Dark Triumph

“Does your god tell you this?”



He grins. “No—yours does.” Then he leans in and plants a quick, fierce kiss on my lips. A flash of heat and hunger and something so sweet I dare not name it, and then he is gone, striding off to lead the remainder of the men to town.



A quarter moon hangs in the sky, shedding just enough light that we can see where to put our feet but not so much as to expose us utterly, even once we step out of the shelter of the trees. We are most vulnerable while crossing the northbound road, but with the countryside occupied by French soldiers, most of the small folk keep to their beds with their doors and windows locked.



There are only eight of us, but still it feels like far too many. I have only ever fought alone or with Beast and Yannic at my side. I already miss the little jailor’s excellent aim and keen timing.



The night has leached all the color from our surroundings so that everything around us is cast in shades of silver and gray and black. The tall trees are but darker shadows and smudges against the sky. The greenlings blend in well with the others, and I am proud that they make no more noise than do de Brosse and his soldiers. Their nervousness and excitement hangs in a thick cloud around them.



We finally come to a stop on a hillock overlooking the bay. A small copse of trees sits atop it, like a crown. We tie our horses up here and I suggest Claude be set to guard them. He accepts the assignment grudgingly, but up here, out of harm’s way, he will be one less person I must watch after. Careful to stay hidden among the trees, we move to the edge of the hill, the hearty scrub grass cushioning our footsteps. Looking down, we can see the small, square rock shelter built for the chain winch. Beyond it, the water of the bay is flat and still and silver, like a mirror. The thick heavy chain spans the width of it, and on the other side, the full forest descends all the way to the water line.



De Brosse motions two of his men forward, and they disappear down the hill to learn how many guard the winch and where they are posted. Behind us, one of the horses blows gently, and I hear Claude move to quiet him.



Although we do not wait more than a few minutes, it feels like hours until the scouts return. They speak quietly to de Brosse. There are at least six soldiers and three archers, possibly more inside. I glance at the marqued Jacques and de Brosse and wonder what Mortain would think if He knew I was planning to thwart His will.



We ignore the footpath and, instead, approach slightly from the south, using a deer track through the bracken.



Bruno and Samson are to stay back, as we will need their strong arms to free the chain. Jacques and I are to slip down and take out as many of the sentries as we can before being noticed. Once the alarm goes up, de Brosse and the other soldiers will leap into the fray and engage the soldiers directly.



Luckily, it is near the end of the Frenchmen’s watch, and they are tired. Perhaps even a little complacent as they lean against the trees, talking quietly among themselves. I shut my ears to their voices. Hearing them talk of their wine or dicing or women will not make them any easier to kill. I lean into Jacques. “You take the one on the left, I’ll take the two on the right.”



He nods, his whole body atremble, and begins creeping toward his target. I pull a crossbow bolt from the frame and stick it in my belt for quick access, then draw my knife.



As silent as one of the shadows, I approach my target. He is listening intently to some story the other fellow is telling him. Closer and closer I creep. When the man throws his head back to laugh, I step silently forward, reach around with my knife, and slit his throat. The soul bursts from him nearly as quickly as the blood that hits the other man in a wide arcing spray. While the second man is still staring in stunned amazement at his dying friend, I slap the bolt in place, lift the crossbow, and fire.



The bolt takes him between the eyes, and he falls backwards. There is a scuffling sound behind me, and I turn to find Jacques and his archer clasped together in some sort of lethal dance. Retrieving my knife, I hurry forward. The archer’s hands are around Jacques’s neck, and the boy’s eyes bulge in fear. Bette’s and Guion’s faces float before me. I brush the vision away, take a step forward, and stab the archer in the back, then force the knife up as high as it will go to hurry his passing.



As his hands fall away from Jacques’s neck and he slumps to the ground, his soul rises from his body like mist from a swamp. I ignore it and focus on Jacques, who is breathing hard and rubbing his neck. Our eyes meet over the dead man, and then Jacques turns and retches into the bushes.



To give him some privacy, I kneel down and clean my knife on the tabard of the Frenchman. Jacques may be embarrassed, but at least he is still alive.



