Chapter 25
Yaret’s first battle was against neither darkburns nor the stonemen, but one of her own troop.
She was saddling up the scruffy horse at daybreak, when she felt a hand come round behind her and go down her breeches. She tried to pull it out but the hand was insistent. The arm it was attached to was stronger than hers.
So Yaret pulled out her knife instead; at which the hand stopped its unpleasant fondling and withdrew. She turned round and saw that it belonged to Inthed, one of the men who had voted against her joining the Gostard troop.
“If you do that again,” she said, “I’ll kill you.”
His hand shot out to grip hers round the wrist and forced the knife up towards her own throat.
“I’d like to see you try,” he said.
Although she felt the urge to spit in his face she decided that it wouldn’t help. So she attempted to wrestle with him, which of course was useless: he was at least one and a half times her weight, and stronger in proportion. She let the knife fall because it would only cause trouble, and instead twisted and writhed and tried to hit him. He seemed to be enjoying it until she kicked him in the shin and scraped her boot down his leg to stamp on his foot, hard, with her wooden one.
That did it. He loosened his grip enough for her to pull free.
“Ow! That hurt! You little…”
“Cut it out, turnip-head,” she said. “I’ve got to fight next to you tomorrow. When a stoneman rushes towards you with his axe upraised, do you want me to shoot him down or not?”
By this time Jerred and a couple of the others had wandered over to see what the scuffle was about. This made her feel a little safer, but not entirely.
“What’s going on?”
“He stuck his hand down my breeches uninvited,” said Yaret.
“It’s only a bit of fun,” said Inthed.
“I don’t enjoy it.”
“Well, I didn’t hurt you, did I? No need to pull a knife on me. She said she’d kill me, Jerred!”
Jerred looked at her. She could tell he really didn’t want to sort this out.
“All right, I over-reacted,” she said. “Next time I’ll merely maim you.”
“You did maim me,” complained Inthed. “I think you broke my foot!”
“Don’t go damaging him,” said Jerred wearily.
“Sorry. That was the wooden leg. I just forgot.”
“The what?” Inthed stopped wincing and rubbing his shin to stare at her. She picked up the knife and stabbed her own leg at the ankle.
“This one’s wooden. Surely you knew? I showed to the Baron. Didn’t Jerred tell you?” She looked at Jerred, who shrugged.
“I told them. I expect he wasn’t listening,” he said.
“If I’d known you had a wooden leg, I wouldn’t have touched you,” declared Inthed, not with remorse but with disgust.
“Oh, good. It has some advantages, then.”
“Stop the bickering. We’re leaving in five minutes,” said Jerred shortly.
“I’ll be ready.” Sticking her knife back in its sheath, she turned to Helba. The horse had stood unmoved throughout the wrestling and commotion. Impressive. It might do all right in battle.
The others went away to see to their own horses, apart from Inthed. He hung around to ask, “What happened to your leg, then?”
“A stoneman with an axe.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “So no-one shot that stoneman for you first, then.”
“No.” She tightened Helba’s girth-straps. “There was no time to react. We were ambushed.”
“Who’s we?”
“Some people I was travelling with, who rescued me afterwards.”
“So who were they?”
“Riders of the Vonn.” She expected another So who were they? When there was only silence she glanced round at him.
He looked, if anything, afraid. “Was Veron one of them?”
“No. I haven’t met Veron. I’ve heard about him, though. Why do you ask?”
Now Inthed seemed decidedly uncomfortable. “You know that it was only a bit of fun before, don’t you?”
“Not fun for me,” she said.
“It won’t happen again.”
“Well, of course it won’t,” she said. “Wooden leg, remember? It’s a great prophylactic.”
“A great what?”
“Forget it. Come on, they’re leaving.” She swung herself up onto Helba’s back, while Inthed hurried to mount his own horse.
They rode west in a long train behind the Baron’s entourage. The Baron sat aloof and straight on Poda, who held herself as proudly as the queen of horses. No wonder everybody looked at me when I arrived, thought Yaret. The lead soldiers soon broke into a canter, but after the first flush of enthusiasm they slowed to a sedate walk, and she had time to think.
It seemed unfair that she should need to be wary of her fellow-soldiers as well as of the enemy. Still, at least the wooden foot would give her some protection from Inthed.
Ondro hadn’t minded it, and she felt even more grateful to him now. But she felt also some dismay, because she guessed that Inthed would not be unique in his revulsion. That didn’t matter at the moment; but it might in future. Even her old lover Dalko might have flinched from a wooden leg. He would have found it hard to joke about, although in this case, joking would actually have helped.
