Yet they halted.
Eyes searching for any sign of movement, mostly directed to the skies.
Some leaned down, whispering to their beasts in inaudible hisses, and they broke free of the rest of the horde, circling and pulling it tighter together as the warriors pushed outward.
Protecting.
Shielding.
From an enemy they could not yet see, but evidently, knew to be there.
Penryn’s heart raced, and she wondered how long it might last before the foray began.
Who might be the first to draw blood.
There were no whistles from the Mihr, scattered as they were amongst the other initiates. Nothing to betray their location.
Or in truth, that they were there at all.
She kept herself low, dared only the scantest breath lest some part of her be seen even at such a steep angle.
They moved closer still.
Cautious.
Wary.
And still, the initiates did not engage.
She wondered what stayed them. Perhaps they were waiting for the warriors to relax their stances, to lower their weapons and leave more vulnerable parts of themselves open to brutal attacks and killing blows, but the waiting was nearly unbearable.
A horn blast, long and low.
Heads whirled, and Penryn was uncertain of the blast’s origin, as the horde was suddenly shouting warnings to each other, pulling even more tightly together, eyes darting every which way.
Another blast, and this time Penryn turned her head as well, not watching for the coming onslaught, but for the source.
There. In the distance...
She squinted, but did not dare lean her head further forward lest her position be noticed.
Crimson.
A great deal of it, not the dark, earthen colours that the horde wore, but a steady stream of it from the opposing horizon.
And they made no effort at concealment, instead heralding their approach.
Her heart, already beating a rapid staccato, now felt as if it was attempting to break free from her chest.
The horde stopped all movement forward. They were exposed in the openness of the plain, and they seemed well aware of it. Their confidence had clearly been that their approach would remain unseen until they were prepared for battle, but they could not watch the whole of the skies. Not all the time.
And there were so many.
If the number of their enemies was that of a horde, the sages were a multitude of their own. Perhaps not a host enough to put an end to the confrontation alone, but imposing and vast, nonetheless.
Penryn chewed at her lip, recognising a few of the faces, and many that she did not. She was surprised to see so many of the old approached as well, not merely the young with full strength at their behest even if their skills were poor and few.
And behind them, clad in whatever clothing and colours made up each clan, were the people.
The ones that bore the respect of their sages, who trusted their call above all others.
With weapons of their own, with serious faces, some paling as they took in the foe, wingless as had been promised, but very much real.
And so many.
The horde moved as one, suddenly pushing forward.
A steady walk versus an attack by air.
The first arrow was loosed, falling short of its mark, the sage batting it away with a sword that glittered in the morning light.
A whistle, short and sharp as it rent the air between them.
And a blade suddenly appeared in the throat of the one who had taken aim, his body crumpling.
The horde barely made room to walk around it, the body consumed by the press forward.
Penryn’s stomach roiled at the thought, of being trampled by one’s own people.
And she could not pretend their purpose was not well ingrained.
Whatever it truly proved to be.
She waited with bated breath for the call from the horde to rush forward, to attempt to overwhelm those in the air by sheer force of numbers.
“Hold!” she heard called from somewhere down below as they grew nearer her tower. The order was repeated again and again by those on beasts who constantly circled and herded, ensuring that none grew frightened enough to abandon their posts and run instead. “Hold!”
They began to pass, and she could see that yes, in the middle of the ranks were the most vulnerable, the old, the weak, the small and the women round with child.
Tears of disbelief prickled at her eyes.
What were they thinking? To bring their young into battle?
Why not just the warriors? Those keen to fight, to slaughter if that was their aim?
Something clawed at her, the wrongness of it, the deep breath before the plunge.
This was not right.
“Hold!” she heard again, and she could not imagine what they were waiting for.
Their children were with them.
They travelled as a whole. An entire people, together.
A horde.
But not necessarily an army.
Not all of them.
Her mouth opened. And the words came forth.
For better or worse.
No matter how foolish they might prove to be.
“What is your purpose here?” she shouted down.
Because she understood their words.
And she knew few others would.
She did not know if her tutors were present in the host of sages and the people they had brought with them. The few that had dedicated themselves to the teaching of the land-dwellers’ tongue. Her guides and the only ones she could practice with before being sent off, entrusted with all the fluency they could give her.
The horde hesitated, the warriors still standing firm against those they could see, and even those they could not.
“Name it!” she called again. “While there is time yet to do so!”
They did not shoot at her. Not yet. And the angle of their position beneath her tower suggested they would not be able to do so, but she held no great confidence in it. There was risk, but there would be benefit also, if only...
“Truce,” came not one voice, but many. As one, even if they did not know to whom they spoke. “Truce,” they shouted again.
