“It must be them,” Koenyg concluded as the party kept coming. The king tapped heels to his horse, and rode with his three children toward the stream and the slope beyond. The stream barely came up to the horses’ knees, and soon they were cantering across fields as the ground began to rise. There were three in the oncoming party, two human and one serrin. Sasha nearly turned back.
Koenyg signalled to her and Damon, and Sasha moved up on Koenyg’s side, the far left position in their line. Damon took the far right, beside their father. They came to a trot, and then a halt, perhaps ten strides from the opposing line of three.
“I’m General Rochan,” said the central man, in Torovan. He wore a helm with a general’s crest, and wore chest and shoulder guards over mail. A middle-sized man, with intense, close-set eyes, of perhaps forty summers. “Commander of the Enoran Second Regiment, acting Commander of Armies for this engagement. To my left is my second, Formation Captain Lashel. To my right, Vilan, of the talmaad.”
Sasha forced herself to look. The serrin had pure white hair like Rhillian’s, worn long and untidy. His eyes were nearly gold within a pale face. It gave him the look of an albino, but Sasha doubted that he was. He was simply serrin. Sasha wished he were elsewhere.
“King Torvaal Lenayin,” her father replied grimly. “My sons, Koenyg and Damon. My daughter, Sashandra.”
General Rochan looked across their line with his sharp eyes. Something about his manner disturbed Sasha further. She had hoped that perhaps some turmoil of Enoran politics would lead the Enorans to place an incapable general in command of this battle. To observe the thoughts racing through Rochan’s eyes, she did not think that had happened.
“You come a long way, King of Lenayin,” Rochan said finally. He drew himself up, and his gaze held little of respect or fear. “Why are you here? We Enorans have done nothing to you.”
“You sin against the Verenthane faith,” said Torvaal. “You hold lands that are not yours.”
“Truly?” Rochan looked genuinely astonished. “I can trace my ancestry back a dozen generations on this land. How is this land not mine?”
“You sin against the Verenthane faith,” Torvaal replied, as though he had not heard the general. “The Archbishop of Torovan has decreed it.”
“Ah,” said Rochan. “Torovan. And how many have the Torovans sent you? It looks perhaps fifteen thousand from our vantage? Eighteen, at the most? They had promised you thirty, had they not? Why does the Archbishop of Torovan send Lenays to die for his cause?”
“Any Verenthane would serve as well,” said Torvaal darkly.
“And barely half of you are Verenthane,” said Rochan, giving Sasha a long stare. Sasha looked at the slope behind him, and the castle, large against the sky.
“We have not ridden all this way to debate,” Koenyg interrupted. “State your terms, if you have any, or offer your surrender. Should you offer it, you shall be given honourable terms from Lenayin.”
Rochan snorted and smiled unpleasantly. “This from a Lenay, who finds nothing honourable in surrender. Have no fear, Prince of Lenayin, we like it as little as you do. Your allies have made it plain for two hundred years that they shall offer no terms. We think it preferable to die on our feet with a sword in our hands than at the end of a Larosan rope, or beneath their torture knives.”
Sasha barely repressed a shudder. The serrin Vilan noticed. Again, Sasha looked away, hoping it would all end soon. Battle would be preferable to this. In battle, one did not have to think.
“Do you have terms?” Koenyg repeated.
“Withdraw now,” said Rochan, coldly. “Those are my terms. You are foreigners to this kind of warfare. Know that the Enoran Steel has faced armies twice the size of what confronts us here, and left them barely a man alive. I think it an abomination that Lenayin’s rulers should lead its sons to die by the thousand upon this foreign field, for this most ignoble cause. You are a curse upon your people, sirs. They will curse you when we are done.”
“The wounded and surrendering shall not be harmed,” said Torvaal, as though he had not heard. “Whatever your previous opponents may have practised, we Lenays practise honourable warfare. Prisoners shall not be tortured, and shall be returned to their families upon the reaching of terms. Neither do we ransom for gold, nor otherwise partake in hostages, as is the frequent custom here. There is no honour in gold. Submission, by death or surrender, is all that honour requires.”
