Sasha (26 page)

Behind him, the first rider was now crashing onto the far streambank, cutting him off completely. Something hissed through the air, then a thud…the first rider screamed, then cursed. Daryd stared and saw the man had been struck by an arrow in the shoulder and was struggling to stay ahorse. Then there was another horse emerging from the treeline directly behind Daryd and Rysha, its rider wielding a bow.

The second Hadryn charged along the streambank and the new rider cast the bow aside, charging past Daryd and Rysha whilst pulling his sword. Essey reared in fright, then Rysha screamed and fell from the saddle.

“Rysha!” Daryd cried as the two riders collided with yells and clashing steel, horses shrieking and stamping…but Daryd cared only for Rysha, leaping from Essey's back and slithering down the streambank where she'd rolled. A horse fell and rolled in the stream with a huge splash and a man emerged soaked from the water alongside—his hair was longish, Daryd saw, and he wore no colours or mail. His horse bounded clear of the stream—a smaller horse, like Essey—and the Hadryn, still astride, descended the sloping bank with weapon raised.

The fallen man pulled a knife and threw, which the Hadryn swatted with a mailed arm…but the big horse reared and the fallen man sprang forward and thrust for the Hadryn's leg. The Hadryn yelled with a yank on the reins, causing the big horse to twist, then slip and fall. It slid heavily into the water, scrambling once more to its feet as its rider staggered upright in its wake.

The other man was on him before he could recover, steel rang loud and clear from one blow, then another. The Hadryn slipped, defended another blow, then reversed with a surge of raw power—his attacker parried but lost balance from the sheer force, falling half in the water and losing his blade. But he was up before the Hadryn could finish him, grabbing the Hadryn's sword arm and grappling. Both men fell wrestling into the water, splashing and flailing, with grunting, frantic desperation.

Daryd clutched to Rysha, the two of them watching on the streambank in mesmerised horror as the two men tried to kill each other. The Hadryn seemed to be stronger and held the other man under water, his teeth bared in a furious snarl. The other man struggled, splashed, then struck the Hadryn's wounded leg. The Hadryn screamed, but did not relent his grip. Was struck again, which loosened a hand enough for the other man to grab and bite. Again the Hadryn screamed, and the man beneath him struck him in the face and rolled him over, searching the streambed with another hand. He found a rock, raised and struck with it—again and again, as the Hadryn tried to defend himself.

Rysha sobbed and buried her face into Daryd's chest. The Hadryn's helm was missing, and the mail hood provided some protection, but the man with the rock was relentless. He continued to strike with terrible fury, until the Hadryn's struggles ceased. Then he stood up, shoulders heaving, and searched the shallows until he found his blade. That done, he stood over the fallen man's body, raised the blade with its point down and plunged it through the protective mail. And twisted, horribly.

Daryd's stomach turned and he lunged for the stream to vomit. He was still there, on hands and knees, when the bedraggled, bloodstained victor splashed upstream past him, his blade in hand. Daryd watched, knowing he shouldn't, but unable to tear his eyes away. The man arrived at where the second Hadryn now lay on the streambank, clutching helplessly at the shaft beneath his inner collar-bone. The fear in the wounded Hadryn man's eyes twisted Daryd's stomach once more and he vomited again. He looked up, just in time to see the victor yank off the Hadryn's protective mail hood and cut his throat.

Then he walked to the Hadryn's horse, which was standing fearfully nearby, and extended a hand, speaking softly. Soon he was stroking its nose, and it seemed noticeably calmer. He led the horse downstream, where it drank while the man crossed the stream to recover his bow. Finally, he walked to where the two muddy, wet and terrified Udalyn children huddled together by the streamside.

Daryd got to his feet, stood before Rysha and put a hand on his knife, warningly. This man was clearly not Hadryn, but he did not look Udalyn, either—his face bore no markings and his wet hair, while shoulder-length, was not long enough for a braid. The man had rugged, weathered features and his wet clothes were the leathers and rough cloth that a woodsman might wear.

