“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.”
For a moment, there was silence. Sasha's hopes rose.
“Perhaps the greatest warriors were on your side,” Myklas replied. “But not anymore. The Hadryn ride here now.”
There rose a growl of approval from the black horsemen. It rose to a cheer. Some Isfayen smiled, greatly amused by such foolishness. Others spat, or glared.
“So you're a full-fledged Hadryn warrior now?” Sasha asked. “Myk, you weasel your way out of attending temple every chance you get. You can barely recite the First Prayer.”
“This isn't about that,” Myklas retorted. “I've ridden with these men in battle. They are my brothers.”
“Your brothers are fanatics!” Sasha's temper grew short. Myklas was young and often stupid, but she'd never thought him cruel. “Ask them what they tried to do to the Udalyn! Ask them what they will do to serrin children if-spirits forbid-they find any!”
“At least I'm no traitor!”
“Myklas, they're using you! They build you up with kind words, but the Hadryn have always sought the throne for themselves. That's all this is!”
“You underestimate your brother!” said Lord Heryd. “I said that he was the best of us in the Battle of Shero Valley, and I meant it. With little experience, and not yet an older man's strength, he showed himself one of the most formidable warriors on the field. It is to the honour of Hadryn that he rides with us. In a few years, I am certain he shall best even his brother Koenyg.”
Even from this distance, Sasha could see Myklas sitting taller in the saddle to hear Lord Heryd's words.
“Myklas, you ride with murderers!” Sasha shouted.
“Look who's talking!” Myklas retorted. There was laughter from the Hadryn.
“Baby killers!” yelled an Isfayen, which set off a raucous exchange of insults across the water.
Someone splashed into the shallows at Sasha's side. Sasha looked, and found Rhillian. “Baby killers?” Rhillian asked, in mild amazement. “Have you civilised the wild Isfayen into moral paragons?”
Sasha shook her head. “It's not the baby, it's the lack of challenge the baby presents.”
“Oh,” said Rhillian, sadly.
“You're not too far wrong though, it's only been a generation since the Isfayen would happily slaughter entire villages. But Markan's father Faras was a wise man, he sent his children to Baen-Tar for education and he worked with the priests to change the Isfayen notion of honour. Or rather, he narrowed it, to what you see today.”
“I am sad then that Great Lord Faras died by a talmaad arrow.”
“He'd only compliment the archer's accuracy,” Sasha replied.
“Speaking of which,” said Rhillian, “I have some archers. I'll not harm your brother, but I'm fairly sure we could take Lord Heryd.”
“No,” Sasha said quietly. “This moment should be done right. Lenays need their symbolic moments, let's not spoil it.”
The remaining day passed in a blur. Lenay soldiers came across the Pirene in a trickle and then a flood. First came cavalry, and then footsoldiers, formed up in larger groups for defence, with other cavalry holding back to protect them. Some told stories of harassing raids by northern cavalry and some Larosans. But mostly, it seemed that what remained of the Lenay Army, beneath the command of King Koenyg, had ceased to advance. What came on now was the new Lenay Army, and it had no king.
The rains returned, and Sasha rode from group to group, to cheers from some and dull stares from others. Always the instruction was to make for the main road from Shemorane and follow it, for its path followed the Enoran Steel's retreat. News came from messengers that the Army of the Free Bacosh had entered Shemorane, less than a day's march away. Sasha doubted they would pursue, with the ceremonies at the High Temple about to commence, but cavalry elements certainly could. The Regent's army had better than a hundred thousand men, including tens of thousands of horse. The Lenays had to put distance between them, even if it meant marching through the night.
She was talking with some Rayen cavalry when a group of galloping Isfayen caught her eye. There were perhaps twenty, yelling and whooping, swords held high as they raced through the rain. They wheeled toward Sasha's group, and Sasha saw that the main body of men were in fact surrounding a girl, dressed in men's clothes, who was holding aloft not a sword, but something melon-sized and covered in hair. Predictably of the Isfayen, it was a head.