Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three

by Shepherd, Joel

  Rhillian gazed at the great ovens, black steel doors swung open, cold and empty. The air smelled of residual soot, and old vegetables. Then she nodded.

  “If I can find them, I will.”

  “Rhillian,” said Kessligh, drawing her full attention. “I understand that Sasha has violated the law, and will remain confined. See that she is not harmed. Nor her sister, nor Errollyn.”

  Rhillian drew a deep breath. “As I said, the Justiciary’s independence is two centuries old. I cannot be seen to tamper, or I will lose much of what support I currently hold, even with the Steel. Rhodaani justice is a matter for the gods. I cannot be seen to overrule their judgement. The priests have been quiet until now, but if I lose the priesthood, we have Petrodor all over again.”

  “I know,” Kessligh said simply. “I merely warn you, for your sake and mine. You know me to be hard, but rational. If something happens to Sasha, I can assure you my rationality shall be tested. You’ll be on the top of my list.” The grip upon his staff, Rhillian noted, was white knuckled. His voice and face betrayed little emotion, yet the man was wound as tightly as a spring. Close as he stood, Rhillian could not help but feel a certain alarm. “Just so you know,” Kessleigh said quietly.

  They were returning to the Mahl’rhen when urgent word arrived in the form of a scout on horseback. Lieutenant Raine having returned to his unit, Rhillian and Aisha set off after the scout, their guard in pursuit. Deep into feudalist heartland they rode, as armed Steel stood aside, and the only others on the narrow, cobbled roads were armed nobility, in groups no larger than the proscribed five. Soon, Rhillian knew, given the size of the Civid Sein mobs, and the inability of the Steel to control them, she would have to give the order to allow the nobility to gather in whatever size force they liked. The nobility had good weapons, and good men. Then, it would be civil war.

  Into a small cross street, between nondescript stone buildings halfway up the slope from the docks, there was a commotion of shouting men, wailing women, and armoured shields holding back the inconsolable crowd. They opened enough to allow Rhillian, Aisha and guards to pass, then closed once more. Rhillian dismounted, and entered through a door bashed off its hinges, then up steps to the first floor.

  It was a simple room, unbefitting of nobility, perhaps, but then few of the feudalists of central Tracato were actually noble. A simple, wood-planked floor, some basic furnishings before the windows, and all now covered in the most appalling carnage. Bodies had been hacked, limbs removed, entrails strewn like depraved festival decorations. Rhillian had seen many such sights upon the battlefield, but somehow, the horror of this was far, far worse. This had been someone’s home. Blood upon a simple tabletop, and gore dripping down the front of a small bookshelf, was somehow indecent in a way that even a thousand dead and wounded soldiers upon green or ploughed fields had never quite managed.

  She stepped over a woman’s body and saw a younger girl, a teenager, face down in her own blood and eyes wide, frozen in horror. Then the smaller child, a little boy, head partly severed from his…

  Rhillian nearly retched. Nearly broke down and cried. She had steeled herself to do these terrible things, and see these terrible sights, because if she did not, this fate would one day befall the people and children of Saalshen. Someone had to, and the vel’ennar had determined that that someone should be her. But she had rarely despised humanity more, at any moment, than she did right then.

  Then she saw the Lady Tathilde Renine. The face was contorted, a grotesque shape of mouth and protruding tongue, from the rope that strangled about her neck. The rope was tied over an exposed ceiling beam, the lady’s dress slashed and dripping blood, where men had cut her as she hung, and struggled, and kicked. Her once-beautiful eyes now beheld a dull finality.

  Aisha saw the hanging body too, as she came in behind, and let out a small, sad sigh. “Oh no,” she said. “Now there’ll be trouble.”

  Sasha knew something was wrong the moment the cell door squealed open. She shielded her eyes against the lantern’s glare, spying shapes that were not those of the regular Justiciary gaolers, but men with rough clothes and no armour. She tried to stand but could not raise beyond a crouch thanks to the manacles that bound her wrists, and then chained in turn to an iron ring at her feet. The man advancing on her was big, with bare arms and a nasty manner. This was going to hurt.

