Sasha (67 page)

She urged Peg up the opposing slope, staying wide of the oncoming rush of horsemen heading the other way. Soon enough Captain Akryd himself came toward her at a canter, several of his personal guard at his flanks.

“Well,” he said cheerfully as he reined up beside her, “that's the first one down!” Sasha suffered a surge of relief to know that she was not the only one thinking ahead. Akryd was gasping for air, and his horse frothed foam from the mouth with each snorting breath, but he seemed healthy. One of his men clutched at a gashed leg, his companion now manoeuvring alongside to try and stop the bleeding. “Did you ever see such a poor defensive spacing?” Akryd continued, eyes alive with the light of recent battle. “Stupid northern fools, if they'd spaced their damn stakes they might have had a chance! We must have rushed them to a frenzy, getting here so soon!”

“What do you think you lost?” Sasha asked grimly above the ongoing thunder of hooves. Over by the stakes on this flank, past the onrush of horses, she could see little groups of infantry surrendering. Northerners rarely surrendered, or so the stories had it. In truth, it had been a long time since a large enough battle had tested that theory. A battle against someone other than the Cherrovan, who rarely
took
prisoners, making the whole question irrelevant.

Akryd exhaled hard, his expression darkening immediately. “Oh…damn it, hundreds. There was a second line, they fell on us once the dussieh broke through, a lot of them fell…” Sasha's heart sank in dismay. So there
had
been a second line upon the southern flank, just not on the northern one—they'd had cavalry instead, as she'd suspected, waiting on the blindside of their approach. Those first brave dussieh-riders to penetrate the line must have been wiped out. “We got through eventually, but…at least three hundred, M'Lady. Spirits know how many smaller wounds.”

Three hundred on one flank. At least that many on her own, either dead or unable to fight further. Many horses. Dear spirits, it was a lot. A wonderful victory, the analytical side of her mind knew. But…it seemed like a lot. It seemed like far, far too many.

“M'Lady?” said Akryd. Possibly he was unsettled by the look on her face. She straightened herself with an effort, and tried to think rationally. “What do you instruct?”

“Get into the town. Absolutely no pillage, I forbid it.”

“Aye, M'Lady, I doubt it'll be a problem, but I'll see to it.”

“I want to know what's become of the inhabitants. I want senior officers rounded up alive. Then I want a complete reassembly as soon as possible, I want horses cared for as a matter of urgency, I know they're exhausted but we simply don't know when the next fight will come. We must be ready.”

“Aye, M'Lady,” Akryd agreed, finding no argument with that.

“And someone find Tyrun!” Sasha added as he made to move off. “I wish to speak with him at the earliest. I'll assess the casualties over here and see what can be done for the wounded.”

“Aye, M'Lady.” Akryd rode off without further comment, and Sasha pressed her heels to Peg's heaving sides once more, asking for no more than a walk. He gave her a trot regardless, and she patted his sweaty neck.

Banneryd prisoners were being marched from the trees down onto the fields, flanked by mounted warriors. Bodies lay strewn beneath the trees—mainly Banneryd, but not entirely. A horse kicked feebly in a pool of blood…Sasha rode past, unable to persuade herself to do more, but Tassi dismounted briefly, drawing her sword. All the serrin rode silently, surveying the carnage with expressionless stares. This was foreign in Saalshen, this violence—at least since the invasion of King Leyvaan. Probably it was the first time any of them had seen its like, on this scale. Well…they weren't the only ones. She felt utterly numb now that the blood-pumping fury had left her. For the first time in her life, she was not entirely certain of her own emotional state. It scared her.

She rode Peg through a gap in the row of defensive stakes, the earth torn by the charge of hundreds of hooves. Here were more slain men and horses, mostly arrow-struck. Some horses still kicked and struggled, pitifully, but this time Tassi remained mounted. This, perhaps, was too much for even the most disciplined serrin warrior. Riderless horses wandered, while others were held in groups by soldiers. Quite a few soldiers were tending to the wounded and searching along the grassy hillside for those still living, checking each fallen body in turn. The reserve, Sasha realised, recognising several—they had followed behind and halted here where they were most needed.

