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Chapter Thirty-Four



Two days after they’d followed a winding stream across Crimatha’s uncertain border into scattered farms and copses, S’ythreni gestured for Druadaen and the others to halt. She reined in her horse, shielded her eyes, and pointed ahead. As Druadaen stood in his stirrups to get a better view of the forested hills that were rising into view over the horizon, she offered a confident announcement: “Smoke.”

Druadaen prided himself on having keen eyes, and he was sure that Ahearn’s were at least a match for his own. But when no one else was able to detect what she clearly could, S’ythreni smiled crookedly and told them: “Trust me.”

Druadaen nodded, glanced at Ahearn. “It’s still a long ride off if we can’t see it, but we should not assume that whoever lit that fire hasn’t moved closer since doing so.”

Padrajisse urged her horse forward to stand with theirs, agreeing with a curt nod. “If the fire has been burning for a day or more, those who set it may only be a few leagues in front of us now.” She glanced at Ahearn, her gaze as intent and expectant as a falcon’s.

He nodded. “Very well. Time for a meal, then. No fire, though. S’ythreni, you keep an eye on the horses, yeh?”

S’ythreni started grumbling about having to watch over the horses yet again. Which was ironic, since she clearly preferred the company of animals to that of humans. But then again, nothing could compete with her fondness for the one thing she embraced at every possible opportunity: griping.

“I’ll see to the horses,” Druadaen said to S’ythreni. “You should rest.”

She turned a surprised smile upon him, patted the nose of her mount, began poking around in her saddlebags for some of the biscuits and smoked meat they’d brought from Treve.

The routines of leading the mounts down to the stream, checking their shoes, and making sure they didn’t graze on sourgrass were calming, familiar. The south of Crimatha reminded him of the wilder parts of the Connæaran border. Broad-leafed trees vied with firs to dominate the forests. Meadows rolled like green carpets toward hillocks at almost every point of the compass. Sweetgrass was the rule and sourgrass the rarity. Flocks moved like wooly clouds through glens before drifting up their slopes.

Those pleasant vistas had begun ten leagues north of the border and ran on until flattening into the storied Aswyth Plain. That was where Talshane’s guide had bid them safe travels and turned about to begin collecting new advice pouches along the main road back to Treve.

It was hard to envision the broad, overgrown Aswyth Plain as the site of great battles that had ultimately restored rights to commoners and become the foundation of the realm of Steelring: the ancient name for the mountain-girdled western extents of South Omthrye. As centuries passed, time and strife had caused Steelring to contract back into the coastal province from which it had originally grown: Crimatha. And as the high-water mark of human settlement receded, the once-extensive farmlands and cities of Aswyth Plain became a great sward once again. It was now dominated by wooded vales and sun-bleached remains of castles and capitols, protruding up from the ground like the time-rounded teeth of buried gods.

“’Ey now, Dunarran! What’s got you lost in daydreams? Remembering books or finding giants?”

Druadaen started at Ahearn’s merry cry, gathered the reins of the horses and led them back.

The group was standing in a line, staring at the horizon. The fire that only S’ythreni’s eyes had been able to pick out was now ominously visible. “Well,” she said with forced brightness, “that certainly doesn’t look promising.”

Then she glanced at Druadaen and rolled her eyes histrionically. “Wait! What am I saying? Actually, since we’re trying to find giants, that looks very promising.” A beat. “Because we’re all insane.”

* * *

Just over an hour later, they spied a scattered group moving toward them at a steady trot. Along with the others, Druadaen’s hand went toward his weapon. But S’ythreni shook her head: “Don’t bother.”

The reason for her diffidence became clear soon enough; the approaching figures were not Bent, but farm families, carrying the belongings that practicality or attachment dictated they could not leave behind. Upon spying Druadaen and the others, they came to a halt, then surged forward again, shouting, waving their arms desperately.

“As if we don’t see them,” S’ythreni muttered, which earned a stern look from Padrajisse.

The refugees started crying out as they came closer:

“Where have you come from?”

