Kushiel's Dart

guess the answer by the terrible expression on Isidore d'Aiglemort's face.
    He hadn't known Waldemar Selig had betrayed him.
    He knew it now. He killed the messenger.
    Would that the Master of the Straits' charmed basin hadn't shown what happened to the fleeing rebels . . . but it did. We watched as they gained the fields of Namarre, d'Aiglemort's force following in leisurely pursuit. Bent on escaping the Allies of Camlach, they ran straight into the forces of Waldemar Selig.
    Joscelin made a strangled sound. I turned away.
    "Watch," said the Master of the Straits, his voice remorseless.
    It was a slaughter. It was swift, at least; the Skaldi are trained to kill efficiently, and Selig's warriors especially. I watched them sing as they killed, blades reddened. Doubtless I'd heard the songs before. In the vague distance, I could make out the shining hawk banners of d'Aiglemort's advance guard, beating a prudent retreat, unseen by the Skaldi invaders.
    And then the bulk of the D'Angeline army swept onto the scene.
    The fighting was too widespread to compass. We pieced it together, watching. Percy, Comte de Somerville rode at the head of the army, driving a wedge into the weak middle of the Skaldi masses. Ah, Elua, the bloodshed! It was dreadful to behold. I tried to number the banners in the D'Angeline army, and could not. Siovalese, Eisandine, L'Agnacites, Ku-sheline, Namarrane; no Azzallese, for they were ranged along the northern border, holding the Rhenus.
    And no Camaeline, for they were with d'Aiglemort or dead.
    I saw the gold lion of the Royal House of Aragon flying above a company of foot-soldiers, some thousand strong, who wore flared steel helms and fought with well-trained efficiency, using long spears to force back the Skaldi foot.
    I saw, to my surprise, the Due Barquiel L'Envers at the head of two hundred Akkadian-taught cavalry, harassing the right flank of the Skaldi with short-bows. Drustan mab Necthana leaned forward, alert with interest; I couldn't blame him. The Due grinned broadly as he rode, the ends of his burnouse trailing at the base of a conical steel helm, and his riders wheeled and turned like a flock of starlings, releasing a deadly shower of arrows. One took Kolbjorn of the Manni through the eye, and I wasn't sorry to see it. I'd had my doubts of Barquiel L'Envers, who had been my lord Delaunay's enemy for so long, but I was glad, now, he was on our side.
    In the end, the Skaldi were simply too many. The Comte de Somerville's wedge broke the Skaldi center, driving a dreadful swathe of carnage; the right flank was in disarray, breaking up in a surge to meet L'Envers' fleeting attacks.
    But on the left, to the east, was Waldemar Selig. I watched, unable to look away, as Selig gathered his forces, roaring soundlessly, and brought them to bear on the D'Angeline army, closing in from behind on the rearguard of the Comte de Somerville's driving wedge.
    It was a rout. To de Somerville's credit, it was an orderly one. I never fully understood, until then, how he'd come to the title of Royal Commander. I understood that day. A line of L'Agnacite archers, protected by the cavalry, took their positions, kneeling with longbows in hand. Faces grim, they held their position, firing volley after volley, holding the Skaldi at bay while the D'Angeline army retreated. Most of them would die, although Barquiel L'Envers' men, riding like Rousse's ten thousand Akkadian devils, saved more than a few.
    But the D'Angeline army's flight was secured.
    They fell back on Troyes-le-Mont, in the foothills of northern Na-marre. Later, I learned, de Somerville had known it was likely; Troyes-le-Mont had been made ready for their retreat, stocked and garrisoned, fortifications in place.
    Ysandre de la Courcel, who would stand or die with Terre d'Ange, was there.
    It was the first thing we'd seen, in the waters of the Master of the Straits' bronze basin, and it was the last. The face of Ysandre de la Cource, the Queen of Terre d'Ange. Drustan drew a deep breath. Then the moving images faded from the surface of the water. In their place rose a map of Terre d'Ange.
    "Do you understand?" the Master of the Straits asked, and pointed. "Here," he said, indicating the location of Troyes-le-Mont, "the D'Angeline army is beseiged." His finger moved in a small circle. "All around, the Skaldi threaten." He traced the northern border of Azzalle. "Here, too, in lesser numbers, but enough to harry. Here, and here," he pointed at the