Chapter X. More Red Than Grey #2
“The Unbound obeyed, every man and priest along the walls hunkering behind the ramparts.
But Dior stayed standing, gazing into the night.
I heard the cavaliers forming up below, words of encouragement from the capitaines, calls of ‘For the Empress! ’ and ‘For the Grail! ’ And with another horn blast, the portcullis to Lastbridge was raised, and the cavaliers of Daggercoast charged forth.
“Their hooves were thunder, three thousand horses and riders shaking the very ground. Risking a quick peek, I saw the Dead moving like a great flock of swallows, their minds linked by Ettiene and that web of highbloods. Their center was holding, their flanks spilling through and across the empty buildings—a pincer, set to encircle the cavalry and swallow them whole. I cursed Maarten for a fucking fool then, throwing away three thousand men and horse, and for what? But a cry rang out, the order to ‘Loose! ’ followed by the hymn of bowstrings. Looking up, I saw hundreds of flaming arrows sailing out from our walls. But the trajectory was odd, and at first I’d no clue what they were shooting at. ”
Gabriel cracked his knuckles, leaning back in his chair.
“Then the first warehouse exploded.”
Jean-Francois blinked. “Exploded?”
“I’d wondered why we were fighting for a city that had been abandoned by its people, but now I understood—you can destroy it with impunity.
Maarten had set his fires to funnel the Dead into the thoroughfares, sent his cavalry down the guts to draw Voss’s pincers into the surrounding buildings. And that’s where he’d stashed it all.”
“The black ignis,” Jean-Francois realized, snapping his fingers. “The explosives that had once been set to destroy Lastbridge. You’d wondered where they were.”
“He was a twat, Maarten, but he didn’t lack creativity.
Four buildings packed with black ignis and lamp oil went up like fireworks on a feastday, the firestorm rushing through streets tight-packed with Dead.
The men atop our walls roared as hundreds of wretched were scorched to ash in a blinking, and as the clamor died, horns split the night, Maarten standing upon the ramparts with mace raised.
“‘For the Empress, boys! CHAAAAARGE!’
“Fervor and fury, eyes alight with bloodlust and dreams of vengeance, the soldiers of Augustin spilled back out from the Lastbridge gatehouse toward Place San Antoine, their rout become a rally. The cavaliers struck, splintering the wretched line and plowing into the thralls behind, horses screaming, bones crunching, limbs flying. Fires raged unchecked, pushing back that darkness and Voss’s legion with it.
The Unbound looked to Dior for orders, eager to join the fray.
But the Grail stood atop the battlements, turning now to me.
“I met her eyes, nodding to words unspoken.
“‘Something’s wrong,’ I said.
“Horns were ringing on the walls of Rive C?ur now, the gates at our backs yawning wide. More cavalry were riding across Lastbridge, infantry behind—Prince Philippe was committing thousands more men to Maarten’s push.
They flooded through the gateway below, into the square beyond, and for a moment, it seemed the bait and switch had worked.
Voss’s ’swords were in disarray, their line smashed by heavy horse.
The Black Crow and his fellows fought like hell, but the second charge was closing, footmen and rifles to back them, foulbloods fleeing burning streets only to be cut down into melting snow.
“Hunter had become hunted. Predator, prey.”
The Last Silversaint lifted his goblet, draining it to the last. His eye was shot through with red, his pain forgot, voice quickened by smoke and blood.
“You remember my chess lesson from Cairnhaem? The Rousseau Gambit?”
“Of course. Draw your foes out of position by feigning weakness. Then, strike.’
Gabriel smiled. “Maybe my wisdom hasn’t been totally wasted on you, vampire.”
“Oh, God, get your hand out of your pants, de León. And get on with it.”
The silversaint looked the vampire over carefully, drunken smile darkening.
“Did I hurt your feelings, Jean-Francois? When I got my hand in your pants? Did I injure your pride or bollocks worse when I burned them off? Because your taddysack will grow back, vampire. But the men and women and children butchered in Augustin that night are gone forever.”
“You almost killed me,” the historian hissed.
“But I didn’t. I spared you. And while you’re figuring out why, my advice meantime would be for you to build a bridge, coldblood. Then march right the fuck over it.”
Jean-Francois scowled, eyes narrowed in thought.
“… Like Philippe’s soldiers into Voss’s trap?”
“Masterful segue.” Gabriel raised his glass in toast. “See, that’s the spirit.”
“The Prince had ordered more men into the Nord,” Jean-Francois said. “Denuding his own defenses to reinforce Maarten’s charge. Believing a tactician as masterful as the Forever King—a creature who conquered a continent—might be bested by a few barrels of black ignis and a spark.”
“The clever lion feigns weakness to draw out his prey,” Gabriel replied. “But I wonder, has any wisdom truly rubbed off on you, vampire? Why didn’t Voss just crush us during our rout? Why let us regroup? What do you think came next?”
“… Voss’s true attack.”
Jean-Francois tilted his head and smiled.
“This whole battle had been a feint.”
“There might be hope for you yet, Jean-Francois.”
The historian dipped his quill, watching the silversaint’s brow darken.
“Twenty thousand men had been stationed in Rive Nord,” Gabriel said.
“Another ten in reserve. And Philippe had committed another fifteen to the rally; footmen, rifles, and knights now pouring into Place San Antoine, rather than defending the higher, better walls of the C?ur. The square was bedlam, all order and form lost. Fires blazed across the ruins, the air thick with smoke, ash, gore. Most eyes were on the battle raging in the Nord’s streets, Maarten stood upon the walls with his commanders, smiling faces lit by the light of the flames and their impending triumph.
“Most eyes, save Dior’s and mine.
“‘Ye aright, Gabe?’ Phoebe murmured.
“I made no reply, turning from the Battle of the Nord—the battle he wanted us to be watching—out to the river behind. The night was blacker than pitch, snow falling so thick it was almost fog. The Béni was a grey sheet covered in snow, a frozen ribbon running east and west along the C?ur’s bristling walls.
“Squinting eastward I saw nothing. But turning west, pawing that accursed frost from my eyes and looking over the broken jetties of Portside behind us, my heart skipped two beats.
In the black, I saw movement now; figures, a few at first, but then a dozen, a hundred, more and more now coalescing out of that darkness.
And as I roared warning to Maarten, I realized the depths of the shite we swam in.
“This wasn’t just some diversionary force come to harry our rear.
This was an entire other army. Voss must’ve kept them in reserve during his summer attack, summoning them once we set out for Augustin.
I’d wondered why he’d felt so weak at Maximille, and here was the reason.
He’d played us all for fools. And now the other half of the Endless Legion was rushing up Portside and into our exposed flank, set to rip us a whole new arsehole.
“Maarten pushed through the throng, stood now at my side.
“‘Sweet and holy Mothermaid…’
“‘Far from her.’
“She stared up at me from the river with eyes dark as night. Bloody skull daubed on her face, lips curled in a hollow smile as she raised her scythe in salute toward the Grail. And Dior spoke then, her voice so soft that the tempest near swallowed it whole.
“‘Kestrel.’”