Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four

by Shepherd, Joel

  Sasha raised herself from his chest and stared at him. “Damon,” she said firmly, “who fucking cares?” Damon gazed at her. Dumbly. “Who would take their side, if all who share our sympathies come with us?”

  Damon thought about it. The north. The nobility…or many of them. He nodded, slowly. They were not people Damon wanted on his side any more than Sasha did. But…

  “Koenyg,” he said. “And our father's memory. His spirit. This was his war….”

  “It was Koenyg's,” Sasha snorted. “Father believed that the fates would show him the way, and the gods watch over us. All the actual decision making he left to Koenyg.”

  “The purpose of this war was to unite all of Lenayin within a common cause,” Damon said stubbornly. “We've fought each other for all history, this is the first time we've fought all together, on a foreign campaign….”

  “Aye, for the glory of a faith less than half the population shares,” Sasha interrupted. “Damon, you're arguing like Sofy—she always thinks it's better to make peace and bring people together. What about the men who murdered those children? Would you like to make peace with them? Forge a common destiny? Me, I say any common destiny with people like that is a destiny not worth having. I'd rather see their heads on pikes.”

  “Or yours on one,” Damon warned.

  “Yes,” Sasha agreed, adamantly. “Better that, too.”

  “And what of the great Verenthane alliance that would sustain Lenayin for centuries to come?”

  “What of it?” Sasha asked. “When did either of us believe in that? That Lenayin needed civilising, needed to become more like the lowlands? Those were always the dreams of men who never liked Lenayin, those whose greatest hope for their homeland was that we should become like someone else.

  “Damon, the great hope of lowlands alliance is not the Verenthane faith. It's the serrin, it always was…. This…this land we invade, it's not perfect, but there is so much here that they got right. This is what we should be copying—education, tolerance, the abolition of the special rights of nobility, equal laws for all, the creation of wealth and trade….”

  “Wait, wait.” Damon looked at her grimly. “These are the people who tortured you and murdered Alythia, and…”

  “Some of them,” Sasha agreed. “Not all.”

  “And even little Tomli was abandoned by his mother,” Damon persisted. “Are things so perfect here that…”

  “Not perfect, no! But that's the point, Damon, the starting point is that we all must accept that humanity is not perfect, and never will be.”

  “Any civilisation inspired by the serrin will never make an empire,” Damon said with certainty. “And only empires are any use to us, in allegiance. We're too far away, otherwise. This war is only worth the price for Lenayin if we gain in trade, or materials, or treaties of common interest. Grand treaties with hermit kingdoms do us naught, we'd do better to invade them ourselves and gain their benefits directly.”

  “We'll see,” said Sasha. “If the Saalshen Bacosh survives this, they'll have had an awful shock. They never thought they'd lose, and for two centuries they were right. Kessligh has argued for a long time that they should have expanded, instead of simply ceding ground and time upon which their enemies can grow stronger. If they see the other side of this, they may well see Kessligh proven right.”

  Damon thumped his head back upon Sasha's improvised pillow. “It's all fantasy talk anyhow,” he murmured. “If, when and maybe. We're just two people, dreaming at the stars.”

  “From such beginnings do civilisations spring,” said Sasha.

  Damon looked at her for a moment. “You really are Nasi-Keth, aren't you?”

  “I think I may be,” Sasha said quietly.

  A moment later, Damon got up and left, leaving Sasha to gaze at the stars.

  “They will not attack tonight,” said Tomli, a small, Saalsi voice at Sasha's side.

  Sasha rolled over and looked at him. “Who will not attack?”

  “The serrin.” Tomli gazed into the night, his emerald eyes distant. It seemed to Sasha that he was listening to something that only he could hear. “They know you have an en'vel'ennar with you.”

  “One with vel'ennar,” that meant. It was the serrin collective “we.” A consciousness shared by all serrin, and unknown to humans. When Sasha had first learned of it, she had assumed the meaning was figurative or poetic. Serrin were frequently poetic, as was the Saalsi tongue. But experience had taught her to doubt whether the vel'ennar was quite that simple.

  “Tomli,” she murmured. “Can you hear them?”

