The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,102
scowling furiously, took the flaming torch he was offered. Together, archers, priest and sergeant crossed the creaking bridge, stopped at the sergeant’s shouted order, and raised their bows towards the walls. The priest ambled down the line lighting arrows.
“Release them.”
A ragged cheer went up from Marco’s troops as the volley rose high and dropped towards the cathedral. A few stuck, the rest dropping away to fizzle out on the rocks below. “And again,” Marco ordered.
The villagers notched new fire arrows and the priest shuffled forward with his flaming brand, glancing nervously towards the cathedral. The air was unusually still for so far out on the ice, and the valley quiet. Not even the sound of a distant bird broke the silence. “Get on with it,” the sergeant shouted.
The priest lit the arrows and the men released their bowstrings.
This time the army watched in silence the arc the arrows made as they flamed into the clear blue sky and then fell towards the cathedral’s wooden walls. A few more stuck this time and the sergeant grinned. The villagers fitted new arrows without being ordered, moving like dead men or puppets, not looking at each other or at their priest, simply replenishing their bows and waiting.
“I don’t like it,” Frederick whispered.
Although the air hung heavy there were no thunderclouds in the sky and no sign of a storm on the horizon. Giulietta nodded her agreement. It was too quiet and she felt exposed out here, as if the mountains were watching. “What’s that?” she demanded. The crack sounded as loud as the absent thunder, and she looked at the ice below her horse’s hooves to check it was still firm. Others were looking around for the source of the noise.
“Light those arrows,” Marco ordered.
The bearded priest shambled forward, the flaming torch in his hand, and was readying to light the first arrow when the sergeant yelled a warning. The priest spun faster than seemed possible for such a big man, looking every which way but up, and that was how he found himself standing headless, before toppling sideways to stain the ice a vivid red. A ragged shadow dropped his head and it landed with a thud, rolling along the ice like a ball.
Turning, Giulietta spewed noisily.
“What the f-fuck was t-that?”
“Not sure,” Frederick said. “But there’s another.” He pointed to an onion dome on the cathedral. “See it?”
“M-my eyes aren’t that g-good.”
“Can y-you s-see it?” Marco asked Giulietta.
“Looks like a bird with the head of a lizard,” she said.
“Like big b-bats?”
“Not really. More like gargoyles.”
“Does it matter?” Frederick asked, as Marco summoned an officer and told him to make the archers fire another volley.
“Of course it d-does. If I don’t know what they l-look like h-how can I work out w-what they are? If I don’t k-know what they are h-how can I d-defeat them? Pity Tycho’s n-not here. He’s g-good at things like t-this.”
“He’s good at most things,” Frederick said bitterly.
Giulietta leant across and touched his wrist. With a scowl, he shook her off and withdrew. Since this involved making his mount walk backwards she was almost as impressed as she was irritated.
“You n-need to choose,” Marco said.
“Marco . . .”
“I’m s-serious. Which do you l-love?”
She thought about it. “Both, if I’m honest.”
“I was a-afraid of that.” He nodded to an officer, who said something to the sergeant, who shouted an order. The villagers notched new arrows and the sergeant took a fresh torch.
“W-wait . . .” Marco ordered. It seemed he wanted a line of Venetian bowmen behind the villagers. They, too, should have naphtha-tipped arrows – but their job was to kill whatever it was before it could kill the sergeant.
Weirdly brilliant, thought Giulietta, seeing her cousin wide-eyed and excited by his own plan. But not really in the same world as the rest of us. She watched as Venetian archers hurried over the barrel bridge and drew up in a line. The officer went after them and took a lighted torch for himself.
“When y-you’re r-ready.”
As the first line raised their bows, a swirl of light-swallowing darkness detached itself from the cathedral roof and the sergeant and officer ran down the double line of bowmen lighting arrows.
“F-first line, f-fire.” Arrows rose and fell towards the cathedral, but everyone except the second line of archers was watching Marco, who was squirming with excitement. “S-second line, f-fire.” His bowmen had their arrows in the air before Marco finished the order.