Sasha (71 page)

Looking about, Sasha saw Errollyn unstringing his bow and sliding it back beneath his leg—the top half bore a deep cut, and clearly would not take the weight of a full draw. He pulled his blade instead. Nearby also were Tassi and Terel. She could not see Aisha, but had no time to worry about that now. Ahead, the remaining riders were clearing—the dussieh-riders toward Sasha's line, the Hadryn back toward the north. There was indeed a Hadryn line forming…yet it was disorganised and chaotic, stretching wide across the fields and fractured in places. It was blocked by wheeling mobs of riders and appeared to be mostly comprised of infantry in the middle. Here was a chance, but it was quickly fading. They had to form up fast. Too long, and the Hadryn defensive line would become an impenetrable wall of armoured men and cavalry, against which her exhausted, lighter cavalry would dash themselves like waves upon a cliff.

She stood in her stirrups and half-turned. “Through the centre!” she yelled. “Get those infantry! Split them down the middle and they'll run like sheep!”

Officers repeated the order, and yells echoed further out toward the flanks. Sasha waited for three repeats, and charged. Peg heaved himself tiredly into a gallop, great limbs now heavy where they had once been sprightly. There was fear in his every sinew, his eyes rolling, his ears far back …and yet he ran straight toward that shield-fronted line that bristled with sharp things that cut, simply because she asked him to. Sasha loved him as much at that moment as she had ever loved anything.

A sudden burst of wind tore across the fields, whipping the grain ahead of the racing line. It howled into the Hadryn, as horses whinnied and reared, and the front ranks of infantry hid their heads behind their shields to keep the swirling debris of hoof-torn grain from their eyes. The Hadryn cavalry tried to charge, uneven and ragged. The infantry stood firm, crouched behind their shields. Suddenly the air was full of whistling arrowfire, men and horses to the flanks and rear falling. The shields raced closer, a wall like any fence, and Peg simply leapt, straight over their heads.

He came down in their midst, men trying to scatter, hooves plowing into bodies as soldiers were flung spinning like tops on all sides, others diving flat for cover…Peg lost balance as he tried to gather, front legs flailing as he hit another several men, Sasha riding the saddle down with a desperate grip. He hit and rolled with incredible force, Sasha felt herself flying, colliding with something hard, then rolling instinctively with arms over her head as the forest of hooves descended upon her with an earth-shaking roar. Hooves struck near, steel met steel, and then flesh, a body falling, spattering her with blood.

She risked a look up as the rear of her formation cut through what infantry remained standing. She could not see Peg—a relief, since he was not lying dead or wounded, but a concern, as she was now more or less alone, and afoot, with enemy all around. She stumbled to her feet, gasping at the pain of her left shoulder. There were bodies lying about, some still moving, limbs broken from impacts, or mail torn by blades. Some were running, trying to reform in small groups, others picking themselves up off the ground, as the battle continued all around.

An infantryman came at her from the side—shield and spear. She saw the unusual combination with disdain, knocking the thrust aside and reversing for the wielder's head. The shield intervened, but her serrin steel cut halfway through the wood, meeting the helm with force enough to knock him over. Her shoulder blazed with pain, but another two were coming at her…a straggling dussieh-rider cut one down from behind, reining about as he realised who was in trouble. Sasha feinted the remaining man, danced back as he slashed at her, took his sword arm on the down stroke, and tore him open with the reverse.

There were horses racing through now, hurdling bodies, Hadryn and rebels in mutual pursuit. Terel came galloping, sending an infantryman spinning with a flashing blade, a Falcon Guardsman riding wide to guard his approach. Sasha switched the blade to her left hand, indicating she wished him on the right—but Terel pointed urgently behind her. She spun and saw a pair of Hadryn cavalrymen charging straight for her.

She feinted left, then dove right across the leader's path, rolling under his whistling blade as he somehow made that backhand reverse with amazing skill…and came to a crouch directly in the second rider's line. She swung, falling backward as blade met blade in defence…the shock nearly tore the weapon from her hands, no sooner falling than Terel met that man in full charge and fairly cut him in half. Sasha stumbled to her feet, her shoulder screaming, the blade strangely light in her hand, which she put down to the jarring numbness of impact…until she realised that her blade had shattered midway from the hilt.

She threw the hilt away as Terel came back, grabbed his hand with her good arm and swung up behind him. He galloped immediately for the rear, heading away from the fighting, swerving to avoid some intervening clashes as Sasha clutched to his middle and fought the urge to try and steer. Dear spirits, she
hated
being a passenger.

“Where's my horse?” she yelled at Terel. “Where's Peg?” Terel did not bother to reply to a question he had no hope of answering. The guardsman raced protectively to one side and Sasha hunted around for Errollyn, but could not find him. That scared her. No Errollyn, no Aisha. She heard a new round of bloodthirsty yelling and then some of the reserve was charging back the other way—perhaps a hundred horse, and desperate to get into the action.

Terel stopped in the middle of a field of grain, his horse heaving desperately for air. The racket of battle continued behind, but now, there were horns blowing. The Hadryn retreat. They were pulling back.

“They need to stop,” Sasha gasped, realising suddenly that she was shaking all over. “We…we need to tell them! Someone tell them, pull back! We must preserve strength!”

“I'll tell them,” the guardsman said grimly and galloped his poor, frothing horse back toward the fray. Sasha felt Terel's muscles twitch, the reflex to follow.

“Go help him,” she said. “I'll get off.”

“No,” said Terel, putting a hand on her leg. “Stay. I can't leave you here alone.”

They must have been winning, Sasha reckoned, because there were officers backing off and watching the battle with the confidence of soldiers seeing their enemies flee. The guardsman arrived beside those officers and pointed back toward Sasha. One put a horn to his lips and blew the reform. Horns duelled in the darkening sky, and the cries and yells of men also began to change pitch, seeking now to instruct and organise.

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 anticlimax. 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.