The sound of metal against metal rang loudly as Tarja and his opponent moved back and forth, neither man trying to gain the advantage, simply working muscles to the point of fatigue and beyond to strengthen them. Mikel had heard one of the Medalonians say that it was the training you did after you reached the point of exhaustion that really counted. Everything you did up to that point was just warming up.
Tarja saw them approaching and held up his hand to halt the fight. His opponent lowered his sword and glanced at Mikel and Ghari. Realising that their appearance heralded the end of their bout, he raised his blade in salute to Tarja with a weary smile.
“You’re getting slow, Tarja. I can still stand up.”
“I’m getting slow,” Tarja laughed as he returned the salute. “More likely some Karien knight is going to make a trophy of your hide.”
The older man chuckled. “Perhaps, but he’ll have trampled you getting to me.” Captain Alcarnen picked up his shirt off the ground and wiped his forehead with it, then threw it over his shoulder. “Ghari,” he said with a nod as he walked past the young man.
“Captain,” Ghari replied, with a surprising amount of angst. Mikel looked at him curiously. He didn’t like Nheal at all, that much was obvious.
“You didn’t come looking for me for the pleasure of my company, I suppose?” Tarja asked. He slipped his shirt over his head but didn’t bother to tuck it in to his trousers.
“No,” Ghari agreed. “There’s a bit of trouble brewing in the followers’ camp. I thought maybe you could do something.”
The captain didn’t seem pleased. “What is it this time?”
“Some of our people tried to set up a temple to Zegarnald. The Defenders tore it down.”
“Heathen worship is against the law, Ghari. You know that and so do they.”
Ghari placed his hands on his hips and glared at Tarja. “Damn it, Tarja, we followed you here to save Medalon from the Kariens. You told us things would change, that we’d be free to worship our gods—”
“All right, I’ll speak to Jenga,” Tarja promised, obviously not pleased by the prospect then he turned his gaze on Mikel, who shivered with apprehension.
“And what of you, boy?” he asked abruptly. “What are you doing here?”
“Sister Mahina…she sent me to…a messenger came…from the front…she said…” Mikel could have cried as he stuttered under the scrutiny of the captain.
“I gather that means Sister Mahina has received a messenger from the front and she wants to see me?” he translated condescendingly. Mikel’s hatred surged through his veins like lava. I will kill this man one day, he swore silently. Tarja seemed oblivious to his animosity. “This could mean things are about to get interesting.”
“You think the rest of the Kariens have arrived?” Ghari asked.
“Either that, or they’ve packed up and gone home, which would be too much to hope for,” he said, sheathing his blade. “Has anyone told—” Tarja’s words were cut off by an ear-shattering whoop as the Hythrun Raiders suddenly thundered past them at a gallop, leaving them coated in a cloud of fine dust. Tarja glared at the troop angrily, spitting grit as he watched them vanish into the dust. “What in the name of the Founders are they up to?”
Ghari wiped his eyes. “Something’s caught their attention.”
Tarja shook his head in annoyance and followed the path of the Raiders. He strode ahead of Ghari and Mikel, who had to run to catch up. The Raiders had not gone far. They were milling about, shouting incomprehensibly a mere fifty paces from the edge of the camp, kicking up a cloud of dust as thick as a winter fog in Yarnarrow. Mikel watched the Raiders curiously, coughing as the dust tickled the back of his throat. He glanced over his shoulder and discovered most of the men on the training ground had stopped what they were doing and had turned to see what the commotion was about.
Tarja strode on, then suddenly stopped, frozen to the spot, as three figures began to materialise out of the dust. All three were on foot, and Mikel immediately recognised the figure in the centre, leading his lathered golden stallion, as the Hythrun Warlord who had been missing these past weeks. The man on his left Mikel had never seen before, but he was tall and lean with dark hair and walked with long, easy strides. Damin Wolfblade was grinning like a fool, obviously enormously pleased with himself. The tall man beside him simply looked satisfied. The figure to the right of the Warlord made Mikel gasp. It was a woman, he realised, wearing close-fitting dark leathers that showed every line of her statuesque body in startling detail, an outfit that would have seen her stoned had she dared wear it in Karien. As she neared them, the Warlord and the other man stopped and waited, letting her walk on alone. She was very tall and had long, dark red hair that fell in a thick braid to her waist. She was the most beautiful woman Mikel had ever seen, even when he was at court; prettier even than the Lady Chastity, who was supposed to be the most beautiful woman in all of Karien.
