Medalon dct-1

by Jennifer Fallon

  The cabin was sumptuously furnished. Everything – the bedhead, the chairs, the paneled walls – was inlaid with gold, and everywhere the five-pointed star intersected with a lightning bolt shone out. Even the blue satin quilt on the bed was embroidered with the symbol, beautifully worked in gold thread. The richness of the cabin was overpowering.

  “You stand in the presence of the Overlord’s representative,” Elfron told her. “You are unclean. You will cleanse yourself and dress more appropriately before we begin.” He indicated a jug and washbowl that lay on the table next to a small covered tray. Over the back of one of the chairs was a rough cassock, similar to the one that Elfron wore, which seemed plain and ordinary amid the sumptuousness of the cabin. R’shiel eyed him warily, but Elfron appeared to have no more interest in her than he would in any other animal. R’shiel did as he ordered, turning her back to him as she peeled off her clothes. Elfron continued to watch her as she washed herself with all the concern he might have shown watching a cat lick itself clean. She pulled on the rough, itchy cassock and turned to face him.

  “You may eat,” he told her, indicating the tray.

  R’shiel removed the covering cloth and discovered a loaf of dry black bread and a small pitcher of wine. It was quite the most lavish feast she had ever consumed. She ate the bread hungrily and drank every drop of the watered wine, watching the priest out of the corner of her eye. Elfron continued to ignore her until she had finished. As she wiped the last crumbs of the bread from her mouth with the back of her hand, he nodded with satisfaction.

  “You will now tell me where the Harshini settlement is hidden,” he announced in the same implacable tone as he had ordered her to wash and eat.

  R’shiel glanced at the staff warily before she answered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Lying is a sin. You will answer honestly, or suffer the wrath of Xaphista’s staff.”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know. The Harshini are dead. I’m not one of them. I’m as human as you are.”

  “You are not human,” Elfron declared, moving the staff so that he held it in both hands. The lantern light glittered dangerously off the precious stones. “You are the essence of Harshini evil. You wear the body of a whore, designed to tempt the righteous from the true path. Your beauty is contrived and designed solely to beguile pious men. You flaunt your woman’s body and seduce devout souls with your godless magic. The Overlord spoke to me in a vision and demanded your surrender. He will not – cannot – be denied.”

  R’shiel stepped backward as he ranted. She didn’t know if Elfron was mad or merely devoted to the point of insanity, and it really didn’t matter. The end result was the same. He stepped forward and brought down the staff sharply across R’shiel’s already tender shoulder. Once again the agony shot through her, forcing a scream of soul-wrenching torment. He held it there as she fell to the floor, chanting under his breath in a slow litany. R’shiel screamed and screamed until her throat was raw, and then she screamed again.

  Elfron’s eyes were alight with religious fervor as he watched her, his pleasure almost sexual in its intensity. R’shiel’s cries were incoherent in their terror and agony as fire lanced through her body – she felt as though a white-hot sword slashed her.

  “You fool! You’ll kill her!”

  The agony suddenly eased as Pieter snatched the staff from Elfron’s hand. The priest looked down at R’shiel’s sobbing, twitching body.

  “Xaphista will see that she lives long enough to be sacrificed.”

  “Well, I’d prefer not to put the Overlord to the trouble. I said you could question her, not make her scream like a banshee. Every farmlet in a five-league radius probably heard her, you fool!”

  Elfron snatched the staff back from the knight. “Why do you seek to spare her?” he asked. “Has the insidious lure of the witch overcome you?”

  Pieter glanced down at R’shiel’s limp, trembling body with disgust. “She has you in a thrall, more likely,” the knight scoffed. “I find her repulsive. Put her back in the storeroom and leave her be. She is no use to either of us like this. Not even our people would consider that a threat.” He waved his arm disdainfully toward the terrified, sobbing girl.

  Elfron sniffed, bowing reluctantly to the knight’s logic. “Have her removed, then.”

  Pieter’s eyes narrowed at the presumptuous order, but he obeyed. R’shiel felt strong, rough hands dragging her to her feet and back down the long passage to her cell. They threw her in, and she landed heavily on the floor. She dragged herself over to the pile of musty sacks as she heard the door being locked. As she lost consciousness, her last thought was an idle question: How much pain does it take to die?

  chapter 51

  “Did you really speak with a dragon?”

