Alexanda paused before the wounded man. “Hold on, lad, you'll be home soon. This is but a moment in time, be brave and it will pass.” The man tried, but Alexanda could see the arm was half severed. He strode on, repeating his own words in his head. Be brave, and it will pass. The lad had been about Carlito's age. Dear gods.
On a bend ahead, crouched against a wall, a Pazira soldier sheltered behind a huge wooden shield. He gestured wildly at the duke, urging him to caution…already the shield was peppered with at least ten bolts. Another flashed by, skittered off the wall and clattered around the bend, men jumping aside as it came. Alexanda, a sergeant and four personal guard hugged a wall, then ran quickly up and over piled bricks to a huge hold in the wall opposite.
Within was the rear yard of a grand mansion, its lawns and patterned gardens strewn with debris and bloody corpses. Ahead, doors and windows had been smashed in and entrances were now guarded by Pazira soldiers. Alexanda walked inside, down a grand hall littered with broken ornaments and furniture. There were sword cuts in the wall plaster. Here, a spray of blood from a severed artery. There, a body.
Up a flight of stairs, then another, and through more ruined rooms until he reached a balcony. There, behind an ornamental pot large enough to hold three men, crouched Captain Faldini in animated conversation with a lieutenant.
“My Lord!” Faldini said cheerfully, his eyes sharp with enthusiasm. “Hell of a fight, yes?” His breastplate bore a great scar and his chain mail sleeves were spattered with blood. “A great shame young Carlito is not here to see it, he would have made you proud!”
“Thank the gods for that mercy at least,” Alexanda muttered, taking a knee beside his captain. He had to adjust his own breastplate as he did-it did not fit half so well these days as it had, the buckles tight at his shoulders, and always seeming to slip to his hips. “Where the hells are we?”
“Nearer to Sharptooth than nearly anyone else!” Faldini exclaimed. “Look, now we have this place, our men secure this road here…” Faldini gestured to the dark shadow of street directly ahead, then pointed to the leather map unrolled on the balcony before him. “I don't know what it's called, but it leads right to The Crack, just south of Sharptooth. We're nearly there!”
They were on the Backside-side of the ridgeline, both Alexanda and Faldini having concluded that it was the softest route to Sharptooth. Those fools Belary and Tarabai were thrusting straight along the ridgeline road, and were nothing like as close as this. Probably they were up to their necks in the bodies of their own dead by now. Duke Tosci of Coroman had taken an even more downslope route-to Alexanda's south up the Backside slope, thrusting to clear the ridge squarely into the middle of the southern stack.
Steiner and his patachis were pressing through midslope, knowing that maze of winding roads far better than the Torovan dukes. There was talk of a seaborn attack as well, and a landing upon the southern docks. With no view of the ocean, Alexanda had no idea if that was just talk or not.
Abad of Songel, it was said, was fighting for Maerler, but Pazira had not yet met him in battle if that were the case. Of Flewderin and Cisseren, there was no word, only rumour. Clearly Maerler was badly outnumbered. But in this city, the odds of any battle were stacked so heavily with the defender that numbers were meaningless. The serrin had held out for much of a day with just a handful of talmaad against thousands.
“We're getting lots of white cloth hung over the walls,” Faldini continued. “Many of them don't want to fight.”
“Doesn't help us much if they won't let us in,“Alexanda grumbled. He peered through the balcony railings onto the narrow street below. Pazira men were mustering in formation, shields to the front, rams, hooks and grapples behind. Captain Faldini had done his work well, preparing for this even while Alexanda strove his utmost to try to ensure it would never happen. There were even draught horses held in reserve. They'd brought down several defensive walls so far, and would surely be needed for more.
Faldini was not bothering with the artillery some of the other dukes were using-it took too many men and horses to haul, he'd insisted, was difficult to manoeuvre in close corners and nearly impossible to fire accurately on sloping ground. Better yet, Pazira forces now took short cuts between roads by smashing through mansions-“in the front door and out the back,” as he'd put it. No artillery worth its use could fit through a doorway.
