Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four (10 page)

For a moment, the two lines regarded each other in the silence of the valley. Then a serrin rider moved forward. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, yet it was a Petrodor hat, not of the Bacosh fashion. Beneath the brim were emerald green eyes, narrowed with a deadly intensity.

Rhillian.

Sasha also rode forward. She knew that Rhillian felt responsible for the threat that she, Sasha, represented to Saalshen. Rhillian had befriended her, then failed to kill her when they had become enemies. She had sworn to eliminate all of Saalshen's enemies, particularly those as formidable as Sasha. She had promised herself never to be so soft again, whatever it cost her soul. One signal from Rhillian, and Sasha would be feathered with arrows. Sasha could see the temptation in Rhillian's eyes. The intensity. The conflict.

Rhillian drew her blade and gestered to the ground. Single combat? Sasha couldn't quite believe her old friend now hated her that much.

Sasha drew her own blade and dismounted. She walked forward, testing the wet, leafy ground beneath her boots. Rhillian also approached. Did she wish to die? They both knew Sasha was better. Nothing was certain in combat, but in sparring, Sasha would back herself three times out of four against Rhillian, perhaps more. Rhillian knew. Sasha could see that in her eyes as well.

They stopped. Blades poised, in a hush as though every living thing in the valley now paused, and considered the many fates that had collided to make this moment finally come. Sasha took a deep breath. The scene was beautiful. The misty valley, her brave Isfayen at her back. Rhillian herself, still the most lovely face she had ever seen. The spirits were watching. This would be a good place to die.

She lowered the blade to her side, and closed her eyes.

Time passed. Too much time. She opened her eyes once more, and found Rhillian standing directly before her, and no blade between them. Her impossible green eyes were shimmering. She put a hand to Sasha's cheek.

They embraced, desperately hard, and sobbed in each other's arms. Sasha lost control of her legs, and they sank to their knees, locked together with a grip like steel. The spirits of the valley watched, and knew that all the will of kings and priests and gods could not part them. Love carved its own path, and made its own fate. About them, Isfayen and serrin cheered alike, as though the war were already won.

Isfayen and
talmaad
retreated to a forested hilltop not far from the valley, with a view back toward the stream. There, amidst cautious scenes between wary humans and serrin, Sasha sat on a fallen log with Rhillian alongside, and Markan standing by them both.

“What now?” Markan asked shortly.

Rhillian and Sasha looked at each other, and suppressed grins. Annoyingly, Sasha had to wipe at her eyes once more. She felt as though she could breathe properly for the first time in what seemed like an age. As though some crushing weight had lifted. War and suffering beyond measure lay ahead, but for the first time in a long while, life itself felt good.

“I'm sorry about your hair,” Sasha said. Rhillian wore her hat at her back, held by a lace at her collar. Rhillian turned her head, to show Sasha the diagonal cut at the back.

“Look how precise it is,” said Rhillian. “You swing a blade like no one else I know.” Sasha reached a hand to examine the cut with her fingers.

“I'm glad you ducked,” she said. They were both struggling not to cry again. Markan cleared his throat.

“I have forsaken much traditional honour to follow the path of the Synnich spirit,” he said sharply. “I will not forsake more honour to follow a weeping little girl.”

Sasha wiped her eyes again, and composed herself. “Rhillian, we have a task. The cause for which the Army of Lenayin has been marching has proven itself honourless. My father thought to unite the regions of Lenayin within the forge of war, as a metalsmith blends different kinds of steel in hot fire. But this is not a forge, this is a poison well, from which we all have been forced to drink. I will drink no more. I know many Lenays feel the same.”

“How many?” asked Rhillian. Her eyes were wide with possibility. With amazement.

“Half,” said Sasha. “At least. More will follow, with leadership. I will offer mine. I cannot promise others, but I can persuade.” She looked at Markan. Markan stood tall and grim, arms folded, and said nothing.

“The Lenay lords will not follow you,” said Rhillian.

