Venzene Duchy of Kovalun
County Jižní Pochod
Barony of Hartscross–The Ash March
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
Kastan found frustration an unwelcome companion. Her blood was up… her senses keen for any hint of useful information about the ever-growing number of horsemen to the west. She needed to find her hunting party, and… and…
And what? They don’t need me to tell them about the horsemen. This close to where the ash trees end, a body would have to be blind, deaf, and dead not to notice a herd that size.
No, her hunting party was composed of Rákos and her allotment of the Percoy household guard. They surely wouldn’t need her to help or guide them. The truth was that she wanted to fight. The problem was that she was dressed for a leisurely ride in what—this close to Edmund’s encampment—were considered safe lands. She wasn’t unarmed, of course, but she had no sword… only an exceptionally long dagger. A good enough weapon for close combat with a fool of a highwayman, but less than ideal to do battle with an armed and armored soldier.
And they are indeed soldiers. She hadn’t had more than a glimpse of them through the trees. It would have been too great a risk to get closer. Still, she’d seen both leather scale and chain hauberks on more than a few of the folk she’d spied. She thought she’d even seen a pair of men wearing thick wooden breastplates beneath their hide cloaks. These were called Béamwer Treyja—literally wooden shirt—in Eodenth and were reputed to stop arrows in much the way a wooden shield did.
This? This is Duke Harn’s army? What she’d seen certainly looked Eodenth. But then, that was part of the deception they suspected, wasn’t it? Eodenth, who’d had enough of raiding, or Harn and his hirelings trying to use the old laws to his advantage—the danger, at least in the short-term, was much the same.
Bjegota knows his way around these trees, and Rákos is a hunter. They’ll be fine, surely. I’ll likely be of more use back with Edmund at Jižní Lov.
Jafyl’s ears were suddenly flat against his head. More than that, his nostrils had begun to flare. Clearly, something had made him uneasy. Kastan could feel his body coiling, preparing to bolt.
She tightened her grip on the reins, listening. Nothing—not even birdsong. Then the scent struck her.
Linseed oil … and wax. Someone had recently unsheathed a sword. That scent was too telling to be anything else. Its relative strength sent two facts racing one another in her mind.
It’s fresh, and it’s close! Hells!
She loosened her grip on the reins, slid her feet so that they sat more firmly in the stirrups, and prepared herself for Jafyl to—
“Nekt, tu nekt, Kovalunsh dotter.” A man’s voice, low-toned and delighted, came from the trees just to the east. “Tu ge štille, ti ferd…” He rolled his Rs less severely than the Eoden Zhprek she’d learned, but she had no trouble understanding him.
(No, you don’t, daughter of Kovalun. You stay quiet, my pretty…)
Kastan froze, letting the genuine sense of fear—of anticipation—flower in her chest. She rode them like a wave, tightening her grip on Jafyl’s reins to hold him fast. The horse gave a little squeal, pawing at the ground in obvious anxiety, but otherwise held his ground.
He’s alone. No sniggering, no other foot… No, there’s a second and a third, or I’m a fool.
“Ti vánum ge rath, verek. Ge hem v r. Ge ti vani, nekt ti yarbrand.” She didn’t need to make her voice sound uncertain. She knew the Eodenth tongue but rarely had much chance to practice it. Much like her knowledge of Gnoerkish, it was easier to translate what one heard than what one wished to say.
(My father will be angry, war captain. Be his servant. Be my protector, not my enemy.)
“Shpeak th’trader’sh tongue. Hearing Eoden Zhprek pour out of your traitor’sh mouth makesh me shick.”
Traitor’s mouth? She was about to offer a reply when he spoke anew.
“Get `town from yor horse.”
She complied, marking the other two figures from the corner of her eye.
“Shtep to me. Do it shmartly, before I get bored.” Again, he rolled his Rs.
She took two steps toward him, Jafyl’s reins in her dim hand.
“Shtop! I didn’t tell you to bring your shteed. My kinshmen vill take care of hem.”
“If I let the reins go, he’ll bolt, Verek.” Again Kastan used the honorific, though she doubted anyone else this man knew would consider it fitting. She’d kept her voice small and uncertain. It was still too soon to be certain of much. She’d heard two more but hadn’t marked them visually yet.
Growling, the man stood up at last. Kastan looked him up, then down again. He had a hunter’s build—lithe of limb and likely able to walk or run for long periods without tiring. She marked his dark, sunbaked skin, no hair atop his head, but a long fringe of thick and dirty blond started just above his ears. It hung in a scattering of small braids, as did his greying beard. He wore fetid furs and half-cured hides with a baldric stretching from his right shoulder to his left hip. An ancient-looking sword hung awkwardly in both hands near his waist, blade pointed down beside his left boot.
“Adsh? Ond eosh vim.” (Adsh? Hold her horse.)
To her right, a youth close to Fetem’s age walked toward her, glaring.
These two are related, surely. His hair is long and full, but he has an unbroken version of the swordsman’s nose. If this one’s seen sixteen springs, I’m the Emperor’s heir.
Behind the youth, in the bushes from whence he’d come, she saw a girl much closer to Maksu’s age watching this tableau with wide, dark eyes.
The youth—Adsh, apparently—stalked toward her wearing a look of uniquely male insolence. Were he alone, he would have had far less confidence. Hells, he might even have worn a nervous, hopeful smile. She kept her grip tight on the reins as he neared, lifting the hand that held them to her breast as if keeping them close to her heart. His eyes followed the hand, lingering upon it for a beat. As if waking from a daydream, he reached to snatch the reins away.
