By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
For us to hold thirty to forty hunted men together as an organization required some lively riding. To stay in one place too long was to court death. Even more than the usual knightly troop, we depended on our horses. Our Fyana mounts came by way of surreptitious purchases and by theft. In the latter case, we made an effort to steal only from the enemy and his avowed friends. Some horse breeders, wishing that they could have joined us, occasionally offered the gift of a good steed. Once we had the animals, we did all we could to preserve them in health and vigor. They were our mobility, and mobility was our survival.
We kept as many spare horses as we dared and distributed them amongst pastures that were held by trusted yeomen. Alas, there was an inherent risk in creating such ties. Even a man who wished our cause well might, in time, be forced to betray us if he fell under suspicion and was subjected to coercion. Those with wives and children were especially vulnerable.
But even when the arrangement worked well, it meant that our replacement horseflesh was usually far away from the man who needed it most. In almost every way, it was hard to compete with the militias, rowdy outfits that they were. Harouck had the wealth and the armories; his men had the best of everything lavished upon them.
Too often, our only respite from the saddle might be a blanket on the ground. Fifty miles a day was no unusual journey for us. Our new men, even some experienced equestrians, developed saddle sores from the continuous riding. In fact, one could hardly consider himself a real member of the Fyana until his crotch had turned to leather.
We used unpredictable movement to magnify our apparent numbers. The same party that had prowled with Cromm, burning a militia camp at, say, Trafford one night, could be galloping with Tadgh and pillaging enemy supply depots in the Serchus Valley before two more suns rose.
It sometimes amazed even ourselves how less than fifty men could do so much to soil the chancellor's public image. His political strength greatly depended on an illusion of complete control and invincibility. We did our best to showcase his lack of control and make him look incompetent. We were forever dreaming of the day when there were not just fifty of us fighting for Arannan's liberty, but fifty thousand. From tiny seeds, great forests grew.
But were we a good stock of seeds? That doubt was an unruly hound that we kept on leash in the backs of our minds. Alas, every time we paid the butcher's bill, it would awake to bay at us.
*****
The Blossoming Orchard
