Read Online Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four by Joel Shepherd - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joel Shepherd
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learn that, and considered the walls with renewed respect.
A search of the buildings' echoing halls revealed signs of fast departure, and no sign of life. But an Isfayen lord's intrusion in the temple revealed signs of recent activity.
“There is blood on the paving,” he said grimly. “Pews have been overturned, and rear rooms searched. There are wagon tracks outside and hoofmarks. There was food left in the temple, and blankets…I think perhaps someone was using it as a refuge.”
He handed Markan a wooden doll, with a head of long horses' hair intricately embedded in the wood. A child's toy.
“Someone did not leave fast enough,” Yasmyn said solemnly. Sasha looked away, biting her lip. Like stone, she told herself. Be like stone. Yasmyn tucked the doll into a pouch at her belt.
“The tracks lead away, quite fresh,” said the lord who had discovered it. “We can catch whoever made them, I'm sure.”
“Interesting,” said Markan with a nod. “I should like to see this latest conquest of our grand allies, against a ferocious, doll-wielding foe.”
Some of the men smiled or laughed at that. Sasha did not. Nor, with a concerned look her way, did Yasmyn.
The road from town led them toward the looming cliffs seen earlier. These odd tombs of rock seemed incongruous with the surrounding green landscape of gentle hills. The Isfayen scout followed the trail easily enough, and soon informed them all that a wagon party lay ahead.
They came to it on a rutted trail by a stream. There were four wagons, accompanied by ten men on horse. All wore the colour and armour of Bacosh warriors, and peering now behind them at the Isfayen's approach, they seemed relieved but wary.
“We thought you might be serrin!” one horseman shouted back at them in Torovan, which Sasha, Markan, and Yasmyn alone of their group understood. “We're making double time to reach the column, don't want to be caught out here past nightfall!”
Markan rode forward. Sasha could see men with crossbows peering from the rear flaps of the wagons. The Bacosh horsemen seemed wary too, of this big man with slanted eyes and flowing hair, clad in patterned leather, chain armour, and steel-studded gloves. The curved sword drew many looks to his side. One did not need to talk to an Isfayen warrior to know his nature, one needed only look.
“You come from the town back there?” Markan asked, pointing back the way they'd ridden.
The horseman nodded. “Weird place, yes? Too many damn weird places in this land, I'll be happy to get home to Meraine, myself.” He looked at them with some suspicion. “I bet you Lenays don't find it so weird, though? Men say you folks don't mind the serrin?”
“In Isfayen we've had little to do with them,” said Markan.
“Ah,” said the horseman. “Isfayen.” Clearly he had no idea where that was. In most of the lowlands, a Lenay barbarian was a Lenay barbarian, no matter what region.
“What manner of soldiers are you?” Markan asked, with clear disdain.
“Men-at-arms,” came the reply. “Tasked with foraging.”
“Foraging what?” Sasha asked.
The horseman stared at her, only now seeming to notice her presence. He blinked rapidly, perhaps realising who she was.
“Things,” he said defensively. “Food. Supplies.”
“Mind if I look?” Sasha asked.
“It's ours!” scowled the horseman. He backed up his horse, clearly worried. His reaction made her cold. If he recognised her, Sasha reckoned, he no doubt knew something of her conflicted allegiances.
Like stone, she told herself. Like the hard granite of the looming cliffs.
The crossbowmen in the back of the wagon were readying their weapons, as horsemen along the column grasped at the hilts of their blades.
“There are a handful of you,” Markan said contemptuously. “There are many of us. We are the Isfayen, the bloodwarriors of the western mountains, and all Lenayin has feared us since we first walked in the world. I think it best that you let
A search of the buildings' echoing halls revealed signs of fast departure, and no sign of life. But an Isfayen lord's intrusion in the temple revealed signs of recent activity.
“There is blood on the paving,” he said grimly. “Pews have been overturned, and rear rooms searched. There are wagon tracks outside and hoofmarks. There was food left in the temple, and blankets…I think perhaps someone was using it as a refuge.”
He handed Markan a wooden doll, with a head of long horses' hair intricately embedded in the wood. A child's toy.
“Someone did not leave fast enough,” Yasmyn said solemnly. Sasha looked away, biting her lip. Like stone, she told herself. Be like stone. Yasmyn tucked the doll into a pouch at her belt.
“The tracks lead away, quite fresh,” said the lord who had discovered it. “We can catch whoever made them, I'm sure.”
“Interesting,” said Markan with a nod. “I should like to see this latest conquest of our grand allies, against a ferocious, doll-wielding foe.”
Some of the men smiled or laughed at that. Sasha did not. Nor, with a concerned look her way, did Yasmyn.
The road from town led them toward the looming cliffs seen earlier. These odd tombs of rock seemed incongruous with the surrounding green landscape of gentle hills. The Isfayen scout followed the trail easily enough, and soon informed them all that a wagon party lay ahead.
They came to it on a rutted trail by a stream. There were four wagons, accompanied by ten men on horse. All wore the colour and armour of Bacosh warriors, and peering now behind them at the Isfayen's approach, they seemed relieved but wary.
“We thought you might be serrin!” one horseman shouted back at them in Torovan, which Sasha, Markan, and Yasmyn alone of their group understood. “We're making double time to reach the column, don't want to be caught out here past nightfall!”
Markan rode forward. Sasha could see men with crossbows peering from the rear flaps of the wagons. The Bacosh horsemen seemed wary too, of this big man with slanted eyes and flowing hair, clad in patterned leather, chain armour, and steel-studded gloves. The curved sword drew many looks to his side. One did not need to talk to an Isfayen warrior to know his nature, one needed only look.
“You come from the town back there?” Markan asked, pointing back the way they'd ridden.
The horseman nodded. “Weird place, yes? Too many damn weird places in this land, I'll be happy to get home to Meraine, myself.” He looked at them with some suspicion. “I bet you Lenays don't find it so weird, though? Men say you folks don't mind the serrin?”
“In Isfayen we've had little to do with them,” said Markan.
“Ah,” said the horseman. “Isfayen.” Clearly he had no idea where that was. In most of the lowlands, a Lenay barbarian was a Lenay barbarian, no matter what region.
“What manner of soldiers are you?” Markan asked, with clear disdain.
“Men-at-arms,” came the reply. “Tasked with foraging.”
“Foraging what?” Sasha asked.
The horseman stared at her, only now seeming to notice her presence. He blinked rapidly, perhaps realising who she was.
“Things,” he said defensively. “Food. Supplies.”
“Mind if I look?” Sasha asked.
“It's ours!” scowled the horseman. He backed up his horse, clearly worried. His reaction made her cold. If he recognised her, Sasha reckoned, he no doubt knew something of her conflicted allegiances.
Like stone, she told herself. Like the hard granite of the looming cliffs.
The crossbowmen in the back of the wagon were readying their weapons, as horsemen along the column grasped at the hilts of their blades.
“There are a handful of you,” Markan said contemptuously. “There are many of us. We are the Isfayen, the bloodwarriors of the western mountains, and all Lenayin has feared us since we first walked in the world. I think it best that you let
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