Kushiel's Mercy (65 page)

“Wait,” I said briefly.

Janpier translated.

We waited, as still as statues. We watched the news ripple through Astegal’s encampment. Horns blared a summons. A pool of blood ebbed from the headless trunk of the dead sentry’s neck. Astegal took to the battlefield himself: Astegal of Carthage, Prince of the House of Sarkal. Riding a black charger, his gilded armor the brightest thing under the grey skies. He rode back and forth along the river, gauging us. I knew him by his splendid arms, by the crimson strip of his beard. All too well, I remembered the satisfaction in his heavy-lidded eyes. I stared at him between the folds of my Amazigh scarf.

“Do it,” I whispered. “Let me make your wife a widow today, Astegal.”

He didn’t.

Sidonie was right; Astegal was no fool. I wished he was. I longed to cross blades with him. Longed to erase her shame. But no, he wasn’t going to commit himself. Still, I could tell by his restless movements that curiosity was eating at him.

We waited for at least an hour before he made his first move. The Euskerri might be a contentious folk, but they were capable of great patience, too. No one threatened to break our ranks. No one spoke. At last Astegal sent a small company of archers across the bridge to test our resolve.

We retreated out of bowshot. For every pace the archers advanced, we retreated, until I could see their uncertainty and reluctance. I had to smile behind my veil. They were increasingly isolated from their comrades. They might get off a flight or two, but we could take them.

It took another hour for Astegal to lose patience with that particular game of cat and mouse and call his archers back. I promptly ordered the Euskerri to advance and we returned to our initial position.

In the end, I don’t think the gambit would have worked if it hadn’t been for the Amazigh guises. Astegal had sent his loyal Amazigh on a mission of crucial import to his plans. He
had
to know they’d failed. He
had
to know this was a trap. But our silent, veiled presence maddened him. I watched him stare across the river. I watched his gestures grow more and more curt.

I watched him come to a decision.

Astegal wasn’t taking any chances. When he committed forces against us, he did so in a large way. At a guess, I’d reckon he mustered a good two thousand of his troops. And I had to own, the sight of the endless line of them snaking over the bridge and advancing toward us made my blood run cold.

“Retreat,” I said. “Slowly.”

Step by step, we did. The Carthaginians broke into a jog and began closing the distance between us, their armor rattling. I could feel the Euskerri’s resolve beginning to weaken. Beneath my Amazigh robes, cold sweat trickled. My mount grew restive, sensing my fear. I waited until I could see the dense pine forests to the west out of the corner of my eye.

“Go!” I shouted. “Go!”

The Euskerri didn’t wait for a translation, breaking into a dead run. I could hear the roar behind me as I eased my horse into a swift trot. Carthage was in full pursuit.

A poorly thrown javelin soared over my right shoulder and clattered harmlessly on the paving stones in front of me. The skin between my shoulder blades itched. I was wearing my hauberk beneath my robes, but I wasn’t sure it would turn away a well-thrown weapon. I fought the urge to heel my spirited mount to a gallop and flee.

Two thousand. I hadn’t thought Astegal would send so many against so few.

Still, the Carthaginian line was strung out the length of the road. When the Euskerri troops hiding in the forest burst forth with their fierce, ululating cries, I thought I’d never heard a sweeter sound.

This was the Euskerri’s preferred method of battle. Hundreds of Carthaginian soldiers were slain during that first onslaught, brought down by javelins and stones. But there were hundreds more yet coming.

There was no question of risk or heroism. It was an ugly, bloody melee. I fought from the saddle, chopping and hacking on both sides, simply doing my best to stay alive. Men cried aloud, fell, and died. Our men. Their men. The roads grew slick with blood and gore, cluttered with bodies. Somewhere in the distance, horns were blaring an insistent alarm and that sound too should have been sweet to my ears, for it meant the rearguard attack had begun. But at the moment, I was too busy trying to survive.

If it hadn’t been for the horns, I’m not sure we would have won our skirmish. Astegal’s soldiers fought hard and they were more skilled than the Euskerri when it came to hand-to-hand fighting—more skilled and better armed. But when the horns grew ever more strident, several hundred of those closest to the city peeled away in answer to the summons, mayhap suspecting that this attack was a mere decoy.

The rest we killed.

