Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four (8 page)

Jeddie said nothing.

“Don't you fear him, lassie,” said Jandlys. “If our Sofy's told you anything about her people, she's told you you've nothing to fear from us lot of ruffians, we just talk a bit loud is all.”

“Oh, I know that,” Jeddie said hurriedly, but she gave Jandlys a grateful smile. “I know that I'm safer amongst Lenay warriors than anyone else in Rhodia.”

“That's damn right!” Jandlys agreed. “Yuan Jaryd here just don't like noble Verenthanes, that's all. Old history.”

“I know,” Jeddie said quietly. “You used to be one, but they dissolved your family and murdered your brother.” Jaryd scowled at the fire. “I'm sorry, I did not mean to speak of upsetting things. But Princess Sofy has told me.”

“You know,” said Jaryd, “when I was a noble, many of my fellow nobles thought me an idiot. I wasn't interested in their sophistry, I've never liked to read, and most of the plays and paintings that Sofy finds so fascinating just bore me to tears. I liked to ride and train and play lagand. And drink and chase skirts, I admit. I knew they were frauds, all my noble friends and family; I never got along with them, nor them with me. I was too unsophisticated for them. And then they went and proved me correct.” He took a mouthful of food. “I'm still correct,” he said while chewing, “in my disdain for everything they believe in. I'm quite certain I understand them better than Sofy ever will. Yet Sofy has more intelligence and good wit than I could dream of. And I wonder, why are the most intelligent and educated usually amongst the most stupid?”

“I don't think that that's true,” said Jeddie.

“Sasha said the Tracato Nasi-Keth tortured and tried to kill her. In Petrodor half the Nasi-Keth ended up on the wrong side. In the Bacosh much of the education is handled by priests, who peddle the most evil thoughts of all. Give me a farmer's common sense and a woodsman's nose for horseshit any day. Most of the wisest people I know I've met
after
my so-called downfall, not before.”

Jeddie's frown had given way to a look of intense curiosity. “So tell me, if you think the princess such a fool, why do you follow her here?”

“Well, I was ordered to.”

“Lenay warriors are difficult to order if they feel their honour imperilled,” said Jeddie. “Commanding a Lenay warrior away from the war is no small thing, surely?”

Jaryd shifted uncomfortably. “She needs protection.”

“From whom? What could pose her so great a threat?”

“Herself,” said Jaryd.

Andreyis walked beside the prisoner train, as had become his practice in the last days. His feet blistered, but that was preferable to the wagon's jolting of bare boards. The road now descended into a shallow valley, within which nestled the largest town Andreyis had yet seen in Enora. A river wound through the valley, and from this shallow height he could see several bridges, and a pair of very tall temple spires. The ground here was wet, and a cold wind blew from the north, bringing rain and low, gusting cloud.

There was little traffic on the road. At one farmhouse, Andreyis saw a family piling belongings onto several wagons, and lashing them down. Other farmhouses looked deserted. Ahead, Andreyis saw a village courtyard, and some locals gathered to throw rotten food and rocks at the prisoners. Andreyis knew he should probably climb back into the wagon—walking here alongside he might just be beaten to death. Yet he kept walking, boots splashing in the rivulets of water that ran down the paved slope.

The locals saw him, and aimed their throws. Another was hefting a heavy spade. Suddenly a rider was bearing down on them, and they scattered. From the safety of doorways, they yelled at the rider. The rider, Yshel, just scowled at them.

Out of the village, she rode on the grass verge beside him. “Best that you get back in the wagon,” she said. “There will be many more like them in town.”

“I heal faster walking,” Andreyis said stubbornly. “What is this town?”

“It is Shemorane,” she said. The name was familiar. Andreyis frowned, trying to recall. “The High Temple is here,” said Yshel, seeing his puzzlement.

“Ah,” said Andreyis. That was in central Enora, he recalled. They'd come that far from the border. Now they were squarely in the middle not only of Enora, but of the Saalshen Bacosh. “I'd thought the temple was atop Mount Tristen?”

“Mount Tristen is there,” said Yshel, pointing. Across the valley, a lone peak loomed, its upper slopes disappearing into low cloud. “Saint Tristen came down the mountain and showed his followers what the gods had told him, here, by the riverside. That is where the High Temple is built.”

Those were the twin spires in the town, Andreyis realised. He was in holy lands. Though not Verenthane himself, it raised a chill on the back of his neck.

“The Army of Larosa will be coming through this way, then,” he suggested.

“And everyone is leaving,” Yshel confirmed. “Now get back in the wagon, before I have one of the Enoran men come and put you there.”

Andreyis did as she said.

