Dinner was a pleasant enough affair, certainly more so than what the vast majoritof Lenay soldiery were enjoying, out in the cold and wet. Sofy made occasional conversation with a local lord who spoke only Algrassian and Larosan. Her Larosan, Sofy thought, was no longer terrible. Tonight, it was merely very bad.
The rain on the great tent grew heavier, a muffled rush that forced men to raise their voices. The local lords had provided the food, as it was understood by all that the Army of Lenayin was travelling light, and relied on allies for provisions along the way.
King Torvaal sat at the table’s end and made sombre conversation with Lord Elen, who was senior of those present, by some measure Sofy had not ascertained-wealth and lands, most likely. Sofy watched her father, and wished he would give her some kind of sign. Surely it affected him, one way or the other. He was leading his kingdom’s army to war. Surely he worried, or wondered at events to come. But, as always, there was nothing…merely a stern, impassive gaze from a lean and bearded face.
Koenyg talked loudest, a broad, commanding presence at the king’s right hand. It was all warfare, of course-horses and provisions and preferred formations of infantry. He’d learned a new word, “chivalry,” and seemed fascinated by it. Sofy knew that several of her handmaidens were similarly intrigued, although for very different reasons.
Damon sat opposite Sofy, and seemed more interested in her questions regarding the food than Koenyg’s regarding battles. Further down sat Myklas, with several younger lordlings. Of her three brothers, Sofy reckoned that Myklas was the one most enjoying this ride to war. In Baen-Tar, Myklas had found little interest in almost anything, rarely worked hard, and breezed through lessons on raw talent and intellect. Only tournaments had interested him. But lately, he’d seemed positively alive, gazing about at every new sight, and asking Koenyg questions of strategy, politics and logistics. He had even sought out his two-years-older sister on occasion, to ask her opinion of the towns they rode through, or on the artfulness of a temple spire, or the manner of the local townsfolk toward them. Sofy was pleased that her little brother had finally begun to take an interest in the world. She was only sad that it took a war to do it.
With the last meal finished, there came the stupid Bacosh tradition of excusing the women so that the men could talk on important matters. It was not a Lenay tradition at all, yet Koenyg and father insisted that while the Lenays were guests in the lowlands, they would obey some local customs as well. The entire table rose as Sofy excused herself, many of the Algrasse lords bowing to their future queen. A year ago, Sofy might have found it all very romantic and exciting. Now, it only depressed her.
She fetched Yasmyn from the secondary tables, and headed for the tent flap. Servants scurried, producing Sofy’s and Yasmyn’s cloaks, one darting into the rain to alert the Royal Guards.
“Was the food good?” Yasmyn asked her princess.
“Yes,” said Sofy. Armour rattled as Royal Guards came running in the rain. “I don’t wish to go back to the tent.”
“We could walk the line once more,” Yasmyn said with a sly grin. She enjoyed walking through the soldiers’ camps with Sofy. With the princess, men were never less than proper, but a daughter of Isfayen nobility could be expected to flirt a little.
“Perhaps,” said Sofy201C;Lord Pelury says there’s a lovely old temple atop the hill on the other side of the stream. It dates to Saint Telvierre’s time; some say it was even constructed by Telvierre himself, sometime after the War of Three Rivers. All of the local nobility are baptised there, and they say it has many holy artefacts.”
“I’m not very interested in temples,” said Yasmyn.
“You could stay here.”
There was little chance of that, though.
Sofy and Yasmyn walked with their guard toward the stream beside the camp. There was light enough to see by, as many campfires burned beyond the tents, soldiers having foraged plenty of wood in anticipation of a cold, wet night. They made great blazes now, too hot for rain alone to extinguish. The air was thick with smoke and conversation, and even some laughter and song.
At the camp’s perimeter, several of the guards lit oil lamps, and walked to the fore. The stream sides were walled here, and a small stone bridge made an arc directly opposite. Crossing the stream, Sofy looked back down the road they had come. The army did not waste time contracting into fortified camps every night, soldiers merely camped and slept where they stopped. They were in friendly lands now, and no doubt the locals felt themselves in far greater danger from the army than vice versa.
“Your Highness!” came a call from behind. A cloaked man was running through rain toward them.
“Oh no,” Yasmyn sighed. “I thought we’d lost him.”
Sofy smiled. “Master Willem,” she said pleasantly as the tall man came to a panting halt and bowed. “I swear you must have the eyes of a hawk and the nose of a hunting dog. I had thought to leave your writings undisturbed.”
“Oh, but Your Highness, you must not trouble yourself for me! I am at your service for the duration of this journey! Where are you off to this evening?”
Master Willem was a scholar from a noble family of Algrassian scholars. The column had acquired him in the Algrasse capital of Tathilde seven days ago, when his services had been offered by his father, a noted scholar of Bacosh history. Since then he’d spent much time observing the Lenay Army, asking questions and writing in his carriage or tent.
“I had thought to take a brief walk to the Heronen Temple,” said Sofy. “I’m assured it’s not a long climb.”
“But…but, Your Highness,” Willem protested, “is it wise for the future Princess of the Bacosh to stray from camp with a mere eight guards?”
Captain Tyrel might have frowned at that. “I had not thought the lands of Algrasse so lawless,” Sofy said innocently.
“Lawless? No, no, Your Highness…not lawless. But such an importance as yourself should surely not…”
“I’m tired of being an importance,” Sofy declared, and resumed her walk. Her guards followed, and Yasmyn gave Willem a smug look as she whirled to Sofy’s side. “If I’m to become princess of this land, I feel I should come to know its places and people, do you not think, Master Willem?”
“Oh, aine, worthy sentiment, Your Highness.” The tall man hurried to keep up. His earnest face was youngish-perhaps thirty-five, Sofy thought. Yet his jaw seemed to recede into his shapeless neck, and his posture was slightly hunched, in a way that was not fitting for a man his age. “Wobbly men,” Yasmyn had declared most Algrassian men, disdainfully.
Sofy walked briskly up the muddy trail toward where a path began to climb the opposing hill. Clear of the smoke and fires of the camp, the hill was more visible now, a dark and looming forest with a light burning on top. That, Sofy supposed, would be the Heronen Temple.
The guards’ lanterns lit gnarled, wet tree trunks and spreading canopy from below, to ghostly effect as shadows crawled and twisted through the wood. An owl hooted, and Yasmyn made the spirit sign to her forehead.
“Don’t be silly,” Sofy told her. “I think it’s a perfectly nice little forest, there’s nothing haunting here.”
“Eastern Verenthanes are crazy,” Yasmyn retorted. “Everywhere is haunted. You just can’t feel it.”
“There he is M’Lady,” said the guard directly ahead, holding up his lantern and pointing downslope to the left. Two bright eyes caught the lamplight, glowing like yellow coals.
“Narl yl amystrash,” Yasmyn called to the owl, in her native Telochi, making the spirit sign once more. The owl fluttered away on silent wings. Yasmyn grinned. “He heard me.”
“What did you say to him?” Sofy asked.
