Kushiel's Mercy
Page 68

“It’s possible,” Sidonie said. “If Tibado and the Euskerri stage a slow retreat of their own, it might create more of an opportunity to . . . Imriel, why are you staring at me like that?”
“Awe,” I said. “Awe and adoration. I’d no idea you’d prove quite such a brilliant strategist.”
“Thank my mother and Leander Maignard.” She gazed down at the city. “To be honest, I doubt such a risky notion would ever have occurred to me if your Leander hadn’t forced me to play a better game of chess.” Sidonie shivered. “Although it’s a good deal more terrifying when the players are real. Do you suppose it might work?”
I shrugged. “Well, I’ve not heard a better idea.”
We retreated carefully back down the slope, retrieved our mounts, and returned to the campsite. The argument was still in full sway, joined now by hundreds. If the din was any louder, they would have heard it in Amílcar. I shook my head.
“Listen,” I said to Paskal. “I’m going to propose our plan. You’re going to translate. And so far as you know, this is entirely my idea. Do you understand?”
He glanced at Sidonie. “I believe I do.”
I kneed my horse forward and rode close to the loudest knot of arguers, then took a deep breath. I thought about Gallus Tadius who had commanded the Red Scourge in Lucca through sheer force of will. “Right!” I shouted over the uproar. It dimmed slightly, heads turning in my direction. “Here’s the thing, lads. You’re a disorganized, contentious, piss-poor excuse for an army. These aren’t your precious mountain passes. If we don’t have a decent strategy, we’re all dead. Lucky for you, I have an idea.”
Paskal translated.
I talked.
They listened. And somewhat to my shock, the Euskerri came to agree with me without a great deal of argument. There was a certain sense of relief once it came to it, as though they’d been waiting for someone to assume command here. We settled in quickly and began sketching maps in the dirt and working out the details.
By the end of the day we had a plan.
Sixty-Four
Two days later our plan was ready to be implemented.
Elua knows, it wasn’t perfect. It was messy and dangerous and difficult to coordinate. But it was ready.
The bulk of the Euskerri army had withdrawn to the west, taking one of Paskal’s careful routes through the hills to a point where they could ford the Barca River unseen and establish a new camp within a reasonable striking range of Astegal’s forces. Paskal was to continue onward to alert the Duke of Tibado, whose men would join them there. And there, they would post sentries and await our move.
I was to be among the disguised Amazigh. After some discussion, we had decided it would be best if the majority of the apparent Amazigh were on foot. It would give Astegal greater incentive to give chase and the horses would be more effectual on the primary battlefield. Only thirty of us would be mounted, that we might move swiftly to secure the bridge if we were successful.
Come dawn, we would find out.
The Euskerri gave Sidonie and me a wide berth that night before the attack was to be launched, for which we were both grateful. I’d spent the better part of the day teaching three hundred men how to secure their Amazigh head-wraps and face-scarves. The balance of the day, I’d spent tending my mount and checking my gear. Dusk fell all too quickly.
“Imriel.” Sidonie lay in my arms inside our rough tent. “Promise me you won’t do anything foolish and heroic. That you won’t take any unnecessary risks.”
I stroked her hair. “I’ll try.”
She lifted her head to gaze at me. “It’s awful. I feel like there are so many things I should say, but I don’t know what they are except that I love you.”
“It’s enough,” I said. “It’s all I ever needed. Sidonie, if this goes awry, promise me you won’t hesitate. Don’t think about me. Don’t wait in the hopes of finding out what happened. Just flee with Gaskon and his lads, as hard and fast as you can. Don’t pause until you reach Terre d’Ange.” I traced the line of her brows, so similar to my own. “Please? It’s the only way my mind will be at peace.”
She hesitated only a heartbeat. “I promise.”
I kissed her. “Good girl.”
“You should sleep.” Sidonie touched my lips. “As much as I’d like to make love to you until the sun rises, I’d sooner have you go into battle well rested.”
I caught her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Blessed Elua grant us a thousand more nights, Sun Princess, that I might make this one lost night up to you a thousandfold.”
Her black eyes glittered with tears. “Only a thousand?”
