Joel Shepherd - Haven

Damon wondered if it even occurred to Koenyg that this event said as much or more about his war and his leadership of the army as it did about Sasha. No, he thought-it probably didn't.

News of exactly what Sasha had done was vague at best. Certainly she was now riding with the serrin. Some said she'd attacked Larosan knights. Others said she'd turned on her Isfayen comrades. Others still said she'd been possessed by the Synnich spirit, and had taken flight and killed hundreds with great bursts of fire from her hands. That last seemed unlikely.

But certainly, she had defected. Around Damon, the lords of the royal vanguard looked dumbfounded. Many spoke in disbelief, wondering what madness had possessed their common countrymen. Certainly the war had become unpopular with some, and had always been so with others, but to respond like this to the defection of “that stupid girl”?

Wasn't it just like the Lenay nobility, Damon thought, to be always the last to know? Jaryd would have understood, even were he still nobility. Damon wished Jaryd were here now. Jaryd would rally support, and would ride to Sasha's side. Jaryd would urge Damon to do the same, to stand up to Koenyg, finally, and use the power of the Army of Lenayin for an honourable cause. But now, Damon merely sat in the saddle amidst a mass of confused nobility and watched the unfolding calamity. And hated himself for it.

Isfayen horsemen were galloping up the hill toward the vanguard. Nobles pointed to them. “The Isfayen have returned!” one shouted, with some relief.

“Well, that's something,” said another. “That's Markan, they'll not follow the bitch now.”

They parted as the Isfayen arrived. Great Lord Markan leaped from his frothing horse, and strode to Koenyg. He loomed over the Lenay king in leathers, mail and studs, his black hair flying.

“My Lord King,” said Markan, and took a knee. Koenyg looked a little more composed at that.

“The Isfayen return,” said Koenyg. “What do you report?”

“The Isfayen return for honour,” Markan announced.

“The Isfayen are always honourable.”

Markan stared up at him. “The Isfayen shall not turn against their king from a distance. If the Isfayen are to renounce their king, they shall do it face-to-face.”

Koenyg stared. Silence settled across the lords, broken only by the continuing chaos further back in the column.

“Are you threatening me?” Koenyg asked, very quietly.

Markan stood. “This war has no honour. Our allies are dishonourable, and unworthy of the Isfayen. We have fought the Enoran Steel, and found them brave and skilled. We have fought the talmaad of Saalshen, and found them possessed of warrior spirits. And we have fought with the knights and lords of the so-called Free Bacosh, and found them cowardly. They seek glory in the killing of those that cannot fight back. They fight for gold and land. They ransom opponents for it. Men rise to power amongst them by title and birth alone. They grow fat with self-importance, and little hint of ability or honourable deeds.”

“They are the greatest power in Rhodia,” Koenyg snarled back. “Lenayin shall be great, to be allied to them.”

“Lenayin's honour shall be stained. You speak of power. I speak of tervath. They are not the same, your tongue and mine. Men in Baen-Tar forget.”

Tervath , Damon knew, was the Telochi word for honour and power. In Telochi, they were both the same word, as one flowed from the other. For it to work any other way, to an Isfayen, was not civilisation. There were many elsewhere in Lenayin who felt the same.

“Markan,” said Koenyg, attempting calm reason. “The future of Rhodia is Verenthane.”

“That is not a fact,” said Markan. “That is a choice. Perhaps we choose differently.”

“You are Verenthane.”

“But I am not this kind ,” said the Isfayen, with dripping contempt. “Pray that none of us should become so.”

“When the Verenthanes came to Lenayin, they brought civilisation. Before that, we were a rabble. But King Soros brought the faith, and made us one. Now, we shall grow stronger still.”

“Or it shall turn us into anath alyn like them. I would rather see Lenayin destroyed. Should we choose such a fate, we would deserve it.”

“Dammit, man, will you not listen to reason?”

“That man's cousin raped my sister!” Markan roared. “I am Isfayen, and you have no idea how restrained I have been to this point! No longer!”

“You want to leave?” Koenyg shouted. “Then go! It seems it was too much to suppose that Lenayin could arrive at civilisation through foresight and wisdom! You Isfayen have always had to have civilisation beaten into you, and if it has to be that way again, so be it!”

Markan took out his huge, curved sword, and answering swords came out from all surrounding. But Markan handed the sword to Koenyg.

“In avoiding one dishonour, I invoke another,” he declared. “I have forfeited the honour of my father's word to your father, from the Great Lord of Isfayen to the King of Lenayin. For that, you may take my life, should you choose.”

“Do it,” someone muttered.

Koenyg looked distastefully at Markan's blade. “If I take your life, Lord Markan, it shall be on the field of battle. Like the Isfayen, I see little honour in killing a man who will not fight back.”

Markan nodded and sheathed his blade. “So shall it be.”

“You would fight against the Army of Lenayin?” Koenyg asked, disbelievingly. “Why not simply return to Lenayin?”

“The Isfayen do not run from a fight. This is a contest of honour and must be decided. We leave because one side of honour has been proven weak. The other must therefore be superior. The Isfayen are for the superior side of honour. We shall stay and see the matter resolved.”

Besides which, Damon thought, if the Isfayen left, the trickle of desertions would truly become a flood. They would not be fighting the Army of Lenayin. The Army of Lenayin would be fighting Koenyg, these lords, and the northerners.

“My Lord King,” shouted a noble, “we cannot simply let them leave! We have them surrounded!”

“You do indeed,” said Markan, a gleam in his eye. “You would offer us a fate more glorious than any Isfayen before us. Outnumbered, surrounded by old foes, fighting to the last man. We will take at least half of you with us, and the Isfayen shall sing of us for centuries yet untold.”

“There will be no attack,” said Koenyg. “These matters shall be decided on the field of battle.”

Markan nodded and strode back to his horse. He mounted, and with Isfayen riders at his back, he galloped upslope, toward his people's place in the column. As he passed Damon, he gave him a long, hard look.

Koenyg saw. “Have you something to say, brother?” he demanded, striding to Damon's horse. Damon stared at him. Koenyg saw that too. He knew his brother that well, at least.

Koenyg grabbed Damon's arm and yanked him powerfully from the saddle. Damon leaped clear rather than hit the ground head first, and crashed to a knee. Koenyg seized a fist full of jacket over Damon's mail, his face contorted with fury.

“Sasha tears the Army of Lenayin apart, and you sympathise with her ?” he shouted.

“You tear the Army of Lenayin apart!” Damon retorted. He tried to prise free of Koenyg's grip, but his elder brother was too strong. “The men of Lenayin cannot be led against their will! The Northern Rebellion proved that, but you never learned that lesson….”

Koenyg threw Damon to the ground, and landed a kick in his mailed side as Damon rolled away. “She is a traitor to Lenayin! I'll see her dead, I swear it, and I'll see you dead if you defy me!”