Sasha nodded. “It matters no more than it did in the Northern Rebellion—the lords do not command the respect of any but other nobility, and they are few. Besides which, I have Great Lord Ackryd of Taneryn. I will not speak for Great Lord Markan, but he is here, as you see, and his blade is sheathed.”

She glanced up at Markan. Markan snorted and stared away at the view.

“You promise a reunion with Kessligh, Lenayin's greatest hero,” Rhillian murmured. “Valhanan will follow you and him.”

“Tyree,” Sasha added confidently. “Much of Rayen, and Neysh. I cannot speak for Yethulyn and Fyden, but if we had the Isfayen…” She looked again at Markan.

“The eastern tribes do not love the Isfayen,” Markan growled. “We have shed too much of their blood. They will do the opposite to spite us.”

“They respect you, because you have shed so much of their blood,” Sasha countered. “Of course, much of the nobility will not follow their common folk. And the Hadryn, Banneryd, and Ranash will fight us all to the last man.”

“You would split your nation for us?” Rhillian asked.

Sasha shook her head. “No. My nation is already split. I do not do this for Saalshen, Rhillian, though that is a pleasant consequence. I do this for Lenayin. My father, and now Koenyg, wish Lenayin to be a noble Verenthane kingdom. They have seen the grand model of lowland civilisation, and they have embraced it for their own, on the behalf of all Lenays.

“I have been to Tracato, and I have seen a different vision of lowland civilisation. It is a flawed vision, but it has promise. I would rather that model for Lenayin than the one offered by the Regent Arrosh any day. Should we win, that shall be our model. And there shall be little room for the Hadryn and their friends in that. We fight them now, we fight them later…” Sasha shrugged. “Little difference.”

“Tracato left you shattered,” said Rhillian.

“People there failed to comprehend what they had built. They failed Tracato. With better leadership, it can still work. It was my mistake to abandon it all in my grief. By abandoning it all, I solve no problem, I only become one.”

Rhillian smiled. She looked up at Markan.

“It is not for any of us to be making Lenayin into anything,” Markan said grimly. “The Lenay people are free. The Isfayen are free. We practise our old ways, and we do not let any foreigner tell us how to be.”

“Then King Soros was wrong to bring Verenthaneism to Lenayin?” Sasha asked.

“That's different. He was a liberator.”

“As shall we be, when we save Saalshen,” said Sasha.

“These are foreign lands!” Markan snapped. “King Soros liberated Lenayin, not some faraway outpost.”

“So grand battles only matter if they are fought in Lenayin?” Sasha asked him, temper rising. “Then what are you doing here?” Markan glared. “The Isfayen came here for glory and conquest, as the Isfayen have always found glory and conquest in wars on foreign soil…hells, your ancestors laid waste to much of Telesia and Raani…by your logic, why bother, if only the affairs of Lenayin concern you?”

“The Isfayen marched to war because King Torvaal asked us to,” Markan replied. “He was the King of Lenayin, in case you forget. Now, that king is Koenyg. We swore an oath to King Soros, that we are Lenay, and shall abide by the word of the King of Lenayin….”

“Oh, rubbish!” Sasha exclaimed. “Since when have the Isfayen actually given a handful of horseshit what the King of Lenayin thinks? Your father Faras ordered the Isfayen to war because he saw some utility in making Lenayin unite as a nation, and as a people! That's why you were sent to Baen Tar for education, and not raised in some windy hillside hut like your predecessors…and now you say the Isfayen accept no ideas from foreigners? You came here fighting for a Verenthane kingdom, whether you realised it nor not. Both it
and
Saalshen's kind of civilisation are foreign causes, yet you accuse only one of being so?”

“You are not the King of Lenayin!” Markan shouted. “You are the Synnich-ahn, you are wild and untamed, like all the men of Lenayin, but you are not king! There is honour in following the king. To disobey him, and fight against him, is…”

He did not complete the sentence. Koenyg would not follow. Not in a thousand years. Sasha took a deep breath, and realised what she was trying to do. She would fight her brother. How many of her brothers, she did not know. Any who followed her would be in rebellion against the king. That had not happened in Lenayin since there had been a king. The Northern Rebellion had come close, but she'd been very careful then to make clear what that rebellion was
not.
This time, there would be no dressing it up as something else.

