“How many?” Offert asked.
“It’s smaller. Probably a thousand at most,” Elias admitted, shrugging. He gestured toward the left flank, where a handful of men were urgently triaging the wounded who’d been blown back by the elf’s blessing. “But they’re likely going to be just as magic as that bastard. Each one could kill a dozen men in seconds.”
“How?”
Grimacing, he shook his head. “Later—it’s complicated. But we should have at least a month before they reach the frontier.”
Offert grunted an acknowledgement and studied the ranks for a moment. Distractedly, he rubbed his leg a few inches above where his wound had been healed. Then, for just an instant, his gaze flickered to Gilla before returning to Elias.
“I assume you had something to do with that rockslide earlier?” he asked. At Elias’ nod, he glanced at Gilla again. “Your friends have any more surprises ready?”
“Not big ones,” Elias said. “But the elves won’t expect to see trow here. If we can surprise their officers, they may assume they’re outnumbered and try to withdraw.”
“They are outnumbered,” Offert growled irritably, “for all the good it’s done.”
Elias said nothing. And, after a moment, Offert gestured to the row of windows where several of his archers were loosing arrows into the elven ranks. “There’s a ladder to the roof,” he said. “There’s nothing to hide behind so the fuckers should see you right away.”
“Any spare bows?”
“They didn’t bring any?” Offert snapped. Waving vaguely at the two-story structure, he turned to one of his aides with an air of finality. “There should be some inside.”
Elias could tell when he was being dismissed. Taking Gilla by the arm, he steered her away from the circle and back to the others. He could feel many of Offert’s subordinates staring after them but ignored them. They had bigger concerns than suspicion or impropriety.
It took only a few seconds for Gilla to explain the plan. The trow didn’t look terribly happy about the prospect, but none protested. Avans, on the other hand, scowled as he eyed the building.
“There’s not going to be anywhere to hide,” he pointed out. “If this doesn’t work, the elves are going to use us for archery practice.”
“It’ll work,” Elias promised. He hoped he was right. Knowing Gilla, she might have the energy to heal a few more minor wounds. But if the loss of her mother was any indication, an arrow to the chest or neck would still be fatal, blessing or no blessing.
The door leading into the ground floor room was unguarded. The interior looked to have been shared by both a weaver and a tailor. One of the corners was dominated by a large loom and the various tables throughout the place had been dragged into a row at the back wall. Tapestries, decorative carpets, and articles of clothing lay strewn across the floor, many of which had been ripped to tatters to create bandages. The room was unoccupied, save for a very startled quartermaster and his assistant, both of whom gawked at the elves as they filed inside.
“Bows,” Elias snapped, startling both men. The senior indicated a pile of the weapons leaning against the wall, while his assistant dragged out a case of bowstrings from beneath one of the tables. Quivers were easier to find, though most of them were half-empty. Evidently, Offert needed to have a word with the fletchers in charge of overseeing the city watch’s armory.
The elves armed themselves without waiting for Elias or Gilla’s command. Two of their number, both older males, strung the weapons with practiced efficiency before distributing them to the rest. To Elias’ surprise, both Avans and Rhona stepped forward to claim ones as well. While he had no idea if Rhona was a capable archer, he knew from experience that Avans definitely was not.
“Don’t hit any of ours,” he reminded the man, earning a glare. Then, to the rest, he added, “Remember: spread out as much as you can. We want the elves to think there are more of us than there actually are.”
Several of the trow nodded as Gilla translated his words. One of the males approached and offered him a bow, which he accepted. Then, snatching up a half-full quiver from one of the displaced tables, he hurried for the stairs. The ladder was at the end of a hallway, lined on either side with apartments, presumably belonging to the shop owners. He climbed it as well, awkwardly holding his borrowed bow and quiver with one hand as he ascended.
The noise of the battle had dwindled slightly while inside but returned with a vengeance as he hauled himself onto the roof. Half a dozen archers crouched at the far edge of the rooftop, sheltering behind a lip no taller than Elias’ shin as they nocked their next arrows. One of the men spotted him as he emerged and gestured urgently for him to keep low. Elias did so, but the man was no longer looking at him. Instead, the man yelped and aimed his bow at Gilla as she nimbly climbed onto the rooftop as well.
