“BUT DARYD!” RYSHA COMPLAINED. “Mama said we're not allowed beyond the trees!”
Daryd ignored her, as was an elder brother's right, his eyes searching through the forest. Essey's breath plumed in white clouds, brilliant in the golden sunshine that fell through the treetops. Sunlight gleamed on wet trunks and undergrowth, low and bright in the early morning. To the right through the trees rose the Aralya Range—Hadryn lands, and a barrier before the lands of Valhanan. Essey found her way easily enough, nimble hooves picking through the bracken.
“Daryd!” Rysha protested from her seat at his back. “We'll get in trouble!”
“We've picked all the good stuff from the treeline,” Daryd replied. “There'll be more growing along the river.”
“But we'll get lost!”
“How can we get lost?” Daryd asked in exasperation. “The river's just over on the left, the mountains are on the right, how can anyone get lost?”
He'd been feeling very confident of late, ever since he'd bested Salyl Wyden in the Hemys Festival contest. Salyl Wyden had twelve summers and was a bully. He, Daryd, had only ten summers, but he was good with a stanch. The best his age in all Udalyn, his father claimed, with obvious pride. It made Daryd's chest swell to think on it. Perhaps at the Festival of Rass, he could prove it. The Udalyn Valley was long, and many families lived there. Rass was a bigger festival than Hemys and all the valley would attend. Then, surely, he could prove his father's claims. Until then, he would settle for being the best his age in the town of Ymoth beyond the valley mouth. Better than the bully Salyl Wyden, anyhow.
“But Daryd,” Rysha resumed after a thinking pause. Daryd rolled his eyes. “The Hadryn live this way. I don't want to meet any Hadryn.”
“Look Rysha, I told you. Up ahead is Lake Tullamayne. Lake Tullamayne lies right up against the Aralya Range. There's no way around it on this side. We have scouts there who spy on the Hadryn in case they come across the fields on the other side of the river. They'd have told us if there were Hadryn here, and there aren't. Okay?”
He had his hunting knife at his side and, for a ten-year-old boy, that was as good as a short sword. Essey was his father's horse, but now that he was ten, Daryd's father allowed him to take her over the southern and eastern fields, looking for the various mushrooms and herbs his mother and aunts used in their cooking and medicines. There were farmers all across the fields who would keep an eye on a boy on his horse, so it was not really as dangerous as Daryd liked to imagine. But riding now into the forest toward the lake that marked the eastern-most boundary of Udalyn lands, he could almost imagine himself a full-fledged warrior, riding proudly upon his steed, his braids flowing down his back and his face bearing the ink-marks of Udalyn manhood.
“Oh look!” said Rysha then, removing one hand from his sides to point. “Butter flowers! Look how big they are…Daryd, I want to pick some, then I can take them home to Mama!”
“We're looking for much more important stuff than butter flowers,” Daryd told her sternly. If only Mama hadn't insisted that he take Rysha with him this morning! He could hardly feel like a true Udalyn warrior with his seven-year-old sister clinging to the back of his saddle, complaining all the way.
“I want to pick some flowers!” Rysha insisted, indignantly. “If you're going to go into the forest, I'm going to pick some flowers! Or I'll tell Papa where you went!”
Daryd scowled. “You're such a pain, Rysha.”
“You're a pain!”
The forest and the undergrowth became thicker, so Daryd steered toward the river. Soon enough, the great Yumynis appeared through the trees, wide and broken with rocks, its level low in the late summer.
Daryd rode along the grassy verge above the riverbank. Below, where erosion bit into the earth, a gravelly, rocky bank ran perhaps fifteen strides until the water's edge. Daryd made the spirit sign to his forehead and, behind him, Rysha did the same. The Yumynis was the lifeblood of the Udalyn. It had sustained them in the Catastrophe, a century before, when the Hadryn had tried to kill them all, and nearly succeeded. It had sustained them in the century since, locked in their valley, surrounded by the vilest of enemies. And it would sustain them in the future, as the Udalyn rebuilt their numbers and their weapons, working for the day when all that had been taken from them would be theirs once more. The great spirit of the Yumynis had given birth to the Udalyn countless centuries before, and now it kept them alive in all their struggles.