Meanwhile, she felt ashamed that she had to rely for her safety on a wooden leg – that, and the mysterious power of Veron’s name. She wanted to ask the others more about Veron, but was unwilling to betray her ignorance.
So on she rode, keeping close to Morad and Jerred; for she felt that she could trust those two, to some extent at least.
By now they were passing alongside and at times through the fringes of the great forests of the north: huge, close-packed stands of spruce and pine and gring and selver, and others that she did not recognise. The ground beneath Helba’s hooves was soft with needles and scattered with huge cones. Some were as big as her fist and many a horse stumbled on them. Helba, however, seemed nimble for an elderly mare. Yaret tried to catch another glimpse of Poda; but the Baron and his company were too far ahead in the trees now to be seen.
When they stopped and camped, she felt as if the rest of the army could be miles away. In here the air was still: the forest muffled every sound and made her little group seem cut off, adrift on an island of pine needles amidst huge waves of twilight green.
As she ate her rations and prepared to sleep, Yaret was surprised to hear some of the men complain about the meagre food, the hard ground, and the cold. She had no problem with any of those. It made her realise just how accustomed she had grown to hunger and discomfort over the long months of winter in Obandiro. She missed her little pot of salt, but that was all. The pine needles that she lay on felt luxurious after the knobbly sacks down in the cellar. She said a small Thanks in her head; and then Oveyn, because she had forgotten it the last two nights. And she must not forget any of it.
That night she dreamt of home – of where had once been home and now was gone. Children ran through empty streets and screamed for parents who did not reply. Instead, the Guardians lay stiff and mute on every corner. All she could do was watch as the wall of flames engulfed the town. It was a familiar dream and by now she knew both that she was dreaming and also that it was real.
In the morning she made sure to perform Haedath and did not care who watched her do it. She would fight for Obandiro, and nobody would stop her. It was not only the individuals that she mourned – for many of them, after all, she had not known, or had known only by sight – but the town itself, as though Obandiro were a living entity. A long-suffering one: for centuries it had endured blight, famine, fever, summer storms and bitter winters. Ill-fortune had seemed at times to pour upon it. Yet always it had managed to survive – till now.
Again she wondered, should I be there? Or here?
She listened for the dead standing at her shoulder. Here, they murmured, for there must be no more Obandiros. Whether or not it was the dead that spoke, or merely her own wish, she had no choice left to her now, because they were setting off again.
For half the day the woods marched past them on the right-hand side unchangingly; and then suddenly, without warning or preparation, they were in the thick of battle.
Yaret could not work out what had happened. Nobody seemed to know. Only later did she learn that a dozen darkburns had rushed out simultaneously from the treeline all along the ranks. Such a small number – yet they created such a huge amount of havoc.
At first she only heard wild shrieks and saw the horses just ahead of her begin to bolt. Then the smell hit her, and the cloud of fear as thick as smoke. So she knew at once what she needed to look out for.
The nearest darkburn had already rushed on a group of Melmet men about thirty yards away. One man lay twitching on the ground, in flames. Another ran to his aid – only for the darkburn to whirl upon him too, so that he immediately blazed up in a sheet of fire. The screams and smell of burning flesh were sickening.
One of the stones was in her pocket: she could drive the darkburn away, if the stone worked. But she couldn’t risk riding Helba so close. Even the stolid old mare would surely panic at a darkburn.
So Yaret jumped down from the horse, and ran towards the huddle of fire and darkness that still lingered by the burning men, crouching on the bodies, a smoking shadow in the flames. She had to push through a throng of frantic horses and bewildered soldiers – some cowering and moaning, some shouting, but none knowing what to do. None of them could get close to the darkburn for the heat and fear.
As she approached she pushed the fear down. I could bear it before, so I can now, she thought, as she felt her face and hands begin to burn.
And then the darkburn rose up from the prone and smoking bodies, which thankfully had fallen silent; only the flames spoke their own dry laughing language. When she was less than ten yards from it the darkburn began to move away from her. It seemed to be longer and thinner than either the one she’d met above the empty town of Erbulet, or the one she’d found down in the pit; although she could not tell how many legs it had, or whether they were legs at all. It was mostly cloud and darkness.
But the stone that she carried worked. As she got closer the darkburn began to rush away from her more speedily. It hurtled back towards the forest of great pines it had emerged from – just as a stoneman force came charging out.