“The owl spirit, he foretells the future,” Yasmyn said. “In Isfayen, we say that the owl comes in the night to make a woman with child.”
“In Valhanan, they say that of the town baker,” Sofy replied. Guardsmen laughed. Sofy was very pleased. It wasn’t often she’d think of a bawdy joke to make Lenay warriors laugh.
“I tell the owl and the baker to go away,” said Yasmyn, also laughing. “I want no child tonight.”
“Excuse me, if you please…” Willem interrupted in Torovan-they’d been speaking Lenay, of course, forgetting that one in their midst spoke none. “This is the spirit sign, yes?” He imitated Yasmyn’s sign, poorly.
“It is,” said Sofy, resuming the climb.
“Bad for Bacosh man make spirit sign,” Yasmyn added brokenly in Torovan. “Lenay man make spirit sign, good. Bacosh man make spirit sign, cock drop off.” Sofy giggled.
“Please forgive me,” Willem continued, “but I was under the impression that there were no Goeren-yai nobility in Lenayin.”
“Well yes,” said Sofy. “But Yasmyn is from Isfayen, in the western mountains. The faith is practised differently there. Even Isfayen Verenthanes still believe in spirits.”
“But…these are not the true gods,” said Willem, uncertainly. “How is it possible that one can believe in both?”
“Gods is gods,” Yasmyn said shortly. “Spirits is spirits. Different thing, yes? No problem.”
“The scripture says that it is blasphemy to worship any other gods besides the true gods,” Willem said firmly.
“They don’t worship spirits in temple,” Sofy said impatiently, trotting briskly up a flight of wet stone steps. “They’re just folk tales, really.”
“More,” Yasmyn disagreed. “Spirits are the world. Gods are the reason.”
“But…” Willem looked completely baffled now. “Surely the Archbishop of Lenayin does not consider such beliefs to be truly Verenthane?”
“It would take a very brave man, Master Willem,” Sofy said with no little sarcasm, “to tell the Verenthanes of Isfayen that their beliefs are not true.”
“But…” Willem protested once more.
From the front, Captain Tyrel finally lost his patience. “What’s the Archbishop going to do, man?” he said sharply. “Excommunicate the western provinces? Demand they convert properly? Some Baen-Tar priests tried once, their body parts were sent back packed in little baskets. Half of the army you’ve invited into your precious Bacosh doesn’t follow your gods at all. Best you get used to it.”
Willem coughed, and thought better of reply. Bacosh nobility were not accustomed to rebukes from their lessers. In Lenayin, he was perhaps learning, a man might rebuke whomever he chose…if he had confidence enough in his swordplay to survive the honour duel that followed.
It was a fair climb to the hill’s crown, but not greatly taxing-her days filled with riding and walking, Sofy had not been so fit in her life, and was rather enjoying the sensation. Another of those things Sasha had once assured her of, that she’d only now begun to appreciate.
The path made a switchback up the hillside, and then emerged on a small, wet courtyard that looked out over the little river beside which the Army of Lenayin had camped. Sofy could see a line of campfires, smothered in smoke and drifting rain, like a long line of flickering stars. Above was an old stone temple, with a bronze bell prominent between twin spires. Behind, a village of low, stone houses loomed dark in the rain, lit only by the glow from several windows. The temple might have been attractive were it not for the four long, iron cages suspended to one side of the courtyard from the branch of a huge, squat oak. Sofy had not seen such contraptions before, but she’d heard them described. Captain Tyrel, too, was darkly intrigued, and walked forward, raising his lantern. Each suspended cage was human shaped, and as the lantern light caught them, it became clear that each also contained a person.
“Dear gods,” Sofy murmured in horror.
“Devil’s fruit, they are called,” explained Willem, quite unperturbed. “Do men not use them in Lenayin? They are quite common in Algrasse, for punishing blasphemers and the like. Not so much in Larosa though, the Larosans are quite inventive.”
Two of the captives in the devil’s fruit were female, a woman and a girl, dresses torn and filthy. One was an old man with a thick beard. The fourth was a child of perhaps ten, half naked and long haired-whether male or female, it was impossible totell. They slumped against their confining bars yet could not lie down, knees buckled against the front, heads back, as though desperate for rest. Perhaps they drank the rain. Cutting through the pleasant smell of damp forest, earth and woodsmoke, Sofy smelled human filth.
“How long have they been up there, do you think?” she asked.
“Oh, over a rainy period like this one, it can take more than a week to die,” said Willem, offhandedly. “Sometimes two. But come, Your Highness, since we are here, I shall explain to you the significance of this temple.”
“This is no way to kill a man,” Yasmyn said in Lenay. “There is honour in spilling blood. I see no blood here.”
“What did she say?” Willem asked, with mild curiosity.
“She wonders why lowlanders call us barbarians,” Sofy said coldly, striding to Captain Tyrel’s side.
“Highness,” said Tyrel, “these two are dead.” Pointing to the old man and the woman. Sure enough, Sofy saw their limbs and fingers were stiff. “The girl still lives. I cannot say about the child.”
What possible reason could anyone have for doing this to a child, Sofy wondered. Children had sometimes died in Lenay wars but, as Yasmyn said, those were deaths in hot blood, fuelled by ancient regional hatreds and motivated by the urge to destroy a blood enemy’s line. Those killings, however horrible, were quick. This was planned and calculating. Whoever had done this wished these four to suffer.
And why in the world was she still standing around wondering what to do about it? Jaryd never would have. Jaryd would have cut them down in a flash.
“Captain, take them down.”
“Aye, Highness,” said Tyrel, and his men moved quickly. None of the guardsmen seemed interested in disputing the order.
“Your Highness,” said Willem, “I’m really not so sure that’s wise….” Sofy ignored him, staring up at the girl Tyrel had insisted was alive. She looked lifeless to Sofy, but the captain was surely more practised in telling life from death than she. “Highness, these are clearly people guilty of some evil crime; the local people have every right to enforce their own justice in any way they-”
“They can argue with me once I’m queen,” Sofy said coldly. “And just pray that I’ll be as merciful.”
The girl’s cage came down with a clang, then the child’s. The clamps that held both halves together were released, and guardsmen carefully lowered girl and child to the pavings. Each stank, and were limp, scrawny and filthy. The girl had a rope tied about her neck and between her teeth as a gag. Sofy guessed the townsfolk did not wish to listen to her sobbing while they prayed. She wondered how many days a person could sob for, fearing all the time, while thirsting, hungering and cramping, unable to so much as scratch an itch.
Guardsmen tried to pour each some water from their flasks. The child did not respond. “There is a pulse,” Corporal Heyar said, feeling at the child’s slim neck, listening close for a breath. “Very faint. Unsteady. This one will die unless we get some food into the .”
The girl gasped. Captain Tyrel patted her face, and sunken eyes fluttered open, beneath a fringe of straggly brown hair. “You’re safe, child,” said Tyrel, in Torovan. “Have some water.” The girl sipped, desperately. And coughed.
“That’s not right,” a guardsman was muttering. Stoic and disciplined, Sofy hadn’t known her guards to voice personal opinions. “Someone should be paying for this, this ain’t right.”
