Free Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind by Juliet E. McKenna

would dearly love to silence the Mountain Man but he had no argument that would do so. Besides, he wouldn't come close to landing a blow. The disaster of this first skirmish would have shredded the column's fragile morale. Seeing their captain knocked on his arse by Sorgrad could only make their dire situation worse.
    He stood in his stirrups. 'Rally to your sergeants,' he roared, 'or run back home to hide under your beds. You won't be able to outrun your disgrace though. Every man who stands true will spit in your face for the rest of your lives, along with everyone else who learns of your cowardice!'
    Amid the tumult, his shouts didn't carry very far, but at least those close enough to hear were given pause. Scuffles subsided as men looked at each other, shamefaced. Plenty of those further away were still running.
    Gren munched a mouthful of apple. 'Let's hope we've got enough men to save Ashgil.'
    'Is this how you uphold Triolle's honour? Is this the tale you'll take back to your parents? The legacy you'll leave to your children--' Tathrin broke off, coughing.
    He swigged water from the bottle tied to his saddlebow. At least he could see the sergeants regaining some measure of control now that the first searing panic had cooled. More renegades lay dead on the dusty ground than he expected. Perhaps this wasn't quite the calamity he had first feared.
    'You'd best have Aremil tell you everything he's learned from Failla, when you report this misadventure,' advised Sorgrad. 'You need to know what you'll likely be facing, so you can start planning ahead. Feel free to ask my advice, or any of the other sergeants.'
    Tathrin rode away without answering. Otherwise he felt he truly would try to punch the Mountain Man. That really wouldn't be fair though. This debacle was no one's fault but his own. He turned his lacerating guilt on the wide-eyed Triollese.
    'If you're so craven, we don't want you holding us back. Run and see if you can catch up with your gutless duke. Hide down whatever rabbit hole Iruvain's found!'

Chapter Six
     
    Litasse
    Adrulle, Caladhria,
    16th of For-Winter
     
    Two elegant women and their burly footman approached. She drew in her skirts to move closer to the shopfronts. That was only common courtesy. She also didn't want anyone getting too close. Her blue twill gown was shamefully stained from her recent ordeals by boat and by horse.
    Despite sluicing her own underclothes each night, Litasse was horribly aware of her rank odour. All her perfumes and soaps had been lost in their desperate flight along with most of her clothes.
    The women made no attempt to accommodate her presence on the flagstones flanking the cobbled street. They barged past, shoving her into the open shutters of a drapery.
    As Litasse gasped, the women's escort turned to spit with deliberate malice. She looked down to see phlegm glisten on her skirt.
    'What do--' Before Litasse could vent her outrage, the trio were lost in the uncaring crowd.
    The draper clapped his hands sharply. 'If you're not buying, madam, make space for those who are.'
    She drew herself up to rebuke him. Then she realised he didn't know who she was. Just one more dispossessed Lescari cluttering up their well-to-do town in her dirty gown. Claim to be duchess of Triolle and they would call some constable to detain her till she could be secured in a madhouse.
    Her eyes stinging with humiliation, Litasse retraced her steps. If her noble husband wanted to know what was proclaimed in the broadsheets nailed to the hoardings of the Buttermarket, he could cursed well go and look himself.
    She turned into a narrow lane, cobblestones uneven on either side of a noisome drain. The inn was halfway along, its woodwork in need of paint and its stonework green with the moss that thrived in this damp, low-lying district. Regardless, the price of a room had been her topaz earrings, last of the gems concealed in her bodice.
    At least Iruvain must feel at home. Litasse's mortification was