“Doin' well what your girlfriend says, then?” suggested Hydez. Of the six Lenays in the wagon he was worst hurt, since Ulemys had died two days earlier.

“This is Shemorane,” Andreyis told him. Hydez blinked at him. “Where the High Temple is.”

“You're joking,” Hydez said with suspicion. Hydez had fought with Hadryn forces during the Northern Rebellion. Andreyis thought it quite likely they had passed within armspans of each other during various battles, on opposite sides.

“No joke. My girlfriend told me.”

Hydez struggled to sit more upright, wincing at the pain. “The High Temple is here? Can you see it?”

“I caught a glimpse, just then,” Andreyis told him. “I imagine this road leads right past it, you'll get a good look.”

Hydez waved Sayden aside from the opposite bench and heaved himself across with a gasp of agony. He then leaned out the side of the shuddering wagon, and stared downslope, hoping for a sight of the Verenthanes' holiest temple.

“Regent Arrosh will be leading his priests to put the Shereldin Star back in there,” Sayden suggested. Sayden had long hair and thin tattoos upon one side of his face. He did not seem too excited by the prospect.

“This was always their main target,” Andreyis agreed. “It doesn't look very defensible, though.”

The wagon passed some villagers on the road, walking with several mules in a train, each with belongings lashed to their backs. Andreyis saw that Yshel had pulled off the road to talk to them. From the movement of hands, he guessed she was asking them where they were headed, and where the latest news put the various armies. Then she followed, red hair wet in the rain, her pale face worried.

Rounding a corner, the wagon train came into a courtyard and there before them towered the High Temple itself. Hydez levered himself as upright as he could manage on the rattling wagon, and gazed in awe as rain fell onto his face. It was no bigger than Saint Ambellion in Baen-Tar, Andreyis thought. Huge, certainly, but it was not the size that impressed. The High Temple was old…Saint Ambellion, like most Verenthane temples in Lenayin, dated less than two hundred years. The High Temple was so much older than that.

This is where it comes from, Andreyis realised as he looked at it. The great faith that had united the warring factions of Lenayin, even as it failed to convert much of the rural population. It was such a monumental part of the history of Lenayin, and a fact of Andreyis's life as immovable as the mountains…and it had all started here. Suddenly, he thought he could understand the look on Hydez's face. Not the joy, but the awe.

“The old builders built well,” Sayden observed, looking up at the twin spires. The wagons clattered across the courtyard. A bridge spanned the river to the courtyard's side, and the valley's far slope rose beyond. There was traffic across the courtyard, a steady stream of wagons stacked with belongings. The prisoner train slipped through a gap, and continued to an archway beside the High Temple.

Within, the wagons stopped in a secluded square. Guards leaped from the rear and front wagons, and ordered the prisoners out. Andreyis climbed out willingly and assisted those who needed it to follow. Hydez never ceased to stare up at the High Temple.

“We're stopping here?” he asked. As though amazed that his awful captive fate had led him to this blessed location.

Andreyis saw priests emerging from the nondescript stone building facing the temple. “A monastery,” he observed.

The priests, bald in black robes, talked to the guards, then gestured for the prisoners to follow. Andreyis walked supporting Sayden, as the priests hauled open large doors to reveal stables within. Andreyis smelled horses, and hay. He nearly smiled.

The prisoners sat or lay on the stable floor, which was dirt and straw with no pavings, while the priests brought food and water. Andreyis took bread and an apple and strolled, gazing over the stable doors at the horses. One stuck a long nose over the door and sniffed at his apple. Andreyis let her bite off that side, keeping the other half for himself.

“You're going to eat that?” Yshel asked behind him. Andreyis glanced back in surprise. She was following him, her bow unstrung, sword sheathed at her back. Keeping an eye on the wandering prisoner…but where would he escape to?

Andreyis took a bite of the remaining apple, then switched it to his bad hand so he could stroke the mare's nose with his good one. He measured her flank with a practised eye, noting the muscle tone, the shape of the hind quarters.

“She's being used as a cart horse,” he observed. “Pity—her breeding's better than that. She's not very old.”

A priest, passing with an armful of hay, overheard him. “Cavalry horse,” he explained, in heavily accented Torovan. “She have two battle. Second battle, she nearly kill. She pull down, rider pull off, kill, very bad. She lose friend horse. Now, she no like loud noises. Cavalry, they give her to us.” He pointed to the mare's other side in passing. Andreyis looked, and saw weapon scars.

“Poor girl,” he murmured, empathising. He gave her the rest of the apple.

“You do ride horses,” Yshel observed, watching. “How many horses did you care for?”

