“Sasha tears the Army of Lenayin apart, and you sympathise with her?” he shouted.
“You tear the Army of Lenayin apart!” Damon retorted. He tried to prise free of Koenyg's grip, but his elder brother was too strong. “The men of Lenayin cannot be led against their will! The Northern Rebellion proved that, but you never learned that lesson….”
Koenyg threw Damon to the ground, and landed a kick in his mailed side as Damon rolled away. “She is a traitor to Lenayin! I'll see her dead, I swear it, and I'll see you dead if you defy me!”
Damon tried to get up, but a blow struck his head. He fell, arms up for protection, and a kick struck his leg. He'd been beaten by Koenyg before, and was not surprised. Koenyg had far more tolerance for defiance from foreigners and others than he did from younger brothers.
The blows stopped. Damon looked up past raised arms at the seething king standing over him. “Look at you!” Koenyg exclaimed, before the audience of lords. “You're pathetic! You plot and mutter behind my back, you make better friends with your sisters than with me or Myklas, you spend so long with your head in girlish pursuits it's a wonder you don't wear a dress over your mail! And now, you fall on your arse and cower like a whipped dog! You're a coward, and I have no use for you as my brother!”
He turned and strode back to his horse. Damon blinked, sitting on the grass by the road. And he realised that for once, his brother was actually right. And that death would be better.
Damon leaped to his feet, drew his sword, and charged. Lords yelled warning, and Koenyg spun, blade raised in defence. Damon struck full force, and struck to kill. Koenyg retreated, fending fast, steel clashing in rapid succession. Damon saw the astonishment on his face, and the concern, to find himself nearly overwhelmed.
Koenyg reversed one hard parry and leaped upslope. Damon cut low, was blocked by the downward slam of Koenyg's blade, which reversed toward Damon's head, but Damon parried hard and cut for Koenyg's neck. Koenyg swayed aside and cut low, in that easy, balanced style Damon had seen so often in sparring, as his rhythm recovered. And he knew that the surprise was ending, and now he was in trouble.
He tried to finish it fast, before Koenyg could truly get into rhythm, but each of his strikes was blocked with increasing surety. In the blink of an eye, Damon realised he'd fallen a fraction behind in the count. Koenyg came at him quickly, one side, the other, then a fast reverse, and Damon's parrys were a little later each time. In desperation he broke the rhythm entirely and struck a glancing blow on Koenyg's arm, but the next blow crushed Damon's defence, and the last tore into his ribs.
The mail saved him, but he fell all the same, with searing pain in his side. He struggled to rise, to raise his blade once more, but Koenyg swatted it aside, and stood on his sword arm. Damon lay back, and stared up the length of Koenyg's sword as the point pressed to his throat. His brother's eyes were ablaze, even as his arm seemed hurt.
“Attack from behind, eh?” Koenyg asked, breathing hard. “Most dishonourable, little brother.”
“It's the best way to kill a cockroach,” said Damon, also gasping. “They're hard vermin to face, because you have to come down to their level.” He was amazed at how calm his voice was, despite his lack of air. It was as though the barrier of fear had finally snapped. He'd stood up to Koenyg now. He could die happy.
“I should kill you now,” Koenyg snarled.
“I never doubted you would, one day.”
“I never did you wrong, little brother.”
Damon laughed. Suddenly, he couldn't stop laughing. It was insane-he and Koenyg had tried to kill each other, Koenyg was about to finish it, and he'd never been so amused.
“Look at you,” he said, between gasps of breath. “My big brother, trying to reason. It's like watching a bull trying to use an abacus.” Koenyg's face darkened. It had been a favourite line of Sofy's, when Koenyg couldn't hear. “Kessligh always said the rulership of kings would never last. Three generations, he said. You can start with a good king, like Great-Grandpa Soros. And he has a good son, like Grandpa Chayden. But by the time father wears the crown, the vitality is already fading…”
“You say nothing about our father!” Koenyg yelled.
