Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four (46 page)

Yasmyn handed her the stanch, and she strode to the circle's centre. Markan did likewise. He made a faint bow. Sasha did not, and took a fighting stance. The wood felt slightly heavier than steel, and far more ungainly, but she was used to that. Markan suffered the same disadvantage. He took a similar stance, and his reach, as Sasha had already guessed, was nearly a forearm's length more than hers.

Markan waited, studying her. He knew that without the svaalverd, his disadvantage was great. Perhaps he hoped that her new shirt would slow her a little. But surely he realised that if it did, she would refuse to wear it. Markan had sparred against her before. He was fast and powerful, but he was also clever.

Sasha did not feel impatient. She just waited. And waited. Each moment was of no greater significance than any other. Sashandra Lenayin, long impatient and short of temper, could now wait until nightfall if she must.

Markan exploded into attack, which Sasha angled away with a shift of wrists and feet, and drove forward, smacking him across the middle as she came through. Markan could have crushed her skull with the next blow, but
pryal
rules were clear, and her stroke was a kill. He accepted with a nod, and they prepared again. There came a roar from the Lenay crowd, in many tongues. The regions had their separate traditions and words for a strike. Markan looked unbothered. Sasha knew she'd have to hit far harder to cause him pain.

Again he waited. This would take a long time, Sasha realised. Chopping down Markan would be like a small man felling a large tree. She would have to hit him many, many times before she won…unless she could get an open head strike, or something equally debilitating. Yet Markan's first attack had been conservative, perhaps aware that the svaalverd would grant her a simple opening in reply, but that that opening would not be painful for him, and could not win her the fight no matter how many times she was presented with it. Svaalverd was a method of counterattack as much as anything, using the momentum of an attacker's strike to unbalance him, and kill him with the second stroke. But with wooden sticks, she could not kill, and so it went on and on. If Markan waited long enough, perhaps her concentration would falter, and Markan needed far fewer openings than she.

Not only strong and fast, she thought again grimly, but clever.

He attacked again. Sasha parried twice and ducked away, finding no opening. Markan pressed, again somewhat predictable and not as powerful as she'd have expected. The easy option presented and she took it, but again the strike was not powerful, partially deflected by Markan as he took it on his arm and stanch together. Again he nodded, and they separated. He was not giving her any power to work with, no momentum. Sasha loved to use her opponent's power against him, and Markan refused to grant her any, despite all his formidable size. And so, deprived of her asset, she had nothing to hit him back with in turn.

That left one option.

She attacked him in a flurry, five rapid swings that he parried in fast retreat, eyes wide with surprise. She saw a three-combination move that could end in a hard blow and flashed into it, yet Markan met her setup stroke with confidence and their stanches each struck hard on the third. It knocked Sasha off her feet with astonishing force, but she rolled on the stones and came up as the crowd roared. Markan windmilled his left arm. That had been by far her hardest strike yet, though not as hard as his. Her ribs ached on her left side, but her mail had saved them from breaking, and she flexed her arms and prowled forward.

Again she attacked before Markan had even settled, but this time he was not surprised, and met her with a crashing blow that shocked her arms, then hammered her midriff even as she tried to force her defence down to meet it. She sank to her knees, unable to inhale. Markan backed off and watched, winded himself. Sasha waited for the breath to come back, aware of pandemonium in the crowd, experienced Lenay warriors knowing only too well the risk that she attempted, and astonished to see her attacks so brazen. Most exchanges she could win five times out of six or better. Now she opened herself to strikes for the chance to do real damage herself. A few more strikes like the last one, and she was finished.

Her breathing returned to normal, though her stomach hurt like hell. It was merely one more sensation, for the battle lust was with her, and single thoughts or feelings meant nothing at all. The dark spirit was with her, and wooden stick or not, it sought blood.

“Just one chance,” her eyes said to Markan as she stared at his centre, absorbing all of him in that look.

She attacked again, inviting the obvious cross-swing in reply, with which she took a huge risk and ducked rather than parried. That put her ahead in the count. He knew it, hurried to catch up on the next swing, and a foot skidded. Just a fraction.

