Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four (3 page)

As usual, some men came down to watch. That was not an uncommon thing amongst Lenay warriors, who could talk swordwork from sunrise to sunset. This audience was remarkably silent as she performed her strokes. Many Lenay warriors found the svaalverd style of Saalshen discomforting, almost supernatural. Sasha's blade and body described ethereal forms in the dying light of evening, a shadow in the mist, movement both precise and fluid to a degree that appeared, to the superstitious, barely human.

Finally she sheathed her blade over her left shoulder, tucked the tri-braid behind her right ear, and stood with head bowed. Respect toward the river reeds; respect for the resident spirits. She thought of her sister Alythia, whose spirit had been freed in the city of Tracato, toward which they presently rode. Alythia whom she had hated for so long, then recently come to love, only to lose her to those she had once been urged to consider as friends. Those people, if she found them, she could kill happily. If only the Army of Lenayin would be fighting them.

She turned, and walked from the reeds toward the camp. Her audience faded respectfully away, save one man, a young Isfayen who kneeled before her path, and presented her with a red cloth. The cloth was inscribed with curling Telochi script, and decorated with braiding, no little effort gone to, considering the deprivations of camp. Sasha sighed, and took the offered cloth. She could not read Telochi script, but she considered the markings anyhow, and found some admiration for the quality.

The young Isfayen warrior said something in Telochi, and then, in halting Lenay, “Please will you consider.” He rose. His gaze was not worshipful; Lenays of any stripe did not do worship. But the respect was blazingly intense.

Sasha smiled sadly at the man, folded the cloth carefully, and tucked it within her jacket. She had a pocket there, in the inner lining, that pressed against her heart, and her breast. The young man seemed pleased with that. Sasha patted him on the arm, and continued back to camp in the rapidly descending dark.

She found Yasmyn a short distance from the big tents, the only tents in the entire Lenay column. Lenays slept rough, and disdained basic comforts while marching to war…all save the nobility and royalty, who required some tents for status, and private consultations. Yasmyn sat beside her brother Markan, eating roast meat and bread. A warrior at her other side saw Sasha coming and made space. Sasha put a hand on his shoulder in sitting to thank him—his name was Asym, she recalled, and he had no special title to gain him access to the great lord's campfire save that he was known as a great warrior, and had fought ferociously at the Battle of Shero Valley.

Yasmyn handed Sasha a plate of food, and she ate. Most conversation was in Telochi, of which Sasha understood only the occasional word or phrase. It had been Damon's idea to place her with the Isfayen. The northern provinces despised her. The Verenthane nobility (as all Lenay nobility save Taneryn was Verenthane) of most of the rest of Lenayin disliked her nearly as much. In Valhanan's case it saddened her; she had spent most of her life in Valhanan, and if she had a provincial loyalty, that was where it lay. The Great Lord Kumaryn was dead at Shero Valley, but his place had been taken by another just as loathsome. The Taneryn would have taken her, but she had ridden with many Taneryn against their old enemies the Hadryn in what was known as the Northern Rebellion, and it would not do to have those old rivalries stirred once more.

But the Isfayen considered themselves almost a separate nation, and cared little for the opinions of fellow Lenays. The Great Lord Faras's opinion of Sasha had been dramatically improved by his daughter Yasmyn's friendship with the Princess Sofy, Sasha's dearest friend of all her royal siblings. And the Isfayen, Damon had reckoned, thought all things secondary to skill at warfare. If Sasha could find acceptance amongst the nobility of any Lenay province, it would be amongst the Isfayen. And so, after the Battle of Shero Valley, it had proven to be.

“Another bloodwarrior just proposed to me,” Sasha told Yasmyn. She gave Yasmyn a faintly accusing look.

Yasmyn smiled. “Tyama. He told me he would. He is the son of a herdsman, from near the village of Uam, in the west. A brave and skilled warrior.” Sasha sighed, and ate her food. “How many is that?”

“Seven,” said Sasha. She shook her head. “I don't know what they're thinking. I mean no disrespect, but I'm not inclined to marry anyone. Do they think I'll be a farmwife in some homestead on an Isfayen mountainside?”

