“Sasha,” he said calmly, “you know as well as I do that if he’d tried to rape you, you’d have stuck a knife in his throat.”
“It’s not honourable!” Sasha snapped. “He never raised a blade against me!”
Oh, thought Errollyn, realising. That was it. “Well, you can hardly just let him overpower you and take you, can you?”
“Rather than stick a blade in a man not wielding one?” Sasha retorted. “I can’t cut a bare-handed man!”
Errollyn rolled his eyes. “It’s hard living to a code of honour, yes?
“You wouldn’t know, you could have beaten him up.”
“I’m quite sure Reynold Hein would not have been trying to rape me.”
“Good spirits,” Sasha muttered, striding back toward the Tol’rhen. “Men!”
Errollyn grabbed her arm. “Don’t use that on me. Of all the men in your life, exactly how many times has this happened?” Sasha stared at him. Then her gaze fell.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Suddenly the anger was gone and she was sombre. Vulnerable, even. “I was scared for a moment, I couldn’t think. That almost never happens. I…I couldn’t think of how I’d explain it to you, or…”
Errollyn shook his head in exasperation. “Sasha, if you know anything about serrin, you know that we don’t place any credence in this human notion of female sexual virtue. If he had succeeded, it would make absolutely no—”
“I know, I know.” Sasha held up her hands. “It would make a difference to me, though.”
Errollyn put a hand to her face. “And to him. I’d have killed him. And still may.”
“Don’t,” Sasha said sombrely. “We can’t afford it. Kessligh can’t, Reynold’s too important.”
Errollyn smiled. “When did you get so mature? Not long ago you’d have been demanding the right to split him from nose to groin and devils take the consequences.”
“I know,” Sasha agreed, a smile ghosting upon her lips. “I can barely believe it myself. Now kiss me, because I’ve had that shit’s smell in my mouth all day, and I’d rather yours.”
Errollyn did as she asked. It occurred to him as he did so, that she rarely asked for anything more than this, and his company. It only made him want to give her more.
They walked back to the Tol’rhen, holding hands.
“You didn’t seem very surprised when I said it was Reynold.”
“Powerful men, Sasha. I’ve seen human men relish the thrill.”
“But a man like Reynold could have any number of women.”
“And that’s the point. He only demonstrates his power to himself by conquering the most unlikely. The grander the dragon slain, the greater his glory.”
“Lovely choice of metaphor,” Sasha said, bumping him as they walked. “How did you hurt your leg?”
“Small encounter in a brothel.” Sasha looked at him, eyebrows raised. Errollyn grinned. “Let me tell you about it.”
“Really, Errollyn. I know I’m not as experienced as some women, but a brothel?”
He cuffed her lightly on the head. Sasha returned one of her own, and they scuffled and laughed toward the rising wall of the Tol’rhen.
Errollyn found Reynold at the Great Hall during the evening music recital. Five Tol’rhen students, two Ulenshaals and a pair of serrin were playing pipes, strings and drum in strange combination. Perhaps two hundred people gathered about the hall to hear, across dining tables soon to be filled for dinner.
Reynold sat to one side near the kitchens, munching from a bowl of nuts. His usual friends were seated about the table, discussing politics in low voices. Reynold seemed more interested in the music, casting the others only an occasional glance. He saw Errollyn coming and smiled.
“Errollyn!” he whispered, with no apparent trepidation. That did not surprise Errollyn either. “What do you think of this composition? Isn’t it wonderful?”
“I like the larger strings,” Errollyn said. “These smaller ones sound like a cat being strangled.” Reynold’s nose, he saw, seemed swollen, with a trace of dried blood at one nostril.
“Ah yes, but the fusion of rhythm and melody. Like the fusion of human and serrin thoughts in one.”
“Are we melody, or are you?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” said Reynold, watching the musicians. “A question for my morning lecture, perhaps?” It was so like the man, Errollyn thought. So determined to demonstrate to all his intellectual fascination in all points of culture.
“Reynold, I need to speak with you,” said Errollyn. He indicated to the kitchens. Reynold nodded, entirely unworried, and went with him. That was expected, too.
