Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four (58 page)

For a short time it was a killing spree. Mounted archers against unsupported infantry was a deadly weapon. Soon the infantry wave was halting, men pausing to shelter behind their shields and form defensive walls, supported by pikes that the
talmaad
had no intention of charging. They simply switched targets to those who were still running and thus relatively defenceless, often cantering alongside running men with insolent disrespect and shooting until all were dead, or crouched defensively. Shield walls were harder to penetrate, but neither were they any threat to the Steel men in retreat.

Then the attacking cavalry broke through.

Rhillian wheeled fast, seeing serrin scattering before a wall of charging horsemen. Well, she'd known that by placing herself between two enormous enemy forces she was likely killing herself and everyone with her, but the situation was what it was. They'd bought enough time for some of these defenders to make it back to their main formation. Now for the price.

She stowed her bow in the canvas bag behind her left leg and drew her blade. This, she was better at. Attacking men fell, hit by arrows, then the shooters were killed in turn, swords in their scabbards. Rhillian dodged around several attackers, accelerated past some more, blocked a blow, swerved an attack, hurdled a falling horse, ducked another strike, then split a Kazeri's head with an optimistic lash that was more the sharpness of her blade than any true power.

She was doing rather well, she thought, until a big Banneryd horseman came crashing past, found her passing too fast for his blade, and so stuck out his shield instead. It was like riding into a wall, at speed. For a moment, she was flying.

The river saved them. It was the biggest cavalry charge in the history of anything, but it was strung out across the valley, only a portion of it striking in the first wave. And to hit the rapidly assembling lines of Rhodaani and Ilduuri Steel, and the Army of Lenayin, it first had to cross the Dhemerhill River.

Only twenty paces wide at this point, the river was still deep enough to make horses stop in a lunging spray of foam, and struggle forward through the deepest part before reemerging. And when they did, they hit a wall of impenetrable shields.

Sasha rode up and down her line of shieldsmen, manoeuvring to pass behind the archers now shooting over their comrades’ heads into the charging cavalry. The river disappeared beneath their numbers, a solid mass of horseflesh and waving swords. Now there were ballistas firing into them, their mobile wagon mounts twisted even as they retreated, raining heavy, fast-moving bolts into the horses’ midst. Cavalrymen bashed and hammered at the wall of steel, and men in the shield-line leaned into each other as the whole line shook and flexed beneath the assault. But for all the things cavalry could do, it could not ride through walls.

Sasha took a moment to stare toward the wall, now flooded with enemy soldiers. There was no river protecting them on that side. But there was the Army of Lenayin. Those men-at-arms who now ran howling toward the waiting lines of Lenays were likely from the rear ranks, with no experience of what had happened to the first forces into the valley, when Lenayin had hit them end on. Now they would learn. But this was a defence, and the Army of Lenayin was not built for defensive actions in the open. In such tight lines there would be no space, and no momentum. Even the Army of Lenayin could not stand such an assault for long. And on the far side of that wall, the Regent's forces would be bringing up his artillery.

Rhillian found herself awake. It was an odd awakening, from a floating, dreamlike state, like swimming underwater, and then the water was gone, yet the floating remained. There were groups of serrin philosophers who would travel to high mountains and meditate for sometimes years on end, in search of that dreamlike otherworld that grew upon the far side of consciousness. Those serrin, upon returning from their meditations, insisted that one could bring back the spiritual essence of that otherworld, once visited, and return it to the real world. Perhaps that was what she felt now, aware that she was awake, yet not entirely conscious. Some serrin speculated that wakefulness and consciousness were two different things. Or, depending upon the tongue being used, perhaps ten different things, requiring a hundred or more different words in combination.

She smiled. She should tell such serrin, if she saw them again, that one did not need to meditate for years to reach a dreamlike state of being. One need only fall off a horse.

She opened her eyes. A blur resolved itself into the confines of a tent. Daylight spilled through an open flap. Nearby, she could hear voices and commotion. But not battle. Merely activity, men and horses, a rattle of harness, a gruff laugh.

