“What followed was a slaughter.” Tyrun paused for a moment, gazing into the flames. About the blazing fire, none spoke. From a neighbouring fire, men's laughter carried high on the cool night air. “The united Verenthanes of the north fell upon the Udalyn, for Essyn poisoned the minds of all the north against them, calling them traitors, friends of the Cherrovan and enemies of the new light of salvation. There were no prisoners taken, nor offered conversions accepted. There was only murder—of men, women and children. I am a proud Verenthane, my Prince. I believe that the star of Verenthane has been a blessing of unity and peace upon this land. But truly, the fate of the Udalyn, I believe, was surely Verenthane's darkest hour.”
Damon met the captain's sombre gaze across the fire. Sasha could read his expression well enough to see that he had not heard this history told with such confidence by a Verenthane man. Most Verenthanes denied the accusations of Hadryn atrocities against the Udalyn, and many blamed the Udalyn for bringing their decline upon themselves.
“Finally, all that was left of the Udalyn was their ancestral valley,” Tyrun continued. “Here, versions of the story differ. Some say that King Soros intervened and gave the Udalyn one last chance to convert, or face annihilation. Others say that he did nothing. Yet others defend King Soros, saying that his army was weary and he had not yet been crowned king, so he had no means with which to stop the slaughter. But whatever the truth, the Udalyn did not convert, and the united Verenthane north pressed the attack into the valley.
“The Udalyn were outnumbered twenty to one, at best. But within the valley's narrow confines, their defences gained hope. Over many days and nights, the Udalyn made a fighting retreat up the length of their valley, and their enemies paid a high price for every stride advanced. Finally, the morale of the Verenthane north began to wane, for the Udalyn slew five and more attackers for every loss, so great was their desire to survive as a people and pass on their traditions to the next generation.
“Essyn Telgar saw his glorious victory slipping away, as his men refused to advance further. He rode out before the Udalyn and offered that they could convert to Verenthaneism and save their lives. In reply, the Udalyn charged, full of fury and vengeance. They crashed into an army that was still ten times their number and split them down the centre. Tharyn Askar himself, it is told, carved his way through ten of Essyn's personal guard and family to slay Essyn Telgar by his own hand, before falling dead from wounds. The remaining Verenthanes broke and ran, and the Udalyn survived—the last, small pocket of Goeren-yai defiance in a Verenthane sea.
“Several times in the years to follow, successive Lords of Hadryn attempted to rid their land of their ancient enemy. Each time, though greatly outnumbered, the Udalyn were victorious. Then Chayden Lenayin came to the throne—your esteemed grandfather, Prince Damon, M'Lady Sashandra. He saw how the fate of the Udalyn had aroused the passions of all Lenay Goeren-yai, and forbid the Telgars of Hadryn to attack the Udalyn again. Since that time, the Hadryn have left the Valley of the Udalyn largely alone under King's orders—a policy continued to this day by your father, my Prince, M'Lady. And I pray that it shall always be such.”
Sasha took a skewer of cooking meat from the fire by its wood handle and gave it to Tyrun—reward for a tale well told. Tyrun gave a small smile of thanks.
“And now Lord Krayliss attempts to play the Udalyn card once more,” Damon said. His own food remained largely untouched upon his plate. “Why? What is to gain?”
“The Udalyn are the one issue,” Sasha replied, “the one singular thing, upon which all Goeren-yai can agree. They are heroes. They are the very symbol of Goeren-yai pride, courage and the will to survive in the face of advancing foreign religions. Krayliss claims to represent the old ways, and the Udalyn fly that banner far better than he. He dreams of an age long past, before the coming of Verenthanes, when Lenayin was wild and free.”
“And a bloody, barbarian rabble,” said Kessligh, with his usual diplomacy. Sasha knew well enough what Kessligh thought of such romanticism…and of her own undeniable attraction to it.
