Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four (24 page)

“Don't you mean a song?” Rhillian wondered.

“Lenays don't sing much.”

“We Enorans like to sing,” said Bergen. “Don't we, Aisha?”

“I'd love to write a song,” said Aisha, testing the pull of her bow, and how much her wet fingers slipped against the string. “But I'll get Sasha to write the words. Lenays do that sort of thing better than anyone.”

“Hush, you lot,” said Rhillian. She glanced at Sasha. They smiled. There was no need to say more.

They waited. Thunder crackled and boomed. The rain grew heavier. Sasha heard hooves further up the trail. On the flanks, the serrin pulled their bowstrings. The hooves stopped. Then turned back. A scout, hidden amongst the trees. Sasha wondered how much he'd seen.

The attack, when it came, was sudden. Kazeri horsemen plunged off the trail fifty paces short of the trail mouth, precariously above the canyon. Others rushed down the trail, and at points in between.

The serrin drew and fired. Yelling Kazeri fell from their horses at the trail mouth, and others behind reined up in fear as the first four, then six, died quickly. Then the riders coming off the trail edge rushed in, and only Aisha and Arendelle had a good angle on those. Aisha missed once, but Arendelle never did, drawing fast and felling one rider after another.

Now the blockage on the trail was clearing, and more Kazeri charged from the trees. But their path was obstructed by the confused, riderless horses of the first wave. Rhillian and Kiel's combined fire shot more tumbling from their saddles, as those behind desperately sought a way through, evading and colliding with their fellows. Kiel had more success.

Then the Kazeri bearing down on Arendelle and Aisha came too close, Arendelle killing one last rider before both serrin were forced to drop bows and draw swords. The volume of arrow fire halved, and the Kazeri came on faster.

Bergen charged. Sasha followed on his right, and saw him crash a Kazeri straight from the saddle with a massive blow. With perfect balance, he swung his unfamiliar horse into a side step that brought him exactly into line with a second, whose sword arm was severed whilst trying to defend.

Then Sasha had a rider in her way. She ducked onto his weak side with a kick of heels, shield high to deflect his overhead whilst timing her own swing a little later, catching him on the pass. Then there were riderless horses running into hers, blocking her from the next Kazeri, one of whom took an arrow through the side as Kiel and Rhillian continued to fire.

Sasha saw Bergen locked in battle with two more, neither of whom were facing her, and steered her horse for a fast lunge through traffic to put her sword through one's back. Bergen killed the other, then drove a third from his saddle with a lunge of his shield.

The battleground was becoming crowded with horses, many riderless, all rearing, dodging, and scampering in the confusion of falling rain and flying arrows. But Sasha caught a glimpse up the trail, and saw it filled with incoming Kazeri. The numbers were overwhelming.

Suddenly the air was thick with arrows, as though the rain itself had turned deadly. Incoming Kazeri fell five and six at a time, then more as the arrows repeated. Cries of battle turned to cries of fear as those remaining turned and fled up the mountain trail. The arrows were coming from the guard post, Sasha realised, and the wall itself.

Finally the yelling stopped. Sasha made a fast check of her companions. Aisha had fallen when her horse had slipped, and suffered bruises and cuts. Arendelle had a cut on his upper arm, bleeding thickly but easily treated. Those two had been most fortunate, having been in the face of that off-trail charge. The rest of them were unscathed…even Yasmyn, who was exultant.

Fully thirty-five Kazeri lay dead or dying, half of those in that final volley of arrows from the walls. Sasha could not fault their enthusiasm, but felt less charitable of their tactics. It was almost as though they'd never seen archery before.

Kiel dismounted to retrieve arrows they could ill afford to waste. At one body, he signalled to Rhillian. “See? What futility is this ‘mercy’ you practise, with people such as these?”

Rhillian and Sasha rode to see. The body was that of a boy, no more than fourteen. His eyes were unblinking as the rain fell into his face, his forehead scarred from the recent blow of the hilt of Sasha's sword.

“We killed him fair,” Rhillian said coolly.

“And to what greater moral purpose is mercy,” Kiel asked in bemusement, “if its most immediate function is merely to help you sleep better at night?”

“I like my sleep,” said Rhillian, moving her horse away.

Sasha looked down at the young, lifeless face, and thought that her sleep had not been helped at all.

The gates shuddered and creaked, opening slowly on massive hinges. A man in armour walked out, wearing a red surcoat and crested helm. He had the build of a warrior.

Rhillian dismounted for politeness, and shook the man's extended hand.

