'And what do we get for all our years of loyal service?' His voice lifted to a furious roar as he faced the watching ranks of mixed Verenthane and Goeren-yai soldiers upon the upper paddocks. 'The massacre of the Udalyn! Yes, I receive battered and desperate survivors even now as the bloody Hadryn campaign through the ancient valley! And then, good Prince, you wish us to wage war upon the serrin, who have always been friends to the Goeren-yai! And all this, while you rape our culture, ignore our customs, send priests from your temples to convert impoverished villagers and then blame us for the troubles and anger it causes!
'It all ends here! We, the rightful men of Lenayin, demand justice! The honour of the ancient ways has for a century been dragged through the mud, stamped upon by each and every Verenthane boot in the land! The honour of the Goeren-yai demands that it ends, or that we must die fighting for what is ours!'
He clenched his fist in the air, and a roar went up from the Taneryn line. Perhaps fifty men, mostly mounted. Naked blades were brandished against the cloudy afternoon sky and chants of open defiance carried on the wind. It seemed that time had stopped. Such open defiance to the crown, from a provincial great lord, had been unknown in Lenayin for a hundred years. It did not seem real-that the moment should finally arrive.
Koenyg gave a signal and a Ranash captain galloped behind his line, shouting orders in a northern tongue. Blades were drawn, broad and sharp, clutched in gloved fists. The Ranash line numbered at least a hundred, in two ranks with more in reserve. They held position with the discipline of regimented drill. Whatever the wild-haired, brazen ferocity of the Taneryn line, it now appeared fragile indeed.
Krayliss, Sasha noted, had not moved. He stared upslope toward the tents and the half-assembled formations of provincial soldiers who stood watching. One of Krayliss's men rode to his side, appearing to beg him to fall back. Krayliss ignored him and stood once more in his saddle.
'Men of the ancient ways!' he roared toward the watching soldiers. 'You serve with Verenthanes, but you do not belong to them! You belong to the spirits! You belong to the untamed hills, wild and free! Will you allow the Udalyn to be slaughtered? Will you watch your honour battered and stabbed until it crumbles into dust?'
A yell from the Ranash captain and the outer flanks wheeled, creating more space along the formation, the inner riders moving outward, dressing the line.
'What do you wait for?' Krayliss yelled. To Sasha's ears, it seemed as if a new, alien emotion had entered the great chieftain's voice. Desperation. He ripped his great blade from its sheath and thrust it skyward, glinting dully against the darkening clouds. 'Fight!' he roared. 'Fight, and claim what is yours!'
From the soldiers upon the upper fields, there came no reply. No restive murmuring, no chants or yells of fury, or of sympathy. Just a restless, disbelieving silence. Men stood, and waited. Krayliss stared in disbelief. His blade dropped. A yell from the Ranash captain and the northern line advanced, rising quickly to a canter.
Sasha dropped the canvas and ran for the tent exit as a roar went up from behind. 'Rysha!' she yelled at the top of her lungs as hooves thundered, and then there were Taneryn horses wheeling back amidst the tents at speed. Horses thundered past, dussieh and then larger, weapons brandished, swords clashing as Sasha crouched behind a tent, awaiting an opening in the forest of hooves. A horse crashed through the tent, mount and rider falling as the tent pole broke, and Sasha scrambled backwards, then threw herself rolling as another came straight at her.
Then she ran, darting and dodging as best she could, as the world became a confusion of screaming men and horse, slashing blades and falling bodies. Horses tripped on guide-ropes, fallen men were trampled by friend and foe alike, or slashed hard at the mounts of riders to bring down both beast and man in a thrashing, bloody heap. Sasha darted, dove, scrambled and crawled her way through the chaos, headed downslope as instinct drove her toward Peg and possibly the forest at the base of the hill… a Taneryn man was cut from his horse before her with an expert slash from passing cavalry, and fell in a spray of blood. Sasha ran for the riderless dussieh, grabbing a stirrup as the terrified animal tried to run, then hurdling astride.
The small horse wheeled in confusion, Sasha spurring hard until it lurched downslope, weaving between tents and tripping on bodies of fallen animals and riders… a pair of Ranash cavalry came across in front, Sasha reining desperately backwards, then sought the way those two had come, to wrongfoot and dash for the clear space… A dismounted man in black and red appeared suddenly in front, slashing low for the dussieh's legs. It fell with a shriek as Sasha barely managed to leap with her feet clear of the stirrups.
