Kushiel's Scion (Imriel's Trilogy #1)

Kushiel's Scion (Imriel's Trilogy #1) Page 77

They wore armor.

They carried short-swords. They planted the butts of their thrusting spears on the dusty cobblestones and slung their shields over their forearms.

"Oh, we are in a sodding world of trouble!" Gallus muttered.

Domenico Martelli was a solid man with a black hair and a fleshy face, deep lines inscribed on either side of his mouth. They deepened further as he smiled. "Prince of Lucca!" he rumbled, spreading his arms. Beneath his bridegrooms robes, a steel corselet glinted. "Father! Do you acknowledge your heir?"

Beside him, Helena kept her eyes downcast.

"I do not." Gaetano's voice was steady. "Valpetra, hear me. We are prepared to come to an accommodation. Do you cede your claim and leave in peace—"

That was as far as he got.

The Duke of Valpetra waved a casual hand. "Kill him," he said. "And take the gatehouse."

His escort didn't hesitate. A third, at the rear, peeled away to assail the gatehouse. Two-thirds of them simply settled their shields on their arms, lowered their spears, and charged.

"Archers!" Gallus roared. "Now!"

The air sang and hummed as flights of arrows passed overhead. I saw them find targets. I saw shields bristle with arrows. I saw armor pierced. I saw men wounded, and I saw some fall back and others press forward. Beneath me, the Bastard shifted restlessly, tossing his head.

His nostrils flared. I felt sick with fear. Beside me, Eamonn drew his sword.

"Again!" Gallus called, and another flight of arrows sang. For a moment, it kept the assault in the square at bay, but in the gatehouse there was shouting and fighting and the sound of gears grinding. The portcullis was rising, the drawbridge lowering. Someone was blowing a horn over and over. Beyond the walls, Valpetra's withdrawn army was advancing in a hurry. Two thousand men, less fifty, ready to assail the city.

The portcullis rose to half-mast and stopped. With a rattling clank, the drawbridge halted in its descent, hovered at an angle over the moat. I prayed, silently, that Gilot was all right. He couldn't hold a sword. He shouldn't be there.

Domenico Martelli's face darkened.

"Lucca!" he shouted. "Are you willing to watch your daughter die?"

He reached for her, catching her wrist. In his other hand, he held a naked blade. All around them, men were beginning to fight and die. Luccan guardsmen, mostly, were doing the dying. The only mercy was that the Valpetran spears were hampered at close quarters; but by the same token, our archers could no longer shoot for fear of hitting their own men. Gaetano Correggio had fallen to his knees, his hands outstretched. I watched Helena's chin rise. Her eyes blazed with despair and pride.

Gallus Tadius laughed.

I swore.

It was too much; too much. I had seen that look on the faces of too many women in the zenana; the ones who went to their death and knew it, clinging to whatever small scrap of pride was left to them. Lucca's dead might not be mine, but I had my own to answer to.

A high-pitched ringing filled my head, obscuring the din of battle. All I could hear was the horn sounding the alarm, over and over, and a single voice uttering a fierce, wordless battle-cry. Heads turned slowly, knots of unmounted fighters disengaging. So, so slow! I felt the Bastard quiver beneath me, haunches gathering. Elua, but he was a good horse! When I touched my heels to his flanks, he shot forward like an arrow from the bow.

All the fear was gone.

There was only fury, a fury so vast my body couldn't contain it. It felt as though flames surged from the top of my skull. We plunged into the melee, guards and soldiers scattering. I guided the Bastard with my thighs and he wove between them, his striped hooves beating a fierce tattoo on the paving-stones of Lucca.

No one touched us.

I didn't even remember drawing my sword.

And then there they were, and we were bearing down on them. Domenico Martelli, the Duke of Valpetra, was slow to react. His fleshy face looked surprised, his mouth agape like a fish. His thick-fingered hand, clamped like a manacle on Helena's wrist.

Slow. Too slow.

I turned the Bastard sharply, coming broadside. I brought my sword down in a single swift stroke, severing the link that bound them, severing his hand at the wrist. Blood spurted from the stump. He stared at it in disbelief.

Helena gave a choked gasp.