She saw the combination it presented immediately. The high-right overhead forced his balance back right, weight on the off-balance foot. His foot failed the next transition back, and she cut low and took his knee hard enough to buckle it. On one knee, his balance failed completely, his defence weak as her final blow crashed through it and snapped his head back.

Markan hit the ground limp, and did not move. The crowd erupted. Men rushed to check on him. Yasmyn held back, face impassive—it would not do at all for any woman, least of all a sister, to rush to a fallen warrior's aid and sully the moment with softness. Markan stirred, groggily, blood flowing from a badly split cheek. It spoiled his good looks, and made Sasha angrier still.

“Synnich-ahn! Synnich-ahn!” men were yelling. Sasha went to Yasmyn, handed off her stanch, and reclaimed her blade. “Synnich-ahn! Synnich-ahn!”

Sasha walked back to the centre of the circle, and waited for calm. At the stage-side, she spied Damon, watching with arms folded. Beside him was Kessligh. Damon looked displeased. Kessligh merely thoughtful.

She did not think Damon jealous of this support—like most Verenthane nobility, he had never particularly admired this rural, pagan half of Lenayin, nor gone to lengths to seek its affection. But now her actions whipped them to a frenzy. She could see from his face that he wondered how in the world this would serve to elevate him as the natural commander of the Army of Lenayin, and challenger to its king, their brother Koenyg. Well. It was a question.

Sasha held up her arms, and the noise began to fade. Finally, there was silence. Immediately broken, when someone yelled “Queen!” and a roar of approval followed. Sasha was unimpressed.

“I'm not your queen!” she shouted, once the noise had fallen. Angry cries came back at her. She nearly laughed. Lenays would argue with Death himself, and spit in his face, if he did not play by their rules. “But if you will fucking listen, for just one moment, you mob of lunatics, I will claim something far more powerful!”

Silence fell. Sasha glared at them all. “You know me! You know that I am Nasi-Keth. I have defeated one of Lenayin's greatest warriors here tonight
only
, and I stress
only
, because I am Nasi-Keth. Nasi-Keth taught me how to fight. This man,” and she pointed to Kessligh, “Kessligh Cronenverdt, taught me how to fight. If you will grant me power by my swordwork, then grant also that the credit is due to him, and his ways, and the Nasi-Keth that he has served all his life.”

“We will accept Nasi-Keth as queen!” came a yell. Growls and shouts of approval.

“Nasi-Keth do not accept the power of one man or woman!” Sasha replied. “You've travelled through the Bacosh. You've seen the wealth of the Saalshen Bacosh, where serrin and Nasi-Keth ideas have been in place for two centuries. These are not places ruled by a king or queen, they are run by councils.”

“No councils!” yelled another. “They're a fucking mess!”

“Like a mob of old women on the verandah with their knitting!” came another. Laughter roared.

“In command of all Lenayin, yes!” Sasha agreed. “But to advise the king?” Silence from the crowd. “An idea. A council. Not in charge. Not with the power to make war. Not with any power, in fact, except the power to oppose an action of the king it does not like, and the power to suggest alternatives, which the king may take or discard as he sees fit.

“A council run according to the rules of debate long established by the Nasi-Keth. A council always governed by a Nasi-Keth, or perhaps even a serrin, should we find one crazy enough.” Laughter from some, and thoughtful frowns from others. “What happens today when the king makes a law we do not like? Or when some new law emerges that lords wish to write? We have a rathynal. And what do we all think of rathynals?”

Sounds of general disapproval.

“So make a council like a permanent rathynal, with representatives in place for all provinces and regions, and put the Nasi-Keth in charge of it. That is what I propose.”

“This is horseshit! We are here to win a war, not to debate. Lead us in battle!”

“And I've just told you why I can't, and won't,” Sasha said patiently. “Appoint an independent commander of your armies if you will—my father did it with Kessligh many years ago. But you all know that you have no need. Damon is as accomplished a commander as you will find, and my command is needed with the Ilduuri Steel. Nasi-Keth will never rule Lenayin. But we will advise. That is our place, and our task in the world. If you truly respect my victory over Markan, you will respect that, for it was granted by the Nasi-Keth.

“And I advise,” she continued, before discontent could erupt into turmoil once more, “that you are all missing the point. The old ways demand a contest of leadership. As the Nasi-Keth advisor to Lenayin, a role that Kessligh played so ably before me, I advise that there is a challenge of the old ways that is in order. A challenge for the true kingship of Lenayin, not this petty squabble over the order of lineage.

