Joel Shepherd - Haven

Damon tried to get up, but a blow struck his head. He fell, arms up for protection, and a kick struck his leg. He'd been beaten by Koenyg before, and was not surprised. Koenyg had far more tolerance for defiance from foreigners and others than he did from younger brothers.

The blows stopped. Damon looked up past raised arms at the seething king standing over him. “Look at you!” Koenyg exclaimed, before the audience of lords. “You're pathetic! You plot and mutter behind my back, you make better friends with your sisters than with me or Myklas, you spend so long with your head in girlish pursuits it's a wonder you don't wear a dress over your mail! And now, you fall on your arse and cower like a whipped dog! You're a coward, and I have no use for you as my brother!”

He turned and strode back to his horse. Damon blinked, sitting on the grass by the road. And he realised that for once, his brother was actually right. And that death would be better.

Damon leaped to his feet, drew his sword, and charged. Lords yelled warning, and Koenyg spun, blade raised in defence. Damon struck full force, and struck to kill. Koenyg retreated, fending fast, steel clashing in rapid succession. Damon saw the astonishment on his face, and the concern, to find himself nearly overwhelmed.

Koenyg reversed one hard parry and leaped upslope. Damon cut low, was blocked by the downward slam of Koenyg's blade, which reversed toward Damon's head, but Damon parried hard and cut for Koenyg's neck. Koenyg swayed aside and cut low, in that easy, balanced style Damon had seen so often in sparring, as his rhythm recovered. And he knew that the surprise was ending, and now he was in trouble.

He tried to finish it fast, before Koenyg could truly get into rhythm, but each of his strikes was blocked with increasing surety. In the blink of an eye, Damon realised he'd fallen a fraction behind in the count. Koenyg came at him quickly, one side, the other, then a fast reverse, and Damon's parrys were a little later each time. In desperation he broke the rhythm entirely and struck a glancing blow on Koenyg's arm, but the next blow crushed Damon's defence, and the last tore into his ribs.

The mail saved him, but he fell all the same, with searing pain in his side. He struggled to rise, to raise his blade once more, but Koenyg swatted it aside, and stood on his sword arm. Damon lay back, and stared up the length of Koenyg's sword as the point pressed to his throat. His brother's eyes were ablaze, even as his arm seemed hurt.

“Attack from behind, eh?” Koenyg asked, breathing hard. “Most dishonourable, little brother.”

“It's the best way to kill a cockroach,” said Damon, also gasping. “They're hard vermin to face, because you have to come down to their level.” He was amazed at how calm his voice was, despite his lack of air. It was as though the barrier of fear had finally snapped. He'd stood up to Koenyg now. He could die happy.

“I should kill you now,” Koenyg snarled.

“I never doubted you would, one day.”

“I never did you wrong, little brother.”

Damon laughed. Suddenly, he couldn't stop laughing. It was insane-he and Koenyg had tried to kill each other, Koenyg was about to finish it, and he'd never been so amused.

“Look at you,” he said, between gasps of breath. “My big brother, trying to reason. It's like watching a bull trying to use an abacus.” Koenyg's face darkened. It had been a favourite line of Sofy's, when Koenyg couldn't hear. “Kessligh always said the rulership of kings would never last. Three generations, he said. You can start with a good king, like Great-Grandpa Soros. And he has a good son, like Grandpa Chayden. But by the time father wears the crown, the vitality is already fading…”

“You say nothing about our father!” Koenyg yelled.

“…and by the time it gets to you, it's gone entirely. Three generations, Kessligh said. A century at most. Krystoff was his attempt to prolong it, but Krystoff died, and now you prove Kessligh right.”

“I am tired of your lofty wisdom!”

“I know-that's why you resorted to beatings when you could never match it.” Koenyg moved the sword point aside. He kicked Damon's sword away. Damon raised himself on an arm. “You're a tyrant, Koenyg. You ally us with tyrants because they appeal to you.”

“I ally Lenayin with the strong because Lenayin is strong! Of course you don't understand that-look at you, lying defeated in the dirt!”

“You could always best me with a blade, Koenyg. But you've the smarts of a box of hammers.” Koenyg kicked him hard in the shoulder. Damon winced, but continued, “You didn't see the Northern Rebellion coming, you didn't think the Goeren-yai would ever defy you, you've no idea how unpopular the lords are, you've got no idea how much most Lenays would prefer the serrin to any of us lot, to say nothing of this lot in Larosa…”

Koenyg was apoplectic. Somehow, Damon found that even funnier than last time, and struggled for composure.

“And now,” he continued, “your army runs a way from you, and like a little boy who kicks his puppy, you wonder why the puppy seeks new friends.” More hooves were thundering nearby, at least a hundred riders. “And who is that leaving?” Damon asked, with bursting amusement. “The Rayen? The Yethulen? Dear gods, they all hate you, and now you wonder why. Bull with an abacus indeed.”

He sprawled on the ground and laughed, as lords stood about him and stared. Fuck them all. He had a few friends here, but not many. He didn't care.

“Gods, I miss you, Sofy!” he yelled to the sky like a madman, as hooves and shouts and confusion filled the air. “You were the only one of us with any fucking wits!”

The Larosans were fleeing. Sasha galloped her horse at the head of perhaps fifty Isfayen who had stayed with her, and signalled them to halt. They sat astride frothing, tired horses, and watched talmaad chasing the remaining Larosan cavalry across the fields, shooting arrows into the backs of any who did not ride fast enough.

It was past midday now. Larosan bodies lay sprawled at random intervals and the few surviving Larosan knights were being rounded up. Perhaps the talmaad would take prisoners this time. Often that was too much of a difficulty for light cavalry without transport for captured men.

Sasha waved her Isfayen toward the river, so the horses could drink. On the muddy bank she jumped down and checked her mount's foreleg for what she thought was a faint limp. As she did so, ankle-deep in water, someone else called a warning. Then she heard a mass of hooves.

From across the river, a formation of cavalry approached. They wheeled, like black starlings across a green field, and thundered toward the bank. They held no banner, but Sasha recognised that combination of powerful horses, glinting mail, and black leathers with shields. Hadryn.

The heavy horse spread across the opposing bank, perhaps fifty strides distant and far too deep to ford. The Isfayen stared back. For a moment, there was no sound but for the murmur of gentle waters, and the snort of horses.

“The tales are true, then!” called a northern-accented voice. Sasha recognised the Great Lord Heryd, tall astride his mount. “The pagan princess has finally shown herself a traitor, and betrayed her king!”

“Myklas!” Sasha yelled, scanning the opposing bank. “Are you there?”

“I'm here,” came the return call. Sasha's youngest brother was not as easily distinguishable from amidst the Hadryn warriors as she had supposed. His leathers were dark brown rather than black, but otherwise he looked tall and strong like the others.

“Come with me, Myklas. Damon will, we both know it. Kessligh fights on this side, as do the greatest warriors of these lands. The ones we've been marching with until now would be rejected even by the worms in their graves.”