Harshini dct-3

by Jennifer Fallon

  “Tarja?”

  He turned as Mandah walked up beside him, hugging a borrowed Defender's cloak around her against the cold. She reeked of damp wool, her fair hair hanging limp and wet against her head, yet her eyes were bright with the excitement of the adventure.

  “You should stay near the fire and dry off,” he told her.

  “I'll be all right. I've been checking the Fardohnyan wounded. The one in the corner with the belly wound, I'll be surprised if he makes it through the night. The others should be fine to travel when we leave tomorrow.”

  “So you think we should bring them with us?”

  “They've a better chance of getting home eventually if we do.”

  He shook his head but did not answer, thinking she would have said the same if they were stray cats.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. I was just thinking about tomorrow. It won't be easy if this weather keeps up.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Can you stop it raining?”

  “I could pray to Brehn, the God of Storms, but I'm not sure he would listen to me. You need the demon child if you wish to speak directly to the gods.”

  “Well the demon child isn't here, is she?”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  He looked at her for a moment then shrugged. “No, it's not such a bad thing, I suppose.”

  Mandah laid a gloved hand on his arm and smiled encouragingly. “You're far too hard on yourself, Tarja. Come to the fire and get warm. You won't stop the rain by staring at it.”

  She was trying so hard to cheer him. He did not have the heart to deny her. Mandah could not bear to see any creature in pain, human or beast. He thought of R'shiel: of her temper, her anger and her willingness to manipulate others to get her own way. There was no comparing the two women and it hardened his suspicion that the memories that haunted him could not possibly be real. The old man in the tavern had summed it up neatly. They were doing this for R'shiel. He was still trying hard to convince himself she was worth it.

  “Pity I can't stop the rain by staring at it,” he replied, making an attempt to sound light-hearted. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the men around the fire. “It's time I told the men what our mission is, anyway.”

  Mandah took his arm as they approached the fire. The others moved aside a little to make room for them. The Fardohnyans withdrew to the corner of the boathouse, sensing that this did not involve them. Tarja squatted down and glanced around the circle, satisfied he had picked the right men. There were few Defenders in his squad. Those he had left to Denjon and Linst. The men he had chosen were rebels for the most part, men he had fought with before; men who understood how to frustrate a numerically superior enemy without confronting them head on.

  “We're going to burn the Cauthside Ferry,” he announced as they looked at him expectantly. “If we're not back in Testra within a month, the commander of the Testra garrison will destroy that ferry, too. If all goes well here, we'll destroy it ourselves, once we've completed our mission and are back on the other side of the river.”

  “You think that will stop the Kariens getting to the Citadel?” Ghari asked.

  “No. But it will delay them for a time.”

  The rebels looked anxiously at each other. Ulran, a small, dark-eyed man from Bordertown, and the best knife-fighter Tarja had ever met glanced around the gathering, gauging the mood of his companions before he spoke.

  “That's going to hurt more than the Kariens, Tarja. There's a lot of people who depend on those ferries.”

  “How much trade do you think there's going to be once the Kariens get across the river?” Torlin asked. The same age as Mandah's brother Ghari, he was one of the rebels captured in Testra who had followed Tarja to the northern border. Slender and surprisingly quick-witted, he would have made a good Defender.

  “Torlin's right,” Rylan agreed. He was one of the few Defenders in the squad - solid and dependable. “The Kariens are foraging their way south. They'll strip Medalon clean. There won't be anything left to trade by the time they've passed through.”

  Ulran nodded his reluctant agreement. “I suppose. It just seems a pity to destroy a perfectly good ferry, that's all.”

  “Well, if you're feeling so noble, Ulran, you can come back and build them a new one after the war,” Harben suggested with a grin. Harben worried Tarja a little. His enthusiasm for destruction was matched only by his refusal to take anything seriously. He reminded Tarja a little of Damin Wolfblade.

  “I've a feeling we'll all be in our dotage before that day comes,” Ulran retorted, then turned back to Tarja. “So, we burn the ferry. How?”

