“We can't let that happen,” Sasha said firmly.
Tongren nodded. “So what d'you want some of my men? They won't like it, Sasha-this is the first damn time in centuries Cherrovan and Lenay have fought together for something!”
“No,” said Sasha, gazing over the top of the barricade. Even now, youngsters were throwing dislodged pieces back on top, making it higher. In the flickering torchlight, she could see a catapult at the foot of the slope, its wooden frame studded with arrows. She glanced up, and saw the dark shape of a bowman crouched on a roof above the lane. Most of the Nasi-Keth were archers tonight, not swordsmen, by Kessligh's command. Fighting down in the alleys was at close quarters and cramped; a wheelwright with a hammer could be as useful as a svaalverd fighter in such conditions. A Nasi-Keth could kill as many attackers as he had arrows in his quiver.
Tongren followed her gaze and grinned. “They can't fire the damn catapult on the slope!” he said gleefully. “One shot, and the weight of the swinging arm knocks it over! That or the shot goes way short, and that's oil-shot they're using, could end up anywhere. So they wheeled this one down onto the flat, only they're right within archer range and your boys on the roof cut them all down before they could fire.”
“There's people moving over there,” Sasha observed, seeing shadows flitting about the catapult.
“Our archers are holding fire,” Tongren explained. “Gaeryld and his son are over there scouting.”
“Out there?” Sasha stared into the flickering gloom of the lower slope. Amidst the cluttered houses, torchfires burned, but the chanting and yelling was not so strong here as elsewhere. Still, there were many thousands of armed, bloodthirsty men arrayed just above the flat of Dockside. Spirits knew what they were organising, or what help they were getting from supposedly neutral sources.
“Gaeryld's from Valhanan Lenayin-your part of the world,” Tongren explained. “He's not been here more than three years, he was a woodsman there. He had some trouble with another man's wife, I gather, and that family's sworn to get his head, so he came here instead. His son's a little rat-bastard cut-purse, half of Dockside would wring his neck if they could catch him, so it seems only fair we're putting his talents to use.”
Sasha gazed up at the big Cherrovan, wonderingly, and could not help but ask, “And what about you, Tongren? Those are interesting tattoos.”
“Ah, you like them?” He examined his arms, smiling. “I was a chieftain's son.”
Sasha blinked at him. “You're joking.”
Tongren laughed. “Village chieftain, not provincial. A little place called Raeshald, in Alsfaynen Cherrovan, in the high country just to the west of-”
“I know where it is. That's just north of Hadryn.”
“Aye, we share the same enemies, you and I! And a right mess you made of those bloody Hadryn, too.”
Sasha withheld comment, still staring. Most Cherrovan had little compunction killing any Lenays-Hadryn or otherwise. But she did not want to divert Tongren's tongue. “What happened?”
“My father wanted me to marry the wrong girl. I wanted to marry the right girl. We ran away together, to the only place my relatives couldn't come and kill me.”
Sasha's mouth dropped open. “You mean…your wife…?”
Tongren grinned. “Aye, the dragon lady herself. Don't let her fool you, Sasha, she's the sweetest woman ever born to the breast of the spirits.”
“And Elys doesn't know?”
“No hiding it now. I'd thought it best not to talk, lest word escape back to my family. But my father died just recently, my eldest brother rules Raeshald now. He sent word, he'd like to see me. He talks of a pardon.” He sighed, his eyes wistful. “I would like to see my homeland once more. I've lived here for sixteen years now, since Elys was a babe. But at night, Sasha, I can still hear the mountains calling, deep in my soul.”
“Do you fear a trap?”
“I'm only a little stupid, girl, not entirely. Of course I fear a bloody trap! But my brother has enemies, and it's the Cherrovan tradition for brothers to share power. My brother needs me.” An arrow whistled somewhere abouts, then a more distant clatter on a rooftop. “But come, this pause won't last forever. How many of my men do you need?”
Sasha took a deep breath. “I think I'll leave you together,” she said. “But I'll pull the Torovans here off the line, and send them to reinforce the neighbouring lanes. This will be a highlands affair.”
Tongren grinned, a dangerous light in his eye. “I'll give the order. I like it so far.”
