On his tall horse, Waldemar Selig turned, sensing himself the target of that fierce-driving wedge. All around the sides of battle, Skaldi and Alban fought, desperate and bloody, the Skaldi numbers prevailing.
But the center was coming for him.
Selig rode back and forth. Selig drew his sword, and held it aloft in one massive fist, while the White Brethren flanked him, and his forces roiled.
Isidore d'Aiglemort drove toward his heart.
"Kilberhaar!" Selig roared, pumping his sword-arm skyward. Wheeling his horse, he plunged toward the center of the battle, scattering his own forces. "Kilberhaar!"
Howling, the Skaldi followed.
"Now!" Caspar Trevalion shouted. His standard-bearer waved the
Courcel swan with wild urgency, and the trebuchet crew set torches to the feu d'Hellas and loosed the counterweights. The bucket sprang forward, casting an arching mass of liquid flame over the eastern front of the Skaldi army.
In the courtyard, Percy de Somerville gave a single command.
Up came the porcullis, dented by the battering ram; down came the drawbridge, and the keepers of the barbican loosed a cover of crossbow-fire. Four by four, the defenders of Troyes-le-Mont came streaming forth, reforming in neat lines and falling on the rearguard of Selig's men.
Truly, the Skaldi were caught between hammer and anvil.
We were all standing clear on the battlements now, forgotten targets, as the slaughter below ensued. Percy de Somerville's army fell on the Skaldi like lions, a siege's worth of pent rage in their blood, felling everything in their path.
And at the center, Waldemar Selig drove to meet Isidore d'Aiglemort.
I do not need to tell it; all the world knows that story. How they came together at the heart of the battle, two titans, natural-born warriors both of them. We saw, from the battlements, how the shining wedge of d'Aiglemort's cavalry thinned, growing narrower, driving still, ever inward. How the silver eagle of death, d'Aiglemort's standard, faltered at last, dipping and falling, overwhelmed beneath a sea of Skaldi.
And Isidore d'Aiglemort, atop his black horse, fought onward, alone.
They met, at the end; d'Aiglemort went down, the black horse slain. We thought him lost, buried under Skaldi. Then he arose, silver hair streaming beneath his helmet, a Skaldi axe in one hand. He threw it left-handed, as Selig rode up on his tall horse.
He killed the horse.
Always, it is the innocent who suffer, the beasts of the field, the Servants of Naamah. So it is, always, in times of war. Selig's steed went down with a crash; Selig arose cursing. And they fought, there on the plain, on foot and alone. They fought, the two of them, like lovers staging a Showing in Cereus House. There are those who think it wrong, to make such a comparison. But I was there.
I saw.
How many wounds Isidore d'Aiglemort had taken to get there, I cannot say. They counted, on his body, when the armor was stripped from him: Seventeen, no less, they counted. Some of those were Selig's. Not all.
Waldemar Selig, proof against weapons. So the Skaldi believed. But while battle raged around them, he fought Isidore d'Aiglemort, the traitor Due of Terre d'Ange.
Fought him, and died.
I do not scruple to say it. When d'Aiglemort's sword found a gap in Selig's armor and pierced it to the hilt, I cried out my relief. Waldemar Selig sank to his knees, disbelieving. D'Aiglemort, dying, sank with him, both hands on his sword-hilt, thrusting it home.
So they met their end.
NINETY
After that, it was nearly a rout, despite the numbers.
Those tribal fault-lines I had so carefully traversed through the Skaldi encampment turned into gaping chasms as bands of warriors broke away; some by the thousand, others by the hundreds, and some even fracturing steading by steading, in the scores and dozens.
Percy de Somerville's troops pursued them with merciless efficiency. And at the center of the battlefield . . .
"Your majesty!" I pointed toward the northeast, where a band of mounted Cruithne was cutting a swath toward the site of d'Aiglemort and Selig's battle. The standard of the black boar, the Cullach Gorrym, flew proud overhead, and at the forefront, sword swinging tirelessly, rode a familiar figure, scarlet cloak swirling from his shoulders.
"Drustan." Ysandre touched her fingers to her lips, eyes wide with wonder. "Is it really?"
"Oh, it is," Joscelin assured her. "That's Drustan mab Necthana!"