Rochan frowned, and was silent for a moment, considering that. Then he nodded. “I accept these terms,” he said, less coldly than before. “We shall reciprocate, when you are defeated.”
“I hear you have not in the past,” Koenyg accused him.
“No,” the general admitted. “Two centuries of dishonourable warfare by our opponents put a stop to it. Ask of your allies of our captured soldiers tortured and disembowelled alive. Ask them what worse things they do to captured serrin. Our captured enemies we attempt to rehabilitate. Some refuse and prefer death. Others are sent to Saalshen. Others still have come to recognise the error of their ways. Formation Captain Lashel here was once a knight of Merraine. Now, he fights for us, by choice.”
Koenyg seemed astonished. He stared at the captain, who nodded, and said nothing. Sasha felt that she might be ill.
“Sashandra,” said the serrin Vilan. He leaned forward on his saddlehorn, gazing at her with those impossible golden eyes. “You are troubled, Sashandra,” he said in Saalsi. His voice was gentle. “You have the look of one lost, and struggling to recognise the path upon which you walk. It seems familiar to you in parts, but then it plunges into foreign mists. You struggle on, more and more certain that you are lost, only to recognise a tree, or a rock, or to think you recognise them. Surely your path is correct. Surely it is true. Is it not?”
Serrin verbs played games through the undergrowth of Saalsi grammar, twisting about to ambush entire sentences unawares. Sasha stared at him, helplessly. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her family all frowned at her, wondering what was said. The Enorans also frowned, but their eyes were comprehending.
“Can you truly fight us, Sashandra?” Vilan asked as though he knew her personally. “Have we caused you such pain in your heart?” A shiver flushed her skin. And she recalled abruptly the battlefield before the walls of Ymoth, and Errollyn talking with her of the Synnich, and of how he, Aisha, Terel and Tassi had known how to come to Lenayin, despite word of the impending battle being a two-month round trip away.
Dear spirits, she realised in horror, she’d never asked him how. And he’d never told her, perhaps sensing that she did not truly wish to know, lest she discover something that would shake her world. Vilan now looked at her as though he knew her, and somehow, she did not doubt that he did. What was the vel’ennar truly? And if Errollyn lacked it, being du’jannah, how had he known to come to Lenayin when he had? And why had she never asked him how?
“I do not hate you,” Sasha replied in Saalsi, her voice straining to make itself heard across the distance. “But my people march to war, and I have seen how the Steel of the Saalshen Bacosh fights. If I do not help them, they may all die.”
“And you shall be their saviour?” Vilan asked sadly. “Dear girl, you are but one warrior, and though you have a gift of tactics and command, this army is not yours to lead. Can you save them all?”
“No,” said Sasha, more firmly. A tear trickled down her cheek. “I shall die with them.”
“And if, by your death, Enora shall fall? And then Rhodaan? And then, left undefended, Saalshen?”
Sasha looked at the ground, and could not speak.
Koenyg broke in, and brought the parley to a conclusion. Riding back to the Lenay lines, he cantered close to her side.
“What did he say?”
“He said we’re all going to die,” Sasha lied.
“And what did you say?”
“I said that’s why I’m here.”
The Army of Lenayin did not attack that afternoon. Inst
ead, it retreated up the other side of the valley, and camped across the slope and the hill crest. The men of Lenayin were not happy, and grumbled about glory delayed, but there were enough wise tactical heads among them to keep the discontent at bay.
Andreyis sat by the campfire and gazed across the valley at the fires on the hill beyond. His boots were off, as had become the habit this long march, to allow hardened feet to breathe. Dinner sat ill in his stomach. About him, clustered men caroused, laughed and sang, but Andreyis felt no urge to join in. He never had, particularly. He thought now of Kessligh and Sasha’s ranch, and the horses, and how he’d loved to spend time there. Mostly, he’d loved the solitude. And the company of some people he genuinely liked, it was true, particularly as two of them were among the most famous people in Lenayin…but solitude, in Andreyis’s life, had been a rare and precious thing. Little enough that he’d been getting here.
Valhanan had marched roughly in the middle of the Lenay column, and now occupied the central position in the Lenay front line. It was not such a bad place to be, Teriyan and other, older men had assured him, as in most mass formation warfare, the flanks were harried hardest, not the centre. But the centre, he’d figured, would be the easiest place for the Enoran artillerymen to aim.
