Kushiel's Mercy

Nicola waited with us, for which I was grateful.
    “You’ve everything in readiness?” she asked for the third or fourth time. It was unsettling to see her unsettled.
    “Everything,” I assured her.
    “I’m sorry.” Nicola shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s the waiting. It drives one mad, doesn’t it?”
    Sidonie didn’t comment. I watched her gathering herself, gathering her courage. Mostly I just watched her, etching her features on my memory over and over again. I wasn’t afraid for myself, but I was terrified for her sake. I wondered if Joscelin had felt that way.
    Probably, I thought, and with a great deal more regularity.
    Still, it was awful.
    It almost seemed too soon when Aureliano and his men came for us. He introduced us to Paskal, our guide. Paskal was a short, dark, broad-chested fellow who seemed disconcertingly young. I’d hoped for someone steady and authoritative, someone like Urist. But Paskal’s mother was Euskerri. He knew the language and the territory. I supposed that was more important than age.
    “Ready?” Aureliano asked.
    “Yes.” Sidonie glanced at me, then reached for my hand, gripping it hard. “Let’s go.”
    We bade farewell to Lady Nicola, who embraced us both. “I’ll not say good-bye to you,”
    she said steadily. “We’ll meet again. But yes.” She forestalled Sidonie’s question.
    “ Emmenghanom . I remember. And I have it written and saved in a safe place.”
    Sidonie smiled quietly. “Thank you, my lady.”
    Another leavetaking.
    Gods, I hated them.
    We rode through the moon-silvered streets of Amílcar, the city silent and tense. The first sortie hadn’t been launched yet. General Liberio wanted to be certain every element was in readiness. Once they struck, things would move very quickly.
    Our company gathered inside the western gate, behind the stalwart company of soldiers responsible for maneuvering the gangplank into place. I didn’t envy them their task.
    They’d be slow-moving and exposed.
    A runner went to inform the General that we were ready. We waited. My horse shifted under me, cocking one hip. I wished I had the Bastard. He’d make a target, though, his speckled white hide gleaming in the moonlight. We rode dark horses, wore dark clothing.
    Our armor was darkened with ash and grease. Sidonie was shrouded in a man’s black cloak, the hood drawn up to hide her hair.
    We waited.
    The first sortie struck.
    On the far side of the wall, a clamor of chaos and confusion arose to the south of us. The sound of bowstrings twanging. Shouts of pain and anger, battle-cries. A clash of weapons.
    Horns blaring an alarm. I wished I could see what was happening.
    Then the second sortie.
    The sounds of battle intensified. South and north. Men screaming, men dying. We’d be riding through it. I glanced at Sidonie. She met my gaze, her eyes wide: twin pools of blackness in her pale face.
    “Whatever happens, I love you,” she said.
    I nodded. “Always.”
    “You won’t let Astegal have me?”
    I shook my head. “Never.”
    More horns blared—ours, in the tower of the gatehouse. “Be ready,” Aureliano said briefly.
    It was a proper portcullis, massive and heavy. Somewhere in the gatehouse a gear cranked, raising the grate. Two men wrestled with the heavy bar of the inner gates. Four men in concert shoved at the doors themselves, hurling them open.
    “Go, go, go!” someone shouted.
    The infantry soldiers carrying the portable bridge raced forward, dashing for the trench some thirty yards away. The fighting was north and south. Before us, the moon-shadowed ground was open. At Aureliano’s signal, we moved forward into the open gateway. He raised one hand, bidding us wait.
    We waited.
    Liberio’s soldiers scuttled under their burden. Dim figures peeled away from the fighting on both fronts. I couldn’t tell if they were Amíl-car’s men or Carthage’s. Both, I thought.
    Metal clashed on metal. I settled my buckler on my left arm and drew my sword. Our fellows wrestled the gangplank into place, bridging the trench.
    “Now!” Aureliano shouted.
    He led the charge, spear lowered. One by one, we followed.
    Single file.
    This was the hardest part, the worst part. I fell in behind Sidonie. The speed of our passage had blown her hood back, loosened her hair. It streamed, silver in the moonlight.
    I saw a figure racing to intercept her on foot, wielding a throwing-axe. I dug my heels hard into my mount’s flanks, passing her.