Grudging (29 page)

Telo's gut clenched, but he shook his head. “He shows us the way and will not desert us. These men will dine in paradise tonight with the saints. Can your ­people expect as much?”

Santabe hissed what sounded like an oath and said something to the handful of soldiers surrounding them. Then she turned to Telo. The hate in her eyes had given way to satisfaction. Very deliberately she stepped onto the altar carpet. “I tell them to kill you first. Meet your paradise!”

Despite his struggles and Beatriz's shrieks for help, they drove him to his knees and stretched his arm out. A sword rose, blade glinting in the morning sun. Telo shut his eyes.

 

CHAPTER 32

R
amiro screamed a war cry as he urged Sancha down the hill. The rising sun blinded him. So bright and just at eye level, it reduced his visibility to a few feet, making it impossible to sight enemies. And yet he plunged on—­for the mission, for the city, for his family.

The weight of Claire against his back lessened as Sancha leveled out, entering the army camp. He squinted against tearing eyes and just got his sword up in time to deflect the first Northerner soldier. He sensed others homing in—­one man alone, easy pickings.

Then Claire opened her mouth and sent out her hornet song. The Northerners lost focus, swatting at the air. This time her song created barely an itch along Ramiro's skin. As she mentioned, it didn't work when one expected it.

Ramiro sliced through the first and stabbed another as Sancha took them on past. He almost felt guilty; this wouldn't have counted toward earning a beard. With a bow, he could have slain dozens. Yet, they were at war. Feeling sick to his stomach, he settled for incapacitating only those within reach.

The girl clutched his shirttail where it emerged from under his back plate. Salvador would argue he should get Claire to the safety of Colina Hermosa. That she was too valuable to risk. Salvador would remind him always to see first to their city, even at the expense of his mother. He should be taking Claire to the city so his father could find a way to use her. He should, he should, he should . . .

He was done with precepts.

Today, family came first. He was done with whether he should stop and consider or follow his gut. He was done wondering if he was good enough. Done with worrying what his brother would do and trying to be Salvador. Today, in this new day, he would just be Ramiro.

He applied pressure with his right leg to guide Sancha left, hopefully in the direction he'd last seen his mother. The sun shifted out of his eyes, allowing his first clear look around. The influence of the girl's song appeared to extend fifty, maybe even a hundred, yards around them, affecting friend and foe alike. A small girl, with a small voice, yet despite that or the shrieks and clashes of metal, Claire's power was effective for a greater distance than Ramiro believed possible—­all within that span fled or showed other signs of broken concentration. Beyond that, the Northerners fought as usual, paying scant attention to them.

Ramiro battled his impatience to hold a slow, steady pace so Claire's voice could maintain a bubble of safety around them. Ahead a group of enemy servants with empty buckets watched a wagon house burn; unaware in the desert, sand was the best weapon against fire. As they threatened no one, he gave them a wide berth.

A crawling along his spine twisted Ramiro in the saddle. A large Northerner rushed him from behind, axe upraised, bursting into their safe space. Ramiro braced himself, but the man drew up short, face grimacing in pain. He toppled to the ground to reveal an arrow shaft in his back. A peasant on a big draft horse raised his bow in salute and an instant later was pulled from the saddle to disappear under Northerner swords before Ramiro could utter a word of thanks.

Ramiro shook his head at a death he couldn't prevent and stepped up his vigilance. Arrows wouldn't be stopped by the magic, nor those enemies driven by determination. In fact, it probably made them a larger target. All around him gate guards and untrained civilians died, outnumbered and outskilled. And he could do nothing for them.

Where were his
pelotón
brothers?

Glances around confirmed his suspicions: men from the
ciudad-­estado
fought from horseback or afoot, but no
pelotó
n
members were among them. Perhaps they engaged the siege machines. Even from the rear of the camp, the tall structures of the scaling towers were visible, trundling forward toward the walls of Colina Hermosa. Tiny forms of archers stood atop them, waiting to rain fire. Behind them, Ramiro caught the flash of trebuchet arms already throwing flaming debris. Smoke rose from the city. The
pelotón
would not have failed so drastically. Once again he asked himself,
Where were they?