“Great Lord Markan,” Rhillian said calmly. Even ferocious Markan flinched a little, to meet her stare. “I have heard it said that to the Lenay warrior, honour is all. To the bloodwarriors of Isfayen, even more so.”

Markan nodded grimly. “You have heard well.”

“My people are being murdered, Markan. Your warriors have slain many of my
talmaad
, yet the
talmaad
are warriors themselves, and such combat has covered all in glory, your people and mine. But you saw the town as you rode in. The Larosans set it to fire, and there were old folk there, unable to face the road, who were cut down by Larosan blades. Is there honour in such a deed?”

“No,” said Markan, stony-faced. “There is honour in killing an able opponent. To kill the old, the young, the unarmed, the helpless, such is
echtyth.
It is
anath.”

Rhillian looked at Sasha.

“Untranslatable,” Sasha told her in Saalsi. “But very bad.”

“Then it seems to me that you must choose, Great Lord of Isfayen. What most defines the soul of the Isfayen? Is it obedience to a king? Is it faithfulness to your father's orders? Or is it the path of righteous honour in battle? If you stay your course and fight with the Regent Arrosh, you will serve with an army that murders children, that kills the old before their time, that would seek to remove my entire race—most of whom cannot fight—from the face of this earth. You will be spared the dishonour of betraying your father's path, and turning against the King of Lenayin. But when the corpses of ten thousand children lie at your feet, what honour will you have left to be stained?”

“We do not participate in that,” Markan said stonily. “We fight only warriors.”

“Dear lord,” Rhillian said gravely. “Is this an excuse used frequently amongst the honourable bloodwarriors of Isfayen? ‘I did not participate in that crime’? ‘I only stood by and watched, from a safe distance, and did nothing’?”

Markan's face wrinkled, as though he were smelling something very bad. He stood for a long moment. Then he turned and strode off, kicking at a tree root in passing.

Rhillian looked at Sasha, eyebrows raised. Sasha shrugged. “I don't know,” she sighed. “We can hope. I know the Isfayen have far more respect for the
talmaad
and the Steel than they do for any beneath the Regent's banner.”

“Lenayin seems full of humans who respect you more for having killed a lot of them.”

“Yes, but killed honourably.”

“I'm very glad at the prospect of some Lenays on my side. But I can never hope to understand them.”

“Nor they you,” said Sasha. “It does not matter, so long as we agree that Rhodia would be better if Saalshen won, and Regent Arrosh did not.” Sasha reached for and clasped Rhillian's hand. “We must have Damon. If we can persuade Damon, we shall have momentum. Many will follow.”

“Damon is not the warrior that Koenyg is,” said Rhillian, frowning. “The men of Lenayin will follow whom they respect above whom they like.”

Sasha shook her head.
“I'm
defying Koenyg—for most of those inclined against the Regent, that's enough. If they want a respected warrior to follow, they have me, and even Kessligh. But we need Damon so that we have a royal, the next in line to the throne. Lenay men will never be royalists, but it is important all the same.”

“What about you?” Rhillian asked, with a penetrating stare. “If none of your brothers will come, there is always yourself.” Sasha blinked. She hadn't thought of that for even an instant. “Third in line, by my reckoning. Assuming Wylfred is still out of consideration, and your other sisters could never be accepted, where men might make an exception for a woman who fights as you do. Ahead of Myklas by birth, only Koenyg and Damon come before you.”

“All the more reason to get Damon to come over,” Sasha said adamantly. “What you describe is terrifying.”

Rhillian smiled. “In that, I am certain I empathise. Come, we must move. How is this played?”

“I have no idea,” said Sasha, rising. “I've only managed a minor insurrection before. Nothing on this scale.”

K
oenyg raged. He stood off to the side of the road and kicked at a low wall until loose stones fell and rolled in the grass. Then, his feet undoubtedly sore, he roared obscenities to the sky.

