“More’s the pity.” Aisha had completed her journey from Enora to Elisse barely ten days ago, to retake her accustomed place at Rhillian’s side. Rhillian was delighted to see her again, and even more delighted that her wounds suffered in Petrodor had healed so completely. But, in part, she still wished that Aisha had remained safely in Enora with her family, and had not come here to Rhodaani-occupied Elisse, and the newest front in the latest chapter of the never-ending series of wars that was the Bacosh.
Arendelle arrived at Rhillian’s other side, his bow in hand. “Three escaped,” he told her. “Gian and Leshelle are after them, I don’t expect they’ll get far.”
“No,” Rhillian agreed. Gian was the second-best archer Rhillian had ever seen. He alone would probably have done. “A good ambush.”
Arendelle shrugged. “They rode straight into us. If all irregulars are this clueless, we shall be done with them in weeks.”
Rhillian did not reply, lips pursed, watching her talmaad disarming the terrified prisoners. Men-at-arms in smallfolk clothes, she thought. Their armour gave them away, and their horse skills. Cavalry fighting was a rich man’s sport in the Bacosh, or the sport of those in their pay. Someone was trying to scare the true smallfolk into not helping the invaders, again. It was a predictable horror, and she was growing thoroughly sick of it.
They escorted the prisoners the short distance back to the village, not bothering to tie more than their hands behind their backs. It was almost an invitation to any who might think to try to run. Prisoners were useful, but not essential, and Rhillian was certain she could do without whichever of their number might think to try the accuracy of mounted serrin archers. Half a year ago, such thinking might have disturbed her. That was before Petrodor, and the War of the King. Now, the fate of a few murdering bandit prisoners barely troubled her at all.
The countryside in spring was beautiful, with hills and pasture slopes alive with wildflowers. Ploughed fields made a patchwork of brown against the green, with little huts for shepherds and farmers clinging to the rickety fencelines, beneath the shade of grand oaks.
The village itself was not so beautiful. Little more than a huddled mass of tumbledown shanties, small mud walls clustered as if for warmth, thatched roofs in various states of disrepair. Some goats, roped to a stake, made a meal of garden refuse, and geese honked and waddled away from the massed hooves approaching. Even the village dogs looked dispirited, running away with tails low and without so much as a bark. This was the land of a certain Lord Crashuren, Rhillian had learned, and these villagers owned nothing. Not even their pathetic little homes.
Further along the main “street,” muddy with recent rain, they came upon the scene of the bandits’ work, before Rhillian’s party had arrived. Truthfully, there wasn’t much to destroy. But there were doors and window shutters broken, precious clay pots smashed on the ground, and equally precious white flour strewn across the mud. And other, equally senseless destruction.
In a small, muddy square fronting a little stone temple lay five human bodies. Three were men of fighting age, but one was a lad of perhaps twelve, and the other a girl several years older. About the little square, doors were opening, fearful folk peering out to see the strange, wild-haired serrin dismounting about a cluster of eight human prisoners. Ahead, the temple door was guarded by a rough, balding man with a hoe. But others were seeing it safe, and two women pushed the man aside, and rushed to the square to resume their sobbing over the bodies of the dead. More joined them, and suddenly there were perhaps fifty gathering about, some men armed with makeshift weapons.
Rhillian stepped forward and stared down at the bodies. Their throats had been cut. Even the youngsters. She looked up and beckoned the rough man with the hoe forward. He came, and she realised his anxiousness was not fear, but rather deference. His gait was bent and he did not look her in the eye, but placed the hoe on the mud before her and knelt. Rhillian refrained from exasperation, and took his arm, gently, pulling him back to his feet. He might have been fifty, she saw, with a rugged face and very few teeth. More likely, she knew, he was about thirty.
“Do you speak Larosan?” Rhillian asked him in that tongue. A nervous shake of the head. “Aisha.”
Aisha came forward, small, blonde and pretty. The man bowed to her too. “What happened here?” Rhillian asked him, and Aisha repeated it in Elissian.
“A Rhodaani man came to ask what they’d seen, of soldiers and the like,” Aisha translated his answer. A scout, then. “He thinks someone must have told Lord Crashuren, and that’s why the bandits attacked them.”
Whether they’d actually told the scout anything useful, Rhillian noted, the man had not said. All the countryside was like this, paralysed with fear, of either side. Of men with swords in general.
“Ask him how many men killed these villagers.”
“One,” Aisha translated the reply.
“Does he recognise that man among these prisoners?”
The man straightened, to stare past Rhillian’s shoulder. But before he could approach the clustered prisoners, one of the women started screaming, pointing and wailing. Another man caught her, restraining, but another woman was now pointing at the same prisoner, yelling loudly in Elissian as commotion swept the gathering.
Rhillian indicated, and two talmaad brought the prisoner forward. He was an ordinary-looking man, with a big nose and dark brows. He looked very frightened now, his eyes darting, jaw tight. The women in their emotion were very certain, pointing and shouting and crying. Rhillian took a step for space, drew her blade and took off the man’s head in a flashing stroke. The severed head hit the mud with a heavy smack, then the body, spurting blood. Commotion ceased. Villagers stood in shock. Perhaps they’d expected some kind of trial, or ceremonial punishment. Rhillian had neither time nor inclination. Dead was dead, and the time for subtleties was long passed.
“This is your land now,” Rhillian told them, drawing a cleaning rag along her blade. Aisha translated to the silent onlookers. “Lord Crashuren has no more title here. We abolish it. The land you work, you now own. Soon, when there is peace, Saalshen and Rhodaan will send you some people who can teach you to grow better crops, and become prosperous like the farmers of Rhodaan or Enora. That may take a while, with the war on. Be patient. Saalshen and Rhodaan are your friends, and shall not harm you so long as you do not fight us.”
There was no wild celebrating. There never was. Men and women stood and stared at her as though she’d promised to take them to the moon. Rhillian sighed, resheathed her sword, and mounted her horse.
“What of the prisoners?” Arendelle asked her.
“Give their mail and weapons to the villagers, so they might at least have some protection from the next band that tries to kill them. Escort them back in your own time, I’ll take the horses ahead. I need to see General Zulmaher.”
Arendelle set about organising that, and Rhillian rode out. “They’ll more likely sell the armour for livestock and new roofs,” said Aisha, riding at her side. “Long winters kill more peasants in these places than bandits.” Raggedy children stared at them from doorways. The last snows of winter were barely a month melted, and none looked well fed or healthy.
“Things will be better once this is finished,” Rhillian assured her. “General Zulmaher promised me no more than a month.”
“I’ll wager Regent Arrosh says much the same,” Aisha replied. “They’re cutting it awfully fine, Rhillian. Simply marching back to Rhodaan will take time, and we’re being led further and further north in search of a decisive victory.”
“Arrosh will take well over a month to mount an attack,” Rhillian replied. “The Army of Lenayin won’t arrive for nearly a month, and I doubt King Torvaal will consent to attack before Princess Sofy is married, and the alliance sealed.”