He paused, several furrows back from the edge of the orchard, and stood in the stirrups, but the trees were tall and he couldn't see through the branches. After a moment he caught a glimpse of movement on the perimeter…and then, as he peered, a man on a horse, moving sideways, searching the trees. Jaryd readied his arm, steadying his breathing. These men meant to kill him, he had no doubt. His siblings were not here now to restrain their swords.
He thumped the mare's sides and burst from the orchard. The rider reacted with shock and the horse reared, Jaryd cutting past its hooves to lash at the rider's back…only the noble's guard was fast, and steel clashed in defence. Jaryd wheeled, and saw three more coming at him from the left, two from the right…they were yelling, too, drawing others. He plunged back into the orchard, branches tearing at his face and arms, weaving for whatever small gaps he could glimpse through the greenery.
Suddenly there was a horse and rider before him…his mare reared, half colliding with the other horse, whose rider swung hard. Jaryd barely got his sword up in time, but the impact jolted him in the saddle. Swinging branches displaced by the horses snapped back, and the next thing he knew, he was falling, twisting to roll and not fall on his sword. He hit, but the ground was soft, and he rolled fast to avoid the other horse's trampling hooves. He rolled into the base of a tree and scrambled up, looking for the mare…but she was off.
Jaryd tried to run after her, but the other man spun his horse after him. Jaryd leapt sideways into a gap between trees, the horseman not reining up in time and finding no space to manoeuvre as he stopped alongside. Jaryd saw his chance and lunged upward and felt his sword drive home. A shriek from the rider, his horse suddenly fighting a pull on the reins. Jaryd was about to drag the wounded man from the saddle when hooves thundered behind, and he ran instead, having no time to claim the horse.
He ran fast, weaving between trees, hearing the thunder of hooves and the crashing of heavy bodies through branches. At least the others would be away by now, he found time to think-these men were only interested in him. He scrambled beneath heavy branches and put his back to one gnarled trunk, gasping for breath as several horses came past. He glimpsed the glint of drawn swords through the trees. He ran then not for the centre of the orchard, and safety, but downslope…he could hear riders shouting that he was off his horse. They knew he was on foot. No longer would they bother maintaining a perimeter around the orchard. Perhaps if he could find an adjoining fenceline, he could crouch low and run, and they'd never see him…
He reached the eastern edge of the orchard and crouched, staring across the open, recently ploughed field. No fencelines. No irrigation trenches, no hedge rows. He'd have to head back upslope to the road. Or…he crouched lower as hooves thundered nearby. Then a horse crashed into the open field, barely five trees upslope, and cut directly past him. His rider did not see.
Jaryd moved fast, took four running steps and slashed with his sword before the rider could respond. The sword cut deep, the rider clutching his side, reins pulling the horse around in a tight circle. He fell, a horrid, shoulder-first thump upon the turf, and rolled, finally losing the horse's reins. Jaryd ran for the horse, but already there were hooves thundering behind…he grabbed the dangling reins, but the horse shied away, making him grab again. The hooves behind were too close, and he spun, seeing another rider coming down on him fast, blade drawn. The riderless horse scampered away, Jaryd running after, as much to use its bulk as a shield than to grab the reins. The attacking rider came past, too far out, and wheeled, losing all speed before a new charge.
Jaryd ran straight at him, coming in low, blade first. Warhorses hated that when they weren't running. This one reared, and Jaryd feinted left, then ducked right, and cut up at the right-handed rider from his weaker left side-the harder, low angle to defend from the saddle. The rider's desperation saved him, his blade slashing hard downward, deflecting the blow…thus exposing an arm low, which Jaryd grabbed and dropped his entire bodyweight onto. The rider crashed from the saddle, face down on the turf.
Jaryd came up fast, ready for the finishing blow. The other rider half rose, holding an arm awkwardly, face dirty where it had planted the turf…and Jaryd recognised Rhyst Angyvar, blond hair, cut face and all. “You again,” he observed. “Do you need another twenty men in support before you'd dare try and take me?”
