The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

“My lord,” came a low voice from the darkness ahead of them. Owen reined in his stallion and waited as the man approached. It was one of the Espion, a trusted man named Clark. He was a lean, hatchet-faced man, his dark hair shorn to stubble. He was an excellent woodsman and tracker.

“What news, Clark?” Owen asked, trying to calm his restless mount.

“I recommend securing the horses here,” he said in his usual formal way. “The outer edge of the army is five furlongs away. It’s a short walk, but if you ride any closer, you’ll be heard in their camp.”

Owen nodded and slid on his helmet before dismounting. Clark held the reins for him and then led the stallion to the trees and secured the beast. The other men dismounted as well. The horses were given some provender to keep them quiet, and several handlers were left behind to tend to them. Owen saw the archers flexing their bows to fit the strings. Each one carried three quivers full of arrows. The archers were all talking amongst themselves.

“How long until dawn, Clark?” Owen asked, gazing up at the stars, but he was never good at constellations.

Clark sniffed, gazing up. “Few more hours, my lord. Some were up drinking recently, but most are fast asleep, except the sentries.”

“Well, let’s wake them early,” Owen said with a grin. His hand dropped to the pommel of his longsword. He also had a short sword and a dagger. The hauberk felt comfortable enough, and he was warm despite the puff of fog issuing from his lips.

The men started marching to close the distance separating them from the Occitanian camp. Owen’s heart began to race. He had trained and trained in the castle yard, but this was the deciding moment when he would learn if that training held true. It made him feel more confident that he had certain unfair advantages working in his favor. His ability to use Fountain magic permitted him to discern his opponent’s weaknesses. It also provided him with an uncanny resistance to the magic of others who could tame the power. Turning, he was grateful to see Horwath by his side, even though he knew the old man would rather have been abed than hiking down a strange road in Occitania. Owen found himself gritting his teeth as he marched. Clark kept stride with him. He imagined the Espion had orders to keep him alive. But one does not lead from the back, so Owen was the first among his men.

They pulled out their weapons, preparing to fight, and left the shelter of the woods. The land before them opened up into a rolling plain, and the lights of the Brythonican castle under siege—Pouance—could be seen in the distance. Owen had studied the few maps they had at their disposal, so he knew it was part of the outer defenses of the duchy rather than the capital Ploemeur.

“Get ready to light the torches,” Owen said to one of his captains. “Each man carries two. It’ll double our numbers in their eyes. Archers, at the ready.”

His nerves were calming, and a strange sense of peace washed over him. Then he heard it—the murmuring waterfall sound of the Fountain. He had not summoned the Fountain, but he felt it rushing through him. It had come to him, as if it were anxious to help him achieve his victory.

“Lads, let’s teach these fools what we’re made of,” Owen said in a firm, clear voice. He looked over at Horwath, who gave him a crooked smile beneath the nose guard of his helmet. There was an excitement in the air, a feeling of confidence.

“Hand me a torch, Clark. Would you?” Owen asked.

The Espion nodded and struck two stones over the torches he’d tied together. The wet oil flared to life and Clark thrust the smoking brand into Owen’s hand as the fire leaped and sizzled in the night. Owen lifted it high in the air and then shouted, “Ceredigion!”

It was like unloosing the waters of a dam. The roar from the men nearly drowned out the twang of bows as the sky filled with arrows. The archers dropped into low, taut crouches, then almost leaped into the air as their arrows went skyward. Another deadly wave was sent out before the first had even landed. The arrows began thunking into the camp. Shrieks of surprise came from the bewildered Occitanian army.

Owen started to run down the road, waving the torch over his head in circles. Clark was at his heels, still keeping pace with him. A wall of firebrands came behind him. It seemed like five hundred were charging with him, though his force was less than a hundred. Giddiness swelled in Owen’s breast as he ran. The long hikes in the mountains had filled him with energy and stamina. Ankarette’s medicinal tea had completely cured his lungs of their childhood weakness.

The camp below bobbed to life. Men were rising, hurrying to grab weapons and don armor, but it was too late for preparations now. The arrows were showering into the camp like rain, and the night sky was cleaved by shrieks of agony. Owen approached the first rows, where a few pikemen were shivering with their poleaxes. Then the pikemen dropped their weapons and bolted.

Owen knew he had won before the first stroke of hand-to-hand fell.

The archers stopped the deadly rain as Owen’s men smashed into the panicked defenders. Owen watched as Clark moved with grace and skill, using the two short swords in his hands to cut down the soldiers who rushed at them. He had a businesslike look on his hatchet-face as he dropped, spun, and plunged his blades.

Owen felt the rush of the Fountain all around him, as if he were the floodwaters himself. Men were fleeing the other way, some with arrows sticking from their bodies. Tents collapsed in tangled heaps with ropes still whipping about. Horses screamed and charged. Owen thought he saw one with the flag of Occitania attached to the skirts, bearing its rider away.

Another set of screams sounded as the two other groups of soldiers joined the battle. In his gut, though, Owen knew they had already won.

A soldier with a pike charged at Owen from behind a tent and jabbed the sharp tip of his weapon at his chest. Acting on reflex alone, he blocked the pike with his sword and then threw his torch into the man’s face. The pikeman flailed with pain and dropped his weapon. He too fled.

Another man came at Owen with a shield and tried to bull into him and knock him down. Owen ducked to the side and extended his leg to trip the man, who crashed face-first into his own shield. He slumped and didn’t get up.

Owen watched his men raze through the camp like farmers’ scythes through wheat. Strangely, he felt like laughing.

“Lord Owen!” one of his captains—Ashby—shouted, running up to him eagerly. “They are fleeing! Some of them barefoot! We tried catching the king, but he’s on horseback and riding away, surrounded by his knights. He was the first to flee. You did it, my lord!”

The air filled with the sound of trumpets coming from the other side of the camp. It was a harsh wailing sound, one that sent a shiver down Owen’s back.

“What was that?” another captain shouted in confusion.

“I’ll check on it,” Clark said stiffly. He ran off into the chaos of soldiers who were now beginning to plunder the tents. Some grabbed Occitanian flags or badges as souvenirs.