Tracato

by Joel Shepherd

  “They’ll eat well on that reward,” said Errollyn. “Reynold finally achieves something for the poor.” Aisha gave him a faint smile, and put a hand on his arm.

  Lesthen’s recital on the life of Mereshin moved into the phase of Mereshin’s realisations on usden’ehrl, the acceptance of loss, and the uselessness of vengeance. Errollyn wondered if all the serrinim were mad, that he were the only one to find the whole scene utterly preposterous.

  “I interrupt,” came a new voice, and Lesthen paused. Not the only one, then. Across the stage, Kiel rose to his feet. “My apologies for the indelicate rupture,” Kiel continued, in florid Saalsi, “yet my point is pressing, and none too far removed. This man has done us a great crime and he should die. If none disagree, and I feel the point is indisputable among reasonable serrin, then we should proceed with the obvious resolution and return to more important matters.”

  “I second the learned serrinim!” Errollyn called in reply. Kiel seemed a little surprised at his support and accepted it with a graceful bow.

  “Third!” called Aisha. Seven more voices followed in support. Ten, from thirty. Errollyn rolled his eyes to the high ceiling. One of these days, the serrinim would realise that taking necessary action was more important than the pursuit of interesting debates. He only hoped that those serrin who reached that realisation would not be the small, huddled handful remaining after the rest had been slaughtered by foes who cared nothing for clever argument.

  “Ten is insufficient,” said Lesthen. “I believe that I continue to hold the floor.”

  “Horse shit you do,” Errollyn muttered, and got to his feet. The two serrin opposing him also stood. Errollyn unbuckled his bandoleer, and handed it to them, sword and all. They waited for his knives, too.

  “Errollyn,” Lesthen said tiredly, “you do not have the floor. It would interest the impartial debate for you to remain seated, and follow the-”

  “I’ve no time for that,” said Errollyn, walking down to the stage side. “None of us has time for that. I am required at training for the new talmaad sent from Saalshen, they have little experience in battle and my presence here may deprive them of the one vital lesson they need to keep them alive. I submit to you that the life of Reynold Hein is not worth the small finger of a serrin talmaad, let alone his life.”

  “Much agreed,” said Kiel. It disturbed Errollyn only a little, to have found a point of agreement with Kiel. Kiel seemed to find it amusing.

  “Do you then suppose that we should abandon our learned debate?” Lesthen asked. “Abandon the one facet of serrin life that has served us best in all times, our search for truth?”

  “You do not offer truth, Lesthen,” said Errollyn, putting a foot upon a raised stone so he could lean on a knee. “You offer procedure.”

  “One finds truth by searching. The simple or brief thought is usually wrong, driven by emotion, by desires and wants of the heart. And so we have procedures, to serve as the filter for our thoughts.”

  “Lesthen.” Errollyn looked at him, attempting patience. “We stand here in human lands. Some humans may care for our debates, but their society does not function by it. Human society functions by rules. They do not persuade each other as to the wrongness of their ways, they simply kill them, as necessary. We seek now to rule in human lands, yet we do not learn to follow the methods that work.”

  “We seek to elevate humanity,” Lesthen replied. “In Tracato, humanity has reached a level of civilisation unmatched elsewhere in all human lands. Do you dispute this achievement?”

  “For everything, there is a time,” said Errollyn. “Not now, Lesthen. Not here, and not in this. A very simple rule was broken, and this man attempted to unbalance everything that you, and all serrin, have worked so hard to create, and that you now laud as a great achievement. We kill him not from vengeance but because to fail to do so will cause all right-minded humans to lose faith in us, or to view us as helplessly weak.”

  “And quite rightly too,” Kiel interjected, “should we fail in something so obvious.”

  “And what should we become, if we kill this man?” Lesthen looked at Reynold. Reynold watched, with more trepidation now than before. The intelligence was there, in his blue eyes. The charm. At another time, Errollyn might have wondered how it were possible for a man who possessed so many admirable qualities to be so evil. Now, he only remembered the pain of blades and shackles, and the scars on Sasha’s body.