There were terrible sores on the girl’s arms, where her limbs had been stuck, pressing for days against the metal. Weeks maybe, Willem had said. Then the temple bell began to clang. Sofy stared, and saw the pulley rope, leading somewhere inside, jerking it back and forward.
“Your Highness,” Willem said with exasperation, “I was afraid something like this would happen. We’ve been seen, now there will be trouble.”
“Get them up,” Tyrel ordered his men. “We can’t help them here anyhow, they need medicines before they can eat.”
Up the town road, doors were opening, and villagers were emerging into the rain. Some were armed. Most came running. Sofy’s concern mounted to alarm. Willem seemed almost frantic. “Your Highness, we must go now!”
“We’re not running anywhere!” Sofy retorted. Even she knew how stupid that would be, tactically. “Captain!”
“Put them down!” Tyrel revised his last order. “We’ll see off this mob first, we can’t spare the hands. Highness, M’Lady, Master Willem, behind me if you please!”
The guardsmen fanned out fast, weapons drawn and shields unslung from their backs. Yasmyn pulled Sofy between herself and Willem, and from her belt pulled her darak. Heavy, curved and nearly the length of Sofy’s forearm, it glinted dully in the dim light. Captain Tyrel had left the lanterns on the pavings beside the girl and child-Sofy scampered to pick one up and rejoin Yasmyn.
There were nearly fifty villagers, Sofy guessed, and even now, more came running. Most were men, perhaps half with weapons. Up the road behind, many women stood in doorways, clutching children as dogs barked and villagers shouted to each other in Algrassian. Still the bell clanged, summoning the town.
The temple doors opened as the crowd gathered, clustering four paces beyond the bare steel of the Royal Guard. A priest emerged, gaunt and balding, in a black robe. He stood on the stairs, eyes wide in alarm and fear. Still the bell clanged. So there were others in there.
The priest began shouting to the mob in Algrassian. Angry and fearful villagers looked at each other, then circled to see where two of the devil’s fruit had been lowered and sprung open. Two guardsmen stepped away from the main formation, walking sideways to stay between those villagers and Sofy. Despite her thumping heart, Sofy was surprised to discover she was not terrified. Royal Guardsmen were amongst the most formidable warriors in Lenayin, and even six or seven to one, against common Bacosh villagers, would not trouble them. But more than that, she knew she was in the right. This predicament was neither her fault nor her mistake. Astonishing to realise that that simple fact alone dispelled half the fear.
She spared a glance at Yasmyn, and found her slightly crouched, her loose dress pulled up a little at the knees, darak held low and ready. Her eyes were eager, as though she wished the villagers to attack. Knowing Yasmyn, and the Isfayen in general, Sofy was hardly surprised.
Angry shouts began amongst the villagers as the priest finished speaking. Weapons were waved, dangerously. Sofy found herself more mesmerised by the guardsmen’s swords. Huge, gleaming silver and wickedly sharp, it seemed unthinkable that someone might actually use them to strike another person.
“What’s he saying?” Sofy demanded furiously to Willem of the priest.
“He…he says that you have desecrated a holy site…I…I can’t make out the rest….”
“You’re Algrassian!” Sofy retorted incredulously. “Don’t you know your own tongue?”
“The accent is very strong!” Willem protested, with moisture on his face that was not from the rain.
“Do something! Tell them who we are!”
“Your Highness, I don’t think that will help!”
“Do it! That’s an order!”
Willem shouted for attention, arms raised high. The crowd of villagers quieted a little. Willem continued, anxiously in Algrassian. When he finished, there was uproar. Willem looked at Sofy, and she could see “I told you so” in his eyes. An axe was thrown from the crowd, a guardsman leaping to interpose himself, taking the blow on his shield. Sofy was more astonished than frightened. She’d known Lenayin was poorly regarded in the Bacosh, but mostly, she’d thought the attitude one of disdain. This seemed like hatred.
Villagers moved wide, trying to flank the guardsmen’s lines, the eight soldiers spreading sideways…they could not maintain a defensive perimeter about both her and the two unfortunates lying on the pavings, she realised. If the villagers waited until they were entirely encircled…but the thought vanished as several from the mob darted forward to attack. Sofy was nearly relieved.
One swung an axe at a guardsman, who fended with his shield. His fellow guardsman performed a simple overhead, his blade splitting the axeman through shoulder to midchest. Blood erupted in all directions, and the body hit the pavings like a slaughtered carcass. Another attacker lost his arm, fell to his knees screaming, then lost his head. To Sofy’s right, a guardsman who was rushed by three at once knocked one off his feet with a shield charge, and hacked the second through the side. The third rushed past, a short sword in hand, but Yasmyn leaped into his path, slid inside his blade with a deflecting arm, and took the full impact of his rushing body. It knocked her back several steps, but then the man was falling, sliding from her arms, his guts spilling on the pavings where Yasmyn’s darak had split his middle. Yasmyn danced back, her blade and right hand bloody, and hissed at the corpse with what sounded like pleasure.
The crowd reeled back, screaming and yelling. Four guardsmen pursued, while the other four re-formed the second line, with remarkable discipline. Two more villagers fell, and then the crowd was running in panic, flooding back up the main street or up the steps to the temple door.
“Willem!” Sofy commanded, s she olding the lantern. “Carry the girl! Yasmyn, you and I will take the child! Let’s go!”
They hurried to do that, as the final four guardsmen fell back, the first four fanning ahead, to discourage any attempt to re-form. No sooner had Sofy and Yasmyn grabbed the child than one of the guardsmen yelled “Crossbow!,” and something buzzed the air. It didn’t seem to hit anything. Then another yell, and this time there followed a thud on the shield of one of Sofy’s protecting wall. That man cursed in pain, but did not waver.
“Move fast!” commanded Tyrel. “There could be more!” The path down the hillside would lead them past the first village houses, where the crossbow fire seemed to be coming from. The forward guardsmen were moving across to meet them and form a wall about their princess. But walking past those houses was just asking for someone to get shot.
Yasmyn saw it too. “I’ll get them,” she said happily, dumping the limp child entirely into Sofy’s arms, and racing forward into the night.
“Yasmyn, no!” But Yasmyn was gone, cloaked and shadowed in the gloom. Sofy staggered forward, lantern in hand as the ten-year-old’s limp weight dragged on her arms. Gods, the child was heavy. For the first time in her life, she wished she was as strong as her sister Sasha.
Another crossbow shot thumped and fizzed, but it seemed directed elsewhere. Yasmyn, Sofy thought fearfully, but there was no time to wait, and she staggered as best she could down the sloping path, with Willem coming behind. Guardsmen let her pass as she descended, holding shields above her head as they passed close beneath the house walls, then forming a rearguard behind once they were past. No further shots came.
Above, the bell was still clanging, and random, frightened shouts filled the air. One of the guardsmen slung his shield, then deprived Sofy of her burden. “Best you help Master Willem too,” Sofy gasped, letting her aching arms droop as she jogged, for Willem seemed about to drop the half-conscious girl entirely.