“…and by the time it gets to you, it's gone entirely. Three generations, Kessligh said. A century at most. Krystoff was his attempt to prolong it, but Krystoff died, and now you prove Kessligh right.”
“I am tired of your lofty wisdom!”
“I know-that's why you resorted to beatings when you could never match it.” Koenyg moved the sword point aside. He kicked Damon's sword away. Damon raised himself on an arm. “You're a tyrant, Koenyg. You ally us with tyrants because they appeal to you.”
“I ally Lenayin with the strong because Lenayin is strong! Of course you don't understand that-look at you, lying defeated in the dirt!”
“You could always best me with a blade, Koenyg. But you've the smarts of a box of hammers.” Koenyg kicked him hard in the shoulder. Damon winced, but continued, “You didn't see the Northern Rebellion coming, you didn't think the Goeren-yai would ever defy you, you've no idea how unpopular the lords are, you've got no idea how much most Lenays would prefer the serrin to any of us lot, to say nothing of this lot in Larosa…”
Koenyg was apoplectic. Somehow, Damon found that even funnier than last time, and struggled for composure.
“And now,” he continued, “your army runs a way from you, and like a little boy who kicks his puppy, you wonder why the puppy seeks new friends.” More hooves were thundering nearby, at least a hundred riders. “And who is that leaving?” Damon asked, with bursting amusement. “The Rayen? The Yethulen? Dear gods, they all hate you, and now you wonder why. Bull with an abacus indeed.”
He sprawled on the ground and laughed, as lords stood about him and stared. Fuck them all. He had a few friends here, but not many. He didn't care.
“Gods, I miss you, Sofy!” he yelled to the sky like a madman, as hooves and shouts and confusion filled the air. “You were the only one of us with any fucking wits!”
The Larosans were fleeing. Sasha galloped her horse at the head of perhaps fifty Isfayen who had stayed with her, and signalled them to halt. They sat astride frothing, tired horses, and watched talmaad chasing the remaining Larosan cavalry across the fields, shooting arrows into the backs of any who did not ride fast enough.
It was past midday now. Larosan bodies lay sprawled at random intervals and the few surviving Larosan knights were being rounded up. Perhaps the talmaad would take prisoners this time. Often that was too much of a difficulty for light cavalry without transport for captured men.
Sasha waved her Isfayen toward the river, so the horses could drink. On the muddy bank she jumped down and checked her mount's foreleg for what she thought was a faint limp. As she did so, ankle-deep in water, someone else called a warning. Then she heard a mass of hooves.
From across the river, a formation of cavalry approached. They wheeled, like black starlings across a green field, and thundered toward the bank. They held no banner, but Sasha recognised that combination of powerful horses, glinting mail, and black leathers with shields. Hadryn.
The heavy horse spread across the opposing bank, perhaps fifty strides distant and far too deep to ford. The Isfayen stared back. For a moment, there was no sound but for the murmur of gentle waters, and the snort of horses.
“The tales are true, then!” called a northern-accented voice. Sasha recognised the Great Lord Heryd, tall astride his mount. “The pagan princess has finally shown herself a traitor, and betrayed her king!”
“Myklas!” Sasha yelled, scanning the opposing bank. “Are you there?”
“I'm here,” came the return call. Sasha's youngest brother was not as easily distinguishable from amidst the Hadryn warriors as she had supposed. His leathers were dark brown rather than black, but otherwise he looked tall and strong like the others.
“Come with me, Myklas. Damon will, we both know it. Kessligh fights on this side, as do the
greatest warriors of these lands. The ones we've been marching with until now would be rejected even by the worms in their graves.”
For a moment, there was silence. Sasha's hopes rose.
“Perhaps the greatest warriors were on your side,” Myklas replied. “But not anymore. The Hadryn ride here now.”
There rose a growl of approval from the black horsemen. It rose to a cheer. Some Isfayen smiled, greatly amused by such foolishness. Others spat, or glared.
