Illyan Daughter

by Bryn Colvin

  Finding the way back was simple enough—their horses had broken down the fronds of leafy plants and trampled obvious paths through the old leaves that covered the ground. The journey into the depths of the wood had seemed remarkably lengthy but in no time at all they were returned to the sunlight, with eyes blinking against the sudden brilliance and minds disorientated by the experiences they had shared. Liss wondered if the trees themselves had distorted her sense of time. It seemed impossible that they could journey back so quickly when riding out had lasted such a fearfully long time. As they finally emerged from the cover of the trees, Liss half expected to see the camp in devastation, ravaged in their absence by some unexpected force. She scanned the perimeters for evidence that might prove the truth of her premonition but all appeared peaceful. Her father had redoubled the watch on the forest side and a mound of freshly dug earth showed where the recently dead lay buried. Beyond that, there was nothing to indicate that any trouble had befallen them.

  The following morning, they dismantled the camp, even though it had only been established a few days previously. No one asked why, this time, they were not staying for their usual cycle or two of the larger moon. No one spoke of what had happened, but there was an air of disquiet that could not be fully shaken off even when they began to flee from the scene of their defeat. The forest loomed like a constant threat and no one could feel at ease when its long shadows crept out across the plains to engulf them in darkness at night. There was something menacing about the gloom beyond. A sense that far worse things could easily hide themselves in such a place. Liss was glad to be free of it, but she felt it within her, as though some plant tendril had twined its way into her mind and would stay there, tugging her towards its distant roots. It was an uncharacteristic thought and she struggled to shake it off, resolving that the forest’s influence was something she would avoid as long as she could.

  Chapter Six

  Liss retied the knot that held her braids back from her face and wiped the perspiration from her brow. It was a hot, heavy day with little wind to break the closeness of the air. Dust rose up from the ground at every footfall, drying the mouth and covering the skin, mingling with sweat to form a cloying paste. There were many distractions and learning to fight single-mindedly, without succumbing to the drip of perspiration or the aching dryness of lips, was a challenge indeed. The calm focus the discipline required was hard to achieve and Liss could see that most of her companions were flagging in face of the hard exercise they had been set. Taking a moment to secure her hair afforded a few moments to rest.

  “Rina, you next,” she said and stepped out of the small circle.

  Rina promptly took her place, turning her axe in her hand and waiting, poised, for the first blow. A quiet youth called Arl was the first to move, beginning with a slow attack to the right shoulder, which Rina caught easily.

  “Fith” he called and the young man stepped forward to attack Rina from behind.

  “Liss!”

  “Fith!”

  “Arl!”

  “Erit.”

  Liss landed her blow, called a companion’s name and watched them step in to make their own attack. Rina turned continually, fending off blows from all sides, until she too was giddy and sweating. Her blond hair was plastered against her scalp but she appeared glorious in her disarray. Liss admired the grace with which her friend fought. She knew Rina had no deep passion for combat, nor much ambition, but she had skill nonetheless. Liss supposed that once they were able to fight and earn their pickings Rina might well take more interest.

  “Enough!” Rina cried. “It’s too hot for this. Arl, you go in.”

  “Stop, now. That was better,” Gron called out.

  The small groups of fighters ceased their efforts and listened for further instruction. Gron moved between the groups, picking out those who had caught his attention and ordering the rest to play the shield game. It was a simple enough sport, where points were won for touching your blade to the opposing team’s shield, which lay on the grass some considerable distance from your own. Gron did not see much use for shields beyond this and preferred a weapon in each hand.

  Liss’s team consisted of Erit, Rina, Arl and a gangly boy whose name she did not catch. Erit and Rina were her usual companions in such sports and the three worked well together, knowing each other enough that each could guess what the other might try and do. They played aggressively, using Erit’s preferred tactic of first taking weapons from their opponents—a player without a blade was no threat whatsoever. Arl turned out to have quite a turn of speed on him and they soon put him to good use.

  “Liss, to me.”

  They were winning and she was reluctant to give it up when Gron summoned her away from her companions. His command was not to be ignored for the sake of a mere game and she went promptly, hiding her irritation at having had her sport ruined. Gron was one of her father’s men and, in training periods, his rule was absolute. Those who would not recognise it soon found all hope of warrior glory was denied them.

  “Here.”

  “Can you take Spark and work with her on blocking, she’s all over the place.”

  Liss nodded.

  “Storm, to me,” Gron bellowed and a tall, broad shouldered lad broke off from another game and approached.

  Liss admired the sharp intelligence in his face and his obvious strength, eyeing him up with no pretence at subtlety. He hardly seemed to notice her and she turned her attention instead to the nervous young fighter who had only just come of age.

  “Show me what you can do,” she said.

  Spark had energy but, Liss soon realised, she lacked the upper body strength to wield an axe for long. The hour or so they had already spent in practise had exhausted the girl’s reserves and further effort was beyond her. Liss could see the frustration in the girl’s face, as she tried to wield a weapon she could not control.