A soldier did that, and when they reached the point where the path turned back on itself, they paused. Sofy saw then that one of the guardsmen-a tall Fyden redhead named Daryn-had taken that second-last crossbow bolt not only through his shield, but through the supporting forearm as well.
“Hold still, lad,” Corporal Heyar said gruffly, pulling a knife while another man held the shield still. Heyar began sawing through the bolt beneath the metal head. No doubt it pulled the bolt back and forth within the wound something horrible. Daryn made barely a sound.
Sofy tore her eyes away to shine her lantern back up the path. Yasmyn was crazy, and now Yasmyn was going to drive her crazy by making her wait and worry, she just knew it. But it was barely a moment before a dark, cloaked shape came flitting down the path toward them. Sofy gasped with relief.
“Are you being followed?” Tyrel asked Yasmyn when she arrived.
“Maybe,” she said, “but not by crossbow men.” She reached into the pocket of her cloak with a devilish grin. “One crossbow man,” she said and pulled from the pocket a severed ear. Then, “Two crossbow men!” pulling a second ear, triumphantly.
Sofy stared in horror. “O, Yasmyn. You didn’t!”
“What?” said Yasmyn defensively. “My father tell me, never kill a man without proof. Or else, you have nothing to boast about.”
Daryn hissed as Corporal Heyar yanked the headless crossbow bolt through shield and arm. “Bloody shields,” someone muttered. “Never liked them anyway.”
They resumed down the path, four guardsmen ahead, four behind, and Sofy, Yasmyn and Willem in the middle. “Arm!” Yasmyn demanded of Daryn, slashing a piece off his tunic with her darak. Daryn gave her his arm, and Yasmyn tied the cloth about the wound, then pressed it hard with both hands as they walked.
“You going to buy me another tunic?” Daryn asked her.
“Army has plenty of tunics,” Yasmyn snorted. “You have only one left arm.” He nearly stumbled, weak-kneed with pain, he tried to hide it. “Concentrate!” Yasmyn demanded, hauling him upright. “You stay awake, soldier-man. Maybe I visit you tonight. A bloody man is a sexy man, yes?”
Several men chortled. “Bloody Isfayen,” one laughed.
“Say, those aren’t left and right ears in your pocket, are they?” another suggested.
“No!” Yasmyn snapped, indignantly. “I kill two crossbow men. Not one. And the other one, on the courtyard.”
“Aye, maybe you went back to him when we weren’t there, and took his ears off.”
“Stupid fucking fool, shut your fucking mouth or I cut your belly like a goat!” Howls of laughter from the men.
Gods save us, Sofy thought despairingly, we are barbarians. She turned her lantern to the child, hanging limp in the arms of the guardsman behind her. Barbarians yes, she amended the thought, but at least we don’t do that.
Soldiers met them halfway up, alarmed to have heard the tolling bell. Tyrel turned them all around, cursing them for making a jam on the narrow path, as those at the rear kept running up while the princess and party were trying to go down.
Many men were gathered curiously about the bridge across the stream, a spread of dark figures against the smoky glow of the camp. Sofy headed for her tent.
She’d nearly made it when Koenyg intercepted her in a fast stride. “What happened?”
“I went up to the temple,” Sofy said shortly, still walking. “There were four villagers there, strung up and left to die. This girl and child were still alive, I took them down. The villagers protested.”
“And?”
“They attacked us. We killed six.”
“Eight,” Yasmyn protested. “You forget my crossbow men.”
“You’re an idiot,” Koenyg pronounced.
“Spare me,” Sofy shot back, pushing through her tent flaps. Koenyg followed, and Yasmyn, and the two guards carrying the girl and child. Handmaidens leapt to their feet, tucking aside sewing, bookd a game of dice.
“Medicines!” Yasmyn snapped at them. “Lemon water, honey and goats’ milk, and heat some water! Poultice and salves, move quickly!” She clapped to hurry them along, as the guardsmen laid girl and child down on a bearskin rug. At least it was warm in the tent, Sofy thought, kneeling alongside the child. A boy, she decided, girlish only because of long hair, and undernourishment that highlighted the cheekbones. His shirt was in tatters, and his skin deathly cold to touch. It seemed that he barely breathed.
Lemon water arrived, and Therys, an older woman, took charge. She dipped a cloth into the jug and dripped lemon water onto the girl’s lips, as Alyna did likewise with the child. The girl coughed, weakly, and in a tiny voice, asked for more.
Therys gazed at the girl’s drawn face, and felt her throat. “I think she will live,” she concluded. “I’ll see to the child.”
Koenyg took Therys’s place, kneeling on the rug. “Ulynda,” he commanded, and Sofy’s grey-haired Larosan tutor limped to her prince’s shoulder. “How good’s your Algrassian?”
“Fair, Your Highness,” said Ulynda.
“Ask her what crime she committed, to receive this sentence.”
“What does it matter?” Sofy snapped. “Let her rest, Koenyg.”
“Ask her,” Koenyg repeated, ignoring his sister. Sofy fumed.
Ulynda knelt with difficulty, placed a hand on the girl’s frail shoulder, and spoke in Algrassian. The girl’s eyelids fluttered. She took several short breaths, then answered, in a barely audible whisper.
Ulynda frowned. “Witchcraft,” she translated.
“Tosh,” Sofy snorted. “What nonsense.”
“We are guests on Algrassian lands,” Koenyg replied. “We should respect their laws and customs.”
Sofy glared at him. “You’d string her back up?”
“The Hadryn burn a hundred at the stake every year for blasphemy,” Koenyg said impassively. “Women amongst them, and some barely older than the child over there. If the crown tried to stop it, we would have war in Lenayin.”
“We do what we can, brother,” Sofy said frostily. “What we can rather depends on how hard we try. You may not feel compelled to try very hard. I, on the other hand, feel resolved to make an effort.”
“We are guests in foreign lands on their tolerance, dear sister,” said Koenyg, with the first trace of hard temper. “You may have saved two lives, but you took another eight to do it. You may be an excellent student of arts and language, yet I fear your maths is lacking. Worse, our guest lords will surely hear of this very soon. The people will demand justice for those your men killed. What do you think I should say to them?”
“You know, Koenyg, I really don’t care.” She was suddenly feeling beyond all of this. “You figure it out. Instead of making constant excuses for doing the wrong thing, for once you can think of aod excuse to do something right.”
Damon threw aside the flap to the royal tent. The dining tables had been cleared, replaced now by chairs, small tables and braziers to ward the cold. Lord Elen, their host, stood in animated conversation with Koenyg, while King Torvaal looked on. Willem Hoeshel hovered nearby, anxious and pale, offering possible translation. The conversation, of course, was in Torovan.
Lord Elen’s two minor lords made way as Damon approached with the army’s senior priest Father Syd…with a scuttling bow that made Damon’s skin crawl. He did not like these people, with their furtive, darting glances and fearful manners. Lord Elen was a big man, as much fat as muscle, balding with long, black hair at the back, and thick whiskers down to where beefy neck met receding jaw. He dressed as lordly lowlands nobility would, house colours over armour and sword, all martial to impress the Lenay warriors.
