“A moment please,” she said as he lifted the body. There should be no guilt, she thought, knowing it to be a lie, her hand tracing through the lady’s hair, finding something amongst the tresses, a tortoiseshell comb of scant value. I didn’t kill her.
“Thank you,” she told the sergeant, taking the comb and stepping back.
They counted over a hundred Lonak bodies, mostly boys and men but also a dozen or so women and girls. Lord Marshal Al Smolen, sporting a bandaged hand and a spectacular multi-coloured bruise on his jawline, reported the loss of twenty-three guardsmen plus six more wounded. Over half the horses had been lost, scattered or slaughtered, Sable amongst the dead. Lyrna had only a small affection for the animal but still felt the loss. The remaining mounts were all bred for war and unlikely to offer so comfortable a ride.
Davoka sat by the smouldering remains of the fire, spear resting on her shoulder. She had said nothing since the battle, offering neither argument nor contrition despite several calls for her immediate execution, all of which Lyrna had refused.
“She led us into this, Highness,” Smolen insisted. “Half my men are dead thanks to this wolf bitch.”
“My word is given, Lord Marshal,” Lyrna told him. “Do not make me give it again.”
She went to sit opposite Davoka, seeing the sadness that shrouded her face. “It’s time for truth between us,” she said in Lonak.
The Lonak woman’s head rose, a faint glimmer of amused surprise in her eyes. “So I see.”
“The Mahlessa’s rule is not complete, is it?”
“She commands peace with the Merim Her, the greatest and most vile enemy in our history. There was . . . disagreement amongst the clans. Voices were raised in dissent. We killed those who questioned her, of course, but there were always more, too many to kill. The Mahlessa named them as varnish, to be driven from their clans, and so they formed a clan of their own. The Lonakhim Sentar.”
“Sentar? I do not know this word.”
“It’s rarely spoken now, a tale from the days before your people came across the sea to steal our lands. The Sentar were a war-band composed of the greatest Lonakhim warriors, chosen for outstanding skill and courage, the Mahlessa’s own shining spear. The Sentar won our greatest victory over the Seordah, and would have led us to dominion over all this land but for the arrival of the Merim Her. They were all killed in the Great Travail, when our people fled to the mountains, holding the pass long enough to allow the remnants of the Lonakhim to secure a new home here. Now they are reborn, a twisted perversion of past glory.”
“The girl who tried to kill me, she is your sister?”
Davoka closed her eyes and nodded. “Kiral. We were born to the same mother. The gods were kind to take her before she could see what she has become.”
“And what is that?”
“Something vile, something that kills without reason and speaks poison. She is their leader, called the true Mahlessa by those varnish who follow her.” She opened her eyes, meeting Lyrna’s gaze. “It was not always this way with her, something . . . changed her.”
“What something?”
Davoka fidgeted in discomfort. “That which is known only to the Mahlessa.”
Lyrna nodded, knowing she would reveal nothing more on this subject. “Will she come for us again?”
“When she sent me to the pass the Mahlessa dispatched three war-bands to hunt down the Sentar. It was hoped this would force them to fight instead of coming for you. It seems my sister managed to evade them.” She glanced over her shoulder at the base of the hill where Smolen’s guardsmen were piling up the Lonak bodies. “The Sentar are strong in number, and they will not stop.”
“Then we shouldn’t linger.” It was Brother Sollis, speaking in Realm Tongue. Behind him a pyre was burning, Brother Hervil’s body wreathed in flame. The Order was never slow in seeing to its dead. “If we push hard, we can be back at the pass before nightfall. I’ll find you a suitable horse, Highness.” He turned to go.
“Brother Sollis,” Lyrna said, making him pause. “This expedition is under my command and I have given no instruction to end it.”
Sollis’s gaze flicked to Davoka then back to Lyrna. “You heard what she said, Highness. There can be no chance of success now. We cannot survive another attack on this scale.”
“He’s right,” Davoka said, switching back to Realm Tongue. “Too many men, too many wounded. We leave a trail my sister can follow eyes closed.”
“Is there another way?” Lyrna asked. “A path for a smaller party, harder to track?”
“Highness . . .” Sollis began.
“Brother,” Lyrna cut in. “The Order does not answer to the Crown, it is true. Therefore, you have my leave to depart without risk of disfavour and my thanks for your service.” She turned back to Davoka. “Is there another way?”
The Lonak woman gave a slow nod. “Yes. But great risk, and there can only be . . .” She grimaced, then held out a hand, fingers splayed. “This many. No more.”
Five, including me. Meaning only four swords against the Departed know how many more of these Sentar. She knew Sollis spoke wisdom, the correct course was a speedy return to the pass and on to the much-missed comforts of the palace. But Davoka’s words had added fuel to her burning need for evidence. That which is known only to the Mahlessa . . . There was evidence here, she knew it, and more to be had at the Mountain of the High Priestess.
She got to her feet and beckoned Smolen over. “Choose your three best men,” she told him. “They will accompany me north. Brother Sollis will guide you back to the pass.”
“I prefer to stay, Highness,” Sollis said. She could tell he was fighting to keep the anger from his voice. “With your permission, Brother Ivern and I will go with you.”
“And I am my best man, Highness,” Smolen informed her. “And even if I wasn’t, you must know I would never leave your side.”
“My thanks to you both.” She pulled her fur about her shoulders, glancing up at the forbidding peaks ahead, the tops shrouded in cloud, hearing a distant note of thunder. Let’s see what you can tell me.
Her new horse was named Verka, a Lonak word which meant North Star in honour of the single blaze of white on his chest. He had been Brother Hervil’s mount and was, Sollis assured her, the most placid horse in the Order’s stables. From the way Verka reared and tossed his head as she hauled herself into the saddle she suspected the dutiful brother was merely attempting to salve her trepidation. However, despite her initial misgivings, the warhorse proved an obedient mount, responding to her touch willingly enough as they followed Davoka’s swift-trotting pony.
She led them south for several hours, setting a punishing pace, the journey unbroken by any rest stops. Sollis rode in front of Lyrna with Ivern behind and Smolen bringing up the rear, their eyes constantly scanning horizon and hilltop. Lyrna had been similarly vigilant when the journey began but lost her enthusiasm as the strain took its toll. Why couldn’t I have been more interested in physical pursuits? she grumbled, feeling every step of Verka’s hooves on the rough ground. One hour away from my books wouldn’t have killed me. But this bloody horse might.
They turned north again before twilight, spending an uncomfortable and fireless night in the lee of a great boulder, the others taking turns on watch whilst Lyrna huddled in her furs, exhaustion for once ensuring sleep, albeit fitful. Her dreams were different this night, instead of the dying King, Nersa came to stand before her, back in Lyrna’s private garden at the palace. The lady smiled and laughed, as she often had, bent to smell the flowers and run a hand through the cherry blossoms, and all the time blood flowed from the arrows jutting from her chest and neck, leaving a red trail wherever she walked . . .