"Sofy could not hope for a better protector." Sasha touched heels to Peg's flanks and rode to where Tyrun was surveying the scene. She came to Tyrun's side, and the lieutenant he'd been talking with inclined his head in respect. "The honour of Kessligh Cronenverdt rides with you, M'Lady," he said, and rode off to survey the carnage upslope before she could reply.
"Your friend Teriyan warned me you'd try something stupid like that," Tyrun said bluntly.
"Like what?" Sasha snorted. "I was trained to fight and that's what I did."
"In this column," Tyrun replied, utterly unmoved, "you're far more than just another warrior."
"Men aren't riding for me," Sasha retorted. "They're riding to save the Udalyn."
"M'Lady, the only reason a good Verenthane like me is riding in this column is because you're leading it." Sasha frowned at him. "You're my guarantee that this will not be the first blow in a Goeren-yai-Verenthane civil war. You're a symbol to both, and you've ties and loyalties on both sides. If you die, this could become exactly what Lord Krayliss would have made it-a slaughter of Verenthanes by angry Goeren-yai, with horrors to follow across all the land. Please think of that the next time you feel the need to take some needless risk to add one more notch to your belt."
He made sense, Sasha noted. The problem, of course, was that her definition of risk was somewhat different to his. Which was arrogance, obviously… but she couldn't help what she was. And she didn't particularly feel like arguing about it now.
"I'll take it under advisement," she said.
Another man rode down the hill toward them. "Captain, M'Lady," said the man as he arrived-a Black Hammers corporal, Sasha saw. "Twenty-three of us, thirteen dead, ten wounded. Only nine of them, five and four. Several of our scouting parties ahead surprised some and report another twenty enemy dead. Plus they'll be running into hostile villagers as they move along the trails, which will end some more of them, or tie them up. There can't be more than two hundred still harassing us."
"And all of them fanatics," Tyrun said grimly. "They'll grind their horses' legs to bloody stubs before they give us any peace."
"We could divert men to harass them back?" Sasha suggested.
"M'Lady, I'd advise not," Tyrun replied, "ambush tactics in this country only work when your opponent is much less nimble, and when you know where he's going. They have that edge with us, we don't have it with them. We'd arrive at the mouth of the valley in worse shape than if we simply press on and accept the losses."
Another horse arrived at a gallop, Teriyan's red hair flying out behind as he pulled up sharply. "That was bloody Tyrblanc in person," he announced grimly. The blade in his hand was unbloodied. Sasha knew he would be unhappy about that. "I might have had him if he hadn't come through so damn fast. Damn this terrain."
Sasha recalled the proud, bearded man with a wide girth who had competed against Tyree that day on the lagand field.
"Some Banneryd men consider ambush tactics dishonourable," said the corporal. "I've heard Captain Tyrblanc is one who prefers single combat."
"That doesn't mean he's not good at ambushes," Tyrun said grimly. "And for a Banneryd fanatic, honour only applies to contests between equals. Against pagans, they'd slit our throats in the night if they could."
Sasha saw a Royal Guardsman riding downhill toward the vanguard leading a riderless horse. The man's face was contorted with grief. The horse, Sasha recognised, was Lieutenant Alyn's. A lump rose in her throat. It had been her decision to press on along this road, regardless of the startlingly obvious ambush-terrain ahead. Her decision, her responsibility. Alyn had been seeking to reclaim his honour, having been cut from the Royal Guard in disgrace. She hoped fervently that his spirit would consider this, a death in a good cause, to suffice.
"We continue as before," Sasha said quietly. "We came to save the Udalyn. If we must take losses so that we can serve them best, then so we shall. But if we keep getting hit with this regularity, the Hadryn's defences shall be so well set upon our arrival that we may not make it into the valley at all."
Captain Tyrun and the Black Hammers corporal departed. "Where's Andrey?" Sasha asked Teriyan, suddenly anxious.
"We're riding further back," Teriyan replied. "It won't do for M'Lady of the Synnich to have her favourite friends all around her-it looks bad to the other men. I came ahead a bit when I saw this damn slope up ahead… Andrey got caught a little behind."
"Aye," said Sasha, reading gratefully between the lines. "Well, see that the next time it happens, he gets caught a little behind once more."
"Aye to that," Teriyan agreed. His eyes swept across the hillsides, the wounded men, the fallen horses, the screams of pain. "Damn tough business," he muttered, and stared at her hard. "How are you doing?"
He'd never have asked the question of a man, Sasha thought resentfully. She took a deep breath. "Good for now. But I'll be happier when we get to the valley."
Teriyan nodded, and slapped her on the shoulder. "There's a reason I never accepted a soldier's post," he said. "I knew they'd make me an officer, I had it offered to me often enough. I'm brave enough, but I never wanted to make those decisions. You've a damn sight more courage than I have, girl. Hang in there."
He tapped his heels to his mount's sides and moved off through the confusion to find Andreyis. "You had a choice," Sasha murmured to herself, staring up the winding, climbing road ahead through the trees. "I didn't."
Captain Tyrblanc of the Banneryd Black Storm sat on his saddle, and sharpened his blade upon his lap. The moon was high, three-quarters visible and baleful through the branches. It caused his weapon to gleam, catching on the notch mid-length, a bothersome breach of purity. The whetstone clicked passing over it, interrupting the smooth, whistling song of stone on steel. He'd caught it upon the helm of a Royal Guard lieutenant in the charge.
His lips twisted in disdain. Royal Guards. The most overrated soldiers in Lenayin. No northerner had ever sought recruitment in the Royal Guard. That would mean service alongside pagans. Far better to seek glory in the great companies, their names stained in the blood of countless enemies, their ranks free from the defilement of the unworthy. And now, as if further proof were required, there were Royal Guards riding with the traitor-bitch herself.
A rabble if ever he'd seen one. Goat herders from Tyree. Mother-coddled whelps from Rayen. Barbarian animals from Valhanan, home to the traitorbitch. It had been a pleasure to kill them. He prayed for many more such opportunities. The odds were overwhelming and he knew that he and his men would most likely meet their deaths upon this road to Hadryn. It mat tered not. The gods were waiting for them, and they would be honoured in the heavens as heroes. But he would send many pagans down to burn in the fires of Loth in the process and, for now, the certainty of death only made his own glory burn all the brighter.
Two of his men approached, shadows amidst the trees. About the perimeter, men watched from the bushes, invisible to Tyrblanc's eye. The traitors had scouts who could doubtless track his men to this point, particularly given the moon. They would shift camp later, before the moon set behind the hills.
The two men sat opposite, collapsing heavily with stifled groans. The smell of unwashed bodies came clear to Tyrblanc's nostrils. Mail chafed at the shoulders, unmoved since this pursuit had begun. One man removed his helm, and Tyrblanc recognised Corporal Veln in the moon shadow.