Chapter 4

“We’re to advance under your protection, Elect, and slow those trebuchets,” Captain Blick told me.

“How many?” Archers trotted out to fill the cavalry’s gap far quicker than armsmen, but the stream of them still reached to the crest of the hill behind us.

“Two thousand, Elect.”

At bow range, Arcea would return shots, and my widest shield… “I won’t be able to protect them all,” I had to admit.

Captain Blick nodded. “The sooner we start, the sooner we stop those fucking things.”

“Elect!”

I turned as the new trebuchet volley loosed and tapped Jenner to walk ahead of my line. Pain ate at my focus, but I lashed the fire-pots from the sky. No more kir-fire surprises; those would cost their elect a good deal of kir.

Rostislav drew up beside me. “Are you well enough? Do you need kir?”

My quilted gambeson was burned to the elbows, but the fire hadn’t reached my skin. A swath of my right thigh throbbed. That pain was what I had to focus through. “Well enough,” I told him.

Behind me, the standard-bearer and Captain Blick advanced. Archers didn’t keep such neat lines as knights or armsmen but they all had their bows strung and arrows nocked. I rode ahead of them, at a walk, with my King’s Guards clustered around me. Two thousand pairs of yellow hawk’s eyes were unnerving, when focused on my back.

Click. Creak.

I’d be hearing those in my nightmares, no doubt.

All three trebuchets hurled at my archers, all double loads of fire-pots. My joints counted them off: two on one side, two on the other, and then the center pair were too low when I struck them. Flaming oil sprayed across the ranks, catching two of my knights as well as the archers. I put up my hand but the fire ignored me for a heartbeat.

Focus.

Burning released kir, Qadeem had told me. Thus, it was free in the flame and could be taken. It came to my hand warm and eager and circled for a heartbeat before sinking into my flesh.

We drew closer to the stake-filled ditch and the earthworks. The dark smudge behind the wall resolved into helmeted heads, shoulders, here and there an arm as someone gestured. Too far for faces, though. I watched the trebuchets’ heads draw down below the line of the wall and the counterweight basket on the near end rise. One corner of my mind wondered how they’d adjust for our shorter range.

A shockwave passed over me, weakened by the distance but it snapped my head around toward the side gate. Someone had died, an elect or a saint — kir arced, again, to Saint Woden. It splayed out, and the size of it kept my gaze on the side gate. That had to be a full Shepherd’s blade. He lived, at least. But who had — was Kiefan —?

“Company halt!” the captain behind me shouted and the order echoed back from his men.

I put my worry aside. We stood four hundred feet, perhaps, from the wall. “Captain!” I twisted in the saddle to look for the man. “Are their archers readying to shoot?”

Rather than answer, the captain sent a man up to stand beside me. He surveyed the enemy for a moment, then looked up at me with golden hawk eyes. “They’re gathering on the wall, Elect, but not ready yet. Could be more behind, too.”

I had the better part of two kir-rations left, but I knew I couldn’t knit a shield wide enough to protect more than a few hundred archers. “They’ll shoot in a mass, as we do? And what’s your name?”

“Most likely. Baldwin Harke, in your service, m’lady.”

“Take aim!” the archery captain shouted behind us.

To my saint, I sent an image of a kir-vine lashing across a cloud of arrows, as a question. He answered quickly.

/ bladed vine /

That was an impression of sharpness, as in my little Shepherd blades.

/ speed /

Pages from one of my teacher’s books flashed past; his diagrams of the speed Blessing in use. Or, what parts he could fit onto a page at once. The charms in that raced from brain to spine to muscle too fast for even him to parse out.

The progression of red ink lines hung in my mind. In my core, my kir rippled, spun into threads that echoed the patterns across my shoulder and arm.

“Loose!”

Two thousand shafts hissed behind me, rising over my head in a dark cloud. I looked up as they flew and a few droplets of rain fell on my face. Their archers loosed as our arrows poured down.

