Joel Shepherd - Haven

“Oh, rubbish!” Sasha exclaimed. “Since when have the Isfayen actually given a handful of horseshit what the King of Lenayin thinks? Your father Faras ordered the Isfayen to war because he saw some utility in making Lenayin unite as a nation, and as a people! That's why you were sent to Baen Tar for education, and not raised in some windy hillside hut like your predecessors…and now you say the Isfayen accept no ideas from foreigners? You came here fighting for a Verenthane kingdom, whether you realised it nor not. Both it and Saalshen's kind of civilisation are foreign causes, yet you accuse only one of being so?”

“You are not the King of Lenayin!” Markan shouted. “You are the Synnich-ahn, you are wild and untamed, like all the men of Lenayin, but you are not king! There is honour in following the king. To disobey him, and fight against him, is…”

He did not complete the sentence. Koenyg would not follow. Not in a thousand years. Sasha took a deep breath, and realised what she was trying to do. She would fight her brother. How many of her brothers, she did not know. Any who followed her would be in rebellion against the king. That had not happened in Lenayin since there had been a king. The Northern Rebellion had come close, but she'd been very careful then to make clear what that rebellion was not. This time, there would be no dressing it up as something else.

“Great Lord Markan,” Rhillian said calmly. Even ferocious Markan flinched a little, to meet her stare. “I have heard it said that to the Lenay warrior, honour is all. To the bloodwarriors of Isfayen, even more so.”

Markan nodded grimly. “You have heard well.”

“My people are being murdered, Markan. Your warriors have slain many of my talmaad , yet the talmaad are warriors themselves, and such combat has covered all in glory, your people and mine. But you saw the town as you rode in. The Larosans set it to fire, and there were old folk there, unable to face the road, who were cut down by Larosan blades. Is there honour in such a deed?”

“No,” said Markan, stony-faced. “There is honour in killing an able opponent. To kill the old, the young, the unarmed, the helpless, such is echtyth. It is anath.”

Rhillian looked at Sasha.

“Untranslatable,” Sasha told her in Saalsi. “But very bad.”

“Then it seems to me that you must choose, Great Lord of Isfayen. What most defines the soul of the Isfayen? Is it obedience to a king? Is it faithfulness to your father's orders? Or is it the path of righteous honour in battle? If you stay your course and fight with the Regent Arrosh, you will serve with an army that murders children, that kills the old before their time, that would seek to remove my entire race-most of whom cannot fight-from the face of this earth. You will be spared the dishonour of betraying your father's path, and turning against the King of Lenayin. But when the corpses of ten thousand children lie at your feet, what honour will you have left to be stained?”

“We do not participate in that,” Markan said stonily. “We fight only warriors.”

“Dear lord,” Rhillian said gravely. “Is this an excuse used frequently amongst the honourable bloodwarriors of Isfayen? ‘I did not participate in that crime’? ‘I only stood by and watched, from a safe distance, and did nothing’?”

Markan's face wrinkled, as though he were smelling something very bad. He stood for a long moment. Then he turned and strode off, kicking at a tree root in passing.

Rhillian looked at Sasha, eyebrows raised. Sasha shrugged. “I don't know,” she sighed. “We can hope. I know the Isfayen have far more respect for the talmaad and the Steel than they do for any beneath the Regent's banner.”

“Lenayin seems full of humans who respect you more for having killed a lot of them.”

“Yes, but killed honourably.”

“I'm very glad at the prospect of some Lenays on my side. But I can never hope to understand them.”

“Nor they you,” said Sasha. “It does not matter, so long as we agree that Rhodia would be better if Saalshen won, and Regent Arrosh did not.” Sasha reached for and clasped Rhillian's hand. “We must have Damon. If we can persuade Damon, we shall have momentum. Many will follow.”

“Damon is not the warrior that Koenyg is,” said Rhillian, frowning. “The men of Lenayin will follow whom they respect above whom they like.”

Sasha shook her head. “I'm defying Koenyg-for most of those inclined against the Regent, that's enough. If they want a respected warrior to follow, they have me, and even Kessligh. But we need Damon so that we have a royal, the next in line to the throne. Lenay men will never be royalists, but it is important all the same.”

“What about you?” Rhillian asked, with a penetrating stare. “If none of your brothers will come, there is always yourself.” Sasha blinked. She hadn't thought of that for even an instant. “Third in line, by my reckoning. Assuming Wylfred is still out of consideration, and your other sisters could never be accepted, where men might make an exception for a woman who fights as you do. Ahead of Myklas by birth, only Koenyg and Damon come before you.”

“All the more reason to get Damon to come over,” Sasha said adamantly. “What you describe is terrifying.”

Rhillian smiled. “In that, I am certain I empathise. Come, we must move. How is this played?”

“I have no idea,” said Sasha, rising. “I've only managed a minor insurrection before. Nothing on this scale.”

Koenyg raged. He stood off to the side of the road and kicked at a low wall until loose stones fell and rolled in the grass. Then, his feet undoubtedly sore, he roared obscenities to the sky.

Damon sat astride his horse, and felt numb. The Army of Lenayin had paused in its descent down a long, rolling hill. The army was no longer a single line, but had spread wide across the hillside, as cavalry tired of being further back in the column galloped to the front.

Now, none were advancing. Hooves thundered as soldiers and officers raced back and forth between groups of men, asking opinions, demanding answers. Across the hillside yells could be heard, voices and arguments, men debating their cause.

A new thunder sounded. Down in the shallow valley, a line of clustered horsemen were galloping, small horses bearing wild-haired Goeren-yai.

“That's the Taneryn leaving,” someone remarked. Koenyg stood with hands on hips by the wall and watched them go. There were hundreds of horsemen. The Great Lord Ackryd was a friend of Sasha's, had ridden with her in the Northern Rebellion, and owed his great lordship to Sasha's opposition to the previous Great Lord Krayliss. But mostly, the Goeren-yai of Taneryn had never liked this war, and had always favoured the serrin. Now, the Synnich-ahn had switched sides, and her most devoted men were following.

No one was entirely certain how it had happened. Typically, important news would arrive at the royal vanguard first, but this time it had miraculously appeared within the army's ranks before the vanguard knew of its import. The vanguard knew only that there was uproar, the breaking of ranks, and an increasing number of desertions. Now, the Taneryn left. A lot of Goeren-yai from various provinces were joining them, not waiting for their provincial fellows to decide. Most others were holding, for now. War forged strong bonds between men of the same region, and they were not leaving without consensus from their comrades. The Army of Lenayin, hardly cohesive at the best of times, was in turmoil.

“I'm going to kill her!” Koenyg roared. “No, I'm going to string her up and gut her, then I'll kill her!”