The Thief's Daughter (38 page)

Owen felt the queer sensation that the next move would be against him.

CHAPTER FORTY

The Battle of Averanche

Owen’s first battle was amidst a rainstorm in a valley near Averanche. The Occitanian army had not stood still while Owen’s men had marched past them on another road. The tiles were starting to fall, and there was no way of stopping them now. Owen had his archers line up to block the road and send volley after volley at the advancing troops. Rain may have dimmed their vision, but it was nearly impossible for the archers to miss with so many coming against them. Behind the archers were his spearmen, row after row, ready to charge.

Once the battle began, it was impossible to control or predict the course of it.

Owen felt the sick reality of combat, all the glory of it reduced to angry men trying to bash in one another’s brains. The number of Occitanians seemed unending, wave upon wave of them hammering a rocky shore. There was no going back, no retreating. The muddy road was stained crimson with the conflict. These were not men; these were soiled wretches who cut and smashed against shields and pikes. Owen soon lost count of how many he had killed, but his sword felt like it was part of him. The years of training, the grueling hours in the yard had finally come to fruition. He was exhausted, but he was relentless, urging his men to continue on and on, to endure the hardships that rain and steel inflicted on them. His throat was burning for a drink, but there was no time. He had to be everywhere at once. Whenever someone charged at him, he would focus on the attacker for a moment, use his magic to read the other man’s weaknesses, and then parry his blow and dispatch him quickly. He felt power surging inside him each time he struck, and his blows seemed to wield an unbelievable power.

Owen wiped the mud and rain from his face, staring at the onslaught that continued down the road. His men were grim-faced and terrible as they held their position on the road amidst a field of corpses and wounded men.

“My lord!” someone shouted, coming up behind him. It was Captain Stoker. The captain’s sword was dripping with blood.

“How many are there?” Owen snarled as the next phalanx approached. His horse shied from a groaning man, and Owen had to cling tightly to its reins as it almost reared.

“My lord!” Stoker said, his face jubilant. “The Brythonicans! They’re attacking the Occitanians from behind! They’ve trapped Chatriyon between us! That’s why we’re being hard pressed. We’re all that stands between them and safety!”

Owen coughed with surprise. Marshal Roux was attacking? Attacking Chatriyon’s army?

“Be you sure, Stoker?” Owen asked forcefully. He wanted to believe it. But he didn’t trust it to be true.

“His banner is the Raven!” Stoker said, nodding. “His men are in the field! They started as soon as Chatriyon turned on us. It helps even the odds a bit, my lord! In this tempest, it’s difficult to tell friend from foe!”

Lightning split the sky overhead, sending crackles of thunder across the heavens. Owen raised his arm up to shield his eyes and an arrow struck his arm. Pain exploded from his elbow down to his wrist. His entire arm went numb, but his mind reeled in shock as he recognized that if he hadn’t lifted his arm at exactly that moment, the arrow would have pierced his neck . . . or worse.

“My lord!” Stoker shouted in surprise.

The arrow shaft felt like a hot poker in his arm, and he swore in pain. Was his arm broken? He was thankful it wasn’t his sword arm. An archer had singled him out. Then a strange numbness started to stretch down the length of his arm and move up to his shoulder. He felt his body start to stiffen.

Poison. It was in his blood.

Owen turned to Stoker, blinking rapidly. “Etayne! Get me to Etayne!”

A shroud of black seemed to drape across Owen’s face, and he felt himself tipping out of the saddle. He was falling. He struck the muddy ground face-first and began choking in it.

It sounded to Owen as if he were amidst a hive of bees. There was light beyond his lids, and he felt tugging and jostling. Suddenly all of those bees were stinging his left arm. There was something in his teeth, and he bit down on it as the needles of pain in his arm worsened.

He shook his head, trying to rouse himself, and then opened his eyes. Etayne was crouching over him, and they were inside a small tent filled with the rattling sound of rain striking the canvas. The sensation of being in the beehive faded as he came awake.

“Hold still,” Etayne said, working feverishly on his arm. He looked down and saw that the needles he imagined to be figurative were literal—she was stitching his arm with catgut thread and a needle that looked as blunt as a shovel.

With his other arm, he removed a half-bitten arrow shaft from his mouth. “That hurts!” Owen rasped, his voice so thick with weariness it croaked.

Etayne shot him a concerned look. “It was moonflower,” she said. “The arrow tip was coated in it. Enough to kill you . . . and quickly. Thankfully, I know the cure.”

“What has happened?” Owen said, trying to sit up, but she shoved him back down on the cot.

“The battle is over,” she said, giving him a private smile. “You won.”

“How could I have won if I wasn’t even there?” Owen said, shaking his head. He tried to sit up again, but she pushed him back down.

“Rest, Owen. If you try standing now, you’re more than likely to end up on the floor in a puddle of vomit. Hold still while I finish the sutures.”

Owen eased back down, scowling and wincing as she continued her work on his arm. When she finished, she dabbed ointment around the wound and then bound it with linen strips that she tied off with tiny knots. He noticed a bloodstained arrow on a camp table nearby, and the size of the head made him shudder.

“Is my arm broken?” he asked.

“No, but the arrow went deep,” she replied. “Let me give you something for the pain.”

He shook his head. “I’ll deal with the pain. I want my wits about me. Where is Captain Stoker?”

“He’s talking to Marshal Roux in your tent.”

“Where is that?” Owen asked, looking around. “Where is Eyric?”

