Sasha held Peg to a calmer trot back up the slope, plucked her knife from the tree trunk in passing, and spared the fallen northerner a cold glance. He'd tumbled into the base of a tree, head mostly but not entirely severed… a weak, left-handed backhand it had been, glancing off the armoured shoulder. Sasha knew she would never be half the swordsman in a saddle she was on two legs. But then, she fancied her horsemanship against even the dreaded northern cavalry, especially on Peg.
A flash of light upon the needles nearby caught her eye. A Verenthane star, its chain severed, spattered in blood. She recalled the similar star and chain upon the pedestal in the Saint Ambellion Temple. Krystoff's star. And she shivered, making the spirit sign with her sword hand still wrapped around the hilt.
On the road the scene was of semi-organised confusion. Sofy, the Udalyn children, Jaryd and Captain Tyrun marked the head of the column, and what was left of the vanguard formed ahead. Other men collected bodies, tended to wounded and yelled at wandering warriors to get back in formation.
Sasha rode straight to Sofy and Jaryd… Sofy seemed ready to cry with relief. "You're well?" Sasha asked her in concern.
Soft' nodded, attempting composure. From the look on her face, it seemed likely to be the hardest thing she'd ever done. "I'm fine," she said hoarsely, blinking furiously at the tears in her eyes. "We were well protected."
"Peglyrion fast!" Daryd remarked, handling his nervous horse steady with skill. He looked shaken, but remarkably calm in spite of it. This was a boy who had seen killing before, Sasha judged. Rysha clung to him tightly, but made no complaint. With her face mostly hidden against her brother's back, it was unlikely she'd seen much.
Sasha faced Jaryd, steadying Peg's head-toss and stamp with a reflexive yank as she wheeled him about. Breathing hard yet barely sweating, Peg seemed content enough to obey. "Thank you," she said to him. "I saw what you did."
"I did as much as I could with this blasted arm," Jaryd muttered. He slid his bandaged and splinted left arm back into its sling with a grimace of pain-Sasha guessed he must have taken it out to grab Sofy's reins. Any soldier drilled in cavalry knew that the best chance to survive a downhill rush was to turn into it-the faster the closing speed, the less the attacker's chance of a precise swing. Jaryd had grabbed the reins of Sofy's pony and positioned himself as a shield, unmoving and obvious. Daryd had sensibly placed himself on their far side. Had the Banneryd charge reached him, Jaryd would have been killed… but Sofy and the children, shielded from that first strike, would have quite possibly been saved.
"Sofy could not hope for a better protector." Sasha touched heels to Peg's flanks and rode to where Tyrun was surveying the scene. She came to Tyrun's side, and the lieutenant he'd been talking with inclined his head in respect. "The honour of Kessligh Cronenverdt rides with you, M'Lady," he said, and rode off to survey the carnage upslope before she could reply.
"Your friend Teriyan warned me you'd try something stupid like that," Tyrun said bluntly.
"Like what?" Sasha snorted. "I was trained to fight and that's what I did."
"In this column," Tyrun replied, utterly unmoved, "you're far more than just another warrior."
"Men aren't riding for me," Sasha retorted. "They're riding to save the Udalyn."
"M'Lady, the only reason a good Verenthane like me is riding in this column is because you're leading it." Sasha frowned at him. "You're my guarantee that this will not be the first blow in a Goeren-yai-Verenthane civil war. You're a symbol to both, and you've ties and loyalties on both sides. If you die, this could become exactly what Lord Krayliss would have made it-a slaughter of Verenthanes by angry Goeren-yai, with horrors to follow across all the land. Please think of that the next time you feel the need to take some needless risk to add one more notch to your belt."
He made sense, Sasha noted. The problem, of course, was that her definition of risk was somewhat different to his. Which was arrogance, obviously… but she couldn't help what she was. And she didn't particularly feel like arguing about it now.
"I'll take it under advisement," she said.
Another man rode down the hill toward them. "Captain, M'Lady," said the man as he arrived-a Black Hammers corporal, Sasha saw. "Twenty-three of us, thirteen dead, ten wounded. Only nine of them, five and four. Several of our scouting parties ahead surprised some and report another twenty enemy dead. Plus they'll be running into hostile villagers as they move along the trails, which will end some more of them, or tie them up. There can't be more than two hundred still harassing us."
