Kushiel's Dart (96 page)

It's as well that D'Angeline women don't ride into battle. Quintilius Rousse never hesitated. Each ship had a full complement of his own sailors on board, trained to obey the Admiral's voice without thinking. He raised it now, roaring orders as if to shout down the ocean, incomprehensible commands that only sailors understand.

The Skaldi began to chant Waldemar Selig's name.

I daresay Drustan mab Necthana grasped Rousse's plan quickly enough; leaping onto the prow of the flagship, his misshapen limb no obstacle to his agility, he called out to the Craithne. On each ship, a line of archers formed along the shoreward side, protecting the sailors who scrambled overboard like monkeys, catching cast lines and hauling the ships toward the shallow waters along the foreign bank.

At the bridge, the Skaldi broke ranks, the greater number surging back toward the flatlands. If nothing else, they are bold; those trapped on D'Angeline soil never looked back, but began composing their death-songs. I heard the sound of it rise, fierce and hard, chilling my spine. No doubt the Azzallese felt the same.

Our ships grounded in the shallows. Planks were lowered with a crash, some reaching the bank, some landing in water. Drustan, red cloak whipping around him, shouted orders. Ramps were dropped into the holds, horses brought up, wild-eyed and terrified, Cruithne and Dalriada scrambling to arms.

It was something to see, an entire army boiling over the fleet's edge, plunging down planks, churning water and soil into mud. I understood, for a brief moment, why poets sing of such things.

And then the fighting began.

It didn't last long. Fierce as the Skaldi are, they are men, and bleed and die like men; and nothing, in all Waldemar Selig's planning, had prepared them for Drustan's wild army, blue-whorled faces spilling out of ships, fighting with a ruthless ferocity that equalled their own.

What he had told them of D'Angelines, I can only guess, but if the Skaldi trapped between Ghislain's men and the river thought to find their opponents soft, they soon found otherwise. The Azzallese fought with dire efficiency under his command, any reluctance at serving under a L'Agnacite lord, it seemed, resolved by the return of Marc de Trevalion.

I saw it all, from shipboard, warded by Joscelin and a loyal handful of Phedre's Boys; after what had happened outside Bryn Gorrydum, Quintilius Rousse wasn't minded to take any chances with my safety.

When it was done, Drustan's Cruithne returned, bloodstained and victorious. They'd taken few losses, although the Lords of the Dalriada were unhappy at the necessity of having to leave their war-chariots aboard the ships. The ships themselves, alas, were well and firmly grounded. It took fifty men or more to push the flagship free; Rousse left Jean Marchand in charge of the rest, and the oarsmen took us across to D'Angeline soil.

We found the Azzallese grimly attending to the aftermath of battle. It is a thing one need see only once to make it a familiar sight, etched forever in memory. We descended together, a small party; Rousse, Joscelin and I, with two of Phedre's Boys, Drustan, Eamonn and Grainne, and a small honor guard of Cruithne and Dalriada.

The blue-painted faces of the Cruithne no longer seemed strange to me, but the Azzallese stared as they pointed us toward Ghislain de Some-rville. Drustan understood some of the whispers, I think; he was quick to learn, and had gained some D'Angeline during our journey. Nonetheless, he gave no sign of it. Eamonn, who understood none of it, scowled; while he bore no woad on his face, his lime-stiffened hair marked him well enough as a barbarian.

Grainne, surrounded by staring D'Angeline warriors, smiled and did not look in the least displeased.

We came upon Ghislain de Somerville in the midst of directing the disposal of the Skaldi dead. I had heard he was a sensible man, and indeed, if not for his standard-bearer standing near, I'd not have known him for a lord's son. Wide-framed and sturdy, he was attired in a well-worn cuirass, simple steel and oiled leather straps. He took off his helmet as we approached, running a gauntleted hand through damp golden hair.

"I didn't believe it when your men told me, lord Admiral," he said bluntly. His eyes were a pale blue, like his father's, and he had the broad features of a L'Agnacite farmer.

Quintilius Rousse bowed, as did Joscelin; I curtsied. Drustan and his folk remained upright, owing no obeisance to D'Angeline peerage.

"My lord de Somerville," Rousse said, "this is Drustan mab Necthana, the Cruarch of Alba. And Eamonn and Grainne mac Conor, Lords of the Dalriada."

