The rumor was of danger racing through the south. Serixiphina was especially attuned to rumor; she had a great instinct for the general mood of any situation. For Eathel’s part, he had excellent hearing. Or perhaps it was Sera, through him, extending and deepening his hearing to some pitch beyond what could be captured by others’ ears. He would ask her. She’d claim the interpretation most favoring her; she would, in exquisite nonchalance, assert that credit was hers for any ability he might have; but she always claimed that, especially when it wasn’t true.
So, with his hearing or with Sera’s, more than once, at the fort where he was taking inventory and performing an inspection of the garrison’s progress there, he heard some mixture of the following: armed men were coming from outside by way of the south. Word differed. Sometimes those around him said the band was coming from the west or farther east, but mostly the talk was on the southwest.
An alien incursion was not an outlandish notion. But it required a great deal of speculation based on the information now available. He would wait until he heard something real. Perhaps it would remain only a rumor.
Still, Sera bade him watch that rumor. I cannot say for sure, she had said, but I think there is something to this.
Talk of the purported invasion started so quickly none of the men around him had even mentioned it to him in passing.
Do the new men not trust you, I wonder? asked Sera. He saw her glinting, glowing grin.
But Sera deigned to inform him what pitch the talk was at, as he was apparently losing the confidence of his troop. When she listened to the world around them in the way that only she could, she said, the susurrus of the raspy whispers had quickly became pervasive. When she made her findings known to Eathel, he’d already resolved to take it to an officer to get a verified report, using his own relatively acute senses.
Someone is coming, she said. He looked over at her. All he could see of her was the light of her smile, which looked like some trick of the sun, flickering just next to him, about as high up close to his face as a woman’s would be if a woman actually stood there now. It was her broad smile that always meant one more thing than he could figure. She smiled that way most often, her smile of two smiles.
A small commotion had developed by the main palisade. Someone called him to come over. In the misty wind and cold and muck, he walked toward an exchange of information that would set off the second great adventure of his life.
A herald had arrived. Not even taking the time to dismount, he waited to be invited to speak, panting quietly with alert eyes. They had dark circles them, despite their agitation. Under stains from mud and weather he had on the livery of a prominent lord south of the mountains. Eathel recognized the worn orange lion vaguely but had forgotten whatever family it armigerated. He knew it was one of his father’s vassals, but he had not had much to do with that particular corner of the southeast, far past the mountain range. And his father had many lords under him.
After asking whether he wanted water, Eathel bade him speak.
“Lord marshall, on behalf of my liege, it pains me to inform you that our realm was three days past attacked.”
Well, it wasn’t a rumor anymore. Told you, Sera said. I didn’t disagree that keeping an eye on that rumor would be good, said Eathel. No, Sera said. I just mean I told you and so I was right.
He often wondered whether the best way to understand their curious bond was that they were siblings of similar age.
They were certainly born around the same time; that is, within one or two years of each other. For though Sera remembered different things than he did, and she could move about within a close range while Eathel remained standing still, and in this way spy things he could not, she was a tenant in his mind; she seemed to exist nowhere else, and she did not know of events that far outside of their immediate domain. But her mind, as he instantly realized when they first met, was every fiber, endlessly her own
before they were born but she should learn of them in the same way Eathel did. Which one was the elder, and whether that even mattered, was anyone's guess. Eathel had some strange feeling that, if one were to add some flesh and bones to this notion and run with the brother-sister relationship, they weren't twins.
Despite the fact Eathel simply couldn't imagine that he'd ever shared a womb with Sera, they were sometimes so connected, every now and then the two were so in accord they would say the same thing at the same moment.
“Where are you from and who is your lord?” they asked. He heard her languid voice blend on his. His voice was the only one the world outside could hear. But sometimes she spoke to people as if they could hear her. She waited, all but tapping a ghostly foot, while herald told them his country.
But Eathel didn’t think so. “Is Soronel still in control of his lands?” he asked.
“He is,” said the herald. “So far, said posse’s conduct has been that of a band of marauders, not an army vying to spar with us on the field.”
Lucky guess, said Sera.
Correct guess, he said.
Mine was closer, she replied.
Mine was right, he said.
Rules out a state, said Sera. Perhaps, he replied. Be quiet, he said. “Go on,” said Eathel to the herald.
“It was in the morning of that day, three days past, when we first heard a report by some travelers of a large band of warriors a-mount, making their way through our lands unchecked. According to a second report, this band apparently merely rode at first, but then they set fire to a village—the few travelers who had brought the news into the capital that morning disagreed on where, but they were agreed on the notion these men came from the southern border.”
“How many are these men?” asked Eathel
“Three score. Of those armed, at least.”
“What else have they done?”