“This man can swear to it,” Elen was insisting, pointing to another. Only then did Damon notice the Algrassian priest, an ageing, scrawny man in a threadbare black robe, leaning on a staff and shivering. “This man, he sees, and he speaks with the authority of the gods!”
“The Royal Guards are honour-sworn to protect the princess under all circumstances,” Koenyg replied flatly. “It would not matter if she were attacked by a mob of little girls wielding kitchen knives, they would kill to protect her from so little as a scratch. We’ll not hand them over to your justice, it’s impossible.”
“But, but…” Elen spread his hands. “Your Highness, this is a crime! A crime has been committed, eight of my villagers are dead! Surely there must be justice?” He looked past Koenyg, to King Torvaal. Torvaal stood deathly silent, wrapped in his black robe. Dark eyes within an impassive, lean, bearded face. Damon had barely heard him speak five words on the ride so far. He did not expect that to change now.
“The justice you suggest is impossible,” said Koenyg, folding his arms. Damon recognised that look, that stance. Had seen it too often through his childhood. It had been his torment then, but now, it heartened him. Koenyg would not give this man a hair from a Lenay guardsman’s head. “The soldiers are honour-bound to protect and obey the princess. In truth, the fault is hers. She is young and soft of heart. She acted without understanding the grave insult she would cause to your people. I trust you do not suggest that she should be punished?”
Lord Elen seemed to find that amusing, in the manner of a man confronted by an obvious fact, denied by idiots. Yet he could not say so, and so comported himself with forced dignity, fighting back exasperation.
“Of course not, Prince Koenyg. I have nothing but love and admiration for the princess, our future queen. But…there must be some reparation. What do you suggest?”
“Lenayin is not a kingdom of paupers, Lord Elen,” said Koenyg. “We can pay gold to the villagers for their loss. Name a suitable price.”
Willem Hoeshel winced. Lord Elen looked uncomfortable, and coughed. “Prince Koenyg, it would be beneath us to discuss such unseemly matters so openly.” Lords did not talk about money in the Bacosh, Damon recalled. To do so was…uncivilised. Meanwhile, peasants starved and lords dined on fine fare in opulent castles. But heavens no, gold was not discussed. “Furthermore, I fear that mere gold shall be insufficient. In the Bacosh-as, I am led to believe, in Lenayin-blood is repaid in blood, and…”
“Lord Elen,” Koenyg said shortly, “what do you suggest? That I find some poor sop for you to behead at random? To appease your desire for revenge? In some few weeks, Lenayin’s finest sons shall spill their blood upon your fields to reclaim that which all your armies have been unable to win in two centuries of trying. We have marched a very long way to do so, upon your invitation. That is gift enough, don’t you think? Or would you ask more?”
There was no mistaking the dangerous edge to the prince’s tone. Lord Elen’s faint humour vanished and he inclined his head. “No, my Prince. Forgive me, this is a difficult situation. At least, allow us to reclaim the two criminals that the princess has freed, and restore our justice upon them.”
“The boy died,” said Damon. All present turned to look at him, and Father Syd. “His bones were showing, our healer thinks there was an infection too.”
Lord Elen inclined his head once more, as though to acknowledge a good thing. “The other one, then,” he requested.
“He was ten,” Damon continued. Koenyg was staring at him, warningly. Damon did not care. “The girl is his sister. She is sixteen. Villagers accused their mother of laying with a man who had serrin blood. The mother was one of the two already dead. The older man was her father. I can’t see how he is responsible for his daughter’s bed partners. I suppose he was merely available.”
“My good Prince,” said Lord Elen, with a condescending, bitter smile, “I do not question your laws or customs. Please do not question that of your hosts.”
“Witchcraft,” Damon snorted. “The serrin are not witches, Lord Elen. Hate them you may, if you choose, but these charges against innocent villagers are nonsense.”
“You show great concern for the welfare of my villagers, Prince Damon,” Elen replied, “for one whose men have just murdered eight of them. What we choose to call the serrin is our business. They are unholy and ungodly, of that our priests assure us. They are a blight on this land, filling the minds of the corrupt with filth and decadence. Why, barely three years ago the forces of good made a great purge of all serrin influence and bloodlines in this region. There were fires, devil’s fruit, nooses and impaling stakes across the hills and valleys, and it was indeed a beautiful sight.”
The man’s blue eyes were wide with defiance and anger. Damon stared, feeling cold. He’d heard of the purges. The slaughters. He’d thought some of the lords, at least, might have the humanity to feel embarrassed. Serrin had rarely even visited these lands; it was unlikely any of the several thousand killed had been guilty as accused.
“Nothing ungodly about the serrin,” Father Syd growled. Lord Elen’s wide blue eyes turned upon the big priest. “Serrin are gentle folk. Their only crime is words, while others who call themselves godly impale innocents with steel. The scripture of Saint Vestos says all evil is flowered in the souls of men. Gods have nothing to do with it, and serrin neither.”
“And this is what passes for the faith in Lenayin, I presume?” Lord Elen asked the gathering.
“You will not presume to teach the faith to our lowlands guests,” Koenyg told the priest, sharply.
“You speak for your armies, Your Highness,” Syd retorted fiercely. He was a big man, looking more a warrior with cloak, beard and staff than a man of faith. “I speak for the faith in Lenayin, not you.”
Lord Elen blinked in astonishment. He looked further astonished that Koenyg did not strike off Syd’s head for the insolence. Koenyg merely ground his teeth and fumed. Lord Elen repressed a laugh, to see the fractious, uncivilised Lenays arguing so, priest against prince in the presence of others. The old, shivering Algrassian priest merely stared, uncomprehending. Not much Torovan spoken in these parts save amongst the nobility, Damon guessed.
“Highnesses,” said Elen, swallowing his amusement with difficulty. “If you please, I would collect the remaining criminal and be gone. There will be angry families to answer to, and reparations to make.”
Damon stared at the man, and at Koenyg, and his stern, silent father. They would marry his Sofy to the likes of this? For a moment, he felt almost sick with fury.
“You may take her,” Koenyg said impassively. “I shall accompany you. There will be my sister and her guards to deal with.” Lord Elen bowed.
Koenyg swept past Damon, with a glare that nearly made him flinch. Furious as he was, still a glare from Koenyg could make his knees tremble. Lord Elen and his cronies followed Koenyg, and Damon strode fast to confront his father.
“My Lord,” said Damon, his voice trembling. “You will allow this?” His father’s dark eyes bore into his own. “Is this the mercy of our gods?”
Within the tent, deathly silence, save the gentle rain that fell on the canvas above. The king looked away.
“Have you nothing to say?” Damon asked. “We march to make war on good people, in the name of murderers and thieves who would despoil all that is good in the Verenthane faith, who would slaughter thousands of innocents, to unite their lands and rally their people in terror of imaginary evils, and you say nothing? Thousands of Lenay families will lose fathers, brothers and sons to this cause, and your only reply is silence?”
