Genevieve fought the urge to cry out in terror as the battle surged around her. Left and right of her, men fought and died, their screams meaning that she probably wouldn’t be heard even if she let her voice join theirs.
She struggled with the ropes that held her. The ones connecting her to the horse seemed loose, but even so, Genevieve couldn’t get free of them. Then there were the ones that were wrapped around and around her wrists. Those didn’t budge even a little.
“Come on,” she said to herself, but it was useless.
That was bad, because out of the corner of her eye, Genevieve could see one of the guards who had been ready to execute her advancing. He raised his sword, and Genevieve had a moment to feel the full horror that came from thinking he might thrust it into her. Then his chest burst open, the head of a spear sticking through it from behind. Another soldier, covered in a mixture of mud and blood, stepped into the spot where he’d been standing, only to be cut down in turn.
Something struck Genevieve’s horse, making it rear in fright and pain. Only the ropes still held Genevieve to it, and she found herself clinging to the saddle with her bound hands. It ran, and now the world twisted and turned as the horse sought a way out of the violence, turning in a circle away from the swords and spears of the enemy.
There was no way out though, because the violence was all around. Near her, two men pinned down a knight, stabbing him again and again through the chinks in his armor. One of the Picti leapt over a set of spears, only to be hacked down with an axe. Men pressed tight against one another, pushing and stabbing, the press of the melee crushing them together.
A blade flashed by Genevieve’s head, missing only because she didn’t think the person who had swung it really cared about hitting her. She was bound and without a weapon in the middle of the fight, which should have made her an easy target, but right then everyone had too many other people trying to kill them to bother about her. That and the erratic movements of her horse kept her alive.
So many others died around her. Genevieve couldn’t see which side was winning this fight, could barely make out which side was which as the combatants spun around and hacked at one another. There was no neat war shield here in the violence of it, only milling, unpredictable combat where blades came from everywhere. Another one came far too close to Genevieve, and it was all she could do to sway back from it, bound as she was.
Genevieve thought of Royce out there somewhere in the battle. Would he be looking for her, trying to fight his way through to her? She didn’t know how he could, even if he were trying to do it. There were so many others in the way that it seemed impossible, the mass of them too great to overcome.
“You!” a man bellowed, hefting an axe and pointing at her. “Altfor will pay me good money if I kill you!”
He started forward, and the only thing Genevieve could do was to heel her horse on, encouraging it in its frantic attempts to escape. A sweep of a pole-axe missed her, and then she was on, deeper into the fight.
“I have to survive,” Genevieve said to herself. “If not for myself, then for my child.”
Through all of this, her thoughts had never been on survival. They’d been about Royce, or about doing the right thing, or even about revenge against Altfor for everything that he’d done. Now, in the one place where it seemed least likely, Genevieve found her thoughts focused on the simple act of not dying.
Although here and now, it was anything but simple.
Something sharp grazed one of her legs, making Genevieve cry out and the horse rear again. She saw that a blade had sliced a little way into one of her legs, but had also cut through one of the ropes holding her. Right then, that only meant that Genevieve had to cling on harder as the horse bucked and kicked, spun and leapt frantically. Genevieve wanted to whisper soothing words to it, to try to calm it, but she doubted she would be heard above the horrific sound of steel on steel.
More than that, she doubted she would survive for long if it did stay still. Genevieve found herself looking around for Olivia, but she couldn’t see her would-be killer above the battle. A horse that might have been the one she had been on was there, but it was without a rider now, and even as Genevieve watched, the backswing of an axe thudded into its neck, blood spraying as the creature fell.
Did that mean that Olivia was dead? Genevieve didn’t know what to think about that. After all, she’d been the woman who had claimed Royce’s heart, and the one who had trekked south into danger just to try to murder her. Genevieve should probably have felt relief at her death. Even so, she couldn’t bring herself to feel it. She could only think about the hurt that it would cause Royce, and she found herself wishing that it weren’t true.
“You should save your pity for yourself,” Genevieve told herself as her horse plunged into the heart of a swinging, stabbing mess of blades, the melee making the world into a thing of sharp edges that promised no quarter for anything that stepped between them.
Her horse screamed out in anguish as one and then another blade hit it. Genevieve didn’t even think anyone was targeting her now; it was simply that in a fight like this, any moving form was a thing to strike at, anything that stood before the fighters a potential foe. Her horse staggered forward another few steps, into a space filled with the bodies of men and horses, still deeper into the fight.
Genevieve felt the moment when her horse started to fall. There was nothing she could do to even begin to stop it from happening; the last of its strength was simply gone, poured out with its life blood as it had run across the field. Even if she had been an expert rider, Genevieve wouldn’t have been able to keep it standing now.