  “Should we become like our very worst enemies?” Lesthen continued. “Should we kill any who oppose us? Should we seek the sword before the word? Can truth be found in blood?”

  “Yes,” said Errollyn. “The poets write of a mystical balance in nature, yet I grew up in the wilds, and I see nothing like what they describe. Nature’s creatures do not seek harmonious relations, they would all grow to a plague if allowed, and rape all the land. But they don’t, because first, the food runs out, and second, the predators kill them. That is the truth of blood, Lesthen, that we serrin have forgotten. All the way of the world is blood, and the harmonious balance of the poets is nothing more than an equal measure of death. We forgot it for a thousand years and more, and now, the humans remind us. Yet you…you do not thank them for the reminder of a vital truth, but rather cling to unwise myths of the loving mother earth. Mother earth eats her children, Lesthen. So shall we, should we seek to live on this earth much longer?”

  Lesthen said nothing. He was considering. About the resh’ulan, many were. Errollyn was surprised. It had been a while since he had stood in a space such as this, and exchanged the idis’iln, the force of reason, with his fellow serrin. For so long he had been exasperated by them, by the hypocrisy of a people so proud of their equanimity, yet so lacking in its practice. Had he misjudged his people? Or rather, had he simply grown?

  Reynold cleared his throat. “Might I speak my piece?” he suggested. Lesthen ignored him, considering how to respond to Errollyn’s idis’iln, with one of equal force. Reynold took it for encouragement, and carefully stood. “I have heard often of the justice of the serrin, and I am encouraged, noble serrinim, to see it in practice here today…”

  Lesthen made an irritated gesture to another serrin. That man hopped the small moat and struck Reynold to the face. Reynold hit the ground hard, and lay groaning. Not one serrin face, in all those surrounding, displayed any shock nor displeasure.

  “Your words are pure poison, Master Reynold,” said Lesthen. “You and your kind suffer from the worst disease of humanity, the willingness to subordinate truth, to lock reason in chains and to rape the objective thought, in order to achieve your objective. Never mind if the objective is just, you have forfeited by your methods any right to speak in the resh’ulan, for now and ever. Your life belongs to us now.”

  To the rear of the amphitheatre, some serrin were rising. Errollyn turned, and saw Kessligh walking down the stairs. His eyes were on Reynold, and deadly serious.

  “Yuan Kessligh,” said Lesthen. “I welcome you. Perhaps you wish to speak?”

  Kessligh appeared to be considering it, as he walked to Errollyn’s side. Errollyn noted that no one had thought to remove his weapons. Kessligh stopped, and looked at Lesthen. Then at Reynold. Everyone waited for him to speak.

  Instead, Kessligh stepped across the moat, dropped his staff in favour of his blade, and struck off Reynold’s head where he sat. The body fell, fountaining blood. Kessligh examined his blade, critically, as Reynold’s head rolled on the stone, then stopped. Finding no blemish, or even a stain of blood, so fast had been the strike, Kessligh resheathed the sword. And turned, to confront the entire resh’ulan staring at him, silently.

  “What are you doing here?” Kessligh asked, in exasperation. “The purpose of debate is to change opinions. Some humans are not capable of that. In such confrontations, it’s them, or it’s us. I choose us. Now, Rhodaan is under attack, I submit we all have better ways to spend our time than here.”

  “The purpose of the debate, Yuan Kessligh,” said L
esthen, “is not to convince our enemies. It is to convince ourselves. Serrin are not born wise, we must teach ourselves wisdom every day.”