"And all of them fanatics," Tyrun said grimly. "They'll grind their horses' legs to bloody stubs before they give us any peace."
"We could divert men to harass them back?" Sasha suggested.
"M'Lady, I'd advise not," Tyrun replied, "ambush tactics in this country only work when your opponent is much less nimble, and when you know where he's going. They have that edge with us, we don't have it with them. We'd arrive at the mouth of the valley in worse shape than if we simply press on and accept the losses."
Another horse arrived at a gallop, Teriyan's red hair flying out behind as he pulled up sharply. "That was bloody Tyrblanc in person," he announced grimly. The blade in his hand was unbloodied. Sasha knew he would be unhappy about that. "I might have had him if he hadn't come through so damn fast. Damn this terrain."
Sasha recalled the proud, bearded man with a wide girth who had competed against Tyree that day on the lagand field.
"Some Banneryd men consider ambush tactics dishonourable," said the corporal. "I've heard Captain Tyrblanc is one who prefers single combat."
"That doesn't mean he's not good at ambushes," Tyrun said grimly. "And for a Banneryd fanatic, honour only applies to contests between equals. Against pagans, they'd slit our throats in the night if they could."
Sasha saw a Royal Guardsman riding downhill toward the vanguard leading a riderless horse. The man's face was contorted with grief. The horse, Sasha recognised, was Lieutenant Alyn's. A lump rose in her throat. It had been her decision to press on along this road, regardless of the startlingly obvious ambush-terrain ahead. Her decision, her responsibility. Alyn had been seeking to reclaim his honour, having been cut from the Royal Guard in disgrace. She hoped fervently that his spirit would consider this, a death in a good cause, to suffice.
"We continue as before," Sasha said quietly. "We came to save the Udalyn. If we must take losses so that we can serve them best, then so we shall. But if we keep getting hit with this regularity, the Hadryn's defences shall be so well set upon our arrival that we may not make it into the valley at all."
Captain Tyrun and the Black Hammers corporal departed. "Where's Andrey?" Sasha asked Teriyan, suddenly anxious.
"We're riding further back," Teriyan replied. "It won't do for M'Lady of the Synnich to have her favourite friends all around her-it looks bad to the other men. I came ahead a bit when I saw this damn slope up ahead… Andrey got caught a little behind."
"Aye," said Sasha, reading gratefully between the lines. "Well, see that the next time it happens, he gets caught a little behind once more."
"Aye to that," Teriyan agreed. His eyes swept across the hillsides, the wounded men, the fallen horses, the screams of pain. "Damn tough business," he muttered, and stared at her hard. "How are you doing?"
He'd never have asked the question of a man, Sasha thought resentfully. She took a deep breath. "Good for now. But I'll be happier when we get to the valley."
Teriyan nodded, and slapped her on the shoulder. "There's a reason I never accepted a soldier's post," he said. "I knew they'd make me an officer, I had it offered to me often enough. I'm brave enough, but I never wanted to make those decisions. You've a damn sight more courage than I have, girl. Hang in there."
He tapped his heels to his mount's sides and moved off through the confusion to find Andreyis. "You had a choice," Sasha murmured to herself, staring up the winding, climbing road ahead through the trees. "I didn't."
Captain Tyrblanc o
f the Banneryd Black Storm sat on his saddle, and sharpened his blade upon his lap. The moon was high, three-quarters visible and baleful through the branches. It caused his weapon to gleam, catching on the notch mid-length, a bothersome breach of purity. The whetstone clicked passing over it, interrupting the smooth, whistling song of stone on steel. He'd caught it upon the helm of a Royal Guard lieutenant in the charge.
His lips twisted in disdain. Royal Guards. The most overrated soldiers in Lenayin. No northerner had ever sought recruitment in the Royal Guard. That would mean service alongside pagans. Far better to seek glory in the great companies, their names stained in the blood of countless enemies, their ranks free from the defilement of the unworthy. And now, as if further proof were required, there were Royal Guards riding with the traitor-bitch herself.