“Wait!” Elias cried, gesturing.
He was too late. Panicked, the man ignored him and loosed. Fortunately, he missed and the dart flew a solid foot over Gilla’s head before vanishing into the city behind them.
“Stop, damn it!” Elias bellowed. He stood tall, gesturing far more violently than before, and stomped forward, heedless of the danger. Another arrow flew, this time from the elves on the ground, but he did not duck until he was confident the man had regained his senses. “They’re on our side, you imbecile!”
The archer stared, incredulous, then turned to the man beside him—the only one who’d so far taken no notice of Elias or Gilla. “Sergeant?” he said.
“I heard him,” said the sergeant. Still, he did not turn to look. Instead, he twisted his body to expose as little of it as possible, lifted his bow, and fired off an arrow before dropping back into cover. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got elves with me,” Elias explained. “And we the ones down there to see us. Can we borrow your roof?”
“Be my guest,” the sergeant said. Louder, he ordered, “Head downstairs and fill your quivers. We’ll use the windows for now.”
The archers complied at once, crawling or shimmying away from the roof’s lip and making their way to the open ladder. Elias saw many cast wary glances at Gilla and the rest of the crouching trow, but there were no further mistakes made. The sergeant was the last to leave. It was only then that he turned to look Elias in the eye.
“Good luck,” the man said.
Elias merely nodded. He waited until the sergeant had descended to join his men and then turned to Gilla.
“All right,” he said. “We want to look organized. Can you—?”
She didn’t wait for him to finish. Gesturing curtly to the others, Gilla crept her way to the edge of the rooftop. The trow followed her example, nudging Elias aside and forming a rough, scattered line. Up close, the formation looked clumsy and unconvincing and Elias fervently hoped that the impression would be quite different when seen from below.
“Ieska!” Gilla roared.
Startled, Elias watched as the trow nocked arrows and braced themselves. He was doubly startled when a hand, Avans, grabbed hold of his shoulder and drew him a few crouching steps away from the trow.
“Just wait,” the man said. “She knows what she’s doing.”
“Ost!” Gilla commanded.
The trow rose in unison, much higher than the men had dared, and loosed a volley down toward their foes before ducking back into cover. It was hardly a devastating attack—even if every dart had succeeded in felling an elf, Elias doubted the elven commanders would even have noticed the loss—but the effect upon the elves below was far from insignificant. A chorus of bellowed, apparently conflicting orders erupted from the lines below. Dozens of arrows peppered the roof’s lip while others leapt harmlessly overhead. Even when Gilla and the trow did not reappear, the retaliatory volley continued mostly unabated.
“Tuo atavan!” Gilla shouted. None of the trow moved an inch, though Elias saw several grin impishly. Confused, he glanced around then turned to Rhona.
�
�What did she say?” he asked.
Rhona did not share their grins but her eyes were bright with grudging admiration. “Next ones… next soldiers forward,” she explained.
“Ieska!”
“Prepare,” Rhona translated without prompting.
Elias grinned. Clearly, Gilla knew exactly what she was doing. And, more importantly, the elves below appeared to be falling for it. Another volley of desperate, ineffective arrows flew their way. Gilla waited for the tide of bolts of subside, and then—
“Ost!”
The trow rose, loosed, and then ducked back into cover. Or, rather, most did. One of the older males, one of the pair who’d strung the bows, was not swift or lucky enough to escape. He cried out as he toppled backward, the shaft of an arrow protruding from his shoulder.
Gilla was at his side in an instant, the usual prayer flowing inaudibly from her lips. She plucked the arrow from the male’s shoulder, pressed a hand to the spurting wound and her lips to his a second later. Thrashing slightly, the male grimaced as she pulled back. But then, after a further few seconds, he sat up, nodded, and retrieved his bow from the spot where it had fallen.
