Haven atobas-4

by Joel Shepherd

  Sofy stopped and peered through orchard trees, back toward a farmhouse. Could she ride toward it, and hope she would not be seen?

  The Elissians were barely a hundred paces ahead of her, spinning their horses, killing in a frenzy, trampling any who were close. Some now galloped her way, back along the column, people running before them in terrified waves. Fifty paces.

  A new horseman crashed from the trees and into the leading Elissian. Jaryd. The Elissian's horse jostled sideways into a collision with a wagon, and Jaryd split the man's head all over the wheels. He spun, hammering another Elissian with his shield, then a skilful spin of his horse, a quick spur and leap past the other's blade, and a cut that took that Elissian through the shoulder.

  The Elissian hung on for dear life, shoulder wrecked, his horse bolting in terror straight at Sofy. There was nowhere for her to go, and it dodged first, straight into the orchard trees, thrashing and slowing in the branches.

  Jaryd and now Asym were fighting back along the column, killing as they went. Sofy had never seen its like. Truly she'd never appreciated what greatness meant, as a warrior. Men had told stories of Jaryd on horseback in lagand tournaments, then remarked snidely that lagand was not warfare. Lagand had always horrified her with its unnecessary brutality. Now she watched as Jaryd, Asym, and several companions hacked and bludgeoned their way up the column, with furious violence somehow as graceful as a dance.

  And then he was coming back, galloping past her, and she had a glimpse of his eyes, burning within a blood-splattered face. He barely saw her, racing to the rear of the column to deal with the attack there. About her, folk were leaping from wagons, grabbing the wounded Elissian still mired in the orchard trees, dragging him from his saddle. There beneath her mount, ordinary men and women wrestled the wounded man down, tore off his helm, pinned his arms, and beat, stabbed, and tore at him with screams of rage and fear. Soon there was blood everywhere and, as they got at his weapons, torn shreds of flesh.

  Sofy set off after Jaryd, too dazed to think. Tracatans huddled amidst the trees and milled about the farmhouse walls, hugging children and staring at the galloping horsemen who went racing up and down the road, hoping they were friendly, fearing they were not. By the time she reached the rear of the column, the Elissians were fleeing. Defenders on horseback were chasing. On the road, she saw Jaryd once more, and Asym, amidst a number of riderless horses. Bodies were strewn across the road. A few were Elissians. Most were not.

  In his saddle, Asym looked satisfied. He gave a yell in Telochi and clashed shields with Jaryd, a mutual salute. Jaryd looked around, breathing hard, dripping with blood that was not his. His shield bore countless new marks, and he seemed to have some pain in that arm, shaking it off even now. The huge blade in his fist was blood-streaked, and bore several new notches. He saw an Elissian still moving upon the road. Jaryd dismounted and drove the blade through the fallen man's chest with a two-handed thrust. He pulled the blade out with brutal contempt and remounted. And looked at Sofy.

  Seeing him, Sofy realised something that she had never appreciated before in her life. Glory was not just some awful word that silly men invented to excuse their crimes. Glory rode a horse, and saved the helpless from terrible enemies by slaughtering them, without mercy, and with great fire. Glory was awful, and frightening. But it was real, and looked at her now with heaving shoulders and burning eyes.

  Jaryd and Asym sat together on the steps of the fountain in the village courtyard. Evening shadows fell upon the pavings and a cool breeze had begun to blow, relief from the heat of the day. They ate fruit from the orchards, and some bread passed around from the bakery. There were crowds about the courtyard, people clustered before the small temple, ordinary folk frightened and tired, some with children. A few were making the rounds, tearfully, asking for this or that missing person, lost when the Elissians had attacked on the road. Past the fountain, the two Larosan knights had laid out their armour and were resting, exhausted. Unarmoured, they looked like normal men.

  Many of those running from Tracato had a part-serrin look to them. Others simply feared no one was safe. All were headed for Saalshen, in hope of sanctuary. Saalshen had no fortresses to stop people from Rhodaan, only the Ipshaal River. How they would cross it, Jaryd did not know. Saalshen traded in large volume with Rhodaan; surely there were boats. But if those boats fell into Elissian hands, there would be little to stop the pursuit. Most serrin did not fight. If only Saalshen were more like Lenayin, with every man a warrior, things would be different.

