Sasha

heart, was himself.

The demon confronting the sobbing man spoke… a male voice, in a tongue of lilting, alien tones. It sounded like a question. A female voice answered… Tyrblanc spun, and found her slender form poised behind him, a bloodstained blade in her hands. Her clothes seemed plain, and a black cloth was folded over her head, covering her hair. The eyes, however, gleamed a terrible, ungodly bronze.

The demon asked the question again. The bronze-eyed she-demon answered shortly, as though in mild exasperation. The he-demon struck, a sword-hilt to the face of the sobbing man. The silence that followed was merciful. And yet not… for now, where there had been the conversation of men, and the activity of a night's camp, there was deathly silence.

A new movement downslope caught Tyrblanc's eye-a male figure, holding a huge bow, advancing past the bodies of his victims on silent feet. There was no uncertainty in the way he surveyed the surrounding night, an arrow nocked to the string. He did not stare about in bewilderment as a human man might. It was almost as though he could see his surroundings as clearly as daylight.

The moon chose that moment to break clear of the cloud and lit the forest silver. The hillside about Tyrblanc's boots flowed red with blood. The sightless eyes of his comrades stared aghast at the trees or the ground. Men known to him by name. Men of honour. Men of long friendship and service, to earthly masters and to gods alike. It did not seem real that this could be their fate. How had the gods allowed such a thing?

'You present me with a puzzle, Captain,' the approaching he-demon said then, in faultless, barely accented Lenay. 'Should I show you mercy, when you and your kind would never grant any to me or my kind should our positions be reversed?'

They were serrin, Tyrblanc knew. Rarely if ever seen in the north. But he cared not what scholars, lowlanders and local pagans might call them. A demon was a demon, by any other name. They were not human, they were unnatural and they had no gods. Death was too good for them.

'I would not beg for your mercy were it the only thing between me and eternal damnation!' Tyrblanc snarled. The sword was still in his hand. It trembled, so tight was his grip.

'Believe me, Captain,' the he-demon said, with a narrowing of brilliant green eyes as he stopped and leaned upon his enormous bow, 'your begging or otherwise shall have no bearing upon my decision. Reason may sway me. My pride is serrin. I do not require you to beg.'

'We should let him go,' said the bronze-eyed she-demon, coming to stand alongside. Her hair was short and her posture lithe. 'He can tell the others what happened. It should be a warning.'

The he-demon inclined his head in her direction, as if conceding that reason. 'We should kill him, and this one,' said the other demon who had knocked the sobbing soldier unconscious. 'They fear us. They fear for their souls should they die at our hands. Allowing one to survive will lessen that fear. We should make it absolute.' And the demon with the bow inclined his head to him, also. He turned his burning gaze upon the one who stood at Tyrblanc's back.

Tyrblanc turned around, slowly. The small one who had killed Veln, he realised, was also a female. Her eyes, fixed upon the carnage about Tyrblanc's feet, were troubled. Sad, even.

'Should all the rivers run red with blood,' she said quietly, 'and all the forests turn to ash and coal. Should black rain fall, and the spawning salmon gasp its last breath, and the green wren no longer sing its joy to the sun, where then, good friends, should our glory lie?'

Tyrblanc stared in disbelief. It was Tullamayne the she-demon quoted. Tullamayne the Udalyn, from the days before the Udalyn were corrupted by false-prophets, and disgraced their name to eternal damnation by betraying the true and rightful gods. Tullamayne, who seemed so often, and so sadly, to predict his own people's coming betrayal, and their coming demise. How could one so evil speak the words of Tullamayne with such sad conviction? How did the gods not strike her down where she stood?

The green-eyed demon gazed at his companion. His brilliant eyes, for the faintest moment, seemed not filled with evil or terror, but. .. sadness. 'Aisha says to spare you,' he said to Tyrblanc. 'Aisha reminds me that not all men of the north have always been so filled with fear and rage. Remember, Captain, that the words of an Udalyn saved your life. The words of a people you seek to destroy. Think of them, and think of us, and be grateful. And perhaps tell your fellow haters, so that they too might understand the true meaning of mercy.'