“Lad,” said Father Syd, laying a hand on his prince’s shoulder. “That’s enough.”
“The path has been chosen,” said King Torvaal. His voice sounded strained, as though roughened by lack of use. “The destiny of Lenayin is Verenthane. We fight for the Verenthane cause, the holiest of the holy causes. We reclaim the holy lands for the faith. The gods have ordained it.”
“Are you certain?” Damon pressed, desperately. “Have you seen it? With your own eyes?” His father had spent so many days in prayer, since the death of his heir and Damon’s eldest brother Krystoff, nearly thirteen years before.
Damon searched his father’s face, for the consolation of knowing that the king, at leastnew this cause to be a just one. That he would not sacrifice so many lives without the certainty of righteous truth.
His father’s dark eyes stared back. And again, he looked away. Damon no longer wanted to strike someone. He wanted to cry.
He turned and strode from the tent, out into the rain. Father Syd followed, and a pair of Royal Guardsmen joined to their flanks. Great Lord Ackryd of Taneryn nearly walked into him from another tent, reversing quickly.
“Bad?” Ackryd asked, watching Damon warily. Damon snorted furiously, glad the wetness of his eyes could be explained in part by the rain. Ackryd was the third new great lord to be appointed after the Udalyn Rebellion, following the deaths of Usyn Telgar of Hadryn and Cyan Asynth of Banneryd in battle. Taneryn’s previous Great Lord Krayliss had lost his head at the order of the king for sedition. Ackryd had then been Captain Ackryd of the Red Swords, one of Taneryn’s two standing companies, and had joined Sasha to fight for the Udalyn against the northern Hadryn and Banneryd. His role in that battle had gained him enough credit with Taneryn’s various village leaders and great warriors to get him selected Krayliss’s replacement at the last Taneryn Rrathynal.
“We march to Loth, Lord Ackryd,” Damon snarled. “To Loth!”
“You’ll not speak such words, lad,” Father Syd cautioned, striding close behind.
“Your Highness,” Ackryd pressed, “we Taneryn hear rumours that this incident with the princess was arranged by the northerners. Is it true?”
“I’m sure they’d love to have thought of it,” Damon muttered.
“It is true, then?”
“No, it’s not true man!” Damon snapped. “Pay your wits more attention and your rumours less! The northerners want this war most of all, they need Sofy married safely to Prince Balthaar, however much they dislike her.”
“You accuse them of rational common sense,” Ackryd growled. “Those fanatics are as stupid as they are evil-”
“If it please you, Lord of Taneryn, I’ve more important matters to hand than Taneryn’s old wars with-” Damon broke off, as he heard screams from ahead. A woman’s screams. They sounded frighteningly familiar.
Damon ran, Ackryd, Syd and their men running behind, toward the commotion. Royal Guardsmen held a gathering press of men back from the entrance to Sofy’s tent, shouting angrily and threatening with weapons those who thought to push through.
Damon shoved others aside, and the guardsmen let him through. Inside, several men were shouting, but the broader entourage were silent. The servants’ faces were shocked and pale. There was Sofy, in the arms of two of her maids, her face tear streaked. Before her stood Yasmyn Kraal, her darak drawn, warily guarding her princess.
The shouting men were Koenyg, and one of the Bacosh lords. Between them lay the rescued villagers. The boy, covered with a blanket, and his surviving sister…now impaled with Lord Elen’s sword. Her eyes stared sightlessly at Lord Elen, her weatherworn dress drenched in blood. Lord Elen straightened his neck self-righteously, and withdrew his blade. The girl’s dy lurched as it came out, limp and bony. Sofy was sobbing. Those had been her screams.
“Upon the princess’s own hearth!” Koenyg was yelling furiously. “Have you no honour?”
“Our lands, our justice!” the other lord yelled back. Lord Elen wiped his blade with his cloak, looking most unbothered by it all. Pale blue eyes met Damon’s, and he gave a cold smile.
Damon drew his blade and strode forward. A Bacosh soldier saw Damon’s intent, drew his own blade and interposed himself. Koenyg yelled, drawing his own blade, as others did likewise. Damon smashed through the soldier’s weak defence, his edge driving into the man’s shoulder, then sidestepped and cut through his middle. A second came at his left, Damon half step-faked, then dropped back as that man’s blade whistled past, then tore through jaw and throat with his counter stroke.
There were yells and confusion, Lord Elen stumbling backward, sword raised to ward the impending attack as two surviving soldiers and two minor lords made a barrier between him and the enraged Lenay prince. Damon would have gone through them, but Koenyg was there on his right flank, weapon ready, yelling at him to stop. In all their years of rivalry, Damon had only bested Koenyg in a full sparring sequence once. Should he continue his attack, he would expose to Koenyg his flank. And he had no confidence that his brother would not take that available opening.
“A duel!” Damon yelled furiously at Elen, pointing his sword. “I’ll have you to the death, here and now!”
“Enough!” Koenyg bellowed. “You’ve done enough!”
“This is an outrage!” Lord Elen was yelling, in fright and fury, his round face flushed bright red. “By what honour would you do murder on an invited guest?”
“The wound is deep,” Damon snarled in Lenay, “and can only be salved with blood!”
“You don’t know what you say!” Koenyg said furiously, also in Lenay. “You don’t know what you say, and you shall retract…”
“The wound is deep and can only be salved with blood!” Damon insisted, his blade an unwavering pointer at Lord Elen. Koenyg hissed in exasperation. It was the traditional challenge, the one in hot blood, not the ceremonial. It was what was said in countless squares, fields and hearths across Lenayin, when tempers grew too great and insults thrust too deep, and two men’s lives made a dissonance that could only be resolved with death.
“What is this barbarian garble you speak?” Lord Elen demanded in Torovan. “Don’t you point that blade at me, or by the great gods you’ll regret it!”
“He has the right,” said Father Syd, also in Lenay, ignoring the Algrassians. The big priest pushed in behind, close between Damon and Koenyg, yet not so foolhardy as to stand directly between them.
“He has no right!” Koenyg declared. “We are guests on Algrassian lands….”
“Don’t you speak in tongues in my presence!” Lord Elen demanded. “Of what do you speak?”
“Your death!” Yasmyn Ir said.
“I’ll not be threatened by a scabby, slanty eyed, barbarian wench!” Elen roared. “I’ll have your head, I tell you!” The Isfayen girl paid him little heed, her eyes only for Damon, alive and gleaming with admiration.
“He stepped past the talleryn stones,” Father Syd continued, now in Torovan. “He paid his respects. This is Lenay land, it is consecrated by our hearth, our food and our tents. We sleep upon the ground, we slay animals for our feast, and now, it has been further claimed with blood.”
“What are you talking about, you babbling fool?” Elen retorted. “I have been attacked, one of my men has been slain!” The other, on the ground behind Damon, was now rising, with the assistance of guardsmen. “The regent shall hear of this outrage! I shall demand satisfaction, and punishment!”
