Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

It is slow, fluttering, erratic.

No. No, no, no.

When I finally reach him, I drop to my knees. His face is pallid, his skin leaden, but his heart—?his brave, determined heart—?still beats.

I reach up and loosen the gorget at his neck in order to ease his breathing. His eyes are open, but unfocused, staring at the sky above him. “Captain?” My hands gently search for a dagger or dart, anything that might have struck him, but they find nothing.

“My lord?”

He blinks and turns his head toward me even as his eyes remain focused on the sky above him. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“What is wrong?” Panic seeps out around my words.

He grunts, and I cannot tell if it is a word or simply an expression of pain. His mouth twists, trying to open, and I lean closer.

“Look.” The word tumbles out with a labored breath.

He tries again. “Look . . . to . . . cas . . . tle.”

I tighten my hand on his shoulder. “We will get you to the castle right away. Their doctors will be able to take care of you.” I motion for the two nearest soldiers to come help. With an uncertain glance at each other, they begin to dismount.

Captain Dunois grunts again, and I turn back to him. His eyes are closed, and he shakes his head in frustration. “Cas . . . sle.” The words are little more than a sigh. My own frustration mounting, I place my ear closer to his lips. “What?”

But this time all that escapes is an exhalation of breath. Close on its heels comes a dizzying rush, a jumble of sensations and images—?his soul.

A silent wail of despair rises up inside me, but before I can give voice to it, his soul latches on to mine, and I gasp. I am filled with pain. So much pain. His soul is confused by it, his thoughts fractured and incoherent. Like a ribbon being pulled through my fingers, his soul leaves his mortal body.

Dunois’s pain is replaced by my own, as if a sharp blade has just scraped out the insides of my heart.

That is when the attack comes.

Chapter 30

am still bowed over Captain Dunois when shouts erupt all around us and bodies begin clambering up the wooden rail.

The bridge, I realize stupidly, rising to my feet. They were hiding under the bridge.

They picked their moment well—?our train is strung out between the two bridges, and we are distracted by the death of one of our own. As scores of men continue to swarm over the side, the French soldiers assigned by the regent draw their weapons, moving to protect me.

But I do not need their protection. I reach for Ismae’s crossbow, slap a bolt into place, and face our enemies.

The crossbow takes out three in a row, surprising the French soldiers as much as the ambushers. “Look to yourself!” I shout, racing to the end of the bridge where my horse waits. Two more attackers come over the side of the bridge and block my path.

With no time to reload, I snatch my knives from my wrists and charge. The first man is still blinking in surprise when I slit his throat. As I spin toward the second man, he is ready for me. Or thinks he is. When he brings his sword up to strike, I duck in low and slam my foot into his knee, snapping it. His leg crumples under him, and I shove my knife deep into his gut, thrusting upward to hasten his death before yanking my blade back out.

I take a step toward the next attacker, stumbling when I must brace myself against the rush of dying souls. Like bright candle flames, they flare briefly, then dim. Some of them head for me, but I have many years hard practice and erect my barriers.

The barriers hold. I can feel the souls, but with my mind shut tight and my heart closed, it is merely like riding through a flock of birds too dumb to fly out of the way.

I run for my horse. She shies but does not bolt. Grabbing ahold of the saddle, I haul myself up, then wheel around to join Beast and the others.

The attackers—?there must be fifty of them at least—?have raised a blockade, trapping the rear guard on the second bridge along with the litter, leaving only the queen’s guard, a score of noblemen, and myself with the duchess.

From behind, more shouts go up, and I glance over my shoulder. Another fifty or so armed men emerge from the trees along the hilltop, swords, pikes, and lances drawn as they rush down the slope toward us.

Merde. There are but thirty of us here to defend the duchess, fifty attackers from the under the bridge, and now this onslaught. My heart sinks.

My gaze searches out Beast. He nods?—?in encouragement? farewell?—?and calls his men to him, the battle fever already filling his eyes with its strange unholy light. Fighting side by side has always felt like an exciting adventure, one that is eagerly greeted. But each time grows harder?—?especially with so many we care about at stake.

