by Jeff Wheeler
“I thought an army was coming with you,” the red-haired giant growled. “This is all? Seventy knights?”
Doone looked defensive. “Don’t be harsh, Aspen. The prince ordered the army to halt at Blais for a while. He wasn’t sure how ready the city was to receive us.”
The Maid looked to Alensson curiously, nodding toward the giant of a man.
Alensson lowered his voice and whispered in her ear. “That’s Lord Hext, my wife’s uncle. He’s been defending the city. His nickname is ‘Aspen’ because of the coloring of the leaves in the autumn.”
Genette nodded knowingly and then strode forward. The giant looked down at her, unimpressed. “You’re a little wisp of a thing, aren’t you, lass?”
She did not cower before his size. “My letter was given to Lord Tenby?” she demanded.
Aspen Hext chuckled sardonically. “Aye, lass. And they put the herald in chains afterward and barraged us with arrows for the insult.”
Alensson watched her nostrils flare white. “Did they? To a herald?”
“They weren’t of a mind to heed your threat, lass. I gladly accept the help. I don’t care if the Fountain sent a crowing rooster to liberate us. This is war, and war is a messy thing. I have a room waiting for you to take a nap, little girl. Leave the men to plan this thing.”
“But he answered my letter,” she said stiffly, eyes blazing hot. “Didn’t he?”
Lord Hext gave her a second look, this one more guarded. “Aye, lass.”
“What did it say?”
“I’d rather not repeat the insults. Especially in the presence of a maid.”
“What did he say?” Genette asked, her voice dangerously close to a growl.
Alensson saw that Hext was goading her. But it was obvious the big man didn’t want to repeat the words. They were probably unseemly.
Aspen Hext shrugged. He was a soldier. Rough language didn’t concern him. “In part, he asked me to tell the little whore from Donremy to ply her trade in another city.” He gave her a stern look as he said it.
Putting her hand on her hilt, Genette marched right past him, causing a ruckus of confusion. Infuriated by the insult, Alensson followed her, as did many of the men, Hext and Doone included. She strode confidently, as if she had been in the castle a hundred times, and headed directly to the tower stairwell leading to the roof. The clang of armor spurs on the stone steps rang through the tower like a bell as the group ascended.
When they reached the roof of the turret, Alensson watched as Genette strode to the edge of the barricade, the sun glinting dazzlingly off her armor. She stood facing the Turrels, the wind sweeping her cropped hair back from her brow.
She leaned forward, planting one hand on the stone, and cupped the other hand by her mouth. “Lord Tenby! I am the Maid! Surrender the Turrels before I take them from you! This is your final warning before you drink from the Deep Fathoms!”
Could they even hear her words across the river? She had shouted them with all the emotion and rage in her heart.
They did hear her, for Alensson heard a building roar of riotous laughter from the other side of the river. Instead of launching arrows, the men began to mock Genette in the most vile language he’d ever heard soldiers utter.
Her face went dark with danger while her mouth turned down into a stern frown. She listened and did nothing for a while. Then she said darkly, almost to herself, but loud enough that they could hear it over the noise. “Beware of pride, sirs. It is always the stone that causes the stumble.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Siege of Lionn
Word finally reached them the following afternoon that the prince had ordered them to mount the attack. Alensson was relieved, for Genette had taken to pacing like a caged lioness, her temper short and easily provoked. At least the time they’d spent with the besieged half of Lionn had given them time to plan. Genette had impressed Aspen Hext, who’d expected she would cower from the enemy’s threats and insults. Together, the leaders of the group had discussed strategy, but Genette refused to trick or decoy their enemies or consider any strategy besides breaching the walls with scaling ladders. If the soldiers bore the abuse with determination, they would drive the defenders from the walls. The certain way she said it made Alensson wonder what she knew, what she had seen.
