Page 12 of The Starving Saints
The catapults release in a wave; she hears thethunkas they reach full extension. She can’t see what they lob out across the field, but when they strike the siege engines below, they explode into bright,multicolored flames that spread fast. She can see the silhouettes of the Etrebians trying to douse the flames, but they’re pushed back.
And then the siege engines begin to buckle.
“Bless the Constant Lady,” Voyne whispers, awestruck.
They stay there, the two of them, her king standing above her, Voyne crouched by his feet. They watch. One by one, every siege engine that is struck by these Priory-derived incendiaries collapses in the flames. And the nuns are skilled at their mathematics, their geometries; they know how to aim, and aim fast.
When the catapults fall silent, Voyne can only assume they have exhausted their munitions. But it has been enough.
The attack on the gates never comes.
Etrebia has been held at bay.
Tears burn Voyne’s eyes. There is no hope of any repeat performance, not without resupply, but the Priory has done the impossible. She can only hope that it breaks Etrebia’s will; that in the morning, they will look out and see the camp pulling up stakes, retreating. It is what she would do. Take the measure of their new opponent, and return again when ready.
“My gambles do work,” her king says, and she feels his hand settle briefly on her scalp. Her skin crawls, but she remains still, because—he is right. He must be right. “Now I only wait on you to help me feed our people.”
She tries not to let her relief sour. Hopefully, there will be no need of his madwoman; they can discuss in the morning.
For now, there is work to be done; in the absence of impacts and the crumbling of stone, she can hear crying. Screaming. People have been hurt, likely killed. “I must go to them,” she says. She half expects him to stop her, but he lets her go. Down the stairs once more, down to the yard, where Ser Leodegardis, Ser Galleren, all the rest, have gone to work.
Torches flare to life. There is far more destruction than she anticipated. Stone to move, wounded to tend to. But it could have been far worse, and her brain feels cooler as she gets to work. As she does what she was built to do.
They have been working side by side, hand in hand, for no morethan fifteen minutes when Voyne sees movement to her left. Quick and fleeting, nothing more than a shadow. Something falling, she thinks, though it makes no noise.
“Is that Phosyne?” Leodegardis says, startled. Voyne’s blood runs cold, then hot, and she shakes her head.
“Leave her.” She doesn’t have time to care about the madwoman, her bizarre “logic” or her heresy.
“She’s running,” somebody else says, and Voyne snarls and pulls away from their efforts. Damn the witch’s chaotic nature. And damn Cardimir for making Phosyne her problem. There, in the gloom, a flash of movement, Phosyne’s pale face; her dark robes blend into the shadows. Sheisrunning, and full tilt.
“Go,” Leodegardis murmurs, and she can’t tell if he’s entreating her to rush after his pet, or warning her that she must follow Cardimir’s orders, even when they are foolish.
The sooner she has penned Phosyne up, the sooner she can attend to those whoreallyneed her.
She follows.
Phosyne’s path is erratic, twisting, turning. It’s as if she’s chasing something unseen. But no matter her desperation, she is unpracticed and underfed, and Voyne gains on her. Just as they reach the smithy yard, Voyne falls upon her, tackling her into the dirt.
“Let go!” the witch cries, but Voyne only holds her more tightly. She is bird-boned beneath her, barely anything of substance, but she thrashes and squirms like a trapped stoat.
“Stop resisting,” Ser Voyne commands, and it only makes Phosyne thrash harder. Fabric tears, loud and organic and more human than crashing stone.
Something collides with the charcoal pile three feet away, sending black chunks skittering in a hundred directions in the dark. Voyne hunkers down reflexively, head ducked, so that her face is pressed to Phosyne’s throat. But there are no more missiles coming over the wall; she can’t make sense of the collision, given half a second to think. Below her, Phosyne goes limp, gasping for breath. Voyne can feel her pulse against her cheek, fluttering wildly.
And then she smells smoke.
She sits bolt upright and there is a glowing spot, orange and hot, spreading quickly.
“Oh, no,” Phosyne whispers beneath her, half a whine.
Voyne has a hand on her briefly, on her throat as if to keep her from wriggling free. But that isn’t the best use of her. “Fuck,” she snarls, and then she’s up and off Phosyne, snatching up a shovel from where it leans nearby, stabbing it into the pile.
Fire in the fuel could mean conflagration. That there’s no more iron to smelt barely registers as she scatters the pile, searching for the ember.
Behind her, Phosyne wails, drags herself to the pile for some unknowable mad reason. Voyne is digging too slowly. The bright burning spot is the size of a fist, fingers about to unfurl. The heat is already almost too much to bear, and it will only grow. “Get back!” Voyne barks, even as Phosyne plunges her hands in.
She will burn. There’s nothing for it—she has no shovel, she will burn.