  Asym poured some water over the wound on his shoulder. It was not deep, though the surrounding skin was discoloured. He then poured a little more on Jaryd's back, where a blow had done similar damage across a shoulder blade. Asym's upper arms and chest were tattooed with intricate curls and patterns in black ink, from which emerged the fanged and snarling faces of animals real and mythical.

  “I hope Jandlys is well,” Jaryd said absently.

  Asym made a face. “If he is in Tracato, then no. Jandlys not quiet man. He make fight he will not win.” Jaryd nodded, unable to argue with that. “It is good. Today is a good day.”

  Jaryd thought of the dead Tracatans on the road, but he knew what Asym meant. They were outnumbered, and slowed by their defence of this column of civilians. The cause was good, and the Elissians would surely return in far larger numbers. The opportunities for glory were high, posthumously or otherwise.

  “You should have kaspi,” said Asym, looking thoughtfully at Jaryd's bare torso. Tattoos, he meant. Goeren-yai markings. “So that the spirits shall recognise you when you die.”

  Jaryd smiled faintly, chewing an apple. “What if I don't plan on dying soon?”

  “Elissians may have other idea.” Jaryd laughed. “But besides, you die someday. The great spirits recognise me when I die, take me back to Isfayen, to the high meadows. There is great view there, maybe I see a new place to be reborn.”

  “You are a shepherd, yes?”

  Asym nodded. “As a boy, I take flocks from low pasture to high in spring. The snow melts, and the grass is green. I watch sheep amongst the clouds, and practise my swordwork. Here, I am far from home, but I think of the high pasture and I am happy. These,” and he tapped the tattoos, “these will take me there, one day.”

  “Perhaps the Verenthane gods will still recognise me,” Jaryd suggested.

  Asym smiled, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You Goeren-yai. You great warrior, spirits all see you. And I will speak for you.”

  A little girl with bright blue serrin eyes stopped before them and stared. In particular she stared at Asym, with his long black hair, markings, and narrow eyes. The two Lenays watched her back, with equal curiosity. She was no more than five, yet seemed to understand far more of what she saw than any human child of that age.

  The girl's mother hurried over and collected her, then hurried off. The woman had not been serrin. Jaryd wondered where the serrin father was.

  “These people are of the spirits,” said Asym. “It did not feel right to fight them. I worry for the spirits of men who died by their hand.”

  “If the Army of Lenayin fights with Saalshen now, it means the serrin have accepted them and forgiven,” Jaryd disagreed. “If they can forgive those who live, they will certainly forgive those who died.”

  Asym nodded, thinking on it, and uncorked a flask another local had pressed upon them. Ale of a kind, he'd said, made from apples. Asym took a swig, and offered it to Jaryd. Jaryd sniffed. It was fruity and strong. A sip, and nothing. Then a change, and fumes burning his sinuses. His eyes watered and he restrained a cough with difficulty.

  Asym laughed and took another swig. They invited the Larosans to join them, and soon they were all more relaxed.

  Jaryd walked in the evening gloom to the temple at the courtyard's end, a shirt donned for propriety's sake. Tracatans queued upon the steps, some holding candles as the night came on, hoping for a way inside. They recognised Jaryd-from the road he supposed-and stood asi
de with eyes lowered in deference.

  The temple was attractive, like most town temples in these parts, a long paved floor between high walls. There was a priest conducting services of some kind, and a crowd up at the front where Sofy stood. Jaryd caught a glimpse of her, the Idys Mark still plain upon her forehead, hair covered beneath this Verenthane roof, blessing those who tried to touch her while fielding enquiries from several important-looking men.

  Jaryd edged forward until he stood beneath an arched windowsill near the front. Upon the sill sat a serrin woman in plain clothes, observing the proceedings with calm curiosity. She patted the place beside her on the sill, and Jaryd leaped up.

  “You fought well on the road, Nyvar,” said the serrin. “With Lenayin with us, perhaps we have a chance.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jaryd.