Behind the heavy door grand fires blazed, and cooks laboured over benches piled with food. Reynold turned to Errollyn expectantly. Errollyn punched him in the stomach, very hard.
Reynold doubled over, and fell to all fours. Above the shouts and commotion of dinner, cooks turned in astonishment to look.
“The only reason you’re still alive,” Errollyn said calmly, “is that Sasha’s honour precludes her from killing you. She has the honour of a warrior—not of a woman, or you’d be dead. I’m trying to talk her into a new interpretation. If you try it again, you may discover if I’ve succeeded.”
“What did she tell you?” Reynold’s voice sounded odd, beyond the shortness of breath. He was laughing, Errollyn realised. “Not the truth, obviously. I have to say, I was surprised. I’d thought a virile man such as yourself could satisfy even her, but no, she threw herself at me like she hadn’t been fucked in weeks. She was quite upset when I said no. I don’t envy you her temper my friend.”
“I dislike fighting Sasha’s fights for her,” Errollyn continued, unbothered, “but she can be stubborn in her Lenay honour. If she won’t do it, I will. Stay away from her. Or better yet, next time, come at her with a weapon in hand, I dare you.”
“Friend Errollyn,” Reynold sighed, getting one foot carefully beneath him, and making to stand. “I can see why your people have disowned you. Truly, you leap to unfounded conclusions, and you come to violence as your first resort. How you must alarm the gentle serrinim.”
“I’m a scholar, Reynold,” said Errollyn. “Like you. I learn my subjects well. I learn how they respond, and what motivates them best. It is my scholarly judgement that if you touch Sasha again, one of us will gut you like a fish.”
He kicked Reynold in the stomach, and the man went down again. Errollyn left him lying there, as cooks rushed to assist. Disconcertingly, despite the obvious pain, Reynold only seemed more amused.
O N THE HILL ABOVE THE SHALLOW VALLEY, Rhillian sat ahorse and watched the prelude to battle. From here, behind the Rhodaani Steel’s right flank, she could see nearly everything. A small river ran across the fields below, and in front of her, on the far side of the river, she saw a small castle on a hill. No more than a minor holding—it was held, she’d heard, by a lord named Herol, a bannerman to the northern Lord Arendt. Here, upon the long slope before the castle walls, the Army of Elisse, beneath Lord Arendt commanding, had chosen to make its stand.
The Elissian Army was enormous. Scouting talmaad with a better eye for such things estimated their numbers at between twenty-two and twenty-five thousand. They bristled across the hillside. Banners flew, denoting each minor formation’s allegiances in the many colours of feudal heraldry.
Rhillian could see why Arendt had chosen this place to stop running. For one thing, it was barely north of the coastal city of Vethenel, and squarely on a major route of supply. If the Steel took these roads and lands, Vethenel would be blockaded and, more importantly, would no longer be able to resupply the army. Also, most of the lords remaining were of the northern peninsula, and to not make a stand here would be to abandon many castles to incineration. But, mostly, what made this a good place to fight was the terrain.
The Elissian Army occupied a slope, up which the Steel must advance, in heavy armour. The castle made a good vantage, from which the battle could be directed. And at the base
of the slope ran the river, which the Steel would need to ford, directly into the teeth of Elissian archers and charging knights. The Rhodaani Steel numbered nine thousand, as the third battalion under Captain Pieron had been the first to encounter the Elissian position here, and send word to the first battalion under General Zulmaher. The fifth battalion under Captain Malisse had not yet arrived, but was known to be two days’ march to the east. Rhillian headed barely more than six hundred of her three thousand talmaad in Elisse—the rest were scattered across the lands behind, guarding supply lines, making certain newly sworn lords kept their oaths, gathering supplies and putting down minor revolts.
Surely Lord Arendt was feeling as confident as was possible of any commander, facing an army of the Steel. He had the favour of numbers, by three to one. He had the favour of the land, particularly the river. General Zulmaher was attempting a quick victory, and could not waste days or weeks attempting to outflank the retreating Elissians in manoeuvre after manoeuvre, seeking a more suitable place for battle. Arendt could retreat all the way up the peninsula if he chose, never fighting a decisive battle, and cost the Rhodaani Steel another month at the least. If Zulmaher wished to defeat the Elissian resistance on the field, he had no choice but to do it here.
