Young Writers Society

An overall atmosphere of apprehension was to be observed in the Lyssenian camp, and it was something more than the usual tension before battle.

It was no longer a matter of simply living through the battle, surviving the war. The men were not scared for their lives, for their mortal bodies, but for their souls – the soldiers were afraid of the devils from the East, who, as tales have it, could snatch them away. For the enemy, dark-skinned Yerrida from behind the Eddana, were said to possess powers, to have made pacts with the Eight Demons and were to meddle with black magic…

Bloody fools, the lot of them, was Lord del Enei’s opinion, which he voiced at every possible occasion. He did not believe in the supernatural when it came to the Yerrida – what he saw was a practically defenseless country, rich, ever so rich in spices and gold, hid behind the Eddana Desert for so long.

Not any more, if he got what he wanted. And he usually did.

“Look!” someone called out.

Sevirard shifted his attention toward where the person who shouted was pointing, but saw nothing more than the sands of Eddana. He squinted his eyes as he suddenly glimpsed a black spot between the light browns and grey. The spot began to expand – soon he could make out two riders steadily getting closer and closer.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sevirard observed a slight change of position among his guards. Two men and one woman pushed forward and formed a loose semi-circle around him, even though one of them had already been at his side. Shields, as they were called, differed from ordinary soldiers by simple black attire and lack of any armor.

Shields were the best soldiers – it was said that one of their number equaled four ordinary warriors in battle. What more, they did not believe in the gibberish about the Yerrida.

The two riders were now close enough to distinguish their shapes and features. Sevirard frowned in irritation as he realized that instead of proper envoys, he had and old woman and a fourteen, maybe fifteen year old boy in front him.

The boy dismounted first, then helped the older woman do so also. As much as the boy was dressed in plain black attire, the woman was the exact opposite.

A veil hid her face, but that was not unusual for an Yerrida woman. Made of the same golden fabric as her dress, it shimmered at her every move. Four or five necklaces were looped around her neck, while at least one ring could be seen on every finger.

The woman and boy both had one trait in common, though: blazing, black eyes.

“Sevirard del Enei?” she asked, her voice thick with the Yerrida accent, making it hard for the Lyssenian to distinguish one word from another. She seemed to realize that, and with something in the shape of a smirk, she repeated her question, “Lord del Enei?”

“Yes-”

“I am Serina du Laeth, Knowing One of the Yerrida,” she interrupted. Nodding at the boy at her side, she introduced him also, though gave no name. “My nephew.” Then, as if content with her own politeness, she looked him straight into his eyes. “Go back where you came from, denidi. Go back to your palaces – the Eddana is no place for you, neither is Yerrida.”

Sevirard was, for a split second, speechless at the straightforwardness. He recovered, however, quickly, barely concealing a grin.

“And if we do not go back?”

“If your army crosses the Yerrida border, a bloodbath will be started. And not only Yerrida blood will be shed.” A glint appeared in her eye, “But first, of course, you will have to cross the Eddana.”

“Bigger armies have crossed bigger deserts, Knowing One,” he replied smoothly.

“But few such deserts have such a sun to protect them.” The old woman looked up, squinting her eyes. The yellow orb shone furiously above, its rays reaching everywhere. “Few such armies where fool enough to be equipped as this one is – too much steel, too much armor…”

“We will talk about that, Knowing One, when this particular army appears at the gates of Cordessa.”

“You will never reach Cordessa.”

Sevirard smiled, and it was that smile that probably angered her so.

“You want our gold, denidi?” With a quick move Serena unclipped one of the numerous necklaces adorning her neck. She threw it at the man’s feet. “You will have it. More than you can imagine, but soon you will find it melting in your hands. You want our horses? You will have them, but they will not listen to your commands. You want our stones? They shall be yours, but they will crumble at your touch. You want our spices, denidi? You will have them, but to you they will taste like sand to you. You will have everything, but you will befoul it-”

“Is that some kind of a proposition, o Knowing One?”

