Free Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four by Joel Shepherd Page A

moment, then looked aside. Others would not look at all. She did not complete that last sentence. She could not. For even the rough men of Lenayin, there were no words.
    Save for the northerners. The Hadryn, the Ranash, and the Banneryd stood to their own, separate side of the room, and stared with unflinching calm. With them stood Myklas, frowning.
    “I recall that you have played this game before,” said the Great Lord Heryd of Hadryn. He was a wall of a man, blond, tall, and undecorated. Pure, in the image of his faith. “In the rebellion, you used orphan children to tug at the hearts of nobles and ladies in Baen-Tar.”
    “Not orphan children, Lord Heryd,” Sasha told him, unblinkingly. “They currently reside with their parents in the Udalyn Valley. Their parents live, thanks to me, and your glorious defeat at my hands.”
    Lord Heryd steamed. Great Lord Rydysh of Ranash muttered an insult in his native tongue that Sasha did not understand.
    “We do not speak of past conflicts,” Koenyg said sharply. “Each part of Lenayin has fought each other part of Lenayin so many times in history, and our losses and grievances outnumber the stars. Here we are one army, and we will not sacrifice future glories on the altar of past hatreds.”
    There was nothing “past” about this hatred, and they all knew it. The north was not merely Verenthane—they were devout, and pure. Most Lenay provinces rode in this battle for the allegiance of the great Verenthane lowland powers, and the promised future glory of Lenayin. But the north rode for the sheer religious pleasure of smiting evil, and in northern opinion, that evil had gleaming eyes and oddly coloured hair. They did not care if ten thousand half-breed children were murdered, they were going to heaven, climbing on the piled corpses of the serrin race.
    “She has sung this tune before,” Lord Heryd repeated. “One orphan child proves nothing, save that she has few new ideas for luring strong men with women's cowardice.”
    “Every time the likes of you go to war,” Sasha told him, “helpless children escape your slaughter to fall into my hands. The only thing proved is that you lot would rather kill children than warriors.”
    Koenyg had to intervene, physically, as Lord Heryd stepped forward quickly, a hand to his hilt.
    “Do it,” Sasha invited him. “Draw the blade. I've killed so many of you northern lords. Let's make it one more. See if your gods punish me worse than they did when I killed the others.”
    Silence followed in the room. The northerners hated her, but they were no longer stupid enough to challenge her. They knew her to be a hothead, prone to shouting and rash displays of temper. Now, she did not shout. Her words were clipped, firm, and calculated.
    Amongst the nobility of Lenayin, it was occurring to Sasha, an unchallengeable duellist possessed a frightening advantage not merely in blades, but in debate as well. One dared not push her too hard, for duelling was the law, and cowardice as fatal as death itself. The men in the room feared not for their lives; they feared for their honour, and that of their families. They feared that here was a girl who could twist them to her will and, if they retaliated in anger, issue a challenge they could not win.
    Such a woman could become a queen. A terrible one.
    Sasha had no doubt they'd kill her first, honourably or not.
    “I will take the boy,” said Koenyg. He came to Sasha. “I will see that he is…”
    Sasha drew her sword, and took her opening stance, blade at quarter check behind her head, raised for the strike. Koenyg stopped.
    “Any man,” said Sasha, “who attempts to remove this boy from me shall die. Tomorrow, I shall demand before this army that the priests of the Black Order be brought to account for their actions, and their bounty upon the heads of half-castes be withdrawn. Selith'en to tamathy, elish'an so valth'mal rae, y'seth lan as'far. ” Evil grows in the dark, while good men lie,