stream that cut through the paddocks into the Yumynis. The ruins of a farmhouse lay nearby, its charred timbers wet with recent rain. The senseless destruction sickened her and awoke her fury. It must have been such a beautiful residence, by a stream near a wide river, nestled amid green pastures and flanked by mountains.
Across the pastures behind, a great mass of men on horse now gathered. Sasha stared across their ranks in utter disbelief. Thousands of horses. They snorted, stamped, tossed heads and whinnied. Their lines were ragged, their size, colour and breeding uneven, and the men on their backs ranged from armoured cavalrymen to wild-haired, tattooed villagers to a smattering of clean-cut and shaven Verenthane townsmen. A rabble, Tyrun had rightly said. But a very angry, very determined rabble. A very large rabble. Sasha had never seen such mustered soldiery before in her life. The very ground seemed to sag beneath their accumulated weight.
Tyrun came galloping along the front line, raising a cheer as he went. He peeled off and stopped at Sasha's side. “They know what they're doing,” he said, eyes squinted within his silver helm. “We've got them in teams of roughly ten, we try to keep the villages together where possible. This lot's yours…” pointing across the vast swathe of men directly before her, “the bunch behind them will be mine…” pointing over their heads to an even larger mass gathered there, “and Captain Akryd has that lot over there…” pointing furthest from the river, where at least two thousand horse were gathered in rough, shifting ranks.
“Your Baerlyners are with Captain Akryd,” Tyrun continued, answering her unasked question. “I'm sorry they can't ride with you, but our organisation isn't quite that good, and contingents end up wherever they end up.”
Sasha waved a hand. “That's okay. No favouritism.” And it was better, perhaps, that their fates were entirely out of her hands. It would stop her from being distracted. Teriyan. Jaegar. Andreyis. Fear clutched her heart at the thought of her young friend. “Dear spirits look after him,” she thought. “Help him remember what he was taught.”
Some horses were grazing and some men had briefly dismounted to relieve themselves on the grass before the charge. Sasha herself had already done so, within the ruined farmhouse for privacy. The whole thing was surreal. Behind the great mass, Sasha could see some smaller ranks holding reluctantly back. Sofy would be there, with Jaryd at her side. Pray that they were not needed.
“What's the count now?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. Her heart was starting to race, like a startled horse that wished to rip clear of her chest and go galloping off across the fields.
“Five thousand two hundred and change,” Tyrun replied. “There's more behind, scattered in groups all across the Shudyn Divide.” Even as he spoke, Sasha spied some latecomers pelting toward the rear, frantic not to miss the action. She could almost see their disappointment when an officer directed them toward the reserve. “We would be stronger every moment we wait, but the afternoon grows late already and the cloud will make the dark come sooner.”
Sasha shook her head. “No waiting. As soon as you're ready.” Any longer and her own racing heart would kill her.
“A gesture from the commander is customary,” said Tyrun, indicating the waiting ranks behind. Clearly he read the look on her face, for he shrugged, apologetically. “Not to do so could be considered a bad omen.”
Sasha reined Peg about in frustration, dug in her heels and raced uphill to what she considered would be the centre of that vast front line. Then she stopped, pulled the sword from over her shoulder, stood in the stirrups and held it aloft.
“LENAYIN!” she yelled. The answering roar gave her the worst goosebumps of her life, so loud it seemed it might blow her from the saddle. Thousands of blades speared the air and thousands of voices yelled, again and again. She turned and galloped back to her vanguard, still waving the blade. As she approached, Tyrun gave the signal and the whole front line began to move. The Battle of Ymoth was underway. Exactly which battle of Ymoth, whether the fifth, or the fifteenth, or the fiftieth, Sasha was far from certain.
Peg splashed through the stream, Sasha holding him to a canter up the far bank as the front line reached the stream unevenly. The water dissolved in a frothing mass of hooves and Sasha spared a long look behind, seeing