Kushiel's Scion (111 page)
And we awaited them, a thousand strong.
I tried to clear my mind.
I tried to imagine I was Joscelin. What must he have felt in such moments? A clarity of purpose, the essence of his oath and long training, purified and distilled. But I wasn't him. There was no charge to protect, no oath to obey, no act of solitary heroism pending. I was only a soldier, a single cog on a mighty wheel, a single brick in a vast wall.
Imriel.
A soldier.
Beyond the wall, Valpetran horns sounded a charge. Atop the wall, Lucca's horns echoed a warning, caught up and repeated throughout the city, atop a dozen rooftops. We all braced ourselves, bucklers on arms, the butts of our spears planted. I was on the inner edge beside the aqueduct on my left, the water flowing high but contained. I spared a glance to my right, where Matius gave me a nervous grin. Not a good man to have beside me.
"Here they come!" Lucius shouted. "Hold, lads!"
They came.
They came hard and fast, charging the gap. They came in waves, the first wave ducking low and running, bent double beneath their raised shields. Our sentries' crossbows twanged, bolts flying, thudding into wood and flesh. The second wave of Valpetra's infantry followed hard on the heels of the first, hurling javelins. Atop the wall, men staggered and fell, pierced through.
"Cutpurse, Horsethief, hold." Lucius roared. "Everyone, hold."
The sound of that first clash was like nothing on earth. A screech of metal on metal, the crash of shields, battle-cries and howls of pain. We felt it, all of us. All the way through the ranks, we felt the impact, as Valpetra's first wave struck our vanguard. It rocked us on our heels, setting us to scrambling, until we got our feet beneath us and leaned forward, shields pressing.
"Bar-bar-us!" Eamonn chanted. "Bar-bar-us!"
I found myself grinning.
Ahead of us, someone took up the chant anew. "Sen-e-cus! Sen-e-cus!"
We held, all of us, squadron by squadron. Cutpurse and Horsethief were borne backward, taking casualties, bearing the brunt of the first wave's attack. It seemed forever until the Luccan horns blew, echoing the command of Lucius' bellowing voice. As the 3rd and 4th squadrons stepped up to take their places, they peeled away at a dead run, dropping back into the city. I looked for Canis among the retreating figures and saw only a blur of men, faces undistinguishable.
Again.
Again.
Again.
It went on and on. With each squadron's retreat, Valpetra's men seized the chance to push farther into the city. Despite our best efforts, they had taken control of the gap. Rank by rank, squadron by squadron, the Red Scourge opposed them, pitting fresh soldiers against weary ones, trying to reduce the odds against us, trying to hold them long enough for the retreating squadrons to take up defensive positions in the city.
And with each squadron's retreat, I took a step closer to combat.
"Senecus!" Lucius roared.
Ah, Elua! I saw them die, then. I saw it at close range, helpless behind them. The Valpetrans were wading through their own dead and wounded, and so were we, by now. We were packed too tightly to move them. There was a body at my feet, stirring. I could hear him moan. I didn't dare look down and put a face to him. I was afraid to know.
More and more Valpetrans were streaming through the gap. The newcomers began edging around in an effort to flank us.
"Double up the ranks!" Lucius shouted. "Now!"
Our commanders echoed his order and we obeyed. In front of me, Eamonn's line spread out, stretching and thinning. Just as we'd practiced a hundred times on the drilling ground, those of us in the second line stepped forward and the two short lines of our squadron meshed into one long one, staving off the attack on our flanks. Now I had Eamonn on my left, and a taciturn cooper named Calvino on my right instead of Matius. I barely had time for a guilty twinge of gratitude before the horns blew another retreat and Senecus' line began to peel away.
My mouth went dry and my limbs tingled all over with fear. Despite the chill, my palms were sweating so hard I was afraid the wooden shaft of my spear would slide through my grasp. I flexed my fingers around the grip of my buckler, willing myself not to drop it. "Barbarus!" Lucius roared. Leveling our spears, we stepped forward.