“Between twelve and twenty, depending on foals. I shared duties with Sasha, Kessligh, and one other. And sometimes lads from the town.”

“I grew up in Li'el in Saalshen,” said Yshel. “It's a city, or a large town, I suppose. A farmstead on the outskirts raised horses. I would go there and help the ranchers. Horses made me want to travel, to join the
talmaad.
I never really thought that they would take me to a war.”

Back at the stable doors, there came the sound of shouting. Andreyis and Yshel turned and looked. An officer of the Steel had entered, and was looking for able-bodied prisoners. He seemed disappointed to find so few, as none of the Lenays in the group had surrendered while still able to fight.

“I'd better go,” said Andreyis. “Before he tries to make the dying walk.”

The Steel officer looked haggard and worn, limping with a recent injury, as he inspected the prisoners. Finally finding nine who could work, he had them escorted by three Steel regulars out of the walled courtyard and onto the main one.

Here the flow of ordinary Enorans had increased, a steady stream of families all trudging or riding in the same direction, heads down, away from the advancing Army of the Bacosh.

The Steel officer led the prisoners up the wide stone stairs of the High Temple, and past two more soldiers guarding the huge doors.

Within, the air was cool and still. Light spilled from rows of small windows across the largest indoor space Andreyis had ever seen. It felt like something from a dream, vast and echoing. To stand beneath the high roof and gaze up at the patterned glass, it seemed to Andreyis that this must indeed be a house of gods.

“Right,” said the officer, tiredly. “Anyone here speak Torovan? Understand Torovan?” Blank stares from most.

“I'll translate,” said Andreyis.

“Good.” The officer pointed across the huge, open floor to the rows of pews before the altar. “You see those benches? I want them smashed up, make a nice big pile before the altar. Then we'll search through the back rooms and cellars to find anything else that will burn.”

“Burn?” Andreyis stared at him. “Why?”

“Because we're not going to leave this place to the Larosans, that's why,” said the officer. “This place, we're going to burn down.”

S
asha followed the rear of Damon's horse up the forested ridge road. The Lenay party emerged onto the crest of the ridge, with a wide view of rumpled northern Enora. Low, rocky hills complicated the way ahead, beneath an overcast sky and misting rain.

Koenyg halted his horse on the last patch of grass before slippery rocks became too treacherous near the edge of the cliff. Beside him, a young Rhodaani noble pointed in the direction of Shemorane. Sasha made out a distant valley, but too far, and on too gloomy a day, to see any more than that.

The Larosan party they had come to meet emerged from the opposite line of trees, waiting in the safety of cover. Their leader headed for Koenyg, and Sasha invited herself, pushing her horse between her two brothers.

“Is it true that the Army of the Free Bacosh has halted before Shemorane?” Koenyg asked sharply.

The Larosan lord nodded. “There are two bridges down on the river, destroyed by the Enorans. The Regent Balthaar Arrosh seeks to ford the river further downstream, and enter Shemorane from the east.”

“With his entire army?”

“The Regent decrees that he shall enter Shemorane, and return the Shereldin Star to the High Temple,” the lord insisted, solemnly. “That is his highest sacred duty. The Army of the Free Bacosh cannot progress without their Regent.”

“While in the meantime,” said Koenyg, “we're letting the Enoran and Rhodaani Steel not only get away, but regroup and join forces.”

“The priests will have made him do it,” said Sasha, in Lenay so the lord would not understand. “They've been dreaming of returning the Shereldin Star to the High Temple for two centuries. No way will they allow the army to pass Shemorane without some great ceremony.”

“The priests should understand that Shemorane is not truly within their possession until the Steel and the
talmaad
are defeated. This great ceremony of theirs is a dangerous illusion,” Koenyg replied. Neither Sasha nor Damon disagreed. “What news of Ilduur?” Koenyg asked the lord in Torovan once more.

“No news. It seems the Ilduuri will not come.” There was a smugness to his voice.

“You've sent envoys to Ilduur,” said Sasha, staring at him. “You've made a deal with them.”

The lord shrugged. “My Lord Regent's policies are vast and cunning. What you describe is not impossible, though I have not heard of it.”

“Fat chance he has of actually
keeping
his word with Ilduur,” Sasha muttered in Lenay.

“The Regent Arrosh commands that the Army of Lenayin should continue to advance on the Steel in the meanwhile,” continued the lord. “To the west, where the hills end, and open ground makes for a fast march. The Army of Lenayin is light, while the Army of the Bacosh, and the Steel, are heavy. If you move fast, you could catch them there.”

Koenyg listened a little more, then dismissed the lord, and contemplated the view ahead.

