Leda

Chapter Fifty-Five: Winners and Losers

It was only when cheers overtook the screams of pain and fury that Magda realised what had happened. Roc's army pressed forward, shields raised above heads to ward off hot oil and arrows as the entire armoured mass of men and women poured into the city through the gatehouse. She risked raising her visor and whooped in delight to the clear, frozen sky; her face caked in sweat and dirt.

So far, the battle had drawn little enemy blood, save for a few forays with siege ladders; some luckless warriors launching themselves onto the ramparts only to be hacked down by Castor's guards and flung back in pieces onto the snow. Arrows and crossbow bolts had been fired upwards to little avail, the tips as often as not ricocheting off solid stone walls while the Colvé forces picked off Roc's army with casual ease, firing volley after volley into the ranks of mercenaries, sailors, highlanders and soldiers.

She'd watched in horror as Roc himself went down, a crossbow bolt ˗ stray or aimed, she couldn't tell ˗ plunged into his neck. The western lord swayed, desperate to remain in his saddle even as the life leaked from his veins. But then at last he toppled like a felled oak, crashing to the ground, his horse fleeing in a spooked skitter from the battlefield. And the next thing she knew, Cesary crouched over the body of his father, perhaps receiving some final, spluttered instructions before the great lord passed away. When Cesary rose, his visor was still up and he stared at her, his eyes hard with grief and the rage for revenge.

That desire would not be sated, she'd thought then. He'd be joining his father soon enough. But now, as the dead lord's forces ploughed into Dal Reniac, she allowed herself the luxury of hope. Once within, they would outnumber Castor's men. And if the Emperor had sent his guards to the city walls, the fortress itself would not be sufficiently protected, for the Dal Reniac guard had defected.

With pride swelling for Hal and the thieves ˗ engineers of this success ˗ and keen to break her sword against steel, she guided her horse onwards. This would be a tale to take home to Lauré as she sank at last into the maid's arms, as they lay entangled in her tent, their lips locked, sharing each other's warmth.

Pain shattered the dream. Her horse was rearing, flailing. Magda could not understand why. The animal's front legs kicked against the empty air rearing up and up...she clutched for the reins but found herself weakened suddenly, as if the energy had been siphoned from her veins. And as her mount rose she tipped, struggled to steady herself, tipped again...and fell, slamming into the snow-clad winter earth, staring up in confusion at the night sky, the dullest of bells ringing in her ears.

The pain was now a fire, a furnace erupting across her stomach. She could not raise her head, clamped as it was inside her helmet. But from the edges of her eyes she made out the end of a crossbow shaft. And she knew at once that it was not buried in the body of a dead man, but in her own stomach.

Magda reached down and put her fingers to her gambeson, remembering the mailshirt she'd not worn, thinking that Lauré would struggle to lift it. There was hot wetness, and when she dragged her hand to her face she saw the dark, clotted stains. The ringing in her ears grew to a roar. She stalled the urge to cough, to spit out whatever was gathering in her throat, but it did no good. When she spluttered, more of that hot wetness trickled from her mouth and down her cheek.

"Magda!" A voice tickled her ear. Which was impossible because her head was encased in metal. "Magda!"

She was sweating, feverish ˗ she could no longer feel her legs. The battle blurred, walls merging with the ground, the sky dizzying in its orbit.

"Magda!"

She knew that voice, she realised. It was her brother. It was Edæc: the brave young man she'd once thought would become a Lord. But that was impossible. Wasn't he...wasn't he dead?