Rhyst scrambled back cringing, blade wavering in panicked defence. “Help!” he screamed. “Somebody help me!” More hooves were thundering from several directions. Both riderless horses had galloped off in fear. Jaryd was tired of hiding in the orchard. He turned to meet the nearest horseman, blade at the ready…and saw that this horse was coming at him from across the open field, not the orchard. On its back was Sofy, hair and skirts streaming in the wind. And now, she was actually slowing, leaning down with one arm as she'd surely seen cavalry practise…only she hadn't taken her near boot out of her stirrup. Dear lords.
Jaryd sheathed his sword fast, took several running steps as she slowed alongside, and ignored her arm entirely, not wanting to pull her slight weight from the saddle. He leaped, and grabbed the saddle horn between her legs, and the rear side, and somehow managed to drag himself half onto the galloping animal's back. A further struggle, his face buried against Sofy's waist, and he got a leg over, grabbing Sofy and the saddle horn to pull himself into position behind, as they cut downhill alongside the orchard. And here ahead, another rider was coming past them on the left, sword ready for a backhand cut that would take both their heads off with one stroke.
“Down!” Jaryd roared, shoving her forward onto her horse's neck with his left hand, drawing with his right and smashing the stroke away just in time. Sofy recovered, steering them around as Jaryd held her about the middle with his left arm, his right free to ward off anyone else who tried to kill them. A glance back showed the man who'd nearly decapitated them was slow in recovering, holding his jarred right arm.
“Where the hells is Teriyan?” He shouted, trying to keep Sofy's hair from his face. “He was supposed to look after you!” It angered him that she should risk herself so. It angered him worse that he was the cause of it.
“We…” Sofy seemed breathless. Jaryd realised that that would be the first time anyone had swung a blade at her. “Another two men chased us!” she replied, finally, when she had enough breath. “We separated from Ryssin and Byorn, but then these two chased us…Teriyan killed one, but the other was persistent…I thought you might be in trouble, so I thought I'd come back!”
“You stupid girl, you're worse than your sister! You're a princess, you can't risk yourself for me! What were you thinking?!”
“Hey listen, boy,” she retorted, “if I hadn't, you'd be dead! I'd quit while I'm ahead if I were you!” Jaryd blinked. He hadn't exactly been expecting her to burst into tears at his rebuke, but he hadn't expected that.
Abruptly he laughed, hysterically, and gave a whoop. It was good to be alive. He hugged her close with his left arm, for which he had plenty of excuse, because balance was hardly easy on the back of her saddle.
A glance over his shoulder showed at least four riders in pursuit, though none was terrifyingly close. Well ahead, beyond the wall of the next field, he saw the small figure of another rider. This one had long red hair and a drawn blade. Jaryd waved him on harshly, shouting at him to move on-no doubt the big warrior was mortified at having lost the princess, whatever the threat to his own life. (Though it seemed the second man pursuing him had met an ill fate as well. Perhaps, Jaryd thought, he'd underestimated Teriyan's skill on horseback.)
Teriyan took off, though Jaryd doubted he'd go far-probably just to clear the way ahead. But he was heading too far along…Jaryd was pretty sure he knew a better way.
“Down here,” he said, pointing with his sword down toward the stream on their right. “There's a shallow crossing here, I think, and then a trail beyond it.”
“Don't point that thing everywhere around me,” Sofy retorted, turning them right. “It's unner
ving.”
Jaryd grinned. “Listen, Princess Cavalryman, the next time you come in for a fast pickup, leave me a stirrup, huh? How the hells am I supposed to get into the saddle without a stirrup?”
“Damn!” Sofy exclaimed. “I was certain I'd missed something…I've only seen them do it a few times!” She tugged at her dress about the saddle horn-it was riding rather high up one leg, Jaryd noticed. “One thing's for certain, I'll never make fun of Sasha's fashion choices ever again! This dress is trying to get me killed!”
As they approached the stream, Jaryd grasped her more tightly. “Ease up! Ease up!” As Sofy tugged back on the reins. “Not too much, don't walk or they'll catch us! Just there, now…” The horse cantered into the stream and spray went everywhere. Then they were coming out the other side. “Good, now go!” Sofy kicked with her heels.