His riders won through as we watched, forging a ring around the fallen figure of Isidore d'Aiglemort. To the southeast, the war-chariots of the Dalriada raced in mad circles, sowing chaos and terror in the hearts of the Skaldi, and their foot-soldiers carried the Fhalair Ban, the White Horse of Eire.
A clamor arose closer to home, coming from the courtyard.
Later, I learned what had happened; a desperate party of Skaldi, abandoned by Selig and caught by the unexpected emergence of the entire garrison of Troyes-le-Mont, stormed the gate ere it could be closed. They came close enough on the heels of the emerging army that the defenders of the barbican dared not shoot.
That was how, then, they gained the courtyard.
We could see it well enough, atop the battlements. A handful of de Somerville's D'Angeline infantry had doubled back to engage them. If the field was in chaos, not so the courtyard; a fierce battle was being waged before the inner gate, with a small knot of D'Angelines fending off thrice as many Skaldi.
Caspar Trevalion called sharply to our archers, and half of them peeled off, clattering down the tower stairs to align themselves along the parapet of the inner wall overlooking the courtyard, but they faced the same problem as the gatekeepers. There was nowhere to shoot without striking the defenders.
The mass of warriors surged, all helms and flailing steel, seen from above. One figure among the D'Angelines stood out, tall as the tallest Skaldi, making a space around him. It was a pity he was so outnumbered.
From beneath his helmet, a long braid of wheat-blond hair swung like a whip as he fought.
Joscelin made a sharp sound; I thought for a second that he'd been struck, "Luc!" he cried, the bright morning air snatching the word from his lips. "Luc!"
"Your brother?"
He gave me an agonized nod, hands clenching and unclenching in fists as he crossed his vambraces unthinking.
I grasped his arms and shook him, ignoring the pain it cost me. "Can you get to him?" I didn't bother to wait for an answer, seeing in his eyes that he had already gauged the feat. "Then go! Name of Elua, Joscelin, go!"
White lines formed at either side of his nose and mouth. "If ever there was a time when I dared not—"
I dug my fists into his hair and dragged his face down to mine, kissing him hard. "I love you," I said fiercely, "and if you ever want to hear those words from my lips again, you will not choose this idiotic vow over your brother's life!"
Joscelin's blue eyes went wide and startled, so close to my own. I let him go and he took one step backward, pressing the back of one hand to his mouth. We stared at one another; and then he whirled, dashing for the tower. I swear, I could hear every step of his headlong descent. His figure emerged on the inner wall, diminished by distance, but I could hear the clarion battlecry.
"Verreuil! Verreuil!"
Caspar's bowmen gave way, but he scarce hesitated at the parapet, launching himself over its edge, twin daggers drawn.
I measured the drop later for myself; it was thrice a grown man's height, at least. Joscelin's leap, arching, carried him into the thick of the Skaldi attackers; they scattered, I think, as much out of awe as anything. His plunge was like a meteor, but he landed on his feet, and came out of his crouch spinning. A pause of breathing-space, and his daggers flashed into their sheaths. Out came his sword in a two-handed grip, and he lit into the Skaldi like lightning unchained.
A steady roar arose and grew from the D'Angeline defenders, centering on the tall form of Luc Verreuil, whose mighty efforts suddenly doubled in strength.
They won, of course. They had to win.
"Joscelin Verreuil has sworn his sword to my service," Ysandre said in my ear, bending down low and amused despite it all. "I remand it to you, in perpetuity. And that is my gift, for your service, Phedre no De-launay."
I nodded, accepting her gift. What else was I to do?
Thus was the day won.
In the end, those Skaldi remaining fled the field or surrendered, those who'd gained some measure of Waldemar Selig's wisdom. Below the battlements, Percy de Somerville's standard-bearer dipped his pennant, giving the signal, and Caspar Trevalion ordered the horns sounded. The sun was well beyond its apex, and the horns sounded lonely and sad across the ruined plain.
The courtyard was won, the fortress of Troyes-le-Mont stood undefeated. Her armies and allies came limping home.
I had not forgotten the lessons of Bryn Gorrydum. Over the protests of my Queen, who could not find Joscelin to halt me, I went out to give water to the wounded and dying.
So many lost, on both sides. If my back burned like fire, so be it. I had won the right, through my own blood and sweat and tears, to minister to the dying. That is the secret that none dares tell who fights for a cause. Dying, we are all alike. I was Kushiel's chosen; I knew. Pain levels us all. Little enough comfort I had to give. But what I had, I gave.