“So you're a full-fledged Hadryn warrior now?” Sasha asked. “Myk, you weasel your way out of attending temple every chance you get. You can barely recite the First Prayer.”
“This isn't about that,” Myklas retorted. “I've ridden with these men in battle. They are my brothers.”
“Your brothers are fanatics!” Sasha's temper grew short. Myklas was young and often stupid, but she'd never thought him cruel. “Ask them what they tried to do to the Udalyn! Ask them what they will do to serrin children if-spirits forbid-they find any!”
“At least I'm no traitor!”
“Myklas, they're using you! They build you up with kind words, but the Hadryn have always sought the throne for themselves. That's all this is!”
“You underestimate your brother!” said Lord Heryd. “I said that he was the best of us in the Battle of Shero Valley, and I meant it. With little experience, and not yet an older man's strength, he showed himself one of the most formidable warriors on the field. It is to the honour of Hadryn that he rides with us. In a few years, I am certain he shall best even his brother Koenyg.”
Even from this distance, Sasha could see Myklas sitting taller in the saddle to hear Lord Heryd's words.
“Myklas, you ride with murderers!” Sasha shouted.
“Look who's talking!” Myklas retorted. There was laughter from the Hadryn.
“Baby killers!” yelled an Isfayen, which set off a raucous exchange of insults across the water.
Someone splashed into the shallows at Sasha's side. Sasha looked, and found Rhillian. “Baby killers?” Rhillian asked, in mild amazement. “Have you civilised the wild Isfayen into moral paragons?”
Sasha shook her head. “It's not the baby, it's the lack of challenge the baby presents.”
“Oh,” said Rhillian, sadly.
“You're not too far wrong though, it's only been a generation since the Isfayen would happily slaughter entire villages. But Markan's father Faras was a wise man, he sent his children to Baen-Tar for education and he worked with the priests to change the Isfayen notion of honour. Or rather, he narrowed it, to what you see today.”
“I am sad then that Great Lord Faras died by a talmaad arrow.”
“He'd only compliment the archer's accuracy,” Sasha replied.
“Speaking of which,” said Rhillian, “I have some archers. I'll not harm your brother, but I'm fairly sure we could take Lord Heryd.”
“No,” Sasha said quietly. “This moment should be done right. Lenays need their symbolic moments, let's not spoil it.”
The remaining day passed in a blur. Lenay soldiers came across the Pirene in a trickle and then a flood. First came cavalry, and then footsoldiers, formed up in larger groups for defence, with other cavalry holding back to protect them. Some told stories of harassing raids by northern cavalry and some Larosans. But mostly, it seemed that what remained of the Lenay Army, beneath the command of King Koenyg, had ceased to advance. What came on now was the new Lenay Army, and it had no king.
The rains returned, and Sasha rode from group to group, to cheers from some and dull stares from others. Always the instruction was to make for the main road from Shemorane and follow it, for its path followed the Enoran Steel's retreat. News came from messengers that the Army of the Free Bacosh had entered Shemorane, less than a day's march away. Sasha doubted they would pursue, with the ceremonies at the High Temple about to commence, but cavalry elements certainly could. The Regent's army had better than a hundred thousand men, including tens of thousands of horse. The Lenays had to put distance between them, even if it meant marching through the night.
She was talking with some Rayen cavalry when a group of galloping Isfayen caught her eye. There were perhaps twenty, yelling and whooping, swords held high as they raced through the rain. They wheeled toward Sasha's group, and Sasha saw that the main body of men were in fact surrounding a girl, dressed in men's clothes, who was holding aloft not a sword, but something melon-sized and covered in hair. Predictably of the Isfayen, it was a head.
The group galloped past, and Sasha saw that the girl was Yasmyn, her eyes blazing with triumph. It felt wrong to smile at something so uncivilised. But Sasha found herself grinning.
“I almost don't want to ask,” said the Rayen man she'd been talking to, “but whose head was that?”
“Elias Assineth,” Sasha said cheerfully. “Cousin to the Regent.”
“You must have eyes like a serrin to see his face.”
