“At least they didn't burn it,” said Jaryd. Several villages further back along the road had not been so fortunate. Sasha had been surprised at the strength of Jaryd's disgust back then. Jaryd had been a nobleman once, the heir to the Lenay central province of Tyree, no less. A fall from grace had led him to convert from the grand, noble faith of the Verenthanes to the rural paganism of the Goeren-yai. Sasha had thought him largely done with the trappings of nobility, and indeed he seemed quite happy to dress in the rough cloth, leathers, and skins of a Goeren-yai warrior, grow his hair long, and own little besides his horse and sword. But now, he seemed in great distress at the wanton destruction of lovely buildings and works of art in the little courtyards that seemed to occupy the centre of every Rhodaani village.
“It is too pretty to burn,” said Yasmyn. “Even the Larosans must have some standards.” From Yasmyn, such remarks surprised Sasha even more than from Jaryd. Yasmyn was Isfayen, daughter to the Great Lord Faras, slain in the Battle of Shero Valley, as the great conflict against the Enoran Steel was known. She had ridden with the Army of Lenayin as handmaiden to the Princess Sofy, Sasha's sister, now safely wed to the Larosan Regent Balthaar. Her parting from Sofy's service had not been amicable, as Balthaar's men had raped her in retaliation for her attempted defence of her princess.
Yasmyn now wore the red scarf of the angyvar-or “the impatience,” in translation from Telochi-with dark markings of ancient symbols, and fading, self-inflicted scars on her cheek. Two gold rings in her left ear indicated some success so far, representing the heads of two of her attackers, delivered to her father as proof of honour restored. Sasha understood that there was still one left.
But Sasha was surprised all the same to hear any concern from Yasmyn for a mere village. The Isfayen were renowned as uncompromising warriors even by the standards of Lenayin. Whatever Yasmyn's hatred for Lenayin's allies in this war, Isfayen honour would not typically allow sympathy for an enemy, even an enemy who fought against Larosans.
As they came upon the far bank, Sasha saw waterwheels slowly churning the river currents. The riders turned onto the main road, past the buildings that flanked the river. The road was narrow between tall stone walls, and hooves made a clattering racket on the cobbles. There were no people in sight, but no destruction either.
“Perhaps they all ran away,” said Jaryd. It seemed likely.
“Perhaps the Larosan raiding parties finally missed a village,” Yasmyn added. That seemed less likely. The Larosans knew Rhodaan well enough, having plenty of Rhodaani spies who had drawn maps for them. They seemed to be hitting every village anywhere near their army's advance, and many that were not near at all.
Sasha did not reply. She knew that she had not been talkative company lately. Much of the time, she simply did not feel like speaking…which, amongst those who knew her before, was regarded with grave concern. Her father King Torvaal had died at Shero Valley, though she had neither known nor loved him well. Far worse, her dear childhood friend Teriyan Tremel had also died, and her even dearer childhood friend Andreyis had never been found in the aftermath. She retained a faint hope that he had been taken prisoner.
And her lover was on the other, Rhodaani, side and the Army of Lenayin now marched toward him. Kessligh Cronenverdt, truly the closest thing she had to a parent, was also on the other side. Fighting against Enora had been one thing, where she knew that neither Kessligh nor Errollyn would be numbered amongst the enemy. Fighting the Rhodaanis would be another matter entirely. There were times at night, as she stared at the stars, when she wondered if she would not rather have fallen at Shero Valley. At other times, she wondered if it would not be too dishonourable to fall still, by her own hand.
Sasha saw the Royal Guards ahead reach for their swords. Then the shock, and the staring. She had suspected it would come, eventually, as they drew deeper into Rhodaan, and encountered villagers who had perhaps, for whatever reason, thought not to run.
The courtyard was a temple courtyard, with a big tree, gnarled and swollen before the temple steps. Hanging from the tree were perhaps twenty corpses. Some had been disembowelled, entrails swinging in glistening tangles. Some were women. Several were children. An older man was tied to the tree, his corpse and much of the trunk feathered with arrows, where soldiers had used him for target practice.
“Get them down,” ordered Koenyg. No one moved. Koenyg stared at one of the young northern lords. The youngster, no more than eighteen, looked offended.