Heat from the burning wagon warmed his face as he took them around it. The girl clung to him, her voice starting to weaken as she tired. The reach of the magic grew smaller. How long before she could do no more and they were left to the scant protection of his sword? He directed a quick prayer to the saints that he found his mother first.

The battle calmed on the other side of the wagon. Here seemed to be only the dead. Piles of horses and men lay, all the men bearded. Then a man and woman in white robes stepped from behind a heap of bodies. Ramiro went cold. They each held one of those deadly rods.

The few Northern soldiers who had approached Ramiro suddenly turned around and found somewhere else to go. The woman was no older than himself, a slim figure, but she set her rod athwart crossed arms with no less determination then the steely muscled man next to her. They stood shoulder to shoulder, unmoving. The song had no effect on them. Ramiro recognized soldiers at guard when he saw them, even if these soldiers wore strange uniforms.

Sancha pranced under him as he hesitated. They could probably just avoid the deadly pair. Then behind the pair, he detected a small group of soldiers, another white-­robed figure, a man dressed in priestly clothing and . . . his mother.

Claire's song cut off as she recognized the black-­lace mantilla, too.

“Keep this for me.” Ramiro handed her his bloody sword. The last time he'd used a sword against one of these white-­dressed strangers, it resulted in a numb and useless hand. Sweat ran from his neck and back. Then his full armor had diffused whatever magic the rod wielded, leaving him only exhausted and aching. He had no such protection today, only his breastplate.

“This isn't a good idea,” Claire said, grabbing his hand and holding on.

“Probably not. When I die, get yourself back to your swamp and don't look back.” She looked at him with eyes too large in a white face, and he leaned down and kissed her cheek.

Her hand went slack on his with surprise. He took advantage of her relaxed grip to dismount. “Sancha, wait.” The number of dead horses professed the magic weapon worked equally well on animal flesh. Sancha needed to stay well clear.

The white-­robed man tapped his deadly stick against his opposite palm in anticipation. A smile stretched his face, while the girl waited impassively, cool and fresh as if already assured of victory.

Ramiro felt for the San Martin medallion at this throat. He feared it might come to this. One touch would be the end of him.

Face tight, he took a step forward. He'd not give them the opportunity to get close.

In a flash, he threw his dagger at the man. His boot knife—­retrieved from Claire—­followed before the dagger even struck true in the man's chest. Neither one had time for more than a shout as the boot knife protruded from the girl's throat. She raised her hands to her neck before she dropped beside her lifeless partner.

Ramiro firmed his knees. It had been a gamble. He hadn't practiced in a while. Thank the saints for Alvito's prowess with knife throwing and his insistence on lessons.

A glint of metal caught his eye. In the group surrounding his mother, a sword came down. The priest he'd seen from above screamed in agony. His mother shrieked.

He was halfway across the distance before he realized he had no weapon left but his empty hands. “Hold, damn you!” he yelled. Five soldiers and another of those white-­robed maniacs turned at his call, allowing his mother to drop to her knees beside the priest, using her skirts to try and stem the flow of blood from the holy man's severed wrist.

Ramiro quickened his pace and put his hand in a pocket, pretending he knew what the hell he was doing. The woman in white wore a gloating smile that couldn't spoil her attractiveness as if she prepared to make a conquest at a dance. She had the height of a man and enough muscle to back it up. The hot light in her eyes would make a sane man step back. Fear tightened his belly, but his mother knelt by the woman's feet. The white rod was dangerously close to Beatriz's hunched back.

His eyes narrowed, and he came on. A force plowed into him from behind and his sword was thrust into his hands.

“You won't get rid of me that easily.” Claire sang, and for a second, even he saw clouds of angry insects.
Crazy girl
, he thought fondly, then had time for nothing more.

With the soldiers hopping at the manipulation of their minds, the tall woman pushed back her braid and picked her opponent.

She came at him.

He threw the rolled ball of socks from his pocket at her. She flinched, giving him enough time to gauge a feel of the ground around him: level but rocky.

Recovering, she swung at him. He spun, desperate to get behind her. His sword would be worse than useless. He'd have to rely on his feet. She proved too quick. The white rod swiped at him. He leaped away, feeling the wind of its passing. She kept him jumping as if they were dance partners, and he feared she would prove the swifter.