“Apologies for being late,” said the man in Saalsi. Sasha was only a little surprised—the Ilduuri were as familiar with serrin as Enorans or Rhodaanis. “We had a small disagreement behind our wall.”

“Indeed,” said Rhillian, with a Saalsi word that was both statement and question.

The Steel officer looked embarrassed and unhappy. “Best you don't ask too loudly,” he said. “Please, my apologies to you and your friends, we'll try to get you across the bridge with no more problems.”

Sasha dismounted to Rhillian's side, and they exchanged a glance. No more problems? “Who exactly controls this guard post anyhow?” Sasha murmured in Lenay.

“Be polite,” Rhillian replied in the same, “but stay wary.”

Aisha joined the Steel soldiers helping Daish to his feet, as the others walked their horses through the gates. Sasha looked back up at the wall parapet from this side and saw twelve men there, all with serrin-type longbows. The other men there made for perhaps twenty-five border guards. The tower did not look large enough to accommodate them all, and there was only stabling for ten horses at most. Probably the others came from the building across the bridge.

Before the tower walls, a furious argument was in progress. A man in a green cloak was shouting at a soldier whose helm crest suggested to Sasha he might be an officer. The soldier stood sullenly in the rain, and cast the odd glance at the new arrivals as his more elegantly attired superior ranted in Ilduuri. Sasha and her companions exchanged glances, as Aisha escorted Daish to the cover of a stable berth.

“Nasi-Keth,” said the man who had let them in, with distaste. Sasha blinked at him. The green-cloaked man did not look Nasi-Keth. Was there a sword on his back beneath that cloak?

“They're different here,” Rhillian explained for Sasha's benefit. “They belong to the Remischtuul.” The Ilduuri ruling Council, that was, as nearly as anyone had explained it to Sasha's understanding. “They take their initial teachings from Saalshen, as do all Nasi-Keth, but their loyalty is to Ilduur. We try to be nice to them, but they don't truly care what serrin think.”

Sasha had heard that there was no Mahl'rhen in Ilduur, no house of the serrin, to represent the interests of Saalshen, and promote amity between serrin and human. Two centuries before, Saalshen had abolished feudalism here as in Enora and Rhodaan, and Ilduur had flourished as greatly as had its Saalshen Bacosh neighbours. So successful had Ilduur been, and so peaceable toward its new serrin administrators, that Saalshen's attention moved to the more pressing problems of religion, education, and crop yields in bigger, more populous Enora and Rhodaan. Failure there would have brought real problems for Saalshen, as only the Ipshaal separated humans there from serrin to the east. Ilduur, safe within its mountain walls, had withdrawn to manage its own affairs, and say pleasant things to visiting emissaries, and make pledges of treaty and mutual support—anything to keep the foreigners happy, and out of Ilduuri affairs.

But one would be foolish to actually trust that the Ilduuri cared enough for their foreign allies to send help in the event of actual need. Some
had
been foolish, and now learned the price.

Aisha left Daish in the hands of Ilduuri guards, and came over. “He's berating the captain for helping us,” Aisha translated for them. “He ordered the captain not to help us. The captain obeyed until the Kazeri attacked, then disobeyed. The captain is now to be…
castaanti
.” She frowned. “I've not heard that word.” Then her eyes widened. “Oh, like
castaantala
, as in tribunal. He'll be hauled before a hearing of superiors. I imagine that's serious?”

She looked askance at the soldier nearby. He nodded grimly. “Very serious. Likely they'll hang him.”

“For helping us?” Rhillian asked in disbelief.

“For endangering Ilduur by involving her unnecessarily in foreign affairs and disturbances.” There was flat irony to the soldier's voice. “Gone crazy, all of them. Crazy with fear, fucking cowards.” He spat. “The Ilduuri Steel would have marched, my friends. Most of us. But the Remischtuul says no, and the Steel follow orders. We let you down. Ilduur has shamed herself, and our leaders do not care.”

Rhillian's emerald stare was intense. She put a hand on the man's shoulder. “Do all the Steel feel as you do?”

“Not all, but most. We want to fight this Regent. No good comes from letting Rhodaan and Enora fall, let alone Saalshen—we all know that's his true and final goal. But the people who join the Steel are not those who join the Remischtuul. You'll see, when you get to Andal.”

Rhillian nodded. “Then we have not wasted our journey to come here after all.”

The Ilduuri Nasi-Keth finally had enough of berating the captain and stalked over. He glared at the new arrivals.

“So,” he said, also in Saalsi. “Now that you're here, I shall have to interrogate you. We cannot allow just anyone to enter Ilduur.”