“King Koenyg approaches. His rule is unworthy and dishonourable. Prince Damon is both honourable and worthy.
He
shall challenge. He shall duel the unworthy King of Lenayin, and beneath the gaze of our ancestors shall defeat him in honourable single combat. I am Synnich-ahn, I have been granted by my victory in
tymorain
the right to make law, and I say that there shall be a duel, between brothers Damon and Koenyg, for the right to rule Lenayin as king!”

There were loud yells of approval, yet not so loud as before. Many still grumbled, insistent that by the old ways, she should lead, as she was strongest. But there were enough who cheered now, liking her notion and the red meat she had thrown to their ancient tradition, salve for the insult she had paid in rejecting it herself. She had divided them, and now they would argue and complain, but the momentum to install her upon a throne irrespective of her wishes was blunted.

Only now she could see Damon, standing by Kessligh's side amidst the noise and argument, staring at her, pale-faced, as though she'd signed his death warrant herself.

“I didn't have a choice.” Sasha sat on the verandah of a farmhouse in the Ilduuri camp, sipping tea by lamplight. Kessligh sat alongside. “I just proved myself strongest, and shoved their tradition back in their face. They needed some affirmation of the old ways, and that was it.”

“Koenyg probably can't accept the challenge anyway,” said Kessligh. “It's a Goeren-yai tradition, he's Verenthane, and not bound to accept. And arranging it would mean delays—Balthaar's warplan may not allow it.”

“But he won't like refusing the challenge,” Sasha said sombrely. “It has implications of cowardice for any Lenay. It may cost him support, it may make divisions between him and Balthaar if he presses Balthaar to allow it, and it may make him angry. Koenyg can do silly things when he's angry.”

“Wouldn't count on it,” said Kessligh, sipping his own tea. Activity continued about them in the light of lamps and campfires. The Ilduuri Steel were particularly pleased to see her here amongst them this night, and Sasha regretted now having taken even one night in the city. It had seemed necessary, to mingle with the powerful and learn the lay of things, yet her true place was here, amongst the men who would fight and die at her command. She had memorised all senior ranks down to formation sergeants, over two hundred men. But there were many more she wanted to learn—not merely their names, but more importantly their experience, reputation and character.

“Damon's furious at me,” she said. “Sofy too. Damon has rarely bested Koenyg at swords. Few men can. If Koenyg does accept the challenge, and Balthaar lets him…”

“Then one more of us will die in war,” said Kessligh. “There will be plenty, the method matters not.”

“If Damon dies, Markan commands Lenayin,” Sasha said quietly. “But Markan cannot be king. An Isfayen king would be less popular than a Cherrovan one.”

“In which case, it had better be you after all,” Kessligh concluded.

Sasha nodded, absently. “If Koenyg kills Damon in single combat because of a duel I set up, I suppose I'll deserve that punishment and worse.”

“Nothing you can do about it now,” said Kessligh. “The risk is great, but the reward is worth it. That was a nice idea, though. A Nasi-Keth role for Lenayin. Of course, it has its own concerns,” he added. “If the Nasi-Keth have a powerful role as independent advisors to the crown, who advises the advisors? And who watches that they do not grow too powerful? We've seen the Nasi-Keth in too many lands straying from the wisdom of their own teachings, Ilduur most recently.”

Sasha shrugged. “Something to think about if we live. We have more pressing matters now.”

“And I've been working on those matters all day and my mind needs a rest.” Kessligh shifted in his seat, seeking a more comfortable position for his stiff leg. “In the Great War, I would spend evenings talking poetry and ballads with my commanders. A mind can think on war too long, and forget what it fights for.”

Sasha smiled faintly. “You were my age then.”

Kessligh nodded. “Roughly. And alarmed at how fast I rose from nothing to command, mostly because some of my very brave and stupid superiors were more interested in displaying their honour by charging the Cherrovan head-on rather than by manoeuvring. My horsemanship was poor, but none of them could best me with a stanch. That gained me great respect, and when gaps appeared in higher ranks, I was chosen to fill them. Repeatedly.”