“Tuo atavan!” Gilla repeated.
The cycle repeated twice more. The trow rose, fired, and sheltered again. The first time, none of them were wounded. The second, however, a pair of trow fell to arrows—both in the arm. Gilla healed the pair as quickly as she could, but Elias couldn’t help but notice afterward that the second casualty was not quite as hale as the first. The trow’s wound shrank significantly and he nodded that he was able to resume the fight, but a thin trickle of blood continued to leak down his arm as he recovered his feet, puddling beneath him on the rooftop.
“This isn’t working,” Elias muttered. Abandoning Avans and Rhona, he inched forward to peer over the edge as carefully as he could. The elves below continued to fight, much as they had been, but some thirty-odd archers had been collected from their ranks and stood between the infantry and their officers. All their attention was on the rooftop. Even as Elias peered down at them, one of the archers gestured and a half-dozen of them loosed arrows in his direction. He ducked just in time and felt the wind of the darts passage overhead and heard the soft thunk of several as they embedded themselves in the side of the building.
“This isn’t working,” he said again, carefully crawling back to Rhona’s side. He glanced at Gilla, but she was busy with the others. “We didn’t come here just to help fight. Unless we can scare the elves into retreating, there’s no point to this!”
“Just give it time,” Avans protested.
Elias ignored him. He understood where the man was coming from, but was in no mood for a lengthy discussion. The longer the fight continued, the less effective Gilla’s healing would be. And as soon as the elves realized that their volleys were gradually taking effect, that there was not, in fact, a near endless supply of trow manning the rooftop, the façade would fail.
Rhona looked at him then. The Gwydas’ face was calm and serene, but there was something in her eyes. It wasn’t fear—not exactly. More like apprehension mixed with a touch of dreadful inevitability.
“Rhona?” he said, brows knitting.
She didn’t answer him. Instead, she climbed to her feet.
“What are you doing?” Elias yelped. He grabbed for her, but she shrugged free. “Rhona, get down!”
She continued to ignore him. Clasping her hands behind her back, she strolled toward the roof’s edge. From the squaring of her shoulders and the smoothness of her steps, she projected an aura of confidence and invulnerability that Elias would have found incredible had he not been so abjectly terrified for her. And, as several arrows flew past her, miraculous in their inaccuracy, he felt his heart leap into his throat.
“Kaba’wei!” Rhona barked.
Her voice was unlike any Elias had ever heard from her, full of scorn and authority, and the equal of any primarch or Governor-General. He understood, suddenly, how she had managed to cement herself as a Gwydas at such a relatively young age.
Turning slightly, Rhona gestured cuttingly as if addressing someone standing over Elias’ shoulder. He turned, confused, but there was no one there.
“Atan!” she roared. Her projected voice carried, somehow managing to rise above the din of continual battle below. “Hefal lo ambrosianan! Et—”
She faltered, staggering slightly as an arrow finally struck home. Then she straightened and Elias’ lungs closed as he spotted the shaft sticking from the meat of her thigh. Glancing down, she snapped the shaft in two and hurled the useless fletching from the roof with unmistakable derision.
“Et lo tymissan!” she continued, unabated. The only sign she noticed her wound at all was a slight growl that crept into her voice. She turned to gaze down at the two armies. Many soldiers on both sides stared up at her in confusion and disbelief. Grinning, she gestured again. “Hurry,” she called down. “Kill the elves! All of them!”
The response was immediate and enthusiastic. The soldiers of Islesmark may have been taken aback to see an elf staring down from their side of the battle, much less presuming to give orders, but they certainly weren’t in the mood to disobey. Roaring with newfound bloodlust, their ranks pushed forward.
The elves, on the other hand, appeared petrified. The front lines continued their desperate assault unabated, but the rear of their formation seemed to crumble. Several of them, junior officers presumably, abandoned their men as they raced back to confer with their superiors. Several of the archers continued to fire instinctively, but most were similarly frozen.
“Tuo atavan!” Gilla bellowed.
