Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four (5 page)

“We are not all barbarians in these lands,” Balthaar assured her, to the further amusement of the courtyard. In all the lowlands, of course, Lenayin had been known for centuries as the land of barbarians…and perhaps not so unfairly. “We wish to return these lands to their rightful state of rulership, to the natural order of men, not to see them turned to ash.”

“I understand, my husband,” Sofy said with a further curtsey, in apology. “I never did doubt you. I merely wondered at the temper of some of the men. Losses were great in the Battle of Sonnai Plain, I had feared some would seek revenge….”

“And surely some shall,” said Balthaar, “as such things occur in all wars. But trust me that I shall endeavour to keep such happenings to a minimum, and punish those who go against my order. These lands are ours now, and to destroy them is to cut off our own limbs.”

“I understand,” said Sofy. She did not entirely meet his gaze. Balthaar took her by the arms, and for one nervous moment, Sofy feared he had guessed her thoughts.

“Dearest,” he said instead, “I come because I have a favour to ask.” Sofy met his gaze now, surprised. “I would ask you to ride to Tracato. I cannot—I must ride with the army to pursue the Steel into Enora, where they must be defeated for once and all. But Tracato's nobility have risen against the serrin devils. Much power resides there, and wealth, and a link to our Elissian allies. My interests are there, even as I cannot be.

“But I would send a trusted emissary, with wit and guile to match any man, and a stout heart too, to see my interests represented. Would you do this for me?”

Tracato? Sasha had just ridden from Tracato, and told of horrors there. And, more reluctantly, of wonders, of learning and civilisation greater than anything in all the lands of Rhodia. Ride to Tracato, to see its wonders preserved, its heritage protected, its people saved from the slaughter that Sofy feared could still descend across all these lands? To try and find a new balance between the invaders and the invaded?

Sofy's heart leaped at the prospect.

“My lord,” she said gladly, “I would be honoured.” And she hugged him, for all to see.

The wagon was a misery. Andreyis sat propped against its hard side, and tried to keep his bandaged, splinted arm from jolting. Low cloud scudded across a gloomy sky, and showers cast a grey veil across distant Enoran fields. The wagon's one coat had been given to Ulemys, the Ranash man who lay upon the floor. Ulemys was dying, and his groans were more painful than the wagon's jolting upon Andreyis's arm.

Four others shared the wagon with Andreyis, besides Ulemys. One, Sayden, was a fellow Valhanan, though from a village to the north that Andreyis had never heard of. The other three were from Hadryn, Tyree, and Yethulyn. There had been two more, when the journey had begun ten days before. One of those had been buried in a shallow grave, and the other, a Taneryn, had been burned on a pyre, as Taneryn customs dictated. It had been a struggle to gather enough dry wood in the unseasonal midsummer downpours. Andreyis knew that Ulemys would soon join them, as his gut-wound was smelling foul despite the serrins' medicines, and his deliriums grew worse. But for now, he could have the coat. It made the smell more bearable, for one thing.

At lunch an Enoran rider threw some bread, fruit, and cheese into the wagon, and they ate. Soon after, Andreyis decided he would rather walk, and slithered one-armed off the wagon and onto the muddy road. He had always liked to ride after a meal, but with horses unavailable, walking would do. He recalled now those afternoon rides at Kessligh and Sasha's ranch in the hills above Baerlyn, sometimes with Lynette or Sasha, sometimes alone, with always an eye out for game or intruders, or a sudden change in the weather across the rumpled, sprawling landscape of Lenayin.

He felt unutterably homesick. He had fought bravely at Shero Valley, but was now horrified at his own unmanliness when he awoke in sweating, heart thumping horror in the dead of night, thinking the battle still raged about him. A prisoner on the trailing wagon swore that he'd seen Teriyan Tremel, Andreyis's good friend and father of fellow ranch-hand Lynette, fall upon the field. Worst of all, he was a prisoner, and still alive, when most Lenays would rather die than yield to such a fate. At times, Andreyis envied his comrade Ulemys. For him, at least, the torment would soon be over.

A serrin rider held to the side of the road, perhaps ten steps behind him as he walked. It was the girl again, the same girl who always rode guard along this stretch of the procession. With serrin, one could always tell. This girl had shocking red hair, swept back with a comb to one side and several odd braids, and sparkling blue eyes. She was pale, with a lean face and fine cheekbones, and utterly striking to look at. Several days ago, when Ulemys had been more aware, he'd cursed her when she'd given him food, and called her a demon, and thrown the food onto the muddy road. Andreyis knew better than to think the serrin demons, but he could see how a devout northern Verenthane like Ulemys might mistake her for one.