“Were you sent by the Crown?”

“How many more of you are there?”

“They’re right behind us!”

That last comment earned a squint-eyed assessment of the horizon by S’ythreni, who concluded it with a shake of her head.

Only Ahearn and Padrajisse seemed to expect what came next: the close crush of almost five dozen desperate, exhausted people, several of whom started weeping spontaneously. One or two made abortive grabs for the group’s saddle-slung weapons, raging at the Bent who’d destroyed their homes, vowing to avenge family, friends, and in some cases, pets and even possessions.

Those who had lost family and friends were ominously the least loud yet the most focused. Druadaen was quite certain that, had those particular refugees been furnished with weapons, they would have immediately headed back toward the sites of atrocity. They no longer feared for their own lives; their eyes mutely proclaimed that they had accepted—perhaps welcomed—their own death as the price of slaking their thirst for vengeance.

Others attempted to hand up bribes, messages, even wailing toddlers…until one thin, towheaded boy pointed at Umkhira and shouted, “Bent! Bent! They ride with Bent!”

The crowd surged back as impulsively as it had swamped them. But now, fear was growing. And on a few faces, Druadaen watched as their desperate rage at the murderous raiders behind them was transferred to the small group of riders that they handily outnumbered. One of them, reddening with fury, drew a dagger, started forward—

Padrajisse lifted her sword sharply; dazzling white light blazed forth from it, blinding despite the daylight.

The boldest of the rage-fixated refugees stopped. The rest shrank back, and the fear in their eyes was not at the threat of imminent death, but divine wrath.

“Hear me!” Padrajisse cried—and it seemed certain that even the deaf would have heard; some unseen invocation had made her voice as loud and piercing as a thunderclap. She stared around, as severe as a graven image, until even the children stopped whimpering. “We are here to help, not harm. But we are not here in answer to a summons. We were traveling upon Aswyth Plain on our own business.”

“You’re not sent by the Crown?” a voice wailed in despair.

“We are not, but we presume to act with the blessings of King Arvanak. Among us are allies of Crimatha—Corrovani and Dunarran—who shall ensure that swift justice falls upon the necks of your attackers. Now: Who among you has served in the hosts of King Arvanak?”

Two men raised their hands.

Padrajisse appraised them solemnly, unrushed, and then asked the younger, “You—and only you: tell me the nature of the Bent that attacked you, and their numbers.”

The man breathed deeply and stared at the ground, hands on hips. Druadaen had the impression that it might have been the first time since fleeing his farm that he’d had the time or presence of mind to reflect on what had actually occurred. “It were yaps, Sacrista, maybe fifty of ’em. I saw a few kaghabs, too, I think. Mighta been the yaps’ captains; might just have been there to share in the loot.”

Padrajisse frowned in response to this news. “I do not know these breeds of Bent.”

Umkhira spoke loudly, as if daring any to challenge her right to do so or her identity as one of their rescuers. “These ‘yaps’ call themselves hyek, and while Bent, are not an urzhen species. Kaghab is the common word for kagh gaban. They are large relatives of the ur gaban and are fearful in battle.”

“I can attest to that,” Elweyr muttered. “I saw one tear a wheel off a cart with his bare hands.”

The older of the two soldiers hobbled toward Umkhira, the long run having apparently taken a heavy toll on his joints. “And what manner of Bent would you be, then?” he asked. “Darger, maybe?”

Druadaen tensed; he saw Ahearn holding his breath. But Umkhira regarded the man with a curious frown. “Are you unaware that we ur zhog consider that term a slur?”

“A slur?” He was genuinely confused. “You’d prefer HalfBent?”

She sighed, clearly resigned to accept that he used the term out of ignorance, not malice. “I am ur zhog; a Lightstrider.”

He blinked, then shook his head. “Well, y’are whatever y’say y’are, I suppose. Me, I’ve never heard of your kind. But if ye’re here to help us, then ye’re welcome as the rest of your band.” He sized them up, frowned dubiously. “How long do you think it will be before the king’s host gets here?”