How long could Claire keep the soldiers off him? Once they swarmed forward, he was done for. He had to think of something before then. Even overpowering the madwoman would only give her opportunity to reach out and touch him.

The madwoman feinted left and swung right. He stumbled over a melon-­sized rock and had to bring his sword up to block her. A vibrating burn ran down the metal into his hand as he lost his balance, falling. Fingers going numb, he heaved the blade at her. She batted it aside with her rod like it was nothing.

Gravel and sand cut up his palms as he scrambled back across the ground. Retreating.

Her eyes burned hot. “So dies another heretic,” she said in a thick accent. She stretched forth her rod.

A gray blur shot between them. The madwoman wheeled her arms in shock as Sancha's teeth snapped an inch from her face.

Ramiro screamed in horror. Veins corded in his neck.
Not Sancha
. He stopped breathing.

Terror gave him wings. His tingling hand landed on the melon-­sized rock as he got his feet under him. He sprang upright with it, but Sancha was a barrier between them.
No time.
The madwoman brought her weapon toward Sancha, and Ramiro leaped onto his horse's back. He drove the rock down with all the force he could manage, crashing it into the madwoman's skull.

The woman collapsed, and air rushed backing into Ramiro's lungs. He slumped, winding his arms around Sancha's neck. She twitched an ear and swished her tail as if to ask what he'd been worked up about. The hammering of his heart left a painful ache in his chest wall.

“That's two females who saved me today,” he whispered to the mare.

But there was one he had to rescue.

Mother.

He slid from Sancha onto wobbly legs. Claire and his mother had dragged the priest away from the soldiers and onto a carpet spread out on the sand. The dark-­skinned priest lay propped against a table, his mother at his side. Claire stood between them and the soldiers, back straight and chin high as she sang. Worry turned to relief as he caught her eye.

The five soldiers caught in Claire's magic were soon incapacitated with blows to the head, then Ramiro searched the sand for his sword, only to find fresh prickles ran down his spine.

They had an audience: A half dozen Northerner soldiers watched from a short distance away, their eyes hard as they mumbled to each other

The sight unnerved him. There seemed no reason why the group didn't rush them. But he thanked the saints for the respite as he clutched his sword and hurried to lead Sancha over to the carpet, then going back and hefting the madwoman's limp body by her robe and depositing her on the rug. He wanted her under his eyes. An oozing spot of blood matted her hair over an ear, but she breathed, if shallowly. Instinct and common sense said not to leave her at his back or near her weapon.

A quick nod to Claire, and he dropped down next to his mother at the priest's side. “You were right about the socks, Mother.”

She didn't bat an eye but seized his arm with her free hand. “My
niño
.” She reached up to touch his beard and burst into tears, while still keeping the pressure intact on the priest's wound. “My
niño
with a beard.”

“Nostalgia later,” he said, winding the leather strap taken from the equipment on Sancha around the priest's arm. The poor man wore a sheen of sweat, tossing fitfully against the table leg and muttering to himself.

“Off. Off.”

Ramiro examined the wound at the priest's wrist. It was a neat job done with a very sharp blade. “It's cleanly off, Father. Once cauterized, it will heal. You'll survive.” Or he would if the rest of them did.

The priest opened his eyes. “No. Off. Altar.”

“Alter what, Father? You need to rest.” Ramiro glanced over his shoulder. Their crowd of watchers had grown in number and looked. . . . well, upset was too mild a word. He had a very bad feeling.

He finished tying off a knot in the improvised tourniquet, and his mother clipped him on the ear. “Father Telo is trying to tell you something,” she said. “You listen.”

Ramiro glared.
Mothers.
“This is not the time—­“

“Altar. Holy Spot,” the priest muttered. “Off.”

“Yes, Father Telo,” Beatriz said. “We'll light many candles at holy spots for your recovery, just as soon—­”

“No, wait,” Ramiro interrupted. The prickles down his spine turned to panic. He took in the gold piled atop the table­—­Sancha nosed at them as he watched, knocking a few statues to the rug—­the eerie growing crowd full of discontent. “We're on their altar. Their holy spot.”

The priest managed to nod, face set in pain. “
Gotteslästerung
,” he said, repeating one of the frequent angry shouts from their watchers, “means blasphemy.”