Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (67 page)

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.”

W
HEN
P
ATACHI
M
ARLEN
S
TEINER 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.

“Your Holiness,” said Marlen, walking slowly with the help of his cane. He passed between the Holy Guard, and knelt on one knee. He kissed the archbishop's extended hand, where the large gold ring bulged on the finger. His knee hurt as he rose, a familiar ache. Marlen considered the archbishop, he looked tired. Marlen doubted the man had slept much. From his windows, he must have had a grand view of Dockside all through the night.

Greetings done, the archbishop clapped his hands and the caratsa filed for the door. They moved quickly, Marlen noted. Their manner spoke of fear. The Holy Guards retreated several steps.

“Your Holiness,” Marlen said once more, with as low a bow as his aching joints would allow him. “How good of you to see me at such short notice.”

Archbishop Augine managed a thin smile. “How remiss would it be if the archbishop did not listen to his people?” Fear. Again, Marlen smelled it. Guards everywhere. No priests in sight. The archbishop's private chambers rearranged for most intimidating effect. The man had rolled the dice, and lost. Now, he feared. Perhaps he had cleansed his fellow priests too thoroughly. Perhaps those priests now forgot their holy vows in turn, and sought revenge, providing access to the temple for armed men of their respective families. So long as the archbishop seemed strong and commanded the respect of his allies and his guards he was safe. But the cold light of this fine morning had shown Augine's failure.

“I have news, Holiness,” Marlen continued, resting his weight heavily upon his cane. “I have spoken with Patachi Maerler.”

Augine's eyebrows raised with attempted off-handed interest. “Oh yes?”

“The patachi sees that his position has changed. He informs me that he no longer claims command of the great Torovan army. He concedes that Family Steiner is the logical choice for such a command. I feel that the issue is resolved.”

Augine blinked at him. His chin rested in one hand, gold-ringed fingers tapping nervously on his jaw. “Resolved, you say? Resolved how?”

“Patachi Maerler concedes to my authority,” said Marlen Steiner, his stare firm and level. There could be no mistaking his meaning.

“I…see.” The archbishop replaced the hand on his leather-bound book. “And how shall you recover the Shereldin Star? This matter seems…much unresolved.”

“There are ways,” said Marlen.

“Ways?”

“Yes. Ways.”

Augine's jaw trembled in rage. “I shall not be kept from your plans like a child! Without the star, you shall have nothing! No Verenthane holy warriors shall follow you on a crusade while that symbol remains held to ransom by pagans on Dockside!”

“Perhaps,” said Marlen Steiner, cooly, “you might have thought of that. Before you launched your mob.”

“I will not be lectured to by a—” Augine cut himself short with difficulty. Marlen was surrounded by armed men, yet he did not fear. The archbishop needed him. Family Steiner was perhaps the only protection the archbishop had left.

“Your Holiness,” Marlen said grimly, “I shall be brief.” He took a measured step forward, his cane creaking. “The mobs are the crudest of weapons. They have destroyed Saalshen's presence here, and made an enemy
of Saalshen far earlier in the game than was either wise, or safe. Trade shall suffer from Saalshen's retribution. Trade that pays for weapons, you understand, and soldiers. Saalshen's warriors strike from the shadows, Holiness. Be assured that the mobs did not kill them all. Guard yourself well.”

The archbishop paled.

Marlen continued, with dark satisfaction. “Worse yet, you have united Dockside against us. Where before the Nasi-Keth were split, I now hear that Kessligh Cronenverdt has emerged a leader and a hero.”

“He was gravely wounded!” Augine snapped. “I have spies too, Master Steiner.”

“Not gravely,” said Marlen, shaking his head. “Serrin medicines heal fast. Be assured that Kessligh Cronenverdt is most difficult to kill. Many thousands have been killed. Yes,
thousands.
Most of them poor folk from Riverside. These were your most willing followers, Your Holiness. They were your coin, and you have spent them unwisely. There is discontent amongst the dukes. Our good dukes need men of strong health and loyal hearts to work the land. They are alarmed to see commonfolk transformed into a raging mob at the deliverance of a mere speech. They feel a precedent has been set. They wonder if the serrins’ mansions were only the first, to be followed by their own castles and holdfasts.”

“The country folk are not like the Riversiders,” Augine muttered, in great discomfort. “The Riversiders had nothing.”

“And you offered them eternity.” Marlen spread his hands and gave a small, sarcastic smile. “How generous.” The archbishop glared. “The dukes’ fears may not be well placed, but they are roused all the same. They do not seek the leadership of priests, Your Holiness. Yours is the dominion of the heavens. The dukes seek the leadership of men in this earthly realm, and no other.”

Augine looked at Dukes Tarabai and Belary. Neither said a word. Each of these men could raise thousands of soldiers and had declared their intent to do so as soon as a leader for the army had been chosen. What was the archbishop's power now beside the weight of thousands of armed men? Real soldiers, unlike the mob?