She hit the ground and rolled, coming to her feet, her sword in hand as the Ranash man came at her. She flicked his downward smash aside with a twist of wrists and elbows, then slashed his stomach and spun clear to remove his head as he doubled over. The first two riders were coming back, and she ran, dodging to avoid a rushing Taneryn, hurdling another's bloody corpse as yet another stumbled screaming nearby, his arm severed and spurting blood, until a passing cavalryman cut him down.
She dove behind a collapsed tent, gasping for breath, huddling close to the canvas for cover. Something moved beneath the canvas and whimpered. Sasha pulled it aside in horror… and found Rysha, staring with wide, terrified eyes. Sasha grabbed her with her free arm and held her. The little girl clung to her, too frightened even to scream or cry. I got you into this, Sasha thought. What have I done?
Beyond the edge of the encampment, horses wheeled and riders fought. She watched as Taneryn warriors were cut down, outnumbered, outmanoeuvred and overpowered. There were Ranash cavalry everywhere. If she could just find another riderless horse-if she could just break clear and make for the trees-a little dussieh would be more nimble through the forest than a great warhorse…
Only now there were dismounted cavalry moving in, searching through the tents, examining bodies. One drove his blade into a fallen Taneryn to be sure. Sasha felt a surge of fury, rivalling the fear.
'Hide,' she said to Rysha, pulling the collapsed canvas more fully over her. Then she rose and stepped toward the approaching Ranash, having now no other choice.
They saw her, and one in particular had the lead. 'Hello hello!' he said with cocksure delight, twirling his blade. His clean-shaven face was bloodspattered beneath his helm. 'What have we here? The queen viper herself in the viper's nest? I'll have you for a nice trophy, my pretty. Goeren-yai princess indeed…'
He lunged and swung. Sasha faded, parried and split his head like a melon, helm and all. Another roared fury and leaped, Sasha parrying whilst spinning aside and into a third attacker. She defended once whilst falling to a crouch, and took his leg while rolling. She came up fast, crossed the next overhead defence into a vicious, diagonal slice of rotating shoulders and wrists, taking the second man across shoulder and face, then driving the sword-point through the chest of the fallen man whose leg she'd taken, all in one motion.
Hooves thundered, and running footsteps approached from all angles. It had been seen. Dismounted men came running, weapons ready, their eyes wide, noting her identity and the corpses upon the blood-soaked ground beneath her boots. They encircled, warily, blades at the ready.
Sasha swivelled from one to the next, trying to watch all ways at once. The three at her feet, it occurred to her, had been easy. The next attack would be trouble-these would not take her so casually. But, even so, she fancied herself a slight chance. At the very least she would add to this pile at her feet.
This, she realised, was how it felt to be great. Not merely good, as many Lenay soldiers could claim, but truly great, as only one like Kessligh, or a war rior of Saalshen, might know. To feel confidence, where others might know despair. To know that the smallest error meant death, yet to remain unwavering. To see, in a vague and general way, that she was most likely doomed… and yet to stay calm, seeking an outlet, searching for the opening. To know that this, more than anything, was what she was, and what she was meant for. Despair was pointless. This was not her death. This was her life.
Shouts from behind, then, as several more horses came close, their riders dismounting. Then a Ranash man was pushed aside and Koenyg stood in his place, staring with disbelief.
'You!' he said. There was blood on his weapon, and more on clothes. But then, it had never been like Koenyg to order men into battle and not to partake himself.
'I came to rescue the little Udalyn girl,' Sasha told him, past the lethal, bloody edge of her weapon. It had cut through northern chainmail, yet bore barely a mark. Neither did her voice, which was cool and steady.
'Which little Udalyn girl?' Koenyg asked flatly. There was hostility on his broad face. And suspicion.
'The sister of the boy I brought to father,' said Sasha. 'She is under the tent behind me. Look gently, she is frightened and harmless.'
Koenyg nodded curtly to a man behind her and there came the sound of canvas being moved. Then a frightened cry from a little girl's mouth.
'It's all right, Rysha!' Sasha called, not turning to look. Neither did she abandon her ready posture. 'Rysha, be still! My brother is an honourable man. He would not harm a little girl.' With a dark stare at Koenyg, challenging
