Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three (21 page)

“Bad for Bacosh man make spirit sign,” Yasmyn added brokenly in Torovan. “Lenay man make spirit sign, good. Bacosh man make spirit sign, cock drop off.” Sofy giggled.

“Please forgive me,” Willem continued, “but I was under the impression that there were no Goeren-yai nobility in Lenayin.”

“Well yes,” said Sofy. “But Yasmyn is from Isfayen, in the western mountains. The faith is practised differently there. Even Isfayen Verenthanes still believe in spirits.”

“But…these are not the true gods,” said Willem, uncertainly. “How is it possible that one can believe in both?”

“Gods is gods,” Yasmyn said shortly. “Spirits is spirits. Different thing, yes? No problem.”

“The scripture says that it is blasphemy to worship any other gods besides the true gods,” Willem said firmly.

“They don’t worship spirits in temple,” Sofy said impatiently, trotting briskly up a flight of wet stone steps. “They’re just folk tales, really.”

“More,” Yasmyn disagreed. “Spirits are the world. Gods are the reason.”

“But…” Willem looked completely baffled now. “Surely the Archbishop of Lenayin does not consider such beliefs to be truly Verenthane?”

“It would take a very brave man, Master Willem,” Sofy said with no
little sarcasm, “to tell the Verenthanes of Isfayen that their beliefs are not true.”

“But…” Willem protested once more.

From the front, Captain Tyrel finally lost his patience. “What’s the Archbishop going to do, man?” he said sharply. “Excommunicate the western provinces? Demand they convert properly? Some Baen-Tar priests tried once, their body parts were sent back packed in little baskets. Half of the army you’ve invited into your precious Bacosh doesn’t follow your gods
at all.
Best you get used to it.”

Willem coughed, and thought better of reply. Bacosh nobility were not accustomed to rebukes from their lessers. In Lenayin, he was perhaps learning, a man might rebuke whomever he chose…if he had confidence enough in his swordplay to survive the honour duel that followed.

It was a fair climb to the hill’s crown, but not greatly taxing—her days filled with riding and walking, Sofy had not been so fit in her life, and was rather enjoying the sensation. Another of those things Sasha had once assured her of, that she’d only now begun to appreciate.

The path made a switchback up the hillside, and then emerged on a small, wet courtyard that looked out over the little river beside which the Army of Lenayin had camped. Sofy could see a line of campfires, smothered in smoke and drifting rain, like a long line of flickering stars. Above was an old stone temple, with a bronze bell prominent between twin spires. Behind, a village of low, stone houses loomed dark in the rain, lit only by the glow from several windows. The temple might have been attractive were it not for the four long, iron cages suspended to one side of the courtyard from the branch of a huge, squat oak. Sofy had not seen such contraptions before, but she’d heard them described. Captain Tyrel, too, was darkly intrigued, and walked forward, raising his lantern. Each suspended cage was human shaped, and as the lantern light caught them, it became clear that each also contained a person.

“Dear gods,” Sofy murmured in horror.

“Devil’s fruit, they are called,” explained Willem, quite unperturbed. “Do men not use them in Lenayin? They are quite common in Algrasse, for punishing blasphemers and the like. Not so much in Larosa though, the Larosans are quite inventive.”

Two of the captives in the devil’s fruit were female, a woman and a girl, dresses torn and filthy. One was an old man with a thick beard. The fourth was a child of perhaps ten, half naked and long haired—whether male or female, it was impossible to tell. They slumped against their confining bars yet could not lie down, knees buckled against the front, heads back, as though desperate for rest. Perhaps they drank the rain. Cutting through the
pleasant smell of damp forest, earth and woodsmoke, Sofy smelled human filth.

“How long have they been up there, do you think?” she asked.

“Oh, over a rainy period like this one, it can take more than a week to die,” said Willem, offhandedly. “Sometimes two. But come, Your Highness, since we are here, I shall explain to you the significance of this temple.”

“This is no way to kill a man,” Yasmyn said in Lenay. “There is honour in spilling blood. I see no blood here.”

“What did she say?” Willem asked, with mild curiosity.

“She wonders why lowlanders call
us
barbarians,” Sofy said coldly, striding to Captain Tyrel’s side.

“Highness,” said Tyrel, “these two are dead.” Pointing to the old man and the woman. Sure enough, Sofy saw their limbs and fingers were stiff. “The girl still lives. I cannot say about the child.”