  Tarja glanced at the captain. The Fardohnyan gripped the wheel of the riverboat, steering it with unconscious skill as the Maera’s Daughter flew southward. Running with the current and under a full set of sails, the small boat was making astounding speed. They had traveled through the night, though even Drendik had balked at doing that under sail, settling for running with the current instead. As soon as dawn broke, the Fardohnyans and the rebels had set the sails, and a crisp breeze had sprung up, snapping the canvas sharply and pushing the boat on. Drendik had assured Tarja it was proof the gods favored their mission. Tarja privately considered it nothing more than luck, but he was not about to offend the Fardohnyan’s beliefs. “Yes, I truly spoke with a dragon.”

  During the long night and the following day, Tarja had related most of his tale to the Fardohnyans. He had finally managed to sleep earlier this morning and had come up on deck to find them much farther south than he would have thought possible. Drendik was confident they would overtake the Karien boat by nightfall. He had seen it in his travels and gave Tarja a long list of reasons why it would not move very fast, starting with the basic stupidity of its design and finishing with the incompetence of its crew. But more than anything, Drendik was enchanted by the idea that Tarja had met a dragon.

  “You are truly blessed by the Divine Ones, if they allowed you to speak to a dragon,” Drendik assured him. “Even our most powerful magicians only claim to have heard of them. I never met anyone who actually spoke to a demon meld before.”

  “Neither have I.”

  The big Fardohnyan laughed. “You’re all right for an atheist.”

  “Where are we?” Tarja asked, glancing at the rolling grasslands that faded into the distance on either side of the river. The sun hovered low over the jagged purple horizon in the distance that was the Sanctuary Mountains.

  “About four days from Bordertown at this speed,” Drendik told him. “We should find them soon.” He glanced at the setting sun on the western horizon. “They will pull into the bank for the night.”

  Tarja was willing to believe anything that Drendik told him that meant they would catch the Karien Envoy before he left Medalon, although Drendik’s assessment was more than likely correct. Unfamiliar-ity with the Glass River was a prime cause of accidents on the vast waterway. Even Tarja, who had spent little time on the river, knew that.

  “And when we find them? What then?” Tarja asked. “If you help us storm the boat, it will be considered an act of piracy.”

  Drendik shrugged. “Storming a Karien boat to rescue a Divine One would be considered an act of great chivalry where I come from.” He slapped Tarja’s shoulder companionably, almost knocking him down. “You are kind to worry, but we were heading south anyway. We only make this trek once a year. By next year they will have forgotten about us.”

  “You don’t have to help,” Tarja assured him. “We can do it on our own.”

  “What? You, the young hothead, and the old man?” Drendik said, highly amused at the idea. “I admire your courage, rebel, but not your common sense.”

  “Just thought I’d offer.”

  “That’s settled then,” Drendik announced, glancing at the rapidly setting sun a
gain. “Aber! Reef that mainsail! At this rate we’ll sail straight past them!”

  They sailed on as darkness settled over the river and the nighttime chorus of insects struck up their evening song. The Maera’s Daughter slipped silently through the water on the very edge of the current. Tarja glanced up at the main mast, where Aber was perched precariously, watching for the telltale lanterns. Ghari and Gazil were in the bow, watching for any sign that would betray the presence of the Kariens. Tarja stood with Padric and Drendik, who skillfully kept the riverboat hovering between the still waters of the river’s edge and the powerful current in the center. They sailed on in the darkness for hours, in the same state of nervous anticipation, until Tarja was certain they had either passed the Karien boat, or Drendik was wrong in assuming they would stop for the night.

  A low whistle from Aber caused them all to look up. The sailor pointed to the western bank, and Tarja quickly followed his arm. Almost too faint to make out, several small pinpoints of light twinkled in the darkness.

