Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three

by Shepherd, Joel

  There were some families marching in the army who claimed ancient ancestral rights on those territories, primarily in Enora where no surviving claimants remained. In Rhodaan and Ilduur, many thought to reinstate surviving claimants and thus gain powerful allegiances, or perhaps to have those claimants found unworthy once the lands were conquered, and struck out by ruling of the new Bacosh king. Some of the Rhodaani nobility had arrived in the army at the same time as Sasha. Men from Tracato, who now declared their rights to old Rhodaani territories, and registered their claims with old maps before the regent. Sofy had spoken with a Lord Elot from Tracato who had been displeased that instead of a joyful welcome from his noble allies, he had received cold hostility from some who felt that his claims were overstated, and impinged upon their own entitlements. Others, Lord Elot had said with frustration, were demanding land concessions as compensation for losses that would be incurred in battles to come. Sofy had tried to be understanding, yet she wondered if the Tracato nobility had ever truly considered the nature of civilisation they now sought to rejoin. It was power hungry and competitive, and wanted advancement to the detriment of others. To hear Sasha speak of it, the Rhodaani nobility had thought themselves to be fighting an ideological battle for the restoration of ancient justice. They had forgotten that to the nobility of the “free Bacosh,” such sentiments meant nothing. They wanted land, and gathered beneath the priests’ holy banners not for the gods, but like hounds behind their masters’ horses on a hunt, hoping for the reward of fresh prey, and blood.

  Balthaar and his father, the regent, had brought Sofy on this march simply for the safety and continuity of the family line, she was increasingly certain. She would not be safe from the family’s rivals in Sherdaine, particularly were the war to be lost. In that case, there would follow a quick ride to the family holdings in Ashane, seventeen leagues from Sherdaine, and a mustering of allies there to ward off further challenge. Family Arosh risked a lot in this venture. But the potential rewards were phenomenal.

  Sofy heard a commotion at the entrance to her tent, then a striking sound. Yells followed, and the noise of fighting, barefisted. She thought to leap from her bath, her heart pounding in sudden fear, yet mailed, angry men were coming into the tent even now, two holding between them one of the guards, his sword missing, arms immobilised.

  “You!” said a man, and strode to Sofy’s bath in fury. She recognised Sir Elias Assineth, Balthaar’s cousin. Sofy barely had time to snatch at a bathside gown before he had her by the arm, and yanked her dripping to her feet, then onto the grassy tent floor.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Sofy shouted, struggling to free herself and protect her modesty. “Let me go!”

  “Speak Larosan like a true Larosan Queen, you pagan bitch!” snarled Sir Elias, and backhanded her to the face. Sofy fell to her knees, her gown fallen. Elias’s hand dragged her upright once more as her head continued to spin. She’d never been struck in the face before in her life. Far worse than the pain, she could not believe how helpless it rendered her. Her vision swam, and she could not think.

  “You shall denounce your pagan sister!” Elias yelled. “You shall instruct your father to hand her to us for godly Larosan justice!”

  Sofy’s Larosan was adequate now to understand him. And yet, she felt utterly uncomprehending. “My…my sister?” Sasha. Oh gods, not again. “What did she do?”

  “She murdered my brother!”

  A blood-chilling cry from outside spun Elias and his companions about, one nearest the tent’s entrance fending desperately with a mailed arm as a dark-haired girl with a wicked short blade tried to gut him like a fish.

  “Yasmyn, no!” Sofy cried, as the first knight danced back, drawing his blade. Yasmyn spun to confront a second to her side, her slash deflecting harmlessly from his weapon. The first knight simply threw himself on her, heavy weight of mailed man crashing her down, then pinning her effortlessly beneath. They pulled her back up, deprived of her darak as she fought like a wild thing. The knights laughed, and hit her, again and again.

  “Stop it!” Sofy yelled, tears flowing, but they paid her no mind. Sasha, she thought desperately, would have killed them all, but she was just a slim, naked girl. She struggled, trying to twist free, but Sir Elias wrenched her arm back and she fell to her knees. “Leave her alone, she was only protecting me!”

  When Yasmyn was no longer fighting, the knights dragged her to a table, cleared it of cups and teapot with a sweep of an arm, and dumped her onto it, her head lolling and face bloody. One held her arms above her head, while another hiked up her dress, and yanked down her under garments. Yasmyn regained enough sense to kick him, and he and his companion punched her in the stomach with brutal force, laughing all the while.