“That,” intruded Padrajisse, “will depend upon how soon you cross the border and send word. In the meantime, we shall learn the precise numbers of the Bent and both injure and delay them, if our numbers are sufficient for that task.”

“Where’s the army when we need ’em?” shouted a wild-eyed woman clutching two children.

“Until they know they are needed, they are where you’d expect: in their garrisons. Although many of Crimatha’s forces have been fighting against raiders that have roved along both sides of the Landskye border.”

A dour man shook his head. “Ah, they get all the help, up there.”

Which, to Druadaen’s ear, was simply a local version of the universal gripe heard in every corner of every kingdom: that the Crown paid less attention (and yet sent more tax collectors) to their own region than any other. But in this case, the complaint was singularly ironic; the locals had yet to declare allegiance to King Arvanak. Druadaen held up a hand. “In advance of help, we must achieve what we can. And our greatest need is to learn whatever we can about the attackers.”

“They’re Bent,” said the fellow who had reported their type and numbers. “What more do you need to know?”

“Can you tell us where they came from?”

“The Thurial Mountains,” answered another. “The tribal markings were on their shields.”

“And are they more likely to attack at this time of year?”

“Bent are likely to attack at every time of the year,” muttered a very flushed man of considerable girth.

A woman with a shock of white hair and sky-blue eyes shook her head. “No, Jeram. It’s not common to see yaps before the first crops are in. Makes me wonder—” And she was suddenly silent, looking down.

When she did not resume, Ahearn called to her, “What do you wonder, Grandmother? Don’t be keeping secrets from us, now!”

She ducked her head, shook it once.

Druadaen saw that most of the refugees had also directed their attention elsewhere. Anywhere but upon the group, in fact. “Did something unusual happen before the hyek fell upon you?” he asked.

The old woman looked up, scanned the people around her. “Will none of you say?”

“Please tell us,” Druadaen urged.

The older man who’d asked if Umkhira was a darger shrugged. “If we tell you, you’ll turn tail, sure as I’m breathing.”

“Try us,” drawled S’ythreni. “You have no idea just how foolhardy we can be.”

“Well, last moonphase, several of us lost sheep, goats, pigs.”

“To what?”

“Well, it’s not like we ever saw ’em. They came at night, y’see.”

“Aye, an’ what else would leave such a footprint?” the old woman almost shouted.

The younger of the two former soldiers sighed. “It was a giant, if you must know. Could be more than one, but I doubt it.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Druadaen’s enthusiasm was not dimmed by the strange looks elicited by his eager smile. “Where are they?”

The two ex-soldiers and the old woman all pointed at a particular section of the wooded hills on the southern horizon. “It’s where they usually come from,” she added. “And when they do, Bent follow in after ’em like locusts. If there’s any time when we’re likely to be weak, that’s it.”

The older soldier sucked his teeth with a look of resignation. “And now you’re going to turn around, ain’tcha? Probably after telling us that ‘you’ll be back’ with a larger force.” He said it with the quiet bitterness of having endured at least one such broken promise.

“No,” Druadaen said with a smile, “after we’ve chased off the Bent, we’ll take care of the giants. Ourselves.”

Wide-eyed stares were the unanimous response to his assertion. The soldier looked at the group doubtfully, as if recounting them, just to be sure. “No unkindness meant, but are ye sure yer up to the job?”

“I guess we’re about to find out,” muttered Elweyr. “Now, what’s the best way to approach your farms without being seen?”

* * *

Druadaen crossed his arms as he surveyed the source of the first smoke they spotted: a ravaged farm. To both the east and the west, fainter telltales of fires climbed toward the late afternoon skies. “Either the hyek band that struck the refugees has split up, or there were others spreading out across the plain at the same time.”

“The latter, I think,” S’ythreni said, shielding her eyes against the sun with both hands as she surveyed the farm buildings. “I’ve counted almost three dozen hyek, so far. And two kaghabs.”