Damon sat astride his horse, and felt numb. The Army of Lenayin had paused in its descent down a long, rolling hill. The army was no longer a single line, but had spread wide across the hillside, as cavalry tired of being further back in the column galloped to the front.

Now, none were advancing. Hooves thundered as soldiers and officers raced back and forth between groups of men, asking opinions, demanding answers. Across the hillside yells could be heard, voices and arguments, men debating their cause.

A new thunder sounded. Down in the shallow valley, a line of clustered horsemen were galloping, small horses bearing wild-haired Goeren-yai.

“That's the Taneryn leaving,” someone remarked. Koenyg stood with hands on hips by the wall and watched them go. There were hundreds of horsemen. The Great Lord Ackryd was a friend of Sasha's, had ridden with her in the Northern Rebellion, and owed his great lordship to Sasha's opposition to the previous Great Lord Krayliss. But mostly, the Goeren-yai of Taneryn had never liked this war, and had always favoured the serrin. Now, the Synnich-ahn had switched sides, and her most devoted men were following.

No one was entirely certain how it had happened. Typically, important news would arrive at the royal vanguard first, but this time it had miraculously appeared within the army's ranks before the vanguard knew of its import. The vanguard knew only that there was uproar, the breaking of ranks, and an increasing number of desertions. Now, the Taneryn left. A lot of Goeren-yai from various provinces were joining them, not waiting for their provincial fellows to decide. Most others were holding, for now. War forged strong bonds between men of the same region, and they were not leaving without consensus from their comrades. The Army of Lenayin, hardly cohesive at the best of times, was in turmoil.

“I'm going to kill her!” Koenyg roared. “No, I'm going to string her up and gut her,
then
I'll kill her!”

Damon wondered if it even occurred to Koenyg that this event said as much or more about his war and his leadership of the army as it did about Sasha. No, he thought—it probably didn't.

News of exactly what Sasha had done was vague at best. Certainly she was now riding with the serrin. Some said she'd attacked Larosan knights. Others said she'd turned on her Isfayen comrades. Others still said she'd been possessed by the Synnich spirit, and had taken flight and killed hundreds with great bursts of fire from her hands. That last seemed unlikely.

But certainly, she had defected. Around Damon, the lords of the royal vanguard looked dumbfounded. Many spoke in disbelief, wondering what madness had possessed their common countrymen. Certainly the war had become unpopular with some, and had always been so with others, but to respond like this to the defection of “that stupid girl”?

Wasn't it just like the Lenay nobility, Damon thought, to be always the last to know? Jaryd would have understood, even were he still nobility. Damon wished Jaryd were here now. Jaryd would rally support, and would ride to Sasha's side. Jaryd would urge Damon to do the same, to stand up to Koenyg, finally, and use the power of the Army of Lenayin for an honourable cause. But now, Damon merely sat in the saddle amidst a mass of confused nobility and watched the unfolding calamity. And hated himself for it.

Isfayen horsemen were galloping up the hill toward the vanguard. Nobles pointed to them. “The Isfayen have returned!” one shouted, with some relief.

“Well, that's something,” said another. “That's Markan, they'll not follow the bitch now.”

They parted as the Isfayen arrived. Great Lord Markan leaped from his frothing horse, and strode to Koenyg. He loomed over the Lenay king in leathers, mail and studs, his black hair flying.

“My Lord King,” said Markan, and took a knee. Koenyg looked a little more composed at that.

“The Isfayen return,” said Koenyg. “What do you report?”

“The Isfayen return for honour,” Markan announced.

“The Isfayen are always honourable.”

Markan stared up at him. “The Isfayen shall not turn against their king from a distance. If the Isfayen are to renounce their king, they shall do it face-to-face.”

Koenyg stared. Silence settled across the lords, broken only by the continuing chaos further back in the column.

“Are you threatening me?” Koenyg asked, very quietly.

