“I hear tales,” she said. “My little brother fought well, it seems.”
Heryd’s blue eyes were pale, nearly expressionless. “I have rarely seen such skill,” he said. “He was the best of us.”
Sasha blinked. Hatred between her and Heryd was mutual, yet she knew the Great Lord of Hadryn was no sycophant. Myklas said nothing, with eyes only for his father’s body on the tray of the cart ahead.
The cart continued beyond the battlefield, toward where the Army of Lenayin now camped, several hills beyond. The procession did not follow, abandoning that job to a gathering of lesser lords on horseback. Sasha turned back to where Isfayen were following behind with horses, and remounted.
She headed along the great swathe of fallen bodies toward where she figured the centre of the battle had been. Eventually she saw the stag-on-maroon flag of Valhanan, driven into the ground near some parties of men and carts. She left her horse with her two Isfayen guards, and walked to those attending the dead and wounded. Soon enough she found Byorn of the Baerlyn training hall, and embraced him hard. He seemed pale and shocked, his long hair matted with other people’s blood. Wordlessly, he escorted her past piled bodies and entangled, bloody limbs, until they reached the body of a large man with thick red hair, a fatal sword wound through his ribs.
Teriyan.
Sasha collapsed in tears, and sobbed onto his shoulder, as Byorn knelt with a hand on her back. This was how she should have grieved for her father, had her father permitted such a thing. But this man had been far more a father to her than her real father had. And he was the true father to one of her best friends.
“How am I going to tell Lynette?” she asked Byorn, helplessly between sobs. “Who’s going to tell poor Lynie?” And Byorn, from whom Sasha had never seen emotion in her life, struggled to hold back tears.
“I can’t find Andreyis,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll keep looking, I swear to you. But he’s not amongst the living or the dead.”
For the rest of the day, Sasha could not speak.
It was without question the strangest day of Sofy’s life. She sat at camp and attempted to keep herself occupied with mundane tasks, while beyond the next rise upon the Sonnai Plain, a hundred thousand men and more fought to the death. The wind was from the west, the wrong direction to assist the sound in carrying, yet the din assailed her ears all the same, rising like some unhappy spectre, with wails and cries to chill her bones.
The matrons of the Merciful Sisters insisted on prayer, and so Sofy, her maids, and the other ladies of the camp knelt in the communion tent and recited verse after the men had gone. Then had come needlework, and Sofy attended to some of Balthaar’s clothes in the manner of any good wife, gathered with the other ladies in the royal tent. Some had attempted gossip, forced and nervous, against the smothering din of war that lay over the camp. Several of the ladies, Sofy knew, feared for their position in Sherdaine should their husbands fall on the field. Most had returned to family castles, but a few had accompanied their husbands in camp with servants, and now readied to make a fast escape should news from the battle turn bad.
Sofy wondered what the ladies truly feared the most-the defeat of the united Bacosh Army, or the shudder that such a calamity would surely send through their land. Many lords killed, lines of succession called into question, challenges from rivals, siblings, cousins or power-hungry neighbours, and a great rearrangement of feudal boundaries that might last for several years beyond the great defeat. She wondered if such a defeat might teach them, finally, the futility of attacking the Saalshen Bacosh. Such attacks had grown fewer and fewer in recent decades, and consisted mostly of boastful dukes and other, ambitious lordlings hoping to make a name for themselves by demonstrating their courage, and trying to take the Steel unawares. Some had succeeded, in surprise at least, and had penetrated small armies some short distance into Rhodaani or Enoran lands before beating a hasty retreat in the face of advancing Steel forces. Such daring men had gained great reward of prestige for their “successes,” thus tempting others to copy their methods. The Steel rarely gathered in full force, as its soldiers rotated back to their families, and others to training, leaving only smaller groups to guard the border. But most often, even such smaller formations had dealt these incursions a crushing blow.
Sofy had now come to suspect that some lords in this great army were happy to see the war not for religious or moral reasons, but simply for the opportunity it presented to grab available lands or claim titles, once so many of those previously in possession had been slain. “The great dice,” she’d heard men call it. The great gamble of throwing so many men into battle, and hoping that it was one’s rivals who would fall, and not oneself.
Occasionally a messenger would arrive and inform them of the battle’s progress. Such messengers never spoke in much detail, and Sofy was uncertain whether that was because they did not expect a group of women to understand, or because they simply didn’t know. But she knew the battle was progressing better for the Bacosh because by noon the fighting was still continuing. Both victory and defeat seemed equally precarious outcomes for her personally, and for those she loved. She did not know when the Army of Lenayin would fight its first battle to the south, or how long the word of its outcome would take to reach them. She merely concentrated on her needlework, one stitch at a time, as though by the correct placement of thread and steel, she could stitch all the fates into some more agreeable arrangement.
After noon, the sounds of battle slowly faded until there was only silence. Sofy could stand it no longer and walked out to the camp’s edge, accompanied by many guards, wary of marauding serrin behind the lines. Soon, across the fields of eastern Larosa, knights on horseback appeared, their formations ragged. Squires and servants rushed to help their masters from the saddle. Some were wounded and required assistance to walk. Others rode on lame or injured horses.
Then, from amidst the commotion, Balthaar appeared. Servants hurried to him, and assisted his weary, awkward dismount. He looked at Sofy, visor raised, and smiled wanly. Sofy walked to him, her heart pounding. She could not but be pleased that he lived, and was apparently unhurt. Beyond that, she was entirely uncertain of her feelings.
She took his gauntleted hands in hers. Balthaar just looked at her, sweaty and exhausted. His eyes, usually radiating such confidence, were now sunken and dull. Sofy recognised the look. She had seen it in the eyes of Lenay warriors on her march north, following grand scenes of carnage and pain. Balthaar stared at her, as though surprised that his eyes could once again regard something beautiful.
“My father is dead,” he murmured. “I am Bacosh Regent now.”
Sofy took a deep breath, her heart thudding. She curtseyed. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“We suffered grievously,” Balthaar continued, as though he hadn’t heard her. “Our dead carpet the fields in places so thickly that one could walk across entire paddocks without once touching the ground. I have seen men burned alive by the score, and entire lines of infantry cut down like wheat. The Rakani suffered terribly on the left flank, the serrin devils have taken nearly half their number. I fear many families have ended today, fathers, sons and cousins all slain without any one remaining to continue the line.”
“Your Highness,” said Sofy, trying to keep her voice from trembling. What did they do now? If they were to run for the safety of ancestral lands, surely they should leave immediately? “We have been defeated, then?”
Balthaar stared. His steel fingers clasped tightly upon her hands, causing Sofy to gasp in pain. “Defeated?” he rasped. “No, M’Lady.” He leaned forward, and his dull eyes came suddenly to a blaze, his lips twisting in a smile of vicious, righteous fury. “I bring you
About the Author
JOEL SHEPHERD was born in Adelaide in 1974. His first manuscript was shortlisted for the George Turner Prize in 1998, and his first novel,
