Medalon (16 page)

The day was as bleak as Jenga’s mood as he headed across the parade ground toward his office to the tattoo of booted feet as a squad of fourth-year Cadets practiced formation marching. The Citadel looked as unchanged as it had yesterday or the day before. The domes and spires still sparkled in the dull light. The Brightening and Dimming still waxed and waned as it had for two millennia or more. Winter was slowly relinquishing its grip on the highlands and soon the plains would bloom with their carpet of spring flowers. But for now, the day was cold and miserable and Jenga was looking forward to the warmth his office promised. It seemed to have been such a long winter.

The atmosphere in the Citadel had changed dramatically after the fateful Gathering at the beginning of winter that saw Mahina unseated, the first time in living memory such a startling event had occurred. There was an air of tension now that permeated every part of the Citadel from the taverns to the Dormitories, from the Sisters of the Quorum to the lowliest pig-herder.

The Defenders were on constant alert as Joyhinia kept her promise to the Karien Envoy. Daily, red-coated patrols marched or rode out of the Citadel, returning days or weeks later, grim-faced and silent, with wagonloads of helpless-looking prisoners accused of following the heathen gods. Some of them were little more than children. It was obvious to everyone that the Defenders didn’t agree with the Purge, but the Lord Defender had sworn an oath. Jenga had been forced to discipline more than one of his officers for voicing opinions at odds with the First Sister’s policy of suppression. It was his duty.

To cater for the sudden increase of accused heathens, Joyhinia had set up a special court, chaired by Harith, which dealt with the influx of prisoners requiring trial. From what Jenga had seen, the trials were little more than a formality, the sentences the same, regardless of circumstance. Arrest was proof enough of guilt and every Fourthday another caravan of tried and convicted heathens was dispatched to the Grimfield mines, where before the prisoners of the Citadel had only needed to be dispatched once a month. Jenga found himself constantly having to remind his men to be certain, beyond doubt, before they arrested anyone, while Joyhinia undermined him by addressing the Defenders personally, telling them that suspicion was enough. Where there is smoke there is fire, the First Sister was fond of saying.

In the aftermath of Mahina’s removal, Wilem Cortanen, Mahina’s son, was hastily appointed as Commandant of the Grimfield and was gone from the Citadel within days, his mother, now officially retired, and his dreadful wife Crisabelle in tow. To Jenga’s
mind, it was the one bright spot in the whole miserable affair. Many might regret Mahina’s banishment and it was common knowledge that Wilem’s posting was not to his liking, although he was well qualified for the post and would undoubtedly prove an effective administrator. But nobody in the Citadel, Jenga thought, was going to miss Crisabelle.

Lord Pieter had stayed at the Citadel until the day before, when he rode out of the gates with a full guard of honour to escort him to Brodenvale. He had stayed through the winter—partly to supervise the implementation of the Purge and partly because he wanted to sail home. He had no choice but to wait while his ship sailed north against the current to the nearest port. The Saran River that flowed past the Citadel was too shallow to be navigable. News had finally come that the ship had docked in Brodenvale and planned to take full advantage of the spring flood to hasten the Envoy’s journey home. Lord Pieter had cooled his heels in the Citadel, frustrated and helpless under Elfron’s watchful eyes, for long enough.

Lord Pieter had not had a moment’s privacy in the three months he spent at the Citadel. The rest of the Envoy’s party, including Elfron’s nuns, had shared the protection of the Envoy between them, apparently terrified that he might be tempted into sin by some wicked atheist. Jenga wondered if the Karien clergy had any inkling of Pieter’s behaviour when he came to the Citadel without them. The nuns were dedicated in their duty and Pieter’s frustration was a palpable thing. He waited and fretted, and spent a vexatious winter of abstinence. Elfron had looked thoroughly miserable
riding out of the Citadel empty handed. Jenga still had no clue as to why the priest wanted R’shiel, and even Pieter seemed annoyed when the priest suggested they wait at the Citadel until she was found. Whatever the priest had in mind for the girl, Pieter didn’t share his enthusiasm. He wanted to go home.

