Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four

by Shepherd, Joel

  “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.

  At 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 t
o 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?”

  The column resumed shortly after, Sasha taking her place with the Isfayen contingent in the vanguard. Great Lord Markan talked with an Isfayen scout, who spoke of a curious town several folds away that the Army of the Bacosh had passed through.

  Ahead, the main vanguard climbed a small rise. Behind stretched the entire mass of the Army of Lenayin, tens of thousands strong. Finally, she grew tired of her own silence.

  “Who would like to go for a ride?” she asked loudly. All Isfayen men in the group paused their conversations to look at her. Great Lord Markan broke off his discussion with the scout, and wondered at this curious humour. “Our scout tells us of a village, just over the hill yonder. I would like to see it.”

  “The Bacosh forces occupy it,” countered an Isfayen lord. They had won their battle, he meant. Lenayin had lost its. Lenayin now suffered the shame of marching second in the column, and the Bacosh forces gained the privilege to occupy whatever town they liked.

  “Nice day for a ride,” said Markan, squinting up at the sun. “What do you think, sister?”

  “I tire of staring at the backsides of Rayen horses,” said Yasmyn.

  Markan nodded, and gave a signal. Isfayen horses wove to the right, then accelerated to keep pace with their lord. In the main column, surprised faces looked across at them. At the column head, Sasha saw Koenyg, similarly surprised. He made a gesture, and someone pursued.

  Koenyg's rider came racing across in front of them, signalling them to stop. Markan only smiled, long black hair and braids flying, and galloped his horse a little faster.

  “What the hells are you doing?” Sasha heard Koenyg's rider yell above the noise. “The king orders you to fall back in line!”

  “Isfayen tire of marching in line,” Markan said cheerfully. “We shall return shortly.”

  “You shall return at once!” yelled the rider.

  Markan's stare informed the rider that if there had been any chance the Great Lord of Isfayen could be persuaded to turn around, it was now gone. The rider slowed up in frustration, and the Isfayen thundered on.

  Soon the pace slowed, and they rode across fields between small farmhouses. Tall hills rose in the near distance, with sheer, dark cliffs that reminded Sasha of Lenayin. Further along the hillside rise there perched a village, emerging above trees and orchards that covered the hills. As they came closer up the road, Sasha saw why the scout had found the town curious—there were larger buildings here than the typical little cottages. One was a temple, with grand spires. Several ot
hers appeared to be clustered together, and boasted ornamental spires or crenellations.

  The approaching road wound through orchards as it climbed, and finally arrived at the gates of the town walls. As they rode within, Sasha began to recognise the buildings. “These are like the Tol'rhen in Tracato,” she said. On the walls were friezes of men building things and consulting maps. And on plinths within the walls, statues of learned men, and a woman. The woman was Maldereld, the serrin general who had led Saalshen's conquest of these lands two centuries before, and ordered the construction of these great institutions of learning. “Only far smaller than Tracato.”

  Soldiers had been here. The statue of Maldereld was faceless, stonework smashed with deliberate effort.

  “What manner of place?” asked an Isfayen, frowning up at the high walls as they rode.

  “A place of learning,” Sasha replied. “Students come here from across the lands, to learn skills for their people. Medicines, building, farming, languages, history.”

  “Fighting?” asked another man.

  “Yes, these are Nasi-Keth,” said Sasha. “They learn to fight like me.” And the men of Isfayen looked far more impressed to learn that, and considered the walls with renewed respect.

  A search of the buildings' echoing halls revealed signs of fast departure, and no sign of life. But an Isfayen lord's intrusion in the temple revealed signs of recent activity.

  “There is blood on the paving,” he said grimly. “Pews have been overturned, and rear rooms searched. There are wagon tracks outside and hoofmarks. There was food left in the temple, and blankets…I think perhaps someone was using it as a refuge.”

  He handed Markan a wooden doll, with a head of long horses' hair intricately embedded in the wood. A child's toy.

  “Someone did not leave fast enough,” Yasmyn said solemnly. Sasha looked away, biting her lip. Like stone, she told herself. Be like stone. Yasmyn tucked the doll into a pouch at her belt.

  “The tracks lead away, quite fresh,” said the lord who had discovered it. “We can catch whoever made them, I'm sure.”