He leaves half the men to guard the duchess and takes the rest with him to repel the second advance. As they gallop up the hill toward the enemy, he gives a bloodcurdling battle cry. The sound of it hangs in the air like a storm cloud before it bursts. Battle-ax in his left hand, sword in his right, he rides straight for the descending soldiers. Captain Lannion pauses long enough to toss me his crossbow before hurrying to catch up to the others.

Once before I stood and watched as Beast took on an army with naught but a handful of men. I cannot do it again. Even those blessed by Saint Camulos are only so lucky.

Besides, the first wave of assailants has cleared the bridge and is upon us. Our one advantage is that we are mounted, but the pikes and halberds will quickly neutralize even that small boon. There is a deafening clash of steel on the hill behind me. I turn from it and focus on the enemy in front of me.

We form two circles around the duchess with the most skilled swordsmen closest to her to defend against any that breach the outer defense. Aeva and I are part of that, as our bows are more useful at that range.

But Lannion’s crossbow has only a dozen bolts.

Even so, I make good use of them.

I shoot the foremost pikeman in the middle of his forehead, reload, and aim for the next. I catch him in the throat, but another man is just behind him. As I frantically reload, a black arrow pierces his chest. Aeva. The deafening clash of steel and soldiers’ shouts are joined by the twang of Aeva’s bows as she fires off a series of arrows in such quick succession that she takes out three men before I can reload my next bolt.

The valley is awash with frantic racing heartbeats. So many of them! It is like being pelted by a hailstorm.

I glance over at Beast, leading the charge up the hill, his ax and sword cutting through the descending infantry like the bow of a ship cuts through waves.

Between Lannion’s crossbow and Aeva’s arrows, we are able to thin the number of men the guards must fight by hand. When I am nearly out of bolts, I reach for the rondelles tucked inside my belt. With a flick of my wrist, I send one sailing through the air. It strikes one of the pikesmen just under his jaw, the impact snapping his head back.

The second rondelle goes wide, taking off the ear of its target. The man hesitates, lowering his halberd and giving Châlons enough time to run him through with his sword.

I pause, breathing hard. Châlons is spattered with blood, but unhurt. He nods his thanks. “It helps that they want to take her alive,” he says before divi

ng back into the fray.

The sounds of fighting on the hillside have dimmed somewhat. Bracing myself, I look over to see Beast standing in his stirrups, still swinging his ax. His sword is nowhere to be seen.

Men lie all around him like red leaves from an autumn tree.

The attackers—?the few that are left, gallop up the hill, Captain Lannion leading a half dozen men in pursuit. I hold my breath, waiting to see if they will ride them down or capture them for questioning.

Just as the attackers crest the hilltop, a score of archers step into view, bows drawn. The pursued men slip in behind the archers just as they release their arrows.

“No!” Beast’s bellow of agony echoes through the small valley as Captain Lannion and his men take the full brunt of the volley. Lannion takes three in the chest, the force of them knocking him from his horse.

Instead of advancing farther, the archers withdraw behind the trees. Beast plucks one of the arrows from his arm and continues up the hill. Does he think to take them all on single-handed? Even a man in the throes of battle fever cannot hold against twenty archers.

Alone on the hill, he is also an excellent target. I check to ensure the duchess is no longer in danger, then wheel my horse around so I can lend Beast some cover.

That is when I see what is happening on the second bridge.

Another group of assailants is climbing up the side. A second wave? No, I realize with foreboding. A small, select force. It is headed for the litter.

Merde. Louise and Charlotte and Tephanie have only Tola to protect them.

“Beast!” My bellow echoes throughout the valley, piercing through the din of the battle. He pauses, jerking his head in my direction. “The litter!” I point toward the bridge.

He comprehends immediately. Wheeling his horse around, he races back down the hill. Not sure he will make it in time, I turn my mount toward the bridge and break into a gallop.