Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four

by Shepherd, Joel

  “And against Koenyg? And Myklas?”

  Sofy looked sad, but she did not waver. “Yes,” she said simply.

  Sasha let out a breath. She looked at Errollyn. Errollyn nodded. “It's going to be horrible, Sofy,” she said. “The most horrible thing ever. Far worse than what you saw in Tracato, or in the Udalyn Valley.”

  “I know.”

  “Jahndis are evacuating their children and old folk. Many others are joining them, those not needed for preparations. I'd rather you were with them.”

  Sofy smiled. “I'd rather you were with them. But here we are.” Sasha sighed. “Now, what are you going to do about these fools who wish to make you queen?”

  Sasha blinked. And could not resist saying, half joking, “You don't think I might make a good queen?”

  Sofy laughed. “Sasha, don't be silly. You must stop them.”

  “And what if they do not listen?”

  “It seems that all of your friends and loved ones have been forced to fight their own people recently: Kessligh, Errollyn, Jaryd, your friend Rhillian, and now me. When will you start?”

  Sasha cantered toward the centre of the Lenay camp, with Yasmyn close by. All about were Lenay campsites, mostly open fires, a few tents, many bedrolls or blankets donated by grateful Jahndis or nearby serrin. Men watched as she passed, some pausing in their tasks of washing, mending kit, or preparing food. In far fields, men trained in large ranks, coordinating manoeuvres with great yells.

  The valley was wide enough that fifteen thousand Lenay warriors and their horses did not feel particularly cramped for space. Soldiers spread up the hills in search of wood and game, or roamed into Jahnd, or nearby serrin villages. Even here she saw serrin, many bringing food, others cooking or in conversation with these ferocious strangers. Many more serrin were arriving from elsewhere in Saalshen, Sasha knew, and most of them could not fight. Rhillian and Errollyn were at a loss to know what to do with them all.

  Ahead, tents clustered near a small bridge across the Dhemerhill River. Men were waiting, having heard her message to assemble. Yasmyn had helped Sasha make the spirit marks on her cheeks, three lines for the three levels of being, like the tri-braid in her hair. She wore a bloodred cloth tied about her head, a krayhal the Isfayen called it, the declaration of a bloodwarrior on the path. A second krayhal she had tied about her waist. Sasha let the stallion prance, and the young horse obliged, delighted.

  Men parted as she rode into the central space between tents. There she found Markan and Ackryd, and a number of lord yuans, as they were now calling themselves. Her allies and friends, men who would die for her, and she for them and their ways. Yet now she pushed all such thoughts aside and rode straight to Markan, and reared the stallion.

  His hooves lashed, and Markan backed up. When the stallion grounded, she saw Markan glaring up at her, only too aware of the insult she had paid him, in forcing his retreat before these men.

  “You do not own me!” Sasha yelled at him. She drew her blade and pointed it at his chest. “I am Sashandra Lenayin, once uma to Kessligh Cronenverdt! I am Synnich-ahn, and the great spirit has driven me through walls of enemies, and I have drunk of their blood!” Spirits signs were made in a flurry about the circle, but Sasha did not cease. “You seek to put the Synnich in a cage, with a crown on her head! I am not made for cages, I am made for war! Who will fight me, and dare to show me my place!”

  She wheeled the stallion, and ran him in a circle. Men scampered back as she tore before them, then back again. The horse reared again, and she let him, glaring all the while with a blade in her hand.

  Markan, she thought, seemed almost to be smiling. Many stared awestruck, yet Markan knew this game. Worse, he liked it. He bowed a little and looked quite pleased that he had driven her to this at last.

  “The men of Lenayin dare not place the Synnich-ahn in a cage,” he replied. “We seek only for the Synnich to lead us to victory!” A huge cheer raised in reply.

  “The Synnich does not care for victory!” Sasha snarled. “The Synnich wants only blood! Be careful what you wish for, little man, for the dark spirits care nothing for your glory.”

  “The Synnich-ahn should be warned,” Markan intoned. “I am Crastahn, led by the greatest of the old Isfayen spirits. We of the Isfayen know you, Synnich, drinker of blood, destroyer of worlds. We see that you have chosen a servant in this world, and we see that you have chosen well. But the servant is only flesh, and may fall as others fall. I am only flesh, and I will make her fall, if she cuts at my honour and the honour of my spirit guide too deeply.”