When the army decamped from Blais and arrived in Lionn after nightfall, they were greeted by the Ceredigic defenders. The enemy was outnumbered and quickly withdrew back into the city gates, barring the doors and lowering the portcullis. The battle for Lionn began almost at once, during the night, and soon Alensson was in the thick of it. He knew Genette was sleeping in the city across the river and she’d be angry no one had awakened her. But he also realized that the cover of darkness would help them mount the attack. The defenders were scrambling to cover the entire breadth of the wall, spreading their numbers thin in their effort to keep it protected. Alensson and Hext had agreed that it was too risky to send someone across the river in the dark to fetch Genette and that her presence would be more inspiring after sunrise when the troops could see her and her banner. She would get one more night of sleep before the images of war gave her nightmares.
As he moved amongst his men, trying to rally them, he heard shouts announcing the arrival of the Maid. Alensson was thunderstruck that she had crossed the river at night to join them. He pushed his way through the crowd until he found her. She sat there astride her horse, full armored and carrying her banner, her eyes filled with scolding anger.
“How did you cross the river?” he demanded, looking at the disheveled hair coming loose from the mail hood covering her head.
“I rode across,” she answered stiffly, and he stared at her in shock. The feat was impossible because of the depth of the river, and besides, the horse was not wet and neither was she.
“I don’t understand,” Alensson said gruffly.
“No, you don’t,” she answered. “But my words are true. Remember that the Fountain has power over all water. It awoke me in the night to tell me the battle had started. You should have sent for me.”
“It was too dangerous!” he said. “They attacked us when the rest of our men arrived, and we drove them off. Lord Hext thought it better to press our advantage under the cover of darkness.”
Genette nodded firmly. “It’s a good plan. You should have summoned me.”
He looked up at her on the horse. “It’s dangerous. We won’t breach the walls tonight. There will be chance to fight tomorrow, when everyone can see you. Come to the command pavilion. We can discuss it there.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “I said I would drive them out. And I will fulfill my vow.” She jerked the reins of her horse and headed toward the walls of the embattled city.
“Fountain help me,” Alensson muttered, then yelled for his horse and joined her.
Alensson followed the Maid all the way to the walls, where it rained arrows instead of water. Feathered shafts poked out of the grass and dirt of a field covered in fallen soldiers, many writhing in pain, many more dead. The men were shouting at each other, calls of challenge and rage that were not quite words. There was hatred between these two sides, and one could feel it in the air like a choking smoke. Every attempt to put a scaling ladder against the wall had been repelled, and men fell from great heights to lie crumpled on the ground with broken limbs. Archers from the walls continued to rain death down on them, but the archers on the Occitanian side found their marks as well. The cries of injury came from both sides.
The memories of Vernay were assaultive. Alensson’s heart was in his throat; his pulse was pounding in his skull. The longer they stayed, the more men would die. A crew of soldiers equipped with shields and a battering ram hammered at the main door. Each grunt and charge rocked the doors, but every few moments one of their numbers dropped, felled by archers. Alensson kept Genette in sight at all times, watching her cry courage to her men as she waved her banner before them. If a stripling girl had the courage to make hers
elf a target for her enemies, none of the men would dare break and run.
Another attempt was made to put a scaling ladder against the wall. Several men held it down while others began to climb. Genette planted her banner in the destroyed ground and rushed forward to help the attempt.
Alensson remembered her warning the instant before it happened.
An arrow pierced Genette’s chest, right near the neck, a blow that would have killed any man. Genette toppled backward from the force of the impact and the men around her watched, momentarily stunned. A cheer went up from the wall of defenders as Alensson raced over to her. She had warned him of this, but it was one thing to hear her tell it and another to see it happen. His heart breaking with sadness, he grabbed her beneath her arms and began pulling her away. Another man joined him, hoisting her legs so that they didn’t have to drag her. She groaned with pain from the movement, and cries of anguish rose in the air as the men watched the Maid be carried off the field, her banner rustling listlessly near where she had fallen.
“Fetch a surgeon!” Alensson shouted to a soldier with a panic-stricken face.