“Ten thousand,” I vowed. “A hundred thousand.”
She laid her head on my shoulder. “I pray he does.”
We lay like that for a long time, neither of us moving. I held Sidonie in my arms, listening to her breathe, feeling the heart beating steadily in my breast. And I prayed that Blessed Elua would prove merciful on the morrow. I prayed that our plan wouldn’t fall to pieces; I prayed that Astegal would take our bait. I prayed that this ragtag band of Euskerri wouldn’t be slaughtered, that Amílcar’s forces would recognize us as allies and rally in time. I prayed that Sidonie would be safe.
And at the end, I allowed myself one selfish prayer that I would survive the coming battle. That I would live to see Terre d’Ange free of ensorcelment, to see my loved ones once more. To see the wondrous light of love in Phèdre’s eyes, the pride in Joscelin’s face.
All of them.
And to wed the woman I loved and spend a lifetime of peace with her.
Blessed Elua grant us mercy.
I slept.
The day dawned grey and drizzling. The foot-soldiers committed to ambush were the first to depart, slipping over the hills and into the pine forests that lined the road to Amílcar. Two of Sidonie’s guards went to take up vantage points and serve as sentries observing the course of the battle. Three hundred Euskerri fussed and fidgeted with their Amazigh robes and scarves, making ready to stage our appearance. I checked my gear and my mount’s hooves one last time.
All was in readiness.
It was time to go.
“Come back to me,” Sidonie said quietly. Fine raindrops glinted in her hair. “May Blessed Elua and his Companions watch over you all and grant us victory.”
I kissed her, then fastened my scarf in place. “Be safe, love.”
That was all. I mounted my horse—one of the Amazigh horses, a spirited bay with a strongly arched neck and a willing gait. I glanced around at my three hundred veiled and robed companions. Fearless Euskerri eyes gazed back at me in the slits between their indigo scarves. I adjusted my flowing sleeves to hide the gleam of my vambraces beneath them.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Janpier Iturralde echoed the command in Euskerri.
Atop the crest of the first hill, I turned and looked back. Sidonie was standing, watching us, a small figure in the far end valley, determinedly regal and upright. Her guard surrounded her. Their mounts were saddled in the picket-line, ready to flee on a moment’s notice. Good. I raised one hand in farewell, then rode out of sight.
We crossed the green hills, then plunged into the woods. I could hear men muttering and swearing as pine branches plucked at their robes. I told Janpier to bid them be silent, and he did. After that there was only the soft tramp of hooves and feet on the pine mast. I could smell the rich loam beneath. The earth was growing warmer. Spring was coming.
I prayed I’d live to see it.
The journey that had seemed endless by night went quickly by daylight. We made our way down the forested hills north of Amílcar and emerged from the woods to find the road empty. Beyond it stretched the sea, grey and wrinkled beneath the cloudy skies.
South lay Amílcar.
We went south. Thirty horsemen in the front, riding five abreast. I was in the center of the front rank. I’d assumed a position of command. It was expected; the plan we were executing was mine. The others followed on foot. We passed the pine-covered slopes where our comrades were hidden. I looked for them, but there was no sign.
And then there before us was the Barca River, cutting a wide, winding course through the plains. There was the bridge across which I’d fled with Sidonie and Paskal and Captain Aureliano and his men, our valiant decoys. I wondered if they’d survived. I prayed they had.
And beyond it . . . Amílcar and Astegal’s army.
There were sentries posted at the near end of the bridge. They hailed us with shouts as we came into view. We made no reply, but advanced steadily. Some fifty yards shy of the bridge, I drew rein. Our company halted.
There we made a stand and waited. The skies spat a fitful rain at us and gusts of wind tugged at our damp indigo robes. The Carthaginian sentries at the bridge conferred in consternation. One left his post and headed for the main encampment. Another came forward at a jog, approaching us. I lifted my hand, bidding my company to wait.
“My lord?” Janpier Iturralde muttered urgently beside me.
“I’ll take him.” I drew my sword and heeled my horse. He sprang forward eagerly, hooves clattering on the road. The Carthaginian sentry slowed, uncertain. Beneath the brim of his helmet, his face was young and perplexed. It was uplifted toward mine, a span of bare skin showing under his chinstrap.