“The Regent Arrosh
commands
, does he?” Sasha muttered.

“Rest it, Sasha.” Koenyg had no map to hand, but Sasha had seen him studying maps every night, staring until every line and feature was memorised. “Last we heard of the Steel, they are too far ahead to be caught as the messenger suggests. They will have merged forces by now.”

“The Regent hopes our pursuit will draw Kessligh's forces,” said Damon. “His irregulars grow stronger each day. The Regent's army has few forward scouts, they do not survive long otherwise. I think this a ploy to make us take the lead, and deal with Kessligh.”

“We
are
much better at his style of warfare,” Koenyg agreed. “In that sense, Lenayin has taught Kessligh some things as well.”

“They seek to bleed us,” Damon countered. “Like they let us bleed in the diversion against the Enorans.”

“Everyone bled, brother.”

“It is garbage work. Every time they have a nasty job for someone to do, they hand it to us. They save the battles that promise great glory for themselves.”

“Then we must make our own glory,” said Koenyg, with a hard stare. He put heels to his horse and galloped back the way they'd come, his siblings and the Royal Guards at his tail.

Andreyis accompanied two of the Steel soldiers back to the stable to gather horses for wagons. Each took two animals, Andreyis taking the mare he'd fed the apple. If they were going to send the High Temple up in flames, he wanted her somewhere other than locked in the stable next door.

He was leaving when Hydez yelled at him from amidst the wounded prisoners. “Is it true? Are they going to burn it?”

Andreyis ignored him, waiting for one of the soldiers to control a reluctant horse. Hydez lunged past his guards, and would have reached Andreyis had his wound not slowed him. A guard grabbed him, then another.

“You're not going to burn it!” Hydez yelled at Andreyis. “You pagan scum, you're not going to help them burn it! That's not their temple to burn, it's for all Verenthanes! Don't you dare burn it!”

The guards wrestled him back to the group. Andreyis walked with the soldiers into the rain, leading the horses with his one good arm.

The vast courtyard now held a cluster of people before the High Temple. Soldiers made a wall of shields before them, townsfolk come to see, bedraggled refugees standing in the rain, halting their flight from the advancing Bacosh Army to stare in dismay at the activity about the temple.

Some carts had been commandeered, and Andreyis helped the soldiers fit the horses into the traces. Even one-armed, he was some assistance, as these soldiers knew little of horses.

Captain Ulay pushed free from the crowd before the temple and strode over. He gave the soldiers orders in Enoran, and they and one other climbed into the three carts. “You stay here,” said the captain to Andreyis, “you'll be no use loading carts with one arm.”

The carts clattered off, Andreyis thought, to gather more things to burn. He followed the captain back to the temple.

“Whose orders are you following?” Andreyis asked him, as the rain grew heavier.

“That's not for you to ask.” The captain looked harried and worn, and walked fast, as though demons snapped at his heels.

“That's the High Temple of Enora,” Andreyis tried again. “You're a Verenthane, you're going to burn down your own temple?”

“Better that than let it fall into the hands of those scum,” the captain declared. He pushed through the crowd, as some Enorans called out to him, pleaded with him to stop. He ignored them and ran up the steps into the wide doorway.

Andreyis saw Yshel on the steps, in animated conversation with the dark-haired serrin lad who had also ridden with the prisoner column. The other serrin's hand went to his sword as he saw Andreyis approaching. Yshel put a hand on his arm, calming him.

“Did anyone order him to do this?” Andreyis asked her. Within the main doors, he could see broken pews piled in great stacks by the far wall. With oils such as serrin made, that would burn high. Behind that wall were rooms, and many timbers that would catch. If the end wall came down, the roof would follow.

“He says yes,” said Yshel, frowning.

“Who?”

“He doesn't say.”

“This is wrong.”

“It's just a building,” said the other serrin. “People are dying in their thousands, who cares for stones?”

“They care,” said Andreyis, pointing to the crowd gathered in the rain. “Captain Ulay might be mad for all we know. Does he look entirely sane to you?”

“It's war,” said the serrin. “Who is?”

“There are no other soldiers around,” said Yshel. “He is a captain, he has command. These are not our lands, we do not interfere with human affairs….”

“You're in this war! What's that if not interference?”

“We serrin are none of us Verenthanes!” Yshel retorted.

“Neither am I.”

Yshel rolled her eyes. “That's different, you're human.”

“And I think that in his human rage against his enemy, Captain Ulay is about to destroy something that his own people may never forgive him for.”

“You fight against these people. Why do you care?”

“And you fight for them. Why
don't
you?”

Yshel said nothing but stared up at the spires in faint desperation.

