The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,109
one before. At Frederick’s nod they looked towards the bell tower and their faces paled. “The duke needs to be told,” Frederick said. “What we do next is his decision.”
“There are too many to fight,” a krieghund said. He flushed. “I mean, there are too many to fight and win. I’m happy to fight them.” The beast’s face was neither human nor wolf, but something raw and in-between. The blood on his jaws was not from the enemy, it leached from unhealed skin.
“Still his decision,” Frederick said.
Tycho said, “Help him make the right one.” Both Frederick and the krieghund who’d spoken turned to him. “If those attack, the infantry are already dead.”
“That’s brutal,” said Frederick.
Tycho replied, “War is brutal.”
Although he scowled, Frederick didn’t disagree. Staring towards the smouldering bell tower, he said. “They’re still appearing.”
“Do you think Alonzo has a mage?”
“I doubt it,” Frederick said. “They’re being summoned by the bell tower, perhaps by the island itself.”
“And we’ve set fire to their home.”
Frederick nodded grimly. “Let’s destroy the bridge and fall back.”
“Your highness . . .” It was the krieghund who’d spoken earlier. “We may be too late.” Marco, his staff officers and his knights were advancing along the lake, their battle flag held high and personal pennants waving.
“Idiot,” Frederick said.
It was the first rude word Tycho had heard him say about a man most of Europe thought unfit to rule himself never mind an empire as big as Serenissima. The Venetian knights slowed for the barrel bridge, clattered across it in two and broke into a canter that became a gallop within a dozen paces. Marco had decided to charge his uncle. It was magnificent, and stupid. A rolling front of horseflesh and steel, lances lowered and swords loosened, crashed into the side of Alonzo’s cavalry, which was regrouping. The noise knocked snow from the sides of the valley and set avalanches sliding.
Alonzo’s cavalry were tired and Marco’s fresh.
But his were hardened soldiers and Marco’s formed from the sons of nobles and cittadini, with a smattering of tried officers to stiffen their spine. They clashed and the Venetians rode straight through. Shouting, they turned and, buoyed by their own excitement, attacked again. Swords swung and hacked, shields came up and knights were knocked from their saddles and trampled by their own animals. The animal that was the battle became more deadly and more vicious.
Maybe the smoke finally drove the domovoi down to ground level and on to the black rocks of the island, perhaps it was the stink of blood or the noise of the cavalry clashing. They skittered on the water’s edge, touching the ice as if its solidness was unexpected. A wild archer turned, saw them and loosed an arrow that caught one in the throat. The horseman next to him raised his own bow and did the same. The domovoi clicked their high inhuman protest. Finding the ice solid, they flowed on to it and began to spread out. A moment later the killing began.
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“Tycho, you c-can’t . . .”
“Watch me.” Tycho dragged Marco’s horse out of the melee. “Has Giulietta gone back to the camp?”
“She’s over t-there.”
Tycho saw a slight figure in white armour draw her bow and put an arrow into a wild archer on a pony who was aiming at someone else. It hit his leg but was enough to make him miss. A Nicoletto stabbed him, which saved Tycho from having to do it. “Don’t move,” he told Marco.
Flowing across the ice, Tycho grabbed Giulietta’s bridle and ducked as she swung her bow as if it were a sword. “Me,” he said, wondering if that made it any better. Her face was strained and she looked close to tears.
“I soiled myself,” she said.
“Half the field have soiled themselves. There are more important things to worry about, like keeping Leo alive . . .” Yes, he thought that would concentrate her mind. She followed him to where Marco sat scowling. Before they could reach him, Captain Weimer rode up and saluted. They arrived just in time to hear the captain say, “Your highness, we face a worse enemy.”
Having killed their first attackers, the domovoi had armed themselves with swords taken from the dead and were hacking their way through shields, crushing helmets with maces, stabbing with whichever end of a spear was at hand. Every man to die gave them another weapon and they killed indiscriminately, making no distinction between Alonzo’s and Marco’s forces.