The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

“Hold it steady!” Alensson barked at the two men who were watching her dumbfounded. They grabbed the ladder and pressed their full body weight against it. Alensson’s heart hammered fearfully in his chest as he watched her scale the wall toward the ramparts. She was nimble, even in the armor, but despite his belief in her—in the Fountain—he was worried she’d fall and injure herself. Worried she would make it to the top and get captured by the enemy. He stared at her, amazed at her courage and self-confidence.

The defenders were ready. They used hooked poles to shove the ladder away from the walls. Alensson and the two men struggled to keep the ladder upright, but Genette’s body weight and armor sent it careening backward. Horror-stricken, Alensson saw her dangle from the ladder by one arm as it toppled and then fell.

He let go of the ladder and tried to get under her, but she landed on her back right in front of him, a look of surprise on her face that quickly transformed into one of pain.

“Genette!” he gasped, sinking to his knees, shielding her limp body with his own bulk. Any moment he expected an arrow to strike his back. She had fallen from a considerable height, and it was likely she had broken her back, perhaps her legs and arms too.

“Don’t stand there gaping like a fish,” she scolded him. “Help me up!”

He suddenly became aware of the soldiers who had crowded around them, providing an extra wall of armor to protect the fallen girl. And when he looked up, he saw the rage in their eyes, the determination for revenge. The Maid was their sister in arms. There was a howl, a shout, and suddenly men were scrabbling toward the walls as if they planned to scale them without ladders. More ladders started to be thrust upward and multiple men began to climb simultaneously. The greater weight helped hold the ladders steady, and the men on the ground used spears to help counter the use of the hooked poles.

“Help me,” Genette said, reaching out and gripping Alensson’s arm. She started to pull herself up, her face wincing with pain. Her back should have been broken, and from the look in her face, she was in agony.

“Lie still,” he urged her. “I think your back is broken.”

“It is broken,” she said through a mask of pain. “But it will not be for long. Help me up!”

He was amazed at her words, but even if she managed another miraculous recovery—he knew after Lionn that she could do it, though he did not know how—surely she would need time to recover. “Let me carry you back to a tent to rest,” he said, sheathing his sword and then reaching under her legs to lift her.

“No,” she said emphatically. There was something in her voice, some tone of command that stopped him. He had one arm around her shoulder already, the other in the crook behind her knees, but he hadn’t lifted yet. “Please, Gentle Duke,” she whispered. “Just help me stand. Trust me.”

He had trusted her so far. He let her legs drop back and then rose up himself, hoisting her up with him. He heard the groan of pain, saw the whiteness of her face, and then she was on her feet.

“Bring my flag,” she whispered, planting her hand on his chest to steady herself. Her face was full of pain and determination. He didn’t want to leave her side for a moment, afraid she’d crumple to the earth, but somehow she fought the pain long enough to remain on her feet until he returned with her battle flag.

Her eyes brightened when she took it. Leaning heavily on the pole, she sucked in her breath to endure the agony of her injury.

“We are so near the top of the ramparts,” Alensson said with frustration. “If we could but distract the enemy a moment, more ladders could be fixed.” He looked at her. “You are not going to climb up another ladder. Not like this. There must be another way!”

“Distract them?” Genette said, looking at him. She cocked her head, as if listening to something he couldn’t hear.

“What is it?” he pressed.

She smiled despite her obvious pain. “I know how now. It makes sense. Thank you.” She bowed her head and then whispered something under her breath. He could not hear the word, but he felt it ripple and shudder, as if a heavy stone had been hurled into a pond. Her banner began to flutter as a breeze tousled it. Then the stitching on the fabric began to glow.

Alensson blinked in surprise and amazement as the images she had crafted by thread suddenly leaped off the banner, still aglow, and hovered in the air before their eyes. The fleur-de-lis patterns, fluttering like butterflies, expanded and multiplied as they rose higher and higher. She gripped the pole, her leg twitching from the pain in her back, gritting her teeth as she held fast. The glowing shapes blossomed in the sky, rising up to the top of the wall, painting the air with color and movement. It was dazzling to watch, mesmerizing to see.

There was a shout of victory as the first men reached the ramparts. The clatter of steel striking steel followed, and the battle began to shift, the momentum changing as it had done in Lionn. Now that the first wave of warriors had successfully scaled the walls, the ladders were thick with men trying to find their way up.

The colorful strands from her banner fell apart and Genette drooped. She nearly collapsed, but he caught her shoulders.

“I’ll be all right, Alen,” Genette said, wincing as she put a foot forward to steady herself. A cheer and a cry came up from the army. The defenders began to flee from their positions. There were no more catapults flinging giant stones after that.

Genette used her banner like a crutch as she hobbled toward the walls, gazing up at the fighting in the ramparts. A sad smile came to her mouth. Her other hand gripped the sword pommel. The look of pain was starting to leave her, and her breathing was becoming easier.

“The Fountain blesses you,” Alensson said, glancing at her as they stood together beneath the walls of Foucaulx.

“It does indeed,” she said.

“You saved my life.” The swell of gratitude in his heart made him feel like weeping.

She turned her head and gave him a peculiar stare, one that seemed to penetrate to the deepest part of his soul. “The Fountain has great plans for you, Gentle Duke. You will survive this war.” She shook her head subtly. “I will not.”





CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Raven Scabbard





Foucaulx, the final major obstacle on the road to Ranz, had fallen. There was celebrating in the camp, and the Earl of Doone made arrangements for a garrison to defend the city while the army marched on to the sanctuary to crown the king. Alensson was battle weary, but he was also concerned about Genette and what she had whispered to him before the fall of the city. There had been a sadness in her voice, along with a certainty that disturbed him deeply. She had forewarned him to move before that piece of rubble could squash him. Had she seen a fate in store for herself? Was something preventing her from moving out of the way?

Word came that Chatriyon and his entourage were drawing near to the city. Outriders had been sent ahead to keep the army apprised of Deford’s movements. Genette was sure to be summoned when the prince arrived, so Alensson made his way to her tent. She had limped there in great pain, refusing his offer to carry her, and a surgeon had been seeing to her injuries for the last several hours.

As he approached, he remembered his previous intrusion and called out to her squire.

The lad swept open the flap. “Yes, my lord?”