“They burned a place where locals congregate near a town. The people gather there for trading crops; it is a little market, and many were there that day; they killed at least ten there first, then set upon another town ten miles north of there. And that crop exchange lost three siloes of many thousand pounds of grain.”
Eathel waited. He outranked the herald, and so the emissary must show him deference and interview at the pace set by his Duke’s agent and marshall of his lands. But it was clear he felt he’d answered enough and now needed a response. Eathel still waited and looked at ragged soldier. Apparently, the herald would need to answer more.
“At the town,” the herald continued, “they killed anyone they saw. So far we know they lost three tens dead, struck down with no cause. Of material damage, several houses and part of a wall; and they robbed a church, seizing gold in coin and silver pieces of liturgy. This was all I knew when I was sent here.”
“Who were they?”
“I do not know,” said the herald. “As it concerns the witnesses who relayed the news, they did not notice anything particular about them, and they had no emblem discernible. They bore no distinguishing marks, nor did they appear foreign.”
“Where are they now?”
“When I left, they made for a manor nearby. The owner there is my lord’s neighbor; their properties share a border. So my master was compelled to fortify his own estate,” the herald said. “When I departed the brigands were moving east at speed. It is my current understanding they are moving north also.”
Ask him where they came from, said Sera. “Where did they come from?” he asked.
“They emerged from our southern side. I know nothing else,” the herald replied.
A force needed to be sent south, right into to the area under threat. He needed to know more, and provide what protection they could.
But it was at least three days of distance between them and the general area of where Cehedos began; and this was the case only if you pushed the horses.
Cehedos was big, but he wasn’t even familiar enough to know how far away the epicenter of the attack took place. It could easily be another two days’ ride.
Yes, Sera said, but with the distances in play here, you’re going to need to plan on going where they will be rather than where they are now.
Based on the herald’s report the marauders are also wending east. I think those cities are pretty squarely east of each other, one after the other in a string.
Ask him to confirm they’re moving east.
“It sounds like the host is moving east based on their course when you left, yes?” Eathel asked.
“Yes, lord,” said the herald.
Eathel remembered someone telling him during his last campaign abroad, amid a stream of battles and camps and the smell of dead bodies, that, when it came down to it, the only form of tactical preparation that made any sense was to prepare, not with stratagems, but to prepare to be caught off your guard.
Sera rolled her eyes, eyes which could neither see nor be seen. The thought seemed poetic to Eathel as he entertained it. Ah yes, she sighed. The only thing to plan for is that you will be taken by surprise. What a priceless jewel of counsel.
The herald looked up at Eathel. Now it was up to the person charged with protecting the realm, stewarding it in trust while the real leader, his father the Duke, was occupied, to act.
But above all, it was the lesson he’d learned during the first few months of real campaigning that guided him now. Make the first move. Take an action. Make a decision.
“All this is very troubling,” Eathel said. “Our sympathy is with those who are suffering, and our hope is your safety. We will do what we can to deliver it.”
“Tastya?” Eathel called out. Tastya stepped forward. “You will take half the riders and some spare horses; transfer provisions enough onto the spares for a rapid ride to Cehedos and back. Take him,” Eathel pointed to the herald, “make the journey as quickly as you can; provide help you can, but unless you encounter the outlaws themselves, do not stop until you reach the place of the attack.”
Tastya nodded to him and turned to a slighter, younger man close by. “Yreda, get the kit loaded on the horse and meet me at the top of that hill.”
Yreda rode off to get it done.
Eathel motioned to Tastya and slight, slender man next to him, to stay. When they did, he pulled them both aside.
“Ballant, we leave today; I’m going to go down in tandem with Tastya. I’ll take my people, but I need you to finish the progress west across the garrisons; give out orders based on our movement and the fact I’ll be in the south. Once the western garrison is in full muster, return home; resume the works projects there and protect the realm; frustrate any threats to the city; delegate someone for the work here.”
“Yes, lord,” said Ballant. He surveyed the young man’s face for any indication of confusion or doubt. Eathel supposed he needed to get used to never seeing either one, though they had not been long in working together.
“Tastya” continued Eathel, “debrief that herald en route and record the particulars. You know what we need.” Tastya nodded. “Speaking of debriefing, there is the matter of,” began Eathel.
“Raga,” said Tastya, her eyes barely betraying that he had to think of it.
Eathel paused, pleasantly stunned he knew where he was going. “That is exactly right.” This woman was always one step ahead of anyone else.
“How did you want to handle that now?” he asked.
“I wish I did not have to miss it, but get all the information you can about Raga’s envoy yourself. That intelligence is of vital importance. Give what support you can to Raga in all things; I trust you to reply with what they need down there, should there be any requests.”