There is a shout from the stone house and then the clang of metal as de Brosse and his men fall upon the guards. “Come,” I tell Jacques. “We must—” My words are cut off by a cry of rage as a man—a fourth archer—emerges from the trees. He pauses long enough to unsling his bow from his shoulder, nock an arrow to the string, and aim directly at Jacques.



Luckily, he does not see me squatting in the shadows beside his dead friend. I shove to my feet and use the upward momentum to launch myself at Jacques’s attacker.



I catch him completely unawares, the impact of my body knocking his bow from his fingers and his legs out from under him. As we hit the ground, I lever up, adjust my knife, sweep it across his throat, then roll out of the way of the mess that follows.



My pulse racing, I leap to my feet and peer into the shadows in case they should be hiding any other attackers. A long moment passes, then another, and no one else emerges. I turn to Jacques then, who is still on his knees, eyes wide, staring at the fallen archer.



The marque is gone from his brow. “Go.” The fear still coursing through me makes my voice harsh. “Join Claude and the horses. The rest of us will be right behind you.”



He does not question me but nods once and then goes to do what I ordered. When he is out of harm’s way, I go to the winch house, where the clang of sword against sword is accompanied by the heavy, solid pounding of an ax as it chops.



When I reach the doorway, I see that all four guards lie dead, and Samson and Bruno have almost hacked the wooden winch from its mooring. It is not enough to simply lower the chain—we must ensure it cannot be raised again before the British get through.



I lean against the rough stones and catch my breath, keeping my gaze focused carefully on the shadows outside for any more of the French.



There is a great splintering as the winch finally gives way. Like a huge metal serpent, the giant chain slithers and writhes from the broken winch, each enormous link clanging like an immense bell as it hits the stone floor. Then there is a faint rumble as the chain slithers across the rocky shore and sinks to the bottom of the bay.



We all stare after it for a moment, the silence ringing in our ears. “It is done,” de Brosse says. “Let’s return to town and see if they need our help.”



He pokes his head outside the winch house, then motions the rest of us to follow. Before he has taken two steps there is a hissing sound, followed by a thud, then de Brosse and the soldier behind him are flat on their backs with crossbow bolts rammed through their necks.



“Down,” I shout to the others as I flatten myself on the floor. I belly-crawl to the door and peer out, but see no one. “Samson, give me your cloak,” I order. Wordlessly, he pulls it from his shoulders and hands it to me. I wad it up, then toss it outside.



Before it lands there is another hiss of a crossbow bolt. “They are coming from across the river,” I tell the others. “And we are caught like sitting ducks.” We must find a way to shield ourselves long enough that we can reach the path behind the chain house. Once we do, we will be out of their direct line of sight, but until then we are ripe for the plucking.



I call to two of de Brosse’s men. “Can you fire your arrows to the far side of the river?”



One of them shrugs. “We can, but I don’t know how accurate they’ll be.”



“That’s all right, I am only looking to slow their arrows down somewhat. Bruno and Samson?” The two boys step forward, their faces serious, all traces of adventure or games erased by the death of their comrades. “I want you to get down on your bellies and crawl over to the fallen French, just at the far side of the chain house. When you reach them”—this next part is hard to say, for all that they are our enemies—“I want you to lift the bodies and use them as shields against the arrows. Bring them back here and then we can all move together behind their screen.”



It is a foul thing to do, to use a man’s body thusly, and I will not dishonor our own fallen in such a way.



Bruno’s eyes widen so that the white shows, and he makes the sign to ward off evil. I reach out and grab his thick, meaty arms and give him a shake. “I do not enjoy this one bit more than you, but I have five of us I wish to get out alive. Now, can you do it or must I ask someone else?”



When he finally nods, I relax my grip. “We can all say extra prayers for them later, if you’d like.” I gesture to the two soldiers to take position. When their crossbows are aimed at the far side, I motion to the other two boys to hit the dirt. As they do, de Brosse’s men begin firing their bolts to the far bank.