A soldier came in and looked at her. That was when she realised that she was lying on the grass, her head level with his boots. He looked down at her. A Lenay, she thought, though short-haired and smooth-faced, unlike the wild men of the Goeren-yai. She was a captive, then. Of the Army of Northern Lenayin.

The soldier left. Rhillian tried moving. Her wrists were bound above her head, and tied to something. Her ankles were similarly bound. She lay stretched and immobile. Breathing hurt—it felt like a broken rib. Probably she'd discover worse if she could move.

Another man entered, broad and powerful in leathers and mail. His left cheek bore a deep cut, recently cleaned, yet he wore it with unconcern. There was blood on his leg, Rhillian saw, as he pulled across a small chair and sat, eating fruit. She did not think the blood was his.

“You're Rhillian,” he said. “The one the Torovans call ‘the white death.’”

She'd been recognised. It was always a danger in battle, with her white hair. Most
talmaad
did not wear helms as they blocked their vision.

“I'm Koenyg,” he added around his mouthful, and washed it down with a swig of water. “King of Lenayin.”

Rhillian studied him from her place upon the ground. She'd heard him described, yet never seen him face-to-face. He looked like a king. And yet he wore no symbols of status as most kings would. Even the Verenthanes of Northern Lenayin, and those like Koenyg who naturally allied with them, did not hold with the lowlands faith in symbols of status. Koenyg Lenayin was clearly a warrior and a leader, and amongst his people that was all the status he needed.

“Sasha spoke to me of you,” he continued, speaking Torovan. He needn't have bothered, she spoke Lenay quite well. “She spoke highly. Said that you were nearly her equal with a blade. I'm nearly tempted to let you free just to see for myself.”

“Please do.”

Koenyg smiled, and bit another mouthful. “I said nearly. Are you hurt? Would you like some water?” He drank some more. “It's not poisoned, as you can see.”

Rhillian realised that her mouth was very dry. It was tempting to reject his offer for spite, but that made no sense. If she could possibly escape, she would need what health she could muster. She nodded. Koenyg kneeled, placed the skin to her lips, and upended it. He let her drink as long as she needed. Then he resumed his seat and, meeting her eyes with an unworried gaze, drank from the same skin. He did not fear that she would give him some disease. Many of the men he rode with would not do the same. Rhillian gazed at him, not knowing what to make of this man, this brother that Sasha alternately loathed, then grudgingly respected, in turn.

“The battle goes well for us,” he said, without bothering to ask if she wished to know. “They did manage a masterful retreat within the walls of Jahnd; Kessligh's doing, no doubt. But their losses were great. We captured another third of their artillery that they were not fast enough to take with them or destroy in leaving. They move their artillery behind Jahnd's walls, which we cannot bring into range with our own artillery without losing it to theirs. But we are moving catapults up on the eastern flank, to occupy heights above Jahnd. I doubt they'll last until morning.”

Rhillian thought it all sounded quite probable. Koenyg seemed far too direct to be the boasting kind. “And then?” she asked him.

Koenyg shrugged. “Then we return to the Bacosh to consolidate what we've gained. I will return to Lenayin, with the Army of Northern Lenayin. I expect trouble there, when word arrives of what the traitors did. I will bring Bacosh allies with me. We shall set about expanding the Verenthane base of power in Lenayin, which is surely in Regent Balthaar's interest, now he sees how we fight. The pagans have shown that they cannot be trusted with power. They have little interest but personal honour, but the Army of Northern Lenayin fights for a grander civilisation.”

“You will kill two sisters and a brother in this quest.”

“They kill themselves with their choices,” said Koenyg. “I am with history, and history waits for no man, nor weeps for them when they die.”

“And Saalshen?”

Koenyg shook his head. “Not my concern. Perhaps the Regent shall forgive your intrusion into human affairs these past two hundred years, and your desecration of the faith. Perhaps he shall let you all off with a warning. But then, my sister Sofy told me just last night that Verenthane civilisation and serrin civilisation cannot coexist. I think she may be right.”

“And so we all shall die,” Rhillian said quietly. “Thanks to you.”

“I am on the side of history,” Koenyg repeated. “And history weeps for no man.”

“History sides with no man,” said Rhillian. “It watches from afar, and laughs at his claims of ownership.”