Trumpets rang across the valley, shouts followed, in unison, and the Rhodaani Steel began its advance. Rhillian could hear the armoured clatter, even from this distance. Six thousand infantry, arranged in three formations of two thousand each. Each two thousand comprised of twenty squares of a hundred, in two lines of ten, one thousand men per line. The formations were precise in their geometry. Rhillian wondered how many of those serrin scholars who insisted that nothing of war could ever be beautiful, had ever seen the Rhodaani Steel in battle.
“Here we are,” said Arendelle, pointing across the river. “The cavalry musters.” The Elissians had been holding back their cavalry, presumably to keep Zulmaher guessing, but there had been little doubt as to Arendt’s intentions. The best Elissian cavalry was heavy, and Rhillian’s guess was that a quarter of these cavalry were knights. Downslope, headlong into the centre of the Rhodaani formation, they could break even a line of the Steel. Flanking would serve no purpose, for the talmaad worked on the flanks, on faster horses mounted with serrin archers, who did unfair, unchivalrous things like shooting unarmoured horses from under the knights’ steel backsides.
Now, as Rhillian watched, cavalry were pouring down the hillside between formations of footsoldiers. Before the front ranks, they were forming.
“Signalman,” Rhillian called, “if you please. Call to our talmaad to prepare.”
The trumpeter was a tall, skinny Rhodaani boy, lent to her for the occasion by General Zulmaher. The boy raised his long horn, and blew a clear, high melody.
“That’s very pretty,” Aisha remarked, steadying her anxious mount with one hand, her bow in the other.
“Thank you, M’Lady,” said the nervous young man. He seemed far more nervous of serrin women than men, Rhillian thought. Well, perhaps she should have forbade Eli and Sairen from trying to get him drunk and bedded last night. To the best of her knowledge, the lad had not succumbed. Which was still a pity, she thought now, watching the army advance toward the river. It would not do for any man or woman to die a virgin, and this lad certainly looked it.
From the rear of the Rhodaani formation, Rhillian could see her talmaad now galloping in two groups, three hundred to each flank. Arendt would see that, and have his conviction to go through the centre reinforced. Rhillian wondered if he would also note the artillery line moving up behind the infantry, and grasp its significance. Most feudal commanders rarely did. The great crossbow arms of two-stack ballistas bounced as the carts upon which they rode trundled forward, pulled by horse or oxen.
Of the nine thousand assembled men, fully a thousand were artillerymen. Each of the infantry formations was backed by fifteen cart-mounted ballista, and five catapults—for forty-five ballista and fifteen catapults in all. Usually, in forces equipped with such weapons, the artillery remained behind with the command and reserve. Here, the artillery advanced, while the thousand-strong reserve, of eight hundred foot and two hundred cavalry, remained behind. It was a great risk if the battle turned against the Steel. But General Zulmaher did not expect to lose.
The right-flank formation reached the river a little before the centre and left, and waded in past the broken screen of trees. Serrin riders had already tested its depth, braving occasional arrowfire to gallop through the waters, returning to assure all that at its deepest, it would be barely above a soldier’s waist. Before the front rank of Elissian infantry, the cavalry line appeared to be nearing completion.
“How many cavalry, do you think?” Rhillian asked Arendelle. There were ten of them here, atop the shallow hill, all serrin save for the signalman. Enough to guard against sneaking scouts and outriders who sought to flank them, and ambush in the rear.
“I think about four thousand,” said Arendelle, staring hard across the battlefield. “One thousand knights.”
Another trumpet call from the artillery line, which ceased its advance. Rhillian saw rounds being moved to the catapults from amongst piles of wet blankets. Small fires were lit, men swarming to prepare their enormous contraptions.
“They’re in range,” said Tessi with certainty, measuring the distance with her eyes. “How unbelievably stupid of them.”
“Let’s go,” said Rhillian, and galloped down the slope, her talmaad in pursuit. She was nearly at eye level with the artillery when the first catapults fired. With a great, unwinding rush, they hurled flaming balls into the sky. For a moment, the air filled with streaking, burning projectiles. Already the catapult men were rearming, winding furiously at the handles that wound metal-toothed gears, pulling back the giant arms thrice as fast as conventional rope winches.
