Sasha (62 page)

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 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 half day'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 midmorning 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 formidable soldiers. Four serrin had done this in the night. Serrin, she knew, could see quite well in the dark.

“Which way do you ride, Master Errollyn?” Sasha asked.

Errollyn looked faintly surprised. “With you, of course. If you shall have us.”

Have them? Sasha exchanged looks with Tyrun. Tyrun's expression suggested that he was content to leave the decision up to her.

“Let's get these horses rounded up and brought into the column!” Sasha called. “There will be willing soldiers without horses along the way, our serrin friends have now brought nineteen of them a ride!”

There was a cheer, and a sergeant moved to take charge. “Ride with me, Master Errollyn,” said Sasha, and Errollyn inclined his head gracefully as the vanguard recommenced.

Sasha glanced at Errollyn's companions as they passed—there were two women and a man, all as unearthly strange in appearance as Errollyn. The other man was tall and wore a patterned headband to keep in place hair the colour of rust. The taller of the women had short, steel-blue hair and deep bronze eyes—common colours for serrin, but startlingly strange to any human not familiar with such people. The other woman was little, with midlength blonde hair, cheerful round cheeks and laughing blue eyes. Her eyes were not as shockingly bright as the others and her face possessed fewer of those subtle little angles of cheek and jaw that typically combined, with serrin, to create a strangeness both intimidating and attractive at the same time. Sasha guessed that she might be from the Saalshen Bacosh, where human and serrin blood had mixed in many families.