Igniting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 5)

And so we enter the next stage of the battle. We bombard the enemy with everything we have: Arduinna’s arrows, the arquebuses and the older hook guns, and the knights and soldiers, always the soldiers fighting and hacking and slicing, falling and getting up again. The grunting cries of pain, the screams.

And that does not even factor in the souls. So many souls escaping their bodies, like a murmuration of starlings against the smoke-filled sky.

As the sun finally begins to lower toward the horizon, Pierre finally signals a retreat, calling back less than a quarter of the men he started with.

A rousing cheer goes up, starting in the battlefield, then quickly taken up by the city.

Chapter 90

We stand, gasping for breath, muscles trembling, too exhausted to move as we watch Pierre and his troops flee.

Our men are bone-weary. They have been fighting in one form or another since early this morning. It is Beast who rouses himself first. He is blood splattered, his breastplate dented in numerous places, and two arrows protrude from his left arm. “We’ve wounded to see to.” His deep voice booms through the haggard silence.

Slowly, townspeople begin to venture forward, coming out of the gate. A handful of them are the priests from the local abbey, and another handful are the Brigantian nuns. Beast waves them over to where the majority of our wounded lie. Instead of following them, he heads for the first pit.

Sword still in his hand, Maraud limps over to Beast. “You are not tending their wounded before our own.”

“Your father is in there. Your father who chose to ride into the pit rather than alert Pierre to our gambit. We both owe it to him to see if he is still alive.”

Maraud’s expression is unreadable as he shoves his sword in its scabbard. When they reach the pit, the Arduinnites are already there, quieting the injured horses and gently putting them out of their misery.

Maraud places his hand on the rim of the pit, then hops down into it, followed by Beast. I hold my breath, barely able to imagine what a grisly scene must await them. Moments later, Maraud’s muffled voice calls out, “He’s alive.”

* * *

Beast emerges from the pit, carrying Maraud’s father carefully in his arms, not wishing to make his wounds worse, but unable to get him out any other way. By the time he has laid him on the makeshift stretcher two of the priests have produced, Maraud has climbed out of the pit as well. Instead of following his father into the city, he heads for our own wounded.

Beast puts a hand on his arm to stop him. “There are plenty of others to take care of the men. Go with your father. Although you did not want it, he gave much for you—both his honor and most likely his life.”

The men’s eyes meet, and the weight of what passes between them squeezes my throat. Finally, Maraud turns to follow the priests. When I fall into step beside him, he says nothing. At first, I think he will ignore me, but he takes my hand instead, holding it tightly the entire way.

The infirmary is clean and spare, and smells of dried herbs and human bodies. The floors are stone, the walls bare and lined with beds. We wait while they clean Crunard and get him settled, wanting, I think, to spare us the pain of his discomfort. Maraud’s jaw is clenched the entire time, his eyes staring straight ahead.

“Would you rather be alone?” I ask.

His grip on my hand tightens. “I would rather not be here at all, but if I must, better with you at my side.”

One of the nuns appears and motions us into the room. I have never seen Maraud’s father before, but instantly recognize the lines of his face, the plane of his jaw, the arch of his nose. That is where the similarity ends, however. This man’s flesh hangs loose from his face, his hair has gone gray, his lips thin and bloodless.

“It is a gut wound,” the priest says quietly. “He is still alive, and may be for days, but it is fatal, make no mistake.”

“Thank you,” I tell the priest. When Maraud makes no move, I gently lead him to the bed.

As if sensing his son’s presence, the older man opens his eyes.

“You knew.” Maraud’s hand on mine tightens. “You knew it was a trap.”

Crunard gives an imperceptible nod.

“And yet you rode into it anyway.”

“To veer would have given it away.” The words come out ragged.

Maraud’s emotions bubble through him. Confusion and anger, bitterness and disbelief, and buried beneath all of that, grief. “Why?”

Crunard’s lips draw back in an echo of a smile. “Did you ever think—” He stops to breathe. “Had come to make amends?”

The look on Maraud’s face makes it plain he had never considered such a thing.

“Besides”—another ghostly grin—“couldn’t let them take you twice.”

Chapter 91

Sybella

“You are injured as well,” I remind Beast as we leave the infirmary.

“You are being daft.”

“I am not the one with two arrows in my arm, a gash across my forehead, and, I suspect, a broken rib.”

Beast glances down, breaks the shafts off the arrowheads, then tosses them aside. “All taken care of.”

“And your arm?”

He grins. ?

??Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little blood.”

I snort.

“You are mistaken,” he continues in a more sober tone, “if you think I will rest while there are men to see to.”

Of course I knew that, but had hoped he would at least allow his wounds to be tended first.

As it turns out, there are not that many wounded. Two of the queen’s guard have broken legs from falling from their horses, but they are not bad breaks and will mend well. Valine has a cut on her arm, almost a near match to Beast’s, although she has the good sense to have at least wrapped it. Three charbonnerie received burns—which they consider as sacred as medals of honor—and the Arduinnites have only a half dozen arrow wounds among them.

That is not to say there were no casualties. A man was crushed by his own horse, another took a pike to the chest, and a dozen pikesmen died of wounds sustained during the battle.

“See that their families are taken care of,” Beast tells the priest who tallied the dead.

When the priest has left, I cannot help but ask, “How did you bring so many men through unscathed?”

He scowls at the sea of bodies. “I would not call this unscathed. And I had help. Maraud, the Arduinnites, you, Gen, the charbonnerie, the men’s own fighting spirits.”

But it is more than that. I have seen it time and again. It is as if his battle lust, his own will and determination and sheer stubbornness pull his men along in his wake, casting a veil of protection over them.

“Well, it is a small miracle,” I say, knowing he will be uncomfortable if I tell him how big a miracle it truly is.

* * *

When I finally get Beast to the infirmary, it tries him sorely to lie still with so much to be done. And although he claims his saint allows him to heal quickly, I have seen him delirious with wounds that very nearly killed him. “Wouldn’t you be embarrassed if the mighty Beast of Waroch was brought low by an infection of the blood or a gangrenous limb?”