The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,116
facing thoughts of death. Flat, unwelcome thoughts. They stared death in the face and death scowled back. They would die on a mountain road, frozen and hungry, and surrounded by the clash of steel, the gasps of exhausted men . . .
What am I missing? Tycho thought.
In the unexpected silence of both sides suddenly falling quiet he found it and knew it had been there before, time and again, calling to him and waiting on his answer. The high call of a goshawk. Shivers ran down his back. On the wind came a second call, so clear he almost froze in shock. Did he want help?
Of course he wanted help, and badly. Tycho risked a glance above the shield wall, blocked a thrusting blade and slashed at the fingers of his attacker, hearing the man swear and not caring, because he was already sending a high answering call of his own.
“W-what’s-that?”
“Assassini business.”
A shadow dropped from the cliffs on to the rear of the tortuca, ran its brief length and leapt on to Alonzo’s tortuca, ripped up a roofing shield and broke the neck of the soldier beneath. Howling with excitement, it lunged for another man.
A patter of bare feet on Marco’s tortuca turned to a torrent. Screaming began as Alonzo’s shield wall fell apart. Standing straight, Tycho watched ragged darkness wash over Alonzo’s front line and take down his men.
“Charge the traitorous bastards,” Captain Weimer yelled.
“No,” Tycho’s voice was fierce. “Stand firm.”
“T-Tycho. W-what is it?”
“Our sins returned to haunt us.”
Marco stared at the ragged children backlit by stars. They were mostly female and dressed in rags that did little to hide their scrawny bodies and even less to keep out the wind. Lacking Tycho’s vision, Marco couldn’t see the blood running down their chins or the baby white dog teeth with which they tore out the throats of their victims. He just heard screams and saw bodies falling. The children killed the horses cleanly but they fed on anything human.
“S-some s-sins,” Marco said.
Tycho nodded grimly. He heard footsteps and turned. On the dark road behind him stood two women. One he’d expected to see, the other he hadn’t. She was Nubian, with braided hair that ended in silver thimbles. Her companion was almost a girl, dressed in a tattered gown that had once belonged to Eleanor, Lady Giulietta’s dead lady-in-waiting. “Hold Alonzo,” she barked.
Her followers swarmed round the prince.
“Your highness,” Amelia said. “Apologies for our lateness.”
Marco smiled at the Nubian. “You t-timed your entrance p-perfectly. N-now, introduce m-me to your interesting f-friend . . .”
“We’ve met,” the ragged girl said.
“This is Lady Rosalyn of the Carpathians.”
“Greetings, my lady . . . And t-those? Marco gestured at the urchins, a few of whom still crouched over shuddering bodies. Some formed the circle that kept Alonzo secure. Behind those were more urchins, silently blocking the path against retreat, had there been any of Alonzo’s followers left alive to do so.
“My children,” Rosalyn said proudly.
“S-such a big f-family for one so y-young.” Marco smiled at Tycho. “And s-such interesting p-parents . . .”
A few of the children came to stand around their mistress. The rest guarded the road or kept Alonzo penned as she’d ordered, although they glanced over jealously. One of the urchins with Rosalyn, smaller than the rest, laid her head against Rosalyn’s hip and Rosalyn hugged her briefly. There was something lost in the child’s face. “Your little brother is fine,” Tycho said.
Fierce eyes fixed on him. “You promise?”
It seemed she remembered Pietro, who got his sister back from the grave only to lose her again. “He’s Lady Giulietta’s page.”
“She treats him well?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Then she can live. That one, however . . .” Rosalyn pointed to where Prince Alonzo stood. “He dies.”
“H-he m-must be t-tried.”
“Then killed?” she asked contemptuously.
Marco looked rueful. Tycho imagined that was exactly what he wanted. The men behind Marco waited on his orders. Rosalyn waited on his next words and her wild brood waited on her reaction. Amelia stood still, her face impassive. Tycho had a bad feeling about this.
“Some s-sort of t-trial is n-necessary . . .”
“Due process,” Alonzo said. “The Venetian way.”
“If you give m-me your p-parole,” Marco said. “If you s-surrender your s-sword and g-give me your p-promise you won’t t-try to escape we won’t t-tie you up.”
“Your highness.” Captain Weimer sounded worried.
“I refuse,” Alonzo said.
“To give your w-word?”
“To surrender my sword. You declared me a traitor. I declare you lie. I demand the right to judicial battle.”