The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,103

its wing, tearing a ragged hole in black leather. Another struck its chest and the creature screamed.

“B-bring it d-down.”

Archers scrambled to obey Marco’s order almost before he spoke it.

Two more arrows found the creature as it turned away and flapped its wings frantically, trying to climb high enough to make it home. The beast had almost reached the island before it faltered, twisted in the air and fell.

“Mine,” Frederick shouted. Spurring his mount across the barrel bridge, he raced for where the creature struggled to get airborne and five krieghund followed, their swords already drawn.

“Such c-children.”

Giulietta didn’t doubt that half the krieghund were older than him.

“Oh h-hell,” Marco swore suddenly. Half a dozen black shapes appeared on the cathedral roof and swooped towards Frederick and his followers.

“Watch,” Giulietta said.

Suddenly crouching on his saddle, Frederick leapt for the flapping blackness overhead and began his change in mid-air. It was so brutal Giulietta looked away as his scream echoed from the mountains, and she found herself overcome with nausea all over again.

“Oh G-God,” Marco said.

Frederick hit the creature full-on, his twisted hands clawing its head as he found his grip and twisted hard enough to break its neck. He dropped back into his saddle, grabbed the reins of his terrified mount, holding it steady with brute force while he drew the WolfeSelle from a scabbard on the saddle. Then he vaulted from his horse, strode to where creature he’d originally been after flapped and struggled on the ice and beheaded it.

“He’s trying to impress you.”

Lady Giulietta didn’t bother to say he was succeeding.

Unslinging the ash and buffalo-horn bow bequeathed her by Alexa, Giulietta put her knees to her horse to spur it forward, dipped for an arrow from the quiver by her knee and turned for the bridge.

“G-Giulietta, you c-can’t . . .”

For a moment, she thought Marco had grabbed her bridle and opened her mouth to shout in protest, but he snatched the Lion of St Mark from its carrier and thrust the flagpole at her. She showed him her bow.

“Fire y-your d-damn arrow . . .”

Fingers releasing, she let her arrow fly, slammed her bow back into its open-topped case and grabbed the battle flag. The Lion. Her throat was tight and tears filled her eyes. She wanted to sneer at herself for the sudden sentimentality but felt only awe as she lifted the flag higher.

“That’s it,” Marco shouted.

Archers were cheering around her.

Marco’s knights had gone from standing to a trot and from a trot to a light canter as she and Marco led them across the barrel bridge. Officers were shouting orders but she had no idea what they were and cared even less. She, Lady Giulietta di Millioni, was carrying the great flag into battle beside the duke himself. It was an act from which legends were made. Up ahead, the krieghund sprang at the shadow things as archers began aiming for the walls, with archers behind them aiming for any creatures that appeared above. Young boys dashed between the archers, lighting fire arrows from their flaming brands.

A couple of Frederick’s followers lay dead, half-naked boys dressed in bloodied rags where they’d reverted to human form. Giulietta looked frantically for their master. He was a hundred paces away, gripping the WolfeSelle in hands that looked too twisted to hold it, his mouth open in a high and ferocious howl, his sex erect and his fur shimmering in a sudden cold wind as he cut the last of the flapping black creatures from the sky.

What was it with the erect sex? They all did it on changing. She wondered if it was the nature of the change or their lust for battle. Catching her glance, Marco grinned. “Not quite as s-safe as you t-thought?”

She scowled at him. “Find your own monster.”

“Every time I d-do you take him f-first.” She had a feeling he meant that. Dragging his reins, her cousin swerved to shout some order at an officer half a dozen paces away. The man peeled off and she saw him drop back.

“We n-need m-more archers.”

Enemy forces were appearing along the roofline of the cathedral, the first of Alonzo’s followers she’d seen. They began dousing the arrows stuck into the walls below them. At first she thought they used water then realised it was sand. Behind her came the rattle of carts and the clank of bridles. She heard a cart reach the barrel bridge and stop. The driver, with the thick accent of a Nicoletto, told the archers