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 either. "A D’Angeline army, encamped in a valley, not a mile south of here."
Chapter Eighty-Four
"Isidore D’Aiglemort."
Ghislain de Somerville said his name like a curse. I didn’t blame him. None of us did, who were D’Angeline. I heard Joscelin’s breath hiss between his teeth at the name.
I explained briefly to Drustan, who nodded, understanding, his dark eyes deepset. He had been betrayed by his cousin Maelcon; he understood such things. "We’ll make camp nonetheless," I said, confirming it with Ghislain. We’d get no further that night, and d’Aiglemort’s forces were unaware of our presence.
One would think the very heavens would storm their disapproval on such a night, but in truth, the skies held clear. My exhaustion forgotten, I wrapped myself in my cloak and sought out the Cruithne scout who’d spotted the army of Duc Isidore d’Aiglemort, questioning him at some length.
When I was done, I went looking for Ghislain de Somerville and found him overseeing the care of the horses, who were worth their weight in gold to us.
"My lord," I said to him, "you said if the Caerdicci would rally sufficient forces, we could crush the Skaldi as if between hammer and anvil. How many would you need?"
"Ten thousand, perhaps, in sum. Maybe less, if we could coordinate with the defenders in Troyes-le-Mont." He looked sharply at me. "Why? The Caerdicci won’t venture past their borders. We both know it is so."
I looked to the south, and shivered. "I have a thought."
I told him what it was.
Ghislain de Somerville gave me another long, hard look. "Come with me," he said. "We need to talk."
His fairly appointed commander’s tent with the worktable had been left in Azzalle; this was a simple field-soldier’s shelter, luxurious only in that most of our army had nothing but a bedroll. We had traveled light, but for the most necessary provisions. I sat on a folding camp-stool while he paced, lit by a solitary lamp.
"If you think it madness, my lord," I said finally, unable to bear it, "then say so."
"Of course it’s madness," he said abruptly. "But so is what we did today, and will do again tomorrow, if we do not choose another course. And if it goes as it did today, we will die in slow degrees, until we grow too tired or too slow or too careless, and the Skaldi catch us. If they’re not already scaling the fortress walls." Stopping his pacing, Ghislain de Somerville sat on his bedroll and covered his face with his hands. "Ah, Anael!" he sighed. "I was born to rule apple orchards, to tend the land and love its folk. Why do you send me such terrible choices?"
"Because, my lord," I said softly, "you were born to tend the land and love its folk, and not to put them to the sword. No other among us could devise a plan that would make this work."
"It might be done." He lowered his hands on his knees and looked gravely at me. "Even if it can…if we fail, we stand to lose everything, and I do not know if I can bear to see our people slain by D’Angeline hands. Phèdre nó Delaunay, are you certain of him?"
"No," I whispered, feeling cold despite the warmth of the night and the glow of lamplight. "There is one trump card, one thing he does not know, that might be enough…but I am certain of nothing, my lord."