Koenyg shrugged. “I'm winning.” He shifted in his chair to look at her more closely. “If you wish, you could return with me to Lenayin. Learn our ways. Convert to the faith. That would be a novelty, to be sure, perhaps even sufficient to impress the Archbishops.”

“I decline.”

Koenyg raised an eyebrow. “I don't think you realise quite what I'm offering. Most of these men would simply have you killed, and painfully. They think you're evil. I don't. I just think you're in my way.”

“And proud to be so.”

Koenyg smiled. “I'm offering you a chance to show the world of men that your people are not evil. That you can be civilised. That you can embrace the gods, and learn to live as we do. You would be the perfect model of such a display. From there, you could become a spokesperson for your people, and could travel to Torovan and the newly united Bacosh, beneath my banner. But it could only be possible in Lenayin. As I said, here, they'd just kill you. But Lenays do things differently, and find other paths. It is our strength.”

“Ours too,” said Rhillian.

Koenyg nodded. “Then you'll consider it? It is no small offer. The protests I would face from my strongest supporters would be intense. The unholiness of Saalshen has been a core teaching of the Torovan and Bacosh faiths for centuries now.”

“Made more so in recent years for political gain,” Rhillian added.

Koenyg shrugged again. “Perhaps.”

“What you're saying is that you will try to help me save my people, who are about to become defenceless if this battle is lost, by helping us all to convert?”

“Yes,” said Koenyg. “With you as their figurehead and representative, to prove the possibility to the doubters, and backed and protected by the King of Lenayin. Any invasion of Saalshen will take years to organise. Perhaps there were plans for it to happen rapidly after Jahnd's fall, but losses have been too severe here, nearly a half of the Regent's total force has been lost so far, a staggering cost. Saalshen is defenceless without the Steels, and there is no need for mad haste. I think you could have a year at least, perhaps two, within which to make arrangements for your new circumstance in Lenayin.”

“And in return for our mass conversion,” Rhillian continued, “we will be required to abandon our freedom of thought? Our questions? Our philosophies and arts? Our instinct to take human ways and thoughts that we find intriguing, and blend them with our own to find new and interesting expression?”

Koenyg smiled. “Exactly.”

Rhillian met his gaze quite clearly. “I think that my people will tell you that they would rather you killed us all down to the very last child.” Koenyg's smile faded. “Which is where this is most likely headed anyway, in time.”

Koenyg sighed. “I offer you a chance to change that course, yet you spit on it.”

“No,” said Rhillian. “By making such an offer, you spit on
us.
”

Sasha stood atop the defensive wall and watched Jahnd burn. About her were Ilduuris, worn, exhausted, and battle-stained. These were not her familiar names, for after Arken, Captain Idraalgen was also dead, as were numerous others she had known in Andal. Those remaining stood together and watched a new artillery shot come whistling in, and land a hundred paces from the wall in a bright flash. New fire consumed buildings, adding to the blaze that already burned, and blocked out all view of the Dhemerhill Valley behind choking smoke.

Perhaps that was just as well. The Dhemerhill, and now the adjoining Ilmerhill, was entirely occupied by the Regent's men. They burned all the town adjoining the city walls, to create a clear approach for assault, if it were needed. Given the reports of artillery hauled up the rear, flanking slopes to hit them from behind and above, Sasha did not think it was necessary. This burning was mostly for distraction, and for spite.

“I am sorry, my friends, if I have led you to this,” she said heavily.

A sergeant put a hand on her shoulder guard. “We came willingly,” he said. “And it has been glorious.”

“Aye,” said Sasha. “Yes, it has.”

Now it was late afternoon, and the shadows grew long. Artillery would fire from the high slopes and set the upper end of town afire. Walls would be undefendable and, when cracked with heat, could probably be breached with stone shot from the catapults. They would not last the night if they stayed here.

She left her men to head down the stairs to a street below, where she reclaimed her horse. Yasmyn was there, having acquired a new horse, her old horse dead from a ballista bolt as she'd raced back and forth amidst the carnage of the retreat, attempting to convey orders and warnings from one commander to another. She was grim and blackened with smoke, yet sat proud in the saddle.