Joel Shepherd - Haven

“I hear tell of massacres,” Andreyis said quietly. “Of half-castes murdered. We passed some half-castes on the road, they were frightened.”

“Oh, entire villages,” Errollyn said tiredly. “Half-caste or not. The Regent's lords are claiming land, they need it devoid of people. Rhodaanis and Enorans are too uppity to submit easily to feudal rule, they'll need to kill a lot of them first. And they're doing so.”

To the south, behind Shemorane as the Bacosh and Lenay armies advanced, lay a wide land of rolling hills that the locals called Pirene. It was only when Damon and Sasha's formation of five hundred cavalry emerged from the hills around Shemorane that they discovered a Larosan advance party had beaten them to it.

Sasha, Damon, Markan, Lord Heryd, and Myklas galloped to the rise where a Larosan noble party awaited, surveying the lands below.

At their side, the Lenay party found a choice vantage across the Pirene. Several villages were burning, and horsemen could be seen galloping in groups. Beyond, Sasha observed larger groups of horsemen, a dark swarm against the wet green fields.

“Prince Damon,” he introduced himself. “My sister Sashandra, my brother Myklas, Great Lord Heryd of Hadryn, and Great Lord Markan of Isfayen. We have five hundred horse.”

“Lord Elias Assineth,” said the leader. “Cousin of the Regent.” He wore the full plate armour of a Bacosh knight, with his visor raised. He introduced three other lords, similarly armoured. “We also have five hundred.”

“Lord Elias,” said Markan, with some surprise. “My sister Yasmyn sends her regards. She says your two friends' heads made excellent lagand balls. Yours seems also an agreeable shape.”

“Markan!” Damon warned him. Markan merely looked amused. Elias glared at him, but Sasha knew he had little to fear from Markan. The Great Lord of Isfayen would not steal his sister's revenge from her. “Ignore him, he's Isfayen,” said Damon, as though that explained everything. “What is your purpose here?”

“My cousin the Regent enters Shemorane with the Shereldin Star,” said Elias. “This southern side of Shemorane is open, and the irregular forces of Kessligh Cronenverdt threaten this flank. I intend to make trouble here, and destroy much of these fertile lands to force Cronenverdt to defend it, and thus leave my cousin's ceremonies undisturbed.”

“Should we move fast, we might catch Cronenverdt and encircle him,” added Heryd, with some pleasure at the prospect.

Elias nodded. “The main road from Shemorane lies ahead. Many escaping refugees are upon the road, they were delayed by the rains. If we threaten them, and cut off the road, we may provoke him to do something rash.”

“Little chance of that,” Damon said grimly, surveying the scene.

“I'll take the Isfayen and scout the woods to the north of the river,” said Sasha.

“Wait, Sasha,” said Damon. “I think we should stay together.”

“Markan?” Sasha asked, ignoring her brother.

Markan shrugged. “As good a plan as any,” he agreed. He stood in his stirrups and waved back down the hill. There, a hundred Isfayen riders broke away from the Lenay formation, moving about the side of the hill as Sasha and Markan galloped down to join them.

“What are you thinking?” Markan yelled above the noise of their gallop.

“I'm not!” Sasha replied.

“I'm not going to burn villages and kill unarmed poor folk! There is no honour in it!”

Sasha nodded. She had no idea what she would do. Panic seized her, but she had to push on. She could not sit in the rear and watch.

She and Markan led one hundred Isfayen across the stream, then along the bank, past farmhouses and over paddock walls. Away from the stream the land grew higher, and Sasha liked the look of that vantage. They came upon a good road leading up that way from a bridge across the stream, and Sasha guessed it would lead somewhere worth attacking. She waved them onto the road, and galloped up the slope.

Soon, she saw smoke rising ahead. It was a town, larger than the rest, nestled beneath a forested ridge. Sasha waved them off the road and into the forest. It was not hard for a Lenay to find the ridgeline, and she wove her horse through wet undergrowth, climbing all the while. Soon she had them in a line upon the ridge overlooking the town. As the Isfayen horses stopped, she could hear fighting.

This was the fighting of warriors, not of Larosan knights massacring helpless villagers. She could see horses darting through the fields about the town, wheeling in groups, evading and never quite engaging with larger formations of Larosan cavalry.

“Talmaad,” Markan observed. “If you listen, you can hear Larosans dying.” There was respect in his voice.

“The whole town's a trap,” Sasha replied. “They were waiting for the Larosans to hit it. But two can play at that.”

“I guess perhaps sixty talmaad ,” said Markan. “Perhaps seventy. We are a hundred.”

“Markan, I want prisoners. We have the heights, we can capture some….”

“Those are our allies being killed down there,” Markan said blandly. “Are we not to aid them in full?”

“Dammit, Markan, our allies are burning the town and killing any remaining villagers-you just said that was dishonourable!”

“Dishonourable for Isfayen ,” Markan corrected. “As it's also dishonourable to abandon a sworn ally to death by not attacking in support.”

“Markan,” Sasha said in desperation, “just do what I say. Your riders are not my men to command, but these are serrin and I know them.” Markan studied her, his dark eyes unreadable. “Take forty men and go straight down this ridge. Make a line so they will see you. They'll not engage another forty men, they'll run, straight for the heaviest trees in the valley yonder. Bacosh heavy cavalry cannot manage those trees, but we can.”

Markan continued studying her. “If they shoot any more of my men,” he warned, “I will not show them mercy.”

“If we trap them in the valley, prepare to stop beyond their range.”

Markan nodded and turned to shout orders. Sasha urged her horse on along the ridge, and heard many hooves following. The ridge plunged down into the valley beyond the town, but the slope was not difficult. Upon the valley floor, a small stream flowed between huge, thick trees. Sasha formed her sixty riders across the narrow valley in several ranks, a barrier solid enough to stop any cavalry less heavy than lowlands knights. Then she waited.

Water dripped from leaves high above. Mist hung in the valley air, making ghostly shadows of dark, reaching boughs. An Isfayen rider at Sasha's side made a spirit sign to his forehead, as did several others. Spirits lived here. She heard hooves and a high, keening cry in a foreign tongue. A Saalsi dialect, Sasha reckoned, a communication between riders.

A single serrin rider raced from the mist, then scrambled to a sliding halt beside the stream. The rider stared wide-eyed at the barrier confronting her, then put heels to her horse and raced back the way she'd come, hollering in that high, lilting dialect.

“They shall go around us,” said an Isfayen. “The valley sides are not steep, and their horses are nimble.”

“They know we are Lenay,” Sasha replied. “They know we do not attack. Sometimes, serrin just know.”

The Isfayen looked at her oddly. Perhaps it was the mist, and the eerie echoes, but all of those that heard her made spirit signs once more. They called her the Synnich, the oldest and most deadly of the Lenay spirits. Perhaps they thought she summoned the serrin, who were spiritlike themselves, using ageless powers. Well, perhaps she did.

The next serrin to appear were trotting, not galloping. Sasha counted twenty, but there were surely more behind. They stopped no more than fifty paces away, well within arrow range. All the serrin had bows strung and arrows nocked, yet they did not draw. The Isfayen watched them, swords ready.