She shrugged, too wise by now to respond with temper. “Aye,” she said. “Krayliss would bring back those days if he could, the good and the bad. But most Goeren-yai are too smart for that. Lowlands trade is prosperous and many have benefited. So long as Baen-Tar does not attempt to convert them by force or coercion, they care not if the towns all pray to lowlands gods. And so Krayliss grows desperate. He needs the Udalyn. He is the last remaining Goeren-yai lord—although he would style himself as chieftain—and he claims blood ties to Tharyn Askar himself. On such credit does he ask the Goeren-yai of all Lenayin to love him.”
“And now there comes talk of lowlands war,” said Kessligh. There was a note to his voice, and his expression, that Sasha did not like. It suggested a certain exasperation. A dark, brooding disgust. Well…she was disgusted too, by fools like the Rashyds and Kraylisses alike. Yet she doubted if that were the only target of Kessligh's distaste. “To reclaim Verenthane holy lands in the Bacosh, no less. As well invade the moon to reclaim its silver. Bacosh, Torovan, it's all lowlands—Verenthane—and a world away. Folks here aren't interested. And Krayliss seeks an advantage.”
Damon seemed about to reply, but Sasha cut him off. “It's worse than that,” she said with force, somewhat annoyed with her uman for oversimplifying. “Don't you see? Krayliss seeks to turn the entire province of Taneryn down the path of the Udalyn before them. He's killed the Great Lord of Hadryn, that much seems clear. Just as Tharyn Askar, his ancestor, killed Essyn Telgar a century before. He tries to relive old Goeren-yai glories.”
“Taneryn is a province unto itself,” Damon replied, frowning. “The Valley of the Udalyn is entirely within the borders of Hadryn province. Few from outside have even met one of the Udalyn.”
Sasha shrugged. “That only makes the Udalyn legend grow stronger. Damon, Hadryn is powerful. All the northern Verenthane provinces are. Endless battles against Cherrovan incursions, and favourable taxation from Baen-Tar, have made them so. Few other provinces can match them for sheer force of arms, least of all quiet, rustic Taneryn. Most Taneryns know this. For all their bravery, they're not stupid. They won't follow Krayliss to pointless suicide against the armoured cavalry of the north, all for naught but the greater glory of Krayliss himself. They see Krayliss for what he is—a vain, pompous fool, who offers them nothing but rhetoric, poverty and an early grave.
“But that does not mean they will like father's lowlands war any better. And it does not mean they will like having Krayliss removed and a friendly, Verenthane lord appointed by Baen-Tar. Krayliss is a fool, but he is the only Goeren-yai great lord. A people can become desperate, feeling that no one listens to their concerns; that there are none to represent them in the halls of power. If Krayliss gains martyrdom, he could be far more popular in death than he ever managed in life.”
Damon gazed into the fire, considering that. To her left, Sasha saw that Captain Tyrun was considering her with narrowed eyes. Studying her, as if measuring her for something. She found it strangely disconcerting and returned tentative attention to her food. Jaryd said nothing. He seemed little interested in any matter that did not involve tournaments or gossip and offered no opinions.
“Thank you,” Damon said then. “To both of you.” Looking at Sasha, and then at Tyrun. “I shall think on this.”
Kessligh stabbed at the fire once more, raising another cloud of swirling sparks. His expression boded nothing good.
The following morning, the column passed a simple marker indicating the border between Valhanan and Taneryn. The morning was an overcast grey, and a cold wind accompanied the cloud moving in from the east. The road crested a new ridge, ever higher than the last, and Sasha gained her first clear view of the Marashyn Ranges, spreading their dark, jagged line across the rumpled horizon from north to northeast.
The land swelled more steeply here than in Valhanan, with great, dramatic thrusts of hillsides, crowned with sharp ridges, an
d broken with erupting outcrops of dark stone.
The road to Garallyn, the Taneryn capital, was eerily free of travellers. Occasionally at a clearing in the trees there would appear a wooden farmhouse, crossed by fences of wood or stone. But there was no sign of the occupants and all windows and doors remained tightly shut. Returning scouts reported no sign of activity anywhere…until one man came galloping breathlessly along the road and reported the horror that had befallen Perys.
The column made good time then, leaving the road for a horsetrail along an undulating, forested hillside. Sasha rode at Kessligh's rear, heart thumping unpleasantly, in a manner that had little to do with exertion. Perys was the southern-most Taneryn town bordering Hadryn. There were men of Hadryn on the border who had claimed these lands for centuries. And now, it seemed that old dispute had been consumed by something greater.
