The Maid's War(40)

“I’m going up,” she replied angrily. Drawing her sword with one arm, she gripped the first rung of the ladder with the other. Before he could say another word, she was scampering up the ladder like a sailor on the rigging.

“Hold it steady!” Alensson barked at the two men who were watching her dumbfounded. They grabbed the ladder and pressed their full body weight against it. Alensson’s heart hammered fearfully in his chest as he watched her scale the wall toward the ramparts. She was nimble, even in the armor, but despite his belief in her—in the Fountain—he was worried she’d fall and injure herself. Worried she would make it to the top and get captured by the enemy. He stared at her, amazed at her courage and self-confidence.

The defenders were ready. They used hooked poles to shove the ladder away from the walls. Alensson and the two men struggled to keep the ladder upright, but Genette’s body weight and armor sent it careening backward. Horror-stricken, Alensson saw her dangle from the ladder by one arm as it toppled and then fell.

He let go of the ladder and tried to get under her, but she landed on her back right in front of him, a look of surprise on her face that quickly transformed into one of pain.

“Genette!” he gasped, sinking to his knees, shielding her limp body with his own bulk. Any moment he expected an arrow to strike his back. She had fallen from a considerable height, and it was likely she had broken her back, perhaps her legs and arms too.

“Don’t stand there gaping like a fish,” she scolded him. “Help me up!”

He suddenly became aware of the soldiers who had crowded around them, providing an extra wall of armor to protect the fallen girl. And when he looked up, he saw the rage in their eyes, the determination for revenge. The Maid was their sister in arms. There was a howl, a shout, and suddenly men were scrabbling toward the walls as if they planned to scale them without ladders. More ladders started to be thrust upward and multiple men began to climb simultaneously. The greater weight helped hold the ladders steady, and the men on the ground used spears to help counter the use of the hooked poles.

“Help me,” Genette said, reaching out and gripping Alensson’s arm. She started to pull herself up, her face wincing with pain. Her back should have been broken, and from the look in her face, she was in agony.

“Lie still,” he urged her. “I think your back is broken.”

“It is broken,” she said through a mask of pain. “But it will not be for long. Help me up!”

He was amazed at her words, but even if she managed another miraculous recovery—he knew after Lionn that she could do it, though he did not know how—surely she would need time to recover. “Let me carry you back to a tent to rest,” he said, sheathing his sword and then reaching under her legs to lift her.

“No,” she said emphatically. There was something in her voice, some tone of command that stopped him. He had one arm around her shoulder already, the other in the crook behind her knees, but he hadn’t lifted yet. “Please, Gentle Duke,” she whispered. “Just help me stand. Trust me.”

He had trusted her so far. He let her legs drop back and then rose up himself, hoisting her up with him. He heard the groan of pain, saw the whiteness of her face, and then she was on her feet.

“Bring my flag,” she whispered, planting her hand on his chest to steady herself. Her face was full of pain and determination. He didn’t want to leave her side for a moment, afraid she’d crumple to the earth, but somehow she fought the pain long enough to remain on her feet until he returned with her battle flag.

Her eyes brightened when she took it. Leaning heavily on the pole, she sucked in her breath to endure the agony of her injury.

“We are so near the top of the ramparts,” Alensson said with frustration. “If we could but distract the enemy a moment, more ladders could be fixed.” He looked at her. “You are not going to climb up another ladder. Not like this. There must be another way!”

“Distract them?” Genette said, looking at him. She cocked her head, as if listening to something he couldn’t hear.

“What is it?” he pressed.

She smiled despite her obvious pain. “I know how now. It makes sense. Thank you.” She bowed her head and then whispered something under her breath. He could not hear the word, but he felt it ripple and shudder, as if a heavy stone had been hurled into a pond. Her banner began to flutter as a breeze tousled it. Then the stitching on the fabric began to glow.

Alensson blinked in surprise and amazement as the images she had crafted by thread suddenly leaped off the banner, still aglow, and hovered in the air before their eyes. The fleur-de-lis patterns, fluttering like butterflies, expanded and multiplied as they rose higher and higher. She gripped the pole, her leg twitching from the pain in her back, gritting her teeth as she held fast. The glowing shapes blossomed in the sky, rising up to the top of the wall, painting the air with color and movement. It was dazzling to watch, mesmerizing to see.