He glanced up at Tarja, whose expression had changed from anger to awe. As the woman walked towards him, Mikel thought he could have killed Tarja, had he a knife, and the captain wouldn’t have noticed, so enthralled did he seem at the sight of the pretty lady.
“By the gods!” Ghari breathed softly behind him. “She’s alive!”
Ghari apparently knew who the pretty lady was, but his words seemed to break the spell that held Tarja motionless. The captain walked out to meet her, and as soon as she saw him, the pretty lady broke into a run. She collided with Tarja, who swept her off the ground and spun her around in a full circle with an inarticulate cry. He was kissing her before her feet touched the ground, a deed that had the gathered army cheering and Mikel blushing with embarrassment at such a wanton public display.
“Who is she?” Mikel asked Ghari. He looked up at the young man and was startled to see his eyes misted with tears.
“R’shiel,” Ghari explained, although the name meant nothing to him. Ghari glanced down at him and ruffled his cropped hair with a grin. “She’s the demon child. She’s come back to us!”
That description meant as little to Mikel as the lady’s name, but it seemed fitting that a man as evil as Tarja would be attracted to a demon. The crowd flowed past him as the soldiers all converged on the returning Warlord and his companions. He quickly lost sight of Tarja and R’shiel as the crowd swallowed them.
Mikel turned away, his heart heavy. It was bad enough that these Medalonians seemed so organised and battle ready, but it was patently unfair that Tarja Tenragan was allowed to be happy, or that they had demons on their side. He impatiently brushed away tears of anger and said a silent prayer to Xaphista.
Help me, he prayed. The demon child has returned to help our enemies.
Mikel had no way of knowing if Xaphista had heard him or not.
He would have been astonished and delighted to know that he had.
CHAPTER 20
The Karien war camp proved to be as uncomfortable as Adrina had feared. Cratyn’s army was slow in gathering and many of his knights had been here far longer than they ever intended. The sixty days they owed their king was long past. What kept them at the border now was the hope of recovering some of the cost of their expedition once they reached Medalon, and the exhortations of the priesthood that this was a holy war. When one feared eternal damnation, it was easier to stay and fight. Food was scarce and so was fuel; winter was fast approaching. Nobody had expected the Defenders to be waiting on the border when the knights arrived.
The original force of five hundred had been deemed sufficient to cow the unprepared Medalonians and punish them for their temerity. Instead they were met by a large force of Defenders with Hythrun allies and defences that left the knights gasping. There was nothing hurried or hastily thought-out about their earthworks. Even to the inexperienced eye it was obvious that the Defenders planned to force the battle along a path of their choosing. Although Adrina heard some of the knights boast that the first sight of an armoured charge would send the Defenders scurrying, she knew b
etter. Whoever had planned the defence of the Medalon border had planned this long ago—and planned it well. Taking Medalon was not going to be easy, despite the Kariens’ numerical superiority and the much-talked-about blessing of the Overlord.
Not surprisingly, Adrina’s first appearance at the war council caused a stir, even more than Tristan’s inclusion. Tristan was a man, after all, and a warrior, for all that he was foreign. It was not considered seemly for a woman to involve herself in such manly pursuits as war, even in the unlikely event that she would have anything constructive to offer. Adrina bore the insults stoically, letting Cratyn defend his decision to his vassals. If he was going to lead these men, he needed the practice, anyway.