Everything came back, then. Time flowed in its usual channels, and the taste of fear filled my mouth. I smelled death; blood and feces and rot. Daršanga. Willing my churning gut to subside, I shoved my bloodied sword in its scabbard and grabbed the reins of Helena's mount.

"Lucius sent me," I said. "Hurry!"

She asked no questions, only followed. We fled on horseback, plunging past the fighting. It had grown fierce. Eamonn was in the thick of it, still mounted, laying about him on both sides with his sword. Other guardsmen had come at a run, swords drawn. Gallus Tadius rode along the fringes of the battle, calling out orders. A handful of guards were dragging Gaetano Correggio's limp form to safety. Here and there, a Valpetran soldier fell, picked off by a judicious arrow.

"Retreat!" the Duke shouted, clutching his stump. "Retreat!"

"Attack!" Gallus roared. "Archers, forward!"

Valpetra's men fell back; back to the gatehouse. On the far side of the moat, nearly two thousand reinforcements were hurrying to their assistance. But the drawbridge was stuck at its midpoint, and they wouldn't be able to cross easily. If they reached the moat before we could raise the bridge, it would buy us a few moments. Gallus Tadius' archers swarmed down from the trees, descending on ropes, fierce grins illuminating their faces. I breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Brigitta, who looked remarkably happy. In the throng, Eamonn made his way toward her.

"Guards, down!" Gallus shouted. "Archers, shoot!"

Their untrained obedience was a marvel. The Luccan guards flung themselves flat and the ragtag band of archers knelt and took aim, shooting over their heads to drive back the invaders. Beneath the shadow of the gatehouse, Valpetra's soldiers began crawling beneath the half-raised portcullis and hurling themselves into the moat, leaping from the steeply angled drawbridge. Some stripped off their armor; others floundered and sank.

A dozen of them clustered around Domenico Martelli, the Duke of Valpetra, helping him toward the moat. Gallus Tadius issued furious orders to halt them, but the Luccan guards within the gatehouse were still struggling for control of the drawbridge mechanism, and a handful of Valpetra's men had made a stand, guarding his retreat from the onslaught of the guards in the square. Two of them died defending him, and four were wounded. Gallus was right; they were professionals.

The horn sounded an increasingly urgent alarm. "The bridge!" Gallus roared. "Damn you, raise the bridge!" I watched with my heart in my throat. Somewhere in the gatehouse, the mechanism was jammed. For long moments, the bridge stayed at half-mast. Valpetra and his men had made a successful retreat. On the other side of the moat, the entire bulk of his army was massing. It wouldn't be long before they mounted a second attack. If we couldn't seal the city, the lot of us were doomed. We were too few and too disorganized to hold off a sustained assault. And I didn't like my chances as a political hostage, not after I'd lopped off Domenico Martelli's hand.

"What is it?" a trembling voice asked. "What's wrong?" I glanced at Helena Correggio, shivering beside me on horseback, her arms wrapped around herself. Her face was white, and her eyes were all pupil. "The bridge is stuck, my lady."

She swallowed. "Oh."

There was a clamor in the gatehouse; men shouting up and down the stairs. At length, a figure emerged from the right-hand tower and leapt onto one of the chains that held the counterweights. It didn't budge, not at first. But then a score of men followed suit on both sides of the gatehouse, several clambering up the chains to add their weight, others hauling on them with brute force.

Inch by inch, the drawbridge rose and the massive portcullis descended.

Until it was done, I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath. I daresay all of Lucca breathed a sigh of relief as the drawbridge slammed into place and the portcullis shuddered to earth. The city was sealed. We were back to where we had been a mere hour ago. Under siege, and this time grateful it was no worse.

"Forgive me, my lady." I turned to Helena. "Are you… all right?"

She looked away and I knew she wasn't all right, not at all. She had been abducted and brutalized. She had watched the man she loved cut down before her eyes, and a man she despised violently maimed. One side of her scarlet wedding gown was splashed with darkening blood. But all she asked was, "Are we safe?"

"For the moment," I said truthfully.

She looked at me, then. Her pupils were no longer as stark, and I saw that her eyes were a clear blue. "Who are you?"

"Imriel," I said. "Imriel nó Montrève."

