Sasha nodded. She had no idea what she would do. Panic seized her, but she had to push on. She could not sit in the rear and watch.
She and Markan led one hundred Isfayen across the stream, then along the bank, past farmhouses and over paddock walls. Away from the stream the land grew higher, and Sasha liked the look of that vantage. They came upon a good road leading up that way from a bridge across the stream, and Sasha guessed it would lead somewhere worth attacking. She waved them onto the road, and galloped up the slope.
Soon, she saw smoke rising ahead. It was a town, larger than the rest, nestled beneath a forested ridge. Sasha waved them off the road and into the forest. It was not hard for a Lenay to find the ridgeline, and she wove her horse through wet undergrowth, climbing all the while. Soon she had them in a line upon the ridge overlooking the town. As the Isfayen horses stopped, she could hear fighting.
This was the fighting of warriors, not of Larosan knights massacring helpless villagers. She could see horses darting through the fields about the town, wheeling in groups, evading and never quite engaging with larger formations of Larosan cavalry.
“Talmaad,” Markan observed. “If you listen, you can hear Larosans dying.” There was respect in his voice.
“The whole town's a trap,” Sasha replied. “They were waiting for the Larosans to hit it. But two can play at that.”
“I guess perhaps sixty talmaad,” said Markan. “Perhaps seventy. We are a hundred.”
“Markan, I want prisoners. We have the heights, we can capture some….”
“Those are our allies being killed down there,” Markan said blandly. “Are we not to aid them in full?”
“Dammit, Markan, our allies are burning the town and killing any remaining villagers-you just said that was dishonourable!”
“Dishonourable for Isfayen,” Markan corrected. “As it's also dishonourable to abandon a sworn ally to death by not attacking in support.”
“Markan,” Sasha said in desperation, “just do what I say. Your riders are not my men to command, but these are serrin and I know them.” Markan studied her, his dark eyes unreadable. “Take forty men and go straight down this ridge. Make a line so they will see you. They'll not engage another forty men, they'll run, straight for the heaviest trees in the valley yonder. Bacosh heavy cavalry cannot manage those trees, but we can.”
Markan continued studying her. “If they shoot any more of my men,” he warned, “I will not show them mercy.”
“If we trap them in the valley, prepare to stop beyond their range.”
Markan nodded and turned to shout orders. Sasha urged her horse on along the ridge, and heard many hooves following. The ridge plunged down into the valley beyond the town, but the slope was not difficult. Upon the valley floor, a small stream flowed between huge, thick trees. Sasha formed her sixty riders across the narrow valley in several ranks, a barrier solid enough to stop any cavalry less heavy than lowlands knights. Then she waited.
Water dripped from leaves high above. Mist hung in the valley air, making ghostly shadows of dark, reaching boughs. An Isfayen rider at Sasha's side made a spirit sign to his forehead, as did several others. Spirits lived here. She heard hooves and a high, keening cry in a foreign tongue. A Saalsi dialect, Sasha reckoned, a communication between riders.
A single serrin rider raced from the mist, then scrambled to a sliding halt beside the stream. The rider stared wide-eyed at the barrier confronting her, then put heels to her horse and raced back the way she'd come, hollering in that high, lilting dialect.
“They shall go around us,” said an Isfayen. “The valley sides are not steep, and their horses are nimble.”
“They know we are Lenay,” Sasha replied. “They know we do not attack. Sometimes, serrin just know.”
The Isfayen looked at her oddly. Perhaps it was the mist, and the eerie echoes, but all of those that heard her made spirit signs once more. They called her the Synnich, the oldest and most deadly of the Lenay spirits. Perhaps they thought she summoned the serrin, who were spiritlike themselves, using ageless powers. Well, perhaps she did.
The next serrin to appear were trotting, not galloping. Sasha counted twenty, but there were surely more behind. They stopped no more than fifty paces away, well within arrow range. All the serrin had bows strung and arrows nocked, yet they did not draw. The Isfayen watched them, swords ready.
For a moment, the two lines regarded each other in the silence of the valley. Then a serrin rider moved forward. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, yet it was a Petrodor hat, not of the Bacosh fashion. Beneath the brim were emerald green eyes, narrowed with a deadly intensity.
Rhillian.
Sasha also rode forward. She knew that Rhillian felt responsible for the threat that she, Sasha, represented to Saalshen. Rhillian had befriended her, then failed to kill her when they had become enemies. She had sworn to eliminate all of Saalshen's enemies, particularly those as formidable as Sasha. She had promised herself never to be so soft again, whatever it cost her soul. One signal from Rhillian, and Sasha would be feathered with arrows. Sasha could see the temptation in Rhillian's eyes. The intensity. The conflict.
Rhillian drew her blade and gestered to the ground. Single combat? Sasha couldn't quite believe her old friend now hated her that much.
Sasha drew her own blade and dismounted. She walked forward, testing the wet, leafy ground beneath her boots. Rhillian also approached. Did she wish to die? They both knew Sasha was better. Nothing was certain in combat, but in sparring, Sasha would back herself three times out of four against Rhillian, perhaps more. Rhillian knew. Sasha could see that in her eyes as well.
They stopped. Blades poised, in a hush as though every living thing in the valley now paused, and considered the many fates that had collided to make this moment finally come. Sasha took a deep breath. The scene was beautiful. The misty valley, her brave Isfayen at her back. Rhillian herself, still the most lovely face she had ever seen. The spirits were watching. This would be a good place to die.
She lowered the blade to her side, and closed her eyes.
Time passed. Too much time. She opened her eyes once more, and found Rhillian standing directly before her, and no blade between them. Her impossible green eyes were shimmering. She put a hand to Sasha's cheek.
They embraced, desperately hard, and sobbed in each other's arms. Sasha lost control of her legs, and they sank to their knees, locked together with a grip like steel. The spirits of the valley watched, and knew that all the will of kings and priests and gods could not part them. Love carved its own path, and made its own fate. About them, Isfayen and serrin cheered alike, as though the war were already won.
Isfayen and talmaad retreated to a forested hilltop not far from the valley, with a view back toward the stream. There, amidst cautious scenes between wary humans and serrin, Sasha sat on a fallen log with Rhillian alongside, and Markan standing by them both.
“What now?” Markan asked shortly.
Rhillian and Sasha looked at each other, and suppressed grins. Annoyingly, Sasha had to wipe at her eyes once more. She felt as though she could breathe properly for the first time in what seemed like an age. As though some crushing weight had lifted. War and suffering beyond measure lay ahead, but for the first time in a long while, life itself felt good.
“I'm sorry about your hair,” Sasha said. Rhillian wore her hat at her back, held by a lace at her collar. Rhillian turned her head, to show Sasha the diagonal cut at the back.
“Look how precise it is,” said Rhillian. “You swing a blade like no one else I know.” Sasha reached a hand to examine the cut with her fingers.
“I'm glad you ducked,” she said. They were both struggling not to cry again. Markan cleared his throat.