  Sofy screamed for help, but no one came. In the tales, the heroic knight always arrived in time to save the lady in distress. But although the tent was in the centre of the Larosan camp, and surrounded by those who could surely hear her cries, no one came. One knight took his turn with Yasmyn, and then the other. Yasmyn regained consciousness but she no longer fought. As a third knight unbuckled his pants, Yasmyn turned her head upon the table and fixed her princess with a stare of furious intensity, although one eye was already swollen nearly shut.

  “Crying solves nothing!” she hissed at her in Lenay. “Be a woman, little girl!”

  Sofy was so shocked, she swallowed her tears. Oddly, as soon as she did so, she felt something else, that the tears had perhaps obscured. Pure, molten fury. In her protected palace life, she had often wondered how Lenay warriors, or even her otherwise kind and wonderful sister Sasha, could hate a man enough to want to sever his limbs with sharpened steel. Now, finally, she understood.

  While the third knight was taking his turn, Balthaar arrived, many armed men at his back.

  “Unhand her!”

  “Your Highness,” said the man holding Yasmyn’s arms, “at least let the poor man finish his turn!”

  “Stop now,” said Balthaar, “or I’ll cut him so that he never has a turn again.” The knights looked aggrieved, but not alarmed. They abandoned Yasmyn, the last knight regathering his pants. Yasmyn got off the table, straightened down her dress, and limped awkwardly across the grass to where Sofy was kneeling, Lord Elias still grasping her arm. Sofy feared Yasmyn might do something rash, yet she merely knelt, and recovered Sofy’s fallen robe, and placed it about her princess’s shoulders.

  “Let her go,” Balthaar said. He did not look at Sofy. Neither did he call her Princess Regent, or attempt to remind Sir Elias of his duty of respect to one above his station. Sofy wondered if she had ever truly been more than a Lenay barbarian to these people. And if her husband’s seemingly loving gaze had been any more than the fascination of a wealthy man with an enchanting new bauble.

  Sir Elias released Sofy’s arm, and Yasmyn helped her to her feet. Sofy felt a rush of shame. Yasmyn had been beaten and raped, yet now stood with dignity and assisted her weak, pathetic princess shakily to her feet. Sofy stood, and put an arm around Yasmyn to offer a support Yasmyn did not seem to need. Hugging her was out of the question. Nothing in Yasmyn’s manner invited it. Sofy knew enough of the Isfayen to know what that meant.

  Balthaar said nothing more, nor asked it of Sir Elias. He merely stared, dark and foreboding.

  “Her rabid sister killed my brother!”

  “One person does you harm, and so you attack others,” Balthaar observed mildly. “Very clever.”

  “They’re all the same!”

  “And our allies,” said Balthaar, “by allegiance that Family Assineth agreed to. Do you not understand the concept of allegiance, Sir Elias?”

  “These allies have done us murder upon our lands!” Elias yelled, spittle flying. “Unless they pay us reparation, this allegiance lies broken! I demand the bitch’s head!”

  “By Lenay tradition, and indeed our own,” Balthaar replied, “the lands upon which an army is encamped are to be considered beholden to their own laws. Your brothe
r very foolishly stepped onto the Lenay camp uninvited, and overstepped the bounds of Lenay honour. I have spoken with Prince Koenyg, and all Lenays seem agreed on the matter, even those who have no love of Sashandra Lenayin. So long as the Army of Lenayin abides by its own laws upon their own encampment, no one has any matter to complain about.”

  “Your Highness,” Elias tried again, struggling for control, “we are cousins. Our families have strong ties over many long years. In the name of our families, I ask you only for justice. Grant me justice, for my brother. Or I shall be forced to take it.”

  “And sever an allegiance that promises to regain us the Saalshen Bacosh?” Balthaar replied, unperturbed. “The archbishops would view it ill. Perhaps you would like to argue the point with them?”

  Elias hung his head, teeth grinding in frustration.