“You are being offered satisfaction,” Father Syd told him, an impassive rock in the face of the Algrassian’s bluster. “A fair fight. A prince against a lord. The gods will decide.”
“Don’t be absurd! I’ll not follow your barbarian customs! I am the Lord of Liside Vale, these are my lands, these are my ways, and I shall choose the reclaiming of my own honour!”
“I saw him pay respects at the stones!” Great Lord Ackryd cut in, from the back by the tent entrance. “He came upon our hearth, our camp, and he submitted himself to our ways. He has conducted himself without honour, he has slain innocents, he has offended a Lenay princess and made her grieve. If Prince Damon’s challenge is rejected, I volunteer my own! He shall accept, or he shall die here, right now! Ayalrach entyr dalan!”
“Ayalrach entyr dalan!” came the reply, from surrounding Lenay men, nobles and soldiers alike. Even, Damon noted, from some of Sofy’s maids, and not merely from Yasmyn. “Honour before gold,” it meant, in Lenay. Gold was not at issue here, but the saying was understood by all in the highcountry. Honour was everything. Some matters, even the highest lords could not weasel their way out of. At the intonation, even Koenyg looked sullenly resigned.
Lord Elen was not a stupid man. He seemed to sense that something had changed. “I am an important man with the regent!” he declared. “The regent’s sister is my cousin through marriage. I am not some lowly man-at-arms to be subjected to barbarian justice.”
“We are the army without which the regent cannot win his war,” Koenyg said darkly. “This is the future queen of all the Bacosh. You have offended her, and Lenay honour with it, and badly misjudged your own standing, Lord Elen. There is a reason why lowlanders tell fearful tales of the Lenay hoards. It would have been better had you recalled.”
“I’ve heard enough!” Lord Elen declared. “I am leaving, and rest assured the regent shall hear of this outrage!” He did not move very far. All about the tent, Lenay warriors stood at the ready. Their stance was unyielding. Lord Elen’s men would not advance into that threat, and Lord Elen remained fixed to the spot. He was breathing hard now, eyes wide with anger and defiance that Damon did not doubt was real. But so was the fear that it masked.
“You have been challenged to a duel by ance of Lenayin,” Koenyg said quietly. “One does not shirk such an honour.” Koenyg could not stop it now, Damon knew, with a surge of satisfaction. In some matters, even the heir of Lenayin could not defy the common will. Not if he wished the men of Lenayin to follow him into battle.
“I do not accept!”
“Then you will die here,” said Koenyg. “As will any who defend you.” Koenyg raised his gloved fist, and guardsmen shifted the grip on their weapons. Lord Elen’s defenders flinched backward.
“I accept!” Lord Elen retracted, just as fast. Koenyg lowered his fist, slowly. He gave a slight bow.
“We shall make preparations.” He gave a signal, and guardsmen rushed from the tent to yell orders. “You have the right to await a morning duel….”
“Now!” Damon snapped. “I would not do him the honour of a formal start.”
“As you will,” said Elen, haughtily. “However, I protest at this notion of Lenay honour. I was attacked, your brother meant to murder me in cold blood, and one of my men is dead. This was no honourable declaration.”
“Conceded,” Koenyg said. “Yet it happens even in Lenayin, when a man’s honour is pushed too far. In Lenayin, men learn to be careful, Lord Elen.”
“We’re not in Lenayin!” Lord Elen fumed. “I demand advantage.”
“Thought you might,” someone muttered, in Lenay.
“I’ll fight unarmoured,” said Damon.
“Done!” Lord Elen declared. “See you outside!” Men stood aside as the furious lord and his entourage strode from the tent.
Damon sheathed his sword, and shrugged off his jacket, handing it to a guardsman. Another assisted him with the chain mail beneath.
“Damon,” said Koenyg, but Damon ignored him. “Brother.”
“I don’t care for your strategies and politics, brother,” Damon retorted, as the heavy mail vest came up over his head. “That man needs killing.”
“Aye!” came the loud reply from angry Lenays about the tent. “That he does,” Father Syd agreed. “The gods will strengthen your arm.”
“Half the Bacosh nobility needs killing,” one of Sofy’s maids said coldly.
“He will die in agony, my Prince!” called another. The mail removed, Damon reclaimed his jacket. His eyes met Sofy’s. She was standing small and huddled, wrapped in a fur coat. Her face was pale and drawn. Fearful and upset, yet not about to protest his actions.
“I’m not trying to…!” Koenyg began, and broke off in frustration. He took a deep breath. “Look, Damon.” He grabbed his brother’s arm, his grip ferocious. “Watch his shieldwork. All the Bacosh use shields better than we, it is an offensive weapon as much as defensive. He will crowd you, take away your space, your room to swing. Remember, the shield is his parry, his counterstroke will be fast. D’t look for easy openings. Be patient.”
Damon stared at his eldest brother. There was concern in Koenyg’s eyes. Not worry, never that. But it surprised him all the same. And maddened him. “You think that fat pig will trouble me? I’ll give you his head!”
Damon strode from the tent. “Did I say that?” he heard Koenyg’s plaintive question behind. “Did I say he’d lose? I swear, little brothers are the most…”
Damon lost the rest as guardsmen shouted approval…and here were several Baen-Tar lords, slapping their prince on the back and shoulders as Bacosh men would never have dared of their royalty. A crowd was gathering, and moved with him as he strode in Lord Elen’s wake, down toward the river.
“Damon! Damon! Damon!” The chant grew louder, more bloodthirsty. Damon let it fuel his rage. He feared what would happen should his rage dissipate. He feared what might happen should his weakness be exposed, before all those who deferred to him as prince. He had always been a good swordsman, but never great, like Koenyg…or even Sasha. He had always been a good prince but never great, like Krystoff. He had always been somewhat well liked but never loved, like Sofy. Lenayin was not a land of the second best. Lenay men were either heroes or martyrs. That was why so many would willingly throw themselves into this meaningless, bloody war. They would be found worthy, or they would die. Either was acceptable, and indeed preferable to seeking neither.
A crowd was gathering, men running, calling for others. Best get this over fast, Damon decided, before they were overrun by onlookers. The officers, nobles and village heads would keep order, but not indefinitely. A prince of Lenayin had not participated in an honour-duel since…Gods, he could not think of when. Koenyg had threatened it several times, to provincial lordlings who tried his patience, and once to a southern lord who had been spreading rumours of infidelity. All had declined, wisely. For most Lenays, such a duel was unwinnable-to kill a prince of Lenayin in a duel would win no favours from anyone, the king least of all.
“Damon!” Myklas gasped, pushing through the crowd to walk at his side. He’d clearly been running. “Watch his shield, he’ll try to bash you with it, get you offbalance-”
“I know!” Damon retorted. “Koenyg told me already.”
“You’ll get him,” Myklas said fiercely. “He looks strong, but he’s fat and slow too.”
“I’ll not underestimate him,” Damon replied. His heart was pounding, more from rage than fear. “I seem to recall I’ve fought far more battles than you.”
