Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three (20 page)

Zulmaher dismounted, as Rhillian climbed achingly to her feet. The general smiled, and offered her an embrace. Rhillian accepted—Rhodaani men were like that with each other, so there was no reason to refuse.

“A truly inspired run up the flank,” Zulmaher told her with a hard smile, hands on her shoulders. “You secured their artillery before our lines came within range, and split any chance of a regrouping on their left flank. I did say the
talmaad
of Saalshen were the finest light cavalry in all Rhodia, and today you proved it for certain.”

Rhillian did not begrudge the man his lack of sweat or blood—in this army, with all its lethal parts, such work was not his function. Zulmaher had done more than his share of sweating and bleeding as a younger man, and needed prove nothing to anyone.

“It was well done,” she said simply. “Everything worked. Most battles are chaotic, but in this army, somehow everything works.” It was as great a compliment as she could imagine, and Zulmaher seemed to take it as such. He knew how difficult a thing it was that she described.

“And where is Arendt?” he asked her expectantly, with a glance to the castle. “Did you find him?”

“We found him,” Rhillian agreed, sadly. “His decoy ran off, expecting us to follow, but there were enough of us to cover all options and then some. I took twenty inside, and found Lord Arendt and ten knights, hoping for a clear escape. They tried to break through, but failed. They were remarkably brave and stubborn. We had no choice but to kill them all.”

“All?” Zulmaher was displeased. He looked to the castle once more, and back again. “You’re certain it was Arendt? Not some decoy?”

“Yes.” Being in command of three thousand of Rhodia’s finest light cavalry, currently spread in a great network across Elisse, gave Rhillian first access to the greatest source of news and gossip in all the land. She knew Lord Arendt’s identifying marks, and she’d had his corpse checked after the fact. “It was him.”

Zulmaher still looked puzzled, his broad forehead creased. He ran a hand through short, helmet-flattened hair. “My information suggested he may have
attempted to yield, if defeated on the field. His family in marriage to other northern families had been threatened—apparently he spent many a coin of gratitude in assembling this army, and gaining its command. Had he yielded, he could have used the threat of Rhodaani force to keep his relatives safe.”

Rhillian sighed, and shook her head. “He did not attempt to yield. I couldn’t tell you why, I’m just a poor serrin in the land of the humans. You baffle me.”

Zulmaher took a deep breath, clearly reassessing. He shrugged lightly, and patted Rhillian on the shoulder with a smile. “It isn’t your fault. You and your
talmaad
fought valiantly, I’ll be certain your names are mentioned in my next report to council.”

Rhillian made a light bow, and Zulmaher strode off toward the castle, his retinue in tow. No doubt to check for himself. Rhillian sank back to the grass with a sigh, and took a swig from her waterskin.

“What if he suspects?” Gian asked. “The general is not a stupid man.”

Rhillian leaned her head back against the tree. “He may well suspect, but he cannot prove. Most of the captains are with me anyhow.”

“The war may take longer now,” Via added, cleaning his blade with a cloth. “Arendt may have convinced other lords to yield as well.”

“Just the problem,” said Rhillian. “The greatest threat to Rhodaan’s defence now lies with the feudalists. They will weaken Rhodaan from within, and strengthen their allegiances to powerful vassals in Elisse, who will do their bidding. The aim of this war was to end the threat to Rhodaan’s northern flank, not to create a new one. It’s worth a few extra days to make sure…and besides, after today, the war is fairly well won. So long as these lords remain our enemies and do not become the friends of Rhodaani feudalists.”

Via made a face. “This was well done,” he said, with a glance toward the battlefield and the clustered prisoners. “
That
was not.” With a glance back to the castle.

The dissent did not bother Rhillian. Nor the hint of rebuke. They were serrin, and they shared
vel’ennar.
She understood him perfectly, and he her. So long as it were so, no serrin needed ever to fear another.

“I know,” she said tiredly. She gazed out at the shallow valley and the drifting mists of smoke that smudged the far horizon. Below, the carnage was thankfully out of sight. But the memory of it burned as bright as any sun. “The things they make me do, Via,” she murmured. “The longer I spend among them, the more I fear what I shall one day become.”

D
INNER WAS A PLEASANT ENOUGH AFFAIR
, certainly more so than what the vast majority of 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 Sofy. “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, a fine, 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.