Soon Daryd found a grassy meadow and dismounted. While Essey grazed happily upon the grass, her tail swishing, Daryd and Rysha looked for herbs and mushrooms. Which was not such an unmanly thing, he assured himself as he peered beneath a large, mossy log for flashes of telltale colour. The wise ones of Saalshen loved herbs and mushrooms also, it was told, and made magical potions from them. The wise ones had not visited the Udalyn since the Catastrophe, but many stories were told of them still. And their disciple, Yuan Kessligh Cronenverdt, had come to the valley, when he was liberating all the north from the Cherrovan warlord Markield—Daryd's grandfather had told him that story many, many times. Kessligh Cronenverdt fought just like the wise ones, and he was the greatest warrior in all Lenayin. He'd even trained one of the princesses of Lenayin to fight like them too, it was said.
Soon, Daryd's hessian bag held a small weight of herbs and fungi. Absorbed in his searching, he suddenly realised that he did not know where Rysha was. He was about to call, but stopped himself. Not that the forest was unsafe—he'd told Rysha the truth about that—but if he was going to become a great warrior, he needed to learn to think like one.
Feeling pleased with himself for thinking of it, Daryd retraced his steps on sodden undergrowth and mossy roots toward the meadow, where he had last seen Rysha. Rysha could be annoying, but she wasn't stupid. She knew not to wander and was usually far more cautious than Daryd was. Even so, Daryd moved at a crouch, scanning through the trees as he'd seen his father and uncles do on a hunt, a hand on the hilt of his knife.
The forest grew lighter as he approached the meadow…and then, he could hear a new sound, above the calling of birds, and the gentle rushing of the river. A deep, distant sound. Like thunder, only steady, not rising or falling. Daryd had never heard anything like it before in his life.
Still creeping, he made his way to the edge of the meadow and peered out. Essey's head was raised, no longer chewing on the grass. Her ears were pricked, her attention turned toward the river. Beyond the fringe of trees where the meadow opened onto the riverbank, Daryd saw a dark mass moving. Atop the dark mass, sunlight glinted on metal. Occasionally a banner rose, flying as it moved. Horses, he realised in shock. The dark mass was hundreds of horses. And the thunder noise was the sound of all their hooves.
“Daryd!” hissed a voice behind him, and he spun in shock, fumbling for his knife. Rysha stood there, her light brown hair now decorated with a bright yellow butter flower. Daryd's heart restarted, his knees threatened to give way. His fumbling hand had not found the hilt of his knife at all, much to his frustration.
“What?” he demanded angrily. Her big eyes stared across the meadow.
“It's the Hadryn!” she whispered, as if fearful they would overhear. “The Hadryn have come!”
Daryd stared across at the far bank. And then he realised…“Essey!”
He ran onto the meadow, grabbed the horse's reins and led her back to the trees, hoping none of the riders would see her through that brief gap in the trees. The Hadryn were headed toward Ymoth. Toward home. Toward Papa, Mama and all the family.
“Quick!” he said to Rysha, “get up!” For once she didn't complain, and he helped her astride before following. “We have to warn Ymoth! That's the entire Hadryn army!” Even now, the column of horses was continuing to pass and showed no sign of stopping. Not hundreds. Thousands.
He urged Essey forward through the trees, but the undergrowth here was thicker than nearer the fields. Immediately, his path was blocked by a large fallen log and he had to go around, only to find that way partially blocked as well. Nimble-footed though she was, Essey made little progress as bushes caught at her legs and roots caused her to stumble. Across the river, the Hadryn were moving far, far faster.
“We're too slow!” he told Rysha desperately, ducking a low branch that clawed at his hair. “We have to ride along the riverbank!”
“But they'll see us!” Rysha protested, her voice filled with fear.
“We have to warn Mama and Papa!” said Daryd. “We have to go faster!” He turned Essey toward the river and the mare wove, stumbled and bounded her way between the trees as best she could. Finally the undergrowth thinned and Essey cleared the last, twisted trees upon the riverbank. The sight took Daryd's breath away. Across the fields on the far side of the Yumynis, a single, endless column of armoured men on horseback was moving at a canter. Even from the far bank of the wide river, the roar of hooves made a sound so loud it was frightening. Banners flew at even spacings along the column, flying colours and symbols that were foreign. Many of the riders were wearing black, a Verenthane colour. Daryd knew little of the Verenthanes, except that some were good, some were bad, and the Hadryn were worst.
