Rhillian arrived from across black fields in a rush of hooves and reined in at Sasha's side. “The Enoran Steel has encamped at a river ahead,” she said. “If you march all night, you should be there in the morning.”
Sasha nodded. “It's a good road. I think we can forgo one night's sleep. Why have the Steel stopped?”
“We hear there is some dissension. Some commanders say that with the Regent's advance halted in Shemorane, the advantage is with the defenders once again.”
“Idiots,” Sasha muttered. “The Enorans beat us, but they were mauled. I'll reckon the Rhodaanis are even worse after they lost. The Regent still has more than a hundred thousand, and I'll bet further that Koenyg will attach the northerners to that army as a new heavy cavalry formation. The Steel remains massively outnumbered, and the land here is perfect for cavalry and flanking manoeuvres, which takes their artillery out of play—their biggest advantage.”
“The previous plan was to head for Jahnd,” said Rhillian. Sasha nodded, having suspected as much. Jahnd seemed more a place of legend than a real city. No one knew precisely how old it was, some speculated a few centuries, others far longer. It lay on the far bank of the Ipshaal River from Enora, on the Saalshen side of the border, in the foothills of the Ilduuri Mountains. It was the only place in serrin lands where humans lived, a city that had long been a refuge for humans escaped across the river from the tyrannies of their kind.
Serrin, quite predictably, had been unable to reach consensus about sending such humans back to persecution and murder, yet were unwilling to allow humanity free range within Saalshen. So they had established a city on a tributary of the Ipshaal, within which those humans had made a colony. Over the centuries, that colony had grown into a large city, about which far more fantastic tales were known than facts. What was undisputed was that the city had been called Jahnd. In Enoran, the word meant “haven.”
“And Saalshen is happy to be holding the last defence of the Saalshen Bacosh on serrin land?” Sasha asked.
“Saalshen's opinion is unknowable,” said Rhillian. “If by Saalshen you mean me, then yes, I think the option is best. Jahnd is protected by the Ipshaal and the Ilduuri Mountains. And we both know that the Regent shall cross the Ipshaal in time, whether we lead him there or not. You've seen how he cleanses these lands of serrin, and any trace of Saalshen's influence upon humanity. He seeks to purify humanity of us. Jahnd shall not be allowed to stand one way or another. And once Jahnd falls, Saalshen lies before him.”
“How are Jahnd's defences?”
“It is protected on three sides by mountains…not a perfect defence, but rough terrain and favouring the defender. It has walls, which serrin told the earliest humans were not necessary, yet those humans had suffered persecution, and were terrified that their old lords would cross the Ipshaal and attack them. So they built high walls, to defend against an attack that never came. Until now.”
“And how do we cross the Ipshaal?” Sasha asked. “Boats could move the army, but it would take many days, and the Regent shall be on our tail again shortly. And I haven't seen any boat that could navigate a river and be large enough to transport catapults.”
“We have a way,” said Rhillian, with a smile in the dark. “Forgive me that I do not tell you. We have not even told the Steel, save for General Rochan. If the Regent knew, I doubt he would allow his priests to delay him so long in Shemorane. He assumes the Ipshaal an impassable barrier to us, and I would rather he stays thus misinformed.”
“A way,” Sasha repeated, thinking hard. Boats, she supposed. Very big boats. The Ipshaal was a very big river, far too wide and strong for any bridge. Surely such large boats were possible. “I look forward to being surprised.”
“You have only seen Tracato,” said Rhillian. “Tracato has its amazements. But Jahnd is something else again.”
Dawn broke upon wet fields and dripping trees. Mist lay across gentle hills, and the night's rain made puddles by the roadside. The light was ghostly, and Sasha felt she was riding in a dreamworld between waking and sleep. In her exhaustion, it did not seem real, what she had led her people to do. Only when the morning cleared, as the sun burned away the mist, did she see a sight that made the previous day real again.
Across a ridgeline of hills, silver ranks of soldiers gleamed in the sun. It was the Enoran Steel. Along the column, men remarked upon sighting them. Some sounded concerned. The last time the men of Lenayin had seen that sight, more than a quarter of them had died.
