Naamah's Blessing - Jacqueline Carey [123]
“What?” My thoughts were fuzzy. “How?”
Denis’ voice trembled a bit. “I just found Clemente DuBois with his throat slit. He was on sentry duty.”
“What?” I was fully awake now. “Why would anyone—?”
“Only one reason to kill a sentry.” Bao scrambled out of the tent, pushing past Denis, staff in hand. “We’re about to be attacked. Moirin, call your twilight and stay safely out of the way. Denis, get armed, now!”
Denis gulped and nodded.
Without waiting to see if I obeyed him, Bao raced to the center of our campsite, where the banked coals of our campfire glowed faintly beneath the silvery light of the full moon high overhead. He began banging furiously with his staff on the large iron pot resting on the ashes, sounding a clanging alarm. “Ambush!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Get up, get armed! Now, now, now!”
Not far away on the plain, howls of anger rose in reply.
Ah, gods! All that armor—the chain-mail shirts, the brigandines, helmets, vambraces, and greaves—that our men had labored under for so long had been removed for the night. Mayhap half of our sleeping fighters responded with alacrity, reaching to don whatever was closest at hand.
The other half blinked in stupefaction. Ignoring Bao’s order, I grabbed the nearest D’Angeline and shook him. Spotting links of chain-mail glinting in the moonlight, I hauled his armored jerkin free and threw it in his lap. “Get up, get armed, now!”
Moving sluggishly, he struggled into it.
Bao spotted me. “Moirin, call your twilight!”
“I’m doing more good this way!” I retorted, shoving a helmet on the fellow’s head.
Seeing what I was about, Septimus Rousse began to emulate me. Between the two of us, we managed to get a dozen or so of our men upright and partially armed. Those who were more alert worked at lightning speed to pull brigandines over their chain-mail and buckle valuable greaves and vambraces in place.
Temilotzin, effortlessly prepared and ready, leaned carelessly on his throwing spear and peered across the moonlit plain. “Here they come,” he remarked. In one smooth move, he fitted the butt of his spear into the throwing-tool and hurled it into the night.
There was a lone choked cry, followed by a fresh chorus of angry howls and the sound of feet pounding.
With a fierce grin, Temilotzin hefted his studded club. “And here they are!”
With that, the night erupted in chaos as our attackers fell upon us. I dashed into the tent to retrieve my bow and quiver, then retreated some distance from the fray, trying to identify a suitable target.
It was impossible. It was all hand-to-hand fighting, the combatants too closely engaged to risk a shot. It appeared our attackers outnumbered us, but not by a great many. Bao was a dervish in the thick of battle, his bamboo staff moving too quickly to track. Temilotzin was singing a war-song, his obsidian-studded club rising and falling, his sandaled feet stomping out a rhythm known only to him. Here and there, D’Angelines I couldn’t identify were acquitting themselves with skill.
But some had fallen, easily recognized by their fair skin in the moonlight. I felt sick at heart.
“Moirin!” Septimus Rousse appeared beside me, pointing across the plain. Beyond the outskirts of the battle, a pair of dark figures were racing for our picket-line. “They’re after the horses!”
“Ah, no!” Giving the battlefield a wide berth, I ran to intercept them, my heart beating in my throat. I loosed my first arrow at a dead run, and it went wide. Skidding to a halt, I nocked another. The nearest fellow was trying to grab a frightened pack-horse’s halter and had his back to me.
Swallowing hard, I loosed my bow and shot him from behind. He toppled forward and lay still. The pack-horse squealed and tossed its head, tugging at the picket-rope.
The second fellow blinked in consternation, then came at me with a roar, raising a stone-headed war-club high overhead.
Reaching into my quiver, I nocked another arrow and shot him, too.
With a look of profound surprise, he sat down hard, glanced once at his