And still, the sages kept their movement forward.
If they knew, or understood, they did not seem to care, and before she could react, could dare a scrabble forward, suddenly there was movement beside her, a dark figure that startled her with so silent an entry that she had to place a hand over her mouth to stifle her screech of alarm.
Her husband, his eyes dark and furious.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low and evenly measured, not revealing the depths of his displeasure with her. But his expression did.
“They wish to talk with us,” she answered. “That is what they are saying.”
“They have attacked already,” he reminded her, trying to force a gentleness into his voice. She winced, hating that he felt the need to placate. “Twice now they have attempted to shoot us down. Once they even succeeded.” He took a breath, shaking his head and she could well imagine the thoughts racing through his head. The fear. The terror as they plunged into the inky blackness of a roiling sea. “Are you so quick to forget?”
She released an unsteady breath, wishing her heart would calm, that she could speak clearly without the wavering tendril of hesitation that would undermine the parts of her that were certain. “Of course not,” she assured him. “But I know what they are calling for down there, and I cannot pretend I do not hear it.”
She was pleading with him, and she knew it. For him to understand, to believe that she was not quite so foolish as to put her blind trust in a people she did not know. “Maybe they were taught to fear our kind. Taught that secrecy was the only thing keeping them safe, so any trespass, any unfortunate soul that stumbled into their path had to be stopped.” She shrugged, wishing she knew that to be true, knew t
hat their reasons could be so neatly explained.
There was a change to his expression, a suggestion that even if he did not like her explanation, it was at least not quite as reprehensible as what he had likely conjured in his own imaginings.
“You cannot know that.”
“No,” she readily agreed. “I cannot. Not without talking with them.” She clutched at his arm, willing him to hear her. “But that is precisely what they are asking us to do.”
She saw his indecision. Could even understand it. They had been chased with unrelenting speed for days. They had felled Grim over the cusp of the sea, and they easily could have drowned.
Were those the actions of a people intent on peace?
No. And she was not so foolish as to argue that it was.
But as she glanced down, she could make out the fear on the children’s faces, the truly dire circumstances that must be within their people to risk the lives of all, even their pregnant women and their littlest ones.
For what?
It could all be for naught, a trap and a trick to draw them out so none could surprise them.
But another part of her, could see the desperation in it. To have their first confrontation be as a whole, to do what was needed to keep their coming a secret for as long as possible.
To avoid the little skirmishes that might influence the outcome of the entire interaction.
This went against all of their plans. They had called their only skilled fighters to offer aid, and to halt them now, before the battle had even begun...
Penryn swallowed, and she gestured down. “Their families are with them, Grim,” she entreated. “Why would they do that if all they wanted was to slaughter us all? Why put them at risk if war was their sole aim?”
She squeezed his arm a little more firmly as he looked over the side of the tower at what she had seen and recognised. “I am not stupid,” she reminded him, whether it was necessary to do so or not. “If they choose to fight, then we will as well. And they will die, and so will we.” She shook her head, her hand trembling. “But I will not pretend that is my wish. And perhaps it is not theirs either.” She raised her chin a little higher. “I would prefer to know before the end, if I am able.”
Grimult turned his face back to hers. So stern. Yet the love and worry for them all she did not doubt. “What do you intend to do?”
She reached out and gripped his hand, the one not currently clutching a weapon.
She knew of his resolve. Knew well that he was prepared to spill as much blood as necessary in the protection off his people.
His family.
Of her.
And she did not doubt him.
That he would be steady and sure, would do all he could.
Until he was cut down by the sheer number of those dedicated to...
What she could not quite yet name.
Not yet.
“I need to go down to them,” she told him, knowing that time was short. That Grimult’s patience was likely even shorter. “I need to know their purpose before...” Before it was too late to change things. Before there could be no going back, for too many people had been hurt, and no treaty could be borne of so many wounds, too many hearts slashed to bits as the mourning started and vengeance was desired above all else.
He wanted to argue with her, that much was clear. He had been given command of his initiates, even of the instructors he so admired. But with her...
He trusted her judgement.
And perhaps he should not.
But he did all the same.
“I will not forgive you if they kill you for this,” he informed her, already gathering her to him. “Do you understand me? And I will not forgive them either.”
She understood. That she was risking her life. His.
And that thought alone was almost enough to still her, to tell him that she had been foolish and the consequences too great, and...
She squeezed his hand about her middle. “One last task,” she promised him. “One more, and then you will take me home.” And the ache she felt for such a thing was nearly enough to leave her breathless.