The war council was made up of the eight Dukes of Karien. The loudest was a heavy-set man with a thick neck and an even thicker intellect—Laetho, the Duke of Kirkland. Adrina marked him as a dangerous fool. He had apparently lost two of his servants a few months back, having sent the children over the border to spy on the Medalonians. It was safely assumed they were both dead. Only an idiot would, quite literally, send boys out to do a man’s job.
The man next to Laetho was as tall, but only half his girth. Lord Roache, the Duke of Morrus. He said little and gave the impression that he wasn’t listening, more often than not, but when he did comment, it was obvious he had not missed a word of the discussion. Adrina regarded him with caution.
Next to Roache, she was delighted to discover Cratyn’s cousin Drendyn, the Earl of Tiler’s Pass. His father was too infirm to make the journey to the border and had sent his son in his place. Drendyn was young and enthusiastic, but dangerously inexperienced. He had never faced a man in battle, never had his life seriously threatened. Adrina thought it likely he would die, sooner rather than later, no doubt doing something exceptionally foolish, which he considered exceptionally brave. It was a pity really, because she quite liked the young Earl.
The fourth member of the council was even younger and more inexperienced than Drendyn. Jannis, the Earl of Menthall, was also here in the place of his father, although Tam had heard it rumoured that the reason the old Duke was absent had something to do with the “wages of sin”. Adrina wondered if it meant he’d caught the pox, but it was hardly a question she could put to any of her Karien companions, and the reason hardly mattered anyway. Dark and slender, Jannis was barely more than a child and agreed with everyone, even when they disagreed with each other.
On the other side of the long trestle table set up in the large command tent was Palen, the Duke of Lake Isony. He was a lot smarter than he looked. He had the ruddy face of a peasant and the mind of a general, Adrina decided. If Cratyn listened to his advice, he might even win this war. On Palen’s right sat Ervin, the Duke of Windhaven. His purpose seemed entirely decorative. He was dressed in blue velvet with snowy lace collar and cuffs, and spent more time fiddling with his moustaches than he did taking part in the conversation. When he did speak up it was usually on a point that had been passed over ten minutes before.
Next to Ervin was a stout, middle-aged man with a patch over one eye. The Duke of Nerlin, Wherland had the unfortunate nickname of Whirlin’ Nerlin, but he was an experienced fighter, having spent time in the gulf fighting Fardohnyan pirates. His advice was always preceded with the comment, “When I was in the navy…”. But he wasn’t a fool, and when he finally figured out how to fight on dry land, he would be a dangerous opponent.
The last of the Dukes should have been Chastity’s father Terbolt, the Duke of Setenton; however, he had sent his brother, Lord Ciril, in his place. A heavier version of his older brother, Ciril didn’t look surprised at her inclusion. He had already suffered through her unwelcome presence when she visited his brother’s castle on the way to Yarnarrow. Adrina wondered why Terbolt had stayed at home, hoping there was nothing sinister in his unexplained absence. As for Ciril, she marked him as a stolid, if unimaginative knight, who would advise caution, but would see any battle plan through to the bitter end.
She said nothing during the first meeting of the council and had, via Tamylan, advised Tristan to do the same. If they asked him a direct question, she translated it for him and then dutifully repeated his answers to the Dukes. To his credit, Tristan gave no sign that he understood a word of the discussion going on around him, even when the Kariens suggested things that, under normal circumstances, would have made him laugh out loud. By the time the meeting broke up, nothing had been decided, and there were eight dukes with eight different ideas as to how the battle should be engaged, well, seven in reality—Jannis agreed with everyone—and one very confused young prince.
When the tent finally emptied, leaving Cratyn and Adrina alone, she turned to him with a hopeful smile.
“It is the right time in my cycle, your Highness. Can I expect you tonight?”
“I’ll see. I have a lot to do.”
“Of course, however, it’s been several months now and we still haven’t consummated our union. Perhaps here, on the battlefield, you might find the…fortitude…to get the job done.”
Cratyn glared at her, his expression a mixture of hatred and despair. “Don’t push me, Adrina.”
“Push you, husband? I doubt pushing you would achieve any more than pulling your limp sword has so far.”