Occasionally, Jenga overheard a few of the Defenders muttering something about Joyhinia and whether or not R’shiel was really her daughter, but such conversations usually stopped as soon as he entered the room. Tarja’s accusations had spread through the Citadel like a summer cold. R’shiel’s disappearance had fuelled speculation, but fear of Joyhinia kept the rumours to an occasional furtive whisper. It was not a safe topic. The First Sister had spies everywhere. Jenga was grateful for that. Exposing Joyhinia’s lies meant exposing his own, and Dayan could still be tried, even after all this time.

Tarja had wisely fled the Citadel. Jenga assumed R’shiel went with him to avoid being handed over to the Kariens, although he couldn’t say. Even Davydd Tailorson, the last person to have seen her in the Citadel, didn’t know where she had gone. Although there were many reported sightings, nothing reliable had been heard of either Tarja or R’shiel for months. A warrant had been issued for Tarja’s arrest, listing him as a deserter. If caught, he would be hanged. R’shiel had been branded a thief—she had taken a silver hand mirror, or some other trifle from Joyhinia’s apartment before she vanished.

Tarja had always been a favourite son of the Defenders, respected by his peers, even when he had run afoul of Trayla. Defying Joyhinia had, if
anything, increased the admiration of his fellow officers, who applauded his courage, though they questioned his wisdom. But when he walked away from the Defenders he had broken a sacred oath to the Corps, if not the current First Sister. That was unforgivable. Jenga knew, just from the talk in the taverns, that if found, Tarja would be unlikely to make it back to the Citadel alive. Too many officers felt that Tarja had betrayed them.

As the Purge continued unabated, there was a growing feeling of discontent among his officers. Arresting heathens was one thing, but the evidence required to convict a citizen of pagan worship was becoming less and less substantial. There were cases, Jenga suspected, where neighbours had accused each other to gain land.

It was rumoured that the Purge was being used to settle old scores. It was as bad as the old days, some claimed, when two centuries ago the Sisterhood had set out to destroy the Harshini. Jenga found that hard to believe. Even the Sisters of the Blade acknowledged that had been a time of darkness. To think Joyhinia had returned Medalon to that bleak and best forgotten past, while he was in command of the Defenders…it was too awful to contemplate. He did not wish to be remembered by history as a butcher or a tyrant.

Jenga opened the door to his office and the relative warmth of the room brought his thoughts back to the present.

“I was hoping you’d be back soon,” Garet Warner said, lifting his feet from Jenga’s desk without apology.

“Make yourself at home.”

The Commandant removed himself from Jenga’s chair to make room for his superior. He took the hard-backed wooden chair on the other side of the desk as Jenga reclaimed his own leather seat.

“How did your meeting with the First Sister go?”

“The same as usual.”

“That bad, eh?” Garet Warner had little respect for Joyhinia but he usually had the sense to keep his opinion to himself. “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think things are about to get worse.”

“It must be bad news indeed,” Jenga agreed heavily. “Have the Kariens invaded? The Hythrun, perhaps? Or is there a Fardohnyan fleet sailing up the Glass River to attack us?”

“If only we should be so lucky. I’m afraid my news is about Tarja.”

Jenga’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been bringing me reports of Tarja’s whereabouts all winter, Garet. None has proved worth a pinch of horse dung.”

Garet appeared unconcerned by the criticism. “Tarja’s one of the best officers the Defenders have ever produced, my Lord. Does it surprise you that he’s been able to give us the slip for so long?”

“No more than it surprises me that you’ve been unable to locate him. Have you something useful this time?”

“There’s been some trouble with a patrol. In a village called Reddingdale.”

“What happened?”

“The patrol was attacked. Three men were killed.”

“So the villagers fought back? I’m surprised none have tried it sooner.”

“I agree, we’ve been lucky so far. But I think the Purge has finally pushed some of the heathens too far. There are rumours of an organised rebellion. I’ve nothing definite yet, but not all the pagans worship benign gods. There are quite a few willing to put up a fight.”

“And you think this incident in Reddingdale is somehow connected with this organised rebellion?” Jenga asked.

“I’m almost certain of it.”

“And what of Tarja? You said you had news of him?”

