“You!” said a man, and strode to Sofy’s bath in fury. She recognised Sir Elias Assineth, Balthaar’s cousin. Sofy barely had time to snatch at a bathside gown before he had her by the arm, and yanked her dripping to her feet, then onto the grassy tent floor.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sofy shouted, struggling to free herself and protect her modesty. “Let me go!”
“Speak Larosan like a true Larosan Queen, you pagan bitch!” snarled Sir Elias, and backhanded her to the face. Sofy fell to her knees, her gown fallen. Elias’s hand dragged her upright once more as her head continued to spin. She’d never been struck in the face before in her life. Far worse than the pain, she could not believe how helpless it rendered her. Her vision swam, and she could not think.
“You shall denounce your pagan sister!” Elias yelled. “You shall instruct your father to hand her to us for godly Larosan justice!”
Sofy’s Larosan was adequate now to understand him. And yet, she felt utterly uncomprehending. “My…my sister?” Sasha. Oh gods, not again. “What did she do?”
“She murdered my brother!”
A blood-chilling cry from outside spun Elias and his companions about, one nearest the tent’s entrance fending desperately with a mailed arm as a dark-haired girl with a wicked short blade tried to gut him like a fish.
“Yasmyn, no!” Sofy cried, as the first knight danced back, drawing his blade. Yasmyn spun to confront a second to her side, her slash deflecting harmlessly from his weapon. The first knight simply threw himself on her, heavy weight of mailed man crashing her down, then pinning her effortlessly beneath. They pulled her back up, deprived of her darak as she fought like a wild thing. The knights laughed, and hit her, again and again.
“Stop it!” Sofy yelled, tears flowing, but they paid her no mind. Sasha, she thought desperately, would have killed them all, but she was just a slim, naked girl. She struggled, trying to twist free, but Sir Elias wrenched her arm back and she fell to her knees. “Leave her alone, she was only protecting me!”
When Yasmyn was no longer fighting, the knights dragged her to a table, cleared it of cups and teapot with a sweep of an arm, and dumped her onto it, her head lolling and face bloody. One held her arms above her head, while another hiked up her dress, and yanked down her under garments. Yasmyn regained enough sense to kick him, and he and his companion punched her in the stomach with brutal force, laughing all the while.
Sofy screamed for help, but no one came. In the tales, the heroic knight always arrived in time to save the lady in distress. But although the tent was in the centre of the Larosan camp, and surrounded by those who could surely hear her cries, no one came. One knight took his turn with Yasmyn, and then the other. Yasmyn regained consciousness but she no longer fought. As a third knight unbuckled his pants, Yasmyn turned her head upon the table and fixed her princess with a stare of furious intensity, although one eye was already swollen nearly shut.
“Crying solves nothing!” she hissed at her in Lenay. “Be a woman, little girl!”
Sofy was so shocked, she swallowed her tears. Oddly, as soon as she did so, she felt something else, that the tears had perhaps obscured. Pure, molten fury. In her protected palace life, she had often wondered how Lenay warriors, or even her otherwise kind and wonderful sister Sasha, could hate a man enough to want to sever his limbs with sharpened steel. Now, finally, she understood.
While the third knight was taking his turn, Balthaar arrived, many armed men at his back.
“Unhand her!”
“Your Highness,” said the man holding Yasmyn’s arms, “at least let the poor man finish his turn!”
“Stop now,” said Balthaar, “or I’ll cut him so that he never has a turn again.” The knights looked aggrieved, but not alarmed. They abandoned Yasmyn, the last knight regathering his pants. Yasmyn got off the table, straightened down her dress, and limped awkwardly across the grass to where Sofy was kneeling, Lord Elias still grasping her arm. Sofy feared Yasmyn might do something rash, yet she merely knelt, and recovered Sofy’s fallen robe, and placed it about her princess’s shoulders.
“Let her go,” Balthaar said. He did not look at Sofy. Neither did he call her Princess Regent, or attempt to remind Sir Elias of his duty of respect to one above his station. Sofy wondered if she had ever truly been more than a Lenay barbarian to these people. And if her husband’s seemingly loving gaze had been any more than the fascination of a wealthy man with an enchanting new bauble.
Sir Elias released Sofy’s arm, and Yasmyn helped her to her feet. Sofy felt a rush of shame. Yasmyn had been beaten and raped, yet now stood with dignity and assisted her weak, pathetic princess shakily to her feet. Sofy stood, and put an arm around Yasmyn to offer a support Yasmyn did not seem to need. Hugging her was out of the question. Nothing in Yasmyn’s manner invited it. Sofy knew enough of the Isfayen to know what that meant.
Balthaar said nothing more, nor asked it of Sir Elias. He merely stared, dark and foreboding.
“Her rabid sister killed my brother!”
“One person does you harm, and so you attack others,” Balthaar observed mildly. “Very clever.”
“They’re all the same!”
“And our allies,” said Balthaar, “by allegiance that Family Assineth agreed to. Do you not understand the concept of allegiance, Sir Elias?”
“These allies have done us murder upon our lands!” Elias yelled, spittle flying. “Unless they pay us reparation, this allegiance lies broken! I demand the bitch’s head!”
“By Lenay tradition, and indeed our own,” Balthaar replied, “the lands upon which an army is encamped are to be considered beholden to their own laws. Your brother very foolishly stepped onto the Lenay camp uninvited, and overstepped the bounds of Lenay honour. I have spoken with Prince Koenyg, and all Lenays seem agreed on the matter, even those who have no love of Sashandra Lenayin. So long as the Army of Lenayin abides by its own laws upon their own encampment, no one has any matter to complain about.”
“Your Highness,” Elias tried again, struggling for control, “we are cousins. Our families have strong ties over many long years. In the name of our families, I ask you only for justice. Grant me justice, for my brother. Or I shall be forced to take it.”
“And sever an allegiance that promises to regain us the Saalshen Bacosh?” Balthaar replied, unperturbed. “The archbishops would view it ill. Perhaps you would like to argue the point with them?”
Elias hung his head, teeth grinding in frustration.
“Furthermore.” Balthaar walked slowly forward. “I would advise against any further action against the Lenays. I have spent part of the morning sparring against Prince Koenyg, and I will reluctantly confess that he bested me quite handily…something that you, Sir Elias, have found elusive. They have an even greater love of honourable combat than we, and would challenge any who so grievously insult them until there are none such left alive. Best that you stay off their lands for now. We have other uses for our Lenay allies.”
Elias opened his mouth, then paused, frowning.
Balthaar stopped before him, and put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Prince Koenyg tells me that the Army of Lenayin shall take the southern, Enoran flank. Alone, save for some Torovan reinforcement. Against the Enoran Steel, their numbers should be matched quite evenly.”
Elias stared. “A feint?”
“To keep the Enoran Steel from sweeping onto our flank, yes,” Balthaar confirmed. “The Army of Lenayin has pride at stake, and we learn today all about Lenay pride. They shall not retreat easily, no matter their losses.”
Elias’s eyes registered a dawning realisation. A delight. “One needs four-to-one odds at least against the Steel. They’ll be annihilated!”