“How many men have we lost?” Alexanda asked.
“I haven't been counting,” Faldini admitted. “Perhaps thirty?”
“More likely fifty,” Alexanda growled, giving his captain a dark stare. “I've been counting the bodies on the way down the road.”
Faldini shrugged. “That's why they love you more than me,” he said with a grin. Were Faldini not such a competent officer, Alexanda was certain he would love him not at all. It was one of the great ironies of life that often the most bloodthirsty and cruel commanders suffered the least grievous losses. Bloodthirsty commanders won quickly. Quick victors suffered fewer deaths. A cautious officer could become bogged down, his indecision prolonging the fight, and thus killing more of his own men. In war, as in so many things, the gods displayed their foul sense of humour.
Longbow fire thumped and whistled from a neighbouring balcony, then from the roof above the two men's heads. Arrows fled into the firelit night toward the mansion at the road's end where the crossbow fire seemed to be coming from. Longbows would do little good at such range, but the object, Faldini explained, was to put the opposing archers off their aim and jangle the enemy's nerves with incoming fire. Good longbow men could fire six or more times to a crossbow's every one, suiting them better for the purpose.
“They'll know how close we are now,” Alexanda muttered. “Several more mansions like this one and we'll cut through to Sharptooth. They'll pull up some reserves, perhaps make a flanking move downslope to our right, and come at us from there.”
“Let them flank to our right,” Faldini said. “If they grant us the height and attack from downslope, we'll slaughter them. Better yet, the defensive advantage becomes ours, we've these magnificent big shields you had the foresight to bring in such large numbers…” Alexanda snorted, recalling Faldini's protests at the big ugly things, “we can make a wall across the road and dare them to scale it.
“Besides which, I've seen no indication these city fools actually understand concepts like ‘reserve’ and ‘flanking attack.’ So far most of them have been defending their own property and no one else's. Only Maerler's staunchest allies are fighting, the rest are sitting quietly behind their walls waiting to see which way the wind is blowing.”
“Captain Faldini, if I can persuade you of just one thing that my advancing years have taught me, it is this-things can always get worse, and usually do. If one expects it, then one can avoid the indignity of surprise.”
“I always liked surprises,” Faldini remarked, watching the preparations for the battle's next phase with eager anticipation.
“Then you're a fool. In battle, surprise is usually followed swiftly by a painful death.”
“My Lord, if I might suggest…maybe I just enjoy this more than you?”
Alexanda shook his head in disbelief. “Truly you are a man of great insight. Carry on, Captain, do your worst.”
“You know I always do, my Lord.”
Errollyn sat in the cargo hold, chained to the mast, and listened to the commotion up on deck. He could hear the ballista firing, and feel the thumping vibration through the decking. The thick mast trunk shuddered and creaked with the strain of billowing sails, and he could hear the yells and instruction, the rapid winching of ropes and the squeal of pulleys.
He sat with his knees drawn up, his ankles chained and his arms flexed back to embrace the mast behind. His wrists were chained together around the mast, and the manacles dug into his hands. His ankle chains, in turn, were tied to the base of the mast so that he could not stretch his legs. It hurt. His previous injuries stiffened and throbbed, and the air down h
ere was foul, a thick stench of old grain, livestock, manure and rot. About him, crates and sacks made looming shapes in the gloom, creaking each time the boat rocked over a wave, or turned against the wind. He had never particularly minded the movement of boats, provided he could be on deck with the horizon in sight and the fresh ocean breeze on his face. Now, he felt ill. He hated enclosed spaces. Rhillian knew he did. Yet she ordered him tied down here anyway.
And now, it seemed, they were under attack. Whoever it was unsurprisingly seemed to be having difficulties catching the Saalshen vessel. He judged that they were still in Petrodor harbour-with a wind this brisk, surely an open ocean swell would move the boat more than this.
A movement to one side made him look as light flickered through the gloomy hold. A figure appeared, small and unsteady, moving slowly. The lamp in her hand turned Aisha's short, pale hair to orange, and her blue eyes to shimmering amber pools. She limped to him, wrapped in a blanket, clutching a waterskin and a bundle. Errollyn took a deep breath and tried to will his uneasy stomach calm. Here, at least, was one person who felt significantly worse than he.