They were on us instantly, flinging themselves forward. The Valpetran opposite me evaded my jabbing spear-thrust. He was left-handed, and if he'd had a spear of his own, he'd long since lost it. They were tired and half-starved, and they'd been fighting in the vanguard long enough to grow reckless and desperate. His shield crashed hard against mine and he pressed forward, his short-sword stabbing. I twisted sideways, avoiding his blade, and felt him overbalance. Shoving hard with my buckler, I hooked my left foot behind his forward leg.
If not for the surging ranks of men behind him, he would have fallen; as it was, he staggered backward, clad in heavy armor. I settled my spear, holding it tight between my elbow and my body, wishing I had his armor. For the space of a heartbeat, we stared at one another. Men; ordinary men. Then he gritted his teeth and charged me again. At the last instant, I shifted, raising the tip of my spear.
It caught him under the chin, nearly lifting him off his toes. His mouth gaped and I could see the wooden shaft between his reddened teeth, dark and bloody. It nearly made me vomit. I yanked it loose, and blood spilled out of the round hole it had made. He fell.
Another Valpetran took his place, and I killed him, too. He got tangled in the first man's dead limbs and sprawled at my feet. I shortened my grip on the spear and punched downward, driving into a gap at the base of his back-plate. This time, my spear stuck. I braced my foot on his armored back and tugged. Out of the corner of my right eye, I saw a blade flash toward me and Calvino's buckler rise to intercept it.
"My thanks!" I gasped as the spear came free.
He grunted.
On my left, Eamonn was singing. An Eiran song, fierce and bloody, filled with grim joy. He'd gone to his sword and was laying about him left and right, half-hidden behind his tall shield. Where he struck, men cried out in pain. The sheer force of his blows was devastating. Already, they were trying to give him a wide berth.
Blessed Elua, I thought, I am not made for this.
On my right, Calvino's buckler cracked and split, pierced by a Valpetran spear. It had saved my life, but it cost him his. He grimaced at it, and the Valpetran ran him through. Spitted, he sagged. I had a glimpse of his hands rising to touch the shaft of the spear that had killed him, and then the Valpetran line pushed forward and he was gone, trampled underfoot.
"Barbarus, hold."
I didn't want to hold. I wanted the retreat to sound, wanted to run. I had Matius to the right of me once more. He'd dropped his spear and was shoving futilely with his shield. I saw the Valpetran opposite him grin and race forward, his sword raised. I hated him without knowing him. Taking a step forward, I dropped to one knee and planted the butt of my spear, wedging it in a crevice, letting him hurl himself on it. The shaft snapped under the impact.
It didn't pierce the Valpetran's armor, but it drove the breath from his lungs. He gaped, fish-mouthed, clutching at the dent in his breastplate. His helmeted head bowed, baring brown curls at the nape of his neck.
I drew my sword and struck him there. Half-severed, his head lolled, exposing the bone-white knuckles of his vertebrae. I had killed my third man.
No time to vomit.
After that, I lost count. There were others I struck, but I don't know if any of them died. Mostly, I tried to stay alive. My shield-arm felt jarred to the bone with the blows I turned aside. I shouted at Matius to draw his sword, to fight. Somewhere, he found courage and did. It was exhausting and brutal and awful, and it seemed like forever before the horns blew, sounding our retreat.
"Anchor and Rock," Lucius roared. "Anchor and Rock!"
"Barbarus, go!" cried Eamonn.
Our outside line peeled away. Those of us caught inside struggled to disengage. And then the men of Anchor squadron stepped forward past us, fresh and ready, driving back the Valpetran line with leveled spears and forging an opportunity.
We fled.
Through the damp city, past the empty square, panting in our makeshift armor. All across Lucca, the squadrons that had gone before us lurked in streets and alleyways, calling out encouragement, offering us pumped fists in salute. Women and children called to us from the rooftops and the upper stories of buildings.
"Is it well?" they asked.
"Well enough!" Eamonn called, answering for us. "Be ready!"