Sasha looked about for the serrin guides who had accompanied them through the night, and found none. Suddenly, Sasha doubted. Had they been set up? Was this merely a ruse, to lure them all to their deaths? Surely not; the Army of Lenayin was a great asset to a desperate people—not merely a depletion of the enemy's ranks, but a significant increase to their own. But still the doubt remained.
The Steel's formation demanded a reply. Sasha had not seen Damon all night, so she gave the orders herself. Again, none refused her, and word passed loudly down the column.
The army flooded from the road onto the fields opposite the Steel. There was a gentle incline, and it was not a good position. Sasha felt uncomfortable with it, and by the looks several captains, lords, and other seniors gave her, she knew she was not alone. She waited by the road, on what was becoming the far right flank of the army's front line, and watched the lines extend. Bedraggled they were, and tired, and recently humiliated, and even more recently divided and rebelling. Yet still they presented a formidable sight—many thousands of men, and thousands more cavalry, perhaps eighteen thousand by the latest count. They were, man for man, the most fearsome fighting army in Rhodia, and surely even the Steel armies of the Saalshen Bacosh could not dispute it. Sasha looked at the ranks of gleaming steel atop the opposing ridgeline, and thought that surely, beneath those shining helms, Enoran soldiers were also recalling the last time these two armies faced each other, and remembering that familiar chill of fear. Every other army they had faced had been defeated. Most had been routed, and a few, utterly destroyed.
But not this one. This army, out-armoured, out-weaponed, outnumbered when one accounted for the talmaad, and against the most devastating barrage of Enoran artillery, had nearly won.
“What do they do?” an officer muttered by Sasha's side, as the army assembled.
“I'm not sure,” said Sasha. “I think maybe a ritual.”
“They line us up beneath their ridge,” said another man. “They make us occupy the weaker position. It is submission.”
“If they want us to kneel,” growled the officer, “then this meeting will be bloodier than the last.”
“Patience,” Sasha told them. Another less exhausted moment and she might have smiled, that she should be giving such a reprimand. “They don't even have their artillery set up.”
“How can you tell? We can't see beyond their ridge.”
“I can tell,” Sasha lied. “Just wait.”
It took a long time for the army to assemble. Finally, the last men left the road and found a place in the formation upon the field.
Several men rode forth from the Enoran formation, and came across the grass. Sasha looked around for Damon, but still could not find him. She cursed, and rode out alone. She angled left, across the face of the Lenay formation. Initially she looked for Damon, seeking to wave him out onto the field. Then she realised how bad that would look.
On a sudden inspiration, she reined her horse to a halt before a group of cavalry—Fyden men, she saw, from the features of their faces and the style of their clothes and armour.
“Who here speaks Torovan?” she asked them. A few hands went up. “You,” she said, selecting one man. “Ride with me.”
The man looked baffled. Sasha gestured impatiently, and turned her horse to ride out. The Fyden man followed.
Three Enorans had stopped upon the field. Sasha halted her horse before them, and the Fyden man did likewise, looking very uncertain.
“Sashandra Lenayin,” ann
ounced their leader. Sasha recognised him.
“General Rochan,” she said. “We meet again, on a field between our two armies.”
“I had supposed you the least significant of those I met on our last occasion,” said the general. “Now I see I was mistaken.” He was an average-sized man with narrow features and intense, watchful eyes. He had impressed Sasha then. Now, having fought against him, and seen his generalship firsthand, she was still impressed. “My sympathies about your father. Where are your brothers?”
“Prince Damon is here,” she said. “Where, I do not know. It's been a long night. Koenyg and Myklas ride with the Regent still.”
“I see,” said General Rochan. “And your forces of the north?”
“Them too, and most of the nobility, though not all.”
“Well,” said the general. He indicated his two companions. “Here I ride with Formation Captain Petisse and Artillery Captain Mauvenon.”
“You had another,” said Sasha, remembering. “Where is he?”
“Formation Captain Lashel was killed at Shero Valley. Captain Petisse was promoted on the field.”