I do not dare voice it, to anyone save Joscelin, but the Skaldi were the worst. Every time I saw fair hair bright with blood beneath a helmet, I thought it might be Gunter Arnlaugson. He had treated me fair, as best as was in him, and I had repaid him with ruin. I feared to face him, for that.
I never did find Gunter, nor any of the folk of his steading. I can only pray they were among those who had the sense to flee early, having gained some sense of the true depth of our fierce D'Angeline pride, having dwelt so long on our borders.
Waldemar Selig, I found; and d'Aiglemort.
They lay close together, those fallen, and Drustan's Cruithne surrounded them. Their horses nodded, heads low and weary. Drustan mab Necthana saluted me, staggering as he slid from the saddle and his lame foot gave way beneath him.
"Tell Ysandre . . ." he said, and caught at his pommel.
"Tell her yourself," I replied, catching him, gesturing frantically for Lelahiah Valais and her apprentices. They came, quick and compassionate; Eisheth's folk have a gift for healing, among other things.
As I had gifts.
Waldemar Selig, who had taken them unasked, lay upon the field, his body broken and twisted, forked beard pointing skyward and asking unanswered questions of the heavens. I could have answered them, if he'd asked, if he'd ever asked. But he had not asked me, reckoning the soul of Terre d'Ange lay within its warriors, and not its whores. I laid my hand upon his cold face, closing those asking hazel eyes.
"We are alike, my lord," I murmured. "We are all alike, in the end, and none of us to be had merely for the taking."
I heard laughter, then, faint and bitter.
Seventeen wounds, I have said. It was true. But Isidore d'Aiglemort was not quite dead of them when I found him.
"Phedre no Delaunay," he whispered, clutching at my hand. "I am afraid of your lord's revenge."
At first I thought he meant Delaunay; then I knew, through his clutching fingers, who he meant. Bronze wings of fear beat at my eardrums. I gave water to the dying, lifting the skin to his lips. "You have paid, my lord, and paid in full," I said compassionately. "And Kushiel sends no punishment that we are not fit to bear."
Isidore d'Aiglemort drank, and sighed; sighed, and died.
That, I kept to myself. It was no one's concern but our own; his, mine and Kushiel's.
Then I heard the wailing of the Dalriada.
It is an unearthly sound, high and keening, raising the hair at the back of my neck. I did not need to be told what it signified, that so many mourned at once. Releasing my grasp on d'Aiglemort's lifeless hand, I rose and turned. Some distance from me, Drustan shook off the healers' ministrations, standing awkwardly, his eyes dark with concern in the blue masque of his face.
We saw the Dalriada, clustered around one of the chariots, whose team stood steaming in the traces, heavy-headed. I could see the grief on Grainne's face, as she looked our way.
"Ah, no," I said. "No."
It was a long walk across the torn field, with the dead lying twisted in my path, blood seeping slow and dark into the dry soil and shredded rootlets. Drustan made it with me, his gait halt and painful; I daresay it cost him as much as it did me, pain flooding my body.
"Eamonn," I whispered.
They had taken him from the chariot and arranged his limbs so that he lay proud and straight on the blood-soaked earth of Terre d'Ange, and tugged at his armor so it concealed the terrible rent a Skaldi spearhead had made in his side. His hair, never as bright as his sister's, was stiffened to a white crest with lime, spiky against the dark soil.
Drustan seized his belt-knife and raised it unhesitating, sawing at a thick lock of his black hair. It gave way and he knelt reverently, placing the lock beneath Eamonn's cold hands.
"He was braver than lions and more stalwart than an oak," he said somberly to Grainne. "His name will live forever among the Cullach Gorrym."
She nodded, her grey eyes bright with tears.
I had brought him here. I did not have the right to mourn. "I'm sorry," I murmured to Grainne, to Drustan, to the Dalriada; to all of them, my voice choking. "I'm so sorry."
"My brother chose his fate." Even clad in bloodstained armor, Grainne had her dignity, her kindness. "You made him choose to be more than he would have, otherwise. Do not deny him that honor."
And I had scorned Joscelin, for his Cassiline pride. It is true, we are the same, in the end. Bowing my head, I borrowed Drustan's belt-knife, and cut a lock from my own hair, laying it thick and shining beside the Cruarch's. "Elua keep you, Eamonn mac Conor." I remembered how he had kept the army organized, when the Master of the Straits had parted us; how his sensible manner had aided Ghislain de Somerville when we struck out on D'Angeline soil. "We would have failed without you."
