Joel Shepherd - Haven

“When I was a young man,” he said, “I thought women were the toys of men. Now I find they are our masters.”

Sasha smiled. “Oh come, the world is not ending as fast as that, surely?”

The column resumed shortly after, Sasha taking her place with the Isfayen contingent in the vanguard. Great Lord Markan talked with an Isfayen scout, who spoke of a curious town several folds away that the Army of the Bacosh had passed through.

Ahead, the main vanguard climbed a small rise. Behind stretched the entire mass of the Army of Lenayin, tens of thousands strong. Finally, she grew tired of her own silence.

“Who would like to go for a ride?” she asked loudly. All Isfayen men in the group paused their conversations to look at her. Great Lord Markan broke off his discussion with the scout, and wondered at this curious humour. “Our scout tells us of a village, just over the hill yonder. I would like to see it.”

“The Bacosh forces occupy it,” countered an Isfayen lord. They had won their battle, he meant. Lenayin had lost its. Lenayin now suffered the shame of marching second in the column, and the Bacosh forces gained the privilege to occupy whatever town they liked.

“Nice day for a ride,” said Markan, squinting up at the sun. “What do you think, sister?”

“I tire of staring at the backsides of Rayen horses,” said Yasmyn.

Markan nodded, and gave a signal. Isfayen horses wove to the right, then accelerated to keep pace with their lord. In the main column, surprised faces looked across at them. At the column head, Sasha saw Koenyg, similarly surprised. He made a gesture, and someone pursued.

Koenyg's rider came racing across in front of them, signalling them to stop. Markan only smiled, long black hair and braids flying, and galloped his horse a little faster.

“What the hells are you doing?” Sasha heard Koenyg's rider yell above the noise. “The king orders you to fall back in line!”

“Isfayen tire of marching in line,” Markan said cheerfully. “We shall return shortly.”

“You shall return at once!” yelled the rider.

Markan's stare informed the rider that if there had been any chance the Great Lord of Isfayen could be persuaded to turn around, it was now gone. The rider slowed up in frustration, and the Isfayen thundered on.

Soon the pace slowed, and they rode across fields between small farmhouses. Tall hills rose in the near distance, with sheer, dark cliffs that reminded Sasha of Lenayin. Further along the hillside rise there perched a village, emerging above trees and orchards that covered the hills. As they came closer up the road, Sasha saw why the scout had found the town curious-there were larger buildings here than the typical little cottages. One was a temple, with grand spires. Several others appeared to be clustered together, and boasted ornamental spires or crenellations.

The approaching road wound through orchards as it climbed, and finally arrived at the gates of the town walls. As they rode within, Sasha began to recognise the buildings. “These are like the Tol'rhen in Tracato,” she said. On the walls were friezes of men building things and consulting maps. And on plinths within the walls, statues of learned men, and a woman. The woman was Maldereld, the serrin general who had led Saalshen's conquest of these lands two centuries before, and ordered the construction of these great institutions of learning. “Only far smaller than Tracato.”

Soldiers had been here. The statue of Maldereld was faceless, stonework smashed with deliberate effort.

“What manner of place?” asked an Isfayen, frowning up at the high walls as they rode.

“A place of learning,” Sasha replied. “Students come here from across the lands, to learn skills for their people. Medicines, building, farming, languages, history.”

“Fighting?” asked another man.

“Yes, these are Nasi-Keth,” said Sasha. “They learn to fight like me.” And the men of Isfayen looked far more impressed to learn that, and considered the walls with renewed respect.

A search of the buildings' echoing halls revealed signs of fast departure, and no sign of life. But an Isfayen lord's intrusion in the temple revealed signs of recent activity.

“There is blood on the paving,” he said grimly. “Pews have been overturned, and rear rooms searched. There are wagon tracks outside and hoofmarks. There was food left in the temple, and blankets…I think perhaps someone was using it as a refuge.”

He handed Markan a wooden doll, with a head of long horses' hair intricately embedded in the wood. A child's toy.

“Someone did not leave fast enough,” Yasmyn said solemnly. Sasha looked away, biting her lip. Like stone, she told herself. Be like stone. Yasmyn tucked the doll into a pouch at her belt.

“The tracks lead away, quite fresh,” said the lord who had discovered it. “We can catch whoever made them, I'm sure.”

“Interesting,” said Markan with a nod. “I should like to see this latest conquest of our grand allies, against a ferocious, doll-wielding foe.”

Some of the men smiled or laughed at that. Sasha did not. Nor, with a concerned look her way, did Yasmyn.

The road from town led them toward the looming cliffs seen earlier. These odd tombs of rock seemed incongruous with the surrounding green landscape of gentle hills. The Isfayen scout followed the trail easily enough, and soon informed them all that a wagon party lay ahead.

They came to it on a rutted trail by a stream. There were four wagons, accompanied by ten men on horse. All wore the colour and armour of Bacosh warriors, and peering now behind them at the Isfayen's approach, they seemed relieved but wary.

“We thought you might be serrin!” one horseman shouted back at them in Torovan, which Sasha, Markan, and Yasmyn alone of their group understood. “We're making double time to reach the column, don't want to be caught out here past nightfall!”

Markan rode forward. Sasha could see men with crossbows peering from the rear flaps of the wagons. The Bacosh horsemen seemed wary too, of this big man with slanted eyes and flowing hair, clad in patterned leather, chain armour, and steel-studded gloves. The curved sword drew many looks to his side. One did not need to talk to an Isfayen warrior to know his nature, one needed only look.

“You come from the town back there?” Markan asked, pointing back the way they'd ridden.

The horseman nodded. “Weird place, yes? Too many damn weird places in this land, I'll be happy to get home to Meraine, myself.” He looked at them with some suspicion. “I bet you Lenays don't find it so weird, though? Men say you folks don't mind the serrin?”

“In Isfayen we've had little to do with them,” said Markan.

“Ah,” said the horseman. “Isfayen.” Clearly he had no idea where that was. In most of the lowlands, a Lenay barbarian was a Lenay barbarian, no matter what region.

“What manner of soldiers are you?” Markan asked, with clear disdain.

“Men-at-arms,” came the reply. “Tasked with foraging.”

“Foraging what?” Sasha asked.

The horseman stared at her, only now seeming to notice her presence. He blinked rapidly, perhaps realising who she was.

“Things,” he said defensively. “Food. Supplies.”

“Mind if I look?” Sasha asked.

“It's ours!” scowled the horseman. He backed up his horse, clearly worried. His reaction made her cold. If he recognised her, Sasha reckoned, he no doubt knew something of her conflicted allegiances.

Like stone, she told herself. Like the hard granite of the looming cliffs.

The crossbowmen in the back of the wagon were readying their weapons, as horsemen along the column grasped at the hilts of their blades.

“There are a handful of you,” Markan said contemptuously. “There are many of us. We are the Isfayen, the bloodwarriors of the western mountains, and all Lenayin has feared us since we first walked in the world. I think it best that you let us look.”