Sasha (60 page)

“Ah, you'll have to be faster than that, lad,” said Teriyan to Andreyis, eyeing Jaryd and Sofy. “That blue-blood boy, he's a slick one. Have the ladies eating out of his hand in no time…you'll have to make your move faster if a skinny village lad's to have any chance at all…”

“Shut up,” Andreyis told him in irritation, staring into the fire. Teriyan raised his eyebrows in characteristic mirth. “She's a Verenthane princess, I wasn't thinking that at all.”

Sasha repressed a smile. “Ah aye,” Teriyan said slyly, “I'm sure that fleeting vision of a crown on your head at the grand wedding never even happened, not for a moment…”

Andreyis glared at him. “Teriyan,” Sasha reprimanded. “Leave him alone.”

Teriyan chortled. Rysha was humming the notes to a song, uncomprehending of the conversation. She looked exhausted, her eyelids flickering. Sasha recalled the comb she'd put into her pocket with forethought. She brought it out and gestured to Rysha. Rysha came without question, gathering her enormous cloak so as not to trip, and sat cross-legged before Sasha. It pleased her that the little girl with whom she could barely communicate, and who had every reason to be frightened of foreigners, showed such complete trust.

“I hope they're worth it,” Andreyis said glumly. Broke a twig and tossed it on the flames. “The Udalyn, I mean.”

Sasha frowned at him. “Do you doubt it?” she asked, taking the ralama flowers from Rysha's hair and handing them to her.

“Well, no one's ever met one, have they?” Her young friend seemed suddenly gloomy, gazing at the fire. “An adult, anyhow. What if they're all bastards?”

“You think bastards could have raised a little girl like Rysha? Or a boy like Daryd?”

Andreyis shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe. Half of Baerlyn thinks my father's a bastard, but I turned out okay.” And, “Don't say anything,” when he saw the cheap shot forming on her lips.

“All of the stories about the Udalyn suggest otherwise,” Sasha said firmly. Freed from its three wooden pins, Rysha's brown hair fell in folded tangles. The comb was deer bone, finely carved and strong. Rysha winced as it caught at a tangle, still humming softly. “They've an eye for fine craftsmanship and a love of green things. Tharyn Askar was not only a great warrior, it's said he grew sunflowers.”

“Oh aye, that's a real recommendation,” Andreyis replied, poking the coals with another stick. “They're just stories, anyhow. Old Cranyk tells stories of the scores of Cherrovan warriors he's slain, and the great size of the bucks he's hunted…”

“To say nothing of the size of his cock,” Teriyan added.

Andreyis nodded sagely. “Exactly. A shrivelled little thing, I'm sure. Who can tell which stories are true? People love to love the Udalyn. When people want to love something that much, they'll believe it whether it's true or not. Especially when it's useful to them. Look at the capital Krayliss got from everyone loving the Udalyn.”

Sasha sighed, thinking as she worked. The comb caught at a hard tangle and Rysha complained in Edu. “I don't know, Andreyis,” Sasha said tiredly, taking a handful of hair below the tangle and yanking hard. It wasn't so different from combing horses, really. “Kessligh says you can believe in everything, or you can believe in nothing, but neither path will grant more truth than the other. All we can do is trust our sense. My sense tells me the Udalyn deserve to be saved. I might be wrong, but…” she shrugged. “We'll find out when we get there.”

Teriyan made a face. “It's irrelevant anyhow,” he said.

Sasha paused her brushing to frown at him. “You think?”

“Whether people are right to love the Udalyn or not, it's irrelevant,” Teriyan said with certainty. “The fact of the matter is they do, for better or ill. And if the Udalyn were to all be slain, people would be angry enough to do all sorts of nasty things to the people they deemed responsible for many generations to come. We either stop that, or we don't. Arguing over whether it's all sensible or not is like arguing whether it's sensible for rain to fall, or the seasons to change. They just do. Deal with it.”

Rysha patted Sasha's knee impatiently. Sasha resumed brushing, with a final, incredulous look at Teriyan. “Aye, well that's high-minded idealism, isn't it?”

“It's survival,” Teriyan said firmly. “Hard to be a Goeren-yai romantic when there's no Goeren-yai left. And equally hard to be a Lenay patriot when Lenayin's been split to pieces.”

