Kushiel's Mercy

I wondered if they’d survived. I prayed they had.
    And beyond it . . . Amílcar and Astegal’s army.
    There were sentries posted at the near end of the bridge. They hailed us with shouts as we came into view. We made no reply, but advanced steadily. Some fifty yards shy of the bridge, I drew rein. Our company halted.
    There we made a stand and waited. The skies spat a fitful rain at us and gusts of wind tugged at our damp indigo robes. The Carthaginian sentries at the bridge conferred in consternation. One left his post and headed for the main encampment. Another came forward at a jog, approaching us. I lifted my hand, bidding my company to wait.
    “My lord?” Janpier Iturralde muttered urgently beside me.
    “I’ll take him.” I drew my sword and heeled my horse. He sprang forward eagerly, hooves clattering on the road. The Carthaginian sentry slowed, uncertain. Beneath the brim of his helmet, his face was young and perplexed. It was uplifted toward mine, a span of bare skin showing under his chinstrap.
    I didn’t slow.
    I leaned in the saddle and beheaded him at a single stroke. Desert justice, the Amazigh had called it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head bounce. His headless body slumped. I wheeled my horse and returned to the line.
    “Wait,” I said briefly.
    Janpier translated.
    We waited, as still as statues. We watched the news ripple through Astegal’s encampment. Horns blared a summons. A pool of blood ebbed from the headless trunk of the dead sentry’s neck. Astegal took to the battlefield himself: Astegal of Carthage, Prince of the House of Sarkal. Riding a black charger, his gilded armor the brightest thing under the grey skies. He rode back and forth along the river, gauging us. I knew him by his splendid arms, by the crimson strip of his beard. All too well, I remembered the satisfaction in his heavy-lidded eyes. I stared at him between the folds of my Amazigh scarf.
    “Do it,” I whispered. “Let me make your wife a widow today, Astegal.”
    He didn’t.
    Sidonie was right; Astegal was no fool. I wished he was. I longed to cross blades with him. Longed to erase her shame. But no, he wasn’t going to commit himself. Still, I could tell by his restless movements that curiosity was eating at him.
    We waited for at least an hour before he made his first move. The Euskerri might be a contentious folk, but they were capable of great patience, too. No one threatened to break our ranks. No one spoke. At last Astegal sent a small company of archers across the bridge to test our resolve.
    We retreated out of bowshot. For every pace the archers advanced, we retreated, until I could see their uncertainty and reluctance. I had to smile behind my veil. They were increasingly isolated from their comrades. They might get off a flight or two, but we could take them.
    It took another hour for Astegal to lose patience with that particular game of cat and mouse and call his archers back. I promptly ordered the Euskerri to advance and we returned to our initial position.
    In the end, I don’t think the gambit would have worked if it hadn’t been for the Amazigh guises. Astegal had sent his loyal Amazigh on a mission of crucial import to his plans. He had to know they’d failed. He had to know this was a trap. But our silent, veiled presence maddened him. I watched him stare across the river. I watched his gestures grow more and more curt.
    I watched him come to a decision.
    Astegal wasn’t taking any chances. When he committed forces against us, he did so in a large way. At a guess, I’d reckon he mustered a good two thousand of his troops. And I had to own, the sight of the endless line of them snaking over the bridge and advancing toward us made my blood run cold.
    “Retreat,” I said. “Slowly.”
    Step by step, we did. The Carthaginians broke into a jog and began closing the distance between us, their armor rattling. I could feel the Euskerri’s resolve beginning to weaken.
    Beneath my Amazigh robes, cold sweat trickled. My mount grew restive, sensing my fear.
    I waited until I could see the dense pine forests to the west out of the corner of my eye.
    “Go!” I shouted. “Go!”
    The Euskerri didn’t wait for a translation, breaking into a dead run. I could hear the roar behind me as I eased my horse into a swift trot. Carthage was in full pursuit.
    A poorly thrown javelin soared over my right shoulder and clattered harmlessly on the paving stones in front of me. The skin between