Blessings
A standalone fragment from the Southsong Cycle (fourth epoch)
The yarl floated along the low, grassy ridge in the center of the Southron line, where her stinger crews had positioned their machines. Too far forward. Our spine must not be so exposed. It was not a question of whether the invaders would emerge from the forested valley below, but when. She said as much to her husband, whose rumbling voice relayed her will to the stinger thaens.
Chill wind scoured the seaside mountains under a blue-grey firmament. Blades of grass rippled, and plain-clothed gangs hauled their spear-throwers to higher ground. Otherwise, little movement disturbed her northerly view of the gleaming, taunting silver sea-line. Her disembarked armada extended nearly a league from west to east, but most of her warriors had tucked themselves into clefts and hollows. Their Nordling foes gathered out of sight, in the depths of the valley.
It is an auspicious day for Waveborne to spill blood together. The yarl knelt westward, toward the mother isles, and deftly arranged her red, calf-length woolen cloak about her knees. A holy day. She closed her eyes, lifted her head, and sang a sea-psalm of benediction over her warriors.
Then she exhaled and reopened her eyes to the world of the living. It was a blessing to know the day Livyat would send her soul to the heart of the deep. Empress willing—and therein lies the barb.
She caught her husband’s eye and favored him with a glancing smile. He returned it warmly. A loyal helpmate, if ever there were one.
“My yarl!” her chief scout called. The yarl rose to her feet and turned aft to see the grizzled fellow approach in sweat-slicked haste. His bow was perfunctory, so keen was he to make his report. “The third Nordling armada has not yet reached our coast, my yarl. What has held them up, I cannot say. But by the blessed empress, they will not reinforce our cousins in the valley for another day, at least.”
Half the Nordlings’ strength was delayed. A sign of the empress’s favor, mayhap. Or a gift from Livyat herself.
She must not squander this reprieve. Sheer numbers had failed to overcome the Nordlings’ accursed spear-slingers thus far, but only a land-hugger or a fool obliged her foe’s expectations.
“Our attack begins ’ere noontide,” she told her husband, whose presence she sensed behind her, steady as a ship’s mast. We must reposition our shells on the board—and quickly.