“My king,” he said, with a thick Hadryn accent, “you surely cannot expect such work to fall to me?”
“I expect,” Koenyg said sharply, “that a Lenay man marching to war will follow his king's instruction.” In any land but Lenayin, such a firm tone from the king would have been followed by rapid obedience.
“But my lord!” the youngster protested. “Find me a formation of Rhodaani Steel to charge single-handedly, and I shall gladly do it! But to perform such rank and lowly duties as this, I should be dishonoured before my peers.” His accompanying lordlings nodded their agreement. “Get the guardsmen to do it.”
Koenyg ground his teeth. “They have the distinction of actually being useful,” he growled. Sure enough, the Royal Guardsmen now ringed the courtyard, swords drawn in defence of their king and Prince Damon. “Go then and ride back to the column. Tell them not to ride through the town, tell them on my order to stay to the northern bank, and follow the road there until we can rejoin this road further ahead, perhaps at the next bridge.”
“The road on the northern bank is inferior to this,” another lordling said, doubtful. Koenyg's glare saw him swallow the rest of his protest.
“No,” said Damon, gazing up at the grisly, swinging bodies. “Have them come through the town. It is quicker, and safer. The north bank is better ambush country.”
Koenyg turned on his brother, half-wheeling his horse. “I swear, does no one in this column take my orders? We hold them to the north bank.”
“Something to hide, brother?” Damon suggested.
“Something they need not see,” Koenyg retorted. Their stares locked. Predictably, it was Damon who looked away first. His expression was that of a man who had swallowed something foul and could find no place to spit.
“I'll ride back and find some men to come and clean up this mess,” said Sasha. “I think perhaps fifty of the common cavalry should do it.”
Koenyg turned his glare on her. “Sasha, no! Don't you dare.” Sasha's return stare held none of Damon's uncertainty. Hers held utter unconcern for anything her brother might say. Koenyg opened his mouth to command further, then closed it again in frustration. He knew that she would not listen. He saw that she barely cared if he tried to kill her.
Sasha turned and rode away without awaiting a dismissal. Once away from the clattering road and onto the dirt road beyond the bridge, Yasmyn had questions.
“Why was he upset that you'd ask the common cavalry?” she asked.
“Because it's a mixed mob behind the vanguard that have all mingled and become friendly whatever their province,” Jaryd answered for Sasha. “They roam the length of the column, carrying messages back to their respective provincial commands, and they're the worst gossips in the army. They'll tell the whole column what they saw in the village.”
“Ah,” said Yasmyn, as she understood.
“Some of those Larosans will be held to account for this,” Sasha muttered. “One day they will.”
It was a struggle to find a place to train in the evening. Sasha finally found a spot down by the reeds at the river's edge, where she performed her takadans, and found some interest in the poor footing. A warrior craves a perfect footing, Kessligh had told her often. Deny him that, and your advantage increases.
As usual, some men came down to watch. That was not an uncommon thing amongst Lenay warriors, who could talk swordwork from sunrise to sunset. This audience was remarkably silent as she performed her strokes. Many Lenay warriors found the svaalverd style of Saalshen d
iscomforting, almost supernatural. Sasha's blade and body described ethereal forms in the dying light of evening, a shadow in the mist, movement both precise and fluid to a degree that appeared, to the superstitious, barely human.
Finally she sheathed her blade over her left shoulder, tucked the tri-braid behind her right ear, and stood with head bowed. Respect toward the river reeds; respect for the resident spirits. She thought of her sister Alythia, whose spirit had been freed in the city of Tracato, toward which they presently rode. Alythia whom she had hated for so long, then recently come to love, only to lose her to those she had once been urged to consider as friends. Those people, if she found them, she could kill happily. If only the Army of Lenayin would be fighting them.
She turned, and walked from the reeds toward the camp. Her audience faded respectfully away, save one man, a young Isfayen who kneeled before her path, and presented her with a red cloth. The cloth was inscribed with curling Telochi script, and decorated with braiding, no little effort gone to, considering the deprivations of camp. Sasha sighed, and took the offered cloth. She could not read Telochi script, but she considered the markings anyhow, and found some admiration for the quality.
