“I trust you were not mistreated, good sirs,” Lyrna said to the three men as they traversed a shallow stream.
“Only if silence is a form of torture, Highness,” Ivern replied.
“For you it usually is,” Sollis muttered.
“No time for talk,” Davoka told them. “Need to be at the rapids by sun fall.” She kicked her pony to a canter, obliging them to follow suit.
As always, Lyrna found the relentless hours in the saddle irksome, but not quite so miserable an experience as before. Her back and legs didn’t ache so much and her thighs seemed to have become more resistant to chafing. She was also aware her ability as a rider had improved, where before she had struggled constantly to stay in the saddle at the gallop, now she moved in concert with the horse, even experiencing a small thrill in the exhilaration of speed as her hair trailed in the wind and the pony’s hooves drummed on the earth. Perhaps I’m becoming Lonak, she thought with a grin.
They came to the rapids by late evening, a raging torrent some fifty paces wide, stretching away on either side as far as they could see. Davoka led them eastward, following the course of the river until they found a deeper stretch where the current was not so fierce.
“This is not a ford,” Sollis observed.
“Ponies can swim,” Davoka said. “So can we.”
“Erm,” said Lyrna in a small voice.
“The current’s too swift,” Sollis insisted. “We should press on, find a better spot.”
“No time,” Davoka said, dismounting and leading her pony to the riverbank. “Sentar will already have our trail. We swim.”
“I can’t,” Lyrna said, eyeing the swirling eddies churning the river’s surface.
“No choice, Queen,” Davoka said, making ready to leap into the water.
“I said I can’t!” Lyrna shouted.
The Lonak woman turned with a quizzical expression.
“I can’t swim,” Lyrna went on, unable to keep the sullen defensiveness from her voice.
“Not even a little, Highness?” Ivern enquired.
“Forgive me for not spending my childhood in your order, brother!” she rounded on him. “My tutors were clearly remiss to the point of treason in not teaching me to swim, for it’s well-known such a skill is of great value to a princess.”
He winced a little under the tirade, but was unable to fully suppress a smirk. “Well, it is now.”
“Mind your tongue, brother!” Sollis snapped.
“We must cross,” Davoka stated.
“Well, I agree with Brother Sollis,” Lyrna replied, crossing her arms and forcing all the regal authority into her voice she could muster. “We should find a better spot, somewhere not so deep . . .”
She trailed off as Davoka approached her with a purposeful stride. “Don’t!” Lyrna cautioned her.
Davoka ducked down and lifted Lyrna over her shoulder, turning back to the river. “Rock apes can swim, no-one teaches them. So can you.”
“Brother Sollis, I command you . . .” Lyrna had time to sputter before finding herself in the air. The chill of the water was shocking, numbing her from head to toe in an instant. There was a moment of deafness, her vision crowded with bubbles, before she bobbed to the surface, dragging air into her lungs with a shout. As Sollis had predicted, the current was swift, carrying her downriver a good twenty paces before she managed to scramble to the bank, flailing and kicking until her feet found purchase on the rocky shallows. She crawled from the water, shivering and retching. Smolen appeared at her side, helping her up with careful hands. “You insult the person of our princess!” he raged at Davoka as she strode to join them.
“See,” she said to Lyrna, ignoring Smolen’s outburst. “You swim well eno—”
Lyrna punched her in the face. She put all her strength into the blow but it rebounded from the Lonak woman’s jaw without any obvious effect, whilst provoking an instant flare of agony in her fist.
There was a moment’s silence as Smolen put a hand on his sword hilt, Lyrna shook the pain from her hand and Davoka rubbed the small bruise on her jaw. She grunted and a smile ghosted across her lips. “Hold on to the pony’s neck,” she told Lyrna, turning away. “You be fine.”
In the event the crossing was less hazardous than Sollis feared, although Smolen came adrift from his pony halfway across and had to be rescued by Ivern before the current took him away, the young brother managing to snare the Lord Marshal’s tunic as he swept past. Lyrna clamped her arms around her pony’s neck and hung on as the animal kicked through the torrent. It seemed unafraid of the water, though its snorts indicated it found her an unwelcome burden. It was done in the space of an hour, all five of them safely making the opposite bank in varying stages of bedraggled exhaustion.