  “Wisdom?” Kessligh walked close to Lesthen, and stared at him. “Serrin have had two centuries to prepare for this moment, yet still the main force that defends you is human. Where are Saalshen’s heavy forces? Saalshen makes steel unknown to human methods, and breeds fine horses and horsemen, and engineers projectile weapons of terrible force, and flaming oils that can melt steel and crack stone, but still you will not make your own armies save for the talmaad’s light cavalry! Heavy armies require a change in methods, a change in civilisation, a recruitment of soldiers, a reordering of society. Serrin have refused all this and chosen instead to place their burden upon the shoulders of humans. And why? Because you’re too busy fucking debating!”

  He glared about at them all, in genuine anger.

  “It’s wise to learn how to cook,” Kessligh fumed, “but a meal prepared over three weeks is inedible! There is wisdom in action! So stop talking, and act!”

  He walked up the stairs, between standing serrin who stared at him. Kiel, no habitual friend of Kessligh’s, began to applaud. Several of Kiel’s ra’shi joined him. So did Errollyn, and Aisha. Then some more.

  Errollyn followed Kessligh up the stairs, and those applauding followed. It seemed an odd collection of people, Errollyn supposed, within which to finally find consensus with his people. But for now, it was enough.

  From upon the crest of a low hill, Sasha sat ahorse and observed the most awesome sight she had ever seen. Across what the locals called Thero Valley assembled the Army of Lenayin. It had been assembling since midmorning, and now the sun drew past midday, and soldiers were still arriving. They filled the valley, a swarm too vast to comprehend. Infantry gathered to the middle, thousands of men from the towns, villages and farms of Lenayin, bristling with swords, with shields to the front. Across the flanks and to the rear clustered cavalry, milling in ragged ranks that had no regard for the thin walls that divided one pasture from another.

  A narrow stream twisted across the valley floor, lined with trees. Several small, huddled villages hugged its banks, with little mills and bridges of simple wooden planks. The inhabitants had fled, Sasha heard, upon sighting the first Lenay formations.

  The Army of Lenayin’s line was directed up the gentle slope of the valley’s left flank, on the diagonal. There atop the hill was a castle. Before the castle stretched a thick, silver line of steel, glinting like jewellery in the fall of sunlight through broken cloud. The rest of the Enoran Steel lay out of sight over the ridge, but there was no doubt they were there. The Steel of any Saalshen Bacosh province did not divide its forces, relying on maximum numbers to multiply the fighting power of its formations. And to divide one’s forces in the face of any enemy’s superior numbers was folly.

  Sasha stared now at the slope that the Army of Lenayin must climb to do battle. The diagonal angle was a complication that such a ragged army as the Lenays, unaccustomed to grand formations, did not need. The better news was that the slope was not steep, but for massed armour like the Steel, any high ground was a huge advantage. Koenyg had the option of moving his forces down the valley to the base of the slope directly opposite the Steel lines and the castle, but that could easily have placed him within reach of the Steel’s artillery, whose range would be extended by the slope to the tune of a hundred paces at least. Koenyg had chosen well, Sasha thought. But the Enorans had chosen better.

  Great Lord Faras of Isfayen came galloping to her side at the head of his entourage. “This shall be a battle unlike any in all the history of Lenayin,” he observed. Sasha had expected him to be bursting with excitement, as were all too many of the men she’d observed. Instead, he seemed subdued, as though the scale of what confronted him had reduced him to a state of awe. “Our ancestors shall curse the fates that they lived too soon to see the likes of this. Men shall tell of this for centuries.”

  “Best that they tell it well,” Sasha said grimly. “Should we attack straight up that slope, we’re all dead, and our grandchildren will tell only of what fools we were.”

  “There is no other place,” Lord Ranas declared from his friend Faras’s side. “North of here is forest, while land to the south is too broken for large formations.”

  Faras nodded. “The Enorans move faster than we, the Enoran border is all paved roads and bridges. Look how fast they come forward from their border to counter us here. Should we go south, we could manoeuvre for days attempting to find better ground than this, and would be greeted every time by the Enorans atop another fucking hill. I say we go here. The slope is gentle, and we have flanks for our cavalry.”