I spooled out a long vine of kir, drawing my mind across it to whet a knife-edge into its pattern. Anders had said one needed to know the action before one could do it at speed; this was nothing so complicated as sword-fighting, but I focused on sweeping my arm across the cloud. What effect our arrows had, I didn’t see for tracking their answering volley. Behind me, the captain ordered his men to take aim again.

Range was easier to guess this time. The arrows passed the mark I’d set and I felt my arm tense — and suddenly it was slung over to my other side and the kir-vine snapped back into my hand. The arrow cloud burst in a wild array of splinters for thirty feet to either side of me. Fletching and arrowheads scattered, largely harmless. Some shafts had escaped me, though, and I heard scattered cries of pain.

“Loose!” the captain ordered. A fresh swarm of arrows shot up.

“Baldwin, the enemy?” I asked.

“We cut a fucking swath through them, m’lady.”

“Ready!” our archery captain shouted again and arrows rattled from hip-slung quivers to nock against bowstrings. A few more drops of rain struck me.

Thunder cracked and fire exploded by the left-most trebuchet. I hadn’t noticed that houses were ablaze over there. A patch of arrows shot up, from between the left and the center, and after a couple heartbeats a patch from over on the right. Our captain shouted orders to aim half our hawk-eyes to either side as I spooled out another sharp-edged vine and swatted down the Arceal arrows.

Few of them reached my archers. All of ours reached them.

In the center, a click and a creak and as the long trebuchet arm swung up, kir snapped out and smashed the fire-pots in its sling. Fire streamed and tumbled down onto their own wall.

Over my shoulder, I shouted, “Archers, hold!” If Kiefan and Woden were near the center trebuchet, I didn’t want to add our arrows to their troubles.

We waited. The Arceal archers didn’t answer our last volley. A vague ruckus came from Ansehen but nothing definite. Ambulances reached us, at last, and I dismounted Jenner to help them. I drained off my kir quickly, charming men who’d been hit by arrows — but I took theirs in payment. I left cleansing and bandaging for the infirmary and mended only what was worst.

The stream of their pain wore at my mind. I pushed it aside. These men had counted on me for protection and I did all I could to mend them. My teeth clenched, over their wounds, as the ambulances drove away with them. Kir was not the matter; I had to ration out my focus. The haze of fatigue was creeping in and healing charms tried to twist under my hands. Stubborn patterns resisted me. The day wasn’t over yet.

I returned to Jenner and heard Lieutenant Rostislav’s report of what we knew of the enemy. One of my Guard had dismounted and Baldwin sat in the saddle, craning his neck to see. Fire had spread, in Ansehen, even though a light rain was falling now. As I watched, kir arced across the sky overhead, green and gold, to answer Saint Woden’s call.

All three trebuchets stood with arms straight up, out of the action. It was past noon, I was sure, though without the sun it was tricky to judge. The terror of advancing and our attack gave way to waiting for some sign or word of orders. Light rain thinned to a drizzle. My archers unstrung their bows and protected the strings with oilskin.

Messengers rode up from behind us, asking for news and trotting off with our reports. It was the rider who came from the left, the side gate, that caught my eye first. Then, the man’s face — it was Sir Garrick, one of the King’s Guard.

His brown horse was so splattered with red I’d think it a pinto, but the animal seemed unhurt. Sir Garrick was, himself, slowly dripping from one shiny-wet boot, and his mail glistened. I didn’t think it was merely well oiled, given the coppery stink rolling off him.

“Elect Kate, Saint Woden commands you to advance to the gate and open it,” he reported, saluting. “He wants the elect who’s been giving you such trouble. Alive, by preference, but if not…” Garrick shrugged, just as I could imagine Woden had.

“Are you well?” I felt I should ask, though Sir Garrick didn’t show any pain.

“A few bruises — oh, this?” He glanced down and his brows jumped. He hesitated with his mouth open. “Best to come in the front gate, m’lady. Truly.”

The elect who’d given me such trouble — my archers that was, and the armsmen before them. And the pot of kir-fire. My thigh still tingled with hot needles where it had touched me. Poor Jenner had burns of his own, which he kept trying to lick.

A chance to repay that.