I translated for them, and they did bow, then, or at least inclined their heads. Ghislain de Somerville looked at them with something like wonder.

"You really did it," he said in awe, and gave a startled bow back to them. "Your majesties."

"Not I," Rousse said gruffly. Putting a hand on my back, he shoved me forward. "Phedre no Delaunay, Ysandre's emissary."

"The Queen of Terre d'Ange," Ghislain said automatically. His eyes widened at me. "
You're
Delaunay's whore?"

I do not think he meant it ill; thus had I met his father, returning from my sojourn to Valerian House, the day the old Cruarch of Alba had met with Ganelon de la Courcel. I remembered well how Delaunay had sent Alcuin to the Royal Commander, Percy de Somerville, that night. It had sealed the compact between them, I think; if Delaunay did not take de Somerville into his confidence, still he was nothing loathe to trust his loyalty. But that was what Alcuin and I had been to Percy de Somerville. Delaunay's whores. No surprise that his son knew naught else.

What did surprise him was a pair of Cassiline daggers flashing out of their sheaths, Rousse's sailors hissing in disapproval, a curt order from the Cruarch of Alba, and half a dozen Cruithne and Dalriada blades pointed at his neck. I was right, Drustan did understand a fair bit of D'Angeline.

Ghislain de Somerville blinked.

"My lord," I said calmly. "I was born to an adept of the Night Court, trained by Cecilie Laveau-Perrin of Cereus House, and completed my marque in bond-service to Anafiel Delaunay de Montreve. Is my lineage in question, or the merit's of Naamah's Service?"

"Not at all." Ghislain blushed; a smell of apples arose, mark of the Scions of Anael. "But the Servants of Naamah do not generally serve the Palace in, in such a capacity."

Quintilius Rousse coughed. Drustan raised his eyebrows in inquiry. A rare glint in his eye, Joscelin translated the comment for him at some length in Caerdicci patois; Drustan relayed it to the rest in Cruithne.

Eamonn gave an unexpected grin, and Grainne laughed out loud, put ting a friendly arm about Ghislain de Somerville's shoulders. "They should," she said to him in Eiran. "Why else do you think the Dalriada came to fight for you?"

Truly, a stranger crew never landed on the shores of Terre d'Ange.

I took pity on Ghislain. "My lord," I said. "We have a very long story to tell you, but the short truth of it is, we have brought Alba's army, in accordance with the wishes of the Queen of Terre d'Ange, and we are in grave need of your guidance. That the Royal Army is beseiged at Troyes-le-Mont, we know, and little more. Will you grant us your hospitality and share your news? We bear foodstuffs of our own; I give my word that we'll not strip your camp."

"Are you jesting?" Ghislain de Somerville gathered himself with a shake, carefully disengaging Grainne's arm. "You saved our hides, you're welcome to aught we have. Bring your folk ashore, we'll welcome them all!" He strode off shouting, and Azzallese scrambled to obey.

"He smells like apples," Grainne said thoughtfully.

"Yes," I agreed. "He does."

EIGHTY-TWO

Ghislain De Somerville had more to recommend him than a pleasant odor.

Once his initial astonishment had passed, he proved a shrewd and able commander. The worktable in his tent was covered with detailed maps. He showed us exactly where Marc de Trevalion's forces were aligned along the Rhenus, and where the Skaldi had made sorties, the latest of which had nearly succeeded. He pointed out the course of the invasion through the Northern Pass, laying out his father's plan for the retreat to Troyes-le-Mont, giving us a thorough briefing on events since our departure.

Everything, it seemed, had gone according to plan; the problem was, quite simply, that no matter how cunningly they planned, there were too many Skaldi.

"All they have to do is wait," he said, his face grave, circling the point that marked the fortress with one finger. "There's a good well, and deep, no chance of losing water, and Father saw to it that Troyes-le-Mont was well stocked. But still, their food can only last so long, and Selig's got the whole damned country at his disposal. As long as his discipline holds . . ." He shrugged and shook his head.

Drustan pointed to the map and asked something in Cruithne.

"How many Skaldi?" I asked.

"Thirty-odd thousand." Ghislain's face was heavy.

I translated it; Drustan went pale under his tattooing. "And in the fortress?" I asked.