  Tomli shook his head. “I feel them. They are sad.”

  “Because you are sad?” Sasha asked. Tomli nodded.

  “And because so many of us are tuan'sli.” There was no direct translation in any tongue Sasha knew. “Tuani,” Saalsi for “phrase.” Or “words,” but more than words. Elided to “esli,” meaning “to move beyond,” but not physically. To move as thoughts moved. Or as conversations shifted, from one topic to another.

  Tuan'sli…to move beyond words? To shift from the realm of the living to dreams unknown? Serrin had more euphemisms for death, and indeed most things, than Sasha knew in all other tongues.

  “They'll have found the graves,” Sasha murmured, mostly to herself. Serrin finding those graves would know what had happened. Though Sasha suspected that somehow, through Tomli, they'd have known anyhow.

  It was a mixed formation that plunged toward the Bacosh camp, Rhodaani cavalry in the middle, with serrin talmaad on the flanks. Errollyn found little joy in the ride down the wild hillside toward the pocket of wood below, and the camp nestled within. His attention was fixed solely upon the further ridge, where the land rose up above the Bacosh camp.

  Errollyn cast a glance across to the head of the formation, where Kessligh crouched low before a charging mass of Rhodaani cavalry. There were nearly a hundred and fifty in all, much to the displeasure of General Geralin, who remained furious at Kessligh for using so much of their precious strength on “needless diversions.” Kessligh's stare seemed also focused upon the far ridge. Kessligh had fought and won entire campaigns in the highlands of Lenayin, and if anyone could judge mountainous terrain, he could.

  Below, the pocket of trees grew closer. Errollyn glimpsed tents amidst the trees, and moving horses, and steel. He waved his left arm out, indicating the line he wished the talmaad to establish to that side.

  With perhaps five hundred human paces to go, horses began crashing through the trees of the camp below. They came pouring out, in their tens and twenties, heavily armoured and in the full colours of armoured house cavalry.

  An ambush. The trees had hidden far more men than the camp at first appeared to hold. Kessligh swung away to the right, the formation following him, as though startled. Errollyn followed, his left flank trailing behind, now forming a line-astern, archers firing left across their bodies as they raked across the advancing Bacosh line. Arrows streaked downhill, aiming mainly for horses. Animals fell, and men with them, but the mass was now turning to follow—slower, and hindered by the slope, but determined and furious, yelling and waving swords.

  Kessligh's formation rounded the woods and smashed through some riders who had emerged on the far side. Bacosh men were cut tumbling from their horses, whilst others reined back downslope, and more sensibly awaited the strength of their pursuing friends.

  Only now, with a new roar, there emerged atop the far ridge a new mass of Bacosh riders, plunging down the boulder-strewn slope to the right. Not merely an ambush, but a trap.

  Had Kessligh been right about that slope? Errollyn stared above the heads of the racing Rhodaanis, and watched the descending wall of Bacosh cavalry. Too many rocks, had been Kessligh's opinion.

  The Rhodaanis thought now only of speed, and hurtled across the bottom of the valley with the talmaad at their rear, determined to pass the base of the rocky slope before the descending Bacosh cavalry did. Behind, Errollyn's talmaad spread out, turning t
o loose arrows at the first pursuing group, making more horses tumble. Errollyn galloped past the foot of the slope just as the cavalry reached the bottom on his right, and made sharp turns to follow them. The first group of pursuers wove across the valley floor to avoid them, and then there was a great, galloping wall of riders behind. They fell back a little in the face of deadly accurate archery from the talmaad ahead, but not too far.

  Kessligh's formation rounded a bend in the valley, holding to the right of the small stream that emerged from trees to the left…and ahead, Errollyn could see the valley narrowing sharply, with small cliffs and thick trees, impossible for the rapid passage of so many cavalry. The first in their formation could ride into that and escape, but the rest would be held up waiting while the big, heavily armoured formation behind chopped them to pieces.

