“It's not Alaine who causes the biggest trouble, it's Gerrold,” said Aiden, his voice rising. “And that's your fault Rhillian, not ours-”
“Aiden.” Kessligh held up a hand. “Let her finish.” He folded his hands on the tabletop and waited.
“They all gather, Kessligh,” Rhillian said sombrely. “All the dukes. Most are with Steiner. Steiner has the most money, and quite possibly the backing of the temple. The momentum is with him, and if it continues, he shall surely lead an army of Torovan to the Bacosh next spring. Our friends in the Saalshen Bacosh can withstand the Larosa alliance, and perhaps the army of Lenayin…but if the Torovans march south as well, I fear it shall be too much.”
“I agree,” said Kessligh. “Danor alone can give perhaps eight thousand. The others, somewhat less…but if Songel and Cisseren come on board, it will be at least thirty thousand men, possibly more. The Larosa have perhaps sixty thousand. Lenayin could muster as many as forty, although thirty seems more likely given the ongoing instabilities…but thirty thousand Lenays, well equipped, are worth twice that many Torovans. Perhaps more than twice. At least one hundred and twenty thousand men, and possibly as many as one hundred and fifty…and perhaps Telesia and Raani will send a token force as well.
“Enora, Rhodaan and Ilduur can between them muster perhaps forty thousand. They comprise the most formidable army in all human lands, but even with their defences, odds of three- and four-to-one against are treacherous. Saalshen can add great numbers for harassment but, against all logic, Saalshen has refused to create heavy forces, despite two centuries of warning that they must.
“We must win the conflict here, Rhillian. If the army of Torovan can be held up, or split, or prevented from forming and marching entirely, we can win the war before the forces even take the field in the Bacosh. Better yet, if we can intercept these weapon shipments to Lenayin, that will give the Saalshen Bacosh more time to prepare. But it can't happen if the Nasi-Keth and the talmaad cannot work together here in Petrodor. If we get in each other's way, or work toward conflicting ends, it will be a disaster. And I'm telling you that forming an allegiance with House Maerler is a crazy risk to take-”
“Riskier than putting all faith in a Nasi-Keth leader who does not command all of the Nasi-Keth?” Rhillian's tone had hardened. “What will you do, ask them nicely? And which of the families will listen, when they know you do not have the force to back up any threats?”
“I'll get the force,” Kessligh said shortly. “I am getting it.”
“You play politics while my entire people are threatened with annihilation! We have tried playing politics with humans before. We tried with King Leyvaan two hundred years ago. He repaid us with slaughter. These people hate us. These Verenthanes, they think we are the demons of Loth incarnate, and they wish us nothing but death, right down to our smallest children…”
“Not all Verenthanes,” Aiden said quietly.
Rhillian's emerald stare found him, and flicked down to the eight-pointed star medallion upon his chest. “Of course, Aiden my friend.” She reached to him across the table and grasped his hand. Her expression was pained. “Of course not all Verenthanes. But the priests, and the powerful, and the fanatics…it is enough, Aiden. It is the majority, in fact, in all places except amongst the Nasi-Keth and the peoples of the Saalshen Bacosh itself.
“Humans hate so easily. I think you need to. It tells you who you are. Such hatred is visceral. We serrin…” she shook her head, helplessly. “We do not understand it. We try, but it is beyond us. We are not so territorial. We know who we are, and such hatred has no use for us. We only understand one thing, a thing in which we have been two hundred painfully slow years in the learning. These people, these haters? They only stop when we kill them.”
Her gaze travelled about the table, stopping at one after another. There was no imploring search for understanding now. Only a cold, deadly certainty. Serrin, Kessligh had said often enough, were peaceful by choice, not by nature. It was, to say the least, a significant distinction.
“Saalshen shall not allow Patachi Steiner to form this army,” Rhillian said coldly. “We shall prevent it however we have to. If our Nasi-Keth friends can offer a better solution, we'll take it. Only know where we stand. If the Saalshen Bacosh falls, the fanatics will not stop at the border. They'll march on into Saalshen, and they have all the mercy of death itself. We do not fight for an ideal, or a king, or wealth or land. We fight for the right to exist. And we refuse to fail.”
Jaryd Nyvar circled, flexing his left hand against the grip of his stanch. Opposing him circled Teriyan Tremel, long red hair tied into various braids down his back. Shouts and yells filled the air, and the clash of wooden stanches, followed by the thump of a landing blow. Jaryd barely heard them, watching only Teriyan's feet, and his centre, as old Lieutenant Asheld had taught him long ago in the yard of Nyvar Holding.
Teriyan attacked, a deceptive, sliding approach preceding a vicious slash from the right. Jaryd parried, danced back, knocked the next attack sideways and nearly caught Teriyan's padded banda as the taller man leapt aside. Teriyan grinned, sweat dripping, and gave a nod of approval, wrist-spinning his stanch. Jaryd's face never moved.
Teriyan attacked twice more, and both times Jaryd faded, the second time clipping Teriyan on the shoulder. His left forearm throbbed where it had been broken nearly two months before, but it felt strong beneath splints and a wooden guard. Teriyan favoured the right-foot half-step, he decided. It preceded most of his attacks, just for an instant. When the next attack came, Jaryd parried and cut hard for the left, just where the transition from high defence to low was most difficult…but met a firm defence, followed by a hard blow to his midsection.
He fell hard in the dirt, jarring his old injury. Teriyan grinned again, spinning his stanch as he stood over the fallen man. “Nice try, lad, don't think that half-step hasn't been obvious to four dozen other opponents too.” He reached down, but Jaryd ignored the hand, and got back to his feet.
“Again,” said Jaryd, stonily, resuming his stance. Teriyan shrugged, and did likewise. Two exchanges later, and Jaryd's next hard cut also met with firm defence and a killing blow.
“You're leaving yourself too far open,” Teriyan advised, shaking his head as Jaryd once again struggled to his feet. “It's no good going for the kill all the time if you get killed in the process. You don't have to risk so much when you attack.”
“All war is risk,” Jaryd replied, wiping sweat from his forehead, and dust from his pants. “Again.” His forearm was throbbing now. He'd been first to arrive for evening practice and intended to be last to leave. It was a pattern he'd been repeating since his arrival here in the small Lenay town of Baerlyn one and a half months ago. Back then he'd been restricted to basic drill, strength-building and technical exercises. Only now was his arm recovered enough that he could match himself against the village seniors. But, after so long without sparring, his form was rustier than a farmer's scythe.
Twenty exchanges later, and he'd been knocked down another four times. Each time, he dusted himself off and resumed his stance. The sun now sank below the lip of the Baerlyn Valley, casting shadow across the training hall, its surrounding grassy paddocks and the long, winding strip of ramshackle wooden buildings that was the town.
“Enough,” said Teriyan, finally, as the tachadar circles about them were abandoned by the other combatants, and the outdoor yard grew cool and silent. “I've a hard day tomorrow, and you'd best be riding back before dark.”
“The dark doesn't frighten me,” said Jaryd. “Once more.”
“I said no, lad.”
“Perhaps you grow too old for fighting,” said Jaryd. “Perhaps your wife could find better use for you in the kitchens.”