  “Are you tired?” she asked.

  The girl shrugged, clearly not wanting to admit to her discomfort.

  “There’s no shame in honesty and you have to know your limits.”

  “I am tired,” Spark admitted, evidently relieved.

  Her large eyes offered Liss a trusting expression. She was too young yet for fighting—more child than woman even if she had come of age and Liss felt inclined to protect her.

  “You’ll be all right,” Liss reassured her and waved Gron back.

  Once the older man was in earshot, she called out to him.

  “She’s not strong enough. She’s bled young and she just can’t hold her axe up. She can’t train like this.”

  “I know she’s young.”

  “Well there’s no point pushing her any further today, it isn’t going to do her any good.”

  “Are you questioning my judgement?” Gron’s tone was threatening.

  “Yes.”

  Liss was tall enough to be able to look him in the eye without craning her neck. Gron met her gaze, his features harsh and unyielding.

  “Don’t think your father’s name means you’re any more important than any other raw trainee,” he said.

  “This isn’t about my father, this is about Spark. She’s too young. She might be good, but if you push her she’ll probably quit. She needs someone to help her work her muscles up so that she’s got enough stamina for axe work.”

  Gron nodded then.

  “Good,” he said. “She’s yours, see what you can do with her.”

  Liss flushed with pride. It had been a test and she had passed it. From the other side of the training ground, another young man was waving Gron over to talk about the student he had been given. She turned to Spark.

  “When can you work with me?”

  Chapter Seven

  Whenever they set up a more permanent camp, Math would send out scouts in twos and threes to see what manner of place they had chanced upon. They would learn the lie of the land, then come back to tell him of distances and rivers, hills, clumps of trees, ponds, villages or other s
mall settlements. When conquering a region they always took the locals first, killing the adults and enslaving their children. Local people only caused them trouble otherwise. Scouting required considerable skills of memory, horsemanship and fighting prowess. Few were the young people who did not aspire to this dangerous work. Late in the second evening of a new camp, when the small moon shone down before her greater sister had risen, Rill and Might came to Math’s fire.

  “What news?” he asked.

  “We followed the stream as it winds its way across the plain. Beyond the small hills you can see in the direction of the sunset, there is a river. Half a day’s ride upstream we found a …” Rill hesitated and glanced at her companion.

  “Describe it,” Math said encouragingly. All too often they encountered things for which they had no words.

  “Great walls of stone and people walking along the tops of them,” Rill replied.

  “How big?”

  “Perhaps the size of this camp, perhaps bigger. We didn’t go closer or their watchmen would have seen us. It was hard to tell how big it was.”

  “A town, then,” Math said.

  His scouts were too young to remember such places.

  For years, Math’s company had survived by preying on small villages, confident in their numbers and weaponry that they would never suffer more than light casualties. A town was another matter entirely, where the pickings would, no doubt, be far richer but the dangers proportionally increased. Over several days, Math sent out his spies to watch and learn, while he made his plans and preparations.

  ~*~

  At the end of the weapons inspection, Gron took Liss aside.

  “You will lead a party in a day or so when we ride out to take this town.”

  She nodded curtly, amazed by his words.

  “I know you’re young, but you should do well enough. You’ll just have a hand to start with, so pick your five.”

  Liss thought carefully, thinking through the names and capabilities of the other young fighters she trained with.

  “Erit and Rina.”

  “I expected that.”

  “Arl is fast and he thinks well, I’ll take him.”

  “Your other two?”

  “I don’t know. Who would you suggest?”

  “Storm and Blade are good, two tall, strong lads, a bit of muscle to balance your lighter, faster fighters.”

  “They’re both good. Neither has a command then?”

  Gron shook his head and smiled.

  “They’re yours to take.”

  There were other things she wanted to know: who else had been given Hands, and why she had been picked. Gron had moved on, however, terse and grim in his work. With his daughter dead, he seldom smiled and a darkened look had claimed the corners of his eyes.

  “Most of you will not be fighting when we ride to take the town,” he announced to the cluster of young warriors.

  A grumble of disappointment rippled through them.

  “Of my trainees, Liss and Fith have been given Hands. Liss will fight on foot, Fith will take the best riders from amongst you.”

  With that, their mentor turned away and left them to discover the rest for themselves.

  “Liss, who are you taking?”

  “Have you chosen yet?”

  “Who’s Fith got?”

  “Why aren’t they letting the rest of us go?”

  Shouting and debates erupted around her. Frustrated by the impossibility of being heard, Liss climbed onto a bench and shouted at the top of her voice the names of the people who would fight with her. In a moment, Fith was at her side, eyeing the small crowd.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” he announced, making use of the silence she had created. “Anyone who wants to ride with me had better tell me now.”

  A chorus of voices responded.

  “The first five to be back here with horses are in my hand.”