She tried to throw herself clear as it fell, but the last remnants of the ropes still held her to it. It meant that she went down with the beast, and in that moment, Genevieve was sure she would die. The horse would roll over her, or its death throes would see her kicked by a flailing hoof. There was no way to stop it.
The ground came up to meet Genevieve, hard. Still tied as she was, the best she could hope for was to tuck in a little, trying to shield herself and the baby she carried from as much of the impact as possible. It was still enough to knock the breath from her, the jarring hit of the ground against her side accompanied by the impact of the horse coming down far too near her leg.
It missed it, the ropes holding her loose enough for that, but Genevieve was still stuck, caught by the ropes that held her as the horse kicked and flailed. She saw a hoof hit a soldier who came too close, the blow crushing his skull despite the half helmet he wore. Another man moved in, spearing the horse through the heart to end its struggles.
Genevieve had a few moments to see the combat from below. Men struggled and killed one another above her, their blades moving now with the almost mechanical ruthlessness of men who had forgotten any trick, any skill, and were simply trying to end one another. One man fell atop her, his eyes glazed and staring, and Genevieve cried out at the sudden horror of it. Something else fell across her legs, and she knew the cold certainty that she was slowly being buried in the bodies of those falling in the fighting.
Then hands were dragging away the bodies above her. Genevieve didn’t know whether to give thanks for her sudden salvation or beg for mercy, because it seemed just as likely that someone who had heard her cry out would be looking to finish her as to help her, perhaps even more so.
A figure stood above her, a dagger in her hand. For a moment, Genevieve thought she might have been saved, because this clearly wasn’t one of Altfor’s soldiers, but then she saw who it was and she knew that her death was coming.
Olivia stood there, the blade of her weapon glinting in the sun as she knelt. Genevieve remembered the feel of Olivia’s hands around her throat, and the steady determination in her eyes that she was going to kill her. There had been no hint of mercy then, only Garet to save her. Now, Genevieve was helpless.
“Hold still,” Olivia shouted. “Hold still if I’m going to cut you free!”
She worked at the ropes, slicing through them, and even then, a part of Genevieve didn’t trust that Olivia wasn’t going to cut through her flesh with it. It was only when she pulled Genevieve free of the pile of bodies, helping her to stand, that she was sure this was actually a rescue.
“How are you even free?” Genevieve asked.
“My ropes were loose enough to slip, and the guard who tried to cut my throat was too slow,” Olivia said, a hardness in her voice that reminded Genevieve a little of her sister Sheila.
“Why help me?” Genevieve asked. “I thought you wanted to kill me.”
“I wasn’t myself,” Olivia said. “I think… I think there was magic involved.”
Genevieve wasn’t sure what to think about that. “What kind of magic?”
“Something in the ring I was wearing.” Olivia shook her head. “There’s no time to explain, and I barely understand it my—”
“Look out!” Genevieve called, as a swordsman took a swing at Olivia from the side.
The warning came just in time, and she saw Olivia duck under the sweep of the blow. She stabbed out with her dagger, fighting better than Genevieve could have managed, and the man went down. He looked surprised as he fell that he had been bested by a woman who seemed so helpless among all of these armored men.
“We can’t stay here,” Olivia shouted, above the noise of the fight. She reached down to grab a sword from one of the fallen men, passing it to Genevieve.
“I don’t know how to use this,” Genevieve said.
“Then you need to learn quickly,” Olivia shot back. She passed Genevieve a shield as well, before grabbing the same for herself. “I think our lines are this way!”
She pushed her way into the melee, with Genevieve following in her wake. Genevieve felt something strike the shield she carried and struck out blindly, her sword almost jarring from her hand as it struck something solid. She didn’t look, didn’t want to see what damage she’d done, but just kept going.
Ahead, Olivia was swinging her sword far better, using it to clear a path as they fought to get out. At first, the press of bodies was too much to bear, feeling as though it might crush Genevieve through its sheer weight, while blow after blow hammered against her shield.
Then she was out, Olivia’s hand grasping her and dragging her into a clear space beyond that wild press of violence.
“We did it,” Genevieve cried with relief. “We’re out.”
Olivia shook her head though, gesturing with her sword. Genevieve soon saw what she meant. They’d managed to get through the crush of one melee, but around them there were a hundred more such fights, and men killing one another in ones and twos on the open ground wherever she looked. They were still too far from their own side; too far from Royce. To make it to something that was safe…
…well, right then, Genevieve wasn’t sure that anywhere was truly safe, but they had to try.