Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [178]
La Dolorosa would have been easier to defend with proper ramparts and arrow-slits, muertrieres such as Troyes-le-Mont had sported. But they would all have been mad as Malvio if they'd manned it thusly, listening to the winds hour upon hour. It was bad enough for the sentries at the bridge. I took another step backward, watching the bowman.
It was too dark to see and too far; I couldn't see when he began shooting, slow pauses between reloading. One of the prisoners staggered, grey hair swirling, and then two broke away, and the line of guards holding them at bay began to crumble as the prisoners retreated out of bowshot.
"Go," Malvio repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time.
I took a step and stopped. The wind tugged at me and the sea boomed and wailed, almost beneath my very feet, from the sound of it. I was almost on the edge. And this was the overhang, a deep curve bitten out beneath it. I knew, I'd seen it aboard the Darielle on that fateful trip, while the sailors whistled past the black isle. I would find no ledge here such as Joscelin had done, to crouch concealed beyond the lip of the cliff.
No rocks below, only sea. It was small consolation.
I was not ready to die.
Malvio jabbed the spear at me. In the darkness, I stood unmoving. He jabbed again, and this time I caught the haft with both hands, below where the lashings bound the spearhead, wrenching it hard, up and away from me. It took him by surprise; I daresay he hadn't expected it. Face-to-face atop the high cliff, we struggled, two pairs of hands locked tight on the spear.
My grip on the smooth-worn wood was slipping. Grinning wildly, Malvio twisted the spear, using his superior height and strength to lever it out of my hands. He would have it, in another few seconds. Knowing myself lost, I criedout desperately in the direction of the battle. "Joscelin! It's Benedicte, Benedicte and Melisande! Benedicte is the traitor!"
We were too near the edge, too near the booming sea. Even I could hear my own words were lost, torn from my lips by the keening wind. Malvio rotated the spear further and jerked. I made one last, frantic grab, nails scraping the leather thongs; and then he had it, bringing the butt end up in a sweeping arc, slamming into my chin.
My jaw closed with an audible click and a burst of pain filled my head. I wasn't aware I'd fallen until I felt the sharp rocks beneath my palms. On hands and knees, I blinked against the starburst of pain, trading it for Kushiel's red haze. Bright, so bright! Streaks like flame blurred my vision, and through the dank locks of hair hanging over my eyes, I saw Malvio, still grinning, step forward, raising the spear point-downward, positioning himself over my fallen form.
"No!"
A deep Caerdicci voice, bellowing rage; not Joscelin, no. Another fiery streak etched the night and a thud sounded, wood on flesh. Malvio staggered away from me in a shower of red sparks. The spear fell, clattering harmlessly off my back and onto the stones.
It was my guard Tito.
I pushed myself to my feet in time to see my rescuer's second blow as Tito swung the beam-sized torch at the retreating Malvio. It struck him on the side of the head, with another flurry of sparks and a crunching sound there was no mistaking. Malvio dropped like a stone, and did not move. Unlike Fabron, he would not rise again.
Tito turned back toward me, a profound look of sorrow on his simple, homely face.
'Tito," I whispered as he took one step toward me, staring past him with horror at the descending pursuit. "Ah, no!"
It was the prisoners, wild and maddened, who surged after him, who brought the battle to the cliff. I have never known, to this day, why they did it; whether they pursued him as a hated guard or whether they did it out of some dementedgratitude, thinking he threatened me, who had freed them.