“Fight on!” she pleaded. “The Fountain is stronger than these walls! It will aid us! Believe in me!”
Alensson believed. But he knew the nature and disposition of men. Their brothers in arms had been slain before their eyes, and now their comrades were fleeing to safety. They saw the gash in the Maid’s leg, her own squire lying dead at her feet. And their faith in her began to crumble. Men will follow if someone leads, but they are more inclined to listen to other men. Besides, the king was leading them out of harm’s way while the Maid wished to lead them into more danger. One by one, they turned their gazes away from her and began running back to the camp. Some glanced at her, but most lacked the courage to look her in the eye. Genette pleaded with them to resist, to have courage. But no one listened to her.
Alensson watched her shoulders sag, watched the defeat register in her eyes. He knew in that moment how he must have looked after the battle of Vernay.
“Come, Genette,” Alensson said, gripping her arm. “The king commands it. We will not back down without a fight. We must persuade him to continue the attack tomorrow. You and I. Come with me.”
“He won’t listen to us,” she said through her hot tears. “And we would fail if we tried,” she added bitterly, her teeth clenched to stifle her sobs. She stared up at the walls, her brow wrinkling, her lip quivering. “With this sword, I could destroy those walls,” she whispered to him. “The Fountain would have brought them tumbling down. If only he’d believed. If only.”
She turned and started to kneel by the body of her squire. “I must bring him.”
“You’re wounded,” Alensson said. “I’ll carry the lad.”
“Thank you, Gentle Duke,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. She swayed slightly. “I’ll need my strength for what lies ahead.”
“And what’s that?” he asked, wrenching the bolt out of the dead boy’s foot. He lifted the boy in his arms and found him surprisingly heavy. He was tired, so very tired, as he started toward the camp. The sound of cheering from the walls nearly drowned out her next words.
“To bring the lad back alive,” the Maid whispered.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Breath
The camp was in commotion as Alensson carried the limp body of the dead squire into it. Genette used her banner pole as a crutch and walked with a pronounced limp from the gash on her leg. The tents were being brought down in a hasty manner, and all around them there were signs of retreat. The king was abandoning the siege of Pree after one day. Rubbish and filth had been left behind and supply wagons lumbered down the road, driven by cranky teamsters with pole whips.
“To my tent,” the Maid gasped. Her tent was one of the few still standing.
She hobbled ahead of Alensson and opened the flap, allowing him to duck in and bring the body. He was breathing fast and hard, tired from carrying it so far, sickened by the awful duty he had assumed.
“On the pallet,” she directed. The tent was darkening quickly from the advancing dusk. She quickly lit a taper and then some candles to ward away the gloom. The air smelled like dirt and sweat. There were screams all around them as the wounded were brought in from the battlefield. Most were dragged to wagons to be carted off for healing elsewhere. Alensson knew many wouldn’t survive the night.
“I’m going to Chatriyon,” Alensson said, watching as Genette knelt stiffly by the body.
“Don’t go yet,” she said, looking up at him worriedly.
He hesitated at the threshold, unnerved by what she had said she was going to do. Reviving the dead was a blessing from the Fountain. Few in history had been able to accomplish it, but he did not doubt that someone of Genette’s faith and abilities could do it.
“Should I be here?” he asked her, feeling dirty and tired and frustrated and a host of other feelings. He grappled with the desire to choke the king if he could not dissuade him from making such a monumental mistake. Chatriyon was not one to change his mind quickly, though.
“Yes. The Fountain wishes it. And I’ll need your help, after it is done.”
“Help? What can I do?” He wanted to flee from whatever arcane magic she was about to invoke. But he was also curious, so he came over and knelt beside her and the pallet.
Genette’s hair was a wild, untamed mess when she removed her chain hood. There were smudges of filth on her cheeks and nose. Then she pulled off her gauntlets to free her hands, and he saw the bruises on her knuckles.
She was finally getting her breath back after her injury. The glow of the candles illuminated her face, and he saw their points of light shining in her eyes as she looked up at him. A strange expression crossed her face, one of tenderness and gratitude. Then she unbuckled her sword belt and the mystical scabbard woven into it.