A rabble if ever he'd seen one. Goat herders from Tyree. Mother-coddled whelps from Rayen. Barbarian animals from Valhanan, home to the traitorbitch. It had been a pleasure to kill them. He prayed for many more such opportunities. The odds were overwhelming and he knew that he and his men would most likely meet their deaths upon this road to Hadryn. It mat tered not. The gods were waiting for them, and they would be honoured in the heavens as heroes. But he would send many pagans down to burn in the fires of Loth in the process and, for now, the certainty of death only made his own glory burn all the brighter.
Two of his men approached, shadows amidst the trees. About the perimeter, men watched from the bushes, invisible to Tyrblanc's eye. The traitors had scouts who could doubtless track his men to this point, particularly given the moon. They would shift camp later, before the moon set behind the hills.
The two men sat opposite, collapsing heavily with stifled groans. The smell of unwashed bodies came clear to Tyrblanc's nostrils. Mail chafed at the shoulders, unmoved since this pursuit had begun. One man removed his helm, and Tyrblanc recognised Corporal Veln in the moon shadow.
"The horses are nearly spent," Veln said in Haryt, primary tongue of the Banneryd. "There's grass enough, but they need ruffage for true strength. I've searched for polovyn root but we never camp in the right spot."
Tyrblanc shrugged, still sharpening his blade. "Only a few more days. We've more horses than men now. We can afford to lose a few horses."
Veln gave him a hard, tired look. "In a great rush to get to paradise, are you, Captain?"
Tyrblanc grinned. "Always," he said. Veln restrained a hardened smile. Such was the humour of northern men, where death was ever present. "What's the matter, Corporal? Lost your nerve?"
"One kills more of the enemy whilst one is alive," Veln replied calmly, unruffled by his captain's teasing. A cloud was passing across the moon, dimming its silvery light to gloom amidst the trees. "We are tired, Captain, but should we not press the advantage at night? Surely we could kill more with surprise in the dark?"
Tyrblanc shook his head. "Our object is not to kilt them, youngster… although it is a pleasant consequence. Our object is to slow them. Why attack them while they're not moving? They move a little by moonlight, but their numbers are great, they must slow for water and food for the horses. It grows difficult for them to hold such a large formation together.
"And also, at night, the advantage is always with the defender. The defender knows his ground, and knows his position upon it. It is the attacker who becomes confused, moving amidst alien defences. I remember it once, attacking a Cherrovan camp by moonlight… we lost all formation, lost even sense of direction, and nearly lost our entire company. We'd be more sensible to use the night for sleep, so we are rested for better fighting tomorrow. Attacking at night is for fools."
"Not always," said a cool female voice not more than five strides away. The men spun in disbelief… something whistled through the air and Veln's companion fell with a gurgling cry, clutching a knife in his throat. From another direction came a whistling arrow and a scream.
"To arms!" Tyrblanc yelled, to the answering shouts of men, steel ringing through the cold night air as blades came out. Tyrblanc ran in the direction from which the knife had come, sword in hand… there were bushes, manheight and indistinct in the gloom. He circled them, stumbling on an unseen root… steel clashed further downhill, then the distinct impact of a blade on mail, only this sound was different. A sharp, ringing crack! as if metal were fracturing.
Tyrblanc sensed movement behind and spun in time to see one of his men double over as a blade slashed him open, then a horrendous spurt of blood as the head was severed. A shadow danced past the falling body, as light and lithe as smoke on the wind. Tyrblanc charged down the slope toward it, and the shadow flitted one way through the trees, then another. Ahead, another Banneryd man stood with wide stance, eyes darting as he searched for that shadow… then lurched forward with a thump!, face-first with an arrow between his shoulder blades.
Another arrowshot thumped and whistled in the dark. Tyrblanc threw himself flat, but it was another man who screamed and fell. Tyrblanc rose behind a tree, staring about desperately as men ran, and tripped, and yelled for lost comrades. The shadow he had been pursuing was nowhere to be seen. Then Corporal Veln arrived, running downhill, his fear evident despite the gloom. Tyrblanc realised his own heart was galloping, that his hands were shaking, and that bile rose in the back of his throat, threatening to choke him.
