Chapter V. A Sort of Stratagem #2
“Before my eyes lay a map of remarkable detail. It was not some parchment scribed in faded ink, but wrought into the map table itself. The table’s surface was wax, ruby red, from days when flowers still grew in this cursed empire.
A commander on campaign could scribe the lay of any encampment or keep or coastline into its surface with a metal quill, troops represented by hand-wrought stone pieces.
It was weatherproof. Portable. Updateable.
And when it was time to move on, the wax could be heated via a metal plate and allowed to cool, the surface now awaiting the next stop on the campaign.
“Lachie had told us he’d a fascination with castles of the realm, and while I’d ribbed him for the years he’d spent studying them in San Michon’s library, that time seemed a gift now.
Looking at the map he’d scribed—some from the Beaufort brothers’ reports, but much from memory—I had to marvel.
The detail was astounding; the Shield of Augustin’s walls, towers, the town around, all etched with remarkable accuracy in that smooth red.
“Lachie waited for the others to gather about him. All our officers were present—Charlotte and her second, Mathieu, a handful of de León capitaines, circled by ’saints in black leathers.
Aaron kept back as always, the glow of silver on bare hands and stubbled cheeks a soft agony to his eyes.
Baptiste stood near, but not close enough to touch.
“‘Aright,’ Lachlan declared. ‘Gabe and I have been ponderin’ this riddle fer weeks. This is the best answer we’ve conjured. Even if Voss’s numbers are as thin as they seem, it’s still a stab in the dark, like. But with a bit of luck, the Forever King will end up wi’ the same.’
“Aaron blinked. ‘The same luck?’
“‘The same stab. The stab in the dark. With a bit of luck, he’ll get…’
“Lachie raised one brow, looking around the group.
“‘Nae? Nae one got that?’
“Silence reigned in the tent, Charlotte clearing her throat.
“‘Ah, fuck all o’ ye then. What d’ye know ’bout funny, ye bastards?’
“‘So,’ I growled. ‘We’ve no artillery, but enough siege ladders that our infantry can hit a good stretch of the sou’wall, covered by archers in the city below.
Those flaming crossbows from M. Cortez will be a godsend among the wretched.
But our real advantage lies in you lads.
’ I turned to the silversaints, nodding to each in turn.
‘If the eastgate is weak, Lachie and Tolman can test it against the strength of Blood Dyvok. Meantime, Valentino and Carlos split in two and hit the sally ports. If either of you break through, fight to the gates, open them from within, and we rain down hell from without. Fabién has proved himself a master at attack. Let’s see how he fares on defense. ”
TapTapTapTapTapTap.
The Last Silversaint glanced up, found the historian drumming his quill on the page.
“What?” he growled.
“Sally port?” Jean-Francois arched one brow. “I presume this is not some obscure reference to a dockside femme of negotiable affection named Sal—”
“It’s a door. In a chateau’s outer wall.” Gabriel shook his head, bewildered. “You live in a castle, how the fuck can you not know this?”
The brow rose higher, the historian glancing toward the battlements beyond the window. “In your imagination, exactly how often do I go walking on those walls?”
“Fuuuck me,” Gabriel groaned.
“As it please you.” Jean-Francois snapped his fingers. “Meline?”
The door opened swift, his majordomo waiting faithfully on the other side.
“Master?”
“Our guest has succumbed to my roguish charms at last, my love. Be a dear and fetch my riding crop and leathers? Perhaps some rope? Silk of course, not th—”
“Stop taking the piss, vampire,” Gabriel snapped.
“Well. A boy can dream.” The Marquis glanced at his majordomo, calming her with a few soft gestures and a wan smile. “I jest, my love, you can wait outside.”
“I…” Meline glanced between the pair, her heartbeat so loud all in the room could hear it. But finally, she curtseyed low. “Your will be done, Master.”
The ironclad door closed on silent hinges, the lock again snapped shut. The pair were left alone once more, Gabriel dragging one slow hand down his face, Jean-Francois brushing his quill over that infuriating smirk.
“She’s delicious, Gabriel.”
“A sally port,” the silversaint sighed, “is an essential part of any castle’s fortifications.
Good defenders will harry their attackers during a siege.
Slipping out at night or during a lull in the fighting.
Skirmishing, thieving, spying, then fading back behind the walls before the attackers can retaliate.
But you don’t want to have to open your maingates every time you send a man outside. For that, you want a sally port.”
“A door?”
“Ironclad. Heavily defended. But oui. A portal, from which to sally forth.”
“But…” The historian frowned. “Why build walls with moats and drawbridges and portcullises and then just put a damned hole in them? Is that not a point of weakness?”
“In days of old? Not really. It’s a fucking door.
Wide enough for one man. What’s a general going to do, send a cadre of killers to line up neatly outside in the arrow and cannon fire while someone breaks it down, and then shuffle in single file to get their bollocks cut off?