"We can't be sure what losses we took." Ghislain slid another map out and laid it atop the other, a sketch of the fortress. "Eight thousand, before the battle; how many survived, I don't know. Most, I think. They have an outer wall here, and trenches and stake-pits here, and here, with a second wall of fortifications here." He pointed, indicating. "So far, they've held this belt of ground, but my news is no fresher than yours, if the Master of the Straits' sea-mirror told true. After that, they've naught but the fortress itself."

"And after that?" Quintilius Rousse asked.

Ghislain met his eyes. "Prince Benedicte is doing all he can to rally a force among the Caerdicci city-states. If we had sufficient numbers, we could pin the Skaldi between us like hot metal on an anvil and hammer them. But the Caerdicci look to their own. It doesn't sound as though any help's coming from that quarter."

"Then they fall," Joscelin said softly. "And Terre d'Ange falls with them."

As long as Selig's discipline holds . . .

I stared at the map. "We have one chance," I said, thinking aloud, unaware that I'd spoke until Ghislain de Somerville looked quizzically at me. "Selig's army, it's fractious, there must be, what, a hundred tribes, at least?" I glanced at Joscelin. "Remember the day we rode into the All-thing?" I asked. He nodded soberly. "Some of them are blood enemies. If we stir them up, break Selig's discipline . . . it's somewhat, at least."

"And how do we do that?" Rousse asked skeptically; but Ghislain was eyeing the map intently.

"The Cruithne scared them," he said thoughtfully, tapping the map. "All those blue faces ... the Skaldi didn't know what to make of it. I could see that well enough, from the far shore. They're a superstitious lot, you know. If we could harry their flanks, small strikes, retreating fast... it would give them somewhat to think about, at any rate. We'd need a secure retreat, somewhere in the mountains here. Someplace hidden."

I looked at Drustan, Eamonn and Grainne, and did not yet translate. "How many of us would be like to survive?" I asked Ghislain. "Truly."

Glancing up from the map, he drew a deep breath. "None," he said quietly. "In the end? None. We'd live as long as we were lucky, and no longer. And it may be that we'd die for naught. You're right, it's our only chance; but it's a slim one at best."

"Thank you," I told him, and then repeated it all to Drustan in Cruithne.

He took it soberly, walking half-gaited away to gaze out the door of the tent, startling the Azzallese guard. Eamonn and Grainne glanced at each other.

"Tell him I'll see his folk returned to Alba's shores," Quintilius Rousse said gruffly to me. "Every last blue-stained, lime-crested one of 'em. We didn't ask 'em here to commit suicide."

I think Drustan understood, for he answered before the words were out of my mouth. "And what happens to your Hyacinthe?" he asked me, turning around, holding up one hand, light flashing on the gold signet. "If I do not wed Ysandre," his face was strained, "if I die, if Ysandre
dies
, and the curse remains unbroken, what happens to him? And how do we get home, if the Lord of the Seas remains chained to his rock, wroth with our failure? What song will sing us home, Phedre no Delaunay?"

My eyes burned with tears; I had brought him here. "I don't know," I whispered. "My lord, I am so sorry."

"The fault is not yours." His deep eyes dwelled on mine. "You followed your Queen's command; my destiny is my own, and you cannot change it. But I must give my people the choice. It is my destiny, but it is not their war. If they are to die, they must have the manner of choosing, to take their chance against wave or sword."

I nodded, scarce seeing him. Drustan called sharply to Eamonn and Grainne, and they left, taking their guard with them. I related his words to the others.

"It's fair," Ghislain said softly, tracing Troyes-le-Mont on the map, head low. "Whatever you told them, they couldn't have understood the odds. None of us did." He looked up then, his face grim. "But if you go, I'm going with you. My father's in there." He gave Joscelin a hard look. "And if I'm not mistaken, so is yours, Cassiline."

We spoke of it that night.

The stars were clear and bright in the vast black sky, familiar D'Angeline stars. There is no quiet place in a war-camp, but I found Joscelin a little distance away from our tents, seated beneath an elm and gazing at the camp. There was no celebratory atmosphere, as there had been after the defeat of Maelcon's army; this had been a skirmish, no more, a small victory in a hopeless war. The Azzallese cleaned their arms and wondered grimly what was next. There were fires burning wherever Drus-tan's army was encamped, discussion going long into the night.