  “You will die,” Sasha hissed.

  “There is no need for death. Tymorain. Tonight. All shall come, and honour shall decide it.”

  “The Synnich-ahn does not fight with sticks,” Sasha said scornfully, as the stallion fought for his head. “Only steel drinks blood.”

  “The Synnich's servant is smaller than I. Sharp steel evens the odds. Tymorain then, yet the Synnich-ahn shall fight armoured, while I shall be bare.”

  “Done,” Sasha snapped. “You claim to offer me power, yet you clasp the true power to yourself. You make new laws, and insist that others shall follow them. If you truly wish to follow me, you will let me make the laws, for all of Lenayin.”

  Sasha spun the stallion fast and galloped from the scene and across the bridge, men scattering before her. Yasmyn followed.

  “How was that?” Sasha asked her once they had cleared the camp's perimeter, and slowed to a canter heading for Jahnd.

  “Perfect,” said Yasmyn. “My brother was impressed. Some others were frightened.”

  “Wonderful. Now if I can just figure a way to beat that giant in a head-bashing contest.” She glanced at Yasmyn when she did not reply. “Do you think I can?”

  Yasmyn shrugged. “Against my brother? With blades, very likely. With stanches? I doubt it.”

  Damon had a surprise for her, and they waited in a noisy yard near a flaming furnace and bellows while the armourer went and fetched it.

  “You're crazy,” Damon told her, for what Sasha figured was the ten thousandth time in her life. “You're challenging him for the right to make law? What would that make you, if not queen?”

  “Royalty in Lenayin makes all law save for those laws that apply to royals,” Sasha replied. “Those, the people make to rule us. Grandpa Soros made it that way.”

  “I'm beginning to wonder if Grandpa Soros didn't waste his time,” Damon said sourly. “All his efforts and we're still a pack of barbarians.”

  “With potential,” Sasha insisted.

  “Nice facepaint,” said Damon. Sasha exhaled hard, and slumped against a post. “Look, I appreciate you making this effort on my behalf, but…”

  “If there's one thing I'm not doing,” Sasha snapped, “it's acting on your behalf. As much as I dislike the nobility, they did take a land of barbarians who were always at each others' throats and settle it down to some kind of civility. Now Markan and company want to return it to its previous state. Succession by family lineage can be pretty silly too, but at least it's stable.”

  “If you beat him, and they grant you the power to make laws, you could put a council in charge,” Damon suggested. “Like here, or the Saalshen Bacosh. Abolish royalty.”

  “Damn I'd love to,” Sasha muttered, “but I don't think we're ready. Do you?”

  Damon made a face. “If I were king,” he said, “I'd build institutions first. Institutions like you describe in Tracato…And I like the idea of those redcoats. An independent administration…”

  “The lords will never let you.”

  “If we win,” Damon replied, “there won't be too many lords left.” Sasha shrugged in concession. Such discussion had the offhanded quality of gallows humour. “Tol'rhen. I'd love there to be Tol'rhen in Lenayin.”

  “So you build institutions that bring Lenayin together,” Sasha summarised. “Then you try establishing councils after that.”

  Damon shrugged. “Maybe. It's an idea. But t
hat's the problem—Lenayin until this date has never been anything more than ‘just an idea.’ It needs to become a fact before there can be any alternative to kings. Or queens.”

  Sasha considered him. “You'll make a good king.”

  “Ha. Said the peasant girl with muddy feet.”

  Sasha grinned. “We only have five impossible things to achieve to make it happen.”

  “At least six—defeating Balthaar counts for at least three on its own. Including making Markan and his friends see reason. I'm not sure I could hit him hard enough with a stanch to hurt him—you have no chance.”

  Sasha shrugged. “We'll see.”

  “So what law will you write, if you win?”

  “I'm not sure yet. I may ask Rhillian for advice.” Damon looked suspicious. Sasha grinned. “And you, of course. My liege.”

  “I hope he hits you hard.”