“Left!” said Jaryd in her ear. “Stay on the bank. Now, see the break in the trees past this big vertyn?”
“I see it!”
“Turn right there, there's a trail!”
Sofy turned and then they were galloping up a narrow path through the trees. Already, the land was beginning to rise. Jaryd looked around but saw nothing behind…the pursuers had fallen back. Probably their horses were the more tired-to have made that intersection in such rapid time from Algery would have required a flat-out gallop. “Slow down a little, there's some sharper corners here!”
Their own horse was tiring and frothing wet with sweat, but it wasn't far now. After a time on the winding trail, the path dipped and Sofy slowed further to take them down into a little fold in the forested hillside. Here ran a stream.
“Straight ahead!” said Jaryd, pointing up the stream. Sofy kicked the horse to a canter along the stream bed, water erupting in their wake. It was rocky in places, but Sofy steered them onto the bank, and, further up, took them skilfully over a fallen, mossy tree trunk. Then, on the left, there was flat bedrock along the stream bank.
“This one?” Sofy asked. She'd heard enough tales of pursuits and hunts, Jaryd reckoned, to know what was up.
“No, there's plenty more,” said Jaryd. “Let's confuse them.” Sure enough, they passed several more spots where bedrock met the stream bank. At one such, Jaryd finally directed them left and out of the stream. The horse's hooves left no trace on the rock that any but an expert tracker would see. Then they were riding uphill, twisting through the dense forest. After a long period of climbing, Jaryd was finally convinced that their pursuers were no longer on their trail.
They rested the horse for a moment by a small stream, allowing the tired beast a long drink while Jaryd checked it for injury. Sofy watched, standing close behind, curious to learn more.
“How far do you think we are from Teriyan and the others?” she asked, tugging at her dress in some discomfort.
“Not far. They'll be heading up one of these ridges too. Hopefully we'll find them ahead.” He replaced the horse's right foreleg to the ground, content that the shoe fit well and no stones were caught beneath. “Why did you come back for me? Seriously?”
“Seriously?” Sofy repeated, with some incredulity. “How can you ask ‘seriously’? All of you heroic young men with delusions of grandeur, taking ridiculous risks whenever there's a woman around…I thought you were going to get yourself killed, and I was right!”
Jaryd straightened and stretched an aching shoulder. And he almost surprised himself when he smiled, a little cockily, and said, “In my case, Your Highness, they're not delusions.”
Sofy half gaped at him. From the old Jaryd Nyvar, such a statement would have been expected. But from the new, the humour had been rare. Something had changed. Jaryd was not entirely sure what. Well, he had a journey back to Baerlyn to think about it. With Sofy.
“The biggest annoyance with this whole thing,” Sofy remarked, her eyes lively, “is that I'm not going to be able to tell anyone about how I saved your life! Probably I'm going to have to deny I was ever here!”
“Half the Falcon Guard know you were there,” Jaryd replied. “No stopping those rumours once soldiers start them.”
“True.” Sofy seemed pleased at that.
“And you'll have this vicious red scar to explain,” said Jaryd, indicating her cheek.
“Is it really that bad?” she asked in dismay. “I thought it just stung a little.” She felt at it with her fingers.
“Let me look.” Jaryd peered close. Very close. He was half aware of what he was doing, the old, reckless reflexes kicking in. He knew it was stupid, but he had to test the reaction. He had to see…had to see if what she felt was like…
As he peered, he could feel Sofy's breath on his face. She smelled sweet. Her eyes were fixed on him, her breath tight, her body suddenly rigid. He hadn't really expected that. Or maybe he had. Or maybe…somewhere in the midst of his indecision, their lips touched. She tasted sweet too. The force of it stunned him. She was just a girl, really, and not even his type anyway. And he'd had women who were…well, who were…but it was no good, he couldn't think straight, and his heart was thudding like a wild thing.
His hands went to her back, and he kissed her more deeply and passionately than he'd ever kissed any woman before. Sofy's hands were against him, clutching as if in indecision. She made a low moan, that might have been protest, and might have been something else entirely. But her body pressed close, and then her hands were at his back, clutching his shirt, pulling him closer. It seemed to go on forever. The way it felt, that would have suited Jaryd fine. Only now, his hands were wanting more, a reflex slide on the back of her dress, searching for a lace. Wondering what the smooth white skin beneath would feel like, bare beneath his hand. Wondering what her body would feel like, pressed skin to skin with his own.