He kicked his heels to Essey's sides and she broke into her fastest gallop along the uneven riverbank grass. Rysha clutched him tightly from behind, her face pressed against his back—she had never liked it when he went this fast and the riverbank was not as flat as he would have liked. Essey raced up and down the bumps, at frightening speed, and Daryd simply tried to stay straight in the saddle, unable to crouch as much as he'd like lest he give Rysha nothing to hold onto.
Above the thunder of Essey's hooves, he heard a distant shout, then another. He risked a glance across the river and saw a rider separating from the column, galloping to match him along the opposing bank. That man was looking straight at him, from a hundred strides away, and fear knotted in Daryd's stomach. The Hadryn wore a mail shirt with a coloured vest and jacket over the top, and his head was covered by a pointy steel helm. An arm was waved and another rider joined the first, together they tore ahead along the opposite riverbank. It startled Daryd to see how fast they were—Essey was running at full gallop, yet the two Hadryn horses gained a big lead in no time, disappearing now behind some poplars growing in lines along the riverbank.
Then they reappeared again, leaping down from the high bank to the gravelly riverside and cantering to the water. Daryd's heart nearly stopped again as he realised the horses were going to cross the river. The water level was low this time of year and, for the big horses the Hadryn used, it probably wouldn't be difficult. It hadn't occurred to him. Terror flooded his veins and he cursed himself bitterly—not so much for himself, but for Rysha. He should never have taken a risk with her life. His first and most important role as a big brother was to protect her, and he'd failed, miserably.
The Hadryn horses slowed as they splashed in the shallows, then slowed some more as the water deepened. Essey galloped past them, and then the forest was ending and the wide, open fields of Ymoth's outer lands spread green and shining before them. Ahead a distance was farmer Vayen's cottage, nestled amidst the poplars along the riverbank. Daryd galloped that way, through the open gate of the empty field nearest the forest, casting desperate glances over his shoulder at the pursuers. Both Hadryn horses were swimming now, passing the river's midway point. They were rapidly being left behind. Daryd felt a surge of hope. Maybe they still had a chance.
The next field was filled with sheep, the gates in its low fenceline shut. “Hold on!” he yelled to Rysha and thumped his heels to Essey's sides as he aimed her straight for the low, wooden fence. Essey leaped and then grounded on the far side, quickly regathering her momentum. Sheep scattered in a white, woolly tide. Farmer Vayen's cottage was closer now. Beyond, the Yumynis swept about in a vast, right-hand turn to the north, toward the Udalyn Valley mouth. Just beyond that river bend, invisible now behind the poplars, lay Ymoth, at the base of foothills that rose into mountains beyond. It was still a long way.
Essey cleared the next fence too, and Daryd took another look over his shoulder. The two horses were bounding up the riverbank behind, galloping in his wake. Those men were heavy and armoured, but Essey was carrying two. The terror, momentarily subsided, resurfaced with a vengeance.
Ahead, farmer Vayen came running from his cottage, his hair flowing out behind and a big sword grasped in both hands. “Ride children!” he roared at them, waving a big hand. “Ride fast! Don't look back!”
Daryd rode, tearing past the cottage into which he had been invited for lunch on numerous occasions and wondering where Mrs Vayen and the children were. He sped through the next open gate and took another look back—Farmer Vayen stood on open ground before his cottage, blade raised with muscled arms, as the two Hadryn horses thundered straight for him. Their riders’ swords were unsheathed, gleaming in the bright morning sun.
He had to leap another fence then and when next he looked about, both riders were still coming and Farmer Vayen was nowhere to be seen. The riders were closing fast and Daryd realised that he had no chance of getting even close to Ymoth before they caught him.
He turned Essey left, away from the river and toward the treeline about the base of the Aralya Range. The rolling farmland climbed gently and Essey's gallop seemed to slow just a little. Daryd kicked her desperately, looking about to find that both Hadryn horses had cut across the corner of his sharp turn, and were now halving the previous distance. Another mistake. But he hadn't had a choice.
The high ridge of the Aralya Range loomed far above, like an enormous, sheer rock wall. The paddock slope became steeper and the treeline closer. Another glance behind and he could see the foam about the Hadryn horses’ mouths and the red decorations hanging from their bridles. Closer and closer they pounded. Rysha's grip was painfully tight.
