Harshini dct-3

by Jennifer Fallon

  “Damin, I may not be a tactical genius, but is this a good idea? Riding openly through Greenharbour when you know your cousin has claimed the throne?”

  He shrugged. “Greenharbour is neutral territory.”

  “Nine hundred Raiders isn't very many.”

  “That's all I'm permitted to bring into the city. Three centuries for every Warlord, no more. It's the law.”

  “The law didn't stop your cousin claiming the throne. What makes you think it's going to stop him breaking the rules about the number of troops he can muster in the city?”

  “I can't risk marching into Greenharbour openly flaunting the law. It would be playing right into Cyrus' hands. Besides, you won't let anything happen to me.”

  “You're relying on my power to save you? Adrina was right, you do enjoy living dangerously, don't you?”

  “Adrina said that, did she?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else did she say?”

  R'shiel rolled her eyes impatiently. “Why don't you ask her?”

  “I'm asking you.”

  “You're a damned fool, Damin Wolfblade.”

  He did not answer her; did not have a chance to. She stilled suddenly, her whole body tensing as the familiar prickle of magic ran over her skin like a million tiny ants wearing hobnailed boots.

  “What's wrong?” Damin asked, watching her curiously.

  “Someone is drawing power. A lot of it.” Her face was a mask of concentration as she tried to pinpoint the source. Finally she stood in her stirrups, looking out over the white, flat-roofed houses and then pointed towards the harbour. “It's coming from that direction.”

  “The harbour?”

  “No. I don't think so. But close to it.”

  “Then it's probably the Sorcerers' Collective you sense. Perhaps it's some of the sorcerers —”

  “No!” she declared emphatically. “What I can feel isn't someone chanting spells. This is Harshini.”

  Damin shrugged. “That would mean it was one of the Harshini who returned to the Collective last winter. I doubt it's anything to be concerned about. If it's Harshini magic you can sense, then they're bound to be on our side.”

  She sat down again and looked at him. “How do you figure that?”

  “You are the demon child. You ride with me.”

  “You don't understand, Damin. This isn't one Harshini drawing their power that I can feel. It's several of them and they are drawing every drop they can handle.”

  “Then it could mean trouble.”

  “Founders, Damin! Do you practise being so dense?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “I'm sorry. Explain it to me.”

  “I think the Harshini are under attack. It's the only explanation.”

  Damin reined in his stallion and brought the column to a halt. His grin faded and was replaced by a look of consternation. “Someone is attacking the Harshini? That's inconceivable. This is Hythria, not Medalon or Karien. We honour the... R'shiel!”

  She wasn't listening to him. Instead she spurred her horse forward to the end of the paved street where the rise of the land enabled her to look out over the rest of the city. What she saw made her gasp with astonishment.

  Greenharbour lay before her, a sea of whitewashed buildings glaring under a sky of sapphire silk.

  The city curved around the crescent-shaped bay. To the left was the forest of tall masts that marked the vast wharves of the city. To her right was a magnificent white palace, its domed spires gilded and almost too bright to look upon. Above the palace was a glittering dome of radiant, shimmering light enveloping the temples and palaces that R'shiel thought must be the Sorcerers' Collective. She could just make out the outlines of the buildings inside the dome as it waxed and waned with the fading strength of the Harshini who held it in place.

  Legend held that two centuries ago, the Harshini who defended the Citadel from the Sisters of the Blade had done the same thing. But if several hundred Harshini had not been able to hold a protective dome in place long enough to save the Citadel, there was little chance the few Harshini in Greenharbour could hold this one longer than a few more minutes.

  “What in the name of the gods is that?” Damin gasped as he reined in beside her.

  “The Harshini trying to protect themselves,” she explained. “Look down there.”