Markan stood. “This war has no honour. Our allies are dishonourable, and unworthy of the Isfayen. We have fought the Enoran Steel, and found them brave and skilled. We have fought the
talmaad
of Saalshen, and found them possessed of warrior spirits. And we have fought with the knights and lords of the so-called Free Bacosh, and found them cowardly. They seek glory in the killing of those that cannot fight back. They fight for gold and land. They
ransom
opponents for it. Men rise to power amongst them by title and birth alone. They grow fat with self-importance, and little hint of ability or honourable deeds.”

“They are the greatest power in Rhodia,” Koenyg snarled back. “Lenayin shall be great, to be allied to them.”

“Lenayin's honour shall be stained. You speak of power. I speak of
tervath.
They are not the same, your tongue and mine. Men in Baen-Tar forget.”

Tervath
, Damon knew, was the Telochi word for honour
and
power. In Telochi, they were both the same word, as one flowed from the other. For it to work any other way, to an Isfayen, was not civilisation. There were many elsewhere in Lenayin who felt the same.

“Markan,” said Koenyg, attempting calm reason. “The future of Rhodia is Verenthane.”

“That is not a fact,” said Markan. “That is a choice. Perhaps we choose differently.”

“You
are Verenthane.”

“But I am not
this kind
,” said the Isfayen, with dripping contempt. “Pray that none of us should become so.”

“When the Verenthanes came to Lenayin, they brought civilisation. Before that, we were a rabble. But King Soros brought the faith, and made us one. Now, we shall grow stronger still.”

“Or it shall turn us into
anath alyn
like them. I would rather see Lenayin destroyed. Should we choose such a fate, we would deserve it.”

“Dammit, man, will you not listen to reason?”

“That man's cousin raped my sister!” Markan roared. “I am Isfayen, and you have no
idea
how restrained I have been to this point! No longer!”

“You want to leave?” Koenyg shouted. “Then go! It seems it was too much to suppose that Lenayin could arrive at civilisation through foresight and wisdom! You Isfayen have always had to have civilisation beaten into you, and if it has to be that way again, so be it!”

Markan took out his huge, curved sword, and answering swords came out from all surrounding. But Markan handed the sword to Koenyg.

“In avoiding one dishonour, I invoke another,” he declared. “I have forfeited the honour of my father's word to your father, from the Great Lord of Isfayen to the King of Lenayin. For that, you may take my life, should you choose.”

“Do it,” someone muttered.

Koenyg looked distastefully at Markan's blade. “If I take your life, Lord Markan, it shall be on the field of battle. Like the Isfayen, I see little honour in killing a man who will not fight back.”

Markan nodded and sheathed his blade. “So shall it be.”

“You would fight against the Army of Lenayin?” Koenyg asked, disbelievingly. “Why not simply return to Lenayin?”

“The Isfayen do not run from a fight. This is a contest of honour and must be decided. We leave because one side of honour has been proven weak. The other must therefore be superior. The Isfayen are for the superior side of honour. We shall stay and see the matter resolved.”

Besides which, Damon thought, if the Isfayen left, the trickle of desertions would truly become a flood. They would not be fighting the Army of Lenayin. The Army of Lenayin would be fighting Koenyg, these lords, and the northerners.

“My Lord King,” shouted a noble, “we cannot simply let them leave! We have them surrounded!”

“You do indeed,” said Markan, a gleam in his eye. “You would offer us a fate more glorious than any Isfayen before us. Outnumbered, surrounded by old foes, fighting to the last man. We will take at least half of you with us, and the Isfayen shall sing of us for centuries yet untold.”

“There will be no attack,” said Koenyg. “These matters shall be decided on the field of battle.”

Markan nodded and strode back to his horse. He mounted, and with Isfayen riders at his back, he galloped upslope, toward his people's place in the column. As he passed Damon, he gave him a long, hard look.

Koenyg saw. “Have you something to say, brother?” he demanded, striding to Damon's horse. Damon stared at him. Koenyg saw that too. He knew his brother that well, at least.