  They were still on Larosan land, yet barely so. The Enorans doubtless knew this land nearly as well as their own, having scouted it often. This valley was the obvious approach to the border with a large army, and once their serrin scouts had discerned that the Army of Lenayin was indeed headed this way, it would have been a relatively simple thing for the Enorans to use their paved roads to cut across the Lenays’ path, and forward to this point overlooking the valley, thus cutting the route.

  “The location is good enough,” said Sasha, “but we should not attack here. We should hold, and make them come to us. Our task is merely to prevent them from advancing into Larosa, and attacking the main force engaging the Rhodaanis to the north.”

  Faras frowned. “This is not a strong defensive position. Should they come, they come down the hill.”

  “And their artillery comes down the hill with them,” Sasha replied. “I learned in Petrodor that artillery does not fire well on a slope. Perhaps they can move it downslope over there,” and she pointed to the fork in the valley that turned into Enora, “but that will give us an opening where their main force is undefended by artillery. Either way, it is in our advantage to make them move first.”

  Sasha was thankful that Koenyg saw matters the same as she. At midafternoon, the army was fully assembled, and growing impatient. A ridge beside a farmhouse had become the royal command post, and Great Lord Faras rode that way to consult, leaving Sasha with the remaining Isfayen nobility. She practised some taka-dans, and wondered just how many serrin talmaad were probing their flanks right now, and testing the strengths of Lenay cavalry.

  Lord Faras shared those concerns, and with a party of ten nobility they rode back along the gentle valley slope. Across the valley was thick forest, making any leftward flanking move troublesome. It would be crawling with talmaad, Sasha was prepared to bet. And now, down the valley, came the Torovans, a great snaking army of metal helms and wooden shields. They rode with a glitter and polish that the Army of Lenayin did not, armour sparkling silver, and great, colourful banners flying. Sasha and the Isfayen galloped close, and were greeted with hearty cheers and waves from the cavalry at the front.

  “They look very fine!” an Isfayen nobleman remarked above the thunder of hooves.

  “Aye,” said Faras, with a twisted smile, “if it made them better warriors, the Isfayen would put feathers in their hats too!”

  Upon their return to the main formation, a wild-haired Goeren-yai messenger on a little dussieh came flying to intercept them.

  “M’Lady Sashandra,” he called, “you are wanted on the field. Negotiators from Enora have requested your presence for parley.”

  It took a while for Sasha to find the centre of the formation. She galloped along the Lenay lines, jumping pasture walls where they obstructed her, dodging about small camps in fields or milling groups of men who did not seem to know where their place was, or did not seem to care. Banners were difficult to spot amidst the enormous crowds.

  Finally, to the front of the formation, she saw a small cluster of men on horses beneath a royal banner. She edged her horse through one of the gaps in the line, and rode to the little group. It was Koenyg, she realised, and Damon, and…her father.

  The king did not look at her as she approached. Sasha reined up beside Damon, an
d waited.

  “What do they ask?” she asked him in a low voice, above the thunder of hooves, and the roar of many thousands of voices. It would have been too much to expect Lenay warriors to sit quietly and wait. They seethed with anticipation.

  “To talk,” said Damon with a faint shrug. “It is customary, in the lowlands.”

  Sasha nodded. In Lenayin, individual warriors might talk before a duel, but rarely entire armies. She did not think that most Lenay warriors would disapprove of the notion, however. To discuss protocols with a man you were about to kill seemed honourable. Oddly, she found herself wondering why Lenays had never adopted the custom for grand battles. Probably, she thought, because there was so little flat ground in Lenayin. Armies did not line up, but struck with the first advantage. An odd case of terrain dictating custom, perhaps.

  From the top of the slope near the castle, a small party of men rode forth. Sasha squinted, but could not make out the flags. Sweat prickled on her brow. She thought she knew why she had been asked for. She wanted to say no. To plead off sick, or find some lameness in her horse. But she could not appear weak before the men. And if her horse was lame, they’d find her another.

  “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.”