Rhona turned smoothly and strode toward them. She moved smoothly, disguising the pain and weakness of her wounded leg. Then, the instant she was effectively hidden from sight, she collapsed with a barely suppressed wail of pain. “Kaba!” she whimpered, clutching her knee. “Kaba lo Tekali!”
Elias rushed to her side. Gilla, likewise, abandoned her comrades and raced toward the wounded Gwydas on all fours.
“Kabsan!” the trow hissed as she examined Rhona’s leg.
Elias left Gilla to her work. Focusing instead on Rhona, he held her tightly against his chest as Gilla began to pray.
“What was that?” he demanded, unable to help himself. “What did you say?”
“A bluff,” Rhona explained. She grinned, despite herself, but her expression quickly lost its humor as Gilla pried the broken arrow free of her leg. Tears filled her eyes anew as she clawed at Elias’ arm and a squeal of pain escaped through her clenched teeth. It took nearly half a minute before her fingers ceased to dig into the skin of his arms.
“A bluff?” he prompted. He glanced at Rhona’s leg and was alarmed to find that the wound had barely closed at all. It continued to leak blood past Gilla’s fingers.
Wordlessly, Avans made for the ladder—presumably in search of bandages.
“A bluff,” Rhona repeated. She was breathing hard, her face pale and her eyes closed. “I want them to hear. I… I say…”
“Idiots. Fetch the ambrosians,” Gilla supplied. “And the spell-singers.”
The roars from the ground doubled in intensity. They were so deafening that Elias could not tell whether the elves or men were the source. He gave Rhona’s hand a reassuring squeeze and shimmied free of her weight. Ducking low, he hurried toward the trow at the roof’s edge. The two nearest shifted to make room for him.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, gazing down.
The elves were withdrawing.
Chapter Thirty-One
It was only thanks to Offert and a hastily dispatched array of senior officers that the much-depleted army did not give chase. They did eventually, of course, but Elias was relieved to see that Offert took a minute or two to reform the ranks and drag the wounded to safety before allowing his men to pursue. They were near enough to the docks that the first of the elves had already scrambled back aboard their ships by the time th
e reorganized militia reached them. And although Elias briefly worried that the elves would note the profound lack of ambrosians or spell-singers, Offert’s men managed to distract them long enough to make a second assault unimaginable. Flaming arrows might have been pointless during an ordinary skirmish, but they could do wonders to a ship’s vulnerable rigging and sails.
The first of the elven ships had already withdrawn their disembarking planks and were attempting a clumsy escape from the harbor by the time Elias abandoned the rooftop. Avans had returned with bandages and though Rhona’s leg still bled lightly, Gilla assured them that the wound was healed beyond immediate danger. So, after helping Rhona down the ladder with no small amount of difficulty and unstringing a bow to fashion a makeshift cane, they carefully made their way out into the street.
They’d gone all of four steps before two dozen of Offert’s men were on them. Their sudden approach was such a surprise that Elias found three spears hovering inches from his chest before he even thought to draw his sword. The trow were equally caught off guard and several growled affronted curses in their native tongue. Elias didn’t quite catch them all, but the ones he recognized were sufficiently foul that he was immediately grateful that the men detaining them could not understand them.
“What is this?” he demanded, once he recovered. Scowling, he knocked one of the spears aside and was rewarded with a painful jab in the ribs from one of the remaining pair. “Who’s in command here?”
“I am,” answered a smooth, oddly honeyed voice.
The soldiers parted slowly, never taking their eyes off Elias and the rest, to reveal a tall, elegant man wearing a captain’s breastplate. The rest of his clothing was far more elegant than it was practical. From his polished boots to the detailed embroidery on his sleeves, every inch of the man spoke of refinement. And, judging by the deference and obedience afforded him by Offert’s men, authority as well.
Elias had never seen the man before. That alone made him wary. Though he’d frequented the circles of Islesmark’s rich and powerful less often since Catherine’s death, he was at least passingly familiar with all of them. That he was unfamiliar with the man before him was therefore doubly alarming.
Ambassador (Conqueror of Isles Book 1) Page 25