We all hold our breath as inch by painful inch Samson and Bruno make their way to the dead Frenchmen. Every moment brings the risk of an arrow strike, and I must keep reminding myself that neither of them was marqued. It does not make the wait any easier.



At last they return with their grisly burden. The rest of us step out into the night and use our enemies to shield our flight to safety. De Brosse’s remaining soldiers drag him and the other fallen with them as we go.



We leave the bodies at the crest of the hillock where Claude and Jacques wait with our horses. It does not matter that we’ve been spotted—the chain cannot be raised again, not until a new winch is built. But it is possible that the Frenchmen may head for town, and we do not want them to raise a hue and cry before Beast and the charbonnerie have completed their task. The element of surprise is one of the few things we have going for us.



Once we are all mounted, I tell the greenlings to head back to camp with our dead and order de Brosse’s remaining soldiers to come with me. If they think it strange to take orders from a woman, they wisely keep it to themselves. We ride hard to reach Morlaix before word of our nighttime activity does.



Chapter Forty-One



THE TOWN IS QUIET, AND the city gates are still closed. There is no sign of increased sentries, nor is there any cry of warning. I rein back hard before we ride into sight of the watchmen. “You stay here and intercept any archers from the far bank who think to warn the city,” I tell the two remaining men-at-arms. “With luck, you at least injured a few with your blind shots.” Hoping they will heed my orders, I leave my horse with them and make my way to the abbey window that was to be left open for us.



The night is quiet, not a whisper of activity or hint of warning. I cannot help but worry that something has gone wrong, that their plans fell through or that they were caught before they could reach the barracks.



At last I see a dark smudge of smoke rising up in a column over the city, and my fists unclench. The column grows thicker and is followed by a faint orange glow. The fires are set. I close my eyes and imagine the thick, choking smoke moving across the sleeping French, filling their mouths and noses as they sleep, the soldiers coming away coughing and choking, struggling for breath. “Fire!” some of them will yell, waking the rest, and a mad, chaotic scramble will ensue as they all try to break free from the hall.



But only one window will be open. All the others blocked or filled with churning smoke so the French will have no choice but to hurl themselves out the one escape route, a long drop to the hard ground below, outside the protection of the city walls.



I draw near the abbey. The abbess of Saint Mer had promised there would be a window left open for us, and there is. I quickly crawl through it and find no one about, so I hurry through the empty corridors to the city beyond.



Outside, the streets seems almost deserted, with only a few pockets of fighting here and there. I stop long enough to pick up a handful of bolts from a fallen soldier. Feeling better thus armed, I continue on my way.



As I draw near the soldiers’ garrison, I hear the sounds of fighting. Hugging the wall, I creep forward. At first, I see no one, but as my eyes adjust to the darkened street, I see a knot of charbonnerie pinned behind an overturned wagon by three French archers.



Luckily, I have five bolts. But I will need to be quick and well hidden. I slip silently from the wall to kneel behind a water pump near the barracks building. I stick two bolts in my mouth, then load a third, take aim, and shoot. The man gives a surprised cry as he is struck. His two companions look around, but they were so focused on the charbonnerie they did not see where the arrow came from. I quickly load the second bolt and fire it off.



The second archer is down, but before I can load the third bolt, the last remaining archer turns and fires in my direction. I hear a clang as the bolt strikes the metal handle of the pump. Now—while he is reloading—I take my shot.



It catches him in the temple. I wait for a second to be certain there are no more archers, then give an all-clear wave to the charbonnerie.



The closer I draw to the quay, the louder the sound of fighting becomes. The French must have realized that the purpose of our attack was to allow the British through, and they have chosen to make a last stand by the dock.



I have only two quarrels left but take comfort in the weight of the knives.



When I reach the end of the street, I must step over three fallen bodies. Indeed, I follow a trail of fallen French soldiers the rest of the way to the dock. I emerge from the alley and pause midstep. Beast stands alone, hacking and swinging at nearly a dozen men. His bravery—or stupidity—is breathtaking. He has no regard for his own safety as he cuts through his enemies. Indeed, that may be what gives him such advantage over the others, for none would guess the risks he is willing to take with his own life.

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