Kushiel's Dart

dispatching steel death. A hundred or more Skaldi died in their sleep that dawn. It grieved me, to know this; but it had grieved me more, to hear how many the Skaldi had slain in their path.
    Following Ghislain's plan, the Cruithne thrust pitch-soaked torches into the Skaldi campfires, wheeling to hurl them at the wooden siege tower, Drustan throwing the first himself. By the time the Skaldi camp came full awake, buzzing like a kicked hornet's nest, the Cruithne were already in retreat, horses wheeling, archers delaying pursuit with a rain of unerring arrows-Barquiel L'Envers' Akkadian tactics, that Drustan had admired.
    It bought them time, but not much.
    The Skaldi came after them.
    They caught the rearguard, scrambling to gain the foothills. A dozen Cruithne died there, a desperate stand quickly overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Drustan never looked back, shouting his men onward. The Skaldi followed-and encountered the first setback.
    On the high crags lining their retreat, Ghislain de Somerville had positioned L'Agnacite bowmen. Steady and unflappable, able to cover far greater distances than the Cruithne archers with their short-bows, Ghislain's men shot down the foremost ranks of the Skaldi, until the dead themselves posed a formidable obstacle.
    No longer than that did they linger, climbing quickly out of danger, each with his own designated path of retreat. When the Skaldi won free, Drustan's men were in full flight.
    How many Skaldi pursued, I cannot say; hundreds, at least. I think close to a thousand. At one point, the path divided in a triune fork; the Cruithne took the middle route. Those Skaldi who sought to flank them on either side met with Dalriada slings and spears, driving them back. Eirans are particularly fond of slings, which they use with deadly efficacy.
    Even so, it was a near thing. I was there when Drustan brought his men pounding up the steep, narrow gorge, horses lathered and near exhaustion, the warriors little better; and the foremost Skaldi were close on their heels.
    "Now!" Ghislain shouted.
    Positioned on the cliffs on either side of the gorge, D'Angeline and Alban soldiers alike thrust the butt ends of their levers beneath the rocks, pushing hard.
    Ghislain de Somerville had planned well; an avalanche of boulders and smaller rocks tore loose and rained down like thunder, blocking the passage. The Skaldi drew back, milling, and the archers went to work.
    A great many Skaldi died. But they are not cowards, nor ever have been. A few hundred remained, drawing back out of arrow range and conferring. Presently, a contingent rode back.
    The others stayed, and advanced, shields over heads, to begin clearing the passage.
    Selig's doing, I thought. They'd never have conceived it on their own.
    Ghislain watched grimly, then made his decision. "We retreat," he said sharply, calling it out aloud. "Retreat!"
    So we fled eastward, further into the hills.
    When we crossed back into Camlach, I could not say. As afternoon wore on to dusk, I was concentrating on nothing more than staying on my horse, and not posing a burden to anyone around me. Ghislain had been prepared for the possibility. He left a company of archers in place, to slow the Skaldi progress; by the time they won through, we would be long gone. We laid baffles and false trails, all the while retreating deeper into the mountains. Now and again, one of the Cruithne archers would catch up with us, gasping a report.
    What we would have done without their woodcraft, I do not know. No great black boar loomed out of the twilight to guide us, but I felt the presence of the Cullach Gorrym nonetheless. And Drustan, his arms bloodstained to the elbows, worked tirelessly to coordinate with them, sending scouts to spy out safe passage.
    Not until Ghislain de Somerville gauged from their reports that we were out of danger did we make camp for the night. I fairly fell out of the saddle, bone-weary and exhausted with terror. If I had not survived the flight through the Skaldic winter, I think I would have given up and died that night.
    Even so, it was not given me to rest.
    A last one of Drustan's scouts returned from the south, eyes starting and wild in the blue masque of his face, breathing like a marathon runner and pointing from whence he'd come. Drustan gave an incredulous frown, and I dragged myself near to listen.
    "What is it?" Ghislain de Somerville asked, catching my arm.
    "He says there's an army, my lord." I wasn't sure I'd heard it aright