A splintering sound filled the air and then the pulverized door blew apart. A battered portcullis waited beyond, full of teeming soldiers armed with spears and lances. But even at this distance, Alensson could see the fear in their eyes. They already knew defeat lay ahead.
“Open the gate! Open the gate!” Alensson screamed. Soldiers flooded forward, and the men in the first row, Hext included, pulled at the heavy portcullis while soldiers tried to stab them through the slats. Many fell, their cries piercing the air. But others quickly replaced them, and they stacked pieces of timber under the gate to keep it up. Aspen Hext drove the defenders back from the gate with his two-handed broadsword. There was a flutter of white, and Alensson watched as Genette joined the fray, one hand on her banner, the other on the sword taken from the fountain at Firebos. She seemed oblivious to the death screams raging around her. Her eyes were fierce, her mouth fixed with courage. Arrows fell all around her like hailstones. The enemies were targeting her, but none of the archers found his target.
Sensing the danger to her—the Ceredigions all recognized Genette’s importance by now, and they would all surely charge her—he pushed his way into the press of men crowded at the gate. But the Maid was surrounded by enemies before he could get to her. He howled in frustration, then watched in surprise as she defended herself using the principles he had taught her. She swung the flat of her blade around and hit a man in the side, but it was as if she were a reaper of wheat: Her one blow scattered four men instead of one. Her opponents exploded away from her, and then no other man dared face her, this maiden holding the sword of a long-dead king.
Alensson’s eyes darted to the weapon, lingering on the rippled pattern in the metal, the five stars engraved on the blade inside the fuller. A part of him awakened at the sight of it—his ambition—and it howled like a wolf. If he could get his hands on that weapon, if he could use it instead of her, then he could become the next king of Occitania.
It was an ambition it had never before occurred to him to have.
In the sludge-like mire of his thoughts, amidst the shouts and screams of mortal combat, even in the act of slicing one of his enemies who confronted him, Alensson felt a desire for that sword that overswept even the love he had for his wife. He had seen Genette use it before and it had not roused such feelings in him. But those feelings were so strong now, they threatened to change him from the inside.
Half-formed thoughts, grievances, and fears swirled around inside him. Who was Chatriyon Vertus but a sniveling coward? Did he deserve to be king? Did he deserve the loyalty that had been shown him by those who had risked everything?
Someone brought a battle axe down on Alensson, and he spun around and gutted the man with a savage stroke. He kicked him next, and then he was fighting beside Genette, in awe of her power, in awe of the sword she held, and for the briefest flicker of a moment, he was tempted to shove her down in the confusion and yank the blade out of her hand.
But no. No.
He shook his head as if to rouse himself from an intense, lurid dream. After all he had given up. After all he had sacrificed, after all the years he had spent in Ceredigic confinement, he would not sell his honor so cheaply. His integrity was the only possession he truly owned; he could not bear to lose it.
Alensson took up a position behind her, defending her back as the battle raged inside the tower. There were so many people that Alensson found himself fighting friend as well as foe in the confusion. He kept glancing back at Genette, making sure she was still within sight amidst the flood of men-at-arms.
“Stay near me, Gentle Duke,” he heard her say. “It is almost over.”
But the fighting grew more savage and desperate before it ended. These were the last defenders, a brave and mighty foe who would neither yield nor ransom themselves. They expected no mercy after all they had boasted, all the ills they had done while ravaging Occitania. Alensson was jostled by one man just as another lunged toward the Maid with a spear—he elbowed the one in the face and then chopped down at the spearhead, knocking it aside before it reached her.
There was a groan of wood, followed by the rending sound of metal. The other gate of the Turrels was being breached by the city soldiers. Another wall of soldiers came flooding into the courtyard. Everything seemed to slow down, and Alensson turned to watch the newcomers join the fray. They devastated the remaining defenders, many of whom finally flung down their weapons in despair and sank to their knees in humiliation and defeat. They had the hollowed, anguished look of men who didn’t know if they would live or die—and who didn’t seem to care. He recognized it because he had felt that way before.