Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  None of these hold cannonballs or stones, but the specially made projectiles and fire pots filled with the Dark Mother’s fire.

  Behind the artillery, fire pits roar, their flames crackling, eager and hungry for their work.

  Across the water, just within sight, are the machines of the second group of charbonnerie. By the time the ships see us, it will already be too late. The passage is too narrow here, and the way forward blocked by the chain, which the initiates of Saint Mer, along with six teams of oxen, helped retrieve from the deep.

  My blood fair bubbles with—I do not even know what I am feeling. The tension and apprehension before any fight, yes, but also a sense of standing on some precipice beside the Dark Mother herself.

  When the first of the ships finally reaches our location, my heart begins to beat faster, and a murmur of excitement runs through the charbonnerie. “Not yet!” Lazare says, his voice loud enough to reach them, but not so loud as to carry over the water.

  I keep my eyes glued to the ships. Men scramble on deck, trimming their sails, manning the rudder, and readying the anchor. Do they have any inkling or premonition of what is about to rain down on their heads?

  More ships come into view, filling the wide bay with their wooden hulls, canvas sails flapping in the wind. There are more here now than came to the duchess’s aid over a year ago.

  “Steady, steady,” Lazare says. We have set the artillery up behind a thin screen of trees and bushes so that the English will not catch sight of it, but with wide enough openings that our missiles can get through.

  At last, the first ship reaches the chain, which stops its progress altogether. The crew appears confused, growing more active as they try to see what the problem is. Then their confusion becomes alarm as the following ships draw ever closer. But still our signal has not come. The last of the ships has not yet entered the bay.

  “My lady?” I turn at the sound of Lazare’s voice. He holds up a burning torch. “Would you do the honors?”

  He means for me to light the incendiaries. “Have you forgotten how?”

  He does not rise to the bait. “The men would prefer that you light the first fire.”

  I draw in a sharp breath, but do not refuse. Instead, I take the torch from Lazare and wait for the three flaming arrows to arc up into the sky—our signal.

  May the Dark Mother bless this fire, I pray. And me, I add, for lighting it. I set my torch to the tightly bound and weighted explosives in the bucket of the catapult. The men bow, then Lazare takes the torch from me, and in the same time it took for me to light one weapon, they have lit them all.

  “Now!” Lazare orders.

  The wooden frame creaks as it lurches forward, followed by a ground-shaking whomp as a ball of flame is launched at one of the ships. The sailors barely have time to see it coming before the incendiary crashes onto the deck and explodes into a mass of thunderous flames. Screams quickly follow.

  A second incendiary is launched, then a third, each one striking a ship with deadly precision. Within moments the first six ships are consumed in flames. Behind them the crews on the other ships panic, but there is no room to maneuver, no room to tack or order the ships to turn around. In the distance we hear the boom of cannon as they launch similar loads into the last of the ships at the mouth of the bay.

  With the first dozen ships nearly engulfed in flames, it is time to move to the second stage of our plan.

  Once Lazare checks to make sure the charbonnerie have everything they will need for the second launch, we mount and, along with two dozen knights, begin riding north again. As Beast said, the bay is five miles long, and while our fires will take out the majority of the men, it is inevitable that some will escape. We must be ready for them.

  Along each shore, we have placed Arduinnite archers at quarter-mile intervals. Between their extraordinary hearing and their uncanny accuracy with their bows, they should be able to pick off individual sailors as they come stumbling out of the water. Beast and Maraud ride along the opposite shore, each with a force of fighting men. The direction of the wind will push any disabled ships in that direction rather than ours.

  For even as skilled as the charbonnerie are, it is impossible that they will hit each of the ships. Especially those in the middle, where the bay widens to its greatest distance. We have no way to get projectiles that far. And so we ride for the fire ship.

  Halfway between the chain and the coast, we pull in our horses and head toward the craggy outcropping. There is a small cove where the old ship has been waiting. It has been packed to the rafters with every flammable material imaginable: oil, pitch, straw, kindling, and resin. Two dozen of Saint Mer’s maids stand on the beach next to the charbonnerie. As Lazare rides into view, he raises his arm. Making no sound, the maids slip into the water while the charbonnerie use three culverins to launch three burning spears at the ship.

  It ignites immediately, the flames catching greedily. Slowly the ship moves away from the cove, the Mer maids in the water pushing it inexorably toward the English sitting in the middle of the bay.

  It is the stuff of sailors’ nightmares, a ship of fire heading straight for them. It does not take much for a ship to ignite. They are held together by pitch—a most eager fuel. One brush against flame, a falling ember, that is all it takes.

  The fire ship works even better than I could’ve imagined, careening through the bay like a drunken sailor, igniting each ship it touches.

  The crews do their best to put it out, but the Dark Mother’s fire is impervious to their efforts. Even when they pour water on it, the fire simply spreads faster.

  “How do you do that?” I ask Lazare.

  His eyes never leave the flames. “A charbonnerie secret.”

  “I thought I was allowed access to those?”

  He smiles. “Not all.”

  As we talk, we scan the shore, looking for any stray soldiers who may have slipped over the railing of the flaming decks and decided to take their chances in the water.