Yasmyn shook her head. “The problem is that they don't know what to think. Isfayen men are rare amongst Lenays in that they like a strong woman. It is in our culture.” Another reason, Sasha reflected, why Damon placed her with the Isfayen. “But though Isfayen women can fight, rarely is it expected they could match a man in battle. For an Isfayen woman, fighting is a victory of courage over common sense. Isfayen admire that, and Isfayen men find little more attractive than a pretty girl who dares to snarl to a great warrior's face. Tremendous sex often follows.”

Sasha managed a faint smile. “It has a certain logic.”

“But now they see you,” Yasmyn continued. “You fight not merely with courage, but with unmatched skill. And with the svaalverd, that makes you nearly unbeatable. The young men find themselves struggling with a feeling they had not known before—both unmatched respect, and great lust. They do not know how else to express this feeling if not in a proposal. None of them expects you to accept. If they did, you'd have had hundreds of proposals by now, not just seven. They just do not know how else to express what they feel.”

Sasha nodded slowly, gazing into the fire.

Yasmyn smiled slyly. “I envy you greatly.”

“I hadn't thought you were struggling for proposals yourself.”

“Not in that. I mean that you could have your pick of these men tonight, and other men the night after. Isfayen women are dishonoured to have more than one man at a time, but you! You best them all, and they have no grounds for complaint.”

Sasha smiled. It grew to an outright grin. Yasmyn laughed. The Great Lord Markan saw their humour.

“Aha!” he said loudly, pointing at Sasha. “The great Synnich finally smiles!” Men about the campfire paused conversation to look. “Of what do you smile?”

Sasha shook her head faintly. “Sex, what else?” Men laughed.

“My sister is obsessed with sex,” said Markan. “It is a disease of the mind. I should send her to a holywoman to have her cleansed with smoke and ash.” He put an affectionate arm about Yasmyn, and kissed her head. Yasmyn shoved him away, scowling but good-humoured.

Markan had barely twenty-two summers, a year more than Sasha, but he was a very big lad. With Yasmyn's looks, his father's shoulders, and a cheerful disposition when not in battle, Sasha found herself reflecting that if she could have any man in Isfayen, she'd probably rather it be him. And she shoved the thought aside, as she knew it could lead nowhere good. Markan had been Great Lord of Isfayen for several weeks now, following his father's death. Sasha did not think the bloodwarriors of Isfayen had yet come to accept him entirely, and Isfayen being Isfayen, there were always grumblings of possible challenge from rivals. But Markan would have to stumble first, to provoke such a challenge. Sasha hoped that he would not.

There came a shout from somewhere beyond the camp. Then a yell, and a war cry. Sasha leaped to her feet and drew her blade. “Defence!” she yelled. “Defence!” About the camps men leaped up with weapons in hand. There was no mad rushing, for they had practised this, on Sasha and Damon's insistence.

Men made formations, but crouched low, not presenting a target to archers. Some oil was thrown on several campfires, making them flare brightly. Sasha herself did not join the line formations of the men, but ran to a near tentside and crouched there, peering past the support ropes. Yasmyn joined her, similarly ill-equipped to fight shoulder-to-shoulder with the men, her forearm-length darak gleaming in hand. Sasha thought she heard an arrow's hiss. Someone cursed. Then, more distantly, some shouts and directions.

“They're probing,” said Sasha, in a low voice. Out beyond the ring of firelight, shadows danced upon the trees, and made a luminous glow in the campfire mist. Here in Rhodaan, one did not post sentries beyond the ring of firelight and expect them to remain alive by morning. Even the hardy, far-ranging Lenay scouts returned to the safety of camp each night before sunset. Men with knowledge of woodlore set traps for wild animals, or suspended lines of string in the undergrowth, attached to pots and utensils to make a noise if disturbed. It seemed to help somewhat, for nighttime losses so far remained light. But all the same, every night someone died. After a time, it became unnerving.

“They fight like cowards,” Yasmyn fumed. Again distantly, Sasha heard a clash of steel, and another battle cry. Numbers were greater tonight, if fighting was hand-to-hand.

“They fight with what they have,” Sasha murmured. “A snake will always strike from below, a hawk will come from above. Serrin learn from nature. Complaining because they refuse to fight as we can beat them is pointless.”

At a further campfire, Sasha saw a man stand up higher to peer into the mist. His neighbour pulled him down. Behind, an arrow whistled, and Sasha spun to see a man falling, struck through the eye.