  Damon seemed in good enough humour, despite the indignity of the Army of Lenayin preferring her at their head than him. Damon was no egotist. He knew that his natural support, as royalty, lay amongst lords and Verenthanes—a minority on this side of Lenayin's division. These were naturally more her people than his, and circumstance had made them more so. He knew at least that they did not hate him, and many respected him greatly…just not so greatly as her.

  They were interrupted by a new arrival moving between hammering blacksmiths with a limp. In a loose serrin shirt and long hair, Sasha took several moments to recognise Jaryd. He hugged her hard.

  “Thank you for looking after Sofy,” Sasha told him, with feeling.

  Damon embraced him in turn, then gave him a light slap on the cheek and a mock-warning look. “That's for looking after my sister a little too closely,” he said.

  Jaryd smiled crookedly. There was no smirk, no cheeky humour. “It honestly wasn't my idea,” he said simply. “I did try to explain to her that there was sure to be a penalty of death in there somewhere for me, but she asked me who would carry it out, here in Jahnd.”

  “You mean, aside from me?” said Damon.

  “Well,” said Sasha, exhaling hard. “I mean, she's right. The entire structure of rulership will change depending on the battle to come, and the only people who care that you're fucking the Princess Regent are on the other side. Besides,” she added, “everyone knows you two have always wanted each other.”

  “Speaking of those on the other side,” said Damon, “they're the ones who stripped you of your noble title. When I'm king, I will restore it. You'll need it, if you're to marry Sofy.”

  For a long moment, Jaryd was unable to speak. “I thought marriage talk would do that to him,” Sasha observed wryly.

  “I…” Jaryd managed after a moment. “I'm not certain I can accept.”

  “Listen,” Damon said firmly. “You're my friend, but if you think you're going to continue to share my sister's bed without an imminent marriage, you're about to learn differently.”

  “I had two companions on my ride with Sofy,” Jaryd replied. “One was Asym, Markan's favoured man. The other was Jandlys, son of Krayliss of Taneryn. In my time with them they spoke to me often of their beliefs, as Goeren-yai. I do not know that I have ever felt the old ways as strongly as I should—my change of faith was always a matter of convenience more than belief. But now, both Jandlys and Asym are dead.”

  Sasha swore softly. She'd liked Asym, and though she hadn't known Jandlys, she felt somewhat responsible for his father's death. Now, his heir had been killed too.

  “I am their witness,” Jaryd explained. “I bear news of their deeds to their comrades here. That is where I have been all today, telling their stories. There was a myala, and…”

  Damon looked askance at Sasha. “A ritual for the dead,” Sasha explained. “To assist in the passing of their spirits to the spirit world.”

  “I cannot say that I do believe this or do not believe that,” Jaryd continued, “yet I can certainly say that what I feel for the Goeren-yai is something that I never felt for my faith when I was a Verenthane. It feels real to me. It lives and breathes. Sasha knows.”

  Sasha nodded. “I do.”

  “And if you make me a lord…” Jaryd did not complete the sentence.

  Damon smiled. “Who has said that you must become a Verenthane once more to be a lord?” Jaryd frowned. Damon sighed. “Jaryd, I'm a prince. I'm the highest royalty in this Army of Lenayin….”

  “Assuming I win,” Sasha reminded him.

  “As Prince Damon, I'm ruler of this Army of Lenayin. I can make whomever I choose a lord. Goeren-yai or Verenthane.”

  “A Goeren-yai lord?” Jaryd wondered.

  “Taneryn's full of them.”

  “I'm not sure Taneryn's much of a recommendation.”

  “In fact,” Damon continued, eyes brightening with possibility, “this might be just what we need, for morale. We announce a wedding. I make you a lord, which should not offend anyone since you've been one most of your life, then announce your marriage to Sofy!”

  “Needs a divorce first,” Sasha said drily.

  “Hmm.” Damon thought about it. “Damn. Well, killing the husband surely qualifies? Can't we announce an engagement pending that?”

  “Oh, that's a great precedent!” Sasha laughed. “‘I now declare myself the fiancée to this wedded woman, now excuse me while I kill her husband.’”

  Damon shrugged. “Unusual times, unusual methods.”

  “And if I don't beat Markan,” Sasha repeated, “you'll not be deciding anything for anyone. Now where's this damn surprise you promised me?”