“Agreed,” Padrajisse said firmly. “Bent are dangerous, but they are rarely organized.”

“Well, no matter how many of them are elsewhere or how busy they’ve been,” Ahearn muttered jovially, “we have a count of those here and the sun is making haste to the horizon. So we’d best have fewer words and more deeds. Night is no friend to us, but quite congenial to the Bent.”

Padrajisse nodded at him. “What is your plan, Ahearn?”

The swordsman swung into his saddle, glanced up and down their line. The horses stood in a shallow gully that brought the riders’ eyes just level with the top of the unharvested wheat. “These yaps are in two separate groups, both near the burning house. We’re six on horseback, and with a sacrist and a mancer for good measure. So the plan is simple: first we ride down one group, then the other. And we have mancery and miracles to dispatch any that remain!”

Padrajisse stared at him a long moment before examining the expressions of the others in the group. “Do none of you find this strategy…wanting?”

“Well, now,” Ahearn said in an almost gentle voice, “it may have slipped past in all the initial palaver back in Treve, but I am the one who leads us in battle. It’s agreed.”

Her stare rotated back to him; if she was aware of how atypically deferential Ahearn was being, she gave no hint of it. “It was not agreed to by me.”

“With pardons, Sacrista, you were told. And where’s the problem with what I propose? Bent won’t stand before a charge, and once we’re through ’em, they’ll be scattered. Easy to pick off by blade or bow.” He smiled. “Or by a touch of otherworldly power, yeh?”

She shook her head. “Have you considered the weapons they bear?”

“Eh? What of them? Axes and halberds. A few overlong pig-stickers, as well. Naught odd about that.”

Padrajisse sighed, turned toward Druadaen. “You see the point of my question, surely.”

Druadaen shrugged. “I may.”

“Well, then please enlighten me,” Ahearn muttered tightly. He was beginning to sound annoyed now that Padrajisse had brought someone else into the debate. Or maybe it was because she had specifically brought in the party’s other leader. Either way, Druadaen was coming to a deeper appreciation of why she might not have been welcomed in other groups. Particularly those within her own temple.

He leaned over the neck of his horse to look along the line. “Who—other than you, S’ythreni—have learned how to fight from horseback?” Padrajisse nodded deeply at his inquiry.

Ahearn frowned, but now that the discussion had widened so that it was no longer implicitly focused upon his competence, his tone became more amiable. “Well, with the exception of our not-green lass, all of us, I warrant.”

But Padrajisse replied before Druadaen could find a more tactful way to convey what she delivered as an impatient rebuke. “He did not ask how many of you have fought from horseback. He asked how many of you learned to do it.”

Ahearn snorted. “Well, that’s just the way Dunarrans ask questions—particularly our Dunarran, gods love him. Always talking up book-learning and training over practical experi—”

“No, his question was precise and pertinent,” Padrajisse interrupted sharply. “If the hyek know how to use those longer polearms—and I suspect they do—then untrained horsemen would be ill-advised to ride against them.”

Ahearn frowned. “I mean no disrespect, Sacrista, but a rabble of lightly-armored Bent rampaging about a farm are not about to come together and stand us off with a thicket of spears.”

“No,” Druadaen agreed, “they most certainly won’t. But those long ‘pig-stickers’ are billhooks. They can cut you out of your saddle if you’re not careful.” Or not trained.

“And even if you dodge the blade,” S’ythreni followed, “with one turn of the wrist, they can catch your shoulder with the hook as you ride past.” She shrugged. “Getting pulled backward off a galloping horse has killed many a trained rider.”

Despite a glower, Ahearn drew a deep breath. “And what’s your answer, then?” He stared at Druadaen, angrily but also as an appeal. “To wade into them on foot?”

“No,” Druadaen answered, “you are right: that would certainly be foolish. But cavalry often has better options than a headlong charge.”

“Well, then, Outrider,” Ahearn said, exchanging shrugs with Elweyr, “what do you have in mind?”


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