Sasha (10 page)

“Taneryn is a province unto itself,” Damon replied, frowning. “The Valley of the Udalyn is entirely within the borders of Hadryn province. Few from outside have even met one of the Udalyn.”

Sasha shrugged. “That only makes the Udalyn legend grow stronger. Damon, Hadryn is powerful. All the northern Verenthane provinces are. Endless battles against Cherrovan incursions, and favourable taxation from Baen-Tar, have made them so. Few other provinces can match them for sheer force of arms, least of all quiet, rustic Taneryn. Most Taneryns know this. For all their bravery, they're not stupid. They won't follow Krayliss to pointless suicide against the armoured cavalry of the north, all for naught but the greater glory of Krayliss himself. They see Krayliss for what he is—a vain, pompous fool, who offers them nothing but rhetoric, poverty and an early grave.

“But that does not mean they will like father's lowlands war any better. And it does not mean they will like having Krayliss removed and a friendly, Verenthane lord appointed by Baen-Tar. Krayliss is a fool, but he is the only Goeren-yai great lord. A people can become desperate, feeling that no one listens to their concerns; that there are none to represent them in the halls of power. If Krayliss gains martyrdom, he could be far more popular in death than he ever managed in life.”

Damon gazed into the fire, considering that. To her left, Sasha saw that Captain Tyrun was considering her with narrowed eyes. Studying her, as if measuring her for something. She found it strangely disconcerting and returned tentative attention to her food. Jaryd said nothing. He seemed little interested in any matter that did not involve tournaments or gossip and offered no opinions.

“Thank you,” Damon said then. “To both of you.” Looking at Sasha, and then at Tyrun. “I shall think on this.”

Kessligh stabbed at the fire once more, raising another cloud of swirling sparks. His expression boded nothing good.

The following morning, the column passed a simple marker indicating the border between Valhanan and Taneryn. The morning was an overcast grey, and a cold wind accompanied the cloud moving in from the east. The road crested a new ridge, ever higher than the last, and Sasha gained her first clear view of the Marashyn Ranges, spreading their dark, jagged line across the rumpled horizon from north to northeast.

The land swelled more steeply here than in Valhanan, with great, dramatic thrusts of hillsides, crowned with sharp ridges, and broken with erupting outcrops of dark stone.

The road to Garallyn, the Taneryn capital, was eerily free of travellers. Occasionally at a clearing in the trees there would appear a wooden farmhouse, crossed by fences of wood or stone. But there was no sign of the occupants and all windows and doors remained tightly shut. Returning scouts reported no sign of activity anywhere…until one man came galloping breathlessly along the road and reported the horror that had befallen Perys.

The column made good time then, leaving the road for a horsetrail along an undulating, forested hillside. Sasha rode at Kessligh's rear, heart thumping unpleasantly, in a manner that had little to do with exertion. Perys was the southern-most Taneryn town bordering Hadryn. There were men of Hadryn on the border who had claimed these lands for centuries. And now, it seemed that old dispute had been consumed by something greater.

The horsetrail climbed for some considerable distance, affording the occasional glimpse of valleys and vast hillsides through the trees. Then the ground became level and the trees abruptly ceased, the entire column emerging upon the fringe of traditional Perys farmland. The fields lay wide on an open hillside as the column descended a road that wound between stone paddock walls and small barns. Gates were broken open and livestock roamed free along paths. Smoke rose from the smouldering ruins of several farmhouses.

Sasha stared at the nearest pile of ashen debris and saw hoof marks where brown earth tore through the lush green grass. Horsemen had done this.

Sasha tore her gaze away, allowing Peg an easy rein as she stared downslope. She'd travelled to Taneryn before, but never to Perys, so close to the Hadryn border. It should have been beautiful—the open hillside was vast, divided into lush pasture, dotted with farmsteads and orchard groves, and roamed by livestock. Below, the hillside narrowed to form a long, shoulder ridge with a lovely collection of rustic, wooden buildings—Perys village—occupying the uphill half of the shoulder. Beyond that ridge lay a steep gorge with forested slopes, rugged and beautiful.