  “Furthermore.” Balthaar walked slowly forward. “I would advise against any further action against the Lenays. I have spent part of the morning sparring against Prince Koenyg, and I will reluctantly confess that he bested me quite handily…something that you, Sir Elias, have found elusive. They have an even greater love of honourable combat than we, and would challenge any who so grievously insult them until there are none such left alive. Best that you stay off their lands for now. We have other uses for our Lenay allies.”

  Elias opened his mouth, then paused, frowning.

  Balthaar stopped before him, and put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Prince Koenyg tells me that the Army of Lenayin shall take the southern, Enoran flank. Alone, save for some Torovan reinforcement. Against the Enoran Steel, their numbers should be matched quite evenly.”

  Elias stared. “A feint?”

  “To keep the Enoran Steel from sweeping onto our flank, yes,” Balthaar confirmed. “The Army of Lenayin has pride at stake, and we learn today all about Lenay pride. They shall not retreat easily, no matter their losses.”

  Elias’s eyes registered a dawning realisation. A delight. “One needs four-to-one odds at least against the Steel. They’ll be annihilated!”

  Balthaar shrugged. “Prince Koenyg thinks not. We shall see, indeed, to what all the tales of Lenayin’s martial prowess amount.” He shook Elias’s shoulder, affectionately. “Cousin, I grieve for Eskwith. But be at peace, there shall be blood enough for all purposes before this is through. Come, we shall drink to Eskwith’s memory, and of glories in battles to come.”

  He escorted Sir Elias and his men from the tent, without a backward glance. There would be no further reprimand, Sofy realised. No punishment to Yasmyn’s attackers. When all had left the tent, she escorted Yasmyn to a chair and eased her into it, so she could better examine her injuries.

  “Not blood enough for all purposes, dear husband,” she said blackly.

  The service for Sir Eskwith, Sir Temploi and Sir Ancheve was concluded upon sundown. The evening meal was more lively than Prince Balthaar had expected, however, enlivened by much talk of the terrible fate awaiting the Army of Lenayin at the hands of the Enoran Steel. The Lenays, it was generally agreed, were mindless fools who did not take seriously the many lessons of the Saalshen Bacosh’s military prowess. Such talk was far freer of late, since it had been agreed by all that under the circumstances, the usual joint feast of Lenay and Bacosh lords was probably not a good idea.

  As Balthaar trudged back to the royal tent, he wondered what would truly happen if they won. His father was confident that they would, but his father, like his wife, placed far too much faith in the good opinion of the gods. Balthaar knew that all of history’s attempted liberators of the Saalshen Bacosh had believed the gods on their side too, yet defeat had claimed them all the same. Perhaps it was not enough to claim that the gods were on one’s side. Perhaps the gods were waiting for an army, and a future king, to prove himself worthy of their blessing. Balthaar wondered if those who had died at the hands of the Steel were now happily ensconced in the heavens, or had been cast down to Loth, having been found unworthy, whatever their valiant efforts. Were the gods that vindictive? He fervently hoped not.

  The matter with Sofy troubled him too. He did not like how Sir Elias had treated her, yet Elias was old family, while Sofy was very new. He thought that he certainly must love her, because she was so very pretty and full of warmth, and so fascinating in her foreign ways and exotic accent. Yet truly, his father was right—an event like this could only serve to show her her place, among the Larosans. He had to make her see that she must abandon her old world entirely, if she were to be truly happy in the new. And he did wish her to be happy, very much so. He would make love to her tonight, he decided, and apologise to her not in words, but in the warmth of his kisses and the lust of his loins. He would make clear to her all that she had to gain, and for so little a sacrifice, indeed, in what she would leave behind.

  A man came running, a rattle of armour between the tents, interrupting Balthaar’s thoughts. Balthaar stopped, not recognising the young man but noting that he seemed pale and alarmed. Something had happened.

  “Your Highness. Best that you come and see.”

  Not far away, a farmhouse had been consumed by the sea of tents, and appropriated for noble use. Torches and lanterns now clustered about one wall near some bushes, where a pair of newly headless bodies lay. Both were knights, in chain and family colours.

  “Sir Diarmond and Sir Felesh,” said a man-at-arms, grimly. “Sir Elias found them. No one heard or saw a thing.”

  Balthaar stared at the bodies. The wounds were clean and swiftly made, the mark of an expert swordsman. “Elias, you say?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “And where is Sir Elias now?”

  “Under guard, by your leave, Your Highness. These two are his friends, I figured whoever did it might be after Sir Elias next.”

