Joel Shepherd - Tracato

“My Lord,” said Damon, his voice trembling. “You will allow this?” His father’s dark eyes bore into his own. “Is this the mercy of our gods?”

Within the tent, deathly silence, save the gentle rain that fell on the canvas above. The king looked away.

“Have you nothing to say?” Damon asked. “We march to make war on good people, in the name of murderers and thieves who would despoil all that is good in the Verenthane faith, who would slaughter thousands of innocents, to unite their lands and rally their people in terror of imaginary evils, and you say nothing? Thousands of Lenay families will lose fathers, brothers and sons to this cause, and your only reply is silence?”

“Lad,” said Father Syd, laying a hand on his prince’s shoulder. “That’s enough.”

“The path has been chosen,” said King Torvaal. His voice sounded strained, as though roughened by lack of use. “The destiny of Lenayin is Verenthane. We fight for the Verenthane cause, the holiest of the holy causes. We reclaim the holy lands for the faith. The gods have ordained it.”

“Are you certain?” Damon pressed, desperately. “Have you seen it? With your own eyes?” His father had spent so many days in prayer, since the death of his heir and Damon’s eldest brother Krystoff, nearly thirteen years before.

Damon searched his father’s face, for the consolation of knowing that the king, at least, knew this cause to be a just one. That he would not sacrifice so many lives without the certainty of righteous truth.

His father’s dark eyes stared back. And again, he looked away. Damon no longer wanted to strike someone. He wanted to cry.

He turned and strode from the tent, out into the rain. Father Syd followed, and a pair of Royal Guardsmen joined to their flanks. Great Lord Ackryd of Taneryn nearly walked into him from another tent, reversing quickly.

“Bad?” Ackryd asked, watching Damon warily. Damon snorted furiously, glad the wetness of his eyes could be explained in part by the rain. Ackryd was the third new great lord to be appointed after the Udalyn Rebellion, following the deaths of Usyn Telgar of Hadryn and Cyan Asynth of Banneryd in battle. Taneryn’s previous Great Lord Krayliss had lost his head at the order of the king for sedition. Ackryd had then been Captain Ackryd of the Red Swords, one of Taneryn’s two standing companies, and had joined Sasha to fight for the Udalyn against the northern Hadryn and Banneryd. His role in that battle had gained him enough credit with Taneryn’s various village leaders and great warriors to get him selected Krayliss’s replacement at the last Taneryn Rrathynal.

“We march to Loth, Lord Ackryd,” Damon snarled. “To Loth!”

“You’ll not speak such words, lad,” Father Syd cautioned, striding close behind.

“Your Highness,” Ackryd pressed, “we Taneryn hear rumours that this incident with the princess was arranged by the northerners. Is it true?”

“I’m sure they’d love to have thought of it,” Damon muttered.

“It is true, then?”

“No, it’s not true man!” Damon snapped. “Pay your wits more attention and your rumours less! The northerners want this war most of all, they need Sofy married safely to Prince Balthaar, however much they dislike her.”

“You accuse them of rational common sense,” Ackryd growled. “Those fanatics are as stupid as they are evil-”

“If it please you, Lord of Taneryn, I’ve more important matters to hand than Taneryn’s old wars with-” Damon broke off, as he heard screams from ahead. A woman’s screams. They sounded frighteningly familiar.

Damon ran, Ackryd, Syd and their men running behind, toward the commotion. Royal Guardsmen held a gathering press of men back from the entrance to Sofy’s tent, shouting angrily and threatening with weapons those who thought to push through.

Damon shoved others aside, and the guardsmen let him through. Inside, several men were shouting, but the broader entourage were silent. The servants’ faces were shocked and pale. There was Sofy, in the arms of two of her maids, her face tear streaked. Before her stood Yasmyn Kraal, her darak drawn, warily guarding her princess.

The shouting men were Koenyg, and one of the Bacosh lords. Between them lay the rescued villagers. The boy, covered with a blanket, and his surviving sister…now impaled with Lord Elen’s sword. Her eyes stared sightlessly at Lord Elen, her weatherworn dress drenched in blood. Lord Elen straightened his neck self-righteously, and withdrew his blade. The girl’s body lurched as it came out, limp and bony. Sofy was sobbing. Those had been her screams.

“Upon the princess’s own hearth!” Koenyg was yelling furiously. “Have you no honour?”

“Our lands, our justice!” the other lord yelled back. Lord Elen wiped his blade with his cloak, looking most unbothered by it all. Pale blue eyes met Damon’s, and he gave a cold smile.

Damon drew his blade and strode forward. A Bacosh soldier saw Damon’s intent, drew his own blade and interposed himself. Koenyg yelled, drawing his own blade, as others did likewise. Damon smashed through the soldier’s weak defence, his edge driving into the man’s shoulder, then sidestepped and cut through his middle. A second came at his left, Damon half step-faked, then dropped back as that man’s blade whistled past, then tore through jaw and throat with his counter stroke.

There were yells and confusion, Lord Elen stumbling backward, sword raised to ward the impending attack as two surviving soldiers and two minor lords made a barrier between him and the enraged Lenay prince. Damon would have gone through them, but Koenyg was there on his right flank, weapon ready, yelling at him to stop. In all their years of rivalry, Damon had only bested Koenyg in a full sparring sequence once. Should he continue his attack, he would expose to Koenyg his flank. And he had no confidence that his brother would not take that available opening.

“A duel!” Damon yelled furiously at Elen, pointing his sword. “I’ll have you to the death, here and now!”

“Enough!” Koenyg bellowed. “You’ve done enough!”

“This is an outrage!” Lord Elen was yelling, in fright and fury, his round face flushed bright red. “By what honour would you do murder on an invited guest?”

“The wound is deep,” Damon snarled in Lenay, “and can only be salved with blood!”

“You don’t know what you say!” Koenyg said furiously, also in Lenay. “You don’t know what you say, and you shall retract…”

“The wound is deep and can only be salved with blood!” Damon insisted, his blade an unwavering pointer at Lord Elen. Koenyg hissed in exasperation. It was the traditional challenge, the one in hot blood, not the ceremonial. It was what was said in countless squares, fields and hearths across Lenayin, when tempers grew too great and insults thrust too deep, and two men’s lives made a dissonance that could only be resolved with death.

“What is this barbarian garble you speak?” Lord Elen demanded in Torovan. “Don’t you point that blade at me, or by the great gods you’ll regret it!”

“He has the right,” said Father Syd, also in Lenay, ignoring the Algrassians. The big priest pushed in behind, close between Damon and Koenyg, yet not so foolhardy as to stand directly between them.

“He has no right!” Koenyg declared. “We are guests on Algrassian lands…”

“Don’t you speak in tongues in my presence!” Lord Elen demanded. “Of what do you speak?”

“Your death!” Yasmyn Izlar said.

“I’ll not be threatened by a scabby, slanty eyed, barbarian wench!” Elen roared. “I’ll have your head, I tell you!” The Isfayen girl paid him little heed, her eyes only for Damon, alive and gleaming with admiration.