Barely, just barely she raised her voice, even though she did not have to. As much as conversation and laughter hushed at her coming, now it was completely silent – everyone was to be found listening intently to her words, despite the fact that she addressed del Enei.

“You think, my poor, stupid denidi, that we are an easy enemy? That you will find us surrendering to you? You are mistaken.” Serenalaughed. It was a short, bark-like laugh that sent a chill down the spine of the Lyssenian soldiers. “You demand, denidi, too much of us, simple highlanders. Your philosophy of fleeing at the sight of the slightest danger is too complex for our tribes.” Her voice sharpened and eyes darkened. “We are the Yerrida, and this land is our home. We will fight for it, denidi. May your gods have mercy upon you and your people, Sevirard del Enei, because the Yerrida will have none to spare.”

Sevirard grinned, feeling his tense mood lift. He looked at his army, sprawled on the outskirts of the Desert, at tens of hundreds of tents and flags, at thousands of men, weapons at their sides and though of Yerrida, Yerrida hid behind Eddana for so many years, seemingly safe behind the great desert. He though of their villages, of their barbarian tribes…

“Nor shall Catharin, Knowing One.”

“May it be as you wish, Sevirard del Enei, may it be as you wish…” She looked thoughtfully at his face for a moment or two, then, with the help of the boy who had stood at her side, mounted her horse. “We offered peace, but our generosity was discarded. Not today and not tomorrow, not in a month and not in ten years, but we will win, denidi. The Yerrida will win.”

Once Sevirard’s eyes were free from the old woman’s, he recovered his voice, amusement in his tone. “How? A thousand trained in the art of battle, perhaps a thousand and a half, against every ten? Or will you call your demons to your aid? Your supposed magic?” He chuckled.

“The Yerrida will fight,” Serena repeated, grinning her toothless smile once more. “How and by what means, you will soon see for yourself, denidi.”

“Yield. Tell your chieftains to submit, yield now.”

“Never. We are the Yerrida – we never surrender. We were here, in this land, in Yerrida, long before your gods decided to create your people. This is our home, and we will fight for it as only the Yerrida can. As long as one of as alive, we will never be defeated.”

“Then I will cleanse the land of the Yerrida filth!”

“That would be very, very hard, denidi.”

“But not impossible.”

Serena inclined her head, then added dryly, a sparkle in her eye, “Although very, very hard indeed… And what sacrifices would be needed! But all for a greater cause, denidi, all for a greater cause…” She straightened in her saddle and laughed at the expression of fury on Sevirard’s face. “Some things cannot be changed, no matter how one tries.”

It was the boy at Serina’s side who realized what was about to happen first, it seemed, even before del Enei. He lurched at the Knowing One, but it was already too late - Sevirard had raised his hand.

One of the archers released an arrow. Swiftly, it cut through the air, reaching its target with grace – the Knowing One’s heart.

For a moment she just stared at him, at Sevirard del Enei. She smiled at him her toothless, creepy smile as thick, red blood pour out of her wound. The boy caught her just as she let go of the rains.

Whatever it was that he wanted to see in her eyes, hid did not find it. Instead, Serina’s parted her lips, mouthing one word: Run.

Her eyes, blazing black eyes, closed. To heavy to remain in the boy’s grip, she fell to the dirt.

Serena’s nephews hesitated, his hand reaching towards his pocket. Steal shimmered in the noon sun as the dagger was sent flying in Sevirard’s direction.

It missed – one of the Shields had caught it in flight - but the one who had thrown it was too far away to see that. Clouds of dirt formed in the galloping horse’s stead, with Sevirard watching it with delight.

“If all the Yerrida are such cowards, then I am right to expect an easy victory,” he laughed, and was chorused by the men around him. But Sevirard did not hear, or did not want to hear, the hysterical tone that sounded in at least half of the voices.