Kastan fought for a moment, as if too frightened to give up her horse. He yanked, meaning to take the reins with a sudden burst of strength. As her arm was pulled to near full extension, she stopped resisting. She released her grip, causing Adsh to momentarily stumble, and Jafyl to squeal and paw at the ground. The youth moved to adjust his footing, but it was too late.
Barely a blink and it was over. Her dim hand free of the reins, she brought that same arm up to wrap around his throat even as she slipped behind him. With her bright hand, she drew the knife from the small of her back, pressing its point against the tender flesh below the hinge of his jaw. Taking a half step to center her balance, she forced Adsh to lean back awkwardly against her left thigh.
His hands came up instantly, trying to peel her forearm away from his neck. “Vánum! Vánum!”
“Tu vánum nekt van tu, Adsh. Nekt zhu… nekt hem brand!” (Your father can’t protect you, Adsh. Not in time… not with his sword.) She then shaped her voice toward the man. “Or do your children speak the Trade Tongue?”
He shook his head. She was dismayed to see he looked more angry than afraid for her prisoner’s life.
“Coward… Douyar aliswen! You vould take the life of a boy? You vould revenge yourself in sucha vay? Douyar aliswen!” He delivered this in a strangled, R-rolling roar.
“If I am a wicked serpent, verek, then tu edh se doull brandemand. Se doull brandemand, en nekt vánum. (You are a false warrior. A false warrior, and no father.) Who was it that sent him to me—risking his life—heedless of what might happen? You have made war on me and lost. Now! Make the peace. Pay the price in pride, not in blood.” She searched out his eyes. “Lay … down … your … sword.”
It should have been over, but no. With a near-feral growl, he charged. He brought the sword up high over his head in both hands and simply ran at her. It was clumsy, but the look on his face was nothing short of savage.
She waited for as long as she could, had an instant of indecision, then shoved the unfortunate Adsh at his father. The man brought his sword down, hammering at the boy’s shoulder out of unfocussed rage. Blessedly, he only managed to hit him with the blunt sverdets bein. The blow caused Adsh to fall at his feet, tangling them for a beat. That part was what Kastan had hoped for. The swordsman struck Adsh a second time, then kicked him for good measure, cursing. The sickening crack meant at least one bone hadn’t survived unbroken. That hadn’t been her intent.
Still kicking the boy—as if turning away was an act of deepest concentration—the swordsman tore his face up toward Kastan. His eyes were wide, and a somehow malevolent green.
She drew a quick draught of cold air, gauging his gait. A single thought flashed before her.
You didn’t have to die, Eodenth.
Without so much as a grunt, she pushed forward out of her stance, shoving the dagger up under the shelf of the man’s chin even as he drove toward her. She held it there, supporting his weight as the strength went out of him. She could smell the meat on his breath—a sweet, pork-like stench mingled with the fresh blood filling his mouth. No sooner had this registered than she saw the shocked look of clarity in his sage-colored eyes grow glassy and still.
She heard the unmistakable sound of first one, then two more arrows rend the air from somewhere behind the newly made corpse.
“My… my Lady! Kastan!” Rákos’s voice, sounding pained but mightily relieved.
“There may be more,” said she and said no more for the moment. Her voice was calm, though there was a clipped sharpness to it that she rarely showed others. Certainly, in the short time he and Andrej had been in her service, she’d never had call to use it.
She didn’t waste time looking for Rákos in the treeline. Instead, she dropped the dead swordsman, eschewing her dagger for his sword. To her right, she saw the boy Adsh on his belly with an arrow in his back. He wouldn’t survive. The arrow was buried deep where the heart rested. His fingers were twitching, as were his feet.
Rákos was coming toward her. Nodding at him, she held up her dim hand and walked to the unfortunate Adsh’s side. She called his name once… twice. No reaction. Standing, she did the merciful thing, finishing him with her newly acquired sword.
“Are… are you vell? Did they—no, you don’t look vounded. I vas afraid for your life, Lady. I know you know something of how to fight, but…” Rákos shook his head. “Ve must hurry. Vhile no more are here, there are unnumbered others like these, and close.”
She ignored this.
“There was a girl.”
“There vas. She vas quick and small. I missed her vith both arrows.”
Kastan forced herself not to react. The idea of killing a child—even an enemy child who would surely report what she’d seen to the rest of her people—was abhorrent. It was pragmatic, but there were limits… weren’t there?
“Lady?” His voice was both ragged and anxious.
“Where are the others?”
“Ve vere ambushed. I’m an archer, not a svordsman. Bjegota commanded me to run and warn the encampment. The voods are full of their scouts.”
Perhaps they were captured? Hells, let them have been captured.
She moved over and pulled the baldric off of the man’s corpse. As she’d thought, it held a back scabbard. She sheathed the blade, slung the baldric into position over her right shoulder, then saw to her dagger. There wasn’t time to do more than wipe the bulk of the blood from both blade and bright hand, so she contented herself with that.
“I fear we’re doomed to walk.” She’d stood, turning as she spoke… only to find Jafyl still standing by, utterly nonplussed, idly cropping grass. “Or Jafyl can bear us… if he consents.”
She shook her head, mounted up, then held a hand down for Rákos.
Edmund had been wrong. Those two, at least, had been Eodenth. The rest of the army might be mercenaries dressed to look the part. She supposed it was possible, but those two had unquestionably been Eodenth.
Rákos grunted as he got into place behind her.
“You’re alright? Ready?”
His breath sounded a bit labored, but his response was steady and sure. “I’m as ready as may be, Lady.”
With that, she turned Jafyl, making for Jižní Lov as swiftly as she dared.