Teriyan returned from hearty conversation with others to plonk himself down at Andreyis’s side. “Pity the sentries tonight,” he said. “They’ll have no sleep with these hills crawling with serrin.”
“How many serrin, do you think?”
“Oh…could be thousands.” Teriyan shrugged. “Sasha said just recently, at training…she said most serrin don’t fight. Don’t know how to fight. Amazing, no? All we see are warriors because those are the ones who travel. And svaalverd’s only a small part of serrin knowledge. Most serrin know more about crafts, medicine, farming and forestry than about warfare.
“But the talmaad’s still big, and there’ll be a lot of them coming to help. I’d guess there could be close to ten thousand here.”
“That’s a lot,” said Andreyis. “I spoke with men who’d seen those four serrin fight, the ones who came with us to the north. Errollyn, that was the man’s name. And Terel. It was said they fought like demons.”
“Aye,” said Teriyan. “And here, they’ll be fighting for their homes.” He took a deep breath. “Sasha says Terel’s dead. He died in Petrodor. Errollyn’s alive, and the little one, Aisha. Pretty girl she was. Smart as all hells too. Sasha thinks the reason serrin are so smart is their memory. No, she doesn’t think, she’s certain of it. She says Errollyn and Aisha remember conversations she’s had with them word for word, when she can barely recall the topic. That’s why your average serrin knows so much, they just learn much faster. That’s how little Aisha knows seventeen languages. She learns a word once and doesn’t need to repeat it, she just remembers.”
“That’s amazing.” For a while, they both said nothing, but listened to the sound of forty-plus thousand men at camp. Already the air was thick with smoke, from small fires and cooking. “A warrior is not supposed to doubt before a battle,” said Andreyis. “But I can’t help it.”
“Every man feels fear, lad. That’s why they drink, sing and laugh, to drown out the fear.”
“No, it’s not fear. Or at least, it’s not just fear. It’s doubt.” He looked at Teriyan, and saw the big man’s face troubled. This was one of the only men in all Lenayin he’d have dared express such things to. “We should not be fighting serrin. Nor Enorans. I’m certain of it. And I’ll bet Sasha’s certain too.”
“Aye lad.” Teriyan sighed. “She is. But she’s Lenay, and she’s here because her people need her. If we could turn around and walk out now, all our men would have to fight that much harder to cover our absence.”
“I know that,” Andreyis retorted crossly. What Teriyan suggested was dishonourable. Like any Lenay, Andreyis was certain he would rather die. “I’m just saying. We fight for honour. But the cause is dishonourable.”
“The cause is out of our hands. That’s for the king to decide.”
“And since when did any Lenay man listen to him?”
Teriyan looked at him for a long moment, then shook his head in faint exasperation, but not at Andreyis’s question. At the circumstance.
“I wish Sasha had visited,” Andreyis said quietly. “I know why she can’t, but I wish she had. Tell me some more of her adventures.”
“I’ve already told you all she told me,” Teriyan objected.
“Think of something.”
Sasha had bad dreams. She dreamed of being dragged from Errollyn’s arms, and the bed set on fire, burning sheets scorching her flesh. Of Errollyn screaming, a blade dripping blood, and rattling chains that tore at her wrists. She saw Rhillian, emerald eyes burning with grief and fury, wrestling with a wolf that snarled and snapped at her throat. Kiel fired an arrow, but struck Rhillian instead of the wolf. The wolf retreated to Kiel’s side, and licked his hand. Kiel pulled the shaft from Rhillian’s side, and blood poured out.
The wolf ran away, and Sasha followed, as it ran down familiar palace halls, and through a wood panelled doorway. Sasha recognised a royal bedroom, with grand furnishings and gilt-edged paintings on the walls. From the huge, four-posted bed came squeals and grunts of sexual pleasure and pain. Sasha walked closer, and found that the wolf had become a man, yet still with a long snout and fangs. Beneath him was Sofy, naked legs about his hairy hide, grunting and crying out as he ravaged her, and his claws reaved her flesh.