The horsetrail climbed for some considerable distance, affording the occasional glimpse of valleys and vast hillsides through the trees. Then the ground became level and the trees abruptly ceased, the entire column emerging upon the fringe of traditional Perys farmland. The fields lay wide on an open hillside as the column descended a road that wound between stone paddock walls and small barns. Gates were broken open and livestock roamed free along paths. Smoke rose from the smouldering ruins of several farmhouses.
Sasha stared at the nearest pile of ashen debris and saw hoof marks where brown earth tore through the lush green grass. Horsemen had done this.
Sasha tore her gaze away, allowing Peg an easy rein as she stared downslope. She'd travelled to Taneryn before, but never to Perys, so close to the Hadryn border. It should have been beautiful—the open hillside was vast, divided into lush pasture, dotted with farmsteads and orchard groves, and roamed by livestock. Below, the hillside narrowed to form a long, shoulder ridge with a lovely collection of rustic, wooden buildings—Perys village—occupying the uphill half of the shoulder. Beyond that ridge lay a steep gorge with forested slopes, rugged and beautiful.
There was smoke rising from the village, black and sinister. It scarred the view, a single, dark smudge toward the west, and Hadryn. Now, as the trail cleared an orchard, a new hillside presented a scene that chilled Sasha's heart.
Scattered across a neighbouring field were motionless shapes on the grass. Many carcasses, their blood staining the grass. Sheep, she realised with relief as the column thundered closer, the forward guard displaying the royal banners and the banner of Tyree for all to see. Suddenly Kessligh was pointing off to the left, where something darted behind one low wall, men across the column pulling swords or readying crossbows upon their saddle horns. And then something else became visible behind the near paddock wall that had Damon raising a gloved fist in the air and Captain Tyrun yelling for a halt.
They reined up, as the cry and signal passed back along the line of horsemen, horses tossing and snorting impatiently as one of the forward guard dismounted, weapon drawn, and ran for a look at the bundled rags mostly hidden behind the trailside wall. Whatever he saw caused him to raise one hand and make the Verenthane holy gesture upon throat, heart and lips. Impatient, and trusting Peg's abilities, Sasha urged him into a little jump across a runoff trench, and onto the ledge alongside the stone wall.
Lying in a row upon the far side were ten corpses, bloodied and broken. Men, mostly, Sasha saw past the horror. Several looked very young. And at least two, upon closer inspection, appeared to be women. Sasha stared, as Peg fretted and fought at the reins, smelling blood and knowing what might likely follow. Kessligh swung off Terjellyn's back, leaving his halter in the care of Captain Tyrun, and jogged across to look, gesturing irritably at Sasha to clear her beast away from the wall.
She did so, and suddenly there were cries from behind the wall of an adjoining paddock—villagers were emerging, wrapped in ragged cloaks and shawls. They had seen the banners and were crying for the king. Most appeared to be women, with some children in tow, grieving and wretched. Amidst the foreign sounds of local Taasti, the wails and tears, Sasha heard the only words from the locals that mattered—“Telgar,” “Hadryn” and “Verenthane.”
Sasha caught a glimpse of Master Jaryd's expression, hard with disbelief, muttering something now to Captain Tyrun. Jaryd couldn't believe Verenthanes had done this. For a brief moment, she almost felt sorry for him.
Kessligh stood atop the stone wall by the bodies, looking down at the gruesome wounds, then glancing about the surrounding farmland. Eyes narrowed, as if piecing together the previous day's events in his mind. Then he gazed down toward the little town of Perys below, as village folk wailed and sobbed about his feet.
One of the women noticed him and stared upward with wide, tear-streaked eyes. She gasped and exclaimed something in loud, frantic Taasti. Others came crowding, some exclaiming, others falling to a knee before the vanquisher of the Cherrovan.
“Lenay!” Kessligh demanded. “Who speaks Lenay?”
