The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

“That arrow should have killed you,” Alensson insisted.

As she shrugged on the breastplate, his eyes found the place where the arrow had pierced the metal. It was much more pronounced in the daylight. She frowned when she saw him looking at it. Then she sighed and looked him in the eye. “I am truly unhurt now,” she said, her voice dropping lower. “Would I be standing like this if I were pained? Thank you for your concern, Alen. One of the smiths can fix this in a trice.” Her voice became more urgent. “But later! We must go! How is the attack going? We must hammer at the towers until they fall. If they try to escape by boat in the river, we must stop them.”

Alensson folded his arms. “The orders have been given. Lord Hext is leading the attack. The mayor is watching the dock to make sure no one tries to flee. But it may be too difficult to spot them under cover of darkness.”

She shook her head as her squire fixed the shoulder blades onto her armor. “It will fall today.”

He didn’t bother asking how she knew that. After spending so much time with her, he’d come to learn that the Fountain spoke to her daily. She was unlike any Fountain-blessed in their records. She didn’t demonstrate just one or two powers, but several—and they seemed to sprout whenever she needed them. Her knowledge of warfare and sieges was that of a seasoned battle commander.

A herald stormed in to the tent, then caught himself when he realized he had entered a woman’s tent without announcing himself. He stammered an apology, but Genette had lived among men for several months now and did not require one.

“What news, Herald?” she demanded.

“I bring word from the lord mayor,” he said. He bowed to Alensson. “The city’s carpenters have joined the battle. Remember the bridge connecting the rest of Lionn to the Turrels? The stone is still standing, but all the planks were removed when the siege began. The carpenters are repairing it—and quickly. Soldiers are out there with shields, providing them cover from the archers. The lord mayor will commence attacking the Turrels by the bridgehead within the next few hours. They’ll have to defend both sides at once!” The herald beamed.

It was welcome news. “That is impressive!” Alensson said, relieved. He smiled encouragingly at Genette.

“The people were inspired by the Maid,” the herald said, giving Genette a respectful nod. “Everyone is helping. I’ve never seen Lionn so hopeful before. This is the first time we’ve had any hope since . . . since Azinkeep.”

“Then go, Herald,” Genette said calmly. “Tell the mayor that I thank him. We will meet in the tower. Tell him to bring a yellow flower. A lily, if he can find one.”

The herald looked at her in surprise and so did Alensson. That flower was his wife Jianne’s favorite. The Maid gave him a secretive smile as she finished dressing for battle. The scabbard and sword were still belted to her waist, and Alensson’s eyes found the raven’s head badge.

“That symbol is from Brythonica,” he said, finally placing it.

“It is indeed,” she replied, brushing her hands together. She turned to her squire. “Bring me my banner. We will make short work of our foes.”



From the heights of the Turrels, the soldiers were pelted with stones, crossbow bolts, buckets, and dozens of other makeshift weapons. The men were weary with exhaustion, but they continued to shove a battering ram against the tower doors with concerted grunts and pure brute strength. The freckled Aspen Hext led the charge, roaring his oaths as he gripped the front end of the ram with another man. Soldiers kept falling away wounded behind him, but he did not falter.

“Onward! We have almost won! Courage now! Stand fast!” Genette’s voice could be heard over the cacophony of violence. The sound lent steel to the soldiers, who rushed forward to fill the gaps when men fell. Her cheeks were smudged with smoke, her voice was raw from screaming, but her eyes blazed with valor. Her expression wilted just slightly when a soldier standing nearby succumbed to blows, but she gritted her teeth and waved the banner even more vigorously.

Alensson ordered men to fire arrows up at the defenders, keeping up the pressure to make it more difficult for them to hobble the efforts below. Sweat stung his eyes, but he clenched his jaw and muscled through the fatigue and discomfort. Genette’s courage made him all the more determined to win the day.

A splintering sound filled the air and then the pulverized door blew apart. A battered portcullis waited beyond, full of teeming soldiers armed with spears and lances. But even at this distance, Alensson could see the fear in their eyes. They already knew defeat lay ahead.

“Open the gate! Open the gate!” Alensson screamed. Soldiers flooded forward, and the men in the first row, Hext included, pulled at the heavy portcullis while soldiers tried to stab them through the slats. Many fell, their cries piercing the air. But others quickly replaced them, and they stacked pieces of timber under the gate to keep it up. Aspen Hext drove the defenders back from the gate with his two-handed broadsword. There was a flutter of white, and Alensson watched as Genette joined the fray, one hand on her banner, the other on the sword taken from the fountain at Firebos. She seemed oblivious to the death screams raging around her. Her eyes were fierce, her mouth fixed with courage. Arrows fell all around her like hailstones. The enemies were targeting her, but none of the archers found his target.

Sensing the danger to her—the Ceredigions all recognized Genette’s importance by now, and they would all surely charge her—he pushed his way into the press of men crowded at the gate. But the Maid was surrounded by enemies before he could get to her. He howled in frustration, then watched in surprise as she defended herself using the principles he had taught her. She swung the flat of her blade around and hit a man in the side, but it was as if she were a reaper of wheat: Her one blow scattered four men instead of one. Her opponents exploded away from her, and then no other man dared face her, this maiden holding the sword of a long-dead king.

Alensson’s eyes darted to the weapon, lingering on the rippled pattern in the metal, the five stars engraved on the blade inside the fuller. A part of him awakened at the sight of it—his ambition—and it howled like a wolf. If he could get his hands on that weapon, if he could use it instead of her, then he could become the next king of Occitania.

It was an ambition it had never before occurred to him to have.