But as Grimult jumped, when their positions were exposed, she saw the weapons directed suddenly to them, and the words poured forth. “If you wish to speak, it shall have to be with me,” Penryn called out, Grimult swooping low, over their heads and close to their own people, but not so near to either the beasts or any weapons that might be raised overhead.
Perhaps so near their kind, they would not risk loosing an arrow prematurely.
She could only hope so.
“They do not speak your tongue,” Penryn continued, her voice slightly hoarse with the panic she felt at the rapid descent and to be so close to those who even now she considered enemies.
The blade at her hip felt wholly inadequate, small and feeble against a people willing to trample over their own felled warrior.
“But I do. And I wish to understand your intent.”
Her feet touched the ground. Grimult did not release her, but she forced herself to wriggle free of him. So they might see, might not confuse Grimult’s wings for her own.
She was not one of them. Not in any true sense of the way.
But perhaps she was close enough that for just a moment, they might listen.
They were not instantly attacking, and she supposed that was something. The riders were still shouting for their people to hold, but there were other murmurs also, suddenly low and to neighbours.
Until suddenly they were not moving at all.
“Tell the others to stop,” came a rumbling order. The words were more difficult to make out than she might have liked. As if the words were the same, familiar to her ear and in the texts she used to study, but the manner in which they were spoken had altered over time. The lilt of the tongue was different, harsher. Sharper.
And she prayed they could understand her in turn.
She wanted to coax a promise from them. That if she turned her back, they would not harm Grimult or herself. But that required more trust than they likely were willing to bestow, and she would have to trust Grimult’s assessment of their situation.
As she turned her back to them.
There could certainly be no mistaking now that she bore a resemblance to them.
More murmurs.
Perhaps they would think she had been one of their kind, lost and taken in by the winged folk.
Perhaps they had stories of one that would trespass through their lands once a generation, on foot, with a winged companion at their side.
Perhaps they did not care at all.
But she forced herself to focus, to turn her attention to the newcomers in the skies. “Grimult,” she murmured, and she nodded to the coming people. “I need to talk to them.”
Her stomach did not relish a rapid ascent, but she felt a strange sort of calm as he brought her upward, flying them closer to the edge so her voice could reach as many as possible. “They wish to talk with us,” she shouted, hoping her words would carry, that she might be understood. “I do not know what their aim is, but they have called for a truce and are holding their line.”
She saw the uncertain glances between men. Some women. Saw so many faces she did not know. A few she did.
They had prepared for battle, even though none were truly qualified to know what that meant.
She hoped that the thrill, the anger, would not turn to madness. That the sages’ would not allow their pride to keep them from seeing to the good of their people. That they would not rush forward regardless, to purge what they had tried so hard to ensure would never be known throughout the clans.
“They ask us to land,” she repeated, watching as many slowed, but none were willing to descend. She frowned, and whispered to her husband. And he brought her to the frontline.
For all that she hated the crimson tabards, hated the order and their ways...
They were at the front. With their weapons and their resolute faces.
Willing to me
et the horde first.
A remnant of what had once been. Servants of the people. Willing to do anything that was necessary.
She found a face that she knew, and urged Grimult toward him.
Lined with age, but with eyes that held hers and held no contempt.
One of her tutors. With rudimentary understanding of the language of the horde.
Of the people who sought conference.
And perhaps, treaty.
“Land,” she entreated, more plea than command. She was close enough that if he wished it, he could have struck her down with the great sword clutched within his hand.
To fulfil the order that even now she was certain had been given when they were locked away within the chambers. “One must be brave enough to do it first. Let it be you.”
His mouth twisted, and for a moment she saw the resentment there, and her disappointment was as biting as the chilly wind that whipped about her.
But then a breath, one that he had taught her to take when her emotions were difficult or unreasonable.
Long and slow.
To think.
To release.
And then, blessedly, he descended.
And others began to follow.
Worry tore at her, for those who did not, but before they went over the horde, they circled back. Unwilling to do as she had bid, but not yet provoking the confrontation.
She saw initiates trickle out from their places within the trees. Looking not to her but to their commander as he once more landed between the two peoples, the initiates serving to box them in fully.
Penryn turned back to the horde.
The tribe.
The band of people that had yet to explain themselves.
But who she prayed held some good intention.
And she had not been wrong to halt their one chance of defence.
“Well?” she called, rubbing her hands down her skirt and raising her chin just a little. She would not cower.
Not in the halls of those beyond the Wall.
And not here.
More rumbling, from her people and in theirs.
Until the tribe parted.
And two men and a woman stepped forward.
None were bowed with age, but they did not appear very young either. The woman’s hair was tied in a long braid, and all wore hides and skins cut into skirts and breeches rather than anything woven into cloth.
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