Sasha (37 page)

“Her name's Sasha,” Damon said sourly. “You might recall her—little terror in a dress, always yelling?”

Koenyg gave him a whack across the stomach with the back of his hook, none too gently either. “This will be trouble for Family Nyvar,” he remarked.

Damon refrained from hitting him back. It was perhaps not a great idea to hit the heir in front of more than one thousand people. “You don't sound surprised.”

Koenyg gave him a sideways look as his horse danced and tried to rear. Koenyg knew everything that went on within palace walls, and many things beyond, that look said. If Jaryd had had a fight with his father, the heir of Lenayin would know.

Koenyg smiled. “You should have declared Krayliss in breach at Halleryn,” he said offhandedly. “If you'd killed him there, we wouldn't have this trouble here.”

“It would have cost lives,” Damon retorted.

“It may now cost more lives. You've heard Lord Kumaryn tried to arrest Sasha in Baerlyn?”

“I heard.”

“The great lords are relatively powerless, Damon, all save the northern three, and perhaps Krayliss. Their power comes from having their people united beneath their leadership. The others like Kumaryn are largely ignored by their own people. They insist the king needs them, but in truth it's the north we need. The north is strong, we must keep them on our side.”

“At the cost of justice?” Damon retorted.

“Most likely we'll have to kill Krayliss anyway,” said Koenyg. “Here or there, what's the difference?”

“Sasha didn't leave much choice,” Damon replied. “Krayliss threw himself upon the king's mercy after her duel, I could hardly refuse.”

“Sasha has a habit of siding with troublemakers,” said Koenyg. “Best that you wise up to it, brother.”

Damon snorted. “I'll not lick the north's boots just because it's convenient.”

Koenyg turned a hard gaze upon him. A strong, broad face, more rounded than Damon's or Sofy's. More like Sasha, Damon thought, and their departed mother. “You will if I tell you to,” Koenyg said darkly.

Damon could not think of a reply. Then the adjudicator saved him the trouble and yelled for a start.

Tyrblanc drove his horse straight at Jaryd, and Jaryd's mount shied aside. Other horses rushed the circle, but the Banneryd were better coordinated, using their horses to block while one rider leaned low from his saddle and hammered the ball with his hook. That rider wove past intercepting Tyree horses, dragging the weight on one arm and steering with the other, then a skilful switch of hands as Sergeant Garys came thundering up on his right, and hauled the heavy ball across the saddle to the protected side.

Garys ducked a forearm blow aimed at his head, jostling the Banneryd's horse, steering him away from the goals toward the outer wing as a massed thunder of horses pursued. Damon galloped to the defence, between the ball and the goals. Another Banneryd horse blocked Garys's, which reared alarmingly, and the ball carrier galloped free down the flank, to the cheers of slightly nervous spectators on the perimeter, who were pleased to see the action come close, but were making to scatter even now.

Banneryd riders formed a blocking perimeter for their man, harassing those who tried to intercept, but already a Tyree horse was coming at him from the right, and another, unnoticed, had somehow come ahead to stand unattended on the perimeter line. As the ball carrier's attention switched to his new assailant, the unnoticed rider dug in heels and accelerated up the line. The ball-carrier saw, too late, and tried to switch the ball, but the charging rider leaned left-handed from the saddle as the horses slashed past in opposite directions, and smacked ball on hook so hard it tore the Banneryd's hook from his hand.

Damon was already racing in pursuit to assist, weaving past the mass of confused riders, who tried to change direction or figure out what had happened…and there ahead was Sasha, racing at top speed astride a middle-sized dun mare, her left arm low and behind her with the weight of the ball on her hook. She galloped right past the noses of the Taneryn contingent on the sidelines, who roared and cheered as if she were one of their very own.

Ahead, two Banneryd riders came across from deep defence to block her way…where were the Tyree forward blockers, Damon wondered? Then he saw them, holding back and making no attempt to make a path for Sasha. One of them was Pyter Pelyn.

Sasha swung the ball across her saddle to the right, pulled hard left, swinging her horse across and exposing her right side…a Banneryd rider held back, turning in a circle in case she reversed and tried to flank him. Sasha held her line, heading for the second Banneryd rider, then tried to dive between him and his comrade. It was suicide, and they converged on her, but Sasha threw a glance over her shoulder to Damon, took both hands off the reins and threw the ball two-handed off to her left.