These ideas were born in nights when men fought men.
And despite what the children’s tales say, it’s a rare battle indeed where a single man makes a difference. ”
“But you weren’t men, Silversaint.”
“No. We were far from men.”
Gabriel set his goblet on the table, stroking his chin.
“All were staring at the map,” he said. “Pondering the plan laid out, the road ahead, the blood promised with the dawn. Charlotte stood at Lachie’s side, lips pressed thin.
“‘It seems a sort of stratagem. Draw attentions to the battlements with infantry, then probe for weakness with silver hands and steel.’ Her eye met Lachlan’s, glinting in the emberlight.
‘But I see what you mean about it being a stab in the dark. And I note the Black Lion of Lorson has yet to assign himself a duty. Pray, where will you find yourself, dear cousin, when León’s sons are bleeding all over those walls? ’
“‘Where I usually find myself, dear cousin. In the shit.’
“Aaron chuckled. ‘And I right alongside you.’
“‘And I beside you,’ Baptiste declared.
“Aaron met his husband’s eyes, his own clouded and dark. ‘No, love. Not this time.’
“‘I’ll not leave you to f—’
“‘I said no,’ Aaron hissed. ‘You’re no paleblood, Baptiste. You’re a blacksmith. When we hit those walls, you’ll be with the other smiths. In the reserve, feeding our archers.’
“Baptiste appeared ready to protest, but the desperation in Aaron’s gaze quelled any rebellion.
The big man bowed his head, and in the silence following, Charlotte raised a brow at Lachie.
In answer, Lachlan tapped the map; an X marked along the banks of the Ranger, downriver from the mont upon which the great chateau stood.
“‘Gabe’s going in through the slopway.’”
TapTapTapTapTapTap.
The Last Silversaint hung his head and rubbed his temples.
“A fucking sewage outlet, vampire. A slopway. In brighter days, the Shield of Augustin garrisoned four thousand soldiers, and that again in hands. There was a whole city around it; they couldn’t just fling their shit off the walls.
They’d tapped an underground tributary of the Ranger, dropped their business into that, and let it wash away downriver. ”
The Marquis chuckled. “And you’d be crawling up it. How appropriate.”
“Being a legend of the realm isn’t all breathless maids and rumpled sheets.”
“Pity.” The vampire waggled his eyebrows. “It’s been a while since you recounted a conquest. I was telling your sister earlier how talented you are at it.”
“You’ll get your jollies soon enough.”
“… Meaning what?”
“Meaning a shout rang across the camp then. An alarm, rising in the dark outside. Grabbing up our blades, we sallied through the tent flap—”
The Marquis scoffed, rolling his eyes.
“—to see what all the fuss was about. We’d tripled patrols since arriving in the valley, and I saw a cadre in León colors marching through the ocean of tents about us.
The men looked dour, dripping suspicion, steel naked in their hands.
But when I spied the figure between them, my heart near flew from my chest.
“It’d been over half a year since we last saw each other. Our parting had been a wordless one. Perhaps a coward’s one. I’d done my best to forget the silk of her skin, the fire of her blood, burying those memories in the past and vowing to think of her no more.
“It was only in children’s tales everyone got a happy ending.
“But as we set eyes upon each other that night, all the time and blood and trials between us seemed to simply melt away. She looked beautiful as ever; the wildfire of her hair, that alloy of platinum and gold in her lion’s eyes.
She was clad in clancloth, her graven breastplate, the gold and bone woven into her slayerbraids singing as she broke into a run.
“‘Phoebe,’ I breathed.
“The guards cried out, but she pushed past, weeping and laughing as she ran toward me. I found myself running too, crashing into her arms and sighing as I felt our bones collide. All was brilliance, firelight ablur as I swept that lioness off her feet and twirled her in my arms, not believing what I held. And as I set her on the earth, still I refused to let her go, breathing into the fire of her hair a secret I’d have gladly shouted for all the world to hear.
“‘God, I missed you.’
“She kissed me then. Rising on tiptoe and crushing her mouth to mine.
I surged into her, no camp about us, no dawn attack, no world at all for one blessed moment.
Just the softness of her lips, the warmth of her body, lifting me up on flaming wings.
But the beast in me surfaced then, the red memory of her taste flooding my mouth with spit.
And though it left me bleeding, I broke our kiss, pressing my brow to hers.
“‘Missed ye too,’ she whispered.
“‘Seven Martyrs, what are you doing here? How’d you find us, what are—’
“‘Gabe. Listen to me.’
“Phoebe placed one talon on my lips; a black razor, cutting off my questions. The feel of her body against mine, the memory of her taste and the echoes of the thirst had left my legs shaking. But at the next words she spoke, the whole world fell still, and I swear God you could’ve knocked me down with a whisper.
“‘Dior lives.’”