An old man came forward, his face hidden in bedraggled beard, hunched shoulders wrapped in a shawl. Halting conversation followed, punctuated with gesticulations and pointing. Several villagers clustered about Sasha as she sat astride, one work-worn woman trying to touch her boot, murmuring something Sasha couldn't understand.
Damon came alongside, watching with a concerned frown. “What do they say?” he asked, nodding at the other villagers.
“I don't speak Taasti,” Sasha said shortly, straining her ears to overhear Kessligh's conversation. She did not wish to look down at the woman by her boot, head wrapped in a scarf, her eyes lined with hard work, age, and more fears than any city-bred nobility could possibly understand. Such reverence made her uncomfortable.
“I heard mention of the ‘Great Spirit’,” Damon pressed, his eyes now suspicious. “What is that?”
Sasha shot him a look of disbelief. Damon understood some Taasti? “Kessligh saved these people from the Cherrovan thirty years ago,” she replied. “The legend of the Great Spirit changes from region to region, but it's common among all Goeren-yai. People here think the Great Spirit was Kessligh's spirit guide. Some people call it the Synnich.”
“And what do you think?” Damon asked pointedly.
“I think it's a nice legend,” Sasha said blandly, tired of feeling as though she were on trial all the time.
“You don't believe in the spirits?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You only know that you don't believe in the gods?”
“I said I don't follow them,” Sasha replied with a dark, sideways look. “Whether I believe in them is irrelevant.”
“Not to father it isn't.”
“Aye,” Sasha muttered, “well he's not here, is he?”
Kessligh jumped from the wall and swung back into his saddle. “Hadryn did this,” he said to Damon without preamble. “They're still in the town. They don't appear to be expecting trouble from this direction, doubtless they have the northward approaches covered. I advise we make them pay for the oversight.”
Damon swore beneath his breath, staring away across the rolling, descending hillside, as if searching for inspiration. Villagers crowded about Terjellyn, some sobbing, some pleading. Others approached Peg, Sasha keeping him steady with a shortened length of rein as he started and tossed his head nervously.
“I'll vouch with your father for the necessity,” said Kessligh, his tone hard.
Damon gave him a hard look. “I'm not concerned with that!” With enough temper to assure Sasha that he truly meant it. “But it will be Verenthanes attacking Verenthanes. There will be repercussions.”
“This is a land grab,” Kessligh said firmly. “It's against the king's law. If Hadryn nobility have a problem with Taneryn nobility, it should remain limited to that. This is opportunism—murder—and illegal by your father's own decree. It doesn't get any easier than this.”
Decisions, he meant. Judgments. When to fight, and when to kill. The daily bread of princes and kings. Sasha wondered darkly if Damon would have quite so
many doubts if the men to be fought were Goeren-yai.
“Damn it,” Damon muttered and reined his horse about, signalling to Jaryd and Captain Tyrun. The commands went out from the sergeants, forming companies.
Kessligh pulled Terjellyn as close to Peg's side as possible, considering the villagers. “We'll run the left flank behind Sergeant Garys,” he told her. “Remember you're not armoured, we're running reserve for the front line.”
Sasha nodded, gazing out across the farmland, wondering at the footing and the line. She looked down at the woman by her boot. “Please, mother,” she said, in kindness laced with desperation, “the soldiers are moving. Please move back or you'll be trampled.” She leaned down to grasp the woman's hand, gently. The return grasp was hard, work-hardened fingers clutching like claws.
“I know you, Synnich-ahn,” said the woman, in hoarse, broken Lenay. Her eyes were bloodshot red and her earrings were curling, metal spirals that might denote a spirit talker. Unusual, for a woman. Sasha stared, as her heart skipped a beat. “The line is unbroken, Synnich-ahn. What was once the father's shall pass to the daughter. The time has come.”
The woman moved back with the others, as horses jostled past and large portions of the column broke in different directions, spilling through the shattered gates into broad fields to the left and right. Kessligh took off downslope and Sasha followed, galloping along the winding trail until there was another gate in the left wall, and they turned sharply through it. The open field stretched before them, sloping rightwards, as Sergeant Garys's contingent ran along the upper slope to their left. Kessligh allowed Sasha to pull alongside at a gentle canter, sword out.
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