  The first punch struck her in the side as she tensed, falling to her knees and covering, hoping to ride out the worst of it. Kicks thudded in as she covered her head with her arms, blindingly painful, but not so completely strange to a svaalverd warrior who had spent most of her youth being beaten with Kessligh’s practice stanch, and falling off horses. She hissed and exhaled hard as she needed to; hard breathing always helped her svaalverd exercises, and it helped to deal with the pain.

  Finally, as she ached in a fire of new bruises, a key was taken to her chains, and the chain released. Perhaps she was to be set free, she thought, as the men dragged her stumbling from the cell. Perhaps something had happened, perhaps politics had demanded her release, or Kessligh had held a blade to someone’s neck—possibly Rhillian’s. Perhaps this punishment was only the final, spiteful gift of those determined to get their shots in while they could.

  She did not recognise the corridor down which they pulled her. It was not a part of the main row into which she had penetrated to try to save Alythia. She stumbled down some steps and into a larger dungeon, lit with flame. The air was warm here, and fire burned in an ironmonger’s furnace at the far wall. Chains hung from the ceiling, and upon wooden tables were arrayed rows of grisly implements. Bloodstains spattered the floor, and there was a smell to the air that was not quite foulness, but far from pleasant.

  It was fear, Sasha decided, as they dragged her to the hanging chains. It was her own fear. Her eyes would not leave the row of implements on the tabletop, however hard she tried to drag them away. Her heart was hammering. She had long ago confronted the prospect of disfiguring wounds in battle. Such a thing would happen quickly, before she could think on it. This would be slow. She wanted to cry, to scream and beg, and the Lenay warrior in her soul hated herself for it.

  The chain between her wrist manacles was linked over a hook, two blows to her midriff ceasing her attempt to struggle. That hook was pulled high with the rattle of a winch, and soon she was nearly dangling, booted toes barely touching the ground. The big man took a sharp knife off the table and stood before her examining it as a farmer might examine his blade before slaughtering a sheep. Sasha tried to kick him, but her ankle chains had been secured to a floor ring, and she only succeeded in thrashing.

  The man was bald, with a large belly and thick arms. Another man was handsome, with shoulder-length dark hair and a goatee. His eyes examined her with flat curiosity, and his accent, when he spoke, was that of an educated man.

  “Who ordered you to rescue Lady Renine?” he asked her. “Was it Kessligh Cronenverdt?”

  Sasha swallowed hard, for a moment not trusting herself to speak. A Lenay warrior did not show fear. “It was my decision,” she said. “Kessligh was not consulted.”

  The handsome man nodded to the big one, who inserted the blade into Sasha’s collar, and sliced the shirt neck to hem. He then walked around, and did the same behind, and tore the rest away. The light, serrin undershirt protected her modesty for a moment, but the big man cut that too, and left her topless. Perhaps they thought to humiliate her. Sasha had far worse concerns than that.

  The big man then put the blade on the table, and punched her in the stomach. He was powerful, and the blow rocked her back in a jangle of chains, yet it was a relief. She was still too important for them to start cutting. Kessligh would kill them, and by far worse means than they might do to her. Kessligh led the majority of Tracato Nasi-Keth. Things were not that desperate yet.

  Several blows later, and she half swung by her aching arms, struggling to breathe, reflecting that just because they weren’t about to start cutting bits off, it d
idn’t mean this was going to be anything other than hell. With her arms up, she had no way of defending herself. She just tensed hard, and hoped that her countless hours of training had built enough muscle to absorb the worst of it without permanent damage.

  The handsome man asked her more questions. He wanted her to admit that she was a pawn of the feudalists, and that Kessligh, by association, was also a pawn. Probably, it occurred to her, Kessligh was not being helpful to the Civid Sein. He was caught between two groups of fanatics, each unwilling to admit the possibility of a third side. Holding the Nasi-Keth together, in the face of such one-eyed stupidity, would not be easy.

  Soon her arms and shoulders began to hurt almost worse than her bruises. Her wrist manacles were agony, the chafing metal surely splitting the skin. Her boots were removed and her pants cut away, leaving her in only the thigh-length woollen underwear that she’d always favoured, good for both svaalverd and horsemanship. Strangely, they did not strip her completely naked. It seemed another line they were not prepared to cross. She wondered what was going on above ground that would make it so, and when that line would disappear. She answered the handsome man’s questions truthfully, in part because no other answer would help her, and also because it was not what he wanted to hear. She did not scream or yell in fury, or make threats. She knew, as surely the men did, that if she survived, and were given an opportunity in the future, she would kill them, their comrades, and possibly their families, no matter how they screamed and begged. She would be patient, and wait. If these men knew her intent, though, it was unlikely they would let her live.