“You taunt me at your peril, Adrina.”
She laughed. “Peril? What peril? What are you going to do, Cretin? Hit me again?”
“I’m warning you…”
“Does your sword get hard when you think of Chastity, my dear?”
Cratyn flew out his chair and turned to face her. He was red faced with shame and shaking with fury. “Don’t you even mention her name, you pagan whore! I’m not fooled by this act you’re putting on! If I cannot lay with you, it is because the Overlord does not wish me to sully myself in your filth!”
Adrina took a step backwards, her hand on Tiler’s collar. The dog took exception to Cratyn’s tone and he was growling softly, warningly.
“Perhaps you’re right, Cretin. Perhaps you are cast in the image of your god. He’s undoubtedly an emasculated idiot, too.”
Cratyn snatched up a map from the table and made a show of studying it. His hands were shaking with suppressed rage. “Return to your tent, Adrina, and take that damned beast with you. I will come to you when the Overlord assures me the time is right, not to satisfy your crude heathen lust.”
“Lust? Now there’s a word I never thought to associate with you. Are you sure you know what it means?”
“Get out.”
“Get out, your Highness,” she corrected.
He slammed the map onto the table. “Get out! Go back to your tent and stay there! I will not tolerate your pagan disrespect a moment longer!”
His shout had Tiler lunging against her hold. He bared his teeth at the prince defiantly.
“Don’t you dare take that tone with me, you impotent fool! I am a Princess of Fardohnya!”
“You are a heathen slut,” he cried angrily.
She couldn’t hold Tiler any longer. He slipped her hold and lunged for the prince. Cratyn threw his hand up to protect his face as the dog flew at him. His cry brought the guards running from outside the tent.
It almost happened too quickly for Adrina to see. Tiler had Cratyn pinned against the table. The guards saw nothing but their prince under attack. Adrina saw the blade in the hand of the guard and screamed as she realised what they intended. She threw herself at the dog, but the guards were quicker. Tiler squealed with agony as the guard ran him through.
“No!” she sobbed as the dog slid to the ground.
“Sire? Are you all right?” the guard asked with concern as he helped Cratyn up. Tiler had savaged his arm, but he had managed to fend off the worst of the attack.
“You killed my dog!” Adrina accused, unaware of the tears coursing down her face. “I want him punished, Cretin! He killed my dog!”
“Your damned dog was trying to kill me!” Cratyn gasped, still shaking from fear and shock.
“I’m more inclined to knight him.”
Adrina brushed away her tears and gently kissed Tiler’s limp head before climbing to her feet.
“You’ll pay for this,” she warned, then she turned and walked out of the tent with all the regal bearing her breeding and ancestry allowed.
When she reached her own tent she dismissed her ladies-in-waiting impatiently and called for Tam. When her maid found her, she was tearing at the laces of her bodice impatiently, sobbing inconsolably.
“Here, let me do that,” Tam offered, as she saw Adrina struggling. The princess knocked the offered hand away.
“No! I can do it myself! I want you to go and see Tristan. We’re getting out of here.”
The young woman studied her closely. “Out of here? How?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. But we’re leaving and I don’t care what it does to the alliance, to the war, or to my father. I’ve had enough!”
“We’re a thousand leagues from home in the middle of a battlefield on the border of an enemy nation,” Tamylan pointed out. “Where are you planning to go, your Highness?”
Adrina glared at her in annoyance then sagged onto her bed. It was a large four-poster that had taken a full team of oxen to bring it to the front. One of the trappings of her station designed to inconvenience Cratyn.
“I don’t know,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes. “Oh, Tam, they killed Tiler!”
The slave opened her arms and she sobbed against Tamylan’s shoulder hopelessly. Grief was a new emotion for Adrina. She had never before lost a living soul she had loved.
“There, there, I know it hurts, but it will pass in time,” Tam advised.
Adrina wiped her eyes and sat up determinedly. “I can’t do this any more, Tamylan. I don’t care if there’s a crown at the end of it. I cannot bear these people. It’s like a prison.”
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