They parted. And stared at each other, clutching to each other's arms. Sofy's lovely eyes were big and dark, wide with hungry disbelief. Slowly, her fingertips went to her lips, as if savouring the memory of the kiss. And, perhaps, in a gesture of simple shock. Sofy, who was betrothed to the heir of Larosa. Sofy, upon whose marriage a great war hung, and the fate of multiple civilisations. Sofy, who was staring at him now in the realisation that all of these things, however difficult they'd been before, had just become enormously more complicated still.
“Oh dear lords,” she murmured. “We're really in trouble now, aren't we?”
Rhillian strode the dock as a cold wind gusted off the ocean and the boats heaved and tossed at their moorings. Grey clouds hung low, foretelling an end to summer. Halrhen and Shathi walked at her sides, serrin from the three Saalshen trading ships at anchor in the harbour, the last refuge of Saalshen on this bleak, forsaken shore. Halrhen cradled Aisha, half conscious and in pain, barely larger than a child in the big man's arms.
Smoke swirled across the debris-strewn and puddled pavings, and the stink of burning flesh. Pyres lined the dockside, at least fifteen, with several more under construction, piled high with the wood from half-demolished buildings. What little oil Dockside possessed was being spent to dispose of thousands of corpses, before disease set in. Raggedy men and women worked in groups, piling bricks to form a retaining wall, then hauling bodies by the cartload. Men wrapped themselves in dirty old cloth and leather to ward the blistering flames, wrestling stiff bodies onto the blaze. Priests and caratsa blessed the cartloads of stiffening corpses with holy water and prayers, mouths and noses covered with cloth to ward the smoke and smell.
They needed pits, but there were none on Dockside-the dead were normally disposed of at Angel Bay, but passage across Sharptooth remained treacherous as some of the Riverside mob continued to haunt the alleyways. There had been some suggestion that fishermen could haul boatloads of corpses out to sea and dump them, but the boats were needed for fishing, spare men to sail them were few and far between, and the winds now prevailed onshore, not only making sailing difficult but threatening to blow the terrible cargo back onto the docks regardless, all bloated and floating.
The uniform line of Dockside buildings
was broken in places, where a blackened hole appeared, and a pile of collapsed masonry and charred wooden beams. Men and women climbed amongst the ruins, collecting valuables or anything salvageable. The dock markets had reappeared, stalls hawking wares amidst the carnage and smoke. People needed to eat and life went on. Rhillian knew that they would rebuild-humans had been killing and destroying each other's civilisations for as long as serrin had been recording their history, and yet the sum total of humanity never ceased its upward march. Once, she might have found some admiration for their tenacity. Now, she saw only bleak futility. They regenerated like rabbits, or like weeds. They needed to destroy each other, it was how they progressed, from one era to the next, in successive waves of creative obliteration. Serrin had thought to try to restrain this impulse in humans, to control it, to teach them better. Now, she saw it was pointless. This was what they were, and to wish it otherwise was to teach wolves to eat cabbage, or deer to lust red meat. She'd come to Petrodor three years ago, with dreams of finding a symmetry between humans and serrin. But humans and serrin, as Kiel had always warned, were fundamentally incompatible. Now, there was only survival.
They turned onto a pier as frothing waves rushed against the pylons below. Masts waved back and forth, and rigging whipped and clacked against the sail arms. Then Rhillian heard footsteps thumping on the pier planks behind. She turned.
“Errollyn,” she announced to the others, for warning. They kept walking. Rhillian fell several steps back, but did not stop.
“Rhillian.” Errollyn seemed out of breath. “Where are you taking Aisha?”
“Out to a ship, where else?” Rhillian said coldly. She did not look at him.
“You can't just grab her without telling anyone!” He was upset. “I didn't know where she was! I thought she'd been kidnapped, or-”
“She is serrin,” said Rhillian, “and she belongs with serrin. We're taking her home.”
“You asked her?”
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