“Aye,” Sasha conceded, reluctantly.

“Aye!” Rysha agreed loudly. Another Lenay word. And she giggled when they all looked at her. Teriyan grinned at her, and winked. Rysha considered her handful of flowers, coyly.

Sasha lost patience with an especially nasty little tangle, and quietly removed a knife from her belt so Rysha could not see, and cut it. Rysha hummed her tune, oblivious, as she had doubtless sat and hummed many times before, as her mother, sister or cousin had performed this task for her. The tune sounded strangely familiar. Sasha wondered if the Udalyn sang the same songs and knew the same tales that she'd come to love growing up in Baerlyn.

Soon Daryd returned, and Rysha began to doze. Sasha decided she'd best let Daryd tell the officers what he'd told her. She gave Rysha to Teriyan and the girl snuggled sleepily against the big man's side. Teriyan put an arm around her and gazed into the flames, reminding Sasha of many evenings at the Steltsyn with Lynette's head resting against him.

A Wildcats lieutenant made a space for her and Daryd upon a fireside log. Jaryd sat alongside on his saddle, his left leg outstretched, Sofy beside him. Conversation halted and Sasha encouraged Daryd to show them his map of Ymoth, drawing in the dirt by the fire with his knife. Men asked questions, gazing thoughtfully at the map. Jaryd only stared at Daryd, with more expression in his eyes than Sasha had seen since Baen-Tar.

Daryd was of a similar age to Tarryn, Sasha realised. Perhaps a little taller than the boy she remembered sitting on Jaryd's bedside. And a little leaner, with light brown hair instead of sandy, and no freckles. But, in the flickering orange firelight, it seemed that memory conspired with shadows to contrive a similarity. Tears wet Jaryd's eyes, then rolled down the inflamed, red wound on his cheek.

At first, none noticed but Sasha and Sofy. Sofy looked anguished, but Sasha shook her head faintly. It would not do for a man in grief to receive comfort from a woman before his peers. Such comfort was for children, not for men, and Sofy seemed to know it. Then the other men noticed, one after another, and conversation faded. Men stared silently into the flames and continued sharpening weapons, or sipping drinks, or mending gear, as they had been before. Jaryd's tears caused no awkwardness, no embarrassment, not even as he struggled to contain the sobs that threatened to rack his body. The officers simply waited, with quiet respect, for the moment of grieving to pass.

Daryd looked wary and concerned, aware that this matter somehow concerned him, yet uncertain of how. As Jaryd breathed more deeply, recovering his control, Daryd knelt before him, pulled his knife from its sheath and offered it to him, hilt first. Jaryd simply gazed, faintly incredulous.

He took Daryd's knife with his good hand and considered the blade. “A Udalyn knife?” he asked, hoarsely. There were decorations on the pommel, Sasha saw in the firelight, intricate spiral patterns.

Daryd seemed to understand. “Udalyn,” he confirmed. “I warrior.” Pointing to himself. “Fight for you.” Sasha was astonished. Either Daryd was a remarkably fast learner, or Sofy a remarkably good teacher. Or both. Perhaps he'd been practising that line all afternoon, awaiting the opportunity.

Jaryd flipped the knife several times, testing its weight. Then handed it back to Daryd. “It's a good knife, warrior Daryd,” he sighed. And ruffled the boy's hair. “But I'll be damned if you're going to fight. You can wait in the back with the princess, and I'll see you delivered safely back to your mother and father. If it's the only good thing to come out of this whole mess, maybe that'll make it worthwhile.”

B
Y MIDMORNING, THE ATTACKS HAD BEGUN
. The first struck midcolumn, from the west this time, causing confusion in the middle ranks. The second, shortly after, hit the rear, creating yet more delays as men doubled back to help and the entire column came to a forced halt for fear of dividing. Sasha was sitting astride, waiting for everyone to reform, when a scout arrived from further ahead, and informed them that he'd found the bodies of a travelling party from a nearby village—six men, all Goeren-yai, all no doubt riding to join the cause. More such were arriving constantly—as many as eight hundred men, the officers now estimated. For sheer strength, the column was in good shape. But now, they lost time. Word would be heading to the Hadryn in the valley as fast as horseback could take it. The more time the young Lord Usyn had to prepare for their arrival, the worse it would be.

