Kushiel’s Dart

I heard the cry that arose, too, as the Skaldi gave way before them, some dying, some swirling away. "Kilberhaar!" they cried, falling and fleeing. "Kilberhaar!"

On his tall horse, Waldemar Selig turned, sensing himself the target of that fierce-driving wedge. All around the sides of battle, Skaldi and Alban fought, desperate and bloody, the Skaldi numbers prevailing.

But the center was coming for him.

Selig rode back and forth. Selig drew his sword, and held it aloft in one massive fist, while the White Brethren flanked him, and his forces roiled.

Isidore d’Aiglemort drove toward his heart.

"Kilberhaar!" Selig roared, pumping his sword-arm skyward. Wheeling his horse, he plunged toward the center of the battle, scattering his own forces. "Kilberhaar!"

Howling, the Skaldi followed.

"Now!" Gaspar Trevalion shouted. His standard-bearer waved the Courcel swan with wild urgency, and the trebuchet crew set torches to the feu d’Hellas and loosed the counterweights. The bucket sprang forward, casting an arching mass of liquid flame over the eastern front of the Skaldi army.

In the courtyard, Percy de Somerville gave a single command.

Up came the porcullis, dented by the battering ram; down came the drawbridge, and the keepers of the barbican loosed a cover of crossbow-fire. Four by four, the defenders of Troyes-le-Mont came streaming forth, reforming in neat lines and falling on the rearguard of Selig’s men.

Truly, the Skaldi were caught between hammer and anvil.

We were all standing clear on the battlements now, forgotten targets, as the slaughter below ensued. Percy de Somerville’s army fell on the Skaldi like lions, a siege’s worth of pent rage in their blood, felling everything in their path.

And at the center, Waldemar Selig drove to meet Isidore d’Aiglemort.

I do not need to tell it; all the world knows that story. How they came together at the heart of the battle, two titans, natural-born warriors both of them. We saw, from the battlements, how the shining wedge of d’Aiglemort’s cavalry thinned, growing narrower, driving still, ever inward. How the silver eagle of death, d’Aiglemort’s standard, faltered at last, dipping and falling, overwhelmed beneath a sea of Skaldi.

And Isidore d’Aiglemort, atop his black horse, fought onward, alone.

They met, at the end; d’Aiglemort went down, the black horse slain. We thought him lost, buried under Skaldi. Then he arose, silver hair streaming beneath his helmet, a Skaldi axe in one hand. He threw it left-handed, as Selig rode up on his tall horse.

He killed the horse.

Always, it is the innocent who suffer, the beasts of the field, the Servants of Naamah. So it is, always, in times of war. Selig’s steed went down with a crash; Selig arose cursing. And they fought, there on the plain, on foot and alone. They fought, the two of them, like lovers staging a Showing in Cereus House. There are those who think it wrong, to make such a comparison. But I was there.

I saw.

How many wounds Isidore d’Aiglemort had taken to get there, I cannot say. They counted, on his body, when the armor was stripped from him: Seventeen, no less, they counted. Some of those were Selig’s. Not all.

Waldemar Selig, proof against weapons. So the Skaldi believed. But while battle raged around them, he fought Isidore d’Aiglemort, the traitor Duc of Terre d’Ange.

Fought him, and died.

I do not scruple to say it. When d’Aiglemort’s sword found a gap in Selig’s armor and pierced it to the hilt, I cried out my relief. Waldemar Selig sank to his knees, disbelieving. D’Aiglemort, dying, sank with him, both hands on his sword-hilt, thrusting it home.

So they met their end.

Chapter Ninety

After that, it was nearly a rout, despite the numbers.

Those tribal fault-lines I had so carefully traversed through the Skaldi encampment turned into gaping chasms as bands of warriors broke away; some by the thousand, others by the hundreds, and some even fracturing steading by steading, in the scores and dozens.

Percy de Somerville’s troops pursued them with merciless efficiency. And at the center of the battlefield…

"Your majesty!" I pointed toward the northeast, where a band of mounted Cruithne was cutting a swath toward the site of d’Aiglemort and Selig’s battle. The standard of the black boar, the Cullach Gorrym, flew proud overhead, and at the forefront, sword swinging tirelessly, rode a familiar figure, scarlet cloak swirling from his shoulders.

"Drustan." Ysandre touched her fingers to her lips, eyes wide with wonder. "Is it really?"

"Oh, it is," Joscelin assured her. "That’s Drustan mab Necthana!"

His riders won through as we watched, forging a ring around the fallen figure of Isidore d’Aiglemort. To the southeast, the war-chariots of the Dalriada raced in mad circles, sowing chaos and terror in the hearts of the Skaldi, and their foot-soldiers carried the Fhalair Ban, the White Horse of Eire.

A clamor arose closer to home, coming from the courtyard.