Andreyis tried again. “Where did those carts go, exactly? I didn't hear all the words.”

“They go to find the demon fire. There is a Steel artillery force encamped nearby.”

“Artillery?” Andreyis asked, not believing her. “So close to the Regent's advance?”

“There are bridges down on the approach—the Regent's army makes a detour to reach us, it will take him another day or two. Kessligh Cronenverdt thinks to make a trap for his armies with artillery…”

“Yshel!” Her serrin comrade stopped her in alarm, and said something else in Saalsi. They argued.

“Kessligh Cronenverdt?” Andreyis exclaimed. He'd heard rumours. Kessligh had been in Tracato. It made sense that he would be leading any rearguard action to delay the Regent's advance. The Regent was obliged by holy duty to capture Shemorane and make a grand display at the High Temple. Surely Kessligh would sense an opportunity.

If Captain Ulay burned down the temple, the Regent might not come. He would lead his army past, to stoke their fury at the crime, but he would not stay long for grand ceremonies. Ulay was ruining Kessligh's plan. Andreyis had fought against Enorans, and should have cheered at the thought. Only…

“Yshel, you must go and find Kessligh,” he demanded. “Get a horse, ride and find him, fast. He can stop this. If you tell him what Captain Ulay is doing, he will stop it.”

Yshel stared at him for a moment, then looked over the bedraggled crowds in the courtyard. And finally, up at the temple spires.

Then she ran down the stairs, and away to the stable square, and her horse.

“You wish the Regent to have his grand ceremony,” said the other serrin, darkly. “With the temple standing, he will return the Shereldin Star, and his armies will gain cheer from their holy success.”

“You know nothing,” Andreyis snorted. “Yshel understands. Ask her.”

Before long, the carts returned with loads under thick canvas. Soldiers pushed a path through the ever-increasing throng, pushing people back with their shields. With the carts at the very foot of the steps, they began unloading, with only a small distance to carry their cargo in the rain.

What they carried were stitched-leather balls, like giant wineskins except with cane ribs inserted for shape. Men carried them very carefully, two to a ball. These were the feared Steel artillery ammunition, filled with flammable oil—hellfire. The crowd recognised the shapes too, and the protests grew abruptly louder. Soldiers formed a perimeter, shields interlocked, as common Enorans yelled and pushed, and tried to force a way through.

Supervising the unloading, Captain Ulay gave a command, and the soldiers' swords came out. But some soldiers, Andreyis noted, did not draw, and cast filthy looks back at their captain.

“No one's looking at us,” a Valhanan man named Tybron murmured at Andreyis's shoulder. “We should do something.”

“What?” Andreyis asked. “The captain's unpopular, but if we take him down the other soldiers won't thank us. We could run, but wounded and without horses we won't get far.”

“I don't like burning no damn temple,” Tybron muttered. Tybron had long hair and tattoos, and rings in his ear. “No good ever came from burning holy places.”

Andreyis nodded. In Lenayin, men were more likely to kill each other over matters of personal honour, or in wars between different regions and different tongues, than over matters of faith. Lenays were a superstitious lot, and did not like to offend even the gods they did not pray to.

“Kessligh's coming,” Andreyis told him.

Tybron stared. “Kessligh?” Andreyis nodded. “Yes, that Kessligh,” the nod meant. Tybron whistled. “Hope he gets here in time.”

They stood and waited until Andreyis could stand it no more, and then ducked inside. Within, he found Captain Ulay supervising the placement of demon fire beneath the great piles of wooden pews. Soldiers watched, as more Lenay prisoners helped—all Goeren-yai. One soldier had a small flask of oil and a flint.

“Who ordered you to burn it down?” Andreyis yelled. Everyone paused and looked. Captain Ulay saw who it was, and gave an order to two soldiers. The soldiers advanced on him. “The rest of you are just going to stand there? Your captain's gone mad! This is the High Temple of Enora, and your gods are going to hold you personally responsible for destroying it!”

The two soldiers advancing on him stopped. Andreyis saw that one, beneath his steel helm, was very young and looked very frightened.

“If this temple falls into their hands,” Ulay roared at them, “it will mark the fall of Enora! We swore that we would
never
allow them to place the Shereldin Star in this place, and I will
not
hand them such a victory!”

“That which you lose you can always win back!” Andreyis retorted. “If you burn it down, you destroy your symbol of nationhood with your very hands! Why don't you just cut your own damn throats while you're at it?”

Captain Ulay yelled at the two soldiers in Enoran. They looked at each other, and did not advance further. Ulay snarled, and strode toward the soldier holding the flint and flask.