  As if in answer to his question, the night was lit by jagged lightning, accompanied by the rattle of thunder. The rain began to fall even more heavily, pounding on the battered shingles of the boathouse so hard that Tarja could barely hear himself think. He looked up, shook his head and looked back at his men.

  “I was hoping one of you would have a bright idea.”

  * * *

  The wounded Fardohnyan that Mandah was so concerned for died not long after midnight. By dawn the following day the rain had not let up, but Tarja could not afford to delay, so they hastily buried the dead soldier in the soft ground, packed up their makeshift camp and rode on. After a lengthy conversation with Filip in Karien, it was decided that the Guard would wait on the south side of the town while Tarja and his men sank the ferry. The Fardohnyans would offer cover in case of pursuit and together they would head back to Testra and the ferry there once the job was done. Tarja's men had shaved and now wore Defender uniforms and Mandah sat astride her mare in Sisterhood blue. They were stiff with the cold and soaked to the skin by the time they split from the Fardohnyans and turned towards the northern river town.

  Cauthside was normally a quiet town, but now it was filled with refugees fleeing the advancing Kariens. When Tarja had last seen it over two years ago, he was with the late Lord Pieter and his entourage. That fateful journey had led to most of the trouble he now found himself in, he thought sourly. The town had been preparing for the Founders' Day Parade. Streets he remembered decked out with blue bunting were now crowded with lost souls, waiting a chance at the ferry to get to relative safety on the other side of the river.

  “Tarja, what will happen to these people?” Mandah asked as they dismounted and led their horses towards the landing through the press of bodies. “They'll be stranded once we've... you know.”

  “It can't be helped,” he told her. “Better a few stranded souls on this side than the Kariens in control of the Citadel.”

  “There's more than a few people here, Tarja. There must be thousands of them.”

  Tarja nodded, but found himself rather unsympathetic to their plight. These were the camp followers who had ridden on the heels of the Defenders hoping for a profit from the war. He did not intend to feel guilty because things had not turned out as they planned.

  “You can't help them, Mandah.”

  She nodded reluctantly as a child of about eight or nine with large, sad grey eyes ran up alongside them, tugging hopefully on Mandah's blue sleeve. She was clutching a bedraggled, tan-coloured puppy to her chest and both of them were shivering.

  “Are you here to save us, Sister?”

  Mandah looked down and shook her head. “I'm sorry, child. I'll —”

  Tarja grabbed her arm and pulled her away before she could say anything else, or offer to adopt the puppy, which was the sort of thing Mandah was liable to do when left to her own devices.

  “You're supposed to be a Sister of the Blade.”

  “That doesn't mean I have no compassion.”

  “No, but it does mean you keep your damned head down,” he reminded her. “We've a job to do, Mandah. You've already adopted a score of lost Fardohnyans. You'll have to save orphans and stray dogs some other time.”

  “But —” she protested indignantly.

  “That's an order,” he told
her harshly as he shouldered his way through the crowd. “Now do as I say. Keep your head down and don't make eye contact with anyone... or anything.”

  “You're a heartless fiend, Tarja,” she hissed as she followed the path he cut through the throng. “How can you just stand by and watch —”

  “Mandah!” Ghari warned from behind, saving Tarja the need to scold her further. He glanced back at his men to make sure they were still behind him. The young woman glared at him but said nothing, obviously offended. They pushed on through the crowded streets and into the small town square, which had the look of a refugee camp. There were hundreds of tents set up, crowded close together, their pegs driven into the gaps in the cobblestones.

  “This is madness,” he muttered, mostly to himself, as he surveyed the square. A drizzling rain had begun to fall again and the air was biting, even through his Defenders' cloak. He glanced over his shoulder and beckoned Ghari forward. The young rebel threw his reins to the man beside him and pushed his way between the horses to Tarja's side.

  “What's wrong?”

  “I don't know yet. You and the others stay here. Mandah and I will make our way down to the river and see what's happening. We'll never lead the horses through this.”

