An arrow struck the turf right ahead of Alensson, snapping his attention back to the matter at hand. The sycophants of Shynom were tired of war and bloodshed. A negotiated truce was more to their liking. Peace through bargaining. And they pleaded with Chatriyon to form an alliance with Brugia, their neighboring kingdom across the sea. With Brugia on their side, they could push Deford back on his heels with diplomacy rather than battle. Chatriyon’s only ally was Atabyrion, and it was a small, backwater kingdom that had lost many men during the wars.
This was all totally against Alensson’s nature and character. Occitania had been sundered by blood. And it would be rebuilt the same way.
Raising his shield before him as he walked, he made his way to the thickest part of the danger, for that was where the Maid had stationed herself. He heard her voice ringing out amidst the commotion of battle. She wasn’t urging the men onward. She was shouting to the defenders on the wall.
“Surrender to us quickly, by the Fountain!” she yelled. “If you do not surrender before nightfall, we will come in there by force! Surrender! Or the Fountain will bring death upon you without mercy! These walls will not save you!”
There was a jeering sound from one of the Ceredigic soldiers above. “Shall they not, bloody tart?”
He saw two crossbowmen rear up from the wall suddenly, aim at Genette, and fire the bolts at her. He was close enough to see their movement, but too far and too encumbered by his armor to reach her in time.
Genette cried out in pain as one of the bolts sliced through her thigh. The blow made her stagger and nearly drop her standard. Her squire, the lad Brendin, seized it with both hands to steady it and the second bolt struck the boy’s foot, pinning it to the ground. The boy yelled with pain, wrenching on his leg, but he was trapped painfully. Alensson started running toward them, trying to reach them to offer them the protection of his shield.
There was an angry red gash on the Maid’s leg—her armor had been slit clean through by the broadhead bolt. But it was not bleeding, and Alensson knew it was because of the scabbard she wore.
Still struggling to free himself, the squire lifted his visor higher so he could see his foot. It was a painful wound—the lad wouldn’t walk for months after this. But just as Alensson reached them, a third crossbow bolt struck the lad’s chest. He toppled to the ground, dead before he fell.
“No!” the Maid screeched. “No!” She rushed to the boy’s side, her face filled with horror and anguish. Her standard lay in the grass, still gripped in the boy’s hands.
Horns began to blat from the command tents. The signal—retreat.
Genette looked up at Alensson, who had positioned himself between her and the wall, his shield lifted high to protect her. He took the impact of a shuddering bolt on his arm, feeling the power of it bruise him. The Maid knelt there, cradling the lad in her arms, staring into his unblinking eyes with distress and grief.
“He’s dead,” Alensson said softly. “There’s nothing you can do.” He had compassion for her loss, but he needed to get her out of there. They were too vulnerable where they were and the king had ordered the retreat. Even if it was the wrong decision, it was his to make—unless they managed to convince him otherwise.
“Brendin, poor Brendin!” the Maid moaned. She looked up at the sky, tears streaking down her lashes. She turned her ravaged face toward Alensson. “Why are we retreating? We are so close to victory!”
Alensson looked at her in disbelief. “The king orders it, Genette. Come with me. We must persuade him to continue the attack.”
Soldiers were already peeling away from the walls, carrying their siege ladders as the defenders’ cheers of triumph rained down on them.
Genette set the boy down and wrenched the standard from his dead fingers. “Attack!” she yelled at the fleeing soldiers. “Come on! This is our chance! This is the Fountain’s will! The city will fall to us!”
“Never!” cried the defenders from the wall. “Kill the strumpet! Bring her down!”
Alensson saw the situation start to spiral out of control. Some of the troops were hesitating. The horns had sounded the retreat. It was an order from the king. But the Maid, who had guided them to victory so many times before, was telling them to keep fighting. Who should they obey? Alensson saw the confusion it was causing. Men would be killed if they hesitated too long.
The long, loud blat of the horn sounded the retreat signal again. Farther down the wall, the Occitanian soldiers were falling back, oblivious to the tension at the heart of the scene. Soldiers were dropping, hit by arrows sent raining down on them. The Maid stared helplessly at the melee, tears mixing with the dust and dirt on her face.