Kushiel’s Dart

Truly, a stranger crew never landed on the shores of Terre d’Ange.

I took pity on Ghislain. "My lord," I said. "We have a very long story to tell you, but the short truth of it is, we have brought Alba’s army, in accordance with the wishes of the Queen of Terre d’Ange, and we are in grave need of your guidance. That the Royal Army is besieged at Troyes-le-Mont, we know, and little more. Will you grant us your hospitality and share your news? We bear foodstuffs of our own; I give my word that we’ll not strip your camp."

"Are you jesting?" Ghislain de Somerville gathered himself with a shake, carefully disengaging Grainne’s arm. "You saved our hides, you’re welcome to aught we have. Bring your folk ashore, we’ll welcome them all!" He strode off shouting, and Azzallese scrambled to obey.

"He smells like apples," Grainne said thoughtfully.

"Yes," I agreed. "He does."

Chapter Eighty-Two

Ghislain De Somerville had more to recommend him than a pleasant odor.

Once his initial astonishment had passed, he proved a shrewd and able commander. The worktable in his tent was covered with detailed maps. He showed us exactly where Marc de Trevalion’s forces were aligned along the Rhenus, and where the Skaldi had made sorties, the latest of which had nearly succeeded. He pointed out the course of the invasion through the Northern Pass, laying out his father’s plan for the retreat to Troyes-le-Mont, giving us a thorough briefing on events since our departure.

Everything, it seemed, had gone according to plan; the problem was, quite simply, that no matter how cunningly they planned, there were too many Skaldi.

"All they have to do is wait," he said, his face grave, circling the point that marked the fortress with one finger. "There’s a good well, and deep, no chance of losing water, and Father saw to it that Troyes-le-Mont was well stocked. But still, their food can only last so long, and Selig’s got the whole damned country at his disposal. As long as his discipline holds…" He shrugged and shook his head.

Drustan pointed to the map and asked something in Cruithne.

"How many Skaldi?" I asked.

"Thirty-odd thousand." Ghislain’s face was heavy.

I translated it; Drustan went pale under his tattooing. "And in the fortress?" I asked.

"We can’t be sure what losses we took." Ghislain slid another map out and laid it atop the other, a sketch of the fortress. "Eight thousand, before the battle; how many survived, I don’t know. Most, I think. They have an outer wall here, and trenches and stake-pits here, and here, with a second wall of fortifications here." He pointed, indicating. "So far, they’ve held this belt of ground, but my news is no fresher than yours, if the Master of the Straits' sea-mirror told true. After that, they’ve naught but the fortress itself."

"And after that?" Quintilius Rousse asked.

Ghislain met his eyes. "Prince Benedicte is doing all he can to rally a force among the Caerdicci city-states. If we had sufficient numbers, we could pin the Skaldi between us like hot metal on an anvil and hammer them. But the Caerdicci look to their own. It doesn’t sound as though any help’s coming from that quarter."

"Then they fall," Joscelin said softly. "And Terre d’Ange falls with them."

As long as Selig’s discipline holds…

I stared at the map. "We have one chance," I said, thinking aloud, unaware that I’d spoke until Ghislain de Somerville looked quizzically at me. "Selig’s army, it’s fractious, there must be, what, a hundred tribes, at least?" I glanced at Joscelin. "Remember the day we rode into the All-thing?" I asked. He nodded soberly. "Some of them are blood enemies. If we stir them up, break Selig’s discipline…it’s somewhat, at least."

"And how do we do that?" Rousse asked skeptically; but Ghislain was eyeing the map intently.

"The Cruithne scared them," he said thoughtfully, tapping the map. "All those blue faces…the Skaldi didn’t know what to make of it. I could see that well enough, from the far shore. They’re a superstitious lot, you know. If we could harry their flanks, small strikes, retreating fast…it would give them somewhat to think about, at any rate. We’d need a secure retreat, somewhere in the mountains here. Someplace hidden."

I looked at Drustan, Eamonn and Grainne, and did not yet translate. "How many of us would be like to survive?" I asked Ghislain. "Truly."

Glancing up from the map, he drew a deep breath. "None," he said quietly. "In the end? None. We’d live as long as we were lucky, and no longer. And it may be that we’d die for naught. You’re right, it’s our only chance; but it’s a slim one at best."

"Thank you," I told him, and then repeated it all to Drustan in Cruithne.

He took it soberly, walking half-gaited away to gaze out the door of the tent, startling the Azzallese guard. Eamonn and Grainne glanced at each other.

"Tell him I’ll see his folk returned to Alba’s shores," Quintilius Rousse said gruffly to me. "Every last blue-stained, lime-crested one of 'em. We didn’t ask 'em here to commit suicide."