Chapter XI. Hurt Feelings
XI
HURT FEELINGS
“‘RETREAT!’
“That was the roar spilling from Maarten’s lips, spittle frozen in his beard.
His commanders were scrambling, bells ringing across the walls of the C?ur as cold, hard reality sank home.
We’d been outplayed, overcommitting in the Nord and leaving our backs exposed.
And now pants were firmly about ankles. Thousands of troops were crowded onto Lastbridge, bewildered as those bells sang, wondering whether to advance or turn back.
More men were streaming into Place San Antoine, pausing in their charge, the soldiers already in the thick of it roaring at their fellows to get the hell into the fight. ”
Gabriel shook his head, jaw clenched.
“Shitshow at the fuck festival.”
“How could Maarten have been so thoroughly outmaneuvered?” Jean-Francois asked. “I thought he was a renowned general?”
“Hubris. Puffed up by a few easy wins in a few easy battles. But it was more than that. Simpler, even. We were sightless in that storm. There’s a reason mortal armies don’t fight in winter, coldblood. A better reason why we don’t fight at night.
“I was pissed at Maarten before, but I’d managed to keep it in my pants.
I was no ranking officer—I’d no place giving orders on that wall.
But as Maarten bellowed for the retreat, as I watched confusion spreading among his men, the fear that follows, well, I finally lost my bottle.
I’d been one of those boys down in the blood and the shit.
Looking to the men who commanded me for leadership, knowing their wisdom was the difference between living and dying.
And this man was failing the men who followed him.
“‘You want them to turn around?’ I demanded, pointing to the thousands of men and horses now bottlenecking the bridge. ‘They’re halfway across, use your fucking head!’
“‘Get out of my way, oathbreaker!’
“But I grabbed Maarten’s tabard, cloth tearing as I dragged him close. ‘What about the men aready in the square? You’re going to leave them?’
“‘We’re outflanked! We fall back to the C?ur and—’
“‘It’s too late for that! We’re balls-deep here, the only way through is to fuck our way out!’
“‘Get off me!’ he spat, tearing free of my grip. ‘I am a general of the Golden Host! And you are a drunken, halfblooded dog! Lay hand on me again, I’ll see you hanged f—’
“My punch splintered his teeth, cut his lips to ribbons. Knocked cold, Maarten collapsed into the arms of his second. Deveraux looked at me, mouth flapping, but I was already climbing the ramparts, roaring at the top of my lungs to the chaos below.
“‘Cavaliers on the bridge, form up at the gate, ready to charge on my order! Infantry and archers, get your arses up to these walls! We head into the plaza, bring those men back, then stand or fall here! Move, curse you, MOVE!’
“The bells were yet ringing, horns yet blowing, seeds of discord putting down roots. But for all the confusion, the chaos and fear, every soldier in that army yet knew my name.
“And when the Black Lion of Lorson roared, they listened.
“I turned to a nearby signalman, a lad with pale fuzz on his lip and wide blue eyes.
“‘Tell the C?ur cannon to open up and keep firing! Every fucking barrel!’
“‘If they keep firing at the Dead, soon enough they’ll be hitting us!’
“‘Better blown apart than swallowed whole, do it, boy!’
“The lad raised his flags, signaling to the C?ur ramparts. Across the river, there were at least a hundred heavy guns that could be brought to bear on our wall, and the price we’d pay would be bloody.
Kestrel’s Dead were already spilling into Portside, and soon they’d be at our throats.
But I knew at least if we died by cannon fire, there was no chance we’d rise to be used against the living who remained.
Because the truth was plain now, shining in Dior’s eyes, on the faces of her Unbound, in Phoebe’s gaze as she touched my arm.
“Every man and woman our side of the river was about to die.
“‘I still don’t love ye, Gabriel de León.’
“‘I don’t love you, too.’ I shook my head and smiled sadly. ‘But if I were a decent man, I’d have married you, Phoebe á Dúnnsair.’
“She grinned as she offered her wrist. ‘Who ever said I wanted a decent man?’
“The cannon opened up, the first volleys of silvershot tearing through Kestrel’s legion.
As the walls trembled beneath us, I pushed aside the hand Phoebe offered and kissed her.
No words needed to be spoken, no troth pledged; we were never a pair for promises nor vows.
But I hoped she knew—body melting into mine as our lips met in that firestorm—what she’d come to mean.
I’d no time to linger, mouth drifting to her throat now, fangs pressed to that pulsing vein, that maddening thunder of life beneath her skin.
And into that flood I plunged, the fire of her flooding into me, that power of ancient throne and blighted blood, setting all my sky afire and the beast within me roaring.