  It was a considerable challenge. Anyone who could persuade the master of horse to relinquish a beast into his or her care would have to be well trusted and capable. Liss smiled and stepped down.

  It troubled Liss that she did not know if she had earned the privilege by her own skill or if it had more to do with her father. He had always wanted her to be a fighter and, as no sons had yet been granted to him, it looked very much as though she would rule in his place in years to come. Even so, in the large structure of Math’s fighting force her role would be a small one. She was answerable to Gron and he, in turn, took his orders from Math. Her chosen five proved eager enough and pleased with the privilege of being chosen when so many would be left behind. They spent a day in excited preparation—cleaning weapons and checking the horses they were allocated for signs of weakness or fatigue that might prove fatal once in combat. A lame horse could mean death for its rider. Liss had gathered they would not fight from horseback but beyond that she did not know what they were meant to do. She awaited her orders, her mood shifting between trepidation and glee.

  As the day passed, fragments of intelligence became known to them. The town was large, nestled in the crook of a river bend such that it could only be attacked from one side. They had craft upon the water and some defences, including the high, stone wall that had been so greatly talked about. Unlike the villages, it would not be enough merely to ride in and strike. Liss wondered what they were going to do. Wicker defences could achieve a great deal, stone ones seemed beyond defeating. She could only trust that her father, in his considerable experience, would have a plan.

  ~*~

  Math had not faced a defended settlement in a good many years. In his youth he had besieged castles and challenged high towers, but such warfare was difficult and called for supplies and resources to maintain the besieger in his work. Math lacked these things and could not afford a long campaign. He wondered if it would be wiser to leave the site alone and look for some easier pickings, but his men were spoiling for a fight and after their defeat by what amounted to little more than a wild porker, he was loathe to deny them the chance. They needed to prove to themselves that they were not yet beaten. Also on his mind was a growing awareness that certain basic things were in short supply; grain and cloth most especially—things they would struggle to fashion for themselves and that they could not do without.

  The weather was turning colder and Math knew this land well enough to understand what it signified: Not the bitter winters his country of origin struggled under each year, but a season of chill and damp. Then endless storms rolled in across the treacherous forests, bringing misery and discomfort. To capture a town would be welcome at this season and he imagined them seeing out the rains in dry houses.

  “What will you do?” Sena asked, as she encouraged her small daughter out of their tent.

  “I think we must try our luck upon this place.”

  “I had a feeling you might.”

  “My master of store tells me we do not have enough grain to last us till the next dark moon.”

  “Best hope they are well provisioned, then.”

  Chapter Eight

  The river water was painfully cold, chilling limbs and freezing feet into numb uncertainty. A litter of stones and slick plant-life made the bed treacherous and toes dulled by the cold were harder to move safely. In the half-light before dawn, Liss looked back at her small troupe. They were all in considerable discomfort, yet they still had a long way to go. She could only hope they would reach their positions in time. Scanning their surroundings, all seemed tranquil and there was nothing to suggest that dozens of other warriors were creeping ever closer to the town walls ready for the assault.

  The river was shallow near the town, still deep enough to support the small craft that crossed it but low enough that a horse might wade it easily. Still, with the currents running strong, it was hard work for the young warriors to make their way. Liss knew they had been given a considerable challenge—a point of weakness in the enemy defence that would be hard won but might yield more readily than the walls.


  Math had seen that they trusted to the river for defence, even though it ran shallow past their walls. It would slow horses and discourage armoured men, however, a small group of agile youths might take it easily enough. They were to be the first party and, if they could secure the small mooring place, others would soon follow to support them.

  Squatting low in the water, Liss watched the boats swaying against their tethers and a weary, careless watchman, who reclined under the shelter of a sloping roof, his eyes barely open. The hulls gave them cover as they crept closer. Liss signalled to Erit, knowing he was by far the best shot amongst them. Nodding, the lad pulled a sling from his sodden pocket and groped in the muddy water for a suitable stone. He stood slowly, his head visible above the craft. The watchman appeared not to have seen him and Liss guessed the man was sleeping at his post. Erit remained still for quite some time, assessing the shot and slowing his breathing such that his hands would be steadier. The cold and the continual movement of the water made it harder for him. Liss hardly dared to breathe as the shot hurtled through the air. It struck the drowsy watchman on the temple and he fell from his seat with barely a sound. To anyone watching, it might have seemed entirely innocent. Liss gestured for stillness as she watched the wooden quay. The early morning was quiet and nothing seemed to stir beyond the wood and stone defences. She was listening for signs of alarm, but none came.

  “Let’s go.”

  She cleared the boats and was the first out of the water, scrambling onto the wooden jetty and retrieving her axe from its straps on her back. Moving as quietly as she could and keeping to what shadows there were, she explored the length of the mooring place and found it otherwise empty. Most of the ways through to the town beyond were securely locked, but the watchman had his own small door and the key for it was on his belt.