She carried a bow, strung at all times. That was not good for bows. Andreyis was fortunate amongst the Lenay prisoners that his legs were unhurt—it was his arm, and a blow to his head, now healing though tender. He wondered if he dared take on the girl's bow, and make a dash for passing woods, or perhaps try and knock her off her horse. He recalled Kessligh saying that serrin women tended not to favour the bow as much as men…ironic, as Lenay men considered archery an unmanly skill, that it was the serrin women who favoured swords instead. Serrin bows required great strength to draw. It was serrin swordwork, the svaalverd, that found more use in technique than muscle.

A Banneryd man two wagons ahead had tried to run on a wooded hillside the other day. Another serrin rider, a man, had shot him in the leg before he'd gone ten strides. For now, Andreyis bided his time. Walking at least would keep him from wasting away in the back of the wagon. Yet it was unnerving that the serrin did not mind, and did not insist the least-wounded prisoners be tied or restrained in any way. They merely held their distance, and kept their bows handy, as though daring the Lenays to try and run.

Camp that night was a village, and the wounded were given a barn. As one of the few able to walk freely, Andreyis assisted the movement of those who were less fortunate from the wagons to the straw. Some of the Enorans helped too. These were mostly older men, in mail and armed with long swords, which Enoran soldiers rarely used. They were Enoran militia, some Lenays had surmised—formerly soldiers of the Steel, now retired, but mobilised to assist on less vital matters such as the transportation of prisoners. No match for a Lenay warrior in single combat, Andreyis was certain, but they were all armed and healthy, where every Lenay carried an injury. And they were smart, and experienced, and not about to let their guard down. Andreyis wondered what his little band could even do, if they did somehow manage to wrest control of the column away from their captors, and arm themselves. They were deep into Enora now, halfway to the capital Shemorane. There would be no hiding from ordinary Enorans, some of whom were also former Steel, and many of whom had horses. Soon the Lenays would be run down by reinforcements, and all pretence at civilised conduct toward prisoners in wartime would surely cease.

Andreyis took a place by the barn door, nearest the draught, and ate the food that the Enorans brought to them from the cooking fires outside. Militiamen talked with local villagers by the barn doors as the prisoners ate, the villagers peering in with curious eyes. Neither Andreyis nor any of his comrades understood more than a few words of Enoran, but it seemed clear what the villagers were saying.

“So these are the fearsome men of Lenayin.” A few of them joked with the militiamen, stifling laughter. Clearly they were not so intimidated, and made jokes at the Lenays' expense. Andreyis knew that he ought to be angered, but he could not muster the energy.

After the meal, the serrin began their rounds of the wounded. Some men allowed treatment, now accustomed to this evening ritual. Others refused, and the serrin simply gave medicines to their comrades for them to apply. There appeared to be six serrin in the column, Andreyis reckoned. Four seemed old; two definitely were, and two more moved as though they might be—with serrin it was often hard to tell. The last two seemed young. One was a tall lad with hair so black it shaded, astonishingly, toward blue. The other was the red-haired girl.

She knelt before him now, as he looked up in surprise, lost in thought with his back to a hay bale. “Show me your arm.”

Andreyis showed it to her. She unwrapped it and checked the splints. The forearm had fractured, but would heal well enough in time. Her hands were firm, but caused little pain.

“You walk like one accustomed to riding,” the girl said as she worked. She spoke Torovan, Andreyis's only second tongue.

“I ride,” said Andreyis.

“Horses are expensive in Lenayin,” said the girl, dubiously.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

The girl snorted, and said nothing. The angle of her chin suggested…contempt. Her eyes were cool. Andreyis realised that she was very young. He had nineteen summers. She might be considerably younger than that.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Seventeen,” said the girl. Andreyis knew from Sasha and Kessligh's tales how fast some serrin grew up. There was no reason not to believe her.

“That's why they make you guard prisoners,” he guessed. “Instead of doing anything exciting.”

“Exciting,” she said scornfully, rewrapping his arm. “Were you excited in battle? Does all this suffering excite you?”

“We're not barbarians.”

“Hmph,” said the girl, utterly unconvinced. “I'm sure you don't even think a woman should be performing these duties.”

“For a serrin,” Andreyis said drily, “you seem awfully certain of things you can't know. One of my best friends is a girl who could best your entire column single-handed should she come to rescue us.”