  Drendik wrenched the wheel of the boat around toward the western bank, and Tarja cringed as she creaked in complaint. Aber and Gazil raced to set the gaff sail as Drendik cut sharply across the current, angling toward the opposite bank. They were running without lights, but Tarja was certain someone on board must see them as the current took them closer and closer. The bulk of the top-heavy Karien ship took shape in the darkness. Maera’s Daughter seemed tiny in comparison. Drendik eased the little boat into the bank and Tarja felt it bump gently against reeds. A small splash sounded as Gazil dropped the anchor and Aber scurried down the mast in the darkness. The men gathered on the deck and looked at Tarja expectantly.

  “Can you all swim?” he asked, as it suddenly occurred to him that his grand rescue would fall rather short of the mark if his small band of heroes drowned before they got to the Karien ship. A series of nods reassured him his plan was workable, and he quietly issued his orders. Aber and Ghari were to take the bow, Gazil and Padric the stern, leaving the midships for Drendik and Tarja. It was likely that R’shiel was being held below decks so Tarja and Drendik would make their way below while the others took care of any resistance above. The men nodded silently in the darkness, not questioning his orders.

  “Let’s go then,” he said.

  “You have forgotten something,” Drendik reminded him. “The priest.”

  “What about the priest?” Padric asked. His eyes looked haunted in the darkness, as if he bore some terrible guilt.

  “Kill the priest,” Tarja said. “If we do nothing else, we kill the priest.”

  Drendik and the Fardohnyans nodded in agreement. Padric seemed equally content. Only Ghari glanced at Tarja with a doubtful look. Tarja shrugged, as if to tell the young man that he had no idea why it was so important to kill the priest but that the Harshini and the Fardohnyans both thought the world would be a better place without him.

  The water was icy as Tarja slipped into the shallows next to Maera’s Daughter and gently pushed out into the river. With a borrowed Fardohnyan sword strapped to his back and a viciously barbed Fardohnyan dagger between his teeth, Tarja swam toward the bulk of the Karien vessel. He could make out the bobbing heads of his companions as they moved toward the ship. The length of rope he carried over his shoulder was quickly becoming soaked, and he could feel it weighing him down as the river deepened near the hull of the bigger vessel. He looked up at the deck as he unhooked the rope, wondering how he could get enough swing up to hook the rope over the railing, which towered over him. A soft whistle caught his attention and he turned. As if sensing his dilemma, Aber held up the grappling hook attached to his own rope and began circling it overhead, letting a little more of the rope out with each revolution. Finally, he flung the rope up, letting the momentum of the swing and the weight of the hook carry the rope upward. It landed with a clatter on the deck and wrapped itself around a carved upright. With a silent nod, Tarja thanked the boy for his demonstration and followed suit. He winced at the sound of the hook scraping across the deck, but it seemed to attract no attention from above. Tarja tugged on the rope to assure himself that it would hold and began to pull himself up, hand over hand, onto the deck.

  The main deck was deserted, which worried Tarja, as he hauled himself over the railing and dropped into a low, dripping crouch. He grasped the dagger in his left hand. He saw Drendik climb over the starboard rail and glance around, his beard dripping, a curious shrug greeting the absence of any guards.

  Tarja pointed to the large carved door amidships, below the poop deck. With a nod, they moved silently toward it. Tarja glanced around again before trying the gilt handle. He cried out as a white-hot bolt of pain tore through his arm, leaving it numb to the shoulder. Almost as soon as he triggered the magical alarm, the deck came to life as a dozen or more armed Kariens emerged from their hiding places. A flare of light split the night from the poop deck. The small band of invaders backed up nervously, staring up at the specter of the Karien priest who stood on the poop deck clutching a blazing staff in one hand and holding R’shiel by the hair with the other.

  “Is this what you have come for?” the priest crowed, jerking R’shiel’s head back. In an instant, any lingering doubt Tarja had about the fate of the priest vanished. “Drop your weapons!”

  Reluctantly, the Fardohnyans and the rebels did as they were bid. The Karien sailors rushed forward to herd the would-be pirates together as Tarja stared up at R’shiel. There were no marks on her that he could see, but she looked dazed and limp. Blinded by the magical light from the staff, it was more than likely that she did not know who her erstwhile rescuers were.

  As they were gathered together, Tarja realized that Padric had not been apprehended. He was to have taken the poop deck with Gazil. Was he dead already, or had the priest revealed his presence before the old man could haul himself aboard?

