Kushiel’s Dart

There was no discipline to it, no strategy, no plan. Drustan’s army charged as they were assembled, a belligerent horde, foot-soldiers outracing the horse as they reached the copse, the chariots wheeling, seeking broad enough passage. The beech woods full, suddenly, of howling soldiers, bursting onto the verge of the valley.

What they found there, I know, for I heard it later; at the base of the valley, Maelcon’s army, that had crept stealthily through the night, hoping to surprise them at dawn. In another ten minutes, they’d have done it, coming round to flank us on both sides; and Drustan had bid fair to speak for that long, if not for the black boar.

Do not discount the Cullach Gorrym.

We heard the sound of it, those of us left behind, a terrible clash of arms, death-cries arising, as steel beat upon steel. Trapped at the base of the valley, Maelcon’s men died, as thousands of the followers of the Cullach Gorrym poured down the green sides of the hill; and Maelcon’s men fought, desperate and caught, slaying hundreds as they died.

Now, I know; then, I did not. I looked at Hyacinthe, saw his face blurred and terrified, sight-blind eyes turned toward the battle.

"What do you see?" I asked, shaking him. "What do you see!"

"Death." He answered me in a whisper, turning his dromonde-stricken gaze upon me. "Death."

I looked at him and past him and saw something else.

A party of the Tarbh Cro, red-haired Cruithne and fair, faces tattooed blue, in well-worn arms and mounted, under the standard of the Red Bull.

"Maelcon was right," one said, drawing his sword and gesturing; they spread out to encircle us. "Take them hostage."

Not us, but Necthana; Necthana and her daughters, Drustan’s mother and sisters. With whom we stood, all of us, trapped on our rocky vantage.

They were Cruithne, the women; if they did not ride to battle, still, they could shoot, as well as the men, and better. I’d seen it. But their bows lay at the campsite, only a few yards away. And between it, and us, stood Maelcon’s men. We were none of us armed.

Except Joscelin.

Almost without thinking, I looked to him, knowing, already, what I would see. He was in motion, unhesitating, the morning sun reflecting bright steel as his daggers came free; his vambraces flashed like silver, and he picked a spot halfway down the outcropping and bowed.

"In Cassiel’s name," he said softly. "I protect and serve."

And they attacked.

Two fell, then three, then five; there were too many, and they swarmed the sides of the rock, dismounting, blades out and swinging. Hyacinthe swore and scrabbled for stones, hurling them with a street-fighter’s accuracy. A small figure, dark and quick, slipped over the side of the outcrop. One of the Tarbh Cro gained the summit and lunged at me, whirling his sword; I ducked and got behind him, I don’t know how, and shoved. He stumbled back into his comrades, laughing.

"Joscelin!" I shouted. "Draw your sword!"

He paused, mid-battle, glancing at me; I saw it, in his quick blue gaze, the memory of Skaldia, his oath betrayed. Then his face hardened, he rammed his daggers into their twin sheaths, and his sword rang free of its scabbard.

A single lithe form slipped past Joscelin, swift and darting. He started, and caught himself, fighting like a dervish.

"Fall back!" the leader of the Tarbh Cro party cried in harsh Cruithne; they obeyed, retreating to their horse. He had guessed aright. Joscelin, unwilling to give up the advantage of height, awaited on the rocks, his angled sword reflecting sunlight across their faces.

That was when the arrows began to sing.

It was Moiread who had gained the camp; Moiread, Necthana’s youngest, a full quiver at hand, shooting grim and deadly, little more than a girl. Two of the Tarbh Cro dropped before their leader cursed and fumbled for the butt of his spear. "Never mind hostages!" he shouted. "Kill them all!"

With that, he cast his spear.

At Moiread.

I saw it catch her, pierce her through the middle, both hands rising to circle the shaft, gasping as she fell backward. And I heard two cries: Hyacinthe’s, broken-hearted, and a second cry, like the sound of dying-Necthana, hands covering her eyes. Moiread’s sisters keened, low and grieving.

One other shout, clarion, splitting the morning.

I had seen Joscelin fight against the Skaldi; nothing, I thought, could match it. I was wrong. Like a falling star, he descended on the Tarbh Cro, a Cassiline berserker, his sword biting and slashing like a silver snake. They fell before him, wounds bursting open in bright splashes of blood; fell, and died, still scrabbling for their spears.

How many? Twenty, I had counted. Most fell to Joscelin, save the two Moiread had slain. Not all. Necthana and her daughters, Breidaia and Sibeal; they flung themselves into the fray, with keen little daggers. Four, I think, died at their hands. Maybe five, or six. There were two that Hyacinthe finished, drawing a boot-knife, the Prince of Travellers.

I, shaking, killed none.