The club wielder tried to knock her skull into North Pier, but Sasha stepped inside it and took both his hands off at the forearm, then contemptuously knocked aside a sword blow to her head from the third man, and slashed. That man staggered, then sank, blood drenching his front. The other six-there were only six now-turned and ran, horrified at the carnage this new arrival had wrought. The three cornered Nasi-Keth had not even a chance to attack, one being wounded, the other two having been merely preoccupied with surviving. All blinked in disbelief, staring at Sasha amidst her six new victims. Sasha didn't really know what they were staring at-against such opponents as these, with surprise on her side, such martial feats were nothing special, certainly far easier than an average training session against Kessligh. That these three Nasi-Keth had allowed themselves into such difficulty said rather a lot more about their swordwork, however.
One of the Nasi-Keth, she realised, was Liam, exhausted and dripping sweat. Sasha walked straight up to him, knowing that she acted rashly, but she was Lenay, and Goeren-yai, and young, and her enemies lay dead at her feet. Rashness was made for such moments. Liam was staring at the bodies behind her. He was facing her. He'd seen it all.
She laid her blood-stained blade on his shoulder, the killing-edge toward the side of his neck. “Who's the greatest swordsman on this dock?” she demanded, her eyes blazing. His own blade was free beneath her guard. He could slash up and kill her if he chose…and risk that she would not have time to remove his head before she died. She could see the thoughts running through his darting eyes-the anger, the confusion, the disbelief…the fear.
“You are,” he said hoarsely.
“Louder!”
“You are the greatest swordsman on this dock!”
Sasha lowered her blade, with an evil smile. “Good Torovan boy. You finally learn honour. Now fight with me, and I'll bring you some more.”
Soon, the dockside was cleared. Unarmoured and poorly skilled, the Riversiders were cut off and deprived of the overwhelming numbers that had won them through the breach. Some ran in panic as their circumstance began to dawn on them, while others tried to organise an orderly retreat, to little avail. More bodies piled on the bloody pavings, and the last resistance ran for the lanes and alleys, desperate to find a retreat back up the slope. A few tried to surrender, and begged mercy. Neither gods nor Docksiders heeded their pleas.
It became a great rout, and Sasha contented herself to walking at the rear of it as triumphant men rushed ahead, pursuing the last Riversiders through the narrow spaces, into doorways and up rickety staircases, where some tried to hide in the houses they'd previously looted. Soon, the greatest danger came from the falling bodies of Riversiders thrown screaming from rooftops and windows. The men of the Dockside thrust their weapons in the air and yelled, and rushed eagerly to fulfil her various instructions, the damp air vibrating with the excitement of victory.
Sasha felt relief, but no triumph, nor even satisfaction. Victories in combat against such poor swordwork as these would bring her no honour. This had been crazed and brutal, the hysterical against the desperate.
The yells and celebrations grew more raucous. Soon there were more celebrations than battles, man embracing man, exultant in the manner of men who had never truly thought to be warriors and were astonished to find themselves not only alive, but triumphant. It was honour of sorts, Sasha thought dully, wondering if she ought to quiet them and redirect efforts into putting out the various blazes that burned. It was Petrodor honour, the honour that one found simply by living while so many others lay dead. It might be enough for them, but it was not enough for her.
“Sashandra!” cried a Nasi-Keth man she did not recognise. No one was hugging her, perhaps from simple decorum, or perhaps the dark look on her face…she turned that dark expression on the new arrival. “Best come quick,” he said and ran back the way he'd come.
Sasha followed, wondering what was so urgent with the battle won. Perhaps there had been a breakthrough further north…spirits she hoped not.
He led her into Rani Lane and there was a small group of people gathered near one wall. Sasha felt her gut tighten and accelerated to a sprint past her escort. Skidding to a halt, she thrust past the outermost of the group…and found Kessligh, sitting with his back to the wall, one leg thrust awkwardly out before him. Protruding from the thigh was a crossbow bolt, and the pants leg was bloody.
Sasha swore in fright and scrambled to his side. His head leaned back against the bricks, his hair bedraggled, his face tight with pain. He looked at her now through slitted eyes and managed a faint, pained smile. Sasha stared down at the bolt…this was all wrong, this could not have happened. Not to Kessligh. Kessligh was invulnerable. “How?” she finally managed to ask, stupidly.
“Oh, hells…” Kessligh managed a weak, despairing wave, toward somewhere up the lane, “some fool with a crossbow. I didn't see him, I was giving instructions somewhere else. He got lucky.”
Crazy, was all Sasha could think. She knew it happened. She knew that battle was as much fortune as skill. But Kessligh had fought through more battles than nearly any man alive. He bore precious few scars for his troubles-indeed, the worst she'd seen was on his left arm, and that she'd given him herself whilst training.
“Sasha.” Kessligh clasped her hand and gave her a firm stare, whatever the pain. “I've been lucky, Sasha. So damn lucky. It had to end some time. In truth, I was due.”
“Oh horseshit!” Sasha exclaimed. “You've never believed in fate!”
He shrugged, not bothering to repress an agonised grimace. “It's my first rationalisation,” he hissed. “I'm due one of those, too.”
“It's not too bad,” Sasha tried to reassure him. “I mean…it looks like it'll heal fine. It's not…”
“Don't talk horseshit,” Kessligh replied, “it's straight through the main muscle. If I were twenty years younger, I might be all right. But after this comes out, I'll have a limp like a cripple.”
“No! With serrin medicines, I'm sure it'll-”
“Sasha, look around you. We won, Sasha, and there's a lot of people dead. Be pleased for everyone who's still alive. My leg is a very minor tragedy tonight.”
“Yuan Kessligh,” said one of the women, hovering near, “we've called for a healer, she should be here shortly.”
“Sasha.” Kessligh put a rough, callused hand to her cheek and gave her a wan smile. “You're my uma. Go and help the people. They need you.”
When Patachi Marlen Steiner stepped into the archbishop's chambers, he found a vision splendid seated on a throne atop a small altar. The Archbishop of Torovan wore his full black robes, with the finest, most intricate silver filigree embroidered into the sleeves. He held his silver-ornamented staff in his right hand, and a leather-bound copy of the holy scrolls with the left. Atop his head, he wore the tall black hat of the Torovan archbishops, flat on the top, encircled with gold like a crown.
To his sides and against the walls stood young caratsa, brown-robed and anxious; about the room were the Holy Guard, in full silver and black. Marlen Steiner's cold blue eyes flicked to the spot where a table and chairs usually stood before the wide, open windows…but the tall windows were latched firmly shut and there was no table.
Marlen Steiner walked before the phalanx of Holy Guards, and wondered where all the other priests were. Porsada Temple's grand hall had been deathly silent, with only the sentries to break the uniform stone arches and hallways. Marlen's son Symon followed at his father's side and, with them, their loyalest provincial allies, Duke Tarabai of Danor and Duke Belary of Vedici. There was no need for more patachis now. Patachi Marlen Steiner, of the great house of Steiner, was the only patachi in Petrodor now worthy of the name.