Damon sighed. “Well. It was near impossible to begin with, what's another thirty thousand?”
“Damon,” said Sasha, drawing his attention. Then she smiled. “Biggest battle ever. I mean in all the history of Rhodia. We're Lenay. We're in it. Where else would you rather be?”
“Anywhere,” said Damon. Sasha laughed. She knew Damon didn't embrace that sort of thing; she was merely needling him, as he now needled her back. “You haven't asked after Lenayin yet.”
“I don't need to.” For a brief moment, Damon seemed genuinely touched. “And I saw them withdraw in good order.”
“We lost a bit more than a thousand. Light under the circumstances.”
“Aye. Light.”
Damon's eyes gleamed. “We must have taken at least ten times that. Twenty times, maybe. It was extraordinary.”
“And you led it, King Damon.” Damon stared at her for a moment, eyes still gleaming. That was what Sasha had been looking for from Damon. Perhaps for the entire time she'd known him. Only now did she see it. The look of a Lenay king at war.
“Tell it to Koenyg,” he replied.
“I fucking will. And so will you.”
Alfriedo Renine walked gingerly along the bank of the Dhemerhill River, General Zulmaher and a handful of other Rhodaani lords accompanying him. The Rhodaanis were camped between the Lenays and the Torovans, a small group of perhaps two thousand noble cavalry squeezed between much larger forces. They had not yet seen battle, though Alfriedo's thighs felt as though they'd been through a war. He'd always liked to ride, though in Tracato he'd had the luxury to dismount and rest when he chose. Not here.
His short sword felt heavy against his leg as he walked. Men along the riverbank washed or gathered water by torch- or lamplight, as the river, barely twenty paces across at the widest, gleamed with the reflections of fires, dotted like the stars in the night sky above. Clusters of horses whinnied and munched on the grass, and food cooked on a thousand campfires. On either side of the valley loomed hillsides and mountains, upon the sides of which no man now dared to venture. The night belonged to the serrin, and cavalrymen here in the eastern Dhemerhill made their camp as close to the central river as possible. Up the hillslopes the trees grew more thickly, and serrin could move unseen and unheard. Sentries stood watch the length of the campsite's long, winding flanks tonight, and no man envied them the duty.
With the Lenay king's tents still a distance ahead, they approached another large tent. Seated within a roughly fenced enclosure between trees were prisoners, guarded by Lenay men in black armour. Alfriedo slowed to look. Some prisoners were serrin, others human. Enoran, he guessed. All were tightly bound, many wounded. In the river itself, more prisoners had been tied to stakes, so that only their heads were above water. From within the adjoining tent came screams. There were no campfires near the tent. Even hardened Lenay warriors preferred to seek their rest further away.
King Koenyg's tent was near a small bridge across the river. Many Lenays stood guard around it, or sat about nearby fires to eat, drink and talk, yet never did they cease to be alert. Many in particular kept an eye on the river, for there were rumours through the camp that serrin could float downstream underwater, breathing from sheepskin bladders, and emerge within the camp to slit men's throats as they slept. Alfriedo did not think it possible, an air-filled bladder would surely float, and the campsites along the river stretched several thousand paces at least, all watchful with sleepless men. Yet for gods-fearing Verenthane men to be invaders here in the land of the serrin could be an unnerving thing, particularly now that the sun had set. Men told stories, and believed things that were not proven true.
The guards before the tent flaps showed no signs of admitting new visitors. From within, Alfriedo heard conversation, and saw shadows cast against the tent walls.
“They won't let you in,” said an accented voice to one side, in Larosan. Seated against a tree by the riverbank was a man in Torovan armour. He was young, perhaps twenty, with a mop of untidy hair recently flattened beneath a helmet. His legs, sprawled before him, were long. “King Koenyg likes to make everyone wait.”
Other Torovan nobles sat or stood nearby, some talking, others sharing a smoking pipe. Alfriedo walked to him, and the tall man climbed achingly to his feet.
“I am Alfriedo Renine, Lord of Rhodaan,” he introduced himself.
“Carlito Rochel, Duke of Pazira.”
“You are a friend to Sashandra Lenayin,” Alfriedo observed as they shook hands. Carlito frowned, as though he thought the young lord was accusing him of something. “I was a friend to Sashandra's sister Alythia,” he explained. “She told me something of Sashandra's adventures with your father, Alexanda Rochel.”
“Ah,” said Carlito, with dawning realisation. “Alfriedo Renine. The boy lord of Rhodaan, of course. Please, we shall sit, my legs are killing me.” Alfriedo smiled and joined Carlito beneath the tree. “Please, gentlemen,” the duke addressed the other Rhodaanis, “sit on the grass, share some wine. We have good Pazira wine, none of that Petrodor horse piss that is all you Rhodaanis seem to drink.”
A skin was unstoppered as the Pazira men gave hospitality.
“So,” said Carlito. “Princess Alythia Lenayin. I heard what happened to her, very sad.”
“She was like a sister.”
“Very sad. Sashandra was very sad too. I know her a little, yes, from when she was with the Army of Lenayin, and before.”
“Some may argue that she is still with the Army of Lenayin,” Alfriedo said drily.
Carlito stared at him for a long moment, then looked about, to be certain of who else might overhear. “I know Lenayin a little,” Carlito said in a lower voice than before. “Pazira shares a border with Valhanan Province. My father dealt kindly with the Lenays there, that is how he befriended Kessligh, and Sashandra.”
“My condolences on his passing,” said Alfriedo. “I heard nothing but good of him.”
Carlito inclined his head. Whatever his languid manner, he seemed a serious and thoughtful man. “I thank you. He told me it was foolish to think that Lenayin could ever be a Verenthane kingdom. He said that it did not matter what the King of Lenayin thought-or what the Archbishop of Petrodor thought-Lenayin would always be pagan at its heart. It was crazy to invite them to this war, and expect them to fight for a Verenthane cause. This split they have made should only surprise men who have not paid attention.”
“I have been reading much of Lenayin lately,” Alfriedo admitted. “I even have some books in my saddlebags. Kessligh Cronenverdt challenged me to do so, and I have accepted. What you say may be true.”
Carlito sipped from his wineskin. “Sashandra, you know, she killed some Verenthane men even when she was on our side. I saw it. Friends of the Regent himself, big, noble men, they threatened her and called her a whore. She killed them.”
“She seems to do that quite a lot.”
Carlito shrugged, in that very expressive way of Torovans. “Some say she loves blood. But I met her before, when she came to Pazira with Kessligh to see my father. She did that twice.” He smiled a little. “Very strange girl. But kind of pretty. You know?” He glanced at Alfriedo, teasing. “No, you are too young, you do not know.”
“I know,” Alfriedo retorted. “I'm not that young.”
Carlito put a hand on his shoulder, apologising. “Anyway. She had a temper, but she was not…you know, a killer. I think maybe she kills because people keep attacking her.”
“There is a great warrior in a tale told by Tullamayne, Lenayin's greatest storyteller,” Alfriedo recalled. “Tullamayne writes that he was asked once, ‘Why have you killed so many men?’ And he replied, ‘Because so many men deserve to die.’”
Carlito smiled. “So Lenay, yes? I've read Tullamayne, my father forced me to. He said I could not understand Lenayin had I not.”