Essey managed a final burst of speed and then they tore amongst the trees—they were pines here, not the broadleaf of the riverbank. There was space between the trunks and Daryd wove Essey between them. Trunks flashed past at dangerous speed, Essey slowing somewhat, but the big Hadryn horses slowed more.
Suddenly the forest floor surged up in a sheer rock wall and Daryd turned Essey to the right, galloping that way and hoping it too would not be blocked…a Hadryn cut past behind and Daryd saw the man's determined face, his jaw set beneath his helm, sword in hand and fighting the reins one-handed.
The bigger horses seemed to have trouble changing direction amongst the trees, however, and Essey surged ahead, just missed colliding with a pine…and then there was a line of thick broadleaf ahead, and undergrowth, where a stream fell from the Aralya mountain face. Daryd plunged into it, undergrowth tearing at Essey's legs, branches whipping at his face. It opened suddenly into the stream, into which Essey splashed, then bounded up the far side. The undergrowth there was impenetrable and so Daryd reined her downslope, searching for a way through…and suddenly there was a Hadryn rider crashing across the stream in front of him, moving to cut him off. The second rider had flanked him, he realised in shock. The oldest manoeuvre of horseback warfare. He'd fancied himself an Udalyn warrior, but in truth, it seemed that he was just a boy after all.
Behind him, the first rider was now crashing onto the far streambank, cutting him off completely. Something hissed through the air, then a thud…the first rider screamed, then cursed. Daryd stared and saw the man had been struck by an arrow in the shoulder and was struggling to stay ahorse. Then there was another horse emerging from the treeline directly behind Daryd and Rysha, its rider wielding a bow.
The second Hadryn charged along the streambank and the new rider cast the bow aside, charging past Daryd and Rysha whilst pulling his sword. Essey reared in fright, then Rysha screamed and fell from the saddle.
“Rysha!” Daryd cried as the two riders collided with yells and clashing steel, horses shrieking and stamping…but Daryd cared only for Rysha, leaping from Essey's back and slithering down the streambank where she'd rolled. A horse fell and rolled in the stream with a huge splash and a man emerged soaked from the water alongside—his hair was longish, Daryd saw, and he wore no colours or mail. His horse bounded clear of the stream—a smaller horse, like Essey—and the Hadryn, still astride, descended the sloping bank with weapon raised.
The fallen man pulled a knife and threw, which the Hadryn swatted with a mailed arm…but the big horse reared and the fallen man sprang forward and thrust for the Hadryn's leg. The Hadryn yelled with a yank on the reins, causing the big horse to twist, then slip and fall. It slid heavily into the water, scrambling once more to its feet as its rider staggered upright in its wake.
The other man was on him before he could recover, steel rang loud and clear from one blow, then another. The Hadryn slipped, defended another blow, then reversed with a surge of raw power—his attacker parried but lost balance from the sheer force, falling half in the water and losing his blade. But he was up before the Hadryn could finish him, grabbing the Hadryn's sword arm and grappling. Both men fell wrestling into the water, splashing and flailing, with grunting, frantic desperation.
Daryd clutched to Rysha, the two of them watching on the streambank in mesmerised horror as the two men tried to kill each other. The Hadryn seemed to be stronger and held the other man under water, his teeth bared in a furious snarl. The other man struggled, splashed, then struck the Hadryn's wounded leg. The Hadryn screamed, but did not relent his grip. Was struck again, which loosened a hand enough for the other man to grab and bite. Again the Hadryn screamed, and the man beneath him struck him in the face and rolled him over, searching the streambed with another hand. He found a rock, raised and struck with it—again and again, as the Hadryn tried to defend himself.
Rysha sobbed and buried her face into Daryd's chest. The Hadryn's helm was missing, and the mail hood provided some protection, but the man with the rock was relentless. He continued to strike with terrible fury, until the Hadryn's struggles ceased. Then he stood up, shoulders heaving, and searched the shallows until he found his blade. That done, he stood over the fallen man's body, raised the blade with its point down and plunged it through the protective mail. And twisted, horribly.