'I reject your mercy,' Tyrblanc spat.

'Mercy,' pressed the he-demon, in quiet, deadly tones, 'is confronting the thing that would destroy your people and letting it live. There are many of my people who no longer consider themselves capable of such mercy. You are fortunate, this beautiful night, to have encountered me instead.' His hand whipped to one shoulder and pulled clear a blade to hold the point unwavering before the captain's throat. 'Strike, if you will, and defy my mercy. Or drop your blade, and accept it. Precious it is, as are all things so rare. The days of serrin mercy, I fear, shall soon be a thing of the past.'

The following day was free from attacks. Sasha allowed herself the luxury of considering familiar lands, and feeling some joy to be back so close to home ground. This was the road to Cryliss, Valhanan's capital, and less than a halfday's ride from Baerlyn to the northwest. There was a form to the hills, a certain colour upon exposed upthrusts of granite on the high ridges, a certain pattern to the trees that seemed familiar. Mount Tvay loomed in a much more familiar proportion whenever a rise took them high enough to see, and the northern Marashyn Ranges were more clearly visible through the distant mist. Another day, she thought, and they would be at Cryliss. As close as she would get to home this journey.

At mid-morning a scout came galloping toward them with news of an unexpected arrival. A short distance further, on the edge of the forest, she saw four riders ahorse, amidst a large collection of riderless warhorses. The riders' hoods were thrown back and the steel-blue hair of one gleamed in the slanting sun… another was red-brown, another light blonde, and another dark grey. The serrin had come.

The vanguard passed the clustered horses and Sasha signalled to Captain Tyrun. The call to halt echoed up the length of the column, fading in the distance as the great, rattling, snorting mass came to a stop. The serrin rider with dark grey hair rode forward on a lovely chestnut horse whose breeding Sasha could not immediately identify-a rare thing, for her. He had a long bow, unstrung along the horse's side, and wore a sword at his shoulder in the manner of all his companions.

'Greetings M'Lady Sashandra Lenayin and Captain Tyrun Adysh,' he called, reining up before them. The vanguard, mostly Goeren-yai men, showed little of the caution that would normally be warranted by such an approach through their midst. 'My name is Errollyn and I travel with three companions. I have brought you a gift.'

Sasha blinked in astonishment. The serrin-Errollyn-was as wonderfully handsome as one came to expect of serrin. His hair was the thick, dark grey of looming thunderclouds on a bright day, and his eyes were a brilliant, almost luminescent green. His accent was negligible, and his manner as calm as one who knew himself to be among friends.

'How do you know our names?' Tyrun replied, somewhat suspiciously. Sasha gave the captain a wary look… probably he had had less experience with serrin than she. Serrin knew lots of things. 'What brings you to this road?'

'You are Captain Tyrun because your helmet crest identifies you as captain and your uniform is of the Falcon Guard, and there is only one of those.' Errollyn's tone suggested either amusement, or sarcasm, or perhaps something else entirely. With serrin, one was never entirely certain. 'And if she's not Sashandra Lenayin,' with a nod at Sasha, 'then I'm a donkey's backside.'

Sasha grinned. It was an unusual turn of phrase for a serrin. Colloquial, almost. Most serrin could think of far prettier things to say than that. But Errollyn smiled mischievously in reply to her grin. It changed his face, and the effect was very nice indeed.

'This is a pleasant gift,' she said, looking about at the horses. All were saddled and with saddlebags. Her humour faded to see that some bore the obvious markings of Banneryd upon the leather. 'Banneryd horses?' she asked the serrin.

'Black Storm, yes,' Errollyn confirmed.

Sasha felt a cold tingle slowly working its way up her spine. 'And their riders?'

'Indisposed,' said Errollyn, coolly. His meaning was clear. At Sasha's side, Tyrun's hand made the Verenthane holy sign.

Sasha completed a fast count, arriving at nineteen horses. Even dismounted, the Banneryd Black Storm were