Joel Shepherd - Sasha

"Some Banneryd men consider ambush tactics dishonourable," said the corporal. "I've heard Captain Tyrblanc is one who prefers single combat."

"That doesn't mean he's not good at ambushes," Tyrun said grimly. "And for a Banneryd fanatic, honour only applies to contests between equals. Against pagans, they'd slit our throats in the night if they could."

Sasha saw a Royal Guardsman riding downhill toward the vanguard leading a riderless horse. The man's face was contorted with grief. The horse, Sasha recognised, was Lieutenant Alyn's. A lump rose in her throat. It had been her decision to press on along this road, regardless of the startlingly obvious ambush-terrain ahead. Her decision, her responsibility. Alyn had been seeking to reclaim his honour, having been cut from the Royal Guard in disgrace. She hoped fervently that his spirit would consider this, a death in a good cause, to suffice.

"We continue as before," Sasha said quietly. "We came to save the Udalyn. If we must take losses so that we can serve them best, then so we shall. But if we keep getting hit with this regularity, the Hadryn's defences shall be so well set upon our arrival that we may not make it into the valley at all."

Captain Tyrun and the Black Hammers corporal departed. "Where's Andrey?" Sasha asked Teriyan, suddenly anxious.

"We're riding further back," Teriyan replied. "It won't do for M'Lady of the Synnich to have her favourite friends all around her-it looks bad to the other men. I came ahead a bit when I saw this damn slope up ahead… Andrey got caught a little behind."

"Aye," said Sasha, reading gratefully between the lines. "Well, see that the next time it happens, he gets caught a little behind once more."

"Aye to that," Teriyan agreed. His eyes swept across the hillsides, the wounded men, the fallen horses, the screams of pain. "Damn tough business," he muttered, and stared at her hard. "How are you doing?"

He'd never have asked the question of a man, Sasha thought resentfully. She took a deep breath. "Good for now. But I'll be happier when we get to the valley."

Teriyan nodded, and slapped her on the shoulder. "There's a reason I never accepted a soldier's post," he said. "I knew they'd make me an officer, I had it offered to me often enough. I'm brave enough, but I never wanted to make those decisions. You've a damn sight more courage than I have, girl. Hang in there."

He tapped his heels to his mount's sides and moved off through the confusion to find Andreyis. "You had a choice," Sasha murmured to herself, staring up the winding, climbing road ahead through the trees. "I didn't."

Captain Tyrblanc of the Banneryd Black Storm sat on his saddle, and sharpened his blade upon his lap. The moon was high, three-quarters visible and baleful through the branches. It caused his weapon to gleam, catching on the notch mid-length, a bothersome breach of purity. The whetstone clicked passing over it, interrupting the smooth, whistling song of stone on steel. He'd caught it upon the helm of a Royal Guard lieutenant in the charge.

His lips twisted in disdain. Royal Guards. The most overrated soldiers in Lenayin. No northerner had ever sought recruitment in the Royal Guard. That would mean service alongside pagans. Far better to seek glory in the great companies, their names stained in the blood of countless enemies, their ranks free from the defilement of the unworthy. And now, as if further proof were required, there were Royal Guards riding with the traitor-bitch herself.

A rabble if ever he'd seen one. Goat herders from Tyree. Mother-coddled whelps from Rayen. Barbarian animals from Valhanan, home to the traitorbitch. It had been a pleasure to kill them. He prayed for many more such opportunities. The odds were overwhelming and he knew that he and his men would most likely meet their deaths upon this road to Hadryn. It mat tered not. The gods were waiting for them, and they would be honoured in the heavens as heroes. But he would send many pagans down to burn in the fires of Loth in the process and, for now, the certainty of death only made his own glory burn all the brighter.

Two of his men approached, shadows amidst the trees. About the perimeter, men watched from the bushes, invisible to Tyrblanc's eye. The traitors had scouts who could doubtless track his men to this point, particularly given the moon. They would shift camp later, before the moon set behind the hills.

The two men sat opposite, collapsing heavily with stifled groans. The smell of unwashed bodies came clear to Tyrblanc's nostrils. Mail chafed at the shoulders, unmoved since this pursuit had begun. One man removed his helm, and Tyrblanc recognised Corporal Veln in the moon shadow.

"The horses are nearly spent," Veln said in Haryt, primary tongue of the Banneryd. "There's grass enough, but they need ruffage for true strength. I've searched for polovyn root but we never camp in the right spot."

Tyrblanc shrugged, still sharpening his blade. "Only a few more days. We've more horses than men now. We can afford to lose a few horses."

Veln gave him a hard, tired look. "In a great rush to get to paradise, are you, Captain?"

Tyrblanc grinned. "Always," he said. Veln restrained a hardened smile. Such was the humour of northern men, where death was ever present. "What's the matter, Corporal? Lost your nerve?"

"One kills more of the enemy whilst one is alive," Veln replied calmly, unruffled by his captain's teasing. A cloud was passing across the moon, dimming its silvery light to gloom amidst the trees. "We are tired, Captain, but should we not press the advantage at night? Surely we could kill more with surprise in the dark?"

Tyrblanc shook his head. "Our object is not to kilt them, youngster… although it is a pleasant consequence. Our object is to slow them. Why attack them while they're not moving? They move a little by moonlight, but their numbers are great, they must slow for water and food for the horses. It grows difficult for them to hold such a large formation together.

"And also, at night, the advantage is always with the defender. The defender knows his ground, and knows his position upon it. It is the attacker who becomes confused, moving amidst alien defences. I remember it once, attacking a Cherrovan camp by moonlight… we lost all formation, lost even sense of direction, and nearly lost our entire company. We'd be more sensible to use the night for sleep, so we are rested for better fighting tomorrow. Attacking at night is for fools."

"Not always," said a cool female voice not more than five strides away. The men spun in disbelief… something whistled through the air and Veln's companion fell with a gurgling cry, clutching a knife in his throat. From another direction came a whistling arrow and a scream.

"To arms!" Tyrblanc yelled, to the answering shouts of men, steel ringing through the cold night air as blades came out. Tyrblanc ran in the direction from which the knife had come, sword in hand… there were bushes, manheight and indistinct in the gloom. He circled them, stumbling on an unseen root… steel clashed further downhill, then the distinct impact of a blade on mail, only this sound was different. A sharp, ringing crack! as if metal were fracturing.

Tyrblanc sensed movement behind and spun in time to see one of his men double over as a blade slashed him open, then a horrendous spurt of blood as the head was severed. A shadow danced past the falling body, as light and lithe as smoke on the wind. Tyrblanc charged down the slope toward it, and the shadow flitted one way through the trees, then another. Ahead, another Banneryd man stood with wide stance, eyes darting as he searched for that shadow… then lurched forward with a thump!, face-first with an arrow between his shoulder blades.

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.