“I am
talmaad
of Saalshen,” said Rhillian, “as are three others of our party. The others are Enoran, Rhodaani, and their allies. We are friends of Ilduur.”

“Friends,” the Nasi-Keth snorted. “You bring war to our gates. Ilduur needs no friends like you.”

“If one feels that a friend is to be chosen merely at one's convenience,” Rhillian said coldly, “then one
has
no friends.”

The Nasi-Keth gave a look of contempt and walked for his horse. The Ilduuri captain did too. Some of his men exchanged quiet words with their captain, patting his shoulder, offering support. Some glared fury at their superior in the green cloak.

When all of the party were mounted, including Daish, the Nasi-Keth led them across the bridge. The rain grew heavier still. Thunder grumbled, and blue light flashed huge, mist-shrouded mountains into startling relief. The suspended bridge swayed beneath them, but seemed little strained at holding so many horses at once. Hooves clattered on wooden planks, and from far below came the rushing of the river. It was the first time Sasha had seen the Ipshaal; the greatest river in Rhodia descended from the mountains of Raani before it cut north, to divide Enora and Rhodaan from Saalshen. A barrier between lands and peoples that had shaped the destinies of all.

Halfway across, the soldier who had escorted them in rode up to the Nasi-Keth man's side, knife in hand, and calmly cut his stirrup. The Nasi-Keth stared at him, and asked an alarmed question in Ilduuri.

Cutting finished, the guardsman sat upright, sheathed his knife, and gave the other man an almighty shove. He went sideways, his cut stirrup offering no salvation, and fell screaming off the side. If there was a splash below, the roar of churning water smothered it from hearing.

The soldier turned to the party behind, all stopped, frozen in shock. “Gets awful slippery this bridge, in the rain,” he told them. “Best watch where your horse puts its hooves.”

I
n the hills beyond Tracato, the Elissian pursuit finally caught them. Riding in mid-column, Sofy heard the yells and massed hooves as they crested the ridge and came tearing across the fields. Jaryd was on them immediately, leading the countercharge. Tracatan men followed him, ex-Rhodaani Steel cavalry, some Nasi-Keth with cavalry skills, a few with the serrin art of horseback archery. Two were Larosan knights, the survivors of Sofy's personal guard, armour gleaming in the sun as their huge horses strained up the slight incline.

Wagons and horses in the column about her began to run, frightened families whipping their horse teams up to speed. Sofy went with them, as much to avoid being run over as anything, throwing frightened glances over her shoulder as she went.

She saw Jaryd hit the first Elissians so hard a horse crashed and tumbled. Behind him went Asym, the Isfayen carving men from their saddles like a cook cleaving meat from the bone. Then she was jostled by a man with children sharing his saddle, desperately fighting for space on the road. Sofy clung to her reins, seeing chaos and tangles up ahead. She was too good a rider to be stuck in this mess, she thought, and steered herself off the road, between runners on foot, and along the side of a vineyard. Then she stopped to gain a better look at the fight.

Elissians were flowing past Jaryd's defenders, who now milled higher up the slope, fighting crazily against some, but unable to contain the rest, now racing between trees downslope of the road, and others galloping along the road itself. Terror gripped Sofy to see the advance, nothing between them and the fleeing column.

On the wagons to the rear of the column, men with bows were drawing and attempting to fire backward, to little effect. Elissian horsemen came thundering upon screaming city folk, riding them down as they ran. Wagons were overtaken, their drivers hacked from their seats. Sofy stared about frantically as people ran, cried, and collided. Were there other warriors who could fall back and help? Had some fled ahead, instead of fighting? How could she think such men cowards, when she was doing that herself?

Jaryd's fighters had vanished, she realised. She hadn't seen them coming back, and now they were lost amidst the poplars and ash along the narrow valley. She kicked her horse and galloped at speed, dodging others who ran or rode here, hoping to get ahead and…and what? Do something valorous, while running to save her neck? But what else could she…

Commotion ahead cut the thought short. Wagons careened off the road, one crashing into a tree and sending passengers flying, another overturning as Elissian men fell upon the column, breaking clear of an orchard to gallop amongst the fleeing city folk with flashing swords. Panic ensued. Wagons tried to turn off the road, and Sofy dodged them madly. No one wanted to go that way, but they could not turn back. They were trapped.

Sofy stopped and peered through orchard trees, back toward a farmhouse. Could she ride toward it, and hope she would not be seen?