I didn’t slow.
I leaned in the saddle and beheaded him at a single stroke. Desert justice, the Amazigh had called it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head bounce. His headless body slumped. I wheeled my horse and returned to the line.
“Wait,” I said briefly.
Janpier translated.
We waited, as still as statues. We watched the news ripple through Astegal’s encampment. Horns blared a summons. A pool of blood ebbed from the headless trunk of the dead sentry’s neck. Astegal took to the battlefield himself: Astegal of Carthage, Prince of the House of Sarkal. Riding a black charger, his gilded armor the brightest thing under the grey skies. He rode back and forth along the river, gauging us. I knew him by his splendid arms, by the crimson strip of his beard. All too well, I remembered the satisfaction in his heavy-lidded eyes. I stared at him between the folds of my Amazigh scarf.
“Do it,” I whispered. “Let me make your wife a widow today, Astegal.”
He didn’t.
Sidonie was right; Astegal was no fool. I wished he was. I longed to cross blades with him. Longed to erase her shame. But no, he wasn’t going to commit himself. Still, I could tell by his restless movements that curiosity was eating at him.
We waited for at least an hour before he made his first move. The Euskerri might be a contentious folk, but they were capable of great patience, too. No one threatened to break our ranks. No one spoke. At last Astegal sent a small company of archers across the bridge to test our resolve.
We retreated out of bowshot. For every pace the archers advanced, we retreated, until I could see their uncertainty and reluctance. I had to smile behind my veil. They were increasingly isolated from their comrades. They might get off a flight or two, but we could take them.
It took another hour for Astegal to lose patience with that particular game of cat and mouse and call his archers back. I promptly ordered the Euskerri to advance and we returned to our initial position.
In the end, I don’t think the gambit would have worked if it hadn’t been for the Amazigh guises. Astegal had sent his loyal Amazigh on a mission of crucial import to his plans. He had to know they’d failed. He had to know this was a trap. But our silent, veiled presence maddened him. I watched him stare across the river. I watched his gestures grow more and more curt.
I watched him come to a decision.
Astegal wasn’t taking any chances. When he committed forces against us, he did so in a large way. At a guess, I’d reckon he mustered a good two thousand of his troops. And I had to own, the sight of the endless line of them snaking over the bridge and advancing toward us made my blood run cold.
“Retreat,” I said. “Slowly.”
Step by step, we did. The Carthaginians broke into a jog and began closing the distance between us, their armor rattling. I could feel the Euskerri’s resolve beginning to weaken. Beneath my Amazigh robes, cold sweat trickled. My mount grew restive, sensing my fear. I waited until I could see the dense pine forests to the west out of the corner of my eye.
“Go!” I shouted. “Go!”
The Euskerri didn’t wait for a translation, breaking into a dead run. I could hear the roar behind me as I eased my horse into a swift trot. Carthage was in full pursuit.
A poorly thrown javelin soared over my right shoulder and clattered harmlessly on the paving stones in front of me. The skin between my shoulder blades itched. I was wearing my hauberk beneath my robes, but I wasn’t sure it would turn away a well-thrown weapon. I fought the urge to heel my spirited mount to a gallop and flee.
Two thousand. I hadn’t thought Astegal would send so many against so few.
Still, the Carthaginian line was strung out the length of the road. When the Euskerri troops hiding in the forest burst forth with their fierce, ululating cries, I thought I’d never heard a sweeter sound.
This was the Euskerri’s preferred method of battle. Hundreds of Carthaginian soldiers were slain during that first onslaught, brought down by javelins and stones. But there were hundreds more yet coming.
There was no question of risk or heroism. It was an ugly, bloody melee. I fought from the saddle, chopping and hacking on both sides, simply doing my best to stay alive. Men cried aloud, fell, and died. Our men. Their men. The roads grew slick with blood and gore, cluttered with bodies. Somewhere in the distance, horns were blaring an insistent alarm and that sound too should have been sweet to my ears, for it meant the rearguard attack had begun. But at the moment, I was too busy trying to survive.