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“It could’ve been worse,” Yrina said. “Every member of every family could’ve been lost, but they weren’t. We got here in time to help, and they’ve you to thank for it.”
Not in time to help everyone,Zarrah thought, staring at the dead farmer, his stomach sliced open by a Maridrinian sword.
She’d taken command of the Nerastis garrison the moment they’d sailed back into the harbor, caring little when her cousin Bermin shouted and raged about being stripped of the role of general. The first thing she’d done was triple the number of scouts watching the border for raiders and double the number of patrol camps stationed up and down the countryside. Already it had paid dividends, her soldiers having intercepted several raiding parties before they had a chance to work their devilry. But the Maridrinian rats had generations of practice at this form of warfare, and they were adapting to her tactics, as today had proved.
“The horns are a mistake!” a deep voice boomed from behind her. “We’d have killed twice their numbers if we’d used stealth.”
Zarrah turned from the bodies to find Bermin riding up behind her, his massive mount splattered with blood and her cousin equally covered in gore. “It looks as though you caught more than a few fleeing rats.”
“Some.” He spit on the ground, then dismounted. “Their horses are fast, so many more will escape back across the border. An opportunity they wouldn’t have had if you hadn’t warned them we were coming.”
It was one of the many strategies they disagreed on. Bermin preferred to approach the raids with stealth so as to kill as many Maridrinians as possible, whereas she preferred to put the run on them with signal horns, thus saving as many Valcottan lives as she could. But the bigger difference between how she and Bermin worked was that Zarrah never limited her strategies to just one element.
No sooner had that thought rolled through her head did Yrina say, “Smoke,” and the group all turned to look at the crimson puffs in the distance. Zarrah smiled in satisfaction before turning back to Bermin. “Just becauseyoudidn’t kill them doesn’t mean they got away. I had archers waiting to pick them off.”
Her cousin huffed out a breath, crossing his thick arms. “You dedicate too many of our forces to defense, Zarrah. It’s been weeks since we crossed the border. Makes us look weak. Makes Valcotta look weak.”
The Maridrinians had lost more soldiers in recent weeks to Zarrah’s strategies than they had in the last year of Bermin’s, so Zarrah doubtedweaknesswas the word the rats were spitting as they licked their wounds.
“Gather the bastards’ heads,” she ordered, taking the reins of her horse from one of her soldiers. “Burn the bodies.” She turned to Yrina, about to give the order for soldiers to remain to dig graves for the dead farmers, but motion caught her attention. Shading her eyes from the brightness of the sun, Zarrah peered at the brush. Someone was hiding. “I thought you found all the children?”
“We did,” Yrina answered, but Zarrah was already walking toward the brush, her hands up to indicate she meant no harm. The child would be terrified, and though Zarrah was one of his or her countrymen, she was still a soldier. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “You can come out now. It’s safe.”
“Zarrah!” Yrina called. “Hold back.”
Zarrah ignored her friend because she knew the fear this child was feeling. Knew the horror. And she remembered how she’d prayed to be delivered from it. “Let me help you.”
A form exploded from the brush. Not a child but a man.
A Maridrinian soldier.
“Die, you Valcottan bitch!” he screamed, then sliced at her with his sword.
Instinct took over.
Zarrah ducked under the blade, rolling across the ground and then back on her feet in a flash. Pulling loose her weapon, she held up a hand to stop Yrina and the others from attacking. “You should have run when you had the chance.”
“Better to die with your blood on my hands,” he hissed, eyes gleaming with hate.
But his hate was a paltry thing compared to hers.
She knocked the blade from his grip, then swung again, taking his legs out from under him.
The Maridrinian sprawled on the ground, but Zarrah kicked him in the ribs, flipping him over. “Pick up your weapon.”
He retrieved his sword, rising unsteadily. Then he attacked.
Zarrah’s staff was a blur of motion, blocking his swipe and then flying under his guard to slam against his arm, bone breaking. The Maridrinian screamed and dropped his weapon.
“Care to try again, or do you want to run?”
“So that your archers can shoot me in the back?” he demanded. “I heard you, Valcottan. There is no escape.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky.” She pressed forward, the Maridrinian stumbling out of reach. “Rats are good at scuttling through small, dark spaces.”
“You’re supposed to let us retreat,” he snarled. “Those are the rules. Those have always been the rules!”
Her anger turned to blistering rage, her vision red, because this murderer didn’t deserve escape. Didn’t deserve any mercy beyond what he’d shown her people, which wasnone. “The rules have changed.” Then she swung her staff with all her strength.