Approaching midday, the road arrived at the foot of a gentle incline and began to ascend at an angle. The trees were all pine, tall and widely spaced, with little undergrowth between. Both Sasha and Captain Tyrun exchanged glances as the vanguard peered through the forest shadows and Lieutenant Alyn yelled orders for outriders to fan ahead.

“No choice,” Sasha muttered. “We can't afford to lose time finding a better line.”

“Aye, M'Lady,” Tyrun acknowledged. And yelled to the rear, “Double the vanguard! Riders from the rear and upslope to the flanks! Cover the approach and wait for the entire column to pass!”

Riders thundered past, heading upslope and weaving between trees, their horses finding plenty of room to run upon the broad, brown carpet of needles. Barely had the riders begun to fade amongst the furthest trees when there came the distant yet distinctive buzz of crossbow fire. Yells followed, echoed by Captain Tyrun's and more up and down the column; blades rang out all at once as hooves came thundering in a great mass.

“Stay with her!” Sasha yelled to Jaryd, pointing at her ashen-faced sister and the children alongside, then pounded her heels into Peg's sides, joining others heading upslope at speed. Then she could see them, heavy horse coming line-abreast down through the trees, flashes of black and blue uniform, the colours of Banneryd. It was a cavalry nightmare, heavy horse with the full advantage of height behind them, holding their line in descent with all the proficiency one might expect of northern riders.

The outermost of the upslope guard were hit and upended like saplings before a spring river flood, men cut from horses, animals shrieking as they tumbled, hooves flailing the air. The defensive line roared, men desperately trying to form a strong line, some astride dussieh that had no business challenging that formidable downhill rush head on. They charged together with a horrific crash of bodies, blades, armour and flesh. Horses collided, riders catapulted through the air, bodies fell cleaved from the saddle in a bloody spray.

The line disintegrated, and then the northerners were through, still spurring hard, though there were wide gaps in their ranks, some men fallen, others entangled and seeking a less direct path. Sasha headed straight for one such hole…the nearest man saw her—a clutch of rein, a change of direction, massive hooves pounding the turf as he sought to bring his momentum to bear. Another horse might have struggled, but Peg accelerated with an explosive burst of raw muscle, with no regard for the slope. That closing speed seemed to surprise her opponent, who swung a fraction late, and Sasha, swaying away and under his stroke as she had learned playing lagand, slashed his arm in passing.

Then she wheeled, racing back down the hill, despairing even now of getting close enough as the Banneryd line hurtled onward…and directly in line ahead, with heart in mouth, she saw a little knot of riders with Jaryd shielding Sofy's pony with his larger horse. But riders further back in the column were arriving now, pouring in from the left and flying between the trees, blocking the approach toward Sofy's position.

The Banneryd line wheeled right, those riders furthest left making sharp turns across the oncoming line, slashing blows at those who came close enough. Sasha's previous target, riding fast with his arm clutched to his chest, managed to get his signals confused and slammed into a tree with a horrendous crash.

The Banneryd line then raced across the road, ahead of Sofy's position, continuing downhill, their formation now more line-astern than abreast as the left flank fell in behind the right, fighting off pursuers who tried to cut them from behind. A northerner fell, then another cut a Goeren-yai from his horse…Sasha saw she had a line on that one, aiming to a single point ahead of him through the racing trees. He hurtled across the road, her following, and as great as his speed was, Peglyrion on a downhill run, with a weight as little as hers on his back, was quite possibly the fastest horse in Lenayin. She was on him from the left before he even saw her, and she cut him left-handed from the saddle.

She was too fast, in fact, for she overtook another on his left. He saw her, blade in hand, and she knew that was not a fair contest on horseback…whipped a short blade from her belt and threw…
thud!
It impaled itself in an intervening tree trunk. Which was enough, she decided, and pulled hard on Peg's reins. The other rider thundered onward, the entire Banneryd line racing downhill where the trees became thicker. Sasha circled in a wide turn, heading back upslope…and realised she'd outdistanced nearly everyone. Only now were several pursuit riders thundering by, hot on the Banneryd's tracks, more to harass and make sure they did not come back than to seriously challenge.