"Captain!" Veln cried, sliding on one knee to crouch beside him, as if expecting the shadows to strike him dead at any moment. "Captain, they are demons! Demons of Loth! I s-saw the eyes of one… th-the-they burned like fires!"
Tyrblanc muttered a prayer and made the holy sign with a free hand. Death was one thing, death at the hands of evil spirits was another. Steel clashed again, this time upslope, and the gurgling choke of a man swiftly killed.
"To me!" Tyrblanc yelled. "Rally to me! Rally to me and make defence!" Several men came running-one fell, Tyrblanc thought dead but then he scrambled back up, having only tripped… only to fall once more immediately, this time impaled with an arrow. More men came, backing up or running straight, spinning and staring in all directions at once, some swinging at shadows. Another fell to the archer, hands clawing the air… Tyrblanc reckoned he knew the direction this time-downslope, and to the left. Once he had some strength, they would charge that archer, and at least gain a chance against the swordsmen
…
Shadows leaped from upslope and down, men yelled warning but were cut down even as the cries left their lips. One man fell near, and Tyrblanc saw the demon clearly for the first time-small, fast and certain, a shine of blue eyes in a pale face. Veln leapt at it with a cry, weapon slashing… the shadow flicked him aside with a clash of steel, cut off his arm and slashed him open through the middle in three blindingly fast, athletic strikes. Men fell to Tyrblanc's left and fell to his right, amid agonised screams and sprays of jetting blood. An arrowshot thudded close behind and another man slumped stiffly to the ground. And then, there was stillness.
But not silence. A man was sobbing, fallen to his knees nearby. Opposing him, one of the shadow demons approached. "Please!" cried the man. "Please don't kill me! Don't take my soul! I beg of you, not my soul! Not the damnation… oh lords, please save me, save me…" The words trailed into prayer, fast and stumbling over terrified sobs and gasps for air.
Tyrblanc realised that he was standing fixed to the spot, as if paralysed. He should kill the sobbing man for his cowardice. But then, how was he still alive? His men were all dead, and he still stood. Somehow, he had not attacked, but rather stood and watched in stunned disbelief. Shame flooded him. He wanted to die… and yet, did not dare to in such evil company. He could not kill the sobbing man, for the sobbing man, somewhere deep in his heart, was himself.
The demon confronting the sobbing man spoke… a male voice, in a tongue of lilting, alien tones. It sounded like a question. A female voice answered… Tyrblanc spun, and found her slender form poised behind him, a bloodstained blade in her hands. Her clothes seemed plain, and a black cloth was folded over her head, cover
ing her hair. The eyes, however, gleamed a terrible, ungodly bronze.
The demon asked the question again. The bronze-eyed she-demon answered shortly, as though in mild exasperation. The he-demon struck, a sword-hilt to the face of the sobbing man. The silence that followed was merciful. And yet not… for now, where there had been the conversation of men, and the activity of a night's camp, there was deathly silence.
A new movement downslope caught Tyrblanc's eye-a male figure, holding a huge bow, advancing past the bodies of his victims on silent feet. There was no uncertainty in the way he surveyed the surrounding night, an arrow nocked to the string. He did not stare about in bewilderment as a human man might. It was almost as though he could see his surroundings as clearly as daylight.
The moon chose that moment to break clear of the cloud and lit the forest silver. The hillside about Tyrblanc's boots flowed red with blood. The sightless eyes of his comrades stared aghast at the trees or the ground. Men known to him by name. Men of honour. Men of long friendship and service, to earthly masters and to gods alike. It did not seem real that this could be their fate. How had the gods allowed such a thing?
"You present me with a puzzle, Captain," the approaching he-demon said then, in faultless, barely accented Lenay. "Should I show you mercy, when you and your kind would never grant any to me or my kind should our positions be reversed?"
They were serrin, Tyrblanc knew. Rarely if ever seen in the north. But he cared not what scholars, lowlanders and local pagans might call them. A demon was a demon, by any other name. They were not human, they were unnatural and they had no gods. Death was too good for them.
"I would not beg for your mercy were it the only thing between me and eternal damnation!" Tyrblanc snarled. The sword was still in his hand. It trembled, so tight was his grip.
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