  We had thought my ability to detect heartbeats would help with locating survivors, but the noise of all the panicked heartbeats on the burning ships, combined with those of us attacking it, the roaring of the flames, and the mass exodus of souls leaving their bodies renders that skill useless. I join the Arduinnites in patrolling the shore, quietly slitting a throat here, or breaking a neck there. I feel no guilt, for this is war, after all, and this seems a far easier way to die than by fire.

   Chapter 87

  Genevieve

  It is a sea of flame. Of roiling, bubbling fire and the charnel of charred ships. The heat coming off the bay is hot enough to peel skin, so I wrap my scarf around the lower half of my face. The water churns—with falling timber, flailing men, and the eager arms of the Saint Mer’s maids who greet them. Those in armor do not even put up a fight, the weight of their breastplates and chain mail ensuring their fate. I hope the Mer maids at least make it more pleasant.

  Others leap into the water and strike out toward shore, struggling to avoid the flaming debris. The charbonnerie fire does not extinguish in water, but spreads.

  I watch one man dodge a flaming mast, go under it, then come up on the other side, only to be met by a Mer maid. He shoves away from her and swims hard for the shore.

  The relief he feels when he reaches land is palpable. Such odds he has overcome. But I can still feel his heart beating. One of Arduinna’s arrows, so swift and silent that he must look down at his chest to understand what is happening, claims him. His soul does not hover or return to his body, but is caught in the massive updraft of the fire and carried aloft like ashes on the wind.

  This happens time and time again, too many for me to count. When enough come ashore at once or are out of the archers’ range, I am there to greet them as they crawl from the wreckage. They are surprised at first, relieved it is a woman, mayhap with a tender heart come to bestow mercy.

  And in a way that is true, although the mercy I grant them is not what they are
hoping for. I smile at them, always a smile, to acknowledge their valiant struggle, to acknowledge their humanity, to grant them a welcome as death claims them with a swipe of my knife across their throats.

  I try also to bless their souls, but the updraft of the fire is so great they are gone before I can utter the words. I like to think they can hear them anyway.

  I do not know how long this grisly task takes. It feels as if we have been at it forever, but by the faint glow of the sun behind the thick haze of smoke, it has been no more than a few hours.

  A few hours to create such devastation.

  A few hours to prevent an enemy force from bringing more war to our land.

  As Aeva and I follow the curve of the shore, there is a lull in the chaos, the roar of the ships’ fires finally diminishes somewhat, or mayhap the wind simply shifts, carrying the sound to the far shore instead. But in that lull my heart begins to beat so frantically that I can barely hear the sound of clashing metal, thudding blades, and shouts of men. And then, as if it were the gentle stroke of his finger against my cheek, Maraud’s heart rises above the others. No!

  “Aeva!”

  We scramble over a rocky outcropping covered with scrub brush. Two ships—untouched by fire—have drifted aground in the shallows. On the shore below is a narrow path from the river bank blocked by Maraud, who is cutting the enemies down as soon as they appear. So why the heartbeat?

  “There!” Aeva points.

  Slightly upriver, one of their captains has pulled the bedraggled remnants of his army into a decent fighting force. They are approaching from the north, hidden by the trees. And while they are on foot, they are armed, and there are nearly a hundred of them.

  “Behind you!” I scream, trying to get their attention over the noise of the fighting.

  Led by Jaspar, most of Maraud’s small force wheel their mounts around and charge toward the coming attack. Andry stays back to cover Maraud and Tassin as they try to finish off the encroaching stragglers. I unhook the crossbow I have been carrying all morning.

  Aeva reaches for her bow as well. “It will be hard to avoid our own men, so stick to the fringes where the bulk of the enemy are.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard,” I mutter, “as there are six times as many of them.” Maraud’s heart is still beating frantically, as are dozens of others. Just inside the trees, the commander motions with his hand. Twenty archers run forward.

  “Archers!” I bellow down at the others. As if spurred by my words, Maraud administers two final sweeping blows, then wheels his horse around and rides directly for the bowmen, cutting through them like kindling.

  Aeva is far faster and more accurate with her bow, but I manage to pick off close to twenty. Maraud’s force—though small—is a wonder to behold. Maraud stands in his stirrups, his sword swinging first to his left and then to his right. Seeing him thus, it is hard not to squirm with embarrassment, remembering my bold proposition that he spar with me.

  Whether because the English are weary, or seasick, or simply disheartened by the turn of events, the fight does not last long, in spite of the uneven numbers.

  When it is over, the men begin loading the fallen English back into the skiffs they used to come ashore. As the first boat is filled, pale, slender arms reach out of the water to claim it, but for what, I do not know.

  I climb down from the outcropping to find Maraud. He is doubled over, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face. His knife flashes near one of the bodies—not doubled over, then—the captain, I think.

  “Is he dead?”

  Maraud slips something into the leather pouch at his waist. “Yes.”

  I glance back at the body and see it is missing two fingers.

  “His signet rings,” Maraud says shortly. “I’ll be damned if I’ll stand before the king and make two accusations with nothing to back up my words. The Earl of Northumberland’s seal should convince him.”