  The Bacosh men roared in triumph, and spread out further for the final charge. They did not at first notice the sudden increase in arrow fire into their front and then their flanks. Until suddenly the smattering of arrow fire increased to a deadly rain, now felling men more often than horses, with the confidence that came with advantage. Errollyn could see the horror on the riders' faces, as they realised that the entire valley was bristling with serrin archers. The Bacosh formation reined to a halt, milling and spinning to face the new threat that poured onto them from the narrow valley's forested hillsides. Errollyn reined up his own formation also, and they turned back to join in the volleys of fire.

  Yells and commands echoed off the valley sides, and Bacosh men split their formation to go charging up the slopes, and in amongst the trees on one side, and across the stream and up the far slope on the other. The talmaad cavalry positioned and waiting, evaded before them, abandoning the protection of the trees on lighter, more nimble-footed mounts. Heavier Bacosh cavalry chased them, only to find themselves under fire from serrin standing or half seated on tree roots, calmly shooting one man after another off his horse, bodies tumbling back the way they'd come.

  Surviving Bacosh cavalry plunged back down from the murderous slopes, and clustered once more on the valley floor, milling in panicked groups. Others chased serrin talmaad in circles, the talmaad dodging aside like naughty children teasing some slower, dimwitted child. Then bows would twang, and another man would fall, then several at a time.

  Suddenly there were too few targets, and any surviving Bacosh cavalry were retreating rapidly up the valley, with more talmaad in pursuit. Errollyn found himself alongside a Rhodaani officer, who looked utterly astonished at the ease and speed of the victory. Before him, the valley floor was littered with arrow-spiked bodies, and bewildered, riderless horses.

  “Their tactics against us have a little way to improve,” Errollyn said drily.

  “They'd best leave playing in hills and valleys to us,” the officer agreed. The Bacosh ambush had at least been a sign of tactical thought, but Kessligh had seen through it in an instant, looked over the surrounding terrain, and seen a possibility for counterambush that the invaders, in their focus on setting up their own, might have missed.

  The Rhodaani cavalry were yelling now, saluting Kessligh with swords raised high. He had been playing cat-and-mouse with the forward elements of the advancing Bacosh Army for weeks, with Rhodaani and talmaad forces decidedly in the role of mouse. Thus far, the mice were winning, and this was their biggest victory yet.

  Errollyn noticed a serrin rider heading for Kessligh, and there were cheers and salutes from the Rhodaanis for her, also. The ambushing force had been hers, here in the valley. As Kessligh's successes grew, so did the numbers of his forces, as others fighting rearguard actions against the advancing Bacosh masses abandoned their own small battles, and came to join his.

  Errollyn urged his horse forward to join the gathering of commanders. He was in command of those serrin who rode with Kessligh from the beginning. At Kessligh's side now, surveying the scene, was a captain of the Rhodaani cavalry.

  And the new serrin arrival, Rhillian.

  “One of those knights is Lord Hilsen of Meraine,” said Rhillian with satisfaction, nodding toward the body-strewn valley floor. “A close friend to the Chansul of Meraine. We make the Meraini so angry at us that they throw their senior lords into our pursuit.”

  The Chansul ruled all Meraine and, as such, was a contestant for King of all Bacosh. Meraini forces seemed particularly keen on foraging and sending advance parties ahead of the main column, perhaps eager to claim their share of new lands before others arrived. Kessligh's previous, much smaller, successes against them appeared to have caused some anger. Now they had sent a larger force, and lost them.

  “The Regent will put a stop to it now,” Kessligh told them. “Or he will try to. I suppose we will learn from this how much command he actually has over the individual provinces of the Free Bacosh.”

  “Either way, we've gained some space between our retreating army and their advance,” said the Rhodaani captain. “They are a huge force, and they advance like one. As we enter the hills on the Enoran border, they will be slower still.”

  “It's still not enough,” said Kessligh, grimacing slightly as his attention moved onto problems far ahead. “Enora is no place for decisive battles, and with the border now unprotected, there's no telling what uncommitted elements are racing toward us to lay a claim with the new king. We need the Ilduuri to commit, and still we hear nothing.”

  “We cannot plan on the Ilduuri coming to our aid,” said Rhillian. “We must plan on defeating Regent Arrosh on our own.”

