Joel Shepherd - Sasha

Sasha turned in the saddle and surveyed the scene behind. The fields of grain, once soft and level, were now torn and flattened like the coat of some animal ravaged by a terrible disease. Some bodies lay visible, and some horses struggled terribly against a fate they had not deserved. Some men were walking, or limping, searching for comrades, or simply away from where they'd been. Two Goeren-yai guarded a Hadryn rider with wary blades, to the Hadryn's apparent disinterest, as he listened in stunned silence to the trumpets.

The remnants of the reserve were riding across the fields now, dismounting as they found wounded. Sasha tapped Terel on the shoulder and pointed. He reined his horse about with no dissent, and rode that way.

Soon a dussieh-rider came racing toward them, two Falcon Guardsmen on warhorses close behind-one apparently Verenthane, the other clearly Goeren-yai. Sasha blinked as she realised that the owner of that fast-moving little horse was none other than Sofy, her brown hair flying out behind. She slowed and circled to Sasha and Terel's side with remarkable judgment.

"Sasha!" Sofy stared up at her in alarm. "Where's Peg? Are you injured?"

"I fell," Sasha replied. Her voice was strained and hoarse. She barely recognised it. "There are many missing whom I hope to find again."

"Terel," Sofy said urgently, "you'd better come this way." And she was off again, galloping ahead through the twisted wreckage of grain, men and horses. One of Sofy's guards gave Sasha an apologetic shrug before galloping off in her wake. Terel managed to get his mount to a canter, but seemed not to have the heart for more. They followed Sofy across the corpse-strewn fields where the lead of the Hadryn column had been so totally enveloped and annihilated. They reached a spot near a fence, now far more exposed with the surrounding grain all beaten down.

There, Sofy stopped beside a fallen horse. Alongside knelt Aisha, holding a body in her lap. Terel dismounted quickly and ran to her side. Sasha followed, and her knees gave way as she hit the ground. She rolled and came up covered in wheat chaff, too exhausted to care. She staggered to Aisha's side and found that the body was Tassi, bloody and limp, her strange, bronze eyes gazing sightlessly at the overcast sky. Tears rolled down Aisha's cheeks from her pale blue eyes, and blood trickled from a cut on her temple. Serrin blood was red, Sasha saw, just like a human's. Some Verenthanes rumoured otherwise. Sasha would much rather have remained ignorant of that truth.

Aisha gazed up at her. She looked too young, and too pretty, for such a scene. Like a little girl. Sasha's breath caught in her throat. "Her mother had travelled to Lenayin many times," the serrin girl said softly, cradling her friend's body. "She fought in the Great War, with Kessligh."

"Kessligh told me that many serrin did," Sasha said quietly.

"Not as many as should have," said Aisha, gazing down at Tassi's lifeless face. "Even then, the serrinim were withdrawing inwards. Tassi thought it a terrible thing. She'd been to Lenayin twice. She loved this place. She did not understand why some amongst us thought the Goeren-yai less important. She feared the serrinim were becoming selfish. Tassi was never selfish."

"I can see," Sasha agreed, tears blurring her eyes.

"The serrinim are changing," Terel said quietly, kneeling at Aisha's side, and placing a hand on her shoulder. "Those of us who still care pick the hardest fights, and our numbers decrease. Now, we are fewer still."

At Sasha's side, Sofy's gaze was pale and sober. Sasha reached and grasped her sister's hand.

Jaryd awoke. He hurt. He hurt very badly. That was good. It meant he was still alive. Snapped stalks of wheat pressed against his cheek. It seemed strange that he should feel that discomfort above all the other pain. He could smell horses. And leather. And sweat. And blood. That latter smell stuck in the memory with the force of an axe thrown into a tree. Quivering, it triggered other memories. Tarryn. Father.

Galyndry. Galyndry? He hadn't thought much about his sisters. Galyndry was to be married anyhow. She'd be fine. Family Nyvar meant naught to her once she married. Delya was already married. No big thing. Wyndal, though… Wyndal was fifteen. He was still in Tyree, not everyone could go to Rathynal. Wyndal had always been quiet, he wouldn't make a fuss when he found out. Who would own their land now? And who would adopt Wyndal? Maybe Family Shaty would adopt him, at least then he could be with Delya.

His mind was wandering. That wasn't good. Everyone always said his mind wandered too much. Focus, Jaryd. You'll never make a great lord of Tyree if you don't learn to concentrate. Fool. Gods, he was a fool. He'd never thought a family so fragile. It had always been such a grand thing, full of uncles and aunts, cousins… In truth, it had never been more than him, father, and his siblings. Everyone else had another allegiance. Family? What did family matter to those people? As much as honour, perhaps. Or loyalty.

He tried to move his left arm. The pain of it nearly made him pass out. He moved his right instead and rolled heavily onto his back. His ribs hurt. Surely he'd broken some. He knew the feeling well enough. He could hear horses, distant shouts and trumpets. He tried opening his eyes. That was an anti-climax. There was no rush of blinding light, for the sky above was darkening. Soon it would be black. Best that he discovered where he was, and who had won, before all light disappeared entirely.

He levered himself upright. That hurt like hell. He was reminded of countless times he'd fallen from his horse playing lagand and awoken to find people looking down on him. Only now, he seemed to be alone.

Gasping, he got his good arm down for balance and sat up. Still he could see nothing… except that there was a dead horse lying beside him, partly obscured by the grain. Enough grain still stood to block all other view. The horse, at least, was not his. That was something.

He recalled charging into the Hadryn lines. He'd had no hope of steering, nor of wielding a shield. Nor of using his left hand as a pivot on the saddlehorn for leverage to duck, dodge and lean. His only defence had been attack. He'd struck one sword that would have killed him had he not… and then… he winced, trying to recall. His head hurt, along with everything else. His helm had fallen off. He could not see it in the grain about him. A horse galloped nearby and he had no idea if it belonged to friend or foe.

A pain stabbed at his right side, worse than the others. Jaryd put his hand there and found a tear in the heavy mail. His fingers came away bloody. He recalled banners… yes, he'd seen banners ahead, near the road. He'd charged at them. There had been some very good Hadryn warriors there, black and silver with big shields. Guarding someone. They'd seen him coming, and… but try as he might, he could not recall any more than that.

He staggered slowly, agonisingly, to his feet. The mail seemed impossibly heavy and his right shoulder-guard was slashed in two. He could feel the bruise on his shoulder beneath. How the hells was he still alive? Far off toward the valley was a huge mass of riders, a dark and silver line against the fading gold of the fields. Behind them were scattered many stragglers, picking amongst the fields. If Sasha had lost, Jaryd realised, the armies would be south instead, toward Ymoth. They must have won.

Dark shapes littered the torn and mangled fields. Dead men, and the occasional horse. He staggered around the dead horse, but could not find its rider. Another dead man lay near, a Falcon Guardsman. Jaryd bent, painfully, and took up the man's sword. The face was not one he recognised.

Some instinct convinced him to walk east, away from the river, toward the broken folds of forested land that ran down from the mountains. The stiffening wound on his left leg throbbed painfully… Jaryd guessed he'd probably torn the muscle once more.