The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

Lightning forked across the sky in the distance, followed by the distant rumble of thunder.

They reached the main road to Pree, which was able to accommodate a much larger column. They were now at the flank of the Occitanian army, cutting off their supply lines and blocking their way to their capital. Owen felt as if a giant hand were looming over his head, releasing a Wizr piece and saying in sepulchral tones, Threat.

Moments later, a soaked and bedraggled Espion came riding up to him from the road to Pree, having scouted ahead. “My lord!” he called above the torrent. His face was spattered in mud.

“What news, man?” Owen shouted.

“The supply wagons are stuck in the mud yonder,” he replied, pointing down the road they traveled. “Enough of them to feed us a good while. But there’s a problem, my lord. There are several thousand Occitanian soldiers coming up the road from Averanche right now to stop us from claiming it! They’ll be on us within the hour!”

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?”