“This is the tent where I was hiding Eyric. He’s in your tent now, with Stoker and Roux. You’ve won, Owen. You’ve defeated the Occitanian army. Do you know how many ransoms you will get for this?” She looked at him with delight, shaking her head. “Do you know how
wealthy
you will be after this battle? How many lands you will be entitled to?”

“Where is Chatriyon?” Owen demanded.

She shook her head. “He was never here. He sent all his marshals and captains to defeat you. He feared for his life. He’s been in Pree all along.”

Owen tried to sit up again, and this time Etayne helped him. His arm was throbbing with pain, making him regret his refusal to take a potion. He blinked swiftly, realization slowly sinking in. The battle was over. He had won.

“Let me find where they put that shirt for you,” Etayne said. Owen only then realized that he was stripped to the waist. His battered and stained hauberk was crumpled on the floor of the tent. There were rags stained in mud and dirt strewn about and a basin of filthy water. He looked down at himself and saw that he had been cleaned. Etayne seemed to notice the reason for his scrutiny and she flushed slightly, then hastened to find a shirt for him to wear.

She helped him put it on, being especially delicate with his arm as he struggled to get it into the sleeve.

“Thank you,” he said as she finished tying the crossweave at his neck. She brought out a padded vest, which was much easier to put on, and helped him stand. His legs were wobbly and his head spun for a while, nearly making him fall, but she was there to keep him steady.

When he was finally standing without wavering, she looked him over critically, arranging his clothes a little to make him look more like a lord and less like a mud-spattered peasant. She then strapped the scabbard and sword to his waist, her hands deft and efficient. He was uncomfortable with her standing so near, dressing him.

“I meant to thank you for saving my life,” Owen told her, trying to catch her eyes even though she was refusing to look at him.

She shook her head slightly, ignoring his words. “It’s still storming. You need a cloak.”

Once again, he sensed that she felt more for him than friendship and gratitude. He thought it only fair to disabuse her of the notion that they could ever be together. But doing so now, just after she had saved his life . . . well, it would feel a bit coldhearted. He grunted as a throb of pain burst to life in his elbow.

She fetched a cloak, draped it over his shoulders, and lifted the cowl over his head. Once she was also equipped to face the rain, she took him through the rain-drenched camp to the command pavilion. Outside the main doors were two battle standards, the Aurum and the Raven. Both were dripping.

Owen ducked his head as he entered the tent. It was dusk, and the pavilion was full, but he immediately spotted Captain Ashby and the mayor of Averanche inside. He also recognized Marshal Roux, who was still wearing a mud-spattered tunic over his armor. The marshal gave him an almost reproachful look, as if it bothered him that Owen had come to the meeting so late.

“It is good to see you hale, my lord,” Roux said warmly, though his eyes were wary.

“Thank you, lord marshal,” Owen said. “Your intervention, once again, could not have been better timed.” Even though that had decidedly worked in their favor on this occasion, there was still something about the Brythonican that set him on edge. He noticed Eyric sitting silently at the edge of the tent, listening to the conversation.

The marshal bowed stiffly. “The duchess keeps her promises,” he said.

Captain Ashby came forward. “My lord, the lord marshal has been supplying Averanche for days. His ships brought casks and kegs to make sure the city was well provisioned. It was a siege, but we ate like kings! I wanted to get word to you that we could have held on much longer, only we could not get past the soldiers at our gates.”

Owen felt a prickle of guilt for having distrusted the Brythonicans so much. But even after hearing about their generosity, he felt uneasy.

The lord mayor looked particularly relieved. “We are grateful, Lord Kiskaddon, that you kept your word and did not forsake us. The people of Averanche long to welcome you back into your city. If I may suggest that you move from your camp to the castle to get out of this storm?”

Owen smiled when another loud crackle of thunder followed the mayor’s words, causing him to stiffen in surprise.

“I thank you, lord mayor, but must decline,” Owen said, shaking his head. “I long to get out of the wet, but we must ride back at once to bring tidings of our victory to King Severn. You may be sure that a celebration of our victory will be held in due time. At such an event, I hope we can have the pleasure of the duchess’s company?” Owen gave Roux a serious look.

The marshal’s face was perfectly composed. “She rarely ventures from Brythonica, Lord Kiskaddon. As you can imagine, her situation is fraught with peril, and there is a considerable risk of her being kidnapped and made a hostage. She has authorized me to negotiate the peace terms and ransom distributions on her behalf, though she is wont to be generous to our allies from Westmarch. I am certain we will find an equitable arrangement?”

“Indeed,” Owen said, feeling his curiosity about the duchess grow. His left arm started to throb painfully, and he felt sweat bead up on his brow. He wanted this conversation to be finished.

Marshal Roux studied Owen’s face for a moment, so implacable. “We will depart then and seek shelter at the castle, as the lord mayor’s guests. If you permit it.”

“I do,” Owen said with a nod.

“We would be most gracious hosts, my lord,” said the mayor, grinning eagerly. He seemed the kind of man who relished having powerful guests.

“Captain Ashby,” Owen said. “Provision the garrison to remain behind. Captain Stoker, have Farnes begin tallying the noteworthy hostages. Once it’s done, bring word of them to me at Kingfountain. The king’s nephew and I,” he said, looking Eyric in the eye, “will join him.”

Marshal Roux inclined his head and was about to leave.

Owen stopped him with a gesture. “My lord, have you heard anything about the battles in my realm? Anjers insisted that Severn was dead, but I’m convinced it was a trick.”