It hit and rolled, catching both Banneryd riders wrong-footed. Damon accelerated straight for it and leaned low from his saddle to swing. He felt the hook catch, and the weight on his arm…and nearly slipped, his heart racing as he suddenly noticed the speed at which the grass flew past.

One Banneryd rider was on him before he could properly reseat, as Sasha blocked the other with dangerous force, deflecting one blow with her armguard, and returning a hard one of her own to the cavalryman's middle. Damon swung the ball across his saddle to the left hand, fending with his right, but the Banneryd's pressure was hard, forcing him across the face of the goals. Now behind, the great mass of riders was catching him. In a moment, he knew he'd be swamped.

The weight on his left arm suddenly disappeared and he turned in astonishment to see Jaryd dropping back from his left. Where the hells had he come from? The ball neatly stolen, Jaryd reined back behind Damon and tore for the goals. Two Banneryd pursuers arrived from behind, one chasing on each side. Jaryd swung the ball to his left side and, as the rider on that side tried to snatch it, he swung it back straight into the right-side man's face.

That man flailed and nearly fell, his horse falling back. Jaryd swung into a controlled collision with the other horse, gaining space and ducking a forearm swing, and then Sasha was there to backhand the Banneryd's shoulder with the back of her hook. A last Banneryd rider came in front, looking left and then right over his shoulder to try and block…but Jaryd feinted three, four, five times until the other man went the wrong way, and with an explosive burst of speed, he shot past, reversed the ball to the protected side and galloped across the line between the talleryn posts.

“M'Lady!” he called to Sasha as they cantered three abreast back to the centre circle. “That was a lovely steal! My compliments!”

“Says he who only beat four defenders across the line!” Sasha replied happily. She rode lighter in the saddle than most men, Damon noted, and she moved in the stirrups with almost acrobatic confidence when contesting the ball. Her eyes shone with an enthusiasm that seemed to light her up from head to toe. There were those, like Alythia, who insisted that Sasha's only motivation in being what she was, was to spite her family and peers. Damon had thought something like it himself, once…but seeing her now, he realised that Sasha could no more help being what she was than Alythia could, or Sofy, or Koenyg. This was where she belonged. To deny her that, because it offended Verenthane sensibilities, seemed suddenly ludicrous.

Damon saw Pyter Pelyn ahead and accelerated to intercept him.

“You ride for Tyree,” he told Pyter harshly, coming alongside. “When your fellow rider needs a block to reach the goals, you provide it. Understand?”

“That rabid bitch is no Tyree comrade of mine,” Pyter snarled.

“That rabid bitch is a hundredfold the rider you'll ever be!” Damon snapped. “And better yet, that rabid bitch is my sister. You call her that again, I'll mistake your head for the ball.”

The following round was messier, the Banneryd continuing their formation tactics to better effect. The pack rumbled forward, men wheeling, yelling and hacking, as the northerners relentlessly pushed to the goals. A Tyree rider was unhorsed, but climbed back into the saddle apparently none the worse. Another took a back-side hook to the face and bled from the nose. Jaryd blocked Captain Tyrblanc in a rearing, lashing collision, and Tyrblanc retaliated with a sharp-ended hook to Jaryd's side. Jaryd's quilted tunic seemed to take the blow well, but it was illegal all the same, and Damon spared a moment's respite to glare at the adjudicator cantering nearby on his white horse, a red flag in one hand but not raised.

Things degenerated into a wild melee, men leaning from their saddles, jostling for position, gaining the ball briefly only to have it torn from their hook. One of the Falcon Guardsmen was jostled by Pyter Pelyn, nearly lost his seat, and then did so as a northerner hooked his stirrup. He crashed down and curled up, arms over his head as hooves stamped and thrashed all about. Again the adjudicator saw nothing. Koenyg then won free, with two Banneryd men for battering rams, and completed a weaving run toward the goals, avoiding attempted interceptions with tremendous skill until he flashed between the posts.

The next several rounds were all to the northerners’ advantage as they scored four more times without reply. Many of the side's Tyree nobles engaged willingly enough on their own, but refused to lend assistance to Jaryd, Sasha or even Damon when they received the ball. Horses were changed, as the starting mounts began to gasp and froth. In the midst of one round, the ball flew to pieces as the twining leather snapped, and play paused for a new one to come from the sidelines.