The young Isfayen warrior said something in Telochi, and then, in halting Lenay, “Please will you consider.” He rose. His gaze was not worshipful; Lenays of any stripe did not do worship. But the respect was blazingly intense.
Sasha smiled sadly at the man, folded the cloth carefully, and tucked it within her jacket. She had a pocket there, in the inner lining, that pressed against her heart, and her breast. The young man seemed pleased with that. Sasha patted him on the arm, and continued back to camp in the rapidly descending dark.
She found Yasmyn a short distance from the big tents, the only tents in the entire Lenay column. Lenays slept rough, and disdained basic comforts while marching to war…all save the nobility and royalty, who required some tents for status, and private consultations. Yasmyn sat beside her brother Markan, eating roast meat and bread. A warrior at her other side saw Sasha coming and made space. Sasha put a hand on his shoulder in sitting to thank him-his name was Asym, she recalled, and he had no special title to gain him access to the great lord's campfire save that he was known as a great warrior, and had fought ferociously at the Battle of Shero Valley.
Yasmyn handed Sasha a plate of food, and she ate. Most conversation was in Telochi, of which Sasha understood only the occasional word or phrase. It had been Damon's idea to place her with the Isfayen. The northern provinces despised her. The Verenthane nobility (as all Lenay nobility save Taneryn was Verenthane) of most of the rest of Lenayin disliked her nearly as much. In Valhanan's case it saddened her; she had spent most of her life in Valhanan, and if she had a provincial loyalty, that was where it lay. The Great Lord Kumaryn was dead at Shero Valley, but his place had been taken by another just as loathsome. The Taneryn would have taken her, but she had ridden with many Taneryn against their old enemies the Hadryn in what was known as the Northern Rebellion, and it would not do to have those old rivalries stirred once more.
But the Isfayen considered themselves almost a separate nation, and cared little for the opinions of fellow Lenays. The Great Lord Faras's opinion of Sasha had been dramatically improved by his daughter Yasmyn's friendship with the Princess Sofy, Sasha's dearest friend of all her royal siblings. And the Isfayen, Damon had reckoned, thought all things secondary to skill at warfare. If Sasha could find acceptance amongst the nobility of any Lenay province, it would be amongst the Isfayen. And so, after the Battle of Shero Valley, it had proven to be.
“Another bloodwarrior just proposed to me,” Sasha told Yasmyn. She gave Yasmyn a faintly accusing look.
Yasmyn smiled. “Tyama. He told me he would. He is the son of a herdsman, from near the village of Uam, in the west. A brave and skilled warrior.” Sasha sighed, and ate her food. “How many is that?”
“Seven,” said Sasha. She shook her head. “I don't know what they're thinking. I mean no disrespect, but I'm not inclined to marry anyone. Do they think I'll be a farmwife in some homestead on an Isfayen mountainside?”
Yasmyn shook her head. “The problem is that they don't know what to think. Isfayen men are rare amongst Lenays in that they like a strong woman. It is in our culture.” Another reason, Sasha reflected, why Damon placed her with the Isfayen. “But though Isfayen women can fight, rarely is it expected they could match a man in battle. For an Isfayen woman, fighting is a victory of courage over common sense. Isfayen admire that, and Isfayen men find little more attractive than a pretty girl who dares to snarl to a great warrior's face. Tremendous sex often follows.”
Sasha managed a faint smile. “It has a certain logic.”
“But now they see you,” Yasmyn continued. “You fight not merely with courage, but with unmatched skill. And with the svaalverd, that makes you nearly unbeatable. The young men find themselves struggling with a feeling they had not known before-both unmatched respect, and great lust. They do not know how else to express this feeling if not in a proposal. None of them expects you to accept. If they did, you'd have had hundreds of proposals by now, not just seven. They just do not know how else to express what they feel.”
Sasha nodded slowly, gazing into the fire.
Yasmyn smiled slyly. “I envy you greatly.”
“I hadn't thought you were struggling for proposals yourself.”
“Not in that. I mean that you could have your pick of these men tonight, and other men the night after. Isfayen women are dishonoured to have more than one man at a time, but you! You best them all, and they have no grounds for complaint.”
