Joel Shepherd - Haven

Sofy's heart leaped at the prospect.

“My lord,” she said gladly, “I would be honoured.” And she hugged him, for all to see.

The wagon was a misery. Andreyis sat propped against its hard side, and tried to keep his bandaged, splinted arm from jolting. Low cloud scudded across a gloomy sky, and showers cast a grey veil across distant Enoran fields. The wagon's one coat had been given to Ulemys, the Ranash man who lay upon the floor. Ulemys was dying, and his groans were more painful than the wagon's jolting upon Andreyis's arm.

Four others shared the wagon with Andreyis, besides Ulemys. One, Sayden, was a fellow Valhanan, though from a village to the north that Andreyis had never heard of. The other three were from Hadryn, Tyree, and Yethulyn. There had been two more, when the journey had begun ten days before. One of those had been buried in a shallow grave, and the other, a Taneryn, had been burned on a pyre, as Taneryn customs dictated. It had been a struggle to gather enough dry wood in the unseasonal midsummer downpours. Andreyis knew that Ulemys would soon join them, as his gut-wound was smelling foul despite the serrins' medicines, and his deliriums grew worse. But for now, he could have the coat. It made the smell more bearable, for one thing.

At lunch an Enoran rider threw some bread, fruit, and cheese into the wagon, and they ate. Soon after, Andreyis decided he would rather walk, and slithered one-armed off the wagon and onto the muddy road. He had always liked to ride after a meal, but with horses unavailable, walking would do. He recalled now those afternoon rides at Kessligh and Sasha's ranch in the hills above Baerlyn, sometimes with Lynette or Sasha, sometimes alone, with always an eye out for game or intruders, or a sudden change in the weather across the rumpled, sprawling landscape of Lenayin.

He felt unutterably homesick. He had fought bravely at Shero Valley, but was now horrified at his own unmanliness when he awoke in sweating, heart thumping horror in the dead of night, thinking the battle still raged about him. A prisoner on the trailing wagon swore that he'd seen Teriyan Tremel, Andreyis's good friend and father of fellow ranch-hand Lynette, fall upon the field. Worst of all, he was a prisoner, and still alive, when most Lenays would rather die than yield to such a fate. At times, Andreyis envied his comrade Ulemys. For him, at least, the torment would soon be over.

A serrin rider held to the side of the road, perhaps ten steps behind him as he walked. It was the girl again, the same girl who always rode guard along this stretch of the procession. With serrin, one could always tell. This girl had shocking red hair, swept back with a comb to one side and several odd braids, and sparkling blue eyes. She was pale, with a lean face and fine cheekbones, and utterly striking to look at. Several days ago, when Ulemys had been more aware, he'd cursed her when she'd given him food, and called her a demon, and thrown the food onto the muddy road. Andreyis knew better than to think the serrin demons, but he could see how a devout northern Verenthane like Ulemys might mistake her for one.

She carried a bow, strung at all times. That was not good for bows. Andreyis was fortunate amongst the Lenay prisoners that his legs were unhurt-it was his arm, and a blow to his head, now healing though tender. He wondered if he dared take on the girl's bow, and make a dash for passing woods, or perhaps try and knock her off her horse. He recalled Kessligh saying that serrin women tended not to favour the bow as much as men…ironic, as Lenay men considered archery an unmanly skill, that it was the serrin women who favoured swords instead. Serrin bows required great strength to draw. It was serrin swordwork, the svaalverd, that found more use in technique than muscle.

A Banneryd man two wagons ahead had tried to run on a wooded hillside the other day. Another serrin rider, a man, had shot him in the leg before he'd gone ten strides. For now, Andreyis bided his time. Walking at least would keep him from wasting away in the back of the wagon. Yet it was unnerving that the serrin did not mind, and did not insist the least-wounded prisoners be tied or restrained in any way. They merely held their distance, and kept their bows handy, as though daring the Lenays to try and run.

Camp that night was a village, and the wounded were given a barn. As one of the few able to walk freely, Andreyis assisted the movement of those who were less fortunate from the wagons to the straw. Some of the Enorans helped too. These were mostly older men, in mail and armed with long swords, which Enoran soldiers rarely used. They were Enoran militia, some Lenays had surmised-formerly soldiers of the Steel, now retired, but mobilised to assist on less vital matters such as the transportation of prisoners. No match for a Lenay warrior in single combat, Andreyis was certain, but they were all armed and healthy, where every Lenay carried an injury. And they were smart, and experienced, and not about to let their guard down. Andreyis wondered what his little band could even do, if they did somehow manage to wrest control of the column away from their captors, and arm themselves. They were deep into Enora now, halfway to the capital Shemorane. There would be no hiding from ordinary Enorans, some of whom were also former Steel, and many of whom had horses. Soon the Lenays would be run down by reinforcements, and all pretence at civilised conduct toward prisoners in wartime would surely cease.

Andreyis took a place by the barn door, nearest the draught, and ate the food that the Enorans brought to them from the cooking fires outside. Militiamen talked with local villagers by the barn doors as the prisoners ate, the villagers peering in with curious eyes. Neither Andreyis nor any of his comrades understood more than a few words of Enoran, but it seemed clear what the villagers were saying.

“So these are the fearsome men of Lenayin.” A few of them joked with the militiamen, stifling laughter. Clearly they were not so intimidated, and made jokes at the Lenays' expense. Andreyis knew that he ought to be angered, but he could not muster the energy.

After the meal, the serrin began their rounds of the wounded. Some men allowed treatment, now accustomed to this evening ritual. Others refused, and the serrin simply gave medicines to their comrades for them to apply. There appeared to be six serrin in the column, Andreyis reckoned. Four seemed old; two definitely were, and two more moved as though they might be-with serrin it was often hard to tell. The last two seemed young. One was a tall lad with hair so black it shaded, astonishingly, toward blue. The other was the red-haired girl.

She knelt before him now, as he looked up in surprise, lost in thought with his back to a hay bale. “Show me your arm.”

Andreyis showed it to her. She unwrapped it and checked the splints. The forearm had fractured, but would heal well enough in time. Her hands were firm, but caused little pain.

“You walk like one accustomed to riding,” the girl said as she worked. She spoke Torovan, Andreyis's only second tongue.

“I ride,” said Andreyis.

“Horses are expensive in Lenayin,” said the girl, dubiously.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

The girl snorted, and said nothing. The angle of her chin suggested…contempt. Her eyes were cool. Andreyis realised that she was very young. He had nineteen summers. She might be considerably younger than that.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Seventeen,” said the girl. Andreyis knew from Sasha and Kessligh's tales how fast some serrin grew up. There was no reason not to believe her.

“That's why they make you guard prisoners,” he guessed. “Instead of doing anything exciting.”

“Exciting,” she said scornfully, rewrapping his arm. “Were you excited in battle? Does all this suffering excite you?”