She saw one man, a Verenthane, with short hair and an eight-pointed medallion upon his chest, kneeling by a fallen comrade. He was weeping. His comrade's long hair fell about the man's legs, the motionless head in his lap, sightless eyes gazing skyward from within a spirit mask of intricate dark curls.

Then Sasha saw a horse she recognised and rode across the slope toward where several soldiers had gathered three wounded so far, and were attempting to aid them. Others carried a fourth even now, an arrow in his stomach, and resisting strangled screams at the pain. Jaryd was assisting as best he could, one-armed. A slim girl in pants and a jacket knelt by another man who was struggling to breathe, a shaft in his chest. She clutched his hand tightly in her own, whilst trying to pour water from a skin into his mouth, waiting for those treating the next man in line to find time to move on.

Without a word, the serrin dismounted and began unstrapping saddlebags for their medicines. “Sofy?” Sasha said hoarsely, still in her saddle. From within the walls of Ymoth, there came now the sounds of battle, cries and clashing steel. The smell of blood was everywhere, and the sweat of horses. Sofy did not look up. “Sofy, I'd rather you weren't here. There could be a counterattack any moment, this is still hostile land and you're right on the field they'll come from.”

Sofy looked up. Her face was pale, her brown hair windblown and tangled. Blood specked her cheek. Her eyes, strangled with emotion, also burned with something deeper, and far, far harder than Sasha had ever seen before. “Go and win the war, Sasha,” the youngest princess of Lenayin said quietly. Her voice quavered, but only a little. “Go and give orders elsewhere. I'm busy.”

“R
YSHA, YOU HAVE TO STAY WITH ESSEY!
It's dangerous!” Daryd had left Essey in the grassy enclosure within the walls, now crowded with other horses. Everywhere there were foreign soldiers, shouting orders, mustering horses by the enclosure's stream for a drink, searching for feed. There were clusters of prisoners, stacks of weapons and armour, and the occasional dead body—although mostly the fighting had not spread this deeply into town.

“I want to see Mama and Papa!” Rysha shouted at him, very upset.

“Rysha, no!” Daryd was so frustrated, and so scared. How could he explain to a little girl? How could he make her see without terrifying her? “Look, there's bad men all through the town, it's not safe for you! Stay here with Essey where there are good men to look after you…”

“No, no, no!” Rysha yelled, her eyes tearing up. “I want to see Mama and Papa! I'll go without you, I will!”

Daryd knew it was no idle threat—cautious Rysha did not make threats unless she meant it. He gritted his teeth. “Okay…come on.”

He took her hand and ducked through the timber fence. The town looked so achingly familiar…and yet so different. Timber houses, and some stone ones, to either side of narrow, paved streets. Many gardens were damaged, fences destroyed, fruit trees stripped of their bounty. Some houses were missing windows…and he saw with shock as they rounded a corner that where Yuan Wenys's house had stood, there now lay a crumbled, charred ruin.

Rysha gasped. “Yuan Wenys is going to be so angry!” Daryd pulled her aside as some soldiers came running up the path. Down some steps, Daryd saw a pair of boots sticking out from the bushes surrounding the house of Yuan Fershyn. He pulled Rysha on quickly, but Rysha spared the body barely a glance. “Daryd, where is Yuan Wenys?”

“I don't know, Rysha.” Daryd tried to keep the fear from his voice. “I think he'll be in the valley, Mama and Papa too.”

“Why can't they be here?” Rysha protested, as if about to cry once more. “I want to see them now!”

Oh please, please, please don't let them be here, Daryd wished at the spirits, harder than he had ever wished anything before in his life. Please let them have escaped.

