water, his teeth bared in a furious snarl. The other man struggled, splashed, then struck the Hadryn's wounded leg. The Hadryn screamed, but did not relent his grip. Was struck again, which loosened a hand enough for the other man to grab and bite. Again the Hadryn screamed, and the man beneath him struck him in the face and rolled him over, searching the streambed with another hand. He found a rock, raised and struck with it—again and again, as the Hadryn tried to defend himself.
Rysha sobbed and buried her face into Daryd's chest. The Hadryn's helm was missing, and the mail hood provided some protection, but the man with the rock was relentless. He continued to strike with terrible fury, until the Hadryn's struggles ceased. Then he stood up, shoulders heaving, and searched the shallows until he found his blade. That done, he stood over the fallen man's body, raised the blade with its point down and plunged it through the protective mail. And twisted, horribly.
Daryd's stomach turned and he lunged for the stream to vomit. He was still there, on hands and knees, when the bedraggled, bloodstained victor splashed upstream past him, his blade in hand. Daryd watched, knowing he shouldn't, but unable to tear his eyes away. The man arrived at where the second Hadryn now lay on the streambank, clutching helplessly at the shaft beneath his inner collar-bone. The fear in the wounded Hadryn man's eyes twisted Daryd's stomach once more and he vomited again. He looked up, just in time to see the victor yank off the Hadryn's protective mail hood and cut his throat.
Then he walked to the Hadryn's horse, which was standing fearfully nearby, and extended a hand, speaking softly. Soon he was stroking its nose, and it seemed noticeably calmer. He led the horse downstream, where it drank while the man crossed the stream to recover his bow. Finally, he walked to where the two muddy, wet and terrified Udalyn children huddled together by the streamside.
Daryd got to his feet, stood before Rysha and put a hand on his knife, warningly. This man was clearly not Hadryn, but he did not look Udalyn, either—his face bore no markings and his wet hair, while shoulder-length, was not long enough for a braid. The man had rugged, weathered features and his wet clothes were the leathers and rough cloth that a woodsman might wear.
He crouched on one knee, disregarding Daryd's warning stance. “Udalyn?” he asked, pointing at Daryd. His accent was very strong. Daryd had never met a non-Udalyn before in his life. He nodded, warily. “My Edu…” the man made a face. “Very bad. Little Edu. Understand?”
Again, Daryd nodded. His mouth tasted of vomit and his head spun. But he was determined not to faint. That would be a final humiliation, before this strange, foreign warrior who had defeated two Hadryn cavalry before his very eyes. “I understand,” he said warily. “Who are you?”
Inexplicably, the man's rugged features split in a hard smile. As if the very sound of Daryd's speech had caused him pleasure. His eyes, hard and merciless the moment before, now narrowed with a look of wonder. “Udalyn,” he murmured. And something else, in a foreign tongue, with a faint shake of his head. “My name Jurellyn,” he said then, very carefully. “Prince Damon efryn sy. Rels en Prince Damon Lenayin. Understand?”
The foreign words must have been Lenay, Daryd guessed. Lenay was spoken in the middle provinces, he'd heard…although in the last century, it had spread elsewhere and become Lenayin's major tongue. But in the Valley of the Udalyn, it remained as strange and foreign as the many tongues of the wise ones of Saalshen.
“Prince Damon Lenayin sent you?” Daryd guessed.
The man, Jurellyn, nodded vigorously. Then clicked his fingers as a word occurred to him. “Scout,” he said. “Me scout. Prince Damon's army. Scout Hadryn.” Pointing at the fallen men. “I scout Hadryn.” Pointing to his eyes. “See Hadryn. Tell Prince Damon. Hadryn go Ymoth. Fight Ymoth. Understand?”
Ymoth. Abruptly, Daryd recalled his original mission. His family were in Ymoth. The Hadryn were here to kill. He had just seen killing, for the first time, with his own eyes. The thought of that happening to his family filled him with a terror that made any fear for his own life seem like nothing.
“My family live in Ymoth!” he told the man, desperately. “My mother and father, my brothers…I have to warn them!”
Jurellyn shook his head, firmly. “Hadryn, Udalyn, fight,” he said,