The Elissians were barely a hundred paces ahead of her, spinning their horses, killing in a frenzy, trampling any who were close. Some now galloped her way, back along the column, people running before them in terrified waves. Fifty paces.

A new horseman crashed from the trees and into the leading Elissian. Jaryd. The Elissian's horse jostled sideways into a collision with a wagon, and Jaryd split the man's head all over the wheels. He spun, hammering another Elissian with his shield, then a skilful spin of his horse, a quick spur and leap past the other's blade, and a cut that took that Elissian through the shoulder.

The Elissian hung on for dear life, shoulder wrecked, his horse bolting in terror straight at Sofy. There was nowhere for her to go, and it dodged first, straight into the orchard trees, thrashing and slowing in the branches.

Jaryd and now Asym were fighting back along the column, killing as they went. Sofy had never seen its like. Truly she'd never appreciated what greatness meant, as a warrior. Men had told stories of Jaryd on horseback in lagand tournaments, then remarked snidely that lagand was not warfare. Lagand had always horrified her with its unnecessary brutality. Now she watched as Jaryd, Asym, and several companions hacked and bludgeoned their way up the column, with furious violence somehow as graceful as a dance.

And then he was coming back, galloping past her, and she had a glimpse of his eyes, burning within a blood-splattered face. He barely saw her, racing to the rear of the column to deal with the attack there. About her, folk were leaping from wagons, grabbing the wounded Elissian still mired in the orchard trees, dragging him from his saddle. There beneath her mount, ordinary men and women wrestled the wounded man down, tore off his helm, pinned his arms, and beat, stabbed, and tore at him with screams of rage and fear. Soon there was blood everywhere and, as they got at his weapons, torn shreds of flesh.

Sofy set off after Jaryd, too dazed to think. Tracatans huddled amidst the trees and milled about the farmhouse walls, hugging children and staring at the galloping horsemen who went racing up and down the road, hoping they were friendly, fearing they were not. By the time she reached the rear of the column, the Elissians were fleeing. Defenders on horseback were chasing. On the road, she saw Jaryd once more, and Asym, amidst a number of riderless horses. Bodies were strewn across the road. A few were Elissians. Most were not.

In his saddle, Asym looked satisfied. He gave a yell in Telochi and clashed shields with Jaryd, a mutual salute. Jaryd looked around, breathing hard, dripping with blood that was not his. His shield bore countless new marks, and he seemed to have some pain in that arm, shaking it off even now. The huge blade in his fist was blood-streaked, and bore several new notches. He saw an Elissian still moving upon the road. Jaryd dismounted and drove the blade through the fallen man's chest with a two-handed thrust. He pulled the blade out with brutal contempt and remounted. And looked at Sofy.

Seeing him, Sofy realised something that she had never appreciated before in her life. Glory was not just some awful word that silly men invented to excuse their crimes. Glory rode a horse, and saved the helpless from terrible enemies by slaughtering them, without mercy, and with great fire. Glory was awful, and frightening. But it was real, and looked at her now with heaving shoulders and burning eyes.

Jaryd and Asym sat together on the steps of the fountain in the village courtyard. Evening shadows fell upon the pavings and a cool breeze had begun to blow, relief from the heat of the day. They ate fruit from the orchards, and some bread passed around from the bakery. There were crowds about the courtyard, people clustered before the small temple, ordinary folk frightened and tired, some with children. A few were making the rounds, tearfully, asking for this or that missing person, lost when the Elissians had attacked on the road. Past the fountain, the two Larosan knights had laid out their armour and were resting, exhausted. Unarmoured, they looked like normal men.

Many of those running from Tracato had a part-serrin look to them. Others simply feared no one was safe. All were headed for Saalshen, in hope of sanctuary. Saalshen had no fortresses to stop people from Rhodaan, only the Ipshaal River. How they would cross it, Jaryd did not know. Saalshen traded in large volume with Rhodaan; surely there were boats. But if those boats fell into Elissian hands, there would be little to stop the pursuit. Most serrin did not fight. If only Saalshen were more like Lenayin, with every man a warrior, things would be different.

Asym poured some water over the wound on his shoulder. It was not deep, though the surrounding skin was discoloured. He then poured a little more on Jaryd's back, where a blow had done similar damage across a shoulder blade. Asym's upper arms and chest were tattooed with intricate curls and patterns in black ink, from which emerged the fanged and snarling faces of animals real and mythical.

“I hope Jandlys is well,” Jaryd said absently.

Asym made a face. “If he is in Tracato, then no. Jandlys not quiet man. He make fight he will not win.” Jaryd nodded, unable to argue with that. “It is good. Today is a good day.”