“Set me down!” Genette said through a grimace.
They had put some distance between themselves and the combat, and although arrows continued to fall nearby, they were stray ones. Alensson nodded to his fellow, and they carefully set her down. The arrow was embedded deep inside her. The wound would cripple her arm, he could see that at once—and that was only if she managed to survive the bleeding. The armor was stanching the wound somewhat, though, and he was surprised there was not as much blood as he’d feared. Of course, there was only moonlight and starlight to see by, no torches.
“Pull it out,” Genette said with a gasp, looking at his face.
“It may do more damage that way,” Alensson said, shaking his head. “Sometimes it’s better to push it all the way through. I sent for a surgeon.” His hands were shaking. The bitter taste of defeat was in his mouth—familiar and acrid. Could he survive another Vernay? He wasn’t sure he could bear it.
“Pull it out!” she insisted, grabbing his hand and trying to lift it.
He jerked away from her, recoiling. “I dare not! It could kill you!”
Genette’s face was pale. Several other soldiers had gathered around them. Suddenly, Aspen Hext pushed his way into the circle, shoving aside a bystander so hard the man went down.
“She fell?” Hext growled. The look of respect in his eyes was immense as he stared down at her writhing body. She had proved she was no figurehead of the army. She had struggled on the front lines alongside the bravest of them. “The men started to flee when they heard!”
Alensson looked back and saw the soldiers slinking away from the battle.
“Pull—it—out!” the Maid growled, her eyes finding Alensson’s. “It’s a bee sting. I need to get back there. They cannot flee. We must take the outer wall tonight!”
“Lass,” Lord Hext said. “You need a surgeon. It will take hours to get that out.” The huge red-bearded man turned to face Alensson. “I’ll carry her to the tent. Try to rally the men. No, girl, stop!”
Alensson had been looking at Lord Hext, so he hadn’t seen Genette reach for the arrow herself. With a cry of pain, she wrenched it from her shoulder and flung it aside.
“Get me up! Get me up!” she said viciously, grabbing the front of Alensson’s tunic to hoist herself up. Somehow the girl made it to her feet. Somehow, he didn’t know how, she stayed on her feet, though she wobbled.
“Back to the wall!” she said. “They need to see me! Back to my banner.”
She grabbed Alensson’s arm and started back the way they’d come. At first Alensson’s feet wouldn’t heed him—how could she be walking? How could she even be standing? He’d seen how deeply the shaft had penetrated her. She should be gushing blood; she should be dying. Though he genuinely believed she was the Fountain’s champion, this . . . well, he’d never seen the likes of this. Her stride grew stronger as they walked together, one of her hands clutching his arm, her other hand on the pommel of her sword. He noticed the raven symbol on the scabbard. It caught his eye, though he couldn’t explain why. Was she drawing strength from the blade Firebos? Was the Fountain itself pouring life back in to her?
“I told you this would happen, Gentle Duke,” she said, noticing his bafflement. “Why didn’t you believe me? The wound isn’t serious. I’ll be fine.”
When they reached her discarded banner, it was still upright, though there were several arrow holes in the fabric. Releasing her grip on him, Genette walked forward with calm strength and hoisted the banner again, crying out to her countrymen, “Courage! Courage! The Fountain is on our side! Take courage!”
A battle cry swelled from the ranks when the men saw her waving the banner again after having fallen to a mortal wound. The Fountain was on their side, and they could not lose. The soldiers had been peeling away from the wall, but they flooded back triumphantly. Three ladders started up again, but this time two of them held, and soldiers managed to clear the wall. Fighting broke out on the ramparts above, and bodies began to topple over, but it wasn’t clear which side they belonged to. Shouts of victory began to surge from the prince’s army.