Then she was running down a city street, struggling for space in the hot air between oppressive walls. Behind her ran a mob, waving clubs and farm tools, howling like crazed animals. She rounded a corner, and found herself trapped before a formation of Steel, shields interlocked. One lofted a spear, and atop it was impaled Alythia’s severed head, eyes wide and mouth gaping. Sasha spun, and the mob behind lofted more spears, each with another head. The one closest was Kessligh’s.
She awoke in an eruption of limbs and blanket, kicking the covering away as she surged to her knees. And knelt there gasping, her heart hammering, her old wounds throbbing like fire. She rubbed at the burns on her ribs, and felt no scab, only the smoothness of new skin. It should not hurt like this. But still it burned, like the fire from her dreams.
About, on the hillside, all was black save the occasional glow of a sentry’s fire. The moon was new, and Sasha thought of serrin eyesight, and if it might be possible that serrin were creeping through the Lenay camp even now. From nearby came the snoring of Isfayen noblemen. They had camped barely a hundred paces from the farmhouse that was the royal command post, with many other senior nobility. Should an order be given, these men wished to be the first to know. Sasha had been offered a bed in the farmhouse, but had refused, saying she preferred the outdoors. In truth, a bed would have been nice. Yet a bed of broken glass would have been preferable to sharing a roof with her father.
Her heart and breathing recovering, she got up. There were enough fires lit to make for a little light across the long valley slope. Sasha picked her way carefully between sleeping men, and stopped at a small clean patch. She strained her eyes to see across the valley. The lights of the Enoran camp were still there, yet she felt uneasy. She felt like…like…
She could not find the word to describe it. Yet it was like at Ymoth, during the great charge of horses, when it felt as though there were a formless dark shape moving at the edge of her vision, covering her flank. In fact, she thought she’d seen it, dodging a hidden tree stump, and warning her to do the same. She had seen it, hadn’t she? She’d not thought about it in a long time, being busy with other matters, most of them not concerned with old Lenay superstitions. And there’d been a wind, in the second charge of that second fight, when the Hadryn had attempted to regroup. A great gust of wind, that had torn across the flattened fields of crops, and thrown dust and debris into the eyes of the Hadryn soldiers, distracting them from their defence.
It had happened, hadn’t it? Or was her mem
ory playing tricks on her, in the aftermath of vivid, horrible dreams from which she had not yet fully woken? A man dreams he is a butterfly, went the serrin tale. When he awakes, he wonders, was I then a man, dreaming I was a butterfly? Or am I now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man?
Sasha squeezed her eyes shut, and put her hands over her face. Her wrists throbbed from recently healed scabs. Memories and pain. She wished that not all memories were painful. She knew she had some pleasant ones tucked away somewhere, but she did not know where to find them now.
She opened her eyes once more, and stared out into the dark. In Petrodor, Rhillian had told her tales of King Leyvaan’s army in Saalshen, and how the serrin would stalk them by night, beneath a new moon such as this one, and how no soldier could sleep for the terror of the screams of sentries dying. She heard no screaming now. And she recalled how she’d sat with Rhillian, sipping tea and talking, close as unexpected friends could be, who had known each other only a short time but found some common language of the soul. How had they come to hate each other? Somehow, she found it difficult to recall. Perhaps it was because they were so similar. Like her and Alythia, so similar, so aggressive and self-obsessed, merely the modes of expression differed. She’d hated Alythia, then come to love her. With Rhillian, it was the reverse. Perhaps.
She thought she heard a creaking. A distant squeal, as though of a cart, or some wooden axle. Then nothing. Perhaps something was trying to tell her something. Perhaps through dreams. They called her the Synnich again, in some parts of this army. At Ymoth, she’d felt like this, and seen a dark shadow running through the grain fields. She set off walking toward the farmhouse.
She found Damon sitting on the verandah, and a pair of Royal Guardsmen at watch by the door. Many others stood about, and some slept, watching in shifts. Lanterns were placed further from the farmhouse, not near, as Sasha had instructed—best to make any attacking serrin come out of the light rather than into it, and take away that advantage of a darkened approach. And Errollyn had always said that he found it hard to adjust his eyes from one strength of light to another.
Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three Page 42