Jaryd thought of the dead Tracatans on the road, but he knew what Asym meant. They were outnumbered, and slowed by their defence of this column of civilians. The cause was good, and the Elissians would surely return in far larger numbers. The opportunities for glory were high, posthumously or otherwise.

“You should have
kaspi,”
said Asym, looking thoughtfully at Jaryd's bare torso. Tattoos, he meant. Goeren-yai markings. “So that the spirits shall recognise you when you die.”

Jaryd smiled faintly, chewing an apple. “What if I don't plan on dying soon?”

“Elissians may have other idea.” Jaryd laughed. “But besides, you die someday. The great spirits recognise me when I die, take me back to Isfayen, to the high meadows. There is great view there, maybe I see a new place to be reborn.”

“You are a shepherd, yes?”

Asym nodded. “As a boy, I take flocks from low pasture to high in spring. The snow melts, and the grass is green. I watch sheep amongst the clouds, and practise my swordwork. Here, I am far from home, but I think of the high pasture and I am happy. These,” and he tapped the tattoos, “these will take me there, one day.”

“Perhaps the Verenthane gods will still recognise me,” Jaryd suggested.

Asym smiled, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You Goeren-yai. You great warrior, spirits all see you. And I will speak for you.”

A little girl with bright blue serrin eyes stopped before them and stared. In particular she stared at Asym, with his long black hair, markings, and narrow eyes. The two Lenays watched her back, with equal curiosity. She was no more than five, yet seemed to understand far more of what she saw than any human child of that age.

The girl's mother hurried over and collected her, then hurried off. The woman had not been serrin. Jaryd wondered where the serrin father was.

“These people are of the spirits,” said Asym. “It did not feel right to fight them. I worry for the spirits of men who died by their hand.”

“If the Army of Lenayin fights with Saalshen now, it means the serrin have accepted them and forgiven,” Jaryd disagreed. “If they can forgive those who live, they will certainly forgive those who died.”

Asym nodded, thinking on it, and uncorked a flask another local had pressed upon them. Ale of a kind, he'd said, made from apples. Asym took a swig, and offered it to Jaryd. Jaryd sniffed. It was fruity and strong. A sip, and nothing. Then a change, and fumes burning his sinuses. His eyes watered and he restrained a cough with difficulty.

Asym laughed and took another swig. They invited the Larosans to join them, and soon they were all more relaxed.

Jaryd walked in the evening gloom to the temple at the courtyard's end, a shirt donned for propriety's sake. Tracatans queued upon the steps, some holding candles as the night came on, hoping for a way inside. They recognised Jaryd—from the road he supposed—and stood aside with eyes lowered in deference.

The temple was attractive, like most town temples in these parts, a long paved floor between high walls. There was a priest conducting services of some kind, and a crowd up at the front where Sofy stood. Jaryd caught a glimpse of her, the Idys Mark still plain upon her forehead, hair covered beneath this Verenthane roof, blessing those who tried to touch her while fielding enquiries from several important-looking men.

Jaryd edged forward until he stood beneath an arched windowsill near the front. Upon the sill sat a serrin woman in plain clothes, observing the proceedings with calm curiosity. She patted the place beside her on the sill, and Jaryd leaped up.

“You fought well on the road, Nyvar,” said the serrin. “With Lenayin with us, perhaps we have a chance.”

“Perhaps,” said Jaryd.

“I'm Ysilder,” she said, extending a hand. “A jeweller.”

“No svaalverd?” Jaryd asked.

Ysilder shook her head apologetically. “My diamonds are occasionally used to sharpen svaalverd blades. That's all.”

“What happens here?”

“Gods know,” she murmured. Jaryd looked at her oddly. “Figure of speech. I've been in Tracato a long time. The people appear to believe there are blessings to be had. Your princess offers herself. Now she is cornered.”

“I would have taken her to Saalshen by another route,” Jaryd muttered. “But she saw all these people flooding out of Tracato and she insisted we help them.”

“She does seem that type,” the serrin agreed.

“I doubt we do help. The Elissians will be after her, and I don't think Prince Dafed will protest; he never liked her or this marriage. They failed to kill her when they had the chance, and if she survives she may spread embarrassing tales to the Regent of how news of her death was exaggerated by his allies.”

“They'll need to kill us all,” Ysilder said tiredly. “The whole column, and every village we pass through. To hide the truth. It's not beyond them.”

“Oh, I know that,” Jaryd said wearily. “I'm yet to be convinced that
she
does, despite everything.”