  Through a haze of pain, she heard the dungeon door open, and a new voice spoke. It was familiar, and she half twisted on her chains to see Reynold Hein, in an expensive dark shirt and elegant boots, the ginger remnants of his hair impeccably trimmed, as was his goatee. He addressed the handsome man calmly, and they spoke in Rhodaani.

  She was not surprised to see the man smile, and make an exasperated expression to Reynold’s question. It seemed they were talking about her. Reynold explained himself. The handsome man gave a shrug and put a hand on Sasha’s side, trailing it down her hip to her thigh. Sasha did not waste energy resisting, and calmed herself with visions of the handsome man screaming in agony, her blade twisting in his guts. Then he walked away, heading for the door.

  Reynold adjusted his shoulder bandoleer and strolled before her. “Perone is disappointed that I have limited his freedoms here,” he said. “Another woman of your looks might not have been so fortunate.” Sasha said nothing. “You have a pretty face—I told him I would not like to see it scarred.”

  Sasha just looked at him, breathing hard, slowly twisting. It did not surprise her particularly that he should be capable of these things, nor that he could inflict them upon someone that he had at least occasionally, in the past, been friendly with.

  “There is rather a mess outside,” Reynold continued. He lifted a waterskin from his hip, and took a sip. Only then did Sasha realise how badly she wanted a drink. “The Lady Tathilde Renine is dead. Somehow, word got out to our Rhodaani patriots of her hiding place, and they stormed it in force. The feudalists are now rather upset, as you might imagine, and the Lady Rhillian has abruptly refused to use the Steel to contain their gatherings, as she had been. Upwards of hundreds at a time are now roaming to the west of Ushaal Fortress, and the fighting is fierce. It is all the Steel and Mahl’rhen can do to contain the warfare, and the Nasi-Keth of course, those who remain with Kessligh, are not much use at keeping the peace.”

  Sasha knew what he meant. The svaalverd, the ultimate offensive weapon, but useless for defending anything against mass attack. Those Nasi-Keth like Reynold, however, would be a deadly weapon against the feudalists. Slowly the picture was becoming clear to her.

  “Thankfully,” Reynold went on, as easily as he had ever discussed politics over a cup of wine, “new militias of rural patriots have entered the city from the east, and gained control of the Justiciary. It does afford us some opportunities, with the prisoners currently held here. We can ask some questions that the Lady Rhillian, for example, might have found distasteful. The Justiciary is currently surrounded by several thousand patriots, and separated from feudal heartlands by the Ushal Fortress, so it would seem that your rescue appears unlikely, in the short term at least. Best that you cooperate with us now.”

  “I’ve spoken nothing but the truth,” Sasha replied, her voice low and strained.

  “Ah yes.” Reynold smiled indulgently. “A Lenay warrior’s honour. But truly, I do not care particularly if Kessligh ordered you to do what you did or not. I could just as easily invent some statement from you, it would serve as well…and probably those who support you would not believe it, precisely because they know I could have invented it.” He paused, appearing to expect her to question further. Sasha merely stared.

  “No,” Reynold continued, “the reason for this interrogation is much more that the supporters of the revolution expect such things, of the revolution’s enemies. They ask what has been done to punish the traitorous Lenay Princess Nasi-Keth, and I say nothing, and they take it ill. Revolution is grievance, Sashandra.” He tightened his fist, earnestly. “It is grievance, tightly focused. Just as the svaalverd is energy, the mayen’rathal of the serrin philosophy of motion, tightly focused, and controlled. One cannot break the momentum of energy, any more than one can check the swing of a svaalverd strike. Not without losing that momentum, and that energy. Dissipating it.”

  I’m being tortured to prove a point of philosophy, Sasha thought, somewhat drily despite the pain. That did not surprise her either. Kessligh had taught her too often of the nature of ideas, and their dangers.