When Jaryd returned to the centre circle following the next Banneryd score, he was fuming mad. “You're all honourless cowards!” he shouted at Pyter and his noble companions. “You wear the green of Tyree as if it were something to wipe your arses on! Fight for your honour, you motherless bastards, or by the gods I'll see your family banners thrown into the shit as carpets for the pigs through the rest of this Rathynal!”

The outburst, Damon observed, was not well received.

The following round was a series of slashing runs by one side and then the other, with the horses finding room to run as the play became more spread out. Damon had one good run himself past the cheering scaffold before getting cornered against the perimeter line and losing possession. Pyter Pelyn tried to hook the ball but missed, and two riders from opposing sides and directions came straight at each other, each rider leaning low on one stirrup with hooks ready. With typical Lenay stubbornness, neither gave way, and they collided above the ball with a violent tangle of limbs.

Garys hooked the ball, but was hacked on the arm by Koenyg, and lost it again. A Tyree man took a hard block from Tyrblanc, giving Koenyg time to wheel about, but then Sasha careened across his front, spinning her mount across the ball's rolling path, and somehow using her horse's momentum to lean low and wide and rip the ball away from Koenyg's reach. She continued the spin, reversed the ball, and shot off, dodging one northerner and then another, Koenyg cursing in close pursuit.

Suddenly Jaryd was there, blocking the heir to the Lenay throne with a vigour some men might not have dared. “Go Sasha!” Damon heard him yelling, as he followed in pursuit, and another rider came flying toward Jaryd from the side. It looked like an intercept, even though Jaryd did not have the ball…and Damon saw with a sudden chill through the sweaty heat that the interceptor was Pyter Pelyn.

“Jaryd, to your right!” Damon yelled. Jaryd swung about, raising an arm to block. Pyter's hook caught him about the shoulder and yanked him from the saddle. Jaryd fell with all the graceless horror of a man deliberately unhorsed, slammed hard into the turf and rolled repeatedly. Then he stopped, and did not move.

Damon swore, reined up alongside and dismounted, fearing the worst—many men had died on the lagand field, or become cripples for life. “Jaryd!” He knelt at the lordling's side and listened against his lips…Jaryd was breathing, so that was a start. Then his eyelids fluttered and his legs moved. That was even better. About them, other horses had stopped, the game apparently suspended. Except for one horse, that he could hear galloping hard…yells of warning and anticipation came from the crowd.

Damon looked up to see Sasha tearing directly toward Pyter Pelyn. She'd seen it. That wasn't good. She hit him with a back hook to the face, which sent him reeling from the saddle. That wasn't good either. Then Pyter's noble friends were after her, hooks raised with clear intent. Falcon Guardsmen set off in pursuit and a brawl erupted, horses jostling and men swinging. Three more nobles were quickly unhorsed—the Tyree nobility might have been a dab hand at lagand, but against Falcon Guardsmen they were little match in a fight.

Jaryd struggled to sit upright, wincing in pain. He tried to put weight upon his left arm and bit back a scream. Damon supported his weight, as Koenyg dismounted alongside. Nearby, the fight was breaking up. The adjudicator raised his red flag at Sasha. Sasha threw her hook at him, and would have dragged him physically from his horse had not a Guardsman intervened.

“I think it's broken,” Damon said wearily to Koenyg, feeling gently at Jaryd's arm.

“It's not,” Jaryd said fervently. “I've broken bones before, this isn't as bad.” And nearly screamed again when he tried to move it.

“It's broken, you fool,” Koenyg told him, kneeling alongside. “The way you came off, you're lucky it's not your neck.” Damon could understand Jaryd's reluctance to admit it. Many breaks reset cleanly, with good medicine, splints, binding and sometimes some skilled knifework. But some did not, and men would carry those deformed limbs to their grave.

“That shit pile Pyter,” Jaryd muttered, his face pale with pain. “I'll duel him. Maybe he'll find some honour with a sword in his gut.”

“With that arm?” Koenyg snorted. Some more horses were riding now from the perimeter, no doubt with a healer astride, someone who knew how to move a man with broken bones.

“When I've recovered then,” Jaryd insisted. “I'll kill him, you watch.”

“The road you're travelled,” Koenyg said sharply, “you won't live that long. Take some advice from someone in a position to know, lad. You may not care for your own neck, but if you've any concern for your family, you'll apologise to Master Pyter and never talk to my wild sister again.”