The serrin had never chosen to make war on anyone. War had been made upon them, and the occupation of the Saalshen Bacosh had been self-defence, nothing more. They were gentle and kind, save where human aggression had forced them to fight for survival. What the serrin had helped the Saalshen Bacosh to build, in two centuries of occupation, seemed wonderful. And now, her father King Torvaal of Lenayin was leading an army of her countrymen to marry a Lenay princess to the Larosan heir, and forge a holy Verenthane alliance that would bind Lenayin’s future to that of the Verenthane lowlands forever.
That alliance would necessarily mean the reconquest of the Saalshen Bacosh, and the destruction of all the civilisation the serrin had brought to those peoples…but that mattered little compared to the holy Verenthane future of Lenayin. The future was Verenthane, they were told. The Gods had ordained it.
“I’m far less worried about the squabbling of stupid nobles than what the Goeren-yai think,” Sofy said. “Half of this army is not Verenthane, yet we ask them to fight and die for a cause that has not always treated them well. Many of the eastern Goeren-yai have long ties to the serrin, and do not march willingly to fight them.”
“They’ll fight,” Damon replied. “It’s a question of honour. You can question their willingness all you like, but never question a Goeren-yai’s honour.”
“I know they’ll fight,” said Sofy. “I’m just…” She could not complete the sentence. Dare she say it? Even here, to her most trusted brother and confidant? She swallowed hard.
“You’re not certain you want us to win,” Damon said sombrely. “Are you?” Sofy stared at his dark gaze, and bit her lip. She nodded, faintly. Damon took a deep breath. “These are our people, Sofy. We owe them everything-our lives if need be.”
“Oh, I know that! I know that as well as anyone! But…some of these people are evil, Damon. These Larosans. What they’ve done to serrin and half-castes across the border in Enora and Rhodaan-”
“I know,” said Damon. “I know. But it is the future of Lenayin at stake. We have no choice.”
For a while, there was no sound but for the creaking of wheels, the thudding of hooves, and the jangling of harnesses.
“And how is your riding coming?” Damon said after the pause.
“Well, I tried using the rein as you showed me.” Sofy smiled. “Dary was quite impressed. He thinks I’m a little dense, but he tolerates me.”
“Koenyg complains you should not be riding a dussieh. I could get you a warhorse if you’d rather?”
“Never!” said Sofy. “I’ll not trade my little Dary for anything. Besides, Koenyg was just telling me he doesn’t want me riding at all. He’s determined to find fault with everything he does not understand.”
“Ignore him.”
“I do try.”
“I must go,” said Damon, gathering his gloves. “Tomorrow, after breakfast, we’ll go riding together. That’ll shut Koenyg up.” His eyes lingered on her for a moment, as though he wanted to say more. He reached and took her hand. Sofy clasped his and smiled at him. Then Damon departed, slamming the carriage door with a force that was almost anger.
Sofy sighed, picked up her book, and resumed reading. But the beauty of the foreign words escaped her now, and she stared forward instead, out of the windows.
She was not married yet, but Damon missed her already. For a long time they’d been friends. Most of his life, Damon had felt constrained, ignored, put-upon. Eldest brother Krystoff had been brash and flamboyant, a figure impossible to emulate in life, and doubly so in death. Koenyg was the hardest of hard Lenay fighting men, and brooked no dispute from anyone, least of all his younger brothers. That left Damon, awkward, gangly, misunderstood and mistrusting, suspecting all of merely liking him for his royalty, or about to stab him in the back at a moment’s notice. All, that was, except Sofy.
For many years, she had been his solace, and now that solace was being married off for a cause that Damon had little enthusiasm for in the first place. It had been Koenyg’s decision as much as Father’s, and Damon blamed them both equally. Now, Sofy sat and gazed at the banners, and felt a desperate melancholy advancing at the thought of how much Damon loved her, and she him, and how lonely they would be apart for the rest of their lives. Even as she willed herself to be strong, her eyes filled with tears.
Jaryd’s feet ached worst of all. His thighs and knees weren’t much better, and his shoulders were painful beneath a weight of mail, shield and rucksack. Yet he walked, and contented himself to know that tomorrow, he’d have his horse back again. Most other men in this column weren’t so lucky.
Yells from far ahead signalled the coming halt, as the sun dipped low upon the western horizon. Then the shout rose from nearby, and men spread out, found a clear patch of ground for a campfire and swung down their loads with aching groans.
Jaryd sat with one half of the Baerlyn contingent, and took the opportunity to pull off his boots. “Not near me, please,” said Byorn, a hand raised to ward the smell. Jaryd removed a sock, and prodded at a new, bulging blister on his big toe.
“Wow,” said Andreyis. “That’s a beauty.”
“Master Jaryd has soft feet,” Teriyan remarked, his own boots removed and now sitting splayed-legged on the grass, as an experienced warrior might. “Like all lordlings, too much time ahorse has unmanned him.”
Of one hundred and thirty-seven men of fighting age in the Valhanan village of Baerlyn, thirty-one had joined the Army of Lenayin on this march. Enough were left that Baerlyn would not suffer too badly in the months or (spirits forbid) years that they were away. The Baerlyn Council had made the final say on the number, and had refused many who asked. Some men were essential, farmers in particular, but also bakers, smiths and others.
The King had not demanded more than twenty men in every hundred capable of fighting, through all of Lenayin. Much discussion about campfires now speculated as to the size of the Lenayin population in total…thirty thousand marching soldiers made one-fifth of a hundred and fifty thousand fighting men. Which would be only half of the total number of Lenay men, when counting children and elders, making three hundred thousand men in Lenayin. Double that to account for the women, and there were six hundred thousand people in all Lenayin. It was a number so large, many refused to believe it. Scattered for countless centuries across their uncounted rugged valleys, so many people had divided into equally countless tribes, with differing tongues, beliefs and ceremonies. Now, thinking of just how many people Lenayin actually had, Jaryd wondered if any other human land possessed the sheer scale of fractious diversity the gods had granted his homeland.
No wonder we’re always in such a mess, he pondered, gazing about at the long, settling column. There was no thought of fortified camps here on the Telesian plains. Telesia had few people, and had only escaped conquest by Bacosh neighbours because it possessed so little that anyone wanted. Mostly it made a bulwark between the Bacosh and southern Lenayin, and there was no threat to a Lenay army here.
Jaryd set his boots aside and rose barefoot. “Come,” he said to Andreyis. “We’ll spar while there’s still light.”
Andreyis looked tired too, but he removed his boots and rose all the same, withdrawing his practice stanch from within his bundled gear. They took stance on a clear patch of grass, shields laid aside, and practised in the traditional Lenay style-two hands, no shields and little mercy.