“More, it bellowed.
“ALL.
“I dragged my mouth away with a gasp, Phoebe pressing a hand to her throat and breathing hard. She squeezed my fingers, nodding as I turned to Dior.
“‘Cleave to my side like my fucking shadow,’ I growled. ‘You move when I move, stay when I stay, and more and most, you do what I say.’
“‘Oui, Papa.’
“The cavalry had formed up outside the gates now, infantry and archers flooding up onto our walls, cannon singing, boom, boom, BOOM. I led Dior and the Unbound down to the cobbles, young cavaliers looking to me, horses stomping, steaming. Valentino’s silversteel sword was drenched in my hand, the promise etched down the blade gleaming in the light of those flames.
Fear is but the cradle of valor. But despite how well the blade had served me, I reached for another hilt then.
The sword Dior had returned to me in the feasting hall, the friend I loved so dear and had hurt so deep, still hung at my belt.
“I drew Ashdrinker into the night, turning to the soldiers at my back. Their eyes widened at the sight; the sword of an angel, in the hand of a legend.
“‘Let’s get our boys back!’
“Boots dug in, horses charged, thunder on the stone.
The square was chaos; riders and thralls and knights and wretched and archers and highbloods, a pocket of living men now fighting a sea of Dead.
Ettiene and his highbloods were cutting through soldiers like smoke.
But as I ran behind the charge, a stuttering silver song rang in my head.
“Live esh’nadai d-d-d-dov nem dadadada.
“‘Ash…’
“Four tablespspspspoons of b-b-buhbuhbutter …
“‘Is that you?’
“Me they I? We us wh-whowho?
“I cut down a handful of wretched with her, tears in my eyes. But I soon realized just how broken my friend was. We’d started this road together, and I’d promised we’d finish likesame.
But a cracked sword would be little use against a Prince of Forever, and any blow might split Ashdrinker through the hilt, ending her song completely.
So soon enough, and much as it pained me, I slipped her back into her scabbard, silencing her shattered hymn.
“The cavalry crashed into the Dead encircling our boys, splitting them asunder.
As the cavaliers went to work, hacking a path toward our surrounded troops, shots cracked off the stones around us.
A half dozen Unbound fell, arrows hissing through the air—thrallswords had taken up position in the surrounding buildings, letting loose from on high.
“‘Celene, get those—’
“‘I ssssee them!’ she cried, bursting apart and flooding up into the night.
“Dior set to work as we fought, cutting her palm and bringing her wounded back from the brink. I could see her desire to fight, to bleed as her soldiers did. But she was never one to seek glory, and saving the dying was a greater gift than sending more men to hell.
“I’d no such talents, good for little more than slaughter.
And so I did, cutting down the wretched flooding over bloody cobbles.
A path had been sliced now, that pocket of gold-and-blue tabards able to pull back, and I roared for the retreat, heart pounding in my chest, the strength of the Moonsthrone in my veins and my beautiful huntress by my side.
“I saw him then, through the tumbling snows, spattered with red. He’d torn off his greathelm to feed on those he slew, beard dripping with gore. Black eyes were alight with bloodlust and rage, the battle between us far from finished.
“‘COME, DE LEóN! ’ Ettiene roared. ‘LET ME DELIVER THEE TO THY brIDE! ’
“‘Fall back!’ I cried. ‘Back to the gates!’
“The men obeyed, soldiers and horses streaming past us as we covered their backs, ankle-deep in red. The Black Crow came on, eyes fixed on me as he rent flesh and bone with great sweeps of that terrible maul. Through the smoke and tumbling snows, I could hear cannon pounding at my back, stone shattering, men screaming. The guns of the C?ur were pounding Kestrel’s foulbloods as they flooded up the banks at our rear, but the Dead had hit the Nord’s riverwalls now, spilling over the ramparts we were fleeing back toward, even as they were blasted apart by cannon. Death in front. Death behind.”
“Precarious indeed,” Jean-Francois mused, turning the page.
“No, you misunderstand. We were fucked, coldblood. Thousands of Dead at our throats. More at our backs. Both legions led by Princes of Forever. We were retreating to a position already near overrun, under fire from our own fucking guns. Morale was shattering along with the battlements, men fleeing over Lastbridge, back toward the gates of the C?ur. But they’d been sealed as soon as Kestrel arrived.
There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Nothing to do but fight and die.”
“But you didn’t,” the historian pointed out. “You didn’t die, de León.”
“No.” The Last Silversaint sighed, gaze downturned. “This has never been a story about whether I won or lost, Historian. It’s about the price I paid for the lie of victory.”