The serrin girl frowned at him, finishing her wrapping. And sat back on her heels for a moment. “You're that one.” Andreyis just looked at her. “The friend of Sashandra Lenayin.” She said something in Saalsi, and to Andreyis's amazement, looked a little flustered. “I am
as'shin sath
,” she explained, a little awkwardly. “You have made me…” She waved a hand, searching for the right word, and slightly embarrassed that it eluded her.

“Wrong?” Andreyis offered.

The girl frowned. Then shrugged. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “Though it is
yilen'eth.
Indelicate.”

“But accurate.”

The girl rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You argue like my brother. What kind of a girl is Sashandra Lenayin?”

Andreyis frowned. It seemed an odd question, from a serrin. “Most serrin seem to know all about her. You didn't know I was her friend, though you knew her friend was in this column. And you know nothing about her.”

“And?” the girl challenged, eyebrows arched.

“I'd heard serrin were curious.”

The girl's eyes flashed. “I'd heard humans were arrogant. You seem to presume that my lack of interest in you or your friend is some kind of failing.”

Andreyis found himself smiling, just a little. “You really do think we're barbarians, don't you?”

“So?” she said, defensively. “You march halfway across Rhodia to attack Enora, you fight in the service of bloodthirsty murderers, and your culture seems to love nothing but war.”

“And how much of Lenay culture do you know?” Andreyis retorted.

“Deny to me that Lenays love war!”

Andreyis shrugged. “I can't. But we also love music and dancing, and good food and family and weddings…you shouldn't judge a people so narrowly.”

“When that narrowness threatens my people's very existence, I see no reason why not,” the girl snapped. “Your arm is fine, it should heal straight and you can take off the splints in another five days.” She got up. “
My
people have a love of healing, even our enemies.”

Andreyis sighed, and leaned his head back against the hay. “Thanks,” he murmured, and closed his eyes. “If you only knew how much I'd rather we fought with you than against you.”

He opened his eyes to watch her walk away, but found instead that she was crouching once more, staring at him. She'd heard him. “Why don't you?” she asked him, faintly horrified. As though she simply did not understand.

Andreyis felt very sad. “I don't know,” he murmured. “Perhaps we're barbarians.”

The girl looked disgusted. And confused. And…she got up, and stood over him, looking very odd indeed.

“What's your name?” Andreyis thought to ask.

“Yshel,” said the girl.

“I'm Andreyis.”

Yshel stared a moment longer. Then shook her head in disbelief, and stalked off.

A
t midday the Lenay column paused at a lake. Sasha dismounted, removed her boots, and, barefoot, led her horse into the shallow water. As the gelding drank, she looked about at the shore. Upon the far bank, fields climbed a slope to a village on the crest. To the right and west, a stream meandered to the lake edge, framed by an old stone arch. To the left and east, virgin forest, lovely green and dappled shade.

Men and horses joined her in the shallow water, hooves churning the shallows. Damon left his horse to another man, and stood on the lakeside talking with Jaryd…some matter of politics, Sasha presumed. Today Damon was aggravated that the Great Lord of Ranash would not hold his place in the column, and instead wandered to pursue rumours of serrin in the nearby hills. Yesterday, Damon had been upset that the Great Lord of Yethulyn refused to discipline several of his men for the killing of a villager who had insulted one of them. Sasha was certain the true source of Damon's frustrations lay elsewhere, and left Jaryd to deal with him. Better him than her.

She removed her bandoleer, and then her jacket, and hung them on her saddle horn. She stooped to wash her arms and face in the cold water. The chill was lovely, and reminded her of Lenayin.

Something hit the water in front of her, and splashed her, startling her horse. Sasha turned in suspicion and saw nearby her youngest brother Myklas, closest to her of a new group of riders. He tucked his thumbs in his belt and looked nonchalantly elsewhere. But several men were grinning, which gave the game away.

Sasha pulled a rotting piece of wood from the lake bed and threw it at him. It hit before the young prince, showering him with water.

He looked aggrieved. “What was that for?”

Sasha gave him a warning look, and went back to washing. She was in no mood for play. Myklas splashed over to her. He had celebrated his seventeenth birthday just last week, muted and solemn though the celebration had been. Not yet at his full height, he would never grow so tall as Damon, nor so broad as Koenyg. But to hear the Hadryn tell it, he would soon surpass both as a warrior, if he had not already. It was Hadryn he rode with now, pale men in black cloth and armour astride big horses, the famed northern cavalry of Lenayin.

“Sister, I'm wet,” said Myklas as he approached.

“Oh, the injustice.”

“I demand recompense.”

Sasha ignored him. Though now a blooded warrior, Myklas still found the world a game. Perhaps he felt he could recapture an earlier innocence. Sasha wondered how long it would be until he discovered he could not.