  Damin looked in the direction of her pointing finger. The streets surrounding the dome of light were crowded with soldiers. Although they were too far away to make out their individual escutcheons, R'shiel could easily guess whose troops they were. They were massing in the main avenues leading to the Collective, simply waiting for the strength of the Harshini who protected it to fade. She glanced over her shoulder at the men Damin, Narvell and Rogan had brought into the city. They were easily outnumbered three to one. The other two Warlords were riding up the street towards the head of the column. R'shiel left Damin to deal with them and turned her attention back to the dome of light. Even in the short time she had been watching it had faded somewhat.

  “What's going on?” she heard Rogan Bearbow demand of Damin behind her. She did not wait to hear his answer. Spurring her horse forward, she headed for the harbour at a canter. Whatever politics were involved in the battle for the High Prince's throne, the Hythrun had no right to endanger the peaceful Harshini.

  R'shiel had no plan in mind. Her only thought was that the dome was fading and the Harshini trapped inside were in danger. She could not reach the Harshini through the impenetrable barrier, but when it collapsed the soldiers massed in the streets surrounding the Collective would overrun them. She smiled grimly to herself as she rode, wondering how life could change so drastically in such a short time. Two years ago, had she heard there were Harshini under attack, she would have applauded the forces ranged against her despised enemies. Now she was riding to their rescue, heedless of any danger she might be placing herself in.

  That thought had a sobering effect, and she slowed her horse to a walk. What am I doing? I can't just ride up to the gates of the Collective and demand the enemy disperse.

  R'shiel looked around and discovered she had ridden into an area of the city that was filled with government buildings. At least she guessed that's what they were. They had an aura of bureaucracy that R'shiel knew well. The buildings were several storeys high and a number had impressive entrances flanked by fluted marble columns. They surrounded a broad circular plaza dominated by a fountain that spewed forth its cascade from the mouth of a beautifully sculpted water dragon. R'shiel studied the creature curiously for a moment. She had heard of the remarkable beasts that populated the warm waters of the Dregian Ocean, but she had never seen anything like the creature in the fountain. It had a large dorsal fin, wide-set eyes and a long, elegant tail that ended in a broad, flipper-like paddle.

  She had little time to admire the artistry of the fountain, however, as the sound of horses moving towards her caught her attention. At the far end of the paved plaza a number of mounted Raiders appeared, a tall, middle-aged man riding at their head. His blond beard was neatly trimmed, his leather armour gilded. The soaring eagle of his House was picked out in precious stones that glinted in the sunlight falling across the plaza.

  Behind her, R'shiel could hear Damin and his party forming up. She sat alone and exposed astride her horse in the centre of the plaza as the opposing forces arrayed themselves on either side. An unnatural silence descended, only the splashing of the fountain and the creaking of leather harness disturbing the morning.

  “Cousin!” Cyrus Eaglespike called loudly, moving forward at a walk. “I never thought to see you alive again!”

  “That's pretty bloody obvious!” Damin called back as he rode out to meet the pretender flanked by Narvell and Rogan.

  R'shiel watched them approaching with a frown. She didn't have time for this. The dome of light flickered in the distance.

  “It warms my heart to see that the reports of your death were... overstated, cousin,” Cyrus declared with vast insinc
erity as he neared the fountain.

  Damin, Narvell and Rogan reined in on the other side of the fountain. “I'm sure it does, cousin. That would explain what you're doing here with so many troops.”

  “We acted to contain the potential civil unrest brought on by the news of our uncle's death.”

  “Lernen was my uncle, not yours, Cyrus. Your relationship to the Wolfblade family is so tenuous it barely exists.”

  “Actually, it's not as tenuous as you might think, cousin. Once Kalan ratifies my claim...”

  “The High Arrion? Ratify you?” Rogan Bearbow declared hotly. The mere thought obviously offended him.

  “Is that why you're attacking the Harshini?” R'shiel demanded.

  Cyrus seemed to notice R'shiel for the first time. He smiled patronisingly. “Who is this, Damin? Some piece of Medalonian entertainment you picked up north of the border? Or is this the wife that we've been hearing about?”

  R'shiel's eyes darkened with anger as she drew on her power. Cyrus' eyes passed over her contemptuously for a moment, then suddenly locked on her face as he saw her eyes blacken.