Sasha smiled. It grew to an outright grin. Yasmyn laughed. The Great Lord Markan saw their humour.
“Aha!” he said loudly, pointing at Sasha. “The great Synnich finally smiles!” Men about the campfire paused conversation to look. “Of what do you smile?”
Sasha shook her head faintly. “Sex, what else?” Men laughed.
“My sister is obsessed with sex,” said Markan. “It is a disease of the mind. I should send her to a holywoman to have her cleansed with smoke and ash.” He put an affectionate arm about Yasmyn, and kissed her head. Yasmyn shoved him away, scowling but good-humoured.
Markan had barely twenty-two summers, a year more than Sasha, but he was a very big lad. With Yasmyn's looks, his father's shoulders, and a cheerful disposition when not in battle, Sasha found herself reflecting that if she could have any man in Isfayen, she'd probably rather it be him. And she shoved the thought aside, as she knew it could lead nowhere good. Markan had been Great Lord of Isfayen for several weeks now, following his father's death. Sasha did not think the bloodwarriors of Isfayen had yet come to accept him entirely, and Isfayen being Isfayen, there were always grumblings of possible challenge from rivals. But Markan would have to stumble first, to provoke such a challenge. Sasha hoped that he would not.
There came a shout from somewhere beyond the camp. Then a yell, and a war cry. Sasha leaped to her feet and drew her blade. “Defence!” she yelled. “Defence!” About the camps men leaped up with weapons in hand. There was no mad rushing, for they had practised this, on Sasha and Damon's insistence.
Men made formations, but crouched low, not presenting a target to archers. Some oil was thrown on several campfires, making them flare brightly. Sasha herself did not join the line formations of the men, but ran to a near tentside and crouched there, peering past the support ropes. Yasmyn joined her, similarly ill-equipped to fight shoulder-to-shoulder with the men, her forearm-length darak gleaming in hand. Sasha thought she heard an arrow's hiss. Someone cursed. Then, more distantly, some shouts and directions.
“They're probing,” said Sasha, in a low voice. Out beyond the ring of firelight, shadows danced upon the trees, and made a luminous glow in the campfire mist. Here in Rhodaan, one did not post sentries beyond the ring of firelight and expect them to remain alive by morning. Even the hardy, far-ranging Lenay scouts returned to the safety of camp each night be
fore sunset. Men with knowledge of woodlore set traps for wild animals, or suspended lines of string in the undergrowth, attached to pots and utensils to make a noise if disturbed. It seemed to help somewhat, for nighttime losses so far remained light. But all the same, every night someone died. After a time, it became unnerving.
“They fight like cowards,” Yasmyn fumed. Again distantly, Sasha heard a clash of steel, and another battle cry. Numbers were greater tonight, if fighting was hand-to-hand.
“They fight with what they have,” Sasha murmured. “A snake will always strike from below, a hawk will come from above. Serrin learn from nature. Complaining because they refuse to fight as we can beat them is pointless.”
At a further campfire, Sasha saw a man stand up higher to peer into the mist. His neighbour pulled him down. Behind, an arrow whistled, and Sasha spun to see a man falling, struck through the eye.
“Stay down, you fools!” someone shouted. Further back along the column, past the tents, Sasha could faintly see figures moving, edging to the trees at the flank. Only here, surrounding the royalty and nobility, did men remain in fixed ranks, making a defensive wall against the death that lurked in the dark. Serrin saw well by night, but many Lenay men had experience hunting, and knew how to ambush an alert prey. Some had had success in such attacks taking shelter at the perimeter, and letting the serrin stumble across them.
This attack was coming from the south, and the river, Sasha realised. It was the less obvious direction, considering open fields to the north. Where would a serrin ford a river, at night? Somewhere shallow, with lots of cover. Like water reeds.
Sasha caught the eye of a nearby warrior, and gestured. He ran to her at a crouch. Too late, Sasha realised he was Hadryn, his scalp nearly shaven, a slim goatee on his chin, and a large Verenthane star hanging around his neck. But still, he had run to her when she summoned.
“Have you an archer?” she asked him.
“Crossbowman,” said the Hadryn. Lenays did not fancy archery much, but the northerners used them more than most. “What of it?”
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