The captain now insisted that Kessligh cease to waste men in this way. Kessligh replied that he hadn't actually lost anyone today. The captain remarked acerbically on the scale of Kessligh's achievement-thirty dead Meraine cavalry, against the hundred thousand plus that advanced on them. Kessligh barely bothered to answer, bored with the whole debate and disdainful that he even had to answer to the likes of Geralin and his men, who understood not a thing about this kind of warfare.
Or no, Errollyn corrected himself…not disdainful. It was too strong a word for Kessligh, in speaking of his interaction with people for whom he had limited respect. Such people Kessligh merely looked past, as a master composer might regard some insignificant student, barely hearing a word they said while, in his head, already composing his next great music.
The captain rode off in frustration. Kessligh set about explaining some things to several of the younger riders-one of them Daish-escapees from the Tol'rhen in Tracato. He beckoned to Errollyn too, with some annoyance.
“…all men of one house,” Kessligh was telling the youngsters, pointing to the bodies on the ground. “That's the problem with feudal forces: the division of responsibility falls along lines of lineage and power, not of capability. These are men-at-arms and a few half-nobility from the same lands in Meraine; they're after spoils, probably they volunteered.”
“They're just trying to sow terror,” Daish muttered, looking back to the still-burning village of Hershery. “Arrosh himself ordered this.”
Kessligh nodded. “But it's the opportunists who volunteer to carry out the orders. We've an opening here; such men are not natural scouts, they cling to their groups for protection rather than strategy, and don't understand the advantage of the land as Lenay cavalry might. Now let's be off before their friends come to check on the delay.”
There were three prisoners, on their knees still with hands on their heads. There was no possibility of taking them along, they had not the forces to spare for guarding them. And from the terrified looks on their faces, it seemed they knew it. Errollyn took his bow in hand, but Kessligh issued the orders elsewhere, and gave Errollyn an irritated gesture to mount up.
“It's easier to do it from range than let the kids get their hands bloody,” Errollyn explained as they rode away from Hershery.
“You've killed enough,” Kessligh said shortly.
“I don't mind.”
“I know,” said Kessligh. “That's the problem.”
It was the kind of thing Sasha would have said. Or rather, it was the kind of thing a certain Sasha would have said perhaps a month or two ago. Lately, Errollyn didn't think she'd have minded any more than he did.
Sasha rode with the Army of Lenayin. Those were her people. Kessligh's too, if pressed on the point. The Army of Lenayin were allied to the Merainis they'd just killed. They marched now some distance behind this main force of the Army of the United Bacosh, but not too far now, considering how much lighter Lenays would travel.
Verenthane gods and Lenay spirits forbid that they ever catch up. Errollyn did not know what he would do then. His people's very existence was threatened, for this enormous army that came down upon them was motivated not merely by the reconquest of Bacosh lands, but by the prospect of ending all serrin life in the world, forever. Yet he could only think of Sasha, and how he would rather let anything happen than be forced to fight against any number that contained her as well.
It was a preposterous sentiment, and one worthy of self-loathing. But he did not loathe himself for it. Not really. He just killed every enemy Kessligh pointed him toward, and tried to think on other things. Kessligh worried for him, he knew…which was odd, because Kessligh was a general who saw things from the broadest possible perspective, and spared his personal concern on very few. Possibly Kessligh was concerned for him on Sasha's behalf, because in his odd human way, Kessligh felt for Sasha as a daughter, and for her lover as some kind of son.
Which was nice, Errollyn supposed. And unnerving, because he no longer believed any of them were going to make it out of this alive. Not on his side of the fight, anyhow. On Sasha's side, there was a chance. He hoped she would stay precisely where she was, and that her brothers would place her far at the rear of any fighting. It did not seem likely that they or a thousand wild horses could keep her there, but he could hope. He would never see her again, of course. But she'd live a full life, and grow old to tell her children of fond memories of the strange serrin man she'd once loved. That was better than an early grave at his side, unmarked upon some foreign field, far from her beloved Lenay home.
Even viewed from the head of an invading army, Rhodaan looked beautiful. Sasha rode in the second group of the column. Ahead rode the cluster about her brother Koenyg, King of Lenayin, comprising of several northern great lords, the southern Great Lord of Rayen plus the princes Damon and Myklas. Ahead of them, a short vanguard of Royal Guardsmen in gold and red, flying the royal banners most prominently.
The second group was led by bannermen of Isfayen, Valhanan, and Taneryn. Behind, the respective great lords of those provinces, Markan, Shystan, and Ackryd. Each had several loyal lesser lords for companions. Sasha, for her part, had Markan's sister Yasmyn and Jaryd Nyvar.
Ahead on a bend of road, Sasha spied a scout, waiting as his horse grazed. The man remounted as King Koenyg approached. Koenyg joined him on one side, Prince Damon on the other, while the scout described something up ahead. Koenyg gave orders, and one of the lords peeled away to fetch men from further back in the column. Damon halted his horse until Sasha drew level.
“There's a town,” he explained. Damon had always been the most dour of King Torvaal's children. “By the river ahead.”
“The Larosans didn't burn it, did they?” Jaryd asked darkly.
“No. The scout says it seems an important post for river trade. Best we go and check.”
Sasha detected that he was not making a request. There was something else, then. She nodded.
“I would come,” Great Lord Markan declared.
“No, brother,” said Yasmyn. “The entire noble vanguard does not ride on scouting missions.”
“If the king shall demean himself on scouting missions, why should I not also?” Markan said stubbornly. Yasmyn scowled, and switched tongues to Telochi, the primary native tongue of the Isfayen.
Tempers were short all along the Lenay column. Only in the last few days had Koenyg declared mourning for King Torvaal over. Since then, banners had flown high instead of low, and the white of funereal mourning taken down from the column's head. Moods, however, had not improved.
The Army of Lenayin marched in disgrace. The opening battle of what the Larosans now named The Glorious Crusade, had been fought in two parts. The massed armies of the so-called Free Bacosh, led by the most powerful feudal province of Larosa, had mustered north, before the border of Rhodaan. The Army of Lenayin, with some assistance from Torovan, had mustered south, to assault the border of Rhodaan's neighbour and steadfast ally, Enora. The assault on Enora had been primarily a diversion to keep the Enorans off the Larosan's southern flank. The Enoran Steel, like the Rhodaani Steel, had never been defeated in all its two centuries of warfare, but nonetheless, most hotheaded Lenays had expected to win. Lenayin fancied itself a nation of warriors, and the greatest exponents of the martial arts in all Rhodia. It had been the first time ever that all the disunited and squabbling provinces of Lenayin had fought together as a single army, united for a common cause.
They had been defeated, sent running before their foes, leaving perhaps a third of their number, four of their provincial great lords, and their king dead upon the field. Instead of the great victory to bring glory to Lenayin, there was nothing for Lenayin on this lowlands crusade but unbearable shame.