I told Captain Blick to do as he saw fit and he scattered his men in clumped squads to approach the wall. Several came with me, trotting ahead, sweeping to either side, their bows at ready. Now and then an Arceal head appeared over the wall and caught a shaft above his nose. Our hawk-eyes rarely missed.

But it wasn’t any sort of real resistance, that was clear even to me.

“Let us go first,” Lieutenant Rostislav hissed as we drew close to the gate. “Throw us over and we’ll open the gate.”

One of our oak-solid knights in full mail was far too heavy for me to lift. I bit my lip as we drew up to the double-doored gate. It was solidly made, six feet tall and level with the earth walls. Iron bars had been nailed across its beams for further strength.

Two hands of my archers crept right up to the gate and crouched on either side at the grass-fuzzed shoulders of the wall. One sergeant caught my eye and mimed boosting a man up to the top. I nodded, but held up one hand for him to wait.

I stopped Jenner a dozen yards from the gate and slid from the saddle, landing heavy thanks to my mail tunic. Rostislav and my guard were quick to follow but I didn’t want to argue with them about who would go first. If that elect were here, if anything waited inside, I’d have to be quick. The gate stood, darkened by the rain, still so new that only faint streaks of rust ran from the nails across the iron bars.

My hands trembled but I had to do this. I was the only useful thing I could toss over that gate — assuming I could manage it with the weight of my mail. Woden needed me to do this, to help him and Kiefan. To protect the kingdom. Rafe.

/ breathe /

Fear must’ve leached through my bond. Qadeem sent me another kir-ration.

Rostislav got wind of my plan by how I fought to steady myself. “No, don’t!”

I thrust kir against the ground and leaped. My boots found the top of the gate, narrow but strong, and I perched for a moment, crouching, to scan around. I wobbled, flailed one arm, and thrust down a kir-vine to steady myself.

The southbound road cut through Ansehen, as I remembered, and the center trebuchet stood just to the right. Charred ruins and foundations were all that remained of the buildings here, offering plenty of cover —

One arrow hissed by my ear. The other struck my chest, like a punch, and my rage lashed back. I saw blood burst into the air beside a blackened chimney.

Shield. Stupid. My pattern was whole, though; the mail and gambeson had stopped the arrow. I ripped it out.

“Bastards!” The first archer boosted onto the wall by those outside drew back and shot. Another scrambled up beside him.

More arrows flew. Two hit my fresh-spun shield. The gate. I jumped down and put my hands on the heavy bolts barring it shut. Bracing my feet, I pulled. The wooden bolts didn’t budge. I yanked on them but they didn’t even rattle in their seating. In rage, I lashed at it with kir-vines. Bolts fused to gates, iron hinges welded, all of it useless to me.

That elect was a crafter, posted to charm the trebuchets. He’d fused the wood together.

Rostislav landed beside me and arrows thumped into his shield. “Turn and fight!” he yelled, muffled by his helm.

I swung around and saw a line of armsmen charging us, their shields roughly overlapping. A kir-vine shot from my hand, just an angry fist of it, and punched one in the face. The blow woke that knife of pain in my shoulder but he went down. I slung the vine leftward and down low, tripping half of them at a full run.

Sir Waldemar dropped down beside Rostislav and the two of them met the remaining armsmen. Not for long; Blessed knights made ordinary men look fierce as sheep.

Their archers thought they were safe twenty feet away behind fallen house-beams and rubble. They’d shot the archers who’d first leaped onto the wall to defend me — I saw three of them down, studded with Arceal arrows. My bladed kir-vine reached those cowards, cut them, sent them running if they survived.

With my Guard around me, I moved on the center trebuchet. Calling kir-patterns, I spotted another Arceal archer meaning to snipe at us. I flushed out a knot of soldiers when I stabbed him with a kir-vine. They retreated from the cover of burned rubble and I caught a glimpse of them: two tanned Arceal bow-men, a pair of armsmen, and between them — somebody’s mother? A mousy, soft woman — the elect.

“Their elect!” I shouted, and ran with a fresh shield ready before me.