There was smoke rising from the village, black and sinister. It scarred the view, a single, dark smudge toward the west, and Hadryn. Now, as the trail cleared an orchard, a new hillside presented a scene that chilled Sasha's heart.

Scattered across a neighbouring field were motionless shapes on the grass. Many carcasses, their blood staining the grass. Sheep, she realised with relief as the column thundered closer, the forward guard displaying the royal banners and the banner of Tyree for all to see. Suddenly Kessligh was pointing off to the left, where something darted behind one low wall, men across the column pulling swords or readying crossbows upon their saddle horns. And then something else became visible behind the near paddock wall that had Damon raising a gloved fist in the air and Captain Tyrun yelling for a halt.

They reined up, as the cry and signal passed back along the line of horsemen, horses tossing and snorting impatiently as one of the forward guard dismounted, weapon drawn, and ran for a look at the bundled rags mostly hidden behind the trailside wall. Whatever he saw caused him to raise one hand and make the Verenthane holy gesture upon throat, heart and lips. Impatient, and trusting Peg's abilities, Sasha urged him into a little jump across a runoff trench, and onto the ledge alongside the stone wall.

Lying in a row upon the far side were ten corpses, bloodied and broken. Men, mostly, Sasha saw past the horror. Several looked very young. And at least two, upon closer inspection, appeared to be women. Sasha stared, as Peg fretted and fought at the reins, smelling blood and knowing what might likely follow. Kessligh swung off Terjellyn's back, leaving his halter in the care of Captain Tyrun, and jogged across to look, gesturing irritably at Sasha to clear her beast away from the wall.

She did so, and suddenly there were cries from behind the wall of an adjoining paddock—villagers were emerging, wrapped in ragged cloaks and shawls. They had seen the banners and were crying for the king. Most appeared to be women, with some children in tow, grieving and wretched. Amidst the foreign sounds of local Taasti, the wails and tears, Sasha heard the only words from the locals that mattered—“Telgar,” “Hadryn” and “Verenthane.”

Sasha caught a glimpse of Master Jaryd's expression, hard with disbelief, muttering something now to Captain Tyrun. Jaryd couldn't believe Verenthanes had done this. For a brief moment, she almost felt sorry for him.

Kessligh stood atop the stone wall by the bodies, looking down at the gruesome wounds, then glancing about the surrounding farmland. Eyes narrowed, as if piecing together the previous day's events in his mind. Then he gazed down toward the little town of Perys below, as village folk wailed and sobbed about his feet.

One of the women noticed him and stared upward with wide, tear-streaked eyes. She gasped and exclaimed something in loud, frantic Taasti. Others came crowding, some exclaiming, others falling to a knee before the vanquisher of the Cherrovan.

“Lenay!” Kessligh demanded. “Who speaks Lenay?”

An old man came forward, his face hidden in bedraggled beard, hunched shoulders wrapped in a shawl. Halting conversation followed, punctuated with gesticulations and pointing. Several villagers clustered about Sasha as she sat astride, one work-worn woman trying to touch her boot, murmuring something Sasha couldn't understand.

Damon came alongside, watching with a concerned frown. “What do they say?” he asked, nodding at the other villagers.

“I don't speak Taasti,” Sasha said shortly, straining her ears to overhear Kessligh's conversation. She did not wish to look down at the woman by her boot, head wrapped in a scarf, her eyes lined with hard work, age, and more fears than any city-bred nobility could possibly understand. Such reverence made her uncomfortable.

“I heard mention of the ‘Great Spirit’,” Damon pressed, his eyes now suspicious. “What is that?”

Sasha shot him a look of disbelief. Damon understood some Taasti? “Kessligh saved these people from the Cherrovan thirty years ago,” she replied. “The legend of the Great Spirit changes from region to region, but it's common among all Goeren-yai. People here think the Great Spirit was Kessligh's spirit guide. Some people call it the Synnich.”

“And what do you think?” Damon asked pointedly.

“I think it's a nice legend,” Sasha said blandly, tired of feeling as though she were on trial all the time.

“You don't believe in the spirits?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You only know that you don't believe in the gods?”