  “Mother of the gods!” he cried. His horse reared, the gelding reacting to the proximity of a Harshini drawing on her power. Even the mounts that Damin, Rogan and Narvell rode began to toss their heads nervously, although they knew her scent well enough not to fear the unfamiliar but instinctive urge they felt to respond. Her own horse was not concerned, having been with her long enough now to recognise and welcome the touch of the magic that it had been born to serve. R'shiel suddenly understood why the majority of the troops surrounding the Collective were infantry. With the Harshini inside the Collective drawing so much power, the Hythrun sorcerer-bred cavalry mounts would be uncontrollable.

  “Cyrus, call off your troops. Now.”

  Damin spoke with quiet assurance, as if he had no doubt as to the outcome, should the Warlord refuse.

  “Who are you?” Cyrus demanded of R'shiel.

  “I'm the last thing you will ever lay eyes on if you don't withdraw,” she informed the startled Warlord. The power filled her, hungering for release. Cyrus' mount was becoming increasingly restive and he was fighting to maintain his dignity and his seat at the same time.

  The pretender turned on Damin angrily. “What sort of trickery is this?”

  “This isn't trickery, my Lord, this is the demon child. I suggest you do as she says. She's not noted for her patience.”

  If Cyrus had heard that Damin was married, then he certainly must have heard that the demon child rode with him. The Warlord debated the issue for a long, tension-filled moment, then angrily waved his arm. A rider broke from the ranks at the entrance to the plaza and cantered forward.

  “Take a message to Lord Foxtalon and Lord Falconlance,” Cyrus ordered through clenched teeth. “Tell them to order the troops to withdraw.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me!”

  With a puzzled look, the captain nodded and wheeled his mount around. Cyrus turned back to R'shiel, his expression a mixture of contempt and fear.

  “Satisfied?”

  “For now,” R'shiel agreed, although she did not let go of the power. The dome was fading fast, its light failing as fatigue consumed the Harshini holding it in place. Now she was drawing on her own power, she was even more aware of the drain on the Harshini inside. A few more minutes and they would have to let it go completely. She bit her bottom lip in frustration, wishing she knew how to lend them her strength. Brak and her tutors at Sanctuary had never taught her how. Perhaps they had not thought she would ever need a reason to link her power to another Harshini. Or maybe she couldn't link with a Harshini unless they were a té Ortyn like her... Maybe it was too dangerous... She shook her head to clear it of the useless thoughts and turned her attention back to the matter at hand. What she could and couldn't do with her power was a problem for some other time. Right now it was enough that Cyrus believed she knew what she was doing. “Aren't you supposed to have some sort of election to confirm the new High Prince?”

  “The Convocation would already be under way, but for the interference of the Harshini, who prevented us entering the Sorcerers' Palace.”

  “You can't hold a Convocation without all seven Warlords,” Damin pointed out.

  “Actually, cousin, I merely need a majority.”

  “Which you don't have,” Narvell reminded him.

  “A situation that will be remedied as soon as Tejay Lionsclaw arrives.” Cyrus looked to Rogan with a frown. “I see you have chosen whose bed to lie in, Lord Bearbow. I'll remember your choice when I'm High Prince.”

  “That's an empty threat, Lord Eaglespike. You don't have the numbers.”

  Cyrus smiled with oily contempt. “You might be surprised, my Lord.”

  The two men glared at each other like lions facing each other over a recent kill. R'shiel sighed impatiently.

  “Founders! I've had enough of this! Damin, how soon can we hold this Convocation?”

  Damin didn't answer her. He was glaring at Cyrus with such venom that R'shiel was afraid he was going to call his cousin out, right here in the plaza. Despite how satisfying it would be to witness him beat the arrogance out of Cyrus, she knew this had to be resolved legally. Damin could vent his anger later, once he was High Prince.

  “Damin!”

  “What?”

  “I said, how soon can we hold this Convocation?”

  “As soon as Lady Lionsclaw arrives.”

