‘Hold,’ Yedan murmured, his voice calming the beast.
Those of the royal line among the Shake possessed ancient knowledge, memories thick as blood. Tales of ancient foes, sworn enemies of the uncertain Shore. More perhaps than most, the Shake rulers understood that a thing could be both one and the other, or indeed neither. Sides possessed undersides and even those terms were suspect. Language itself stuttered in the face of such complexities, such rampant subtleties of nature.
In this place, however, the blended flavours of compassion were anathema to the powers that ruled.
Yet the lone figure that strode out from the forest was so unexpected that Yedan Derryg grunted as if he had been punched in the chest. ‘This realm is not yours,’ he said, fighting to control his horse.
‘This land is consecrated for adjudication,’ the Forkrul Assail said. ‘I am named Repose. Give me your name, seeker, that I may know you-’
‘Before delivering judgement upon me?’
The tall, ungainly creature, naked and weaponless, cocked his head. ‘You are not alone. You and your followers have brought discord to this land. Do not delay me-you cannot evade what hides within you. I shall be your truth.’
‘I am Yedan Derryg.’
The Forkrul Assail frowned. ‘This yields me no ingress-why is that? How is it you block me, mortal?’
‘I will give you that answer,’ Yedan replied, slipping down from the horse. He drew his sword.
Repose stared at him. ‘Your defiance is useless.’
Yedan advanced on him. ‘Is it? But, how can you know for certain? My name yields you no purchase upon my soul. Why is that?’
‘Explain this, mortal.’
‘My name is meaningless. It is my title that holds my truth. My title, and my blood.’
The Forkrul Assail shifted his stance, lifting his hands. ‘One way or another, I will know you, mortal.’
‘Yes, you will.’
Repose attacked, his hands a blur. But those deadly weapons cut empty air, as Yedan was suddenly behind the Forkrul Assail, sword chopping into the back of the creature’s elongated legs, the iron edge cutting between each leg’s two hinged knees, severing the buried tendons-Repose toppled forward, arms flailing.
Yedan chopped down a second time, cutting off the Assail’s left arm. Blue, thin blood sprayed on to the ground.
‘I am Shake,’ Yedan said, raising his sword once more. ‘I am the Watch.’
The sudden hiss from Repose was shortlived, as Yedan’s sword took off the top of the Forkrul Assail’s head.
He wasted little time. He could hear the pounding of hoofs. Vaulting on to his horse’s back, he collected the reins in one hand and, still, gripping his blue-stained sword, wheeled the beast round.
Five Tiste Liosan were charging towards him, lances levelled.
Yedan Derryg drove his horse straight for them.
These were scouts, he knew. They would take him down and then send one rider back to gather a punitive army-they would then ride to the column. Where they would slaughter everyone. These were the ones he had been expecting.
The line of standing stones lay to Yedan’s left. At the last moment before the gap between him and the Tiste Liosan closed, Yedan dragged his horse in between two of the stones. He heard a lance shatter and then snarls of frustration as the troop thundered past. The gelding responded with alacrity as he guided it back through the line, wheeling to come up behind the nearest Tiste Liosan-the one who’d snapped his lance on one of the dolmens and who was now reaching for his sword even as he reined in.
Yedan’s sword caught beneath the rim of his enamelled helm, slicing clean through his neck. The decapitated head spun to one side, cracking against a dolmen.
The Watch slapped the flat of his blade on the white horse’s rump, launching it forward in a lunge, and then, driving his heels into his own horse’s flanks, he pulled into the other horse’s wake.
The remaining four Liosan had wheeled in formation, out and away from the standing stones, and were now gathering for a second charge.
Their fallen comrade’s horse galloped straight for them, forcing the riders to scatter once more.
Yedan chose the Liosan nearest the dolmens, catching the man before he could right his lance. A crossways slash severed the scout’s right arm halfway between the shoulder and elbow, the edge cutting into and snapping ribs as Yedan’s horse carried him past the shrieking warrior.
A savage yank on the reins brought him up alongside another scout. He saw the woman’s eyes as she twisted round in her saddle, heard her snarled curse, before he drove the point of his sword into the small of her back, punching between the armour’s plates along the laced seam.