  As if in answer to his unspoken question, a yell came from the poop deck as Padric ran at the priest, his sword held high, aimed squarely at the priest’s exposed back. The priest turned and threw R’shiel aside as he raised his arm to ward off the attack. Almost casually, the Karien Envoy stepped forward and ran the old man through.

  Tarja and his companions did not waste time grieving for him. The startled priest dropped the staff and the boat was suddenly plunged into darkness. They dived for their weapons as the Kariens milled in confusion. Tarja tripped on the pile of discarded weapons. He found a sword, scooped it up with his left hand and ran it into the shadow that appeared before him, relieved that he had not run through one of his own men by mistake, when the man screamed a Karien curse. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he ran toward the companionway, his only thought to get to R’shiel before the priest could retrieve his staff and light the boat again. By the time he reached the poop deck, his eyes were accustomed to the dim starlight, although his sword arm still hung uselessly by his side, numbed from the magical blast. The priest was on his hands and knees, feeling about for the staff that lay just out of his reach. The Envoy was standing at the head of the companionway on the far side of the deck, fighting off a determined attack from the Fardohnyan captain. R’shiel lay near the fallen staff.

  “R’shiel!”

  She ignored the priest for a moment and turned toward him. As Elfron reached for the staff, she suddenly seemed to come alive. She kicked it away from him and scrambled to her feet. A Karien sailor behind him distracted Tarja for a moment. He turned, banging the railing painfully with his useless right hand and kicked the man in the face, throwing him backward into two more Kariens who were trying to follow him up the companionway. When he turned back, a blinding light split the night again, but it was R’shiel who held the staff, not the priest.

  Screaming, she grimly clung to the staff, as if holding it caused excruciating pain. The priest screeched an agonized protest. With an incomprehensible cry, she swung the staff in a wide arc and smashed it against the mizzenmast.

  The light from the staff died in a moment of com
plete darkness, then the mast suddenly burst into flame. Within seconds the flames spread along the boat in strange green lines of fire. Tarja jumped back from the rail as it flared beneath his hand. The magical fire consumed the wards protecting the ship like they were lines of lamp oil, blistering the garish blue paint and eating into the wood beneath. In less than a minute, the entire ship was ablaze.

  “Tarja!” R’shiel screamed, as she dropped the broken staff, holding her burned hands out in front of her. He ran toward her, leaping the rising flames that stood between them. Only the fact that he was drenched from his swim saved him from the inferno. Drendik reached them about the same time. The Karien Envoy lay at the head of the companionway, the Fardohnyan’s sword embedded in the center of his decorated armored chest. Tarja spared the captain a glance, wondering at the strength of the man. The Karien’s armor might have been ceremonial, but it still took a great deal of strength to pierce it. As he reached R’shiel, she collapsed into his arms. Pins and needles attacked his numb right arm as the feeling began to return. Tarja threw his sword to Drendik. The Fardohnyan snatched it from the air and turned on the priest, slicing the man from shoulder to belly where he stood. Without hesitating, Tarja ran for the side of the boat, crashing through the flaming rail into the darkness and the safety of the river below. R’shiel, the loose cassock aflame, screamed as she felt them falling. Then the dark icy water swallowed them, pulling them down into its glassy depths.

  chapter 52

  In the dawn light, the smoldering hull of the Karien boat looked forlorn, floating near the shore amid the burned flotsam of what had once been a mighty, if rather cumbersome vessel. It had burned to the waterline. Another smoking pile smoldered on the shore, where the bodies of the Karien sailors had been cremated. Gazil, Aber, and Ghari spent the remainder of the night at their grizzly task, gathering the bodies from the water’s edge and throwing them on the impromptu funeral pyre. The Fardohnyans were not pleased with the cremations but were willing to make an exception for the Kariens, particularly when Tarja pointed out what would happen if the bodies washed up downstream. The body of the Envoy had not been recovered. Tarja supposed he had sunk into the muddy river, weighted down by his ornate armor. The body of the priest lay separate from the pyre. Tarja would not let them burn it, not yet. They were all tired and filthy, worn out by the night’s exertions and suffering the typical letdown of men who had faced death and then discovered, somewhat to their surprise, that they had survived.