“My sympathies,” said Sasha, and meant it. “Your men fought with courage and skill. Lenayin was impressed.”
“Our artillery did you great harm,” said Rochan. “We did not expect such ferocity from any army that had run through our barrage. Enora was also impressed.” He shifted his gaze to the Fyden man at Sasha's side. “And who is this?”
“I don't know,” Sasha admitted. Rochan looked puzzled. The Fyden man, scarcely less so. “Warrior. Who are you?”
The Fyden drew himself up in his saddle. “I am Kemrys of Fahd, son of Todyn of Fahd. I am a warrior of the Fahd Clan beyond the Idrys River, and I salute an honoured opponent. There is blood between us.” The introduction seemed as strange to Sasha as to Rochan—Fyden was a long way from her native Valhanan, and the men of Fyden made formal introductions differently.
General Rochan nodded in reply. He frowned at Sasha.
“You wish to know why we are here,” said Sasha, too tired for greater sophistry. “I could tell you, but any words from my mouth would be misleading. We are not like any people you have met, save perhaps for the serrin, in that we are not a people easily led. I could tell you what I think, but at the end of the day, what this common man of Lenayin thinks is of far greater consequence.”
Understanding dawned in the general's eyes. And, perhaps, new respect.
“Kemrys of Fahd,” he said. “You swore an oath to your king that you would ride against the Saalshen Bacosh. Why have you…” But Kemrys was already shaking his head. Rochan stopped, and invited Kemrys to speak.
“My oath was to follow the king into battle,” he said. “I knew nothing about the Saalshen Bacosh. Still don't…except that you fight well, and like serrin.”
“But you have now gone against your king,” Rochan pressed. “Help me to understand.”
“Kings are not born,” said Kemrys. “Kings are made.”
Sasha smiled. She knew the native wisdom of her people. Understanding dawned in the foreign general's eyes, and Sasha felt immensely, overwhelmingly proud.
“You felt he had not earned his kingship?” Rochan pressed.
“King for one day,” said Kemrys, with a sarcastic smile. “Koenyg swings a good blade, but ten men in my village swing a good blade. Ten men in my village cannot be king. Maybe here in the Bacosh, kings are born to rule. In my land, kings have to earn it.”
“You are in Enora now,” said Artillery Captain Mauvenon. “We have no kings—our leaders are chosen by their peers.”
“Aye,” said Kemrys, eyeing him thoughtfully. “A good custom, I think.”
“What proved to you that King Koenyg had not earned his crown?” Rochan asked.
“We heard stories,” said Kemrys. “Lots of talk on the way here from Lenayin. Said the Steel armies were unbeaten, said many things about your victories. Lenays admire victory. Others in eastern provinces said they liked the serrin…. Now we in Fyden haven't met many serrin. But the east insist the serrin fight well, too. So already, we're wondering why we're being asked to fight for an army that's done nothing but lose for two hundred years.
“Then we fight you. Some of us say you don't fight fair, with your fireballs and such. But you won. We never thought we wouldn't win. Not even once. We see the stories are true, and we start listening to all who know those stories.
“So when we come into Rhodaan, the talk all through the column is how the Larosan priests want all the serrin dead, how they're really after Saalshen…and we start really thinking about what we're doing here. I mean, we're Goeren-yai. Or I am, and now that the north and the nobility's gone, I reckon five in six of us are. We'll fight for Lenayin, but not for some crazy Verenthane crusade. And we see the smoke rising from the villages we pass.
“I went with some friends to take a look, just a short gallop from the column. We saw some stuff. Lenays, you know, we like a good fight. What I saw wasn't a good fight. What I saw is the kind of thing that gets a family…um…esseryl etych?”
He looked askance at Sasha.
“A matter of honour,” Sasha translated for the Enorans. “If a warrior commits a dishonourable deed, in some regions they consider the whole family's honour stained. It can last generations.”
“Like killing families,” murmured the general.
“Children,” Kemrys said solemnly. “I saw children.”
“Me too,” said Sasha.
