Sasha

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 of 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