“I said I don't follow them,” Sasha replied with a dark, sideways look. “Whether I believe in them is irrelevant.”

“Not to father it isn't.”

“Aye,” Sasha muttered, “well he's not here, is he?”

Kessligh jumped from the wall and swung back into his saddle. “Hadryn did this,” he said to Damon without preamble. “They're still in the town. They don't appear to be expecting trouble from this direction, doubtless they have the northward approaches covered. I advise we make them pay for the oversight.”

Damon swore beneath his breath, staring away across the rolling, descending hillside, as if searching for inspiration. Villagers crowded about Terjellyn, some sobbing, some pleading. Others approached Peg, Sasha keeping him steady with a shortened length of rein as he started and tossed his head nervously.

“I'll vouch with your father for the necessity,” said Kessligh, his tone hard.

Damon gave him a hard look. “I'm not concerned with that!” With enough temper to assure Sasha that he truly meant it. “But it will be Verenthanes attacking Verenthanes. There will be repercussions.”

“This is a land grab,” Kessligh said firmly. “It's against the king's law. If Hadryn nobility have a problem with Taneryn nobility, it should remain limited to that. This is opportunism—murder—and illegal by your father's own decree. It doesn't get any easier than this.”

Decisions, he meant. Judgments. When to fight, and when to kill. The daily bread of princes and kings. Sasha wondered darkly if Damon would have quite so many doubts if the men to be fought were Goeren-yai.

“Damn it,” Damon muttered and reined his horse about, signalling to Jaryd and Captain Tyrun. The commands went out from the sergeants, forming companies.

Kessligh pulled Terjellyn as close to Peg's side as possible, considering the villagers. “We'll run the left flank behind Sergeant Garys,” he told her. “Remember you're not armoured, we're running reserve for the front line.”

Sasha nodded, gazing out across the farmland, wondering at the footing and the line. She looked down at the woman by her boot. “Please, mother,” she said, in kindness laced with desperation, “the soldiers are moving. Please move back or you'll be trampled.” She leaned down to grasp the woman's hand, gently. The return grasp was hard, work-hardened fingers clutching like claws.

“I know you, Synnich-ahn,” said the woman, in hoarse, broken Lenay. Her eyes were bloodshot red and her earrings were curling, metal spirals that might denote a spirit talker. Unusual, for a woman. Sasha stared, as her heart skipped a beat. “The line is unbroken, Synnich-ahn. What was once the father's shall pass to the daughter. The time has come.”

The woman moved back with the others, as horses jostled past and large portions of the column broke in different directions, spilling through the shattered gates into broad fields to the left and right. Kessligh took off downslope and Sasha followed, galloping along the winding trail until there was another gate in the left wall, and they turned sharply through it. The open field stretched before them, sloping rightwards, as Sergeant Garys's contingent ran along the upper slope to their left. Kessligh allowed Sasha to pull alongside at a gentle canter, sword out.

He pointed his sword, indicating the vast sweep of hillside before them. “What do you see?”

“No space for a wide line,” Sasha replied, standing half upright in the stirrups for a better look, the wind tossing at her tri-braid. “Best to keep them in small groups, perhaps five apiece, following two routes of approach.”

“Why not more?” Kessligh asked, voice raised above the thunder of hooves.

“There are only so many good approaches through broken terrain. Also ambush spots are limited on the way in, we only need so many vantage points.”

Kessligh nodded. “Also, see the way the paddock walls follow the contours of the land?” He swept his sword across a forward arc…and Sasha noticed that indeed, the stone walls did hold to the higher ridges and climbed the steeper folds at right angles. Which was one of those things that Kessligh called the difference between knowledge and wisdom—of course she'd always
known
the farmers constructed their walls as such, she'd simply never thought of the military implications. Most wisdom, Kessligh insisted, was comprised of things that most people already knew, but simply hadn't understood in all its implications. “Trust the farmers, they know the land better than we. Follow the walls, use them as a guide to the land. And see this shallow depression downslope? If we follow it further leftwards instead of the direct route to town, we'll have cover for longer and gain some surprise.”