“He was there,” Garet told him. “So was R’shiel, by all accounts. Tarja killed two Defenders. The other, I’m not certain about, although one report I have says it was R’shiel who killed him. The sergeant of the patrol identified them.”

Jenga shook his head. Had the world become so skewed that Tarja would turn on the Defenders? Or that R’shiel would kill a man?

“What do you think?” he asked. Perhaps Garet’s more objective view would offer some comfort.

“I think we have an organised rebellion on our hands,” Garet said. “And that Tarja and R’shiel are involved with them. Tarja’s a captain of the Defenders and R’shiel was raised to be a Sister of the Blade with Joyhinia Tenragan as her role model. I don’t think we’re facing a few fanatical heathens any more, Jenga. With those two on the loose we could be facing a bloody civil war.”

Tarja left the Citadel in the storm that beat at the city with angry whiplashes of lightning, taking the chance that Jenga had offered him without giving much thought to the consequences. He took only his horse, his sword and the clothes on his back, with the exception of his distinctive red Defenders jacket, which he left folded on his bunk. He rode out of the Citadel in the rain, dressed much as he had been when he was fighting on the southern border.

R’shiel was waiting for him at the small village of Kordale, cloaked against the rain, riding her long-legged grey mare with a pack thrown over her shoulder. She had fled the Citadel taking with her only a change of clothes, a few personal belongings, and every single coin Joyhinia had in her apartment. Her decision to run away appeared to have been far easier than his. She was bound by no oaths, hampered by no thoughts of treason. But she was nursing a smouldering rage which manifested itself as stubbornness. He had no more hope of convincing her she should turn back than he had of convincing himself.

At first, R’shiel’s determination and the coin she had stolen had sustained them. Of course, she didn’t consider it stolen. If Joyhinia was prepared to sell her to the Kariens, she told him, then she was entitled to a share in the profits. They rode south for want of a better direction. North was Karien. To the south lay Hythria and Fardohnya. Both countries were big enough to lose themselves in. Tarja was, after all, a professional soldier. There were plenty of openings for men with his skills, particularly in Hythria, where the seven Hythrun Warlords constantly waged war on each other. R’shiel was well educated and there were plenty of noble families in the south who would pay well for a Medalonian governess, or even a bookkeeper. As Bereth had pointed out, the Sisters of the Blade were the best-trained bureaucrats in the world. Without even discussing it, they found themselves heading for Hythria.

They were on the road for a week or more before Tarja realised he had unconsciously decided to seek out Damin Wolfblade, and hire himself out as a mercenary. The Defenders thought mercenaries the scum of the earth, but in Hythria they were a necessary part of life. The southerners considered an army far better manned by career mercenaries, whose survival depended on their battle skills, than resentful slaves, or conscripts whose first concern was their farm or their sweetheart back home. Tarja found himself having to revise his own opinion. He no longer had the luxury of taking the high moral ground. He was a deserter. His life would be forfeit should the Defenders apprehend him and he did not doubt that Joyhinia had ordered them to hunt him
down relentlessly until they did. He had humiliated her in public. That thought almost made defying her worthwhile.

But it was a long way to Hythria and what coin they did have wouldn’t last long if spent on inns. Besides, they were too well known in the lands around the Citadel to risk such creature comforts. So they cut inland, away from the Glass River, across the low Hallowdean Mountains and the Cliffwall, through the isolated farms and villages of central Medalon.

For most of the winter they survived by R’shiel’s wits and Tarja’s hunting skills, or by hiring themselves out for a few days at a time to farmers, who would gladly trade a warm stable and a hot meal for chores around the farm. They dared not stay in one place too long. News of his desertion was only hours behind them. It wouldn’t take much for the farmers to recall the tall redhead and the dark-haired stranger who had stopped at their holding at a time when few people chose to travel.

R’shiel’s anger abated after a while, although Tarja suspected it would take little to fan it back into life. She began to treat their desperate flight like some grand adventure. She was pleasant company for the most part, provided they stayed off the topic of Joyhinia. She never complained, never shirked any task he asked of her. She had surprised him at the first farm they sought shelter, when she had introduced herself as his wife, rather than his sister. The Defenders were hunting for them, she explained when they were alone. If they questioned the farmer later, they might not