Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (64 page)

“There may be a point,” Sasha continued, “where a major thrust will come down either to the north,” and she pointed right, “or to the south,” and she pointed left. “At that point, if they manage to break through, all of their momentum will depend upon a constant flow of men into that breach. This rabble are not fighters, Tongren, you've discovered that.” Nodding to his bloody sword.

“Aye,” Tongren agreed, listening intently.

“Success for them will only come through sheer weight of numbers. If you see a thrust coming through beside you, I want you to charge into its flank.”

Tongren looked astonished. Then his eyes lit up. “Charge?” he exclaimed. “Burning bullshit, you've got more balls than a lagand tournament.”

“These streets are narrow,” Sasha insisted. “A small group of good fighters, well motivated, can cut off an entire road and stop the flow of many times that number of enemy. If you can get in amongst them, then you can buy us time to deal with the breakthrough, without having to worry about the torrent that comes through behind.”

“What about leaving Fisherman's Lane undefended?”

Sasha shrugged. “It's a risk, but like I said, they probably won't come through here again. And do you think that mob could respond quickly to a new opportunity? Are they that sophisticated?”

Tongren whistled. “Bloody hells,” he said. “You really are Kessligh's uma, aren't you?”

“I only seem brilliant because you Cherrovan wouldn't know strategy if it bit you on the balls,” Sasha retorted with a dangerous grin.

Tongren roared with laughter. “Fair enough, girl,” he said. His eyes blazed with anticipation. “A charge! Bloody magnificent!”

Sasha pushed her way back through the crowd to join Kristan when she saw a young woman leaning against a wall, looking cold, wet and frightened. She held a spear with a curious banner—a black wolf's head on a blue background. It was as bedraggled in the misting rain as the dress that clung to her shoulders and breasts. Strangely for a non-Nasi-Keth, she had a knife sheath tied to the sash about her waist. With a blink of astonishment, Sasha saw that the woman was Alythia.

Sasha made a gesture for Kristan to wait, and went to her. “Lyth?”

Alythia looked at her, dark eyes waif-like behind a matted fringe of tangled black hair. She straightened immediately, no longer shivering, wiping hair back from her face. Shoulders back and breasts out. They'd always been her proudest asset, Sasha thought sardonically.

“What's the banner for?” Sasha asked when Alythia gave no greeting.

“Apparently I'm a princess of Lenayin,” Alythia said shortly. “I was given it. By them.” With a curt nod down the alley.

“Oh,” said Sasha, realisation dawning. She fought down a smile. She
wanted
to laugh out loud. Perhaps, several months ago, she would have.

“I
was
helping,” Alythia continued, acerbically. “I was carrying things and helping to prepare for more wounded, but
no
they say, I'm a princess of Lenayin and I must stand here in the freezing rain and hold this stupid banner.”

“I think it's a rather nice banner,” Sasha said mildly. Alythia had always loved to remind Sasha of how she, noble elder sister, had chosen the great burdens and duties of princesshood, while Sasha, irresponsible brat, had gone running off to play with horses and swords in the wilds. Evidently Alythia's notion of a royal burden had been one too many boring feasts and dances. Standing in the rain with Lenay soldiers on the battlefield had never entered into her equations.

“They're barbarians,” Alythia said coldly, rewrapping her free arm about herself. She nodded toward the barricade. “They scream and howl louder than the mobs. After the first attack failed, they screamed all kinds of horrible things at their backs. One of them…
relieved
himself on the dead.” She shuddered.

Sasha nodded. “Aye, all very intimidating, I'm sure. They'll think twice before attacking down this lane again.”

“Good Verenthane soldiers would not conduct themselves in such a manner.”

“About a quarter of them
are
Verenthane.”

Alythia looked uncomfortable. “Not city-bred Verenthanes they're not.”

“Oh aye, all you city Verenthanes shit jewels and your farts smell like flowers.” Alythia glared at her. Sasha took a deep breath. “Look, Lyth, these are your people. Our people. For better or worse, richer or poorer, these are our blood. For the spirits’ sake, be proud! These are the best fighters on the line, no contest…better even than many of the Nasi-Keth.”

“It takes more than an easy aptitude for killing to impress me,” Alythia said coldly. “Culture and civility are the makings of a modern man. Of course, some people are more easily impressed.”

“You could always go and stay with Steiner,” Sasha retorted, her tone hardening. “If you find present company beneath you.”