Genette was quick to follow. Gripping the banner in one hand, she started scaling the ladder, using the arm that should have been permanently disabled to haul herself up the rungs. Alensson came up behind her, amazed at her endurance but determined to protect her. As soon as they cleared the rampart, several soldiers from Ceredigion charged at her with their swords. Alensson leaped in front of the Maid, his sword ringing from his sheath. He skewered one man and blocked the attacks of the others. Paying no attention to the danger she was in, Genette swung her banner over her head from atop the wall, and a roar of cheers sounded from below.
More and more soldiers from the Maid’s army arrived, and Alensson saw with satisfaction that the enemy was fleeing, abandoning the outer fortifications to try to reach the Turrels in time. There was more than one wall defending their position, and the tower would be even more difficult to breach. But somehow they had succeeded. He didn’t know the cost in life at this point, but it was worth it. In one night, they had begun to overturn the defenses of Lionn. By dawn, they would have shelter from the arrows of their enemies. They would have more supplies. They would win; finally, Alensson would be part of a victory.
“Watch, Gentle Duke,” the Maid said in his ear after he’d dispatched another soldier, killing him. He swiveled and looked, saw her arm pointing to the tower where their enemy had fled.
Men with torches stood atop it, overseeing the disaster unfolding below. He couldn’t see their faces, but their tunics bore the enemy’s standard.
One of the men was running down the narrow stairwell that wrapped around the outside of the tower wall, leading down to the battlements below. And he watched in horror as the man with the torch stumbled and then plunged off the tower wall, landing in the massive river with a splash that could be heard over the noise of the fighting.
“By the Veil!” Alensson gasped. “He was wearing armor too!”
He saw the corners of Genette’s lips start to curve. “He was indeed. That was Lord Tenby.”
“The commander? How do you . . . ?” Then he caught himself.
“I did warn him,” she said with a knowing smile.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Triumph
The mood in the army had changed overnight. By morning, the defeat Alensson had once seen in the eyes of the Occitanian soldiers had blossomed into hope. There were no shouted taunts and bravado from the defenders; all was stony silence. The outer walls of the defenses had been breached, and now the fighting was happening in the streets beyond.
Alensson hadn’t slept in almost two days and he felt weary and beleaguered, but the air was electric with energy. It was the same as the crackle of wood before a tree falls down. They were winning—they were finally winning! Deford’s army was still in Pree, it was said. He had neither
believed the Maid’s threat nor considered her a true danger. Now his captain in Lionn had drowned in the river and the defenders were leaderless and frightened.
But to finish what they started, they needed the Maid. Alensson walked through the makeshift camp outside the walls, making his way to Genette’s tent. He had sent a surgeon to attend to her wound. To his surprise, she was sitting up when he entered. Her breastplate and gauntlets had been removed, but she was still armored from the waist down. Her sweat-stained tunic was begrimed, and there was a huge tear in it from where the arrow had penetrated.
“How deep was the wound?” Alensson asked the surgeon.
“It was nothing,” Genette insisted.
The surgeon put his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “I don’t know how she pulled it out without bleeding to death. The wound seemed to . . . close on its own. I used no stitches.” He spoke the words in an undertone, as if even he did not totally believe them.
“I told you I wouldn’t need any,” Genette groused. “You’ve made me undress in front of all these men. Now let me put my armor back on so we can take the Turrels!”
Alensson sighed. “We had to be sure you were all right, Genette,” he said patiently. Her squire was already girding her again for battle. The surgeon shrugged in bafflement and then hurried from the tent to tend to the other wounded.
“That arrow should have killed you,” Alensson insisted.
As she shrugged on the breastplate, his eyes found the place where the arrow had pierced the metal. It was much more pronounced in the daylight. She frowned when she saw him looking at it. Then she sighed and looked him in the eye. “I am truly unhurt now,” she said, her voice dropping lower. “Would I be standing like this if I were pained? Thank you for your concern, Alen. One of the smiths can fix this in a trice.” Her voice became more urgent. “But later! We must go! How is the attack going? We must hammer at the towers until they fall. If they try to escape by boat in the river, we must stop them.”