  Ghari nodded and took their reins. Tarja took Mandah's arm and led her through the chaos, stepping over guy ropes, small children, washing lines and smoking cook fires that hissed defiantly at the rain that threatened to extinguish them. The landing was not far, but the closer they got, the thicker the crowd grew, until they reached a wall of densely packed bodies that no amount of pushing and shoving could penetrate.

  Being taller than average, Tarja could see over the heads of the crowd. What he saw did not please him. The ferry was halfway across the river, loaded almost beyond capacity with passengers, sluggishly making its way against the current to the other side.

  “What do you see?” Mandah asked, her view blocked by a solid wall of bodies.

  “The ferry is making a crossing. It'll be hours before it returns and even then we'll have no hope of getting near it.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We'll have to fall back on my other plan.”

  “What's your other plan?”

  “I'll tell you as soon as I think of it,” he said with a frown.

  * * *

  By mid-afternoon the ferry had returned to Cauthside. Tarja waited with growing impatience as the barge made its way laboriously across the rain-swollen river under a sky as dark as tarnished silver. The crowd grew restless as it neared the bank, surging forward as the refugees tried to push to the front of the line. Short of taking to the crowd with swords and cutting their way through (and even then he wasn't certain that would work), there was no way they could get near the landing.

  More frustrated than angry, Tarja pushed his way through the mob and walked back to where Mandah and the others waited under the eaves of the local inn. His expression told them what they wanted to know, even before he got close enough to speak.

  “So, how do we get near the ferry?” Ghari asked.

  “We don't. We'll have to think of something else.”

  “If we had a ballista, we could set it alight with burning pitch,” Rylan suggested.

  “A ballista?” Harben asked. “And to think I had one in my pocket and left it behind because I didn't think we'd need it!”

  Tarja frowned at the young man's flippancy. “If you can't offer anything useful, Harben, be quiet.”

  Harben had the sense to look contrite. Tarja called the men to him and they huddled together under the thin shelter of the inn, suggesting and rejecting ideas as they tried to think of a way to get close enough to the landing and the ferry. In the end it was Harben who suggested the solution, and he acted on it before Tarja could stop him. The young rebel pushed his way into the crowd in his red Defenders uniform and began shouting.

  “They're coming! They're coming! The Kariens are here! Flee! Run for your lives! The Kariens are here! The Kariens are here!”

  It was not long before the mob took up his cry. The effect was instantaneous and disastrous. Those at the back of the crowd broke away and began to run from the landing back towards the square. Those closest to the landing lunged forward, pushing the front ranks into the icy river. Everyone was shouting, pushing, shoving to get clear.

  “Stop him, Tarja!” Mandah gasped. “Someone will be killed!”

  But it was too late to stop the panic Harben's reckless cries had triggered. Instinct quickly replaced common sense. Fear replaced reason. The crowd became a heedless mob. Tarja was pushed back against the wall of the inn as the crowd spilled into the square, trampling tents, cook fires and anything else that got in their way. Their cries echoed through the town, panicked and desperate.

  “The Kariens are coming! The Kariens are coming!”

  “The Kariens!” Mandah shouted, echoing the hysterical cries of the mob. Tarja grunted as a sharp elbow jabbed him in the ribs and he turned to chide her for contributing to the chaos. But she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the entrance to the square. “Oh gods, Tarja, they're here!”

  Tarja turned to look in the direction of Mandah's pointing finger. At the entrance to the square a column of armoured knights was ploughing into the chaos, their pennons flapping wetly in the damp air. Whether the knights had intended to run down the people before them, or simply had not had time to stop their heavy warhorses, Tarja couldn't tell. In any case, the effect was the same. Harben's cries of impending doom had proved horribly prophetic.

  “Back this way!” he yelled, as he pulled Mandah along the wall to the corner of the inn. The narrow lane behind the tavern was cluttered with debris and fleeing refugees. Tarja pushed his way through, using his size and height to shove less motivated souls out of his way.