  “No, any information you could offer me would not serve the battle for Tracato, for that is well underway, and its path is now out of your hands or mine. But it would be remiss of me, as a Rhodaani patriot, not to ask you of the greater battle for the survival of Rhodaan. Our glorious Rhodaani Steel must defeat the Army of Lenayin in the field, or all is lost. I have asked you of Lenayin’s tactics before.”

  “And I said you can go to hell,” Sasha retorted through gritted teeth.

  “And,” said Reynold, holding up a finger, “you said that you did not know how a combined Army of Lenayin would choose to fight in the field. But come, you are a student of Lenay warfare, and your brother Koenyg will be in direct command. Surely a sister knows her brother.”

  “I’ve hated him since I could walk,” Sasha snarled. “As he has hated me.”

  “Hatred does not preclude knowledge. I know the pampered, thieving lords of Rhodaan all too well, with their snobbish ways and presumption of godly entitlement.” Reynold was a merchant’s son, Sasha recalled.

  “Koenyg likes to attack naked,” Sasha told Reynold. “Great formations of Lenay warriors, with not a blade of grass to cover their arses. I’ve told him often of its ineffectiveness, but he does not listen.”

  Reynold snorted. “You appear to think this a game. This is no game to me, Sashandra Lenayin. The survival of my nation is at stake.”

  “Mine too.”

  Reynold nodded to the bald man, who retreated to the furnace and pulled on a thick glove. Sasha’s heart began to race.

  “Unlike Perone, I do not enjoy this, Sashandra,” said Reynold, his blue eyes deeply serious. “But desperate times call for desperate measures. Making revolution is far harder than making cake, it requires far more than the breaking of a few eggs.”

  The bald man picked up a steel poker. Its end, resting within the coals, glowed bright orange. Sasha stared at it as the man approached and shook her head in shaking disbelief.

  “Oh you’re dead,” she muttered. Her head felt as though it were about to burst, from the pounding in her ears. “I am going to so enjoy killing you.”

  “Tell me something useful,” Reynold said reasonably, “and it need not be so.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Sasha shakily. “I’m going to kill you regardless.”


  The bald man waved the poker close, and Sasha flinched aside, desperately. The chains brought her swinging back, and that was when he laid it across her side.

  Sasha screamed and thrashed. It hurt indescribably. The poker pulled away, but the pain did not go. It got worse, burning bone deep. She tried to lash out, reflexively, but only made herself swing some more.

  “Tell me something useful, Sashandra. What state is the Lenay artillery in? About what proportion of the cavalry rides lowlands steeds, and what the native Lenay dussieh? What tactics has Prince Koenyg preferred in his previous, if limited Lenay campaigns? I have heard tales that the warriors of Isfayen province are particularly ferocious, shall Koenyg use them in the front, or in the reserve?”

  “If you wait long enough,” Sasha gasped, “maybe one of them will fuck you with his spear!”

  The poker was applied to her other side. Sasha had no shame in screaming. Screaming helped. When the screaming passed, she reverted to Tullamayne. “No sheth an sary, no sheth an sary, no sheth an sary.” Over and over, eyes squeezed shut, sweat drenching her body as her muscles trembled uncontrollably.

  “I know a little Lenay,” said Reynold. “It means…‘blood on the steel,’ yes?”

  “No sheth an sary, no sheth an sary.” From the speech of Aldrynoth, at the Battle of Myldar. Danyth of Rayen had killed his brother. Aldrynoth had sought revenge. “No herb shall heal, like blood on the steel.” She had never wanted love, nor sex, nor warmth, nor life itself, as badly as she wanted to kill Reynold Hein. It was a revelation to her.

  SASHA’S LAMP WAS DYING when the cell door creaked open, and new light flooded the cool stone. She lay on her back on a pile of straw, trying to keep her breathing shallow. What was left of her clothes now made for a pillow. Her one relief was that underground, in the dark, the air was neither warm nor cool, and near nakedness suited the temperature. Despite that, her skin flushed hot and then cold, with the onset of what she suspected was fever. The pain was incredible. She wanted to pass out, but had no chance of sleep, and was too strong of constitution to faint. Suicide occurred to her, and was dismissed just as fast. Errollyn needed protecting, and Kessligh helping, and Lenayin saving. And enemies killing.