But they didn’t shoot; the five of them ran from me. I chased. Rostislav shouted behind me. The tall shell of a shop-front gave them a corner to slip around. I called kir, strong as I could, and caught the last one’s pattern as he broke into a sprint.

I chased but my legs turned wobbly within a few paces. The damn mail was getting heavier. Gritting my teeth, I pushed on. I’d seen some of Ansehen’s streets, long ago, and I recognized their route through the burned shops. They were going for the wall. Launching myself, I leaped over the low ruin of a shop and landed, panting, in time to spin around and face them.

The armsman in front skidded in surprise and fell to his knees. My kir-vine shot at the elect and, soft as she was, she knocked it aside. It struck the second armsman and arrowed through his chest, destroying his heart and prime meridian without breaking the skin. He fell with a rattle of lamellar armor. Her kir snaked through the earth to my feet. Something cold and strong grabbed my ankle. It snicked my shield-charm, unraveled it as her two archers drew back and loosed.

My arms flew up on their own but at such close range, armor meant little. One arrow skewered through my forearm, tenting the mail sleeve before my eyes. The other hit my gut.

Kir roiled in me, twisted by rage into a charm — a body’s full pattern flashed through my Blessed memory — and shot back. The archers’ bow-hands blossomed, skin flaying off followed by muscle, tendons, arteries. Sleeves burst open as their arms unraveled, flew apart in a cloud of blood and meat. At the shoulder, their leather jerkins held together but the blood still flew. Their terrified eyes the moment before their faces bloomed —

Braided kir landed to one side, then the other, and the tiny street blazed with golden light. Woden slapped aside the last armsman — the man fell in a rag-doll heap — and snatched up the elect by her neck.

My knees wobbled and gave out. I landed heavy. The jolt hurt. A vine of kir-laced earth still held my ankle hostage. My hands went to the arrow in my gut, trying to focus on my patterns.

“Kate!”

Kiefan’s hand covered mine. His arm circled my shoulders and pulled me into a thick, coppery reek of blood. My eyes flew open, stunned by the smell, and I put up an arm to fend him off. He knelt beside me, face lightly smudged with red — and dripping from the neck down.

Saint Woden spun out a heavy knife of kir and sawed against the elect’s right hand. Red flashed and something broke. Her saint’s bond?

“The arrows!” Kiefan’s snarl sharpened as he went. “You were to keep her safe!”

“M’lord, we —” Sir Waldemar was closest by.

“You left her out here!”

“No!” I put up my arm, slapped Kiefan with the arrow through it by accident. “They never left me. Let me…”

I still bled and the burn from my stomach was spreading. Eyes clenched, I bore my will down onto my unruly kir-patterns. They knew I was too tired to truly force them, though, and they only wobbled around the steel arrowhead.

“Pull it out,” I said.

“Take my kir.” Kiefan’s hand clenched mine.

“Pull the arrow!” I ordered him, eye to eye. The ghost of worry in his eyes fled and he bit back his objections. He nudged my fingers from the shaft. A short, strong jerk, and the head tore out. He’d gotten my medicine bag open and he pressed a wad of clean cloth onto the wound. That was enough for the bleeding. I worked at knitting my stomach shut.

“Stop fussing and let her up,” Woden said, above us.

“I’ll not have her suffer,” Kiefan snarled back. “She wasn’t ready for the front lines.”

Woden chuckled. “See her handiwork, over there. You. Captain Aleks is…”

My stomach mended, I reached into my medicine bag for a blood-stop charm. A second one, and a cleansing charm, were good enough for my skewered arm. Kiefan pushed my sleeves up, snapped off the arrowhead and pulled that shaft without prompting.

He stank of gore and sweat. He left red smudges on everything. Fatigue had laid shadows under his eyes; I had them myself, I was sure.

“Drink,” Kiefan told me, voice low. He put a small water-skin in my hands. “Mend yourself. We aren’t done yet.”

“I can’t risk healing charms,” I murmured back.

“If I could I’d let you sleep. Even here, surrounded by enemies.”

I leaned against his wet shoulder with a sigh, too tired to take care what I said. “It’s safe enough to sleep here.”