The Enorans seemed moved.
“And you, Sashandra?” said Rochan. “You returned to your people. And now you have split them?”
“No,” said Sasha, shaking her head. “Their heart and soul are with me still, and I with them. That which opposes us now was always the cancer of Lenayin. Now is our chance to defeat it, and remake Lenayin anew.”
“Your brothers Myklas and Koenyg too?”
“Aye,” Sasha said quietly. “But these are also my brothers. All eighteen thousand of them.”
Rochan exchanged looks with his companions. He took a deep breath.
“Well,” he said. “Our armies watch us, and wonder what we say. They fear our parley shall not end well.”
“Few things have of late,” said Sasha, with a faint smile. “Shall we give them a happier tale?”
She dismounted. General Rochan also dismounted. And then, in clear view of both armies, they embraced.
Into the air rose a great cheer. It came first from the Enoran line, Sasha realised with faint astonishment. It had the sound of desperation to it, and wild relief. Of frightened men who had been on the verge of losing everything, who now once again found hope.
There came an answering cheer from the Lenays, and the two armies ran at each other across a field for the second time in a month. Yet this time when they met, all weapons were sheathed, and instead of blows, men of different lands separated by half the world exchanged embraces, handclasps, laughter, and tears.
It took Koenyg a while to compose himself. He took that time on his way into Shemorane, amidst the silent entourage of his remaining vanguard. The northern lords rode proud and defiant, many now holding their Verenthane stars aloft on poles or great banners brought along for the purpose. Until now, most had hidden those symbols, upon Koenyg's command. Goeren-yai in the Army of Lenayin fought for Lenayin, not for some great crusade of the Verenthanes, and Koenyg had not wished them offended to the point of anger. But now, all such concerns were gone, and some of the northern lords, instead of being angered at developments, looked actually quite pleased.
His first response was rage, yet now that he thought about it, Damon was probably right to judge his tempers with contempt. Temper would solve nothing here. In fact, what now resolved before him was opportunity, pure and simple. His father had warned him of this, numerous times. “The Goeren-yai will like this war at first,” he'd said, in one of those conversations they'd dared not share with Damon, and certainly not with Sasha. “They know nothing of
the Saalshen Bacosh, save that their king has declared it a land to be conquered. But the eastern Goeren-yai will not like to fight the serrin directly, and in time, their discontent may spread. Lowland honour is not highland honour, and what Bacosh men may find glory in doing will not seem so glorious to many in Lenayin.”
King Torvaal Lenayin had been unsuited to the leadership of Lenayin. He had made a fine start, commanding victory over the Cherrovan invaders in the Great War, with the help of his general, Kessligh Cronenverdt. But that had been a matter of simplicity, Lenayin against the merciless invader. Clearly the gods were on Lenayin's side, and Torvaal had commanded with conviction.
Yet once the Cherrovan were defeated, few things in Lenayin were so clear. Torvaal had attempted to reach out to the Goeren-yai, and to Saalshen, with his Nasi-Keth Commander of Armies training Torvaal's eldest son Krystoff as heir to the Lenay throne. But the lords and the north had fought back, leading to Krystoff's death, Kessligh's resignation, and the departure of Sasha from the royal family. Verenthane power in Lenayin was too entrenched to accept the vision that Torvaal had proposed, and the gods had punished him for it.
Fearful of the gods' anger, Torvaal had spent the rest of his life attempting to appease them, and seeking forgiveness for the mistake that had cost him his heir. He should have known then, Koenyg had long thought, what the correct path was. And yet he had refused. Koenyg often thought that Torvaal's long period of retreat and prayer in temple was not purely about the death of his heir. Nor was it an attempt simply to regain the gods' affection for himself and Lenayin, as many suggested. His father had prayed to the gods to seek their forgiveness for the thing he should have done, and yet could not. The Verenthane faith was the great and growing power of humanity. A good king, a real king, would make clear to the population of Lenayin that such was to be Lenayin's destiny as well. A real king would lead. Yet Torvaal, devout Verenthane that he was, refused.
Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four Page 13