  “Fine. Send someone to fetch her. In the meantime, I want every Raider off the streets. The Collective can go back to guarding the city. I assume you all have sufficient control over your men that you can keep them out of trouble until this is sorted out?”

  Cyrus opened his mouth to object then decided against it as R'shiel turned her black-eyed gaze on him.

  “Very well, we have a truce until the Convocation,” he agreed reluctantly. “But don't think this has changed anything!”

  “Damin?”

  “A truce,” he agreed, almost as reluctantly as Cyrus.

  “Fine, that's settled then. Now get rid of these soldiers!”

  “This is not finished, demon child!” Cyrus hauled his reins around sharply, taking his anger out on his horse as he rode at a brisk canter back to his men. Behind him, the dome of light wavered and shimmered brightly for a moment, as if sprinkled with a billion tiny stars, then it faded away to nothing as the Harshini finally succumbed to exhaustion.

  “That was close,” Narvell muttered.

  “We'll sort him out soon enough, brother,” Damin promised savagely.

  “Aye,” Rogan agreed. “And the more painfully the better.”

  R'shiel glared at them impatiently. “You're all as bad as each other,” she snapped, then turned her horse and continued towards the Sorcerers' Collective - and hopefully the answers she sought.

  CHAPTER 21

  The weather was bitterly cold as Tarja and his squad rode north as hard as they could push their horses without them foundering. The small band of saboteurs made good time retracing their journey of a few weeks ago, staying close to the Glass River, camping at night under whatever meagre shelter they could find. Their good fortune lasted until a day south of Cauthside, when a savage thunderstorm forced them to take shelter in an abandoned boathouse next to the remains of a small dock jutting precariously into the swift flowing water.

  When they arrived, Tarja found a surprise for which he was completely unprepared. The boathouse was already occupied by a score or more Fardohnyans; the remnants of Adrina's Guard who had fled the border with them. Damin had given them supplies and maps, and ordered the Guard to make for Fardohnya weeks ago. What they were doing here, this far north, when they should have been almost home by now, completely baffled Tarja. Getting the story out of them proved something of a trial too, as none of the Fardohnyans spoke Medalonian, and nobody in his troop had more than a passing acquaintance with their native language. In the end, they conversed in Karien, as
it proved the only language they had in common.

  Second Lanceman Filip, the young man who had surrendered the Guard to Damin on the northern border, told the story. They had taken Damin's advice and headed for Cauthside and the ferry there, only to discover the town crammed with refugees. Not only could they not converse with anyone in the town, their mere presence had caused no end of trouble, some people mistaking them for Kariens. Explaining they were Fardohnyan, not Karien, had done little to help their cause. The townsfolk had turned on them. They'd been forced to fight their way clear of the town rather than risk the remainder of their small band in a civil riot. Filip and his men were now hiding in the boathouse while they waited for their wounded to recover sufficiently so they could continue south to Testra and attempt to cross the river there. They had lost three men getting out of Cauthside.

  Tarja allowed the men to light a fire with what dry fuel they could find, satisfied that the weather offered them adequate protection from accidental discovery. The fire cheered the troop considerably. Even the Fardohnyans seemed a little more spirited. They sat around the small blaze, his own men discussing tactics and speculating on what their captain had in mind, the Fardohnyans talking softly among themselves.

  Tarja stood by the small window looking out over the dark water, uncaring of the rain that splattered his face. He could hear the low murmur of conversation over the storm outside and knew he would have to decide quickly what to do with the Fardohnyans. It was also time to tell his troop what he was planning.

  Mandah was still the only person in his small squad who knew exactly what he had in mind. She was right when she claimed that she knew how to behave with the careless arrogance of a Sister of the Blade. Disguised as a Blue Sister she had commandeered the ferry in Vanahiem with remarkable ease. He hoped she could do the same in Cauthside with as little effort.

  Before he acquired an additional twenty-four Fardohnyans, the plan had been to burn the ferry then swim to safety. If the rain kept up like this, they would have no chance of burning anything. Nor would they be able to risk swimming the river.