Eathel continued to Tastya: “However it is you move down there, I want to close off this mob if they continue moving east. I’m going down the central; you’re going west. If I don’t see you at,” Eathel looked around and found the herald. “Cehedos,” he said. The herald was making his way to the rallying point, “if you were these riders, and were making exactly east, how would you go?”
The weary herald leaned back in his saddle and thought a moment. The stalking orange lion on his breast rumpled.
“Were I among these riders, lord,” said the herald, “and we were heading east, I would have us skate Midarid down and stay north of the plate. Then, after getting up out of the piedmont, they could make for the Dandarken to the north, the highlands east or have a week’s good riding south. That way affords them the most flexibility.”
“Where is a good spot to meet along that course where we can be in four days’ time?” Eathel asked.
“The Hewyn flows sharply north in a close bend before turning south again after looping around the basin. People call it Eikenderry.
Get Dhalen, Sera said. He is from there, just south of Dandarken.
That’s right, said Eathel.
He had Dhalen come over and the herald relayed all this.
“I know it,” Dhalen said. “there is a long gulley that turns into a loch as it goes east. It’s wide and flat. Its nadir hews close to the Hewyn for some miles. There is a long and shallow valley where the that river bends south. It’s about as close a solid landmark midway through the steppe as you’re going to find.”
“Dhalen, you’re coming with us.” Eathel said. “How many under you?”
“Five,” said Dhalen.
“How green?” asked Eathel.
“Veterans all.”
“Bring them. Join me by the entrance at southern wall,” said Eathel.
Eathel didn’t need to tell any of the contingents himself that they were now under Tastya. Ten of the men were his already, but Tastya had been with him as long as anyone, and had authority approaching Eathel’s to command the marshall’s core troops. He even knew Eathel would want to take Casselton and his crew with him, rather than sending them southwesterly with Tastya.
“Cas,” said Eathel, “gather the balance of the riders and do the same with provisions on spare horses. Make ready to go at once. I will find you inside of the hour.” Casselton rode off.
Tastya assembled his force that would rush down into the heart of the turmoil. Along with the herald, he led it and started to move the mass south, picking up speed at a gradual acceleration, and they had opened into a gallop just they slowly disappeared over the top of a long, sloping, grassy hill that stretched out far into the horizon, broken by little clumps of trees and bushes.
Eathel walked over near where his, Tastya and Cas’s tent was in the center of the camp. He stopped to gather his folio and make a final check with his clerk from the station the man had established near the opening of his tent.
As he walked away from giving the clerk final instructions, Sera floated in and asked, aren’t you forgetting something?
He thought. This was one of her most infuriating habits. He had a bad habit of leaving things behind, and he always felt as if, departing some place, he was leaving some secret part of himself exposed, especially when distracted by matters of larger moment. How in the world have you secrets so salacious anyone would care?
She seemed to know what he was thinking. No, there really is. I’m not trying to fool you. It wouldn’t be the first time, he replied. I’m not, she said. I’m not going to waste time making fun of you. On the one hand, it’s too easy. On the other, there are a mass of attackers roaming our home. Word will make it soon to your father. Attacked by a militia a month after assuming command of the home front? You had better make sure that the first message your father gets after that one is the one reporting you personally tracked them down and killed all of them and put their heads somewhere people can see them.
We’re agreed. So, what am I forgetting?
Bring a short blade, she said. You have one don’t you?
Yes, I have Hejyman’s that he gave to me.
Go and get it, she said. If you’re going to the Dandarken, you can’t swing your longer sword in a forest.
That was right. In fact, he should have known to pack that already. It was a good idea to bring something besides a heavier sword. He doubled back to his tent.
Do you have any other? Sera asked.
I know, it’s all I have left of him. I don’t want to lose it either, he said, seeing Hejyman's face flash just between his eyes and mind.
I don’t care about you losing it, said Sera. I care about it distracting you. You get all in your head when you remember him. You don’t have a spare dagger in a boot?
He jammed it into place in the sheath made for it that Hejyman had gifted him with it. He had to wrestle it a little bit; the sheath was old and broken in such a way that the blade caught on something that made it hard to bring the crossbar flush with the edge.
Part of the problem was, and he did have to admit this was a bit ridiculous, the crossbar was not in a perfect line, like...well...a bar. Part of the crossbar curved up and out to form the mouth of a dragon, from which the blade sprouted, as though the steel were dragon fire. Which, owing to the baroque flaming whirls engraved on the steel, faded now into a fine patina that felt like running your finger over a smooth cut of virgin baltatree—a texture only just a bit less abrasive than 'rough,' yet a bit more textured than 'smooth.'