“I wish you’d let me do it,” Myklas said. He walked not as tall as Damon, nor as broad, his limbs still slender with seventeen years’ youth. Yet there was a swagger to his step that some old enough to remember said reminded them of Krystoff. “Why not just yield to me? I could use the experience, like everyone’s always telling me…”
Damon knew it would be useless to shout at Myklas, and remind him that someone was about to die, and that none of it was any game.
“Myklas,” he said instead, and put a rough arm about his younger brother’s shoulders. “If anything should happen to me, tonight or any other night, I want you to swear you’ll look after Sofy. Not only look after, but listen to her. She’s wiser than all the men in this family combined, so you listen to her, you hear me?”
“What are you talking about? You’ll kill this fat porker and play lagand with his head….”
“Or any other night, Myk,” Damon repeated. “We’re marching to war, and this is only the first of many battles. Swear it to me.”
“Of course I’ll look after Sofy. What else would I do?” They clasped forearm to forearm.
“And listen to her,” Damon repeated.
Masters Heldryn and Tyvenar pushed to Damon’s side and grasped at his shoulder. Young men, the sons of lords on their way to their first war, and very excited.
Myklas grinned helplessly. “Brother, you know I don’t listen to anyone.”
“Your brother has the soul of a warrior,” Heldryn told Myklas. “Yours is the pride, young Myklas!”
Past the camp periphery, Lord Elen and his entourage stopped on the wet grass ten strides from the river. There, in the misting rain, he took his position. Guardsmen flanked out, forming a circle, about which the crowd rushed in, some carrying torches or lamps, lighting rain and firesmoke in flickering yellow.
“Lad,” said Father Syd, “do you wish the blessings?”
“No,” said Damon, sword unsheathed, and testing its balance. “I’ll not waste the gods’ time.” If he waited longer, the fear would come. He recalled the girl’s body on the tent floor, impaled by Lord Elen’s sword. It angered him, yet strangely, the rage seemed to fade a little. Fear threatened, until he recalled Sofy’s face, stricken with horror. Then the rage came back.
He glared at Lord Elen, attended by his minor lords and several guards. A man came running with Lord Elen’s shield. Elen slid his arm within the straps and hefted its weight with expert balance. Damon recalled Sasha’s duel, against Farys Varan of Hadryn, more than a half year ago. He was not of Sasha’s standard with a blade, he knew…but just as surely, Elen was not of Varan’s. Varan, however, had followed the codes of Lenay honour. Elen would not. Best to remember.
Hefting his shield, and comforted by the weight of his mail, Lord Elen seemed to grow in confidence. He regarded Damon coldly above the rim of his shield, and smiled. The clustering crowd quietened, expectantly.
“How do these things begin, in the highlands?” Elen asked.
“A man is appointed adjudicator,” said Father Syd, the only other man within the circle. “A priest, if available. Or a holy man, amongst Goeren-yai. When I am satisfied, I will give the word.”
Elen nodded, sidling sideways a step. His balance, Damon noted, looked rather good despite his weight. “I have fought eight duels and won them all,” he said smugly. “I’m sure I’ll adapt.” No doubt he thought this revelation a timely blow. Damon didn’t care.
“Of a highlands priest?” Elen scoffed. “I think not.”
“As you will,” said Syd, and stepped back to the circle’s edge. “Indicate your readiness.”
Elen nodded. Damon took stance, two hands to his sword’s hilt, and did the same. Syd said, “Begin!” and Damon lunged.
It was nearly over in four strokes. Damon crashed rapid blows onto Elen’s shield, forcing the Bacosh lord back and then sideways, defending to his sword side while circling left, desperately, away from the strikes. Shields encouraged a defensive pattern Lenay warriors always scoffed. Those who wielded them would rather block with the shield than the sword, and so lost the latter art completely. Thus defending, Elen made no attempt to thrust his blade forward, but merely held it back, hoping for the counterstrike opening that never came.
Damon cut from high left, forcing a rapid back shift that caused Elen to slip on the wet grass…the shield wavered across, and Damon reversed to slash from the low forequarter. His sword tore into the rim of Elen’s shield, far enough to strike his hip. Elen staggered and swung back desperately, Damon parrying and skipping back from range.
A roar from the crowd, and Damon caught a brief glimpse of Elen’s entourage, faces fearful in the firelight, seeing their powerful, armoured lord so completely overwhelmed. Fear, too, on the face of Lord Elen, as perhaps the pain of his hip wound reached him, and he realised that now even his mobility would suffer.
Schooled in Lenay swordsmanship, Damon did not allow his opponent any chance to regroup, but immediately pressed his advantage. Elen blocked the crushing overhead and risked a sideways slash with his sword…desperation, and Damon had expected it. He parried close, spinning inward and ramming his shoulder into Elen’s shield. The wounded man staggered at the impact, slipped, and the shield dropped once more. Raised just in time to meet Damon’s second overhead with its rim, but the blow was powerful and sliced through the shield’s edge, crashing it downward…
…and suddenly, it all stopped, Damon half surprised to find his blade buried in Elen’s skull, nearly down to one eyebrow. Blood trickled into one horrified eye. He wasn’t dead yet, and that was sickening. Damon pulled his blade clear, to the sound of cracking skull, but Elen collapsed before he could give the mercy of a beheading. He lay there on the grass, kicking and struggling, trying to speak. The crowd was yelling, a deafening roar of chants and triumph, blades and fists punching the air. Damon knew he should finish Elen, but suddenly, the rage was gone, and all he felt was…despair. It was not a clean kill. Why had the gods not granted him the mercy of a clean kill?
There were brains on his blade. He felt the sudden urge to throw it aside, to spin and hurl it ten strides and more into the dark river…but there was Koenyg watching, arms folded beside Myklas, and he could not do such a thing before Koenyg. Instead, Damon pulled his sword rag from a pocket, wiped once, threw the rag away and sheathed the blade. Only then, amidst the yells and exuberance, did he catch the look on Koenyg’s firelit face. Relief. Sheer, undisguised relief. Damon wondered if he was seeing things.
Koenyg saluted, one warrior to another, a clenched fist to his chest. Damon returned it, and the yells and chants grew louder. They were chanting his name, warriors all. Lord Elen lay kicking on the ground and that excited them. Damon’s despair grew, but he returned the salute anyway. Koenyg’s face now seemed only impassive, hard and shadowed in the lamplight. Myklas, Damon noticed, looked a little pale. Good, he thought. At least something positive might have come from this.
The yelling crowd accompanied him back to Sofy’s tent. This time, none of them touched him or tried to clasp his shoulder, or pat his back. To show the prince informality before a fight was one thing. A victorious warrior, however, required the dignity of respectful distance.
Sofy was there, at the entrance to her tent, not surprised to see him coming, but relieved all the same. Her face was tear streaked and pale, and her lip trembled as he approached. It would not be warrior-like, nor indeed manly, for the victorious prince to embrace his sister at such a time. Damon embraced her anyway, and held her tight.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Sofy told him. “But I’m not sad he’s dead.” Damon knew how she felt.
“I’d rather kill them all than let them take you from me,” he replied.