What possible reason could anyone have for doing this to a child, Sofy wondered. Children had sometimes died in Lenay wars but, as Yasmyn said, those were deaths in hot blood, fuelled by ancient regional hatreds and motivated by the urge to destroy a blood enemy’s line. Those killings, however horrible, were quick. This was planned and calculating. Whoever had done this wished these four to suffer.

And why in the world was she still standing around wondering what to do about it? Jaryd never would have. Jaryd would have cut them down in a flash.

“Captain, take them down.”

“Aye, Highness,” said Tyrel, and his men moved quickly. None of the guardsmen seemed interested in disputing the order.

“Your Highness,” said Willem, “I’m really not so sure that’s wise….” Sofy ignored him, staring up at the girl Tyrel had insisted was alive. She looked lifeless to Sofy, but the captain was surely more practised in telling life from death than she. “Highness, these are clearly people guilty of some evil crime; the local people have every right to enforce their own justice in any way they—”

“They can argue with me once I’m queen,” Sofy said coldly. “And just
pray
that I’ll be as merciful.”

The girl’s cage came down with a clang, then the child’s. The clamps that held both halves together were released, and guardsmen carefully lowered girl and child to the pavings. Each stank, and were limp, scrawny and filthy. The girl had a rope tied about her neck and between her teeth as a gag. Sofy guessed the townsfolk did not wish to listen to her sobbing while they prayed. She wondered how many days a person could sob for, fearing all the time, while thirsting, hungering and cramping, unable to so much as scratch an itch.

Guardsmen tried to pour each some water from their flasks. The child did not respond. “There is a pulse,” Corporal Heyar said, feeling at the child’s slim neck, listening close for a breath. “Very faint. Unsteady. This one will die unless we get some food into the child.”

The girl gasped. Captain Tyrel patted her face, and sunken eyes fluttered open, beneath a fringe of straggly brown hair. “You’re safe, child,” said Tyrel, in Torovan. “Have some water.” The girl sipped, desperately. And coughed.

“That’s not right,” a guardsman was muttering. Stoic and disciplined, Sofy hadn’t known her guards to voice personal opinions. “Someone should be paying for this, this ain’t right.”

There were terrible sores on the girl’s arms, where her limbs had been stuck, pressing for days against the metal. Weeks maybe, Willem had said. Then the temple bell began to clang. Sofy stared, and saw the pulley rope, leading somewhere inside, jerking it back and forward.

“Your Highness,” Willem said with exasperation, “I was afraid something like this would happen. We’ve been seen, now there will be trouble.”

“Get them up,” Tyrel ordered his men. “We can’t help them here anyhow, they need medicines before they can eat.”

Up the town road, doors were opening, and villagers were emerging into the rain. Some were armed. Most came running. Sofy’s concern mounted to alarm. Willem seemed almost frantic. “Your Highness, we must go now!”

“We’re not running anywhere!” Sofy retorted. Even
she
knew how stupid that would be, tactically. “Captain!”

“Put them down!” Tyrel revised his last order. “We’ll see off this mob first, we can’t spare the hands. Highness, M’Lady, Master Willem, behind me if you please!”

The guardsmen fanned out fast, weapons drawn and shields unslung from their backs. Yasmyn pulled Sofy between herself and Willem, and from her belt pulled her darak. Heavy, curved and nearly the length of Sofy’s forearm, it glinted dully in the dim light. Captain Tyrel had left the lanterns on the pavings beside the girl and child—Sofy scampered to pick one up and rejoin Yasmyn.

There were nearly fifty villagers, Sofy guessed, and even now, more came running. Most were men, perhaps half with weapons. Up the road behind, many women stood in doorways, clutching children as dogs barked and villagers shouted to each other in Algrassian. Still the bell clanged, summoning the town.

The temple doors opened as the crowd gathered, clustering four paces beyond the bare steel of the Royal Guard. A priest emerged, gaunt and balding, in a black robe. He stood on the stairs, eyes wide in alarm and fear. Still the bell clanged. So there were others in there.