Myklas sighed, sensing her mood, and put an arm about her shoulders. “How do you heal?” he asked.

“Well enough,” said Sasha. “Even the scars are fading.”

“Let me feel,” said Myklas. It was hardly the place for it, with men all about watering their horses, but Sasha had long ago decided that the moment she demanded ladylike exceptions from these men, they would put her in the rear and suggest she exchange her sword for an embroidery needle. She unlaced the front of her shirt, pulling it back to her throat so that the collar fell down her shoulders. Myklas put his hand down her back, and felt at the old scars.

A month ago, those had been terrible, great welts and scabs from cuts, canes, and burns. Now, Myklas's hand felt only faint unevenness on her skin.

“No pain?” he asked her.

“It's odd,” she admitted. “The new skin feels too sensitive, almost sore. The burn marks are the worst.” Those had been from a red-hot poker. She'd killed the man who'd done it, but not the one who'd ordered it done. There was great competition amongst her brothers and friends to be the one who severed that man's head…after perhaps several limbs, and various other appendages. “But no, no pain.”

“It would take more than a dozen torturers to leave a mark on you,” said Myklas. He withdrew his hand, and put the arm back around her. Sasha sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. He was just now getting tall enough that she could do that. He kissed her on the head, put a foot behind her own feet, and tripped her over backward.

Sasha hit the water with a freezing splash, cursing herself for an idiot, but not at all surprised. She grabbed Myklas's legs, braced her feet, and drove a shoulder into him. He came down on top of her, and then they were both splashing and flailing in the water, her nearly gaining the upper hand to shove his head down, then he taking her arms and twisting her over sideways. Sasha got a knee into him, and a fistful of belt, but he was too strong and lithe, and grabbed her into a bear hug from which she could not escape.

“Victory!” Myklas yelled. “Victory for Lenayin!” Cheers and laughter came from the shore.

“I'm Lenayin too, you idiot!” she snarled at him, struggling vainly.

“We Lenays should fight each other more often!” Myklas laughed. “No matter the outcome, a Lenay always wins!”

“And one always loses,” Sasha muttered, ceasing her struggles. Myklas picked her up and dumped her in the shallows. He was wise enough to escape quickly to avoid further retaliation, and walked up the lakeside with arms raised to the cheers of watching men.

Sasha picked herself up from the water. “Sparring tonight!” she demanded of him. “No pads!”

Myklas turned to give her a reproachful look. Lenays always wore pads when sparring, not from cowardice, but because sword practice, even with wooden stanches, was not something done with restraint. Without pads, one of them would get seriously hurt. All present knew it was not likely to be her.

“Sister, truly, there is no need for violence.”

“Perish the day when a Lenay should say such a thing,” Sasha retorted, to more cheers from the observers. Myklas laughed. He bowed to her, and walked off. He knew her temper, and knew not to take such threats seriously…when directed at
him
, at least.

Sasha sighed in disbelief and shook water from her hair like a dog. Her heart thumped hard from exertion, and the pleasure of a hard yet harmless contest. For the first time in a long time, she felt nearly…good. She smiled. Annoying, naive brat though he was, he knew how to cheer up his sister.

Behind Myklas, a line of Hadryn cavalry looked on. They seemed neither as impressed nor amused as she.

Sasha recovered her unnerved horse from the Isfayen man who held him and checked the animal for any sign of strain. As she did so, she noticed a new commotion on the shore, a rider in Bacosh colours dismounting amidst the royal party.

Sasha handed off her horse once more, reclaimed her sword, and splashed dripping from the lake—luckily the sun was bright and the sky clear, and in another hour she would be dry. Isfayen men gave her bemused looks as she passed, perhaps intrigued to see that the great Synnich-ahn was, after all, just a girl whose brothers treated her as poorly as any other.

She arrived at the conversation with the messenger, sword and bandoleer hitched over a soaked shoulder, and edged through the small crowd. Koenyg and Damon stood at the gathering's centre, talking to the Bacosh man.

“What's going on?” she asked shortly, with no qualms about interrupting the conversation. The messenger looked at her warily, eyeing sodden clothes and bedraggled hair.

“The Regent sends Sofy to Tracato,” said Koenyg, less annoyed with her interruption than he might have been. “He offers for you to go with her, as a guardian.” Sasha just looked at him. Koenyg waited until he realised he wasn't going to get a response. “I had thought to agree.”