“Maybe I will,” Alythia snapped. “Maybe they'll be much more civilised!”

“Aye, maybe you could marry one of them!” Sasha suggested sarcastically. “Then some other house will kill that husband, then you could marry his murderer, and so on, leaving a trail of dead husbands right across Petrodor!”

She'd never seen Alythia so furious. For a moment she thought Alythia might try and strike her. Surely only the realisation that Sasha was much better at that kind of thing prevented her. Sasha knew it had been an incredibly cruel thing to say…but hells, she'd never been able to deal with Alythia. And now Alythia was insulting not just Lenayin, whom she was supposed to represent and champion, but the rural Goeren-yai in particular. Alythia was impossible, and cruel, and she deserved it.

“I'm leaving,” Alythia said hoarsely, her voice shaking, angry tears in her eyes. “I'm going some place warm. Someone else can take this stupid banner and stand here in the rain. I've had enough.”

“No, you haven't,” Sasha replied, her voice hard. “You
are
a princess of Lenayin. That title is all you have left. If you leave your place here, behind your very own people, and leave that banner lying in the rain, people will know you're a fraud. And then you'll have nothing.”

She stalked off, beckoning to Kristan, and ran down the adjoining alley. She did not look back. She did not want to see her sister standing cold and miserable in the rain, lost and alone, with tears in her eyes. She did not want to feel sorry for her. There were other things to worry about.

By the time she reached Tarae Keep, she was breathing very hard. Some Nasi-Keth umas, three boys and a girl, stood about the arched door leading inside. Even now, a young runner came pelting at high speed past Sasha and Kristan, skidded to a halt before one of the waiting youngsters and recited a breathless message. The other youngster took off within the keep, heading for the stairs and the tower high above. Sasha and Kristan accepted some water from the bucket by the door, then ran for the steps up the inside wall.

“Wait, wait,” Sasha gasped after Kristan. “I…I can't…just wait.” She walked the stairs, heaving deep breaths.

Kristan walked slowly in front. “I hope you fight better than you run,” he remarked, a typical, cocksure young Torovan man. Sasha grabbed his boot and pulled. Kristan gave a yelp and fell face-first on the steps.

“There's a reason you Petrodor men don't arm your women,” Sasha snarled as she walked up over him. “Within two weeks, they'd have killed every last one of you!”

Atop the tower, Kessligh stood with several more senior Nasi-Keth and some prominent men of Dockside, surveying the scene. Three more young umas stood back, waiting for a new message. Kessligh glanced back at her.

“It's good,” Sasha surmised, as men made room for her against the wall. “They fight well, there was nothing even close to a breakthrough. It won't last, of course, but I didn't tell them that.”

Kessligh nodded. “Aye, best not. Weakest barricade?”

“There's three—Aerelo Road, Calachi Lane and Rani Lane. Nineteen dead between them, another ten wounded. The average was about three dead at other barricades. I redeployed some men, and the local Nasi-Keth are keeping a close eye on it…but I can't break up those defences without lowering morale even further. Men will fight hardest for their own neighbourhoods.”

“Aerelo Road is too far into South End,” said Kessligh, gazing south toward Sharptooth. “It would make a good feint, but they'll never get the numbers into that breach to threaten us. The approach to Calachi Lane is exposed, there's water reservoirs and market gardens, no cover from archers…”

“Our archery positions there are excellent,” Sasha agreed. “They left maybe thirty dead on the road in what was a quite brief attack—a larger assault would lose them many more.”

“These madmen don't care about losses,” one Dockside man remarked. “Ours or theirs.”

“No,” Kessligh said, “but anything that breaks up the numbers pouring into a breach is bad for them. Men falling to archery on a narrow road will trip up those running behind, and block the many hundreds behind them. If I'm them, I'd concentrate on Rani Lane, with a diversion toward South End. They'll bet we're worried enough for our flanks to defend South End, but in truth, I think it's the ones who attack South End who'll be easily flanked and cut off by us. Rani Lane is closer to Maerler's Way, so they'll have plenty of men ready to pour into a breach…but it's only two lanes from Fisherman's Lane. Sasha, how fare our valiant highlanders?”

Sasha managed a faint smile. “It's murder before the barricades,” she said. “They looked a little bored, but I found something for them to do. Charge and flank, if the attack comes down Rani Lane.”