He crouched on one knee, disregarding Daryd's warning stance. “Udalyn?” he asked, pointing at Daryd. His accent was very strong. Daryd had never met a non-Udalyn before in his life. He nodded, warily. “My Edu…” the man made a face. “Very bad. Little Edu. Understand?”

Again, Daryd nodded. His mouth tasted of vomit and his head spun. But he was determined not to faint. That would be a final humiliation, before this strange, foreign warrior who had defeated two Hadryn cavalry before his very eyes. “I understand,” he said warily. “Who are you?”

Inexplicably, the man's rugged features split in a hard smile. As if the very sound of Daryd's speech had caused him pleasure. His eyes, hard and merciless the moment before, now narrowed with a look of wonder. “Udalyn,” he murmured. And something else, in a foreign tongue, with a faint shake of his head. “My name Jurellyn,” he said then, very carefully. “Prince Damon
efryn sy
.
Rels en
Prince Damon Lenayin. Understand?”

The foreign words must have been Lenay, Daryd guessed. Lenay was spoken in the middle provinces, he'd heard…although in the last century, it had spread elsewhere and become Lenayin's major tongue. But in the Valley of the Udalyn, it remained as strange and foreign as the many tongues of the wise ones of Saalshen.

“Prince Damon Lenayin sent you?” Daryd guessed.

The man, Jurellyn, nodded vigorously. Then clicked his fingers as a word occurred to him. “Scout,” he said. “Me scout. Prince Damon's army. Scout Hadryn.” Pointing at the fallen men. “I scout Hadryn.” Pointing to his eyes. “See Hadryn. Tell Prince Damon. Hadryn go Ymoth. Fight Ymoth. Understand?”

Ymoth. Abruptly, Daryd recalled his original mission. His family were in Ymoth. The Hadryn were here to kill. He had just seen killing, for the first time, with his own eyes. The thought of that happening to his family filled him with a terror that made any fear for his own life seem like nothing.

“My family live in Ymoth!” he told the man, desperately. “My mother and father, my brothers…I have to warn them!”

Jurellyn shook his head, firmly. “Hadryn, Udalyn, fight,” he said, smacking fist into open palm. “You go Ymoth, you die. Understand?” Daryd stared at him. Tears spilled down his cheeks. Jurellyn put a firm hand on his shoulder. “You go Baen-Tar. You see Prince Damon. You see King Torvaal. You scout. You…you tell him, what you see. Then, you save father, you save mother, you save brother. Understand?”

The king would send an army, he meant. Daryd's eyes widened in hope. He recalled what the adults had always said—that the Hadryn would never dare attack so long as the king forbade it. Ever since King Chayden, the Lenay kings had forbidden it. Daryd did not understand what had changed that the Hadryn now dared the present king's wrath. But if he could meet with the king…if he could tell him what was happening here today…

“I'll go!” he said firmly. “I'll meet with the king! But I don't know the way…will you take me there?”

Jurellyn smiled a hard smile. “My friend. My friend…take?” Daryd nodded. “My friend take you, see King Torvaal. Good man. Brave Udalyn.”

Daryd felt his chest swell at that. The foreign warrior thought him brave…and thought the Udalyn brave. The foreigners still told stories about the bravery of the Udalyn, as he'd heard some in Ymoth say. Surely the king would listen. Surely no one could just stand by and let the Udalyn be slaughtered once more.

“Ow!” Sasha exclaimed, somewhat after the fact, as she prodded the new bruise on her bicep. Andreyis backed off, stanch twirling, looking very pleased with himself. Sasha gave him this morning's customary dark stare and he sobered a little. She windmilled her arm, fast, to keep it loose. “Don't get too pleased with yourself,” she told him. “I hate fighting with this stupid style.”

“But I'm getting better, right?” Andreyis insisted. “That was a good strike!”

Sasha wondered if he truly appreciated how difficult it was for her to fight in a traditional Lenay style. But the Wakening would be barely a moon from now—the end of summer, the traditional time for the ceremony of manhood—and Andreyis needed the practice. Even with the handicap of her gender, there were things she could teach him in this style that the Baerlyn menfolk could not show him in the training hall.