Koenyg grabbed Damon's arm and yanked him powerfully from the saddle. Damon leaped clear rather than hit the ground head first, and crashed to a knee. Koenyg seized a fist full of jacket over Damon's mail, his face contorted with fury.

“Sasha tears the Army of Lenayin apart, and you sympathise with
her
?” he shouted.

“You
tear the Army of Lenayin apart!” Damon retorted. He tried to prise free of Koenyg's grip, but his elder brother was too strong. “The men of Lenayin cannot be led against their will! The Northern Rebellion proved that, but you never learned that lesson….”

Koenyg threw Damon to the ground, and landed a kick in his mailed side as Damon rolled away. “She is a traitor to Lenayin! I'll see her dead, I swear it, and I'll see you dead if you defy me!”

Damon tried to get up, but a blow struck his head. He fell, arms up for protection, and a kick struck his leg. He'd been beaten by Koenyg before, and was not surprised. Koenyg had far more tolerance for defiance from foreigners and others than he did from younger brothers.

The blows stopped. Damon looked up past raised arms at the seething king standing over him. “Look at you!” Koenyg exclaimed, before the audience of lords. “You're pathetic! You plot and mutter behind my back, you make better friends with your sisters than with me or Myklas, you spend so long with your head in girlish pursuits it's a wonder you don't wear a dress over your mail! And now, you fall on your arse and cower like a whipped dog! You're a coward, and I have no use for you as my brother!”

He turned and strode back to his horse. Damon blinked, sitting on the grass by the road. And he realised that for once, his brother was actually right. And that death would be better.

Damon leaped to his feet, drew his sword, and charged. Lords yelled warning, and Koenyg spun, blade raised in defence. Damon struck full force, and struck to kill. Koenyg retreated, fending fast, steel clashing in rapid succession. Damon saw the astonishment on his face, and the concern, to find himself nearly overwhelmed.

Koenyg reversed one hard parry and leaped upslope. Damon cut low, was blocked by the downward slam of Koenyg's blade, which reversed toward Damon's head, but Damon parried hard and cut for Koenyg's neck. Koenyg swayed aside and cut low, in that easy, balanced style Damon had seen so often in sparring, as his rhythm recovered. And he knew that the surprise was ending, and now he was in trouble.

He tried to finish it fast, before Koenyg could truly get into rhythm, but each of his strikes was blocked with increasing surety. In the blink of an eye, Damon realised he'd fallen a fraction behind in the count. Koenyg came at him quickly, one side, the other, then a fast reverse, and Damon's parrys were a little later each time. In desperation he broke the rhythm entirely and struck a glancing blow on Koenyg's arm, but the next blow crushed Damon's defence, and the last tore into his ribs.

The mail saved him, but he fell all the same, with searing pain in his side. He struggled to rise, to raise his blade once more, but Koenyg swatted it aside, and stood on his sword arm. Damon lay back, and stared up the length of Koenyg's sword as the point pressed to his throat. His brother's eyes were ablaze, even as his arm seemed hurt.

“Attack from behind, eh?” Koenyg asked, breathing hard. “Most dishonourable, little brother.”

“It's the best way to kill a cockroach,” said Damon, also gasping. “They're hard vermin to face, because you have to come down to their level.” He was amazed at how calm his voice was, despite his lack of air. It was as though the barrier of fear had finally snapped. He'd stood up to Koenyg now. He could die happy.

“I should kill you now,” Koenyg snarled.

“I never doubted you would, one day.”

“I never did you wrong, little brother.”

Damon laughed. Suddenly, he couldn't stop laughing. It was insane—he and Koenyg had tried to kill each other, Koenyg was about to finish it, and he'd never been so amused.

“Look at you,” he said, between gasps of breath. “My big brother, trying to reason. It's like watching a bull trying to use an abacus.” Koenyg's face darkened. It had been a favourite line of Sofy's, when Koenyg couldn't hear. “Kessligh always said the rulership of kings would never last. Three generations, he said. You can start with a good king, like Great-Grandpa Soros. And he has a good son, like Grandpa Chayden. But by the time father wears the crown, the vitality is already fading…”