  Markan's idea for a tymorain was to hold it in Jahnd's largest amphitheatre. Sasha walked in the middle of her escort through the theatre district, where tenements stood tall to house all the visiting serrin who came to see the plays, and busy lanes abounded with costumers and makeup artists. But now the crowds thronged for a different purpose, as hawkers yelled prices, and lines formed at stairways where city folk hoped to push their way inside.

  A tunnel took her beneath the stands, then up steps and into the arena. There came a ritual yell from the Lenay crowd, and a clatter of swords as thousands stood as one. Sasha gazed about the open circle, her eyes avoiding the crowd. The amphitheatre made good use of Jahnd's hillside, located perhaps halfway up the slope with the audience looking down onto the circular stage. On the downslope side, the stage was open to the valley, with only a raised platform and a wall separating performers from a steep drop. The sun was setting, the sky above streaked with orange cloud. Shadow crept across the valley below, casting the western side of the amphitheatre's audience into gloom.

  Lenay men stood about the circle, which was paved with smooth stone. At the circle's far side stood Markan. Sasha ignored the sacredness of the space, and the holyman who came to her to discuss proceedings, and walked to the Great Lord of Isfayen.

  “You're an idiot,” she told him, looking up to his face. “You want it here?”

  “Where better?” said Markan with satisfaction. “You have a new shirt. It suits you.”

  The shirt was chain, made from serrin steel, and woven into a traditional Lenay battle jacket of hard leather, shoulder guards, and elbow pads. The chain itself was barely half the weight of any chain she'd experimented with then thrown off in disgust. The armourer had assured her it was no less strong for the lightness, and it felt remarkably gentle upon her arms.

  Given the choice in single combat, she'd have preferred to fight unarmoured, as in the svaalverd, speed was life. Yet in the battle to come, she would be commanding from a horse in a world filled with flying projectiles, and required some protection from things the svaalverd could not save her from. And now, this warm and glowing evening, she was about to enter a bashing contest with a man who looked like he could bend steel barehanded.

  “I do not wish to harm the Synnich-ahn before a great battle,” said Markan. “It would be simpler if you would comply to be queen.”

  “Simple does not interest me,” said Sasha. “Only right.”<
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  “Very well,” said Markan. “Will you fight eldyn rules?”

  Sasha scowled. “Why not just tie one arm behind my back?” Eldyn rules did not allow head strikes.

  “As I said, I do not wish for you to be harmed.”

  “And I do not wish to be the loser before the contest even begins. If you take from me the chance of a headstrike, you take my best chance of victory. Pryal rules.”

  Markan inclined his head. The stupidity of it was now making Sasha angry. She had a war to fight, and her foolish people were so obsessed with their protocols that they'd see two of their most important leaders beaten black-and-blue instead of preparing for victory. And if a headstrike came too hard, it could be far worse than that.

  She turned her back on Markan and strode to a central spot from which to face the crowd. A holyman blocked her way.

  “There are procedures,” he said with a scowl. Sasha stepped around him. He caught her arm. Sasha hit him with a studded glove to the head. He stumbled, and the crowd gasped.

  The loudness of the gasp surprised her. She had not truly looked up yet at the crowd, not wishing the distraction. Now she did, and saw thousands. And more thousands, as she turned her head across the semicircular stands. More than half were Lenay, dangerous-looking men in full battle dress. A good portion of the Army of Lenayin were here this evening. Many of the rest were Ilduuri, watching their new general with concern and intrigue. Remaining places, up in the far reaches, were crowded with Jahndis, townsfolk just recently learned of these events, and desperate to see what craziness these foreigners brought to their city.

  The holyman might have come back at her, a big man with a heavy beard no more than stunned by her blow. Sasha drew her sword as she faced the crowd, and with that view of her back, he thought again. The craftsmen of Jahnd, with astonishing artistry, had decorated the dark leather on her back with a pair of evil, blood-red eyes. They stared now upon the holyman, and he did not approach. They were the eyes of the Synnich, a lowlanders' imagining of a Lenay spirit previously unknown, yet no Lenay could see those eyes upon her back and deny to whom and to what they belonged.