They stood on the bare ground beneath the old vertyn tree, near the top fence of Kessligh's vegetable garden. The horses grazed across the vast upper slope enclosure, their coats gleaming in the sun. Kessligh had gone to town, taking Aiden with him. Sasha had not been unhappy to see them go.

“You're planting the front foot too soon on the second transition,” she told Andreyis, trying her best to ignore both the bruises and her bad mood, for Andreyis's sake. All young Goeren-yai males eagerly anticipated the Wakening. Andreyis's technique was good, but his recent growth spurt had impeded his footwork, and thus his timing. She refused to let him fail. “See here…the arms follow the feet, Andrey.” She took the stance, holding her arms clear, and danced the several fast steps of the racha-dan, without moving her arms. “It's like drums in a folk tune—your footing gives you the rhythm that everything else should follow. This lead foot is too fast,” and she stamped that foot to demonstrate, “the swing and plant should be simultaneous.”

“I got you, didn't I?”

“I can't defend in this style, Andrey,” she told him, with barely restrained temper. “I'm not strong enough.” One thing Andreyis
did
have going for him lately was his reach. She could barely believe how tall he'd become, still recalling the awkward, nervous boy she'd wrestled with, climbed trees with and defended imaginary castles with against equally imaginary hordes of bloodthirsty Cherrovan warriors. Now, the top of her head came barely to his shoulder, and the swing of his arms, though lacking the power of a grown man, generated considerable speed with stanch or sword. “Now, are you going to listen to me, or am I just wasting my time?”

Andreyis must have seen the dark look in her eyes for he held up both hands, defensively. “I'm listening. Show me again?”

She took him through all of the fundamental taka-dans, which were not so different in basic strokes to svaalverd taka-dans, truly. And she acquired several more bruises along the way, for Andreyis knew better than to pull his strokes—if he acquired that bad habit before the headmen at the ceremony, he'd remain a boy for one more, humiliating year, and have his hair cut short once more. Mostly, she concentrated on footwork, which was the one thing svaalverd and Lenay styles had in common. Except that the serrin understood balance and momentum with far greater sophistication. Sometimes, svaalverd knowledge
could
assist a non-svaalverd fighter, whatever Kessligh's doubts. She'd seen it herself, in Andreyis's improvements.

And saw it again now, as he smacked her stanch back to a hard blow against her right thigh. Andreyis grinned outright. Sasha scowled at him, rubbing her leg. “It wasn't that good,” she told him. “Your elbow lost extension again, you'd have so much more power if you could keep the lead arm straight.”

Andreyis slung the stanch over his shoulder and gave her an exasperated look. “You just can't stand to admit when someone's beaten you,” he told her.

“Oh you think that, do you?” Sasha said loudly.

“You've always been like that!” Andreyis retorted. “Like that time I beat you racing up the road from town and you insisted Peg had a cold? Or the time I beat you at the knife throw and, of course, you just
happened
to have a sore elbow? Or that time…”

“Okay then, let's try that again,” Sasha told him, resuming her fighting stance. Andreyis followed, eyes hard with concentration, lips pressed thin. “This time, I get to fight
my
way. Ready? Go.”

Andreyis paused a few moments, poised on the balls of his feet, awaiting the right moment. Then he attacked. Sasha met his lead overhead with a firm blade—it jarred her arms, but when she knew it was coming, she
did
have the strength for it. Then she stopped being polite, swung an angular intercept to the strike that followed, deflecting Andreyis away from whatever he'd intended next, and left him open for her counterslash that smacked into his ribs beneath his right arm.

Andreyis staggered sideways at the force of it, dropping his stanch and holding his chest. “I've told you before,” Sasha said firmly, as he doubled over, winded, “you can't make training personal, Andrey. It can't be about ego and pride, it has to be about improving your technique. Now if you'll just get this stupid notion that you can beat me at svaalverd out of your head, then maybe we can get back to fixing your footwork, yes?”

Andreyis did not reply, still doubled over. Sasha's temper fled, replaced by concern. The sound her stanch had made against his banda came again to memory…How could she have been so stupid? She hadn't needed to hit him that hard!