“You shouldn't walk on that leg,” he told her as she knelt alongside. His voice was hoarse and his throat dry.
“Shut up and drink,” Aisha told him in Lenay-his preferred human tongue. Aisha had always been better at tongues than everyone. She even spoke Edu, though she'd only been in the Valley of the Udalyn a few days. She unstoppered the waterskin and poured into his mouth. Through thirst and discomfort, Errollyn did not fail to note that her hands were shaking.
“What have they done to you?” Aisha half-muttered, half-despaired. “Errollyn, why do you always have to be such a pain in the arse?” The expression held a humour in Lenay that most other tongues lacked. An affection behind the insult.
Errollyn swallowed the last of her water. “Let me out,” he said.
Aisha just gazed at him, pained, pale and unsteady. She hated boats, whether above decks or below. “Aisha, Rhillian's gone mad. She's lost all sense. Just let me out of these fucking chains.”
Aisha put the waterskin and the bundle down, and moved around the mast, out of Errollyn's sight. He felt her hands on his, feeling the chafing where the metal bands pressed hard into his skin. Again he heard her muttering to herself. Overhead, the ballista fired again, and more shouts as others watched the projectile's progress. They were firing ashlro'mal up there-liquid fire. Doubtless their targets were not enjoying the experience.
“Look,” said Aisha, reappearing at his side, “I've found some good grapes and some plums, all fresh, and some blue-tinge cheese from Halsradi to the north, it'll help you-”
“Damn it, Aisha, I need escape, not cheese!”
“It's excellent cheese,” Aisha ventured, attempting humour.
“You and your fucking cheese!” Errollyn snarled. “I saved your life, isn't that worth something?”
Aisha sat on the deck with a thump, and winced as she pulled her wounded leg clear. She stared at Errollyn helplessly. “Errollyn, I…I can't.”
“Then fuck off and take your cheese with you!” His heart was pounding, and his head spinning. He could barely feel his hands and the numbness was spreading up his arms. His back and shoulders screamed for relief, and his lungs despaired for clean air. Some people thought Aisha younger than him, but she was nearly ten years his senior. He didn't need another lecture.
“Errollyn…they said…one of the shipmates said you hurt Tasselryn. With a knife.”
“When being abducted by force in the night,” Errollyn said coldly, “it is customary practice in human lands or in Saalshen to fight back. Tasselryn was clumsy, and I got a hand free long enough to grab for his belt. I could have slashed his throat, but these days Rhillian seems short on gratitude.”
“Errollyn, no serrin has purposely slain another for more than a thousand years!” Aisha's pale blue eyes were wide with horror. “Has…has it occurred to you even once what you nearly did?”
“What I did?” He managed a half-crazed laugh. “Rhillian hits me in the face, and I'm to blame that her knuckles are bruised?”
“Errollyn, you nearly killed another serrin!”
“His arm is a long way from his heart, Aisha.”
“How can you make jest of this? I…I don't believe that you…”
“Aisha, it makes absolutely no fucking difference,” Errollyn told her coldly. “So what if one serrin kills another? That would only make us normal. We're the odd ones, Aisha, the ones who fail to understand the world. Every other species kills its own kind, or would like to if it could. But we…we cling to matters of little import as though they were all that mattered in the world. Let a million of us die, but please, don't let just one of them be slain by his fellow serrin…what a joke. This species has no perspective. I'm sick of you all.”
“We strive to make the world better by holding ourselves above it, Errollyn,” Aisha whispered, horrified. “If you can't understand even that, then…then you are beyond me.”
“How can you make the world better when you can't even think for yourself?” Errollyn retorted. “Let me free, Aisha!” Aisha just stared at him. “You can't, can you? The vel'ennar is the wind that fills your sails, and you will go wherever it blows. You could not contradict your fellows if they were butchering small children!”
“Unlike you, Errollyn,” Aisha said coldly, “I have seen small children butchered. Do not speak of that you do not know.”
