Igniting Darkness (Courting Darkness Duology #2) - Robin LaFevers Page 0,159

ride four knights in full suits of armor. Behind them ride more mounted knights, as far as the eye can see. Their visors are down, their horses lathered, as they gallop toward us. Any hint of humanity is hidden by the heavy metal that protects their bodies and those of their horses.

“Sweet Jesu,” I mutter.

“They will not expect to have to fight so quickly,” Sybella says. “The dance of chivalry allows for both sides to take their positions on the field before engaging, but Beast has chosen to force the fight on his timing.”

Down below us, Beast calls out, “Archers! Take your positions!” The Arduinnites disappear into the nearby trees, except for the thirty who will remain before our defensive line.

“Steady,” Beast reminds everyone. “Do not move until I give the order.”

The silence grows heavy as we wait for Pierre. One of the horsemen detaches from the rest of the unit and rides forward, Pierre’s lathered horse prancing as he catches the scent of the other stallions.

“You cannot think to fight with so few men,” Pierre calls out for all to hear. “Here are my terms. If Anton Crunard is among you, send him out and I will accept your unconditional surrender with no retaliation.”

“He does not recognize Beast,” Sybella whispers. “Or know about the destruction of the English fleet.”

“Or he is lying.”

No one makes any move to accept his offer. Perhaps they too know he is lying. Maraud’s horse paws at the ground, bringing him one pace forward. “If you are too afraid to fight,” he says, “simply say so.”

Pierre’s helmet swivels in Maraud’s direction. “You will pay for this. You have betrayed me, destroyed our can—”

“That was no betrayal—I never agreed to fight for you.”

Sensing his rider’s temper, Pierre’s horse rises up, pawing at the air. “I will cut out your heart myself,” Pierre says.

Maraud raps his gauntlet on his breastplate. “If you can find it.”

As Pierre swings his horse around to ride back to his waiting forces, Maraud calls out, “Hey, Pierre! Exactly how many balls do you have left?”

Guffaws of laughter erupt from our line as Pierre puts his spurs to his horse and gallops away.

Sybella nods in appreciation. “Invoke his intemperate fury. This boy of yours has some wits.”

Stupidly, I feel a glow of pride.

Pierre does not lead the charge himself, but gives the signal by bringing his gauntlet down in a swiping motion. His first assault surges forward, the three knights that rode with him in the lead. I wonder which—if any of them—is Maraud’s father, or if he is already dead, killed by Pierre for Maraud’s escape.

The five hundred knights riding toward us do not slow down, or fall back, or veer to the left or right. Indeed, as they draw closer, the knight in the center stands in his stirrups and raises his helmet’s visor. From the ramparts, it appears as if he is looking directly at Maraud. With their gazes locked, he rides forward, never checking his stride. He is the first to reach the ditch hidden by branches and brambles, the first to pitch forward into it, his limbs flailing and his horse’s legs tangling with his own.

The other knights are too close to turn back. They, too, ride forward, plunging into the ditch and the sharpened spikes that wait there. Shouts of surprise, screams of terror, the crunch of bone and metal fill the air as scores of knights go pouring in after them, like water over a cliff.

Those in the vanguard take the worst of it. Behind them, the riders veer to the left and the right, hoping to avoid the ditch. But Beast and Maraud have thought of that and have more waiting for them on either side. More screams, more clashing and crunching as the first line of attack is swallowed. I can no longer tell if the thudding that reverberates through my body is the thunder of the assault or the heartbeats of all the dying.

A few are lucky. Their horses throw their riders over their heads so the men avoid being crushed by their own mounts’ bodies in the fall. Others are luckier still and are tossed completely over the ditch, landing on the far side—but are met by Arduinna’s arrows.

It takes mere minutes, but by the time it is over, the casualties of the first assault are horrific.

The second line of assault approaches much as the first, riding toward us at full speed. Beast calls out, “Pikesmen!” The two hundred conscripts step out