"You're D'Angeline." She put out one hand, then drew it back. "When you rode toward us, I thought you were… I thought…" She shook her head and did not finish the thought. "My father?"

"Let's go see," I said gently.

It was still mayhem in the square. Gallus had vanished into the gatehouse, for which I was grateful. Helena didn't need to know, not yet, what had befallen her betrothed. I counted the dead. Five of theirs, and eight of ours. There were another dozen, at least, badly wounded. The four injured Valpetrans were under guard, their faces stoic with pain and resolve. At least they were alive. Eamonn was right, war was ugly.

Gaetano Correggio was alive, too. He'd taken a blow to the temple. It wasn't serious, but his hair was matted with blood.

"Helena." His voice cracked and he raised his arms. She dismounted into them, hiding her face against his chest. He held her tight, his head bowed. I sat quietly atop the Bastard, thinking what a strange world it was where a man loved his only daughter enough to risk an entire city to save her, but not enough to permit her to wed a poor man. After a moment, the Prince of Lucca shuddered and lifted his head. "Thank you," he said. "My lord D'Angeline, you have my deepest gratitude and the eternal gratitude of my house." A touch of wonder lit his deepset eyes. "I don't even know your name."

I bowed in the saddle. "Imriel nó Montrève, your highness."

"Imriel nó Montrève." He repeated it. "Montrève."

"Yes, my lord." I saw Eamonn approaching across the square, Brigitta riding behind him, still clutching her hunting bow. Eamonn nodded toward the gatehouse. "My lord, forgive me, but I must see about a friend."

"Yes, of course," he said absently.

I paused, glancing down at the top of Helena's head. Her face was still hidden. Brown hair, straight and fine as baby-silk. "My lord, will you tell her about Lucius?"

"Lucius." The Prince of Lucca licked his lips. "Yes."

Eamonn and I entered the nearest guard tower without exchanging a word. We didn't need to. Even Brigitta had grown somber, agreeing to watch the horses without a quarrel. There were more dead in the tower; one Valpetran and two Luccan guards, blocking the narrow stair. We had to clamber over them.

The lower chambers were empty, which was absurd, but there were three guardsmen in the top chamber manning the arrow-slits with crossbows. In the far tower, we could hear Gallus Tadius shouting, but it was quiet here. One of the guards glanced around as we entered, the other two remaining intent on their duty.

"The D'Angeline?" he asked.

"Is he… ?" I couldn't ask.

"In there." He jerked his head toward the open door onto the inner chamber. "Tell him thanks for saving our arses."

With a surge of hope, I ducked through the door and entered the central chamber, Eamonn crouching as he followed. The windows were shuttered and bolted, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. All I could see was the vast mechanism that took up a good portion of the chamber; a huge cog-wheel and pulley system with levers protruding at strange angles and the chains oddly disengaged.

"Gilot?" I called.

For a moment, nothing. And then a scrabbling sound and a faint cough. "Imri?"

"There." Eamonn pointed.

Gilot was lying propped against a wall. He raised one hand—his good hand—in greeting as we hurried to his side. I dropped to my knees.

"Are you all right?" I asked anxiously.

"No." He smiled at me. "Not really. But did you see what I did?" He pointed at the mechanism, and I realized one of the levers was a Valpetran spear, shoved deep within the gears of the cog-wheel. He coughed, and a bloody spume trickled from the corner of his mouth. "Damned engineers. You don't spend a year in Siovale without learning how things work. All knowledge is worth having, right?"

My eyes stung. "You did that? Stopped the drawbridge?"

He nodded. "Getting it unstuck was the hard part. I had to convince 'em to slip the chains and haul the weights by hand. Had to show 'em, too. They finally got it once the chains were loose." He laughed, then winced. "Sorry. Imri, I think mayhap that splinter… I think mayhap it's moved."

"Gilot…" I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. "Eamonn," I said roughly. "He needs a chirurgeon."

Without a word, Eamonn stooped and gathered Gilot in his arms.

When the poets sing of glorious deeds, they leave out the awful parts. Phèdre always said so, and I knew it was true. I had heard the tales, and I had witnessed the reality. But this was the first time I'd done so as a man in my own right. I understood it anew that day. In a poet's tale, a valiant few might stand against the many, and a cunning hero prevails.