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 victory!”
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, Crossover, was shortlisted in 1999. He wrote two other novels in the Crossover series, Breakaway (2003) and Killswitch (2004). Sasha, the first novel in A Trial of Blood & Steel, was published in 2007. Petrodor, the second novel in this series, was published in 2008.