Kessligh nearly smiled. “You and your brutal streak, Sasha. Tongren will make chieftain himself on the back of those stories.”

Sasha blinked at him. “You
knew
about Tongren? He only just told me!”

“Of course I know about Tongren. Fisherman's Lane is central between this keep and South End, it's the perfect place for that highland rabble led by a Cherrovan chieftain's son with a point to prove.” Sasha stared. “Don't look at me like that. I know everything.”

The southern end of South Pier covered, attention returned to the northern end up to the warehouses at North Pier. Sasha had no illusions as to why Kessligh had assigned her the southern half—it was surely the easier half to defend. Further north was the Corkscrew, a major road up the slope just like Maerler's Way, and down it had come more chanting rioters than anyone had dared guess. There was no old keep guarding the mouth of Corkscrew, the Corkscrew being a much younger road, built after the age of Ameryn
Lords. Instead, there was the largest barricade Dockside's residents could possibly erect, and the better part of five hundred fighters equipped with all the real and makeshift shields and armour available.

North and south of the Corkscrew, the many lanes and alleys leading from the slope to the dock had likewise been barricaded. They'd recently been probed by a wide and apparently ineffective wave of attacks. Most troubling of all, the North Pier warehouses were heavily guarded by very well-armed and armoured soldiers from all the major North Petrodor houses.

“If those decide to join the rioters and move on us, we're dead,” Sasha observed.

“Aye,” Kessligh agreed, “but then who will defend the warehouses from the rioters? These are mostly poor folk from Riverside and those warehouses are crammed with the richest trade in Torovan. Which of the families would leave their treasures unguarded now?”

“If this lot sweeps us off the docks,” another man added, with a jab of his finger toward the slope, “the next thing they'd do is not only raid the warehouses, but grab our damn boats and head out to the ships at anchor. Lots of rich pickings there.”

Kessligh nodded. “Patachi Steiner would love to be rid of the Nasi-Keth, but he's not such a fool to think that this is the way to do it. He knows the balance in Petrodor better than most, he knows his own house would suffer. The patachis exercise power in the most controlled and, to their eyes, civilised manner possible. One assassinates one or two opponents to make a point. One doesn't invite crazed mobs to lay waste to half the city. I'm sure he's horrified.”

“How nice of him,” Sasha said drily.

“What matters,” Kessligh emphasised, “is that our north flank is safe, thanks to them. The mobs will not get any men onto the docks past the guards defending their warehouses.”

“Still…you're keeping an eye on them?” Sasha pressed.

“Always,” Kessligh said grimly. “But we don't have the fighting strength to hold a reserve just for that eventuality.”

“Damn. No word from Gerrold?”

“We hear several of Saalshen's houses are still holding out in the south,” another Nasi-Keth said. “The last we heard, Gerrold's men were crossing the Crack. Some have taken boats and sailed around Sharptooth, hoping to evacuate survivors.”

“They're needed here,” muttered a local man. “Damn traitors.”

“Gerrold and his followers have made their choice,” Kessligh told them. “Their loyalties have always lain with Saalshen.”

“Not all of them,” said Sasha. “I met quite a few of Gerrold's former followers out at the barricades. A lot have not followed him.” Nor Alaine, she did not need to add.

“Yuan Kessligh!” came an urgent call from behind. All turned to look, and Sasha saw the Nasi-Keth girl from below, breathing hard and a little frantic. “Up the stairs behind me! There's…well, there's…”

A figure emerged from the shadow of the doorway behind. Several men half-drew their swords, then paused in relief as it became clear that the figure, and the one behind, were serrin. Sasha saw the gleaming white hair, and the green eyes, and her heart leapt for joy. She took two steps forward, thinking to rush and embrace her friend, but something made her stop.

Rhillian's face was taut and hard. Her hair was a most uncharacteristic mess, only half of her customary braid remained, the rest matted and tangled from rain, ash and blood. Her clothes were bloody in places. The man behind her was Kiel, and his condition was similar, save that he limped on an injured leg.

“Yuan Kessligh,” said Rhillian. Her voice was hoarse, almost unrecognisable. She coughed heavily, clearing her throat. To Sasha's distress, Rhillian did not spare her even a glance. Her emerald stare fixed entirely on Kessligh. There was nothing of warmth or humour in those eyes. Nothing, indeed, of humanity. They burned with the fire of some strange and dangerous animal, hunting its prey from the shadows. “Palopy is fallen.”