the first assault are horrific.
The second line of assault approaches much as the first, riding toward us at full speed. Beast calls out, “Pikesmen!” The two hundred conscripts step out from behind the mounted knights and take up position just behind the Arduinna archers. They jam their pikes into the ground and brace their bodies. As the second assault draws closer, the riders try to veer around the ditches but are met with hundreds of arrows pouring out of the trees, forcing them toward the trenches. The half that manage to avoid the ditches and arrows are met by the pikesmen. The force of the cavalry’s impact drives them at least six feet back, but the pikes do their work.
While the second line of cavalry is nearly finished off, Lazare mounts the culverins to the ramparts. By the time the third wave of cavalry comes galloping toward us, they are ready. “Now!” Lazare calls out. Down the line, four charbonnerie touch their hot wires to the hole in the powder chambers. Within seconds, four explosions erupt in rapid succession, clouds of white smoke rising up. The cannonballs hurtle into the oncoming cavalry, knocking a dozen men from their horses but creating additional chaos as the horses bolt, men rear back, and the ground shakes beneath their feet.
It takes them a moment to regroup. Whether because their ears are still ringing from the blast or because they are reluctant to continue forward, I don’t know.
When they do, a second round of culverins go
es off, creating as much damage as the first, reducing the number of charging knights by half. And then they are too close for us to use the cannon without risking our own men.
With his cavalry in ruins, Pierre signals to his infantry. They shout out their battle cry and charge. Our own infantry starts to regroup in order to meet them.
“Get back!” Beast shouts.
“Ready, ready, now!” Sybella says.
Lazare shouts to the charbonnerie below. “Now!” There’s a whack and a thump, followed by the ringing of metal as two bowls of burning sand and bits of metal go arcing over the wall, over our own men, who have drawn back against it, and straight into the oncoming infantry. Earsplitting screams follow as a molten barrage of metal and sand rains down upon them, searing their skin and finding its way down their clothes.
Our own men cheer. Between the pits, the culverins, the arrows, and the catapults, we have reduced their numbers by at least half, possibly more.
A wiser commander would draw back, regroup, take some time to find a tactical way around the defensive position Beast has set up. But Pierre is not that commander. With every field assault, his temper and determination grow more entrenched.
But once there are no more tricks up our sleeve, Pierre’s forces advance again, and although their numbers are greatly reduced, it is still more than two to one.
The clash is deafening.
Beast charges into the fray with a bloodcurdling battle cry, the sound of it surely sending a chill through all who hear. As he rides, he swings his longsword in one hand and his battle-ax in the other. He surges forward to the closest knight, his great sword nearly severing the man in two. Another knight tries to approach from behind, but Beast swings his battle-ax blindly, connecting with a sickening blow that sends the man tumbling from his horse.
The battle lust has fully come over Beast. He not only moves fast, but his blows look like they have the force of three men. Although he is faced with a wall of knights, he goes doggedly forward, leaving devastation in his wake. Within minutes, he is surrounded by the bodies of the fallen and is in danger of being boxed in by their corpses. He does something with his knees, his horse rearing and then leaping over the fallen, trampling a few to get clear of the mound.
Beside me, Sybella says, “Ready?”
“Ready.” I place my hands over my ears as she triggers the latch to bring the cord down to the priming pan. There is a hiss and a sizzle as the small round bullet is discharged in a thick cloud of white smoke. It strikes one of Pierre’s knights, punching through his armor and knocking him from his horse.
“It’s a hit!” I turn to congratulate Sybella just as she rises to her feet, rubbing her rump. “That poxy bastard did not tell me the powder would kick so hard,” she grumbles.
And so we enter the next stage of the battle. We bombard the enemy with everything we have: Arduinna’s arrows, the arquebuses and the older hook guns, and the knights and soldiers, always the soldiers fighting and hacking and slicing, falling and getting up again. The grunting cries of pain, the screams.
And that does not even factor in the souls. So many souls escaping their bodies, like a murmuration of starlings against the smoke-filled sky.
As the sun finally begins to lower toward the horizon, Pierre finally signals a retreat, calling back less than a quarter of the men he started with.
A rousing cheer goes up, starting in the battlefield, then quickly taken up by the city.
Chapter 90
We stand, gasping for breath, muscles trembling, too exhausted to move as we watch Pierre and his troops flee.
Our men are bone-weary. They have been fighting in one form or another since early this morning. It is Beast who rouses himself first. He is blood splattered, his breastplate dented in numerous places, and two arrows protrude from his left arm. “We’ve wounded to see to.” His deep voice booms through the haggard silence.
Slowly, townspeople begin to venture forward, coming out of the gate. A handful of them are the priests from the local abbey, and another handful are the Brigantian nuns. Beast waves them over to where the majority of our wounded lie. Instead of following them, he heads for the first pit.
Sword still in his hand, Maraud limps over to Beast. “You are not tending their wounded before our own.”