The darkburn was caught between her and the attacking stonemen. It swerved across the space between the two armies – which was rapidly narrowing – while Yaret ran parallel to it, along the line of Melmet men, trying to keep it away from her own side.
But the force of the stonemen and their many stones must have been too great for it to bear. The darkburn spun through the scattering ranks of the Broc, not pausing to attack any of the frantically shouting men, and raced straight out the other side. Then it careered off across the empty land towards the south, and showed no sign of turning back.
Yaret gave up the chase and stopped to pant. She hadn’t run so fast for months: the last time she remembered running was to her tardy donkeys, south of the Thore, and her leg was throbbing. But the stonemen were already almost on them, so she had to run again, this time back to Helba.
She reached the horse just as the first wave of the enemy hit the Melmet troops. Pulling her bow from its saddle-holster she swung round, nocking an arrow to the bowstring: fire, nock, fire, nock, fire…
But all at once there was no time to nock another arrow, because the stonemen were too close, so she had to drop the bow, snatch up her sword, slap Helba on her rump and send her running off to anywhere she would.
Ignore the shouts and screams. Prepare. Observe. Now. Nearest stoneman. He’s big. But legs, throat, armpits all exposed. Aim there.
Yet she was fully aware that she was exposed too – for none of her group wore any armour, unlike the Baron and his followers in their chain mail. Most of the Gostard men were not even equipped with shields. So she would have to get in first with her blow. Luckily this stoneman was an even worse swordsman than she was: clumsy, no defence. He had only four stones round his head…
Yaret shut out the thought of the stoneman she had slain in the deserted town up north, and sliced desperately with her sword at his unprotected throat. A lot of blood happened. He began staggering: another stroke, and he fell over. She was shocked. She had just killed a man – one who had not wished to die – and a lightning bolt of some acute sensation ran through her and froze her for a moment.
Unfreeze, she told herself. All right. I can do this. One down. Where’s the next?
The next was on her before she could think, and then thought must have stopped altogether for a while. There was nothing but instinct and automatic reaction as she parried and hacked and slashed at one stoneman after another without any time to plan her moves. Blood was running down her face and into her eyes, although she had no idea how much of it was hers. There seemed to be blood everywhere, and the shivering clash of metal mixed with groans and grunts – not much shouting now, nobody had the energy to spare – while around her she saw fallen bodies slowly accumulating.
As she tired and slowed, Morad rescued her from being felled by an onrushing foe, getting his sword-stab in first; a little later she thought she might have rescued him in turn, when a stoneman who was about to swing his axe down on to Morad’s head crumpled underneath her blow. Morad seized the axe from the stonemen’s hand to use it on his neck, several times. Yet more blood. When she wiped it from her face she could taste it, metallic, sticky, horrible.
But then, behind Morad, there was a space. A blessed emptiness. A few last stonemen were running back into the trees.
Yaret leant on her sword and gasped for breath. A moment later, since it seemed the stonemen really had retreated, she sat down heavily on the ground. She felt almost unable to move.
Others knelt or sat around her. There was cheering somewhere, though not much. She said Oveyn automatically. But all she could think was, Well, that was a mess.
So much blood. Its sour iron taint reeked even through the smoke. And such hard work, this fighting! She had thought that she was fit after a winter of digging and hard labour: yet her arms were trembling with the effort, and her back and shoulders ached. How did people do it for more than a few minutes?
But she had no idea how long the fight had lasted. Half an hour, perhaps? An hour? Inthed and some of the others were clapping each other on the back as if they’d won a whole war. Yet she knew that this was just the start. A mere skirmish. And it had almost done for her. If the stonemen had not been so untrained and un-nimble, she’d be dead. She thought again of Brael up in the burnt, deserted town, and this time the memory would not go away.
Jerred was of her way of thinking, it appeared: there were no cheers from him. He had a sharp word with Inthed, commanding him to stop the celebrations and help to drag away the wounded. Yaret thought to check her limbs to see if she was one of them. It seemed not.
And then a soldier in the Baron’s livery rode up and demanded words with all of them.
“That was Yaret,” she heard Inthed say. “She’s over there.”
“She?” the messenger exclaimed with outraged surprise.
“He,” said Jerred, in exasperation. “You’ve had one too many blows on the head, Inthed.” As the messenger turned towards her she saw Jerred give Inthed another blow on the head, with the back of his hand, for good measure.
“The Baron commands your presence,” said the messenger to her coldly.
Well, she had known that this would happen. So she staggered to her feet.
“I’m coming,” she said to him. “Just let me get my horse. There’s a reason why.”