  “I'm Ysilder,” she said, extending a hand. “A jeweller.”

  “No svaalverd?” Jaryd asked.

  Ysilder shook her head apologetically. “My diamonds are occasionally used to sharpen svaalverd blades. That's all.”

  “What happens here?”

  “Gods know,” she murmured. Jaryd looked at her oddly. “Figure of speech. I've been in Tracato a long time. The people appear to believe there are blessings to be had. Your princess offers herself. Now she is cornered.”

  “I would have taken her to Saalshen by another route,” Jaryd muttered. “But she saw all these people flooding out of Tracato and she insisted we help them.”

  “She does seem that type,” the serrin agreed.

  “I doubt we do help. The Elissians will be after her, and I don't think Prince Dafed will protest; he never liked her or this marriage. They failed to kill her when they had the chance, and if she survives she may spread embarrassing tales to the Regent of how news of her death was exaggerated by his allies.”

  “They'll need to kill us all,” Ysilder said tiredly. “The whole column, and every village we pass through. To hide the truth. It's not beyond them.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Jaryd said wearily. “I'm yet to be convinced that she does, despite everything.”

  “She wears the mark of the wedded still,” Ysilder observed. “Does she think her marriage survives? Even should the Regent love her and wish revenge on those who have gone against him, there is no point now. Lenayin is gone for him, or at least severely reduced. And his revenge, if properly conducted, would split the Bacosh and thus his alliance, just when his final victory is at hand.”

  “She swore an oath,” said Jaryd. Ysilder looked at him-a middle-aged woman, with weary wisdom in her gaze. Jaryd sighed. “Yes, she is that type. All Lenay girls dream of marriage, and the romance of vows. A man has a warrior's honour, a woman has a wife's.”

  “No fair swap,” said the serrin.

  Jaryd shrugged. “There has been no recognised divorce. A married Lenay woman who does not obey her vows forfeits all honour.”

  “You're not in Lenayin any longer,” Ysilder said pointedly.

  “You go tell her that.”

  “No,” said Ysilder. “You.”

  Jaryd thought about it, then pushed himself off the sill and toward the front of the temple. Sofy looked exhausted, no longer in her riding clothes but wearing a dress, spirits knew where she'd found it. The royal ring was on her finger, a gaudy emerald the size of an eye. A man had unrolled a parchment map in front of her, and was insisting with a jabbing finger upon some point drawn there. A priest hovered at her side, another man with more maps in rolls and a village head denoted by a fancy frilled collar.

  “Sofy,” Jaryd interrupted.

  The man with the map raised his hand to ward off the interruption. “…see here,” he was insisting to Sofy's weary gaze, “if we follow this route, it should not take us more than a day off our course, we can rally at the town and collect those from the orphanage and school, and then head for the Ipshaal.”

  “We cannot afford to lose a day!” another man protested. “The Elissians will be back, they will know of the major crossings, we're not sure if the boats are available or if the serrin have moved them upstream….”

  “There are a hundred and thirty souls in this orphanage,” the man with the map retorted, “primarily children! It is too dangerous for them to travel these roads unguarded! Our column provides protection-we can gather them up and move them in safety!”

  “By losing a day for them to regroup,” Jaryd interjected, “which will get us all killed.”

  “These are women and children in need!” the man insisted.

  “Look around you, I see women and children everywhere. The Elissians will be back many times as strong now they know the nature of this column-”

  “You're not in charge here!” the man snapped, turning back to Sofy. “Your Highness…”

  “As one of those whose task it is to provide the security you speak of,” Jaryd overrode him loudly, “I have charge of that defence. The women and children in that town can be escorted by others if their need is great, and probably already have been. Now stop bothering the princess with your nonsense.”

  “Just because you wear a blade, that does not give you the right to command everyone else!” the man shouted at him. “If you want to be a fucking coward, you go ahead, your violent ways give you no rights here!”

  Jaryd punched him in the jaw, and he went down with a clatter. All activity in the temple stopped.

  “That's where you're wrong,” said Jaryd.

  He turned to Sofy. She was staring up at him, wide-eyed, but only faintly horrified. Jaryd hoped that was progress. “Sofy, what are you doing here?” he asked in Lenay. “Go and get some rest.”