“Stay down, you fools!” someone shouted. Further back along the column, past the tents, Sasha could faintly see figures moving, edging to the trees at the flank. Only here, surrounding the royalty and nobility, did men remain in fixed ranks, making a defensive wall against the death that lurked in the dark. Serrin saw well by night, but many Lenay men had experience hunting, and knew how to ambush an alert prey. Some had had success in such attacks taking shelter at the perimeter, and letting the serrin stumble across them.

This attack was coming from the south, and the river, Sasha realised. It was the less obvious direction, considering open fields to the north. Where would a serrin ford a river, at night? Somewhere shallow, with lots of cover. Like water reeds.

Sasha caught the eye of a nearby warrior, and gestured. He ran to her at a crouch. Too late, Sasha realised he was Hadryn, his scalp nearly shaven, a slim goatee on his chin, and a large Verenthane star hanging around his neck. But still, he had run to her when she summoned.

“Have you an archer?” she asked him.

“Crossbowman,” said the Hadryn. Lenays did not fancy archery much, but the northerners used them more than most. “What of it?”

“I think I know where they came across the river.”

The Hadryn considered her for a moment. Then turned and ran crouched back along his line of men, to tap one on the shoulder.

“I'll come,” said Yasmyn.

“You're a fighter,” said Sasha, “but you're not a warrior. There's a difference.”

“I'm no use here!” Yasmyn retorted. “If not here, where else can I be useful?”

“
Mey'as rhen ah'l
,” said Sasha in Saalsi, with a shrug. “Such is life.”

The Hadryn crossbowman arrived, and Sasha set off at a low run for the cover of a nearby tent. Soon she was at the furthermost camp, near the river. Here men crouched attentively, blades in hand, some shields at the ready. Sasha spied several further from the firelight, low in the undergrowth against the tree trunks.

“Anything?” Sasha asked the man there. He was Fyden, Sasha could tell by the tattoo on his cheek. The Fyden man blinked at her, perhaps less surprised at her sudden appearance than with the company of a Hadryn crossbowman at her back.

“Not a sign,” whispered the Fyden man. “You're going down to the reeds?”

“Aye,” said Sasha.

“I'll come. There's a way through the trees, good cover. We've no more archers, but I could find one over with the Yethulen—”

“Three's enough,” Sasha replied. “Any more, we'll be spotted for sure.”

They moved silently forward, Sasha following the Fyden man's lead, the Hadryn bringing up the rear. The mist closed in, thick with the smell of evening cooking. Sasha concentrated more on speed from tree to tree than on maintaining silence; serrin eyesight was far more dangerous than serrin hearing, which was no better than a human's. From the column came the steady rise and fall of calls and shouts, as men from different sections called to each other. The Fyden man pushed through thicker undergrowth as the trees closed in, then onto a patch of open ground before a fallen log.

They took cover there, and peered over. Ahead lay more open ground, and then river reeds. Beside Sasha, the Hadryn steadied his crossbow on the mossy trunk of the fallen tree, and waited. Stillness followed, broken only by calls from the column. Sasha strained her ears but heard nothing. The Fyden man seemed more alarmed, eyes wide as he stared into the mist, breathing hard. Sasha was mildly surprised to realise that her own heart, whilst quickened, remained steady. Somewhere along her travels, she had lost much of her fear. Perhaps in Petrodor, though more likely Tracato.

Perhaps that was not all she'd lost in Tracato, came the more alarming thought. Perhaps she'd also lost the ability to care, and to feel.

She glimpsed movement. Barely more than shadows in the mist, down by the reeds. Lean shapes, all wielding bows. The Hadryn steadied his arm, lifting himself for a good aim. Sasha felt a stab of alarm that the man was about to shoot at serrin. And then a further alarm at herself, for even being here. Why had she volunteered to rush out here in the hope of hunting serrin at a possible river crossing? What had she been thinking? She loved the serrin. And now, as Lenay honour commanded, she fought them. But that did not mean she should volunteer to rush headlong into a fight. Her own actions baffled her.

The Hadryn's crossbow thumped. Amidst the reeds, one of the shadows flailed and fell. Sasha heard the rush from her left before the others, and leaped to her feet with a warning shout…but the Fyden man sprang up into her path and brought his blade flashing at the shadow that came at them from the trees. Sasha danced back for space as steel clashed briefly, and the Fyden man fell with little drama, just a face-first thud on the turf as an evil-sharp blade tore him open.