“Can’t rest,” Davoka said, climbing onto her pony’s back and spurring towards the north.
They trailed after her until they made it to the cover of a thick pine forest some ten miles from the river. Davoka discovered a shallow cave in a ravine where they took turns to sleep until morning. Lyrna found herself chilled to the point of shaking once more but there was no return of the sickness that laid her low beneath the Mouth of Nishak and she woke with the dawn, aching but refreshed enough to continue.
She moved to Davoka’s side as she crouched at the mouth of the cave, eyes scanning the walls of the ravine. “Any sign?” Lyrna asked her.
Davoka shook her head. “No sign, no scent. They hunt for us, but not in this forest.” Her tone indicated this wasn’t necessarily good news.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” Lyrna said.
Davoka turned to her with a puzzled frown. “Sorree?”
Lyrna searched for the Lonak equivalent, finding there wasn’t one. “Illeha,” she said. Regret or guilt, depending on the inflection.
“Lonakhim hit each other all the time,” Davoka replied with a shrug. “If you’d tried to knife me, things would be different.” She rose and moved back into the cave, kicking at the feet of the sleeping men. “Rouse yourselves, limp-pricks. Time to go.”
They cleared the forest by midmorning, riding hard to the north-east. The country here was less mountainous than they had experienced so far, distinguished by numerous broad grassy plains between the peaks. Lyrna’s new-found skill in the saddle allowed her to match Davoka’s speed and they rode side by side for a time until Davoka reined to an abrupt halt, her eyes alighting on something to the west. Lyrna followed her gaze, picking out a dust-cloud rising above the horizon. “Sentar?” she asked.
“Who else?” Ivern said.
“Highness!” Smolen stood in his stirrups, pointing to the south where another dust cloud was rising.
Lyrna turned to Davoka, finding her looking ahead at the mountain range to the north, no doubt calculating the distance.
“It’s too far,” Sollis said, unhitching his bow. There was no particular alarm to his voice, just a faint note of resignation.
“Queen can go,” Davoka said. “We hold them back.”
Lyrna looked at the cloud to the west, picking out the dark smudges appearing out of the haze. She stopped counting at fifty. “There are too many, sister,” she said. “But thank you.”
Davoka met her eyes, and for the first time there was a sense of confusion there, a reluctance to comprehend the finality of the moment. Lyrna supposed she had never tasted defeat before. “I’m . . . sorree, Lerhnah,” Davoka said.
Lyrna surprised herself by responding with an unforced and genuine smile. “It was my choice,” she said, then surveyed the three men now arranged in a circle around her, Ivern and Sollis with their bows ready, Smolen with his sword drawn. “Good sirs, I thank you for your service and express my sincere regret for leading you on this mad enterprise.”
Sollis just grunted, Smolen offered a grave bow of respect and Ivern said, “Highness, I believe a kiss from you would see me into the Beyond with no regrets at all.”
She stared at him and was gratified when he actually blushed. “My apologies, Highness . . .” he stammered.
She moved her pony alongside his and leaned over to plant a kiss on his lips, letting it linger a while before drawing back. “Good enough?” she asked.
For once it seemed words were beyond him.
“Sekhara ke Lessa Ilvar!” Davoka shouted, drawing Lyrna’s attention away from the dumbfounded brother. We live in the sight of the gods. An expression of thanks for godly blessings, usually unexpected.
The Lonak woman was staring at the dust-cloud to the south, the riders now clearly visible. Riding in front was a large man in a bearskin vest, a massive war club in his hand. Alturk!
For a moment Lyrna thought the clan chief had come to join in their imminent slaughter, which seemed strange considering he had already enjoyed ample opportunity to do them all the harm he wished. But instead Alturk led his band towards the west, at least five hundred warriors riding at full gallop, placing themselves between Lyrna’s party and the onrushing Sentar.
The two war-bands met in a headlong clash some two hundred paces distant. The wind was brisk, dispelling the dust to afford a clear view of the battle, Lonak warriors assailing each other with club, hatchet and spear in a ferocious melee, accompanied by a continuous chorus of war cries and the screams of their ponies. She saw Alturk in the thickest part of the fight, laying about with his club and hatchet, foe after foe falling before him.