“There may be a point,” Sasha continued, “where a major thrust will come down either to the north,” and she pointed right, “or to the south,” and she pointed left. “At that point, if they manage to break through, all of their momentum will depend upon a constant flow of men into that breach. This rabble are not fighters, Tongren, you've discovered that.” Nodding to his bloody sword.
“Aye,” Tongren agreed, listening intently.
“Success for them will only come through sheer weight of numbers. If you see a thrust coming through beside you, I want you to charge into its flank.”
Tongren looked astonished. Then his eyes lit up. “Charge?” he exclaimed. “Burning bullshit, you've got more balls than a lagand tournament.”
“These streets are narrow,” Sasha insisted. “A small group of good fighters, well motivated, can cut off an entire road and stop the flow of many times that number of enemy. If you can get in amongst them, then you can buy us time to deal with the breakthrough, without having to worry about the torrent that comes through behind.”
“What about leaving Fisherman's Lane undefended?”
Sasha shrugged. “It's a risk, but like I said, they probably won't come through here again. And do you think that mob could respond quickly to a new opportunity? Are they that sophisticated?”
Tongren whistled. “Bloody hells,” he said. “You really are Kessligh's uma, aren't you?”
“I only seem brilliant because you Cherrovan wouldn't know strategy if it bit you on the balls,” Sasha retorted with a dangerous grin.
Tongren roared with laughter. “Fair enough, girl,” he said. His eyes blazed with anticipation. “A charge! Bloody magnificent!”
Sasha pushed her way back through the crowd to join Kristan when she saw a young woman leaning against a wall, looking cold, wet and frightened. She held a spear with a curious banner-a black wolf's head on a blue background. It was as bedraggled in the misting rain as the dress that clung to her shoulders and breasts. Strangely for a non-Nasi-Keth, she had a knife sheath tied to the sash about her waist. With a blink of astonishment, Sasha saw that the woman was Alythia.
Sasha made a gesture for Kristan to wait, and went to her. “Lyth?”
Alythia looked at her, dark eyes waif-like behind a matted fringe of tangled black hair. She straightened immediately, no longer shivering, wiping hair back from her face. Shoulders back and breasts out. They'd always been her proudest asset, Sasha thought sardonically.
“What's the banner for?” Sasha asked when Alythia gave no greeting.
“Apparently I'm a princess of Lenayin,” Alythia said shortly. “I was given it. By them.” With a curt nod down the alley.
“Oh,” said Sasha, realisation dawning. She fought down a smile. She wanted to laugh out loud. Perhaps, several months ago, she would have.
“I was helping,” Alythia continued, acerbically. “I was carrying things and helping to prepare for more wounded, but no they say, I'm a princess of Lenayin and I must stand here in the freezing rain and hold this stupid banner.”
“I think it's a rather nice banner,” Sasha said mildly. Alythia had always loved to remind Sasha of how she, noble elder sister, had chosen the great burdens and duties of princesshood, while Sasha, irresponsible brat, had gone running off to play with horses and swords in the wilds. Evidently Alythia's notion of a royal burden had been one too many boring feasts and dances. Standing in the rain with Lenay soldiers on the battlefield had never entered into her equations.
“They're barbarians,” Alythia said coldly, rewrapping her free arm about herself. She nodded toward the barricade. “They scream and howl louder than the mobs. After the first attack failed, they screamed all kinds of horrible things at their backs. One of them…relieved himself on the dead.” She shuddered.
Sasha nodded. “Aye, all very intimidating, I'm sure. They'll think twice before attacking down this lane again.”
“Good Verenthane soldiers would not conduct themselves in such a manner.”
“About a quarter of them are Verenthane.”
Alythia looked uncomfortable. “Not city-bred Verenthanes they're not.”
“Oh aye, all you city Verenthanes shit jewels and your farts smell like flowers.” Alythia glared at her. Sasha took a deep breath. “Look, Lyth, these are your people. Our people. For better or worse, richer or poorer, these are our blood. For the spirits’ sake, be proud! These are the best fighters on the line, no contest…better even than many of the Nasi-Keth.”
“It takes more than an easy aptitude for killing to impress me,” Alythia said coldly. “Culture and civility are the makings of a modern man. Of course, some people are more easily impressed.”