We didn't stop until we reached our designated territory. Our first stand—and hopefully our last—was outside the deserted public baths. Eamonn called a halt. There was a clatter of shields and weapons dropping as we all doubled over, gasping for air.
"Who's gone?" someone asked.
"Calvino," I gasped.
"Adolphos."
"Orfeo."
The names kept coming; seven, all told, dead or wounded too badly to flee. It hurt with a numb and distant fury, in a way I couldn't have imagined. I hadn't known them well, but I had known them. They were my brothers in arms. Orfeo had been my sparring partner. I hoped he'd gotten a taste of his revenge before he fell. Calvino had saved my life, and I hadn't been able to save his. It had all happened so fast.
"Grieve later, lads," Eamonn said soberly. "We've work to do."
Across the city, Luccan horns were sounding the final retreat, picked up and echoed by sentries on the rooftops. Anchor and Stone would be turning tail and fleeing for all they were worth, scattering down a myriad of streets. With luck, Valpetra's army would pursue them in disarray. Splinter and divide, and fight them on our ground. That was Gallus Tadius' plan.
Lucius' plan, now.
I prayed he was safe.
On Eamonn's orders, we regrouped, checking our weapons and binding our wounds. There was a cache of bandages and waterskins in the baths. I'd taken a graze to my left thigh that was beginning to sting, and a slight cut on my upper right arm that I'd not even felt. There was a dark blotch of blood spreading on my red armband. Since it didn't hurt, I left that one alone. The knot on the armband held; Lucius had tied it securely.
For luck.
Mostly, I was thirsty. When Matius passed me a waterskin, I drank deep, as much as I could hold. Lowering it, I remembered the first man I'd killed, the glimpse of the wooden shaft between his gaping jaws. I turned away and vomited up the water I'd drunk, splashing my boots.
"Steady, Imri." Eamonn clapped a hand on my back.
"Sorry." I wiped my mouth with my sleeve.
"I puked, too, my first time." He nodded at the waterskin. "Drink more, you'll need it. It'll stay down this time." I obeyed, and Eamonn raised his voice. "Listen, lads! You did a good job, a damn good job."
" You did, Captain Barbarus!" Baldessare called. "You were so deep into their line, I thought we'd have to send a scouting party to retrieve you!"
Eamonn grinned. "All, we all did! Imriel here killed… how many?"
My stomach lurched and a mixture of bile and water surged into the back of my throat. I swallowed and kept it down. "Only three, I think."
Someone gave a low whistle.
"Three!" Eamonn said cheerfully. "How do you like that, eh, lads? Now we've got ourselves a little game of hare and hounds coming, and I've a mind to make it a merry chase."
Was three a lot? I didn't know and I didn't have time to wonder. The sentries' horns were calling out a warning: Valpetra's men were advancing throughout the city. They hadn't reached us yet, but they were drawing near. On Eamonn's orders, we laid our traps and took up our new positions. The majority of the surviving members of Barbarus lurked in the baths themselves, and a handful took posts behind the columns in the portico.
I was a hare.
There were five of us; Eamonn and me, Matius and two others. We walked slowly to the corner of the street that marked the farthest end of our territory, conserving our energy. There was a jeweler's shop on one side of us, boarded tight against flooding and looting. On the other side was a wineshop and inn. The innkeeper was a conscript, but his family was there. They were assembled atop the roof, along with one of the sentries, recognizable by his crimson gambeson. Eamonn sketched a salute and the sentry nodded in brief acknowledgment.
Although the flood-swept street in the block before us appeared empty, we could hear fighting and shouting elsewhere in the city, accompanied by periodic crashes. Lucca's citizens were hurling objects—furniture, kettles, whatever they had—from the rooftops, raining down missiles upon the invaders. I squinted at the roof of the inn, nudging Eamonn and pointing. There were two empty wine-barrels perched at the edge, grim-faced women poised to roll them over.
"Have to lead 'em close to the eaves," he said. "I don't imagine they'll get much distance with those. Can you do it, Imri? You're probably the fastest."
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