Ahead, flames erupted across the Elissian cavalry line with a horrid orange and blue glare…. Rhillian winced as she rode, to shield her sensitive eyes. Then the noise reached her above the thunder of horses’ hooves—the whump! of successive bursts of flame, and the screams and cries of a thousand men and horses, who had not realised themselves within range of the Steel’s most feared weapon. Conventional artillery was hard to aim. How the Steel artillerymen could achieve such accuracy on wheels was beyond even her.
Now the ballista were firing, forty-five at once and each one a double-stack, the cartsmen not even bothering to halt their advance. Ninety bolts shot skyward, and mechanisms were immediately winched back, even faster than the catapults.
Rhillian arrived at the head of her three hundred right flank cavalry, just short of the riverbank, and stopped. From here, through breaks in the trees, she could see the confusion of the Elissian forward line—horses milling and rearing, senior men waving swords and flags, trying to rearrange the formation. Smoke hung in the air in great palls, and sections of grass still burned.
The Rhodaani infantry line had now stopped, midstream. They simply stood in waist deep water, and watched. More horses fell, randomly, to streaking ballista bolts. Cavalrymen held shields above their heads, and hoped, waiting for their seniors to sort out the confusion and give the order to charge. Surely they still had some time left before the next fiery volley, as catapults took time to reload.
A new series of thuds and whistles overhead put the lie to that. Cavalrymen saw it coming, and screamed in panic. Whole sections of formation broke, hundreds of horses scattering. Some rode straight into an eruption of flame, and were engulfed. Rhillian closed her eyes to save her vision. When she opened them again, she saw scenes of utter horror, men and horses engulfed twenty and thirty at a time, rolling and running, screaming and falling. Ballista fire whistled continuously, felling animals and riders with steady, random rhythm.
Finally the trumpets blew, others taking up the cry. Broken sections of cavalry came galloping downslope, and others joined them, as much in hope of escaping the murderous artillery as attacking the midstream Rhodaanis. Mo
re trumpets blew, this time from behind, and with a thunder of their own, a thousand Rhodaani cavalry charged for the river, and the gaps between their infantry’s formations.
Rhillian held her horse in check, watching the mass of mounted Rhodaanis plunging through the frothing waters. They were not so heavily armoured as Elissian knights, wearing segmented armour like the infantry, yet their shields and lances, and huge warhorses, made them imposing enough. They cleared the far bank, and aimed for the gaping holes the artillery had torn through the Elissian cavalry’s ranks. The Elissian charge split, some falling back in swirling confusion upon the Rhodaani cavalry, others charging on toward the river.
Rhillian tore her sword clear, raised it, then swiped at the air. She needed no trumpeter, and the serrin gave no yell as they charged, crashing into the waters in a churn of white spray. Ahead, beyond the confusion of cavalry, new bursts of fire were blooming further upslope. The artillery had turned their attention upon the Elissian footsoldiers…and Verenthane gods help them.
Her talmaad rounded the Rhodaani right flank, and emerged from the waters to find what heavy cavalry had made it this far, plunging into the river to attack the Steel infantry. The water slowed their horses in leaping, splashing bounds, and took the weight off their charge. The Steel held firm, behind solid walls of shields, and returned with sword thrusts and thrown spears from within the protective formation squares.
Serrin riders fanned out, bows ready, firing wherever targets presented. Always they fired at horses, never at armoured riders, and animals toppled. Perhaps fifty mixed knights and cavalry charged them instead of the infantry, huge armoured suits atop equally huge horses, angling wicked steel lances as they came. Rhillian might have attacked, courageously, but instead wheeled, and galloped before them. More serrin did the same, wheeling for the flanks, firing as they went. Pursuing horses fell, and knights crashed tumbling on the ground. A cavalryman to Rhillian’s left, in chain and helm, took an arrow in the neck as he charged at her flank. Serrin ran on, twisting in their saddles to shoot with accuracy known only to the talmaad.
Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three Page 13