Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three (24 page)

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. Don’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.

“Will you require the blessings?” asked Father Syd.

“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.

R
HILLIAN RODE UP THE BROAD STREET
toward the Ushal Fortress in the bright sunshine, and wished she could feel happier. Crowds lined the road, cheering and throwing flowers. Ahead of her rode General Zulmaher, with captains Renard and Hauser at his flanks. Ahead of them, the banners flew, the great shield and sword of the third and sixth regiments.

The second row was for the serrin, but Rhillian did not mind. This was a human war—humans had suffered the greatest losses, and she would not have minded them taking all the credit even were it not so. Aisha rode on her left side, and on her right, Kiel, recently returned from southern Elisse, where he had been helping the peasantry to organise in preparation for further Rhodaani and Saalshen assistance.

Behind them marched the Steel, rows of armoured soldiers in perfect formation. Infantry first, cavalry behind, and to little complaint from the cavalry, who counted themselves lucky not to be fighting “in the mud.” The infantry protested against marching behind formations of horses. “Marching through the shit of our betters,” a corporal had remarked ironically, within Rhillian’s hearing.

“Almost enough to make one pleased to march to war, is it not?” Kiel suggested, surveying the cheering Tracatans who lined the road. His eyes were pale grey, so pale they were nearly colourless. His hair, unusually for a serrin, was jet black, making stark contrast against clear white skin. “Not that I actually got to see the war, of course.”

“It is unbecoming to fish for an apology, Kiel,” Rhillian replied. “I left you in the south precisely because you have the knack of command. The southern peasants were friendly, and ready to be commanded, and I had precious few options better than you.”