Sasha waved the messenger away. He looked affronted. Sasha stared at him, and adjusted the bandoleer on her shoulder. Koenyg scratched his forehead, and indicated the messenger to leave. Sasha considered waving the others away also, but they were Lenay great lords and officers, and would hear of this discussion anyhow. One could not just dismiss such men in Lenayin.

“No,” Sasha said to Koenyg. “I won't go.”

“I would like Sofy to have a protector,” Koenyg replied, his gaze hard. “Wouldn't you?”

“Brother, if that nest of scorpions wishes Sofy or me or both of us dead, there is little we could do…unless you spare me twenty guards and an entire personal staff.”

Koenyg frowned. “You think Sofy's life at risk from her own people?”

“
We
are her people,” Sasha said firmly. “Her married family are not. The Army of the Bacosh is confident now they've won their major battle, they wonder if they need us anymore. Already they bicker over how they will divide these lands amongst themselves, and we are not party to any of that. We become a distraction, brother…and so the Regent sends Sofy to Tracato, to get her out of the way. And he'd love to have me out of the way too, no doubt.”

“So important you've become in your own mind,” Koenyg sighed, with faint disbelief.

Sasha did not bother replying. She had a following in the Army of Lenayin—she was Nasi-Keth, and some men's sympathies lay with the serrin. She did not wish to state so boldly what the leaders of the Army of the Bacosh feared from her, not here. No doubt they felt the Army of Lenayin would be a far more predictable ally beneath Koenyg's sole control, with Sashandra Lenayin elsewhere.

“I could order you to go,” Koenyg suggested.

“You could order pigs to fly,” Sasha said flatly. “Sofy is under more threat with me than without me; she doesn't need all my enemies coming after her as well. My place is here, with the Army of Lenayin.”

“Fine,” said Koenyg, dismissing her with a word. “Sofy will go to Tracato. I would send someone with her, though. I will think on it.”

He walked off, and the small gathering dispersed.

Jaryd approached her and Damon, and beckoned them aside to the lake. “There is some word of resistance ahead,” he said. “The Army of the Bacosh is beset by skirmishers; it seems their forward light cavalry suffer defeats.”

“That will be Kessligh,” Sasha said quietly.

Damon nodded. “Men of this army will not be happy to hear it.”

“Some say Kessligh has betrayed Lenayin,” said Jaryd.

“Others say Koenyg leads us on a fool's errand,” Damon countered. “I do not like this mood the men are in. We are not only defeated, we doubt ourselves.”

“Kessligh can't slow the entire Bacosh Army for long,” said Sasha. “He's being a nuisance, buying time for the Rhodaani Steel to get back to Enora. But if he keeps it up, we'll be gaining on the Bacosh Army in a few days.”

A silence followed. Gaining on the Army of the Bacosh would put the Army of Lenayin into direct conflict for the first time since the Battle of Shero Valley. Against forces led by Kessligh. Sasha looked at the ground. She wished she did not feel anything, that she could make herself like stone.

Damon left to attend to other matters. Jaryd remained with Sasha. Sasha guessed his thoughts.

“Sofy will be fine,” she said quietly.

“You know I don't believe that,” said Jaryd. Sasha gazed at him. There were four rings in his right ear now. His light brown hair was approaching collar length, haphazard about his face. In past weeks, he'd grown to become Damon's most trusted advisor, a young man who shared Damon's distaste for lordly pretension, and favoured the most direct solution to every problem.

“Yes,” said Sasha, “but unlike you, I have concern only for her safety, not her chastity.” Jaryd's look was reproachful. Sasha sighed. “I'm sorry. Jaryd, Koenyg must send a party of Lenays with Sofy to Tracato. It's the proper form, for an alliance between armies—Tracato is important, Lenayin should have representation. Would you like to go?”

“Is that wise?” Jaryd asked.

“Most people would think that a fine joke,” Sasha said wryly. “You, asking that question of me.”

Jaryd snorted. Then laughed, humourlessly. “I'll go if you tell me to,” he said.

“Jaryd.” Sasha stood close to him, and stared him in the eyes. “Do you love her?”

Jaryd looked away, across the lake, and sighed. “Woe befall me if I do.”

A landless ex-lord could have no hope of consummating such a love, he meant. Such a man could throw his life away in pursuit of dangerous things that were beyond him by the gods' own law.

“Jaryd, Koenyg's right. Sofy would be safer with some protection, at least. Just not mine. And if not you, then who? Who would do it better?”

“When I was a young man,” he said, “I thought women were the toys of men. Now I find they are our masters.”

Sasha smiled. “Oh come, the world is not ending as fast as that, surely?”