  A horse on the gallop calls our attention, and Maraud reaches for his sword. A messenger from the city garrison rides into the clearing, his horse lathered. “They’re here!” he yells.

  Maraud heads for his horse. “Rohan’s troops?”

  “No,” the messenger says. “Pierre d’Albret’s. Over three thousand of them. They will reach the city within the hour.”

   Chapter 88

  Sybella

  The charbonnerie and I barely make it back to the city before they close the gates. “How far out are they?” I ask as I dismount, my gaze searching the courtyard for Beast.

  “Half an hour, my lady,” the groom says. “Maybe more.”

  “And Captain Waroch?”

  “In the gatehouse.”

  Inside the gatehouse, I shoo away the incompetent squire fussing with Beast’s armor and take over the task myself. “None of this armor is big enough for you,” I complain as I tug on the straps of the largest breastplate we could find. There is still too much room for a sharp blade or well-shot arrow to get through. Hopefully, the chain mail hauberk he wears will stop them.

  Beast grins, that part feral, part holy light that appears during battle already beginning to glow from him like a newly lit candle. “It will be fine.”

  He cannot know that. It is only his indomitable will, his optimistic nature, and the love of battle that is his gift from Saint Camulos that has him thinking so. I reach for his gauntlet and slip it over his left hand.

  “My squire can do this,” he says softly.

  I tug harder. “I want to do it, you thick-witted goose.” I want to assure myself that every gap is sealed, every strap tightened, and every moment we have together savored, in case—no. I will not let myself think it. To have Beast die on any battlefield will shred my heart to tatters, but to die while fighting Pierre will turn those tatters into the bitterest of thorns.

  “Sybella.” He lifts his ungauntleted hand to my face. So much love shines there that it hurts. I cannot have that snatched from me. Do not want to live without that in my life. He brings his head down and kisses me, aching and tender at first, then slowly filling with more passion as his exuberance for life rises up.

  I break the kiss. “Give me your other hand, you lummox. We’ve not much time.” Focused on the buckles at his wrist, I say, “If you get us out of this, I’ll marry you.”

  His heart pauses before thudding twice against his ribs. “I thought you said no.”

  I did, because I am an imbecile. “I changed my mind.”

  “And now is the time to discuss this?”

  “What better time? Besides,” I say lightly, “I know you like an incentive.”

  “That I do.” He flashes that feral grin of his, even more determined to vanquish this foe.

  “I must go.”

  “I know. Have a care for yourself. If not for your sake, then for mine.”

  He grins again. Truly, he is worse than a court jester. “How can I not after what you have promised me?”

  And with that, he is gone, disappearing into the barely contained chaos of our defenses making ready in the courtyard. There are one hundred fifty mounted knights, including Beast and the queen’s guard and Maraud and his men. Four hundred soldiers from the city garrison, and another two hundred conscripted from the locals and armed with Beast’s beloved pikes. It is not nearly enough. Not against the forces Pierre brings.

  I make my way to the ramparts, determined to make myself useful.

  On the battlements I can see Pierre’s forces in the distance, his standard-bearer riding ahead of the party. A cloud of dust swirls on the horizon from the pounding of their horses’ hooves.

  Our knights have positioned themselves two hundred paces in front of the city gate, just behind the central ditch they spent nearly a week digging. Their horses snort and paw at the ground, as eager to fight as the men they carry. In front of them is a line of thirty Arduinnite archers.

  Beast and Maraud hang back closer to the gate, making final adjustments to their strategy, their deep voices carrying up to me.
“If your father is with them, he will know this maneuver. He is the one who drilled it into our heads time and again.”

  “I know.” Maraud’s voice is devoid of emotion.

  “Will he warn d’Albret?”

  “I am hoping his willingness to sacrifice so much for me will include his saying nothing.”

  “He does not need to say anything—he need only veer away to alert them to the trap.”

  “If he starts to veer, we shoot him first.” Then Maraud steers his horse away from Beast out of the gate to the waiting troops.

  Gen appears beside me, her face so pale I fear she will faint. “There are too many,” she says.

  “Don’t think about the odds,” I tell her as I take her hand.

  “Where are we going? I will not sit safely in some guarded room to spare myself the discomfort of what is happening.”

  I stop walking to look at her. “Is that what Maraud wanted you to do?”

  “No, but the garrison commander did.”

  I snort and continue walking. “We are going to do all in our power to increase their odds.”

   Chapter 89

  Genevieve

  The ramparts are frantic with preparation for our approaching enemy. Sybella picks Lazare out of the crowd and heads directly for him. We weave our way through scores of charbonnerie readying their weapons for the coming battle. “There.” Sybella points at two dozen hook guns and arquebuses propped against the crenelated wall as we go by. “That is how we will help them. Lazare will show us how. And I want to see if he was able to prepare the fire rain.”

  Lazare does not look up at our approach. “If you say I told you so, I will hit you, even if you are a lady.”

  Looking nearly angelic, Sybella says, “I would never be so tactless. Besides, it was not my idea—Beast insisted on having a third and fourth plan in place.”