  “These people need me,” Sofy said faintly. “Jaryd, I cannot turn my back on them.”

  “These people need leadership,” Jaryd retorted. “They need you to do what is good for them, not what will make them happy. This man's happiness will get everyone killed-you can't please them all!”

  “The serrin half-castes of Tracato are some of the finest talents in all the civilised world,” Sofy insisted. “They flee from slaughter, and I will help them in my own way. It is how I am, Jaryd. Surely you appreciate that?”

  Jaryd gazed at her in despair. She still thought to return to the Regent, and piece things together again. He could see it in her eyes, in the ring she wore. Still the Idys Mark weighed on her forehead, taunting him, a plea to the god of fertility to bless her marriage with child. A plea for the worlds of Lenayin and the Bacosh to come together, and make peaceful union.

  If it were not so sad, Jaryd would have laughed.

  “Don't try to hold up the world, Sofy,” he said. “You're not strong enough. No one is.”

  “I may surprise you. The serrin tell us that all the world is connected. We just need to pull the threads tighter.”

  “The serrin are about to die. All of them. Words will not save them now.”

  Sofy's eyes flicked to the fallen man on the floor. “I cannot be like you, Jaryd. There must be a place for the likes of me in this world you wish to see.”

  “You'll never be like me,” said Jaryd. “One Jaryd Nyvar in the world is enough. One Sofy Lenayin is a wonderful thing too. I just wish that she would come out from beneath this burden that she hauls, and show herself to the world once more. The world would brighten, for her to be in it. But lately she serves only others, and never shows her face to any but them. I would like to see her eyes once more, for I recall that her smile was like the sun.”

  Sofy's eyes softened and her lip trembled. Jaryd swallowed hard. Then he bowed, and turned and strode from the temple, people parting before him. They whispered together, searching for anyone who spoke Lenay and could tell them what had been said.

  General Zulmaher followed the gaolers through dark stone passages beneath the Justiciary. Lantern light moved and swung past the bars on the wall, and prisoners winced in the glare and shaded their eyes. At the general's side, young Alfriedo Renine took wary steps. Behind him, several armed and loyal men.
>
  The gaoler stopped before one barred cage and inserted a key. The door rattled open and light fell upon a young woman within. She looked up from her seat in the corner, her lean face smeared with soot and recent bruises, beneath a tangle of hair.

  “That's her,” said Zulmaher. “That's Jelendria.” He walked to her and crouched. “Jelendria. General Zulmaher, we met before.”

  “I remember,” said Jeddie. She looked past him to Alfriedo and made an effort to rise. That brought a wince, and a limp. “A twisted ankle,” she answered their concern. “Not serious. I can limp.”

  “M'lady, it would not be decorous for a noble lady to limp all the way back up the stairs,” Alfriedo declared with concern. “The general is a strong man, I am certain he can carry you.”

  Zulmaher smiled faintly. The boy's mother had been a vain and vengeful fool, but she'd certainly taught him manners.

  He carried Jeddie back up the corridor, not as easy a task as the boy made out-she was slim but tall, and her dress entangled his legs.

  “I hear you were caught in the Mahl'rhen?” Alfriedo asked her as they walked. Jeddie nodded, drawn and pale. “Is it true that the Archbishop's men destroyed it?”

  “I helped some Nasi-Keth and others to save some things, books and the like. A few old serrin were still there. Lesthen, the ambassador. The Archbishop's men killed him when they came.” Her voice trembled. “They're beasts,” she added in a frightened, hateful whisper. “They smashed all the statues and artworks. They killed old serrin on sight. Beasts, the lot of them.”

  “I don't understand,” said Alfriedo with concern. “Did you not identify yourself to them as the daughter of Horseth?” Jeddie nodded. The party reached the steps, and began climbing. “Why did they then throw you in the dungeons?”

  “We were caught trying to save another load of books. Wonderful things, with the most amazing illustrations. Old histories of the Bacosh and its peoples, written by the serrin some seven centuries ago. They attacked us even though I told them who I was. There were too many of them. Some of us got away, but I was too slow.