Gods, it was a grim sight. I’d seen battle, but never carnage on this scale. Over a thousand Carthaginian dead and hundreds and hundreds of Euskerri dead or grievously wounded. I reckoned there were no more than four hundred yet fit for battle.

And this was only the beginning.

“Right,” I said wearily. “Janpier?”

Janpier Iturralde was dead. The surviving Euskerri argued among themselves and finally produced a boy younger than Paskal who spoke Aragonian. He looked to be in a state of shock, his eyes stretched wide enough to show the whites, but he translated obediently for me.

“Here’s the thing, lads,” I said in tones far more gentle than aught Gallus Tadius had ever used. “We need to take the bridge and the ground outside Amílcar’s gates between the trenches. We have to give Aragonia a chance to mount a full attack on the rear of Astegal’s forces, or there’s going to be a slaughter. So gather your courage and strip the dead of any arms or armor you can use.”

It was an ugly business. I dismounted and shed my damp Amazigh robes. I used the head-scarf to bind a deep gash in my left thigh. Working quickly, I scavenged a helmet, a pair of greaves, a shield, and a spear. The Euskerri followed suit and outfitted themselves with the spoils of the dead. We were a desperate, ragtag bunch, but at least we could no longer be mistaken for Amazigh.

I mounted. “Let’s go.”

We went. All four hundred of us.

Short of the river, we paused. Astegal
wasn’t
a fool. There was a battle raging in the distance that dwarfed our skirmish, and Astegal himself must have joined it, for he was nowhere in sight. But he had left a company of archers to defend the bridge; and beyond them was another company holding the ground between the trenches: his Nubian mercenaries with their long spears and zebra-skin shields, a thousand strong. Their dark faces were set and grim. I thought of Sunjata with an unexpected pang. Atop the walls of the city, I could see Aragonian sentries watching and waiting for an opening. I prayed they’d be swift to seize it when we gave it to them.

Someone asked a question in Euskerri.

The boy translated. “What do we do?”

In the distance, I could hear the hue and clamor of war. I gazed at the blank stone walls surrounding Amílcar, the waiting archers, the waiting soldiers. I thought about Sidonie in the valley. Safe. She would be safe. She’d wanted me to promise I wouldn’t take unnecessary risks. This wasn’t. Without Aragonia’s full aid, the Euskerri and the troops from Tibado would be slaughtered, and Astegal’s hold on the nation more certain than ever.

I had to do this.

I had to try.

“We charge the bridge. And then we fight and live or die.” I settled my spear like a lance. “Riders to the fore. Infantry follow.”

We charged.

Astegal’s archers knelt and shot. I caught the first arrow on my shield. The second took my horse. I was pitched over his head as he went down hard, poor valiant beast. I lost my shield and my spear. I rolled and came up fighting, ripping the sword from my sheath. The Euskerri surged after and around me.

We took the bridge and plunged into enemy territory.

In a poet’s tale, every thrust and blow, every individual act of heroism would be catalogued and recorded for posterity. This was no poet’s tale. It was war. Just war. I fought well because it was what I’d been taught to do. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t a style suited for the battlefield. Not in the midst of this chaos. I told the hours over and over—beyond fear, beyond weariness, beyond thought. I defended the sphere of my own person and the bodies mounted around me.

Our Aragonian allies answered my prayers. They rushed from the sally ports to join the fray, scrambling to clear the first trench. Gears ground. The portcullis lifted to admit the bulk of Aragonia’s army onto the battlefield.

What an ungodly mess it was.

It stank. It stank of death and desperation. Gore churned into mire, bowels spilled in death. We heaved bodies into the trenches, forging a gruesome causeway. Sharp hooves carved dead flesh. Onward, onward. Feet trampling the dead. Horns blowing. Men scrambled in and out of trenches. Aragonia’s army seized control of the ground between them. They hewed at the earthen bulwarks with battleaxes to forge passages. They raced over open ground, falling on Carthage’s army from the rear.

And in the end, we won.

I never saw the main part of the fray. When the last of the Aragonian army had passed, the surviving Euskerri asked me if we should follow them. We’d lost half our remaining number before the Aragonians had emerged and there wasn’t a survivor among them that wasn’t trembling with exhaustion. In the aftermath of battle, I could feel a profound weariness settling into my bones.

“No.” I shook my head. “We’re done.”