Daryd's stomach turned and he lunged for the stream to vomit. He was still there, on hands and knees, when the bedraggled, bloodstained victor splashed upstream past him, his blade in hand. Daryd watched, knowing he shouldn't, but unable to tear his eyes away. The man arrived at where the second Hadryn now lay on the streambank, clutching helplessly at the shaft beneath his inner collar-bone. The fear in the wounded Hadryn man's eyes twisted Daryd's stomach once more and he vomited again. He looked up, just in time to see the victor yank off the Hadryn's protective mail hood and cut his throat.
Then he walked to the Hadryn's horse, which was standing fearfully nearby, and extended a hand, speaking softly. Soon he was stroking its nose, and it seemed noticeably calmer. He led the horse downstream, where it drank while the man crossed the stream to recover his bow. Finally, he walked to where the two muddy, wet and terrified Udalyn children huddled together by the streamside.
Daryd got to his feet, stood before Rysha and put a hand on his knife, warningly. This man was clearly not Hadryn, but he did not look Udalyn, either—his face bore no markings and his wet hair, while shoulder-length, was not long enough for a braid. The man had rugged, weathered features and his wet clothes were the leathers and rough cloth that a woodsman might wear.
He crouched on one knee, disregarding Daryd's warning stance. “Udalyn?” he asked, pointing at Daryd. His accent was very strong. Daryd had never met a non-Udalyn before in his life. He nodded, warily. “My Edu…” the man made a face. “Very bad. Little Edu. Understand?”
Again, Daryd nodded. His mouth tasted of vomit and his head spun. But he was determined not to faint. That would be a final humiliation, before this strange, foreign warrior who had defeated two Hadryn cavalry before his very eyes. “I understand,” he said warily. “Who are you?”
Inexplicably, the man's rugged features split in a hard smile. As if the very sound of Daryd's speech had caused him pleasure. His eyes, hard and merciless the moment before, now narrowed with a look of wonder. “Udalyn,” he murmured. And something else, in a foreign tongue, with a faint shake of his head. “My name Jurellyn,” he said then, very carefully. “Prince Damon efryn sy. Rels en Prince Damon Lenayin. Understand?”
The foreign words must have been Lenay, Daryd guessed. Lenay was spoken in the middle provinces, he'd heard…although in the last century, it had spread elsewhere and become Lenayin's major tongue. But in the Valley of the Udalyn, it remained as strange and foreign as the many tongues of the wise ones of Saalshen.
“Prince Damon Lenayin sent you?” Daryd guessed.
The man, Jurellyn, nodded vigorously. Then clicked his fingers as a word occurred to him. “Scout,” he said. “Me scout. Prince Damon's army. Scout Hadryn.” Pointing at the fallen men. “I scout Hadryn.” Pointing to his eyes. “See Hadryn. Tell Prince Damon. Hadryn go Ymoth. Fight Ymoth. Understand?”
Ymoth. Abruptly, Daryd recalled his original mission. His family were in Ymoth. The Hadryn were here to kill. He had just seen killing, for the first time, with his own eyes. The thought of that happening to his family filled him with a terror that made any fear for his own life seem like nothing.
“My family live in Ymoth!” he told the man, desperately. “My mother and father, my brothers…I have to warn them!”
Jurellyn shook his head, firmly. “Hadryn, Udalyn, fight,” he said, smacking fist into open palm. “You go Ymoth, you die. Understand?” Daryd stared at him. Tears spilled down his cheeks. Jurellyn put a firm hand on his shoulder. “You go Baen-Tar. You see Prince Damon. You see King Torvaal. You scout. You…you tell him, what you see. Then, you save father, you save mother, you save brother. Understand?”
The king would send an army, he meant. Daryd's eyes widened in hope. He recalled what the adults had always said—that the Hadryn would never dare attack so long as the king forbade it. Ever since King Chayden, the Lenay kings had forbidden it. Daryd did not understand what had changed that the Hadryn now dared the present king's wrath. But if he could meet with the king…if he could tell him what was happening here today…
“I'll go!” he said firmly. “I'll meet with the king! But I don't know the way…will you take me there?”
Jurellyn smiled a hard smile. “My friend. My friend…take?” Daryd nodded. “My friend take you, see King Torvaal. Good man. Brave Udalyn.”
Daryd felt his chest swell at that. The foreign warrior thought him brave…and thought the Udalyn brave. The foreigners still told stories about the bravery of the Udalyn, as he'd heard some in Ymoth say. Surely the king would listen. Surely no one could just stand by and let the Udalyn be slaughtered once more.