The stream that ran through the heart of Ymoth was crowded with soldiers, some walking, some resting, some drinking from waterskins. Daryd wondered why they weren't drinking from the stream like Papa always did when he returned from the training hall across the little bridge. Grasping Rysha's hand more tightly, he half-ran along the streamside, past the front verandahs of familiar wooden houses, past Mrs. Karnysh's berry bushes, past the old tree that leaned out over the stream. The swinging rope still dangled above the water. He'd thought he was so brave the first time he'd swung on that rope. But now he realised that he hadn't truly known what bravery was.

And then it was there, their house by the stream bend with a good view over the main wall, and a glimpse of the wide Yumynis beyond. The fruit trees were bare, but the yard seemed intact…Rysha dragged at him, desperately, but he refused to release her hand. There were a pair of soldiers sitting on the verandah, helmets in hand, looking sweaty and tired.

“Mama!” Rysha cried as they leapt the stair and pushed in the front door. “Mama! Papa!” The front room was a mess, the table overturned, chairs broken. Mama's kitchen pots were smashed, the contents of shelves strewn across the floor. Papa's swords were missing from their wall rack, however, and most of the pots and pans were too. Mama and Papa must have taken them, Daryd thought with a surge of unspeakable relief. They must have taken what they could and headed for the valley. The men would have defended the bridge and bought time for the women and children. More warriors would have come from the valley to help—he'd heard his father talking about it with other men before, all the plans they'd made in case of attack. Surely that was where they all were now.

They searched the rest of the house and the rear yard, but found only ransacked rooms and torn vegetable plots. When they returned to the main room, Rysha was in speechless tears. “I
told
you, Rysha, they've gone to the wall!” Daryd insisted. “They'll be safe there. It's
good
they're not here, it wasn't safe here.”

He looked up, realising the two soldiers had followed them into the main room. One was Goeren-yai, with long hair and tattoos, the other short-haired with a Verenthane medallion. Both looked concerned. The Verenthane asked him a question, indicating the house around them. “This is your house?” he seemed to be asking.

“Aye, this is our house,” Daryd replied, helplessly. Had all the other villagers escaped also? All his aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces? Smyt the blacksmith? Agry the farmer's son, who was a bit funny in the head, and his right arm didn't work properly, but who was always cheerful and smiling when Daryd went to market to buy vegetables for Mama's cooking? Old Mrs. Calwyn and her many rabbits? He didn't know, he just didn't know…

The two soldiers exchanged grim looks. The Goeren-yai said something else, beckoning Daryd to come. Something in his manner was very serious and his gesture was not that of an adult to a child, but more the invitation of one man to another. The Verenthane soldier came and scooped up Rysha, who cried on his shoulder, having lost all fear of Verenthanes somewhere along the ride, especially after long days in the company of Princess Sofy. Daryd went with the Goeren-yai soldier, who led him from the house, the other man following close behind with Rysha.

They walked downstream, past soldiers and the broken debris that had been the streamside market stall. The stream, Daryd noticed, was red. Men must have died in the water, further uphill. When they reached the main gate in the defensive wall, Daryd could barely recognise it. The training hall, which had stood beside the gate, was a pile of ash and charred timbers. The big trees that had surrounded the hall, and shaded it beneath wide branches on a summer's day, were strangely scarred, the bark torn in a series of half-circular cuts. And there were big iron nails driven into the trunks, with chains dangling from them.

On the other side of the gate, also against the big wall, the stables and adjoining barn still stood. Some soldiers had gathered there, standing about some limp things on the ground. Daryd's soldier escort led him that way. Some of the other soldiers saw, and stood aside for him.

They were bodies, Daryd saw. Mostly naked, dirty and bloody. He stood over the nearest, barely recognising it as a person. It had tattoos and dirty, long hair. Suddenly he recognised the grass-spirit tattoo spiralling up the right arm. It was Farmer Tangryn. Or rather, it had been Farmer Tangryn. Farmer Tangryn had been a strong man, but the corpse's ribs were showing. And he didn't smell. There were scars on his wrists where they'd bound him. And a stab wound through the ribs. Probably they'd killed all the prisoners as soon as the attack began.