“I’m coming too,” said Jerred. “Seeing as he’s in my troop.” Once she had retrieved Helba – who was calm enough, and had not strayed far, who in fact was already walking back to her – they traipsed along the line of tired soldiers to the Baron. “What happened there?” hissed Jerred. “When you ran at the darkburn and it ran away. Was that wizardry?”
“Maybe.” She was aching all over now, not just her shoulders, but legs, arms, everything; and tried to straighten up before she faced the Baron. How did the Riders do this? They must be made of iron. Whereas she was made of twigs and grass.
Baron Grusald was another man of iron, from the sight of him – both in his full-body armour and in his steely, cold, suspicious gaze. As the messenger bowed, murmuring to the Baron and his group of headmen, they all looked at her askance.
Inwardly she cursed Inthed for giving away her gender. She strongly suspected that the Baron had been informed of it by Jerred at the start, and perhaps Inthed’s slip hadn’t been deliberate; but she would have preferred it if the whole Melmet army didn’t know she was a female.
“It’s reported that you charged a darkburn and it ran away from you,” announced the Baron’s spokesman, Devald, with supercilious disapproval. “Explain.”
Yaret bowed and touched the side of her hand to her forehead in the archer’s salute. Then she held out her other hand to Grusald and opened it to show the stone lying in her palm.
“I had this,” she said, “from a stoneman’s head. A past incident had given me the idea that the stones might somehow control the darkburns, but I had no opportunity to try it until now. It seemed to work. I would say it repelled the darkburn at a distance of some yards.”
Grusald nodded to Devald, who plucked the stone from her outstretched palm. Grusald studied it but did not touch.
“Why did you not tell me this before?” he said levelly.
“Because I had no certainty that it would work.”
“And where did you get this one from?”
“From a lone stoneman up north. He’d been left behind when the army marched out.”
“I assume he didn’t offer it to you.”
“No. I killed him.”
“And I assume he did not have one stone only?” said Grusald.
“He had only two.”
“Where is the other one?”
“In my saddle-bag.”
“Find it.”
She went over to Helba and retrieved the second stone.
“I trust my horse Poda has served you well,” she said as she handed it over; because it wouldn’t hurt to remind him.
“Your former horse,” said Devald, and she bowed.
Grusald was frowning at her. “I suppose you think you won that battle for us,” he growled.
“No. I think the skirmish was won, but not because of me. It was because of all your men who fought so valiantly. However, in the battles to come we may be able to deal more easily with the darkburns if all these stones work in the same way. I can’t be sure that they do. Even if they repel the darkburns, we would have to be careful about exactly where we drive the darkburns to. Ideally you’d herd them into a river that could carry them away, or perhaps into a pit dug beforehand to trap them. Otherwise they’ll just be roaming around.”
Grusald gazed at her for a little longer, still frowning, before he said abruptly,
“Very well. Orders will be given to pluck out stones from the dead foemen. I shall then decide how best they may be used. Well? What are you waiting for? Go back to your company. Jerred? Stay a moment.”
She led Helba away, aware that she was being stared at. The meeting had a large audience. So much for the anonymity she had hoped for…
And when Jerred returned ten minutes later, he said with a wry shrug, “Well, the Baron can’t ignore the fact that you’re a female now, thanks to thick-head there.” He jerked his head towards Inthed. “Sorry about that. I know you wanted to stay secret. But the messenger protested about having a female in the ranks.”
Her heart sank. “What did Grusald say? Have I got to leave?” she asked.
“No. He doesn’t take kindly to advice from messengers, as he made quite clear. And I pointed out that our troop doesn’t belong to him. Although we’re allied for the purposes of war, Gostard isn’t under his dominion.”
“So he won’t kick me out?”
Jerred shook his head. “I reminded him of a couple of things: your wooden leg, and your desire for revenge. That’s something he can appreciate.”
“Well. Thank you.” She reflected bleakly that as word spread, all the army would soon be calling her a peg-leg. Useless female peg-leg. Still, that might not be a bad thing, if it put everyone off as effectively as it had Inthed.
“The horse helped too,” said Jerred with a half-smile. “And of course your connection with Veron. I told him about that as well. It didn’t hurt.”
“But I don’t have a connection with Veron. I don’t even know him. Why does everybody up here talk about Veron?”
“They’re afraid of him,” said Jerred.
“Why? Is Veron so dangerous?”
“Oh, yes. Not to his friends, and Melmet is his friend. But they’re still afraid of him, quite rightly,” answered Jerred, sombre now. “And not just him: his wife.”