“And when Kiel impales his first human newborn on the point of a sword, what shall you do, Aisha?”
“Kiel would never-”
“He damn well would and you know it!”
Aisha stared at him. Above, the ballista thumped again. The boat leaned again, the vibration of flapping sails through the mast as they changed direction. Aisha's eyes dropped to the boards.
“You can't answer the question, can you? You can't let me free. You can't contradict Rhillian. You can't move. You are half human, yet I am less serrin than you. I am tied to the mast, yet it is you who are in chains.”
“It got me out of Maerler's mansion,” Aisha said softly. “The vel'ennar. It pulled me free, Errollyn. I felt it calling me, tugging at me. I had to be back amongst my own kind. I did not wish to die alone, amongst strangers.”
“I can love a stranger, Aisha,” Errollyn said hoarsely. His throat hurt, but this time it was not for dryness. “I can want her safe and happy, even though she is not of the serrinim, nor connected to it. Can you?”
“My father is human,” Aisha replied.
“No,” Errollyn said firmly. “He is within your vel'ennar. As the household staff at Palopy were within Rhillian's, human or not. I mean someone else. Could you love them that much, Aisha?”
“As much as you love Sasha?” Aisha ventured. Errollyn just stared at her, demanding an answer. “I don't know,” she said, very softly. “I'd like to think so. But…I don't know.”
“So where lies the serrin claim to universal tolerance when you look at me like a stranger? When you see me tied to the mast like an animal and cannot set me free? When you know me for all these years, and you still have not a clue why I am like I am, or what it feels like to walk in my shoes?”
Aisha fixed him with a direct stare. “You're feeling very sorry for yourself, Errollyn,” she said warningly.
“No,” said Errollyn, “I'm feeling very sorry for you. At least I can feel my chains and understand that I am a prisoner. You cannot even see the cage around you.”
“Errollyn,” Aisha said despairingly, “why do you do this to yourself? You push others away, you reject their assistance…”
“I see you offering cheese, not assistance.”
“You attack and humiliate them…”
“We serrin call it debate, if we're not impossibly thin-skinned…”
“And then you point in triumph, and say, ‘Look! She doesn't understand me! My arguments are fulfilled!’”
“Would you ever choose to be without the vel'ennar
, Aisha?”
“No.” Decisively.
“Why not?”
Aisha did not reply.
“The vel'ennar is about inclusion, Aisha. You fear you wouldn't fit in. I'm telling you you're right. I was farmed out to an old uman on the verge of death, when I was still a child. No one else could understand me, they said. She was bitter and cynical. I am not so bitter yet. But as time goes on, I see that perhaps she was right. There is no place for those without vel'ennar in a society whose entire ethos is inclusion. As there is no place for animals on two legs amongst those who walk on four.”
Aisha placed a gentle hand on his brow and brushed back his untidy hair. “It hasn't been that bad amongst us, surely?” she asked sadly.
Errollyn took a deep breath and swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “The worst thing,” he said quietly, “is that I can love you all as much as I'll ever love anyone…and yet I know that what other serrin feel for me is less than what they feel for others.”
“Oh Errollyn,” Aisha said gently, taking his face in both hands. “It's not like that at all. You said it yourself, you do not need to feel vel'ennar in order to be a part of someone else's! If humans can be within a serrin's vel'ennar, then surely you can be too!”
“Then why am I chained to the mast?”
Aisha closed her eyes and rested her forehead against Errollyn's.
“And why have I somehow felt, my entire life, that it was always coming to this?”
“You're overreacting,” Aisha assured him gently.
“Kiel wanted to kill me,” Errollyn murmured, repressing a shiver. “I saw it in his eyes.”
“He's upset.” Aisha sounded unsettled.
“He's dangerous. He's what we could become, Aisha. All of us. His logic is impeccable. He embodies the truest heart of what it means to be serrin. And he is capable of barbarism, like what he did to the archbishop. He is our future, Aisha, if we allow it. And Rhillian walks his path more and more every day.”
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