Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [205]
We waited.
The Amazigh didn’t come that night. The sentries in the treetops kept their vigil. Those of us on the ground dozed, spread throughout the forest. I reckoned there were less than three hundred men of fighting age in the village, but the Euskerri seemed unconcerned about numbers.
“Prince Imriel?” Paskal’s voice reached out to me in the darkness, sounding young and uncertain. “What’s it like?”
“Battle?” I tilted my head in his direction. “Much like escaping from Amílcar.”
He rustled. “No. Love.”
“Ah.” I remembered Leander Maignard asking me the same question outside a temple in Cythera. I leaned back against the trunk of the pine tree beneath which I was sitting, the rough bark snagging my hair. “It’s a force to make a man yearn for a lifetime of peace, Paskal.”
His reply sounded bewildered. “I don’t understand.”
“Pray you have the chance to do so,” I said.
It wasn’t long after dawn when the lookouts’ sharp whistles roused us. I bounded to my feet, snatching my dagger from its scabbard and holding it by the tip. Since I didn’t have a javelin or a sling, it was the best I could do. Ululating cries burst through the forest, men racing forward. I ran, too.
Astegal’s Amazigh.
They were strung out in a long line throughout the pass. Nowhere to go, nowhere to maneuver. The Euskerri fell on them, hurtling javelins and stones from the high embankments. I threw my dagger as Joscelin had taught me and one of the Amazigh rocked back in the saddle, slumping. I leapt down and darted between horses, yanking at the reins of a second opponent whose panicked mount had him half-unseated. He cursed and chopped at me with his sword, trying at the same time to regain his balance. I parried with my arms raised above my head, vambraces crossed. Dorelei’s gift. His blade skittered off their surface.
I caught his robes and jerked.
He fell.
I had my sword out before he hit the ground. I plunged it into his heart. His riderless horse reared above me, hooves flailing. I ducked under it, catching a glancing blow to the helm I’d borrowed from Amíl-car’s armory. Before me, another man clutched at the javelin sprouting from his ribcage and toppled from the saddle, falling hard and bearing me down in a swirl of indigo robes. I scrambled out from underneath him, a little dizzy, and dealt him the mercy-blow.
Another figure sought to ride me down, sword swinging. I stepped sideways and parried in the Cassiline manner, my sword angled over my head. An unexpected maneuver, meant to defend against a foe on higher ground. His momentum carried him onward until a flung stone from an unseen enemy knocked him insensible.
Javelins and stones.
Ululating cries.
After that it was over very quickly. Janpier Iturralde hadn’t been boasting. The Euskerri won that day, and they won handily. This was their territory and they knew every inch of it. There was no mercy. They swarmed the narrow pass with brutal efficiency, dispatching any who lived. They gathered the horses, herding them back toward the village. They tended their own dead and injured with care. They dragged the Amazigh dead into mounds.
“So.” Janpier studied me, blood-spattered. “You kept your word.”
I jerked my chin at the piled dead. “You might want to strip the corpses. If you’ve any thought of accepting Aragonia’s offer, believe me, those robes make an almighty disguise.”
He regarded me inscrutably, then issued an order in Euskerri and strode away.
They stripped the dead.
So many men! Faces laid bare, tawny limbs flopping. Some of them were a good deal younger than one would have reckoned behind the veils and robes. It was such a vulnerable thing, mortal flesh. I thought about Ghanim, the Amazigh slave who had extended such fierce loyalty to me when I’d promised him his freedom. I wondered what bribe it was that Astegal had given these tribesmen in exchange for their loyalty, and I wondered if they’d reckoned it worth the cost as they died.
The women emerged from their secret encampment. Wails of mourning for the Euskerri