It did have two things going for it, besides its sentimental value: The fact the ornamental engravings were weathered now made it look less like something an adolescent boy would ask for,
Secondly, it was a damn fine little sword. The exquisite quality of the good Teran steel and the work of whatever crew hammered out this dart was evident in a quick glance at it and only reinforced when one held it; even a brief moment and the balance of the thing swung so smoothly into a groove in the air before you, and with the Teran steel made so light, it was like holding nothing at all. What was more, all the edge of it was cut with fibers of Darmorant alloy. Eathel supposed that made it an alloy of an alloy. Was there a special term for that kind of alchemy?
Anyway, the Darmorant edge and point meant this splinter of metal had enabled him to, at one point, stab a man in the calf through what turned out to be surprisingly thick plate. The armor was pretty cheap, but still, it was steel plate. He'd never tried it against a decent quality steel; and it wasn't able to be wielded with sufficient force to to puncture good plate in a thrust by hand alone, especially on a cuirass. But that knife was something. He wouldn't be surprised if it would cut through even a well made steel breastplate if you could get an inhuman amount of strength behind a lunge.
It had been some kind of heirloom in the august Altamani family, but all Eathel really knew about it was that it was important to Hejyman; therefore, it was important to him.
With all the hardware you have access to, and you picked that gaudy thing? And you just have your sword besides? whined Sera.
What? he asked.
He could feel that her eyes had rolled into a stop, staring at the upper corner of the sky.
You have got to be the worst warrior in the world, Sera said. Certainly the least prepared. And preparation, I imagine, is vital to a soldier's success.
Eathel, ignoring her accusation of being the worst warrior in the world, walked over to the best animal in the world. His courser Echobella was tethered up in a makeshift shed—really more of a lean-to. Eathel was glad to get her out of this dismal space, looking at the claptrap boards that had, in the rain, been left tenebrous and crumbling. Echo’s expression was terminally bored. The more you got to know her, the more you noticed how assuredly her pinkish eyes surveyed all corners of any place she was, as he trotted forward. She was the fastest thing on four legs.
Casselton came over from wrapping up whatever it was he was doing. He stopped in his tracks and admired Echo.
“She is stop-you-in-your-tracks beautiful, even if I do say so myself,” said Eathel.
“I haven’t seen one quite like her. Those legs. And white as milk,” said Cas. Cas ran his hand down the slate-blue dapples down her flanks on the other side, as Eathel brushed her quickly but thoroughly.
“In certain lights, and especially at night, she seems to take on a blueish hue,” Eathel said.
“I can see that, my lord” said Cas.
“Bella means ‘blue’ in Oltera. ‘Echo’ is the plural of ‘ear;’ the singular is is ‘ek’; since Oltera put the adjective after the noun it modified, that meant she was ‘Blue ears.’”
𓃗
No one gives a shit about your dumb word knowledge, Telly, said Sera. You don’t know that, said Eathel. He continued: it’s been so long since you’ve called me that. Telly? she asked. Whatever. I’ll call you what I want, when I want.
“The blue I get, what is it about the ears?” asked Cas.
“This lady has hearing so acute I can, and have, whistled from two miles away, and she has returned to me,” said Eathel. “Not always, but most of the time, she’ll come back.” Maybe that was what bound him, Sera and Echo together. Their good hearing.
I don’t just have good hearing, Sera said. That’s underselling it. I have inhuman hearing.
Hearing you is inhumane, he said. You haven’t called me Telly since I was ten, he plowed forward. I think that’s kind of a term of endearment coming from you like that.
Think what you want, said Sera.
“What’s next, lord?” asked Cas.
“We’re leaving, but there’s one thing that concerns me,” said Eathel.
“We are due to receive word from Raga,” said Cas.
It had been too long since he and Cas had seen their greatest scout off. Raga’s even-toned, matter-of-fact distribution of the facts on the ground of a given situation were dearly missed. She laid out the state of affairs like a seasoned chef chopping onions with hands that knew what to do without any direction, while teaching a young cook how to prepare a sauce.
“Quite,” said Eathel. Raga told them to expect first word from the southeast one month from their parting. That was coming up.
“I’m coming with you, yes?” asked Cas.
“You are,” said Eathel.
“I believe I can send two scouts that’ll get to her in six days and find us wherever we are, my lord,” said Cas.
“Truly?” asked Eathel. He seems serious, said Sera. He’s proven himself competent. Perhaps he really can.
Cas nodded.
“Then see to that,” said Eathel.
“Yes, lord,” said Cas.
He threw his saddlebag over Echo and Sera saw him put his bow in it, wrapped in leather.
Now that, that you can leave, Sera said. You’re the worst shot I’ve ever seen.
What about all that about being well armed? Eathel asked.
A bow for you is not an armament. It’s a hazard to your own health. It’s actually safer to leave it here. Bad an eye as I have, which is an argument, not a fact, it weighs so little and you need a bow and arrow. You also don’t have any arrows. That was true. I need to get better at making them. Cas said he’d seen straighter horse shoes. Well, I agree with him for once then.