When we heard the horns blowing a retreat, I wasn’t sure who it was signaling. It wasn’t until a lone Aragonian rider came racing back bearing the news that we knew. Astegal had been captured alive, brought down by a Euskerri javelin that had struck his helm hard enough to knock him insensible. Additional troops from nearby Coloma had arrived, defying their leaders to join the rebellion.

Pinned between two forces, leaderless, the Carthaginian army had mounted a concerted attack and broken through the western line. Even now, they were fleeing, likely to retreat to New Carthage and make a stand there.

There was cheering from atop the walls of the city and, impossible as it seemed, from the devastated Euskerri. But I was surrounded by dead men, many of whom I’d led into this battle. I was weary and soul-sick, and I couldn’t feel aught but a grim relief.

“Is General Liberio pursuing?” I asked.

“No.” The courier’s battle-grin faded. “We can’t afford to. We took too many losses.”

“The Euskerri?”

He nodded. “They were hit hard.”

The news had spread through the city. It wasn’t long before every manner of chirurgeon, physician, and healer in Amílcar came pouring out to tend to the injured. I reckoned my leg could wait and helped as best I could, setting aside my weariness to serve as a bearer for litters ferrying the maimed and wounded to the makeshift infirmary in the park. They’d prepared well; there were hundreds of new tents erected. They would be needed.

The surviving remnant of the army came trickling back, many carrying injured comrades. I missed seeing Astegal escorted into the city with his arms bound behind his back, which I regretted. I kept an eye out for Sidonie and her guard. Their sentries must have reported the news, but I knew she’d be worried for me.

It was nearing sunset when they came. I was sitting with Miquel, the young Euskerri who spoke Aragonian, giving him sips of water from a skin and waiting for a litter. He had a broken spear-head lodged in his ribcage.

I rose when I saw them.

“Go,” Miquel said in a hoarse voice. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I couldn’t, though. All I could do was stand and watch as they rode toward us. No one had even begun to tend to the dead; the task was too enormous. I watched the blood drain from Sidonie’s face as she took in the extent of the horror. Her gaze met mine. Not even the relief of finding me alive could alleviate it.

“Gods have mercy,” she whispered. “This is victory?”

I couldn’t find my voice to answer and I didn’t try to stop her when she dismounted, when she reached up to touch my cheek. I needed her too badly. I needed the one bright and shining thing in my life to believe any of this was worthwhile. I wrapped my arms around her and held her close, pressing my face against her hair.

“Cousin,” a tired voice said. “You bring us cause to rejoice today.”

I looked up to see Serafin L’Envers y Aragon seated on a fine chestnut horse. Aragonian soldiers were bringing the last of the wounded to the city. It was to his credit that he’d not left the battlefield until it was done. I could tell he’d fought hard; his gilded armor was splashed with blood.

Still.

“You’re an ambitious man, my lord,” I said, releasing Sidonie. “So is Astegal of Carthage. Behold the cost of his ambition. Look on it well. And if you find that greater Aragonia is not so willing as you had believed to anoint you the king’s successor, or if you find yourself thinking to break faith with the Euskerri, I bid you remember this sight.”

Serafin nodded curtly. “I take your meaning.”

“I pray we all do,” Sidonie murmured.

Sixty-Five

O
nce more we were ensconced in the palace of Amílcar.

In the great hall, Lady Nicola wept at the sight of us. “Blessed Elua! Why in the name of all that’s holy did the Euskerri insist on sending you back here?”

I shifted, leaning on Sidonie’s shoulder. My leg had begun to stiffen and it hurt badly. “Because they are a proud and stubborn folk who don’t trust Aragonia. Also a very brave folk. My lady, when your chirurgeon has seen to those in urgent need, I’d be grateful for her attention.”

“Of course,” Nicola said. “I’ll send her immediately.”

“Lady Nicola.” Sidonie hesitated. “What’s to become of Astegal?”

Nicola’s face turned grim. “He’ll be executed at dawn in the Plaza del Rey on the day after tomorrow. Surely you don’t plead for clemency?”

“No,” Sidonie said shortly.

“She wanted to kill him with her own hand,” I said.

Nicola looked startled, but only for a moment. “I can understand. But he’s responsible for the deaths of thousands of Aragonians. I suspect the council will wish for justice to be administered in the Aragonian fashion.”