“I didn't,” said Sasha. “But nothing else could make Markan's sister so happy. And Elias was commanding the forces that attacked the Pirene. She must have charged him.”
As the last stragglers broke into a run across the fields so as not to be left behind, Sasha finally returned to the road. There marched the Army of Lenayin, its battle order now a total mess, with provinces mixed together, men from south, west, and east walking or riding toward the south. Sasha rode through the fields beside the road, and at the crest of a hill, gained a sight of the road ahead. The column wound through the deepening gloom, into the heart of Enora. Men of central Tyree and Baen-Tar, of eastern Taneryn and Valhanan, of southern Rayen and Neysh, of eastern Isfayen, Yethulyn, and Fyden. Only the northerners of Ranash, Banneryd, and Hadryn were missing.
Soon she found Damon and a group of nobles on a hillside, watching the army pass. Sasha hugged him, and learned of his battle with Koenyg. He was in pain from his wounded side, yet seemed somehow triumphant. The nobles numbered thirty, from various provinces, and said they knew of as many again who rode elsewhere in the column. It was only a small portion of the total nobility, most of whom had stayed with Koenyg. Many of them watched Sasha warily, as though wondering who was now truly in charge-Damon or his sister. Sasha did not think that a question she was ready to answer.
Again she remounted her horse, and rode for the head of the column. And again she was halted, as someone on a cart amidst marching warriors yelled her name. Sasha peered, as the voice was familiar…and her heart stopped as she saw who it was.
She urged her horse to jump a low wall beside the road, then reined alongside the cart and leaped aboard. She hugged Andreyis, and burst into tears. Andreyis hugged her back, cheerfully, then introduced her to the other wounded men in the cart. Sasha barely took in anything, demanding again and again to know how he was not dead as she'd feared.
He told her, as a serrin girl riding alongside took the reins of Sasha's horse. The girl held the reins of one other horse that Andreyis claimed was now his, a gift from the monks for saving the High Temple. And that was a tale, which he told with relish, his young face alive with an odd combination of enthusiasm and confidence that she could not recall ever having seen in him before. Sasha listened, and every word was acknowledged by the men in the cart. One in particular proclaimed Andreyis a great hero, and that man, to Sasha's amazement was named Hydez, a Hadryn Verenthane. Sasha told him he was now probably the only Hadryn in the column. Hydez replied that his honour demanded he fight at Andreyis's side.
Sasha would happily have spent all evening in the cart, but with the darkness falling, she had to get to the head of the column. First she asked for Tomli, who had been riding with the supply wagons. He'd been safe there, but would be safer here, in the company of warriors. Sasha was not willing to leave him behind with anyone, with the Regent's army still in pursuit. Then she reclaimed her horse from the serrin girl, whose name was Yshel, and had been originally tasked to bring the Lenay prisoners to Shemorane. Now, as events brought the prisoners back into the Len
ay Army, she had decided to follow.
“Would my young friend with the wounded arm have anything to do with that decision?” Sasha teased her in Saalsi, yet with real interest.
“My path and his coincide,” Yshel admitted.
“Or perhaps entwine?” Sasha suggested. And she could have sworn that even in the fading light, she saw the serrin girl blush.
At the column's head, Sasha found a gathering of captains, village headmen, and a few lords. No one seemed to know who was in charge. All seemed greatly relieved to see Sasha as darkness fell, and the column continued through undulating fields. Sasha ordered scouts and cavalry to fall back, to give warning in case they were approached from the rear by Bacosh cavalry. None disputed her order. Sasha did not think a threat from behind at all likely-an army the size of the Army of the Free Bacosh (or whatever they were calling it now) was exceptionally difficult to manoeuvre at night, particularly in lands where the night was owned by forces hostile to their presence. Some lanterns and torches were brought to the head of the column, and some others lit further back, or carried by roadside sentries on horseback. Cloud and occasional rain made for a dark night, yet so long as the column held to the road, all would be good for now.
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.”
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