  “Whilst still aiming to increase our forces at every opportunity,” Kessligh added, at once agreeing and disagreeing with her. Rhillian shrugged.

  Those serrin travelling with her told that she had been probing the Army of Lenayin, greatly concerned about how the battle would go once those forces arrived in full. Errollyn wondered if that were all there was to it. She looked different now, her white hair short, the long braid that Errollyn had never known her without, missing. Something about the cut was odd, too—it was slightly longer on one side of her face than the other. If there was a story behind it, Rhillian was not telling, and none of her travelling companions professed to know.

  A serrin woman interrupted them, to introduce a messenger. Kessligh beckoned the messenger forward, and a serrin lad of no more than sixteen rode to join them.

  “I come from Coromen,” he said. Kessligh frowned—Coromen was in the path of the Army of Lenayin's advance, still two days behind the Army of the Bacosh, to hear the latest. “An orphanage was slaughtered there, thirty-two children and their carers.”

  Rhillian's hand went to her mouth. “We missed one?” she murmured, aghast.

  The lad nodded. “We came across the bodies buried by a roadside. The Bacosh men responsible had been hauling them to the army column, to collect their bounty.” Rhillian's eyes gleamed with tears. It was the nightmare that all talmaad had striven the last two centuries to avoid. “But those men, we found killed and left to rot. From the manner of ritual execution, we think it was Isfayen men, of Lenayin. And given the closeness to the head of the Lenay column, it must have been Isfayen lords from the vanguard party—the main body of Isfayen ride too far back in the Lenay column for it to have been them.”

  “And they buried the children's bodies?” asked the Rhodaani captain, frowning.

  “The Isfayen are not all you've heard,” Kessligh said quietly. “They think warfare is sport, but there is no sport in killing children. People who think otherwise will anger them, and angry Isfayen are uncompromising.”

  “Sasha rides with the Isfayen vanguard,” said Errollyn. All looked at him. Kessligh was silent, almost unreadable. And Errollyn found himself swallowing against a sudden tightness in his throat.

  “We cannot hope that dreams and wishes shall save us,” said Rhillian. “First we hope for the Ilduuri, now we dream that Sasha may turn her people against this war. She may have had vengeance upon those murderers, but she rides with an army of their allies that makes such slaughte
r possible. Sasha is my enemy. She is the enemy of us all.”

  Sofy was kneeling before the shrine in her tent, maids daubing her hair and hands with scented oils, when another maid entered to tell her of the new arrivals. Sofy scowled, and gave her reply.

  “It is not proper for the Princess Regent to receive a male visitor within her chambers,” announced Sister Mardola from beside the shrine. She sat with a book of scripture upon her lap, paused now in her recital of the verse of Harienne.

  “I must see him,” said Sofy, still frowning. “My Lenay family have sent him, he is to be my protection.”

  “You have twenty knights of Larosa to your personal guard,” the sister reprimanded. “You have no need of any other.”

  “It is the gods' will that one cannot change one's family,” Sofy said firmly. Sister Mardola looked severely displeased. She did that a lot.

  Sofy remained kneeling for the rest of the recital, then took a sip of holy water in consecration and was blessed by the Almin Star. The star was then placed about her neck, and she rose and took a black silk shawl in which to receive her guest.

  Jaryd was admitted through the front entrance of the tent. He looked up and about in amazement at the sheer size of the interior. Silk drapes divided the living space into sections, drifting in a slight breeze. There were furnishings too, light but expensive, and great rugs for the floor of grass.

  Jaryd dressed as a Lenay warrior would, and a high status one at that—a leather jacket over a chain vest. The jacket had thick shoulder guards, his riding gloves bore steel studs, and there were spurs on his boots. His sword was a big Lenay two-hander, and the knife through the front of his belt was nearly the size of an Isfayen darak.

  He looked at her now, and stifled a laugh. Sofy folded her arms crossly.

  “What?” she snapped.

  “No, you look good,” Jaryd managed. “Nice stones.” Meaning the jewellery. “And the, um, other stuff.”

  “What the hells was Sasha thinking to send you?” Sofy retorted.