  “Soldier, your name?”

  “Sarno, Your Highness. Alaine Sarno.”

  “You’re Tournean?”

  “I am, Highness.”

  “I shall pass on a commendation to your lord, Alaine Sarno.”

  “I thank you, Your Highness.” The man bowed low.

  Balthaar strode back to his tent, as the crowd about the bodies continued to gather. Sir Diarmond and Sir Felesh…they had been with Sir Elias in Sofy’s tent this afternoon. They had taken liberties with that pagan Isfayen girl…could that be it? Surely even the mad, bloodcrazed Lenays would not go to such lengths to avenge the honour of a fool like her? Besides, honourable combat was the preferred Lenay method. But yet another duel, in the midst of this deteriorating relationship between Lenays and Bacosh men, would be surely refused by the Lenay king. Certainly his father the regent would refuse it, as was his right, in his camp. Perhaps the murderers knew that. Or perhaps, when a Lenay was angry enough, proper form ceased to matter.

  He pushed through the tent flaps. There was not a maid in sight, only a small table on which dinner could perhaps have been served. Sofy sat in a comfortable chair, a book on her lap, lit by a lantern on another table between two glowing coal braziers. She looked up at him, serenely.

  “Dear husband, is something the matter?”

  “Where is your Isfayen maid tonight, dearest?”

  “She’s not my maid. She is back with her Isfayen family in the Army of Lenayin, I believe. Why do you wonder?”

  “Two of Sir Elias’s friends are dead,” said Balthaar. “You met them earlier this afternoon. Their heads are missing.”

  “Oh,” said Sofy. She resumed reading her book. “The Isfayen have not played lagand with real heads for years. I hear there will be a game tomorrow, though. Would you like to go and see?”

  ERROLLYN ENTERED THE RESH’ULAN, and surveyed the scene. There were serrin present, gathered about the lower stage, which stood alone before rows of amphitheatre seating and surrounded by a small moat. The serrin were asking questions of a man who sat at the centre of the stage, his wrists manacled together.

  It was Reynold Hein.

  Errollyn walked gingerly down the steps. He no longe
r hurt like he once did, but efforts to rebuild his strength met resistance from bruised flesh and strained muscle. Lesthen stood by the moat, speaking at length, his long white hair spilling on blue, formal robes. He saw Errollyn and pointed serrin to face him, without breaking sentence. Two serrin rose to confront him, expressions apologetic but firm. Errollyn abandoned his first plan, to draw his blade and strike off Reynold’s head. And he was in no physical condition yet to charge past his people, and execute their prisoner.

  Aisha emerged from the group, took his arm, and guided him to a bench. Errollyn counted nearly thirty serrin present, many of the Mahl’rhen’s most prominent remaining names among them.

  “It’s a formal etoth’teyen,” he muttered to Aisha as Lesthen droned on, and the two serrin who had opposed him returned to their seats, but kept a careful eye upon him. “Why does he warrant the formalities?”

  “It’s the way, Errollyn,” Aisha told him. Her words lacked conviction. Errollyn was not entirely certain why she was still in Tracato. Rhillian had gone, and taken the Steel with her. Aisha had remained, ostensibly because she was Rhillian’s trusted lieutenant and would carry out her preferences, and make certain that the new peace with the feudalists would hold. Also, Errollyn knew, she’d been keeping an eye on him. But others could have performed either task as well.

  “It’s not the way,” Errollyn retorted. “We have no way for this, we only use our formalities and debates because that’s all we have.”

  “Well the human courts can’t take him,” Aisha said. “We’re all there is for law and order in Tracato right now.”

  “Maybe we always were,” said Errollyn.

  He stared at Reynold, hoping that certain peasant superstitions were true, and the weight of a hateful stare alone could bring misfortune upon a person. Reynold did not look particularly troubled. He sat serenely, with excellent posture, and listened to Lesthen’s droning—in Saalsi, too, for Reynold spoke excellent Saalsi, like any Nasi-Keth scholar. This was not a man who expected to die, not even given what he’d done. Reynold was a persuasive talker, and could think just like a serrin—round and round in circles. It had taken some time for Errollyn to ride here, after he’d heard, from out on the practice fields. This session had surely been progressing for more than an hour so far.