  “I was right!” Harben chortled gleefully as he leapt over a pile of garbage and raced ahead. “The Kariens are here!”

  “Get to the horses!” Tarja shouted after him. Harben waved to indicate he had heard the order and ran on. Tarja glanced over his shoulder to assure himself the others were following. Mandah stumbled beside him, her long skirts hampering her steps. Once past the inn he dragged Mandah into a small lane between the Heart and Hearth inn, and the livery next door.

  “Get rid of the jackets,” he ordered as the others followed them into the lane. He tore off his own distinctive red jacket and stuffed it behind a barrel full of rainwater placed to catch the run-off from the roof of the inn. The air was icy, but it was vastly preferable to being identified as a member of the defeated Medalonian army.

  “We'll never get past them,” Ghari predicted as he shoved his jacket down beside Tarja's.

  “We're not going to try. But sinking that ferry just changed from a good idea to an imperative.” The others nodded their agreement. With the Kariens quite literally on their heels, all objections were forgotten. “Mandah, you and Ghari follow Harben and get the horses ready. Borus, you and Torlin scout the north side of town. Find out if this is just an advance party, or if we really do have the Karien host just over the next hill. Paval, you ride back and warn the Fardohnyans that when we leave here, we'll be running and we might have half the damned Karien army on our heels.”

  The men nodded and slipped away. Mandah looked as if she might object, but Ghari gave her no chance. He grabbed her arm and headed back out into the lane behind the inn in the direction Harben had gone.

  “And the rest of us?” Rylan asked.

  “We're going back to the ferry. Kariens or not, it still has to dock. If we're ever going to have a chance at it, it will be in the next few minutes, before the Kariens take control of the town. We need to sink that ferry and get out of Cauthside before the Kariens arrive in force, or it's going to be a very long war.”

  They retraced their steps back to the square and turned towards the landing, pushing against the flow of the crowd, which had thinned considerably since the appearance of the Karien knights. The square
was a shambles of flattened tents, distraught mothers and screaming men trampled by the fleeing mob. Then there were the dozen or so knights who had ridden through them, milling about in the centre of the square, almost as confused about what had happened as the refugees.

  The ferrymen waited a little offshore, afraid to land, yet unable to hold for long against the current. They pulled on a rope as thick as a man's thigh that stretched from one side of the river to the other, clinging to it grimly to hold the boat steady. Tarja judged the distance between the ferry and the riverbank and realised it was too far to jump. He glanced up as a crack of thunder rumbled over the river. The sky was so low he felt he could almost touch it. Back in the square the Kariens were still too disorganised to even notice the ferry, let alone realise its strategic importance.

  “They can't hold the ferry in that current much longer,” Cyril noted.

  “It's going to rain again any moment,” Tarja added. “At least we'll have that small measure for cover.”

  “Aye,” Cyril agreed as thunder shook the ground. Jagged lightning brightened the dull afternoon for an instant. “Those knights will rust if they don't get indoors.”

  Tarja glanced at the older man, wondering if he was trying to be humorous, but his expression was grim. “If we can't destroy the ferry, we may have to settle for cutting it adrift.”

  The rope that secured the ferry on this side of the river was tied to a massive pylon sunk deep into the ground about ten paces from the landing. To cut through it would be time consuming and dangerous. The rope was wet and they had only their swords, which, although razor-sharp, were not designed for such a task. Even if they could attempt it unnoticed, it would take several long, exposed minutes to sever the rope, and the ferrymen who waited anxiously to haul the barge ashore were unlikely to let them attempt such a feat without objection. Surrender or not, the river was their livelihood. Crouched by the edge of a small warehouse, Tarja debated the issue for a moment then turned to his squad.

  “Lavyn, take Byl and Seffin and go pick a fight with the ferrymen. I want them too busy to notice what we're up to. Cyril, you stay here with the others and keep an eye on those knights. If they pay us no attention, stay out of their way. If they look like going anywhere near that ferry, call them out. Insult their mothers, if you have to. Whatever it takes to keep them off our backs.