David Tallerman - Prince Thief

Ludovoco’s eyes went wide. He tried once more to force his way free, twisted in Mounteban’s arms — but without any great enthusiasm this time. Like drunken dancers, the two turned before us. I saw Mounteban’s left hand first, tight-clenched, pressed against Ludovoco’s back. Then his fingers opened, his hand dropped away.

Where it had been, amidst a spreading stain just visible against the black of Ludovoco’s cloak, there stood out a hilt and a finger’s breadth of blade.

In width, the knife was little more than a needle. But I had no doubt of where it had come from, or what it was doing right then to Ludovoco’s insides. I knew enough to recognise one of Franco’s speciality knives, a weapon for an assassin or a street brawler rather than any duellist. It would have cut through mail and meat like a hot axe through butter.

Mounteban let go of Ludovoco then and slid backwards, flopped into the mud with a sigh. Ludovoco, for his part, looked round at us with vague disgust. He reached for the hilt protruding from his back, but rather than try to remove it, he merely patted around it with his fingers, as if curious. Then, his eyes still holding us, still showing nothing but contempt, he crumpled face down in the mire.

By then, Mounteban was lying on his back, knees hunched. He too was looking in our direction — or rather, I realised, at Estrada. He tried to mouth something, coughed, and flecks of blood sputtered from between his lips.

Estrada ran to him, slid to her knees. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s all right, Castilio. Hold on, will you?”

“Marina,” he said — and her name brought with it another splash of crimson.

“Shush. It can wait.”

Mounteban tried to shake his head, found the effort too much. “Listen…”

“I am listening,” murmured Estrada. “But you have to stop talking.”

“For you. It was.”

“You stupid, stupid man. Lay still, Castilio.”

“Forgive…” he tried again.

But the sentence would have to stay unfinished; for there was no more blood seeping from between his lips, nothing behind his eyes. And perhaps it was a small kindness, because it meant he would never have to hear Estrada’s reply. “Oh, I wish I could,” she whispered.

Yet, despite what she’d said, she was the only one who seemed concerned by Mounteban’s passing, perhaps the only one besides me who’d even noticed. Excepting Kalyxis, the remainder of our number were clustered around Alvantes; at that precise moment, Navare was striving ineffectually to convince his captain that he shouldn’t be trying to stand.

“It’s not over yet,” Alvantes was saying. “Don’t waste time with me.” His voice was a growl, barely audible. Yet, despite the fact that half his blood must have leaked out by then, his gaze was clear and fixed ahead.

I looked to see what had so preoccupied him, when by all rights he should have passed out a dozen times, and understood immediately. It wasn’t over; the fury in the faces of the Pasaedan front line was ample testament to that. That barrier of armed men was moving, not towards us exactly, but swelling and shifting like water tugging at a shore. From all around there came a mounting blare of raised and outraged voices.

Was it only that their commander was dead? Or was it worse that he’d been cut down in so underhand a way? It occurred to me that Mounteban had died imagining he’d saved us, when in all likelihood he’d achieved nothing but to have us torn apart by an angry mob. Even if that rabble might be convinced to honour Ludovoco’s word, they had other officers, and what possible reason would any of them have to let us go? The noise from all around was a rising tide — and I had no doubt that at any moment it would drown us.

Someone broke ranks then, and he’d taken a dozen steps before I convinced my panicked brain that his advance wasn’t the beginning of a massacre. For the man approaching us was Ondeges, and his appearance set my heart on edge between hope and fresh trepidation. From what Gailus had said, Ondeges was an ally, sympathetic to Altapasaeda’s cause, but he was also Ludovoco’s second, and if he chose to pursue his fellow officer’s cause against Alvantes, it would be a short fight indeed.

Ondeges came to a smart halt before our ravaged group. His steady gaze took in us all and settled upon Estrada. Loud enough that the Pasaedan soldiers at his back could hear every bit as well as we could, he said, “The duel is over. One man is dead. The other lives.” He paused to weather a ripple of protest from his own lines and then raised his voice to continue. “By the terms agreed by Commander Ludovoco and as his second, I declare you free to go.”

Estrada hurried towards him, paused only when she saw Ondeges’s look of warning. “Commander,” she said softly, “ thank you .”

“Leave now,” replied Ondeges, matching his volume to hers. “I’d find a stretcher for Alvantes, but if you wait I fear it would do him no good anyway. I’ll make sure your dead are brought to the gates before nightfall. Hurry, before they realise how little they care for my word.”

“Captain Ondeges,” Estrada said, “this is…”

“Nothing!” Ondeges hissed. Then, more gently he added, “A gesture… nothing more.” He looked inexpressibly weary. Though his uniform was fresh, unstained by battle, he seemed every bit as exhausted as the most haggard of our party.

And suddenly, I understood. Everything I could have wanted to know about Ondeges was written clear upon his face. I knew how he’d worked for peace, how he’d challenged Ludovoco and even the King himself; I knew he’d risked his own life in doing so. For a moment, his gaze fell upon Kalyxis, and the rage I saw there was the bitter hatred of a man whose every plan had been brought crashing down, without sense or reason.

Then Ondeges looked back to Estrada and said, with perfect calm, “Nothing will make Panchessa change his mind now. Go while you can, pass the night as well as you’re able… because tomorrow this army will be inside your walls, and there won’t be a damn thing you or I can do about it.”

We trooped back through the suburbs of Altapasaeda, less than twenty men and women passing where fifty had set out less than three hours before. There was myself and Estrada, Kalyxis and Malekrin; the remaining few, survivors of our fighting escort, were led by Navare, and bore Alvantes in a sling made hastily from their cloaks. He had slipped from awareness as we left the battlefield, and now his soft, unconscious groans were the only sound anyone made beside the slap of boots in mud.

As for the giants, they kept their distance, Saltlick leading and the remaining four carrying their fallen brother hefted upon their shoulders. Moving together like that, faces void of expression, armoured legs rising and falling in step, they none of them looked alive. I was reminded of a mechanism, like the cranes upon the docks of Altapasaeda, its parts blank and smooth. When they paused, I could only think of some great table rock made formless by the passing of centuries.

We’d survived — a few of us. Ludovoco, foremost of our enemies besides the King himself, was dead. Yet so was Mounteban, who for all my hatred I couldn’t deny had fought staunchly for the city these last days; so, perhaps, would Alvantes be before the day was done. Gueverro had been cut down, along with many of our best fighting men. Not to mention a giant — a creature out of history, out of myth, with no right even to be on a Castovalian battlefield.

I’d lived to see another dawn. But, as the gates of Altapasaeda came finally into view, all I could feel was despair. Thanks to Panchessa and Kalyxis and their decades-old hatred, our last chance of peace was lost.