Kneeling, I wept, and wept for all of us.
"Phedre." A familiar voice, exhausted. I looked up to see Joscelin, mounted, scratched but unharmed. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. "You're in no shape to do this."
It was true; I knew it well enough to rise, obedient. All the length and breadth of the battlefield, D'Angeline troops were about the grim business of gathering the dead and tending to the dying, aided by chirur-geons and healers. "Your brother?" I asked him. "And your father?"
"They are well enough." Joscelin's voice was hollow. "They survived." He bowed to Grainne from the saddle, a Cassiline bow. "I grieve for your loss, my lady."
I turned to her and translated unthinking. Grainne smiled sadly. "Give him our thanks, and go with him, Phedre no Delaunay. We will tend to our own."
Drustan's nod echoed her words, and Joscelin extended his hand to me, leaning down from the saddle. I took it, and mounted behind him, and we began the long, slow ride back to Troyes-le-Mont.
NINETY-ONE
D' Aiglemort's surviving forces decided to a man to pursue the fleeing Skaldi.
The aftermath of war is a dreadful thing. If ever I had envied Ysandre de la Courcel her crown—and I had not—that would have cured me of it. To her fell the terrible choices of apportioning blame and punishment, upon the living and the dead.
In the end she chose wisely, I think, granting amnesty to those Allies of Camlach who chose their own dire fate, vowing their lives to hunting down the remainders of Selig's vast army. No one gainsaid it, the memory of Isidore d'Aiglemort's last, sacrificial battle too fresh in mind. As for those Skaldi who had surrendered; it was my counsel, among that of others, to accept ransom for them. I knew well how much D'Angeline treasure had found its way across the border, thanks to d'Aiglemort's sanctioned raids. In truth, I'd no heart for further bloodshed. But neither, I think, had Ysandre, nor many of her supporters.
So the Skaldi were ransomed, and sent home, and the borders were sealed against them.
Enough had died.
As for the reunion of Ysandre and Drustan, I was there to witness it. So were some thousands of D'Angelines and Albans. He came riding, with the Alban army at his back, while she threw open the gates of Troyes-le-Mont to welcome him.
They greeted each other as equals, then clasped hands, and he drew her hands to his lips and kissed them. Our conjoined armies shouted approval, though I did not see it reflected in all the eyes of the D'Angeline nobility.
Wars come and go; politics endure.
For those seeking a higher degree of romance, I can only say that
Ysandre and Drustan knew too well who and what they were: The Queen of Terre d'Ange and the Cruarch of Alba. With the armed forces of two nations watching, they dared be no less, and no more. I have come to know Ysandre passing well, since then, and I believe what fell between them behind closed doors was another matter. I know Drustan, too, and I know how he loved her. But they were monarchs alike, and had ever understood it would be so, and that is the face they showed to the nation.
One thing was sure; no one, publically, would dare speak against their union. We owed our lives and our sovereignty to Alba, and their allegiance was unquestioned. Amid the mourning and burying, the ransoming and the celebrating, a date was set, a wedding to be held in the City of Elua.
Joscelin and I were another matter.
I met his father and his brother, and two men-at-arms who had survived the terrible battle.
What I had expected ... I don't know. Nothing, truly; I was numb for days afterward, too tired to think. I spent days and nights at Ysandre's call, translating at will, for Cruithne and Skaldi alike. There were some others as skilled, it is true, in all that mass of folk, but none she trusted as she did me, Delaunay's other pupil. And there were the hospital wards too, with many Albans in them; and some of Phedre's Boys; as well, of whom no more than a dozen had survived. Wracked with anguish, I spent time at each of their bedsides.
Still, I found the time, when Joscelin informed me that House Verreuil would be leaving.
With d'Aiglemort's forces committed to the pursuit of the Skaldi, it freed Percy de Somerville to release the most far-flung vestiges of the Royal Army. The standing army, of course, would remain intact, mobilizing to reinforce the Skaldi border, but those who had abandoned home and hearth to serve were dismissed with thanks and honor; especially the wounded. There was a special ceremony, too, for the valiant spear-company of the Royal House of Aragon, whose commander made pledges of friendship on behalf of his King with not only Ysandre, but the young Cruarch of Alba as well.