The priest began shouting to the mob in Algrassian. Angry and fearful villagers looked at each other, then circled to see where two of the devil’s fruit had been lowered and sprung open. Two guardsmen stepped away from the main formation, walking sideways to stay between those villagers and Sofy. Despite her thumping heart, Sofy was surprised to discover she was not terrified. Royal Guardsmen were amongst the most formidable warriors in Lenayin, and even six or seven to one, against common Bacosh villagers, would not trouble them. But more than that, she knew she was in the right. This predicament was neither her fault nor her mistake. Astonishing to realise that that simple fact alone dispelled half the fear.

She spared a glance at Yasmyn, and found her slightly crouched, her loose dress pulled up a little at the knees, darak held low and ready. Her eyes were eager, as though she wished the villagers to attack. Knowing Yasmyn, and the Isfayen in general, Sofy was hardly surprised.

Angry shouts began amongst the villagers as the priest finished speaking. Weapons were waved, dangerously. Sofy found herself more mesmerised by the guardsmen’s swords. Huge, gleaming silver and wickedly sharp, it seemed unthinkable that someone might actually use them to strike another person.

“What’s he saying?” Sofy demanded furiously to Willem of the priest.

“He…he says that you have desecrated a holy site…I…I can’t make out the rest….”

“You’re Algrassian!” Sofy retorted incredulously. “Don’t you know your own tongue?”

“The accent is very strong!” Willem protested, with moisture on his face that was not from the rain.

“Do something! Tell them who we are!”

“Your Highness, I don’t think that will help!”

“Do it! That’s an order!”

Willem shouted for attention, arms raised high. The crowd of villagers quieted a little. Willem continued, anxiously in Algrassian. When he finished, there was uproar. Willem looked at Sofy, and she could see “I told you so” in his eyes. An axe was thrown from the crowd, a guardsman leaping to interpose himself, taking the blow on his shield. Sofy was more astonished than frightened. She’d known Lenayin was poorly regarded in the Bacosh, but mostly, she’d thought the attitude one of disdain. This seemed like hatred.

Villagers moved wide, trying to flank the guardsmen’s lines, the eight soldiers spreading sideways…they could not maintain a defensive perimeter about both her and the two unfortunates lying on the pavings, she realised. If the villagers waited until they were entirely encircled…but the
thought vanished as several from the mob darted forward to attack. Sofy was nearly relieved.

One swung an axe at a guardsman, who fended with his shield. His fellow guardsman performed a simple overhead, his blade splitting the axeman through shoulder to midchest. Blood erupted in all directions, and the body hit the pavings like a slaughtered carcass. Another attacker lost his arm, fell to his knees screaming, then lost his head. To Sofy’s right, a guardsman who was rushed by three at once knocked one off his feet with a shield charge, and hacked the second through the side. The third rushed past, a short sword in hand, but Yasmyn leaped into his path, slid inside his blade with a deflecting arm, and took the full impact of his rushing body. It knocked her back several steps, but then the man was falling, sliding from her arms, his guts spilling on the pavings where Yasmyn’s darak had split his middle. Yasmyn danced back, her blade and right hand bloody, and hissed at the corpse with what sounded like pleasure.

The crowd reeled back, screaming and yelling. Four guardsmen pursued, while the other four re-formed the second line, with remarkable discipline. Two more villagers fell, and then the crowd was running in panic, flooding back up the main street or up the steps to the temple door.

“Willem!” Sofy commanded, still holding the lantern. “Carry the girl! Yasmyn, you and I will take the child! Let’s go!”

They hurried to do that, as the final four guardsmen fell back, the first four fanning ahead, to discourage any attempt to re-form. No sooner had Sofy and Yasmyn grabbed the child than one of the guardsmen yelled “Crossbow!,” and something buzzed the air. It didn’t seem to hit anything. Then another yell, and this time there followed a thud on the shield of one of Sofy’s protecting wall. That man cursed in pain, but did not waver.

“Move fast!” commanded Tyrel. “There could be more!” The path down the hillside would lead them past the first village houses, where the crossbow fire seemed to be coming from. The forward guardsmen were moving across to meet them and form a wall about their princess. But walking past those houses was just asking for someone to get shot.

Yasmyn saw it too. “I’ll get them,” she said happily, dumping the limp child entirely into Sofy’s arms, and racing forward into the night.

“Yasmyn, no!” But Yasmyn was gone, cloaked and shadowed in the gloom. Sofy staggered forward, lantern in hand as the ten-year-old’s limp weight dragged on her arms. Gods, the child was heavy. For the first time in her life, she wished she was as strong as her sister Sasha.