Asherat's wind was stronger here, moaning in my ears. The cliffside was deserted for now; there was nowhere to hide between the fortress and the cliff. I could feel the rock tremble under my bare feet from the impact of the waves. So Fabron was free, and they knew I had escaped.
Where were the other prisoners?
I stood still, straining my ears against the roaring wind. There, yes; toward the front, I could hear faint wind- whipped cries and the clash of arms. Slipping quickly past the low windows, I made my way forward.
I'd not gotten far before the battle came to me.
At whatever point the prisoners of La Dolorosa emerged, it is a safe bet that they caught the garrison in disarray. No one who served in that place but was wraith-haunted in the first place; it must have shocked them, this outpouring of eight gaunt, wild-haired apparitions, roused to a furor of madness that knew no fear.
It was a melee that spilled around the corner, full of con fusion and panic. At least half the prisoners were armed, with short spears wrested from the first guards they'd encountered. I daresay the full garrison of La Dolorosa was no more than thirty or forty men at best, and only a handful had been left to ward the fortress proper.
Others had been sent to comb the island, and it was they who came at a run, torches streaming, illuminating the in credible scene. Knots of violence surrounded the prisoners, who fought with bared teeth and stolen weapons when they had them; bare hands and demented fury when they did not, giving ground Slowly. For all their superior numbers and armor, 'twas no easy task for the guards, encumbered with torches as they were; and darkness favored the prisoners with their night-accustomed eyes.
Still, it could not last. As more and more guards came, the prisoners retreated further. Tito's massive figure appeared, crashing into the melee. Eschewing his spear, he carried a torch the size of a beam, swinging it in mighty arcs, trailing flames and roaring so loudly I could hear it above the wind. I should run, I knew; retrace my steps around the fortress, dare the other side and see if the bridge was perchance unguarded.
Indeed, one of the prisoners wielded a hand-axe, mayhap wrested from the sentries. It was the Pleader, whom I knew by his shoulder-length hair. He was not pleading now, but grimacing, chopping wildly at the pair of guards who forced him back, step by step, toward the edge of the cliff.
I couldn't run. I had freed them; I had led them to this end. As with Remy and Fortun, I could not look away. I watched through my tears as the Pleader swung his axe, panting, unable to get beyond the reach of the guards' spears.
And saw, by wavering torchlight, a hand reach over the edge of the cliff behind him.
It was hard to make out the figure that followed, heaving itself up and rolling, dark-clad and hooded, coming up into a fighter's crouch. It didn't matter. I knew. Before the twin blades of steel flashed up before him, before he spun, taking out one guard with deadly grace, before the second grasped ineffectually at him, succeeding only in tearing the hood loose to reveal wheat-blond hair shining in the flickering light; I knew.
Something in my heart gave way; a wall of despair and loneliness built long ago, on a rainy night in Montrève, when he came in from the garden. And in its place came joy and relief, and—ah, Elua!—love.
Caught between laughter and tears, I stepped away from the shadow of the fortress, into the torchlight that washed the stony ground. He dispatched the second guard, shoving the gaping Pleader toward the steep path to the bridge. In the melee between us, guards began to turn, realizing they faced a new menace from behind.
As he made his sweeping Cassiline bow, I cried out his name with all my strength, pitching my voice to carry as best I could above the wind and sea.
"Joscelin!"
Whether he heard me or not, I never knew; but he saw me as he straightened. Across the distance, two-score guards and prisoners fighting between us, our eyes met.
That was when I felt the point of a spear press into my spine.
FORTY-SEVEN
"Don't move, lady," a voice whispered in Caerdicci at my ear.
It was no voice I knew.
I stood rooted and felt my arm taken, spinning me roughly; Malvio, who never spoke. He grinned at me, and his slippery gaze looked quite mad. With a shortened grip on his spear, he circled around me, placing himself between me and rescue. I moved cautiously, turning to face him. I could hear the sounds of battle still, but they seemed suddenly very far away.
My world had shrunk to the two of us.
"Go," Malvio said, seldom-used voice sounding almost friendly. He jabbed the spear toward me, and I retreated a step. He continued to grin. "Go."
I took another step backward.
There was nothing behind me but twenty yards of rocky ground and the cliff's edge. I knew, it had been my view for endless days. And beyond the cliff—nothing. It was the farthest point, overhanging the angry sea.
"Go." Malvio jabbed the spear again, cheerfully. I stood Without moving and he did it again, hard enough to pierce the coarse wool of my dress and prick the flesh beneath. "Go!"
I took another step, sharp-edged rock beneath my bare feet. Over Malvio's shoulder, I could see the melee broad ening, Joscelin penned behind a thicket of spears, dodging and twisting. It might have been different, if he'd had his sword; it would have lessened the difference in reach. But no, he had crawled the underside of the hanging bridge. The weight of his sword would have been too great.
He had come to rescue me with nothing but his daggers. And he could do it, too, given time and aided by chaos.
The prisoners were providing the chaos. I needed to buy time.
"Whatever you want," I said steadily to Malvio, "I will do."
It gave him pause. Then he shook his head, grinning, and gave me another jab. I took another step. "No," he said. "It's too late. You belong to Asherat now."
Behind me the sea-surge was growing louder, and I could feel a change in the way the ground shuddered beneath my naked soles. A deeper tremor, a hollow vibration. We were on the overhang. How far to the edge? Twenty feet? Ten? The wind battered me, whipping my already-matted hair into worse tangles, flattening my dress against my legs.
It was getting darker, further away from the torchlit battle. I could scarce make out his face. "Malvio," I said. "Do not do this thing. I swear to you, it is not the will of Asherat. Her followers have betrayed her, who put me here."
"You were put here to die," he said agreeably, jabbing.
"No." I took a quick step backward, then darted sideways, seeking to get around him. But he was quick, for a Caer-dicci, and he had a spear. He brought it sweeping about to bar my way, maneuvering behind it. A distant flicker of torchlight slid across his grinning face, his off-kilter gaze.
"Go," he said, jabbing.
I went, as slowly as I dared. Beyond us, I saw that the numbers of the guards had thinned, but they were organized now, and an armored figure with a full-length shield paced the outskirts, shouting inaudible orders.
The warden, I thought. He had formed the remaining guards in two lines, back to back; one held the prisoners at bay, and the other, Joscelin. Two men stood back from the fighting, holding torches aloft—one was hulking Tito. I saw the warden flash his shield at the tower, and movement in a darkened window. An archer, armed with a crossbow.
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 spear head, 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. Grin ning 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 cried out desperately in the direction of the battle. "Joscelin! It's Benedicte, Benedicte and Melisande! Benedicte is the trai tor!"
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 demented gratitude, thinking he threatened me, who had freed them. With spears and axe, they brought him to bay and he stood his ground like a colossus, roaring, carving a half-circle of space before him with great swings of his blazing torch.
"Stop it!" I shouted frantically, trapped behind him. "Let him be!"
To no avail. And then the now-disorganized mob of the guard fell upon them from behind, the warden running be side them, wading into the mix and shoving with his shield, cursing and giving orders no one heeded, and to the rear of it all, Joscelin, half-forgotten, who had acquired a spear which he wielded like a quarterstaff, with eye-blurring speed, forging an alley up the middle.
Close, so close.
I saw one prisoner fall, stabbed from behind. I saw an other whirl away screaming, ragged garments aflame, rolling on the ground and beating at himself. I saw Joscelin, grim- faced, stun one guard with a blow to the helmet, reversing the spear and slicing the man's unprotected throat, never stopping, but moving still, plunging onward.
It was all very much like a dream.
And then I saw the warden, calm and implacable, draw one of the guards out of the melee, moving to the right of my giant defender, and pointing.
At me.
I saw the guard, faceless in the shadow of his helmet, draw back his short spear and cock his arm to throw, the point aimed straight and sure for my heart. And I knew I was trapped, with nowhere to go. Behind me, naught but the crumbling edge of the cliff. Around me, naught but the sorrowing wind. Joscelin's face, turning, seeing too late, a cry of despair shaping his lips. Between us, Tito, massive in the torch-cast shadows, turning slow and ponderous as a mountain.
The guard, his arm cocked; the warden, speaking one word.
A spear aimed at my heart.
He threw.
Tis passing strange, how such moments are etched indelibly in memory. Even now, if I close my eyes and listen to the ocean pound the shore, I can see it unfold in agonizing slowness. Joscelin, moving too slow, too late, though guards fell away from him like wind-blown chaff. The concentration of the spear-thrower, weight shifting onto his forward foot as he threw, the graceful arc of his casting arm and his open hand as he made his release, fingers outspread. The hard, flat line of the thrown spear, headed for my heart.