“Your father is in there. Your father who chose to ride into the pit rather than alert Pierre to our gambit. We both owe it to him to see if he is still alive.”
Maraud’s expression is unreadable as he shoves his sword in its scabbard. When they reach the pit, the Arduinnites are already there, quieting the injured horses and gently putting them out of their misery.
Maraud places his hand on the rim of the pit, then hops down into it, followed by Beast. I hold my breath, barely able to imagine what a grisly scene must await them. Moments later, Maraud’s muffled voice calls out, “He’s alive.”
* * *
Beast emerges from the pit, carrying Maraud’s father carefully in his arms, not wishing to make his wounds worse, but unable to get him out any other way. By the time he has laid him on the makeshift stretcher two of the priests have produced, Maraud has climbed out of the pit as well. Instead of following his father into the city, he heads for our own wounded.
Beast puts a hand on his arm to stop him. “There are plenty of others to take care of the men. Go with your father. Although you did not want it, he gave much for you—both his honor and most likely his life.”
The men’s eyes meet, and the weight of what passes between them squeezes my throat. Finally, Maraud turns to follow the priests. When I fall into step beside him, he says nothing. At first, I think he will ignore me, but he takes my hand instead, holding it tightly the entire way.
The infirmary is clean and spare, and smells of dried herbs and human bodies. The floors are stone, the walls bare and lined with beds. We wait while they clean Crunard and get him settled, wanting, I think, to spare us the pain of his discomfort. Maraud’s jaw is clenched the entire time, his eyes staring straight ahead.
“Would you rather be alone?” I ask.
His grip on my hand tightens. “I would rather not be here at all, but if I must, better with you at my side.”
One of the nuns appears and motions us into the room. I have never seen Maraud’s father before, but instantly recognize the lines of his face, the plane of his jaw, the arch of his nose. That is where the similarity ends, however. This man’s flesh hangs loose from his face, his hair has gone gray, his lips thin and bloodless.
“It is a gut wound,” the priest says quietly. “He is still alive, and may be for days, but it is fatal, make no mistake.”
“Thank you,” I tell the priest. When Maraud makes no move, I gently lead him to the bed.
As if sensing his son’s presence, the older man opens his eyes.
“You knew.” Maraud’s hand on mine tightens. “You knew it was a trap.”
Crunard gives an imperceptible nod.
“And yet you rode into it anyway.”
“To veer would have given it away.” The words come out ragged.
Maraud’s emotions bubble through him. Confusion and anger, bitterness and disbelief, and buried beneath all of that, grief. “Why?”
Crunard’s lips draw back in an echo of a smile. “Did you ever think—” He stops to breathe. “Had come to make amends?”
The look on Maraud’s face makes it plain he had never considered such a thing.
“Besides”—another ghostly grin—“couldn’t let them take you twice.”
Chapter 91
Sybella
“You are injured as well,” I remind Beast as we leave the infirmary.
“You are being daft.”
“I am not the one with two arrows in my arm, a gash across my forehead, and, I suspect, a broken rib.”
Beast glances down, breaks the shafts off the arrowheads, then tosses them aside. “All taken care of.”
“And your arm?”
He grins. �
��Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little blood.”
I snort.
“You are mistaken,” he continues in a more sober tone, “if you think I will rest while there are men to see to.”
Of course I knew that, but had hoped he would at least allow his wounds to be tended first.
As it turns out, there are not that many wounded. Two of the queen’s guard have broken legs from falling from their horses, but they are not bad breaks and will mend well. Valine has a cut on her arm, almost a near match to Beast’s, although she has the good sense to have at least wrapped it. Three charbonnerie received burns—which they consider as sacred as medals of honor—and the Arduinnites have only a half dozen arrow wounds among them.
That is not to say there were no casualties. A man was crushed by his own horse, another took a pike to the chest, and a dozen pikesmen died of wounds sustained during the battle.
“See that their families are taken care of,” Beast tells the priest who tallied the dead.
When the priest has left, I cannot help but ask, “How did you bring so many men through unscathed?”
He scowls at the sea of bodies. “I would not call this unscathed. And I had help. Maraud, the Arduinnites, you, Gen, the charbonnerie, the men’s own fighting spirits.”
But it is more than that. I have seen it time and again. It is as if his battle lust, his own will and determination and sheer stubbornness pull his men along in his wake, casting a veil of protection over them.
“Well, it is a small miracle,” I say, knowing he will be uncomfortable if I tell him how big a miracle it truly is.
* * *
When I finally get Beast to the infirmary, it tries him sorely to lie still with so much to be done. And although he claims his saint allows him to heal quickly, I have seen him delirious with wounds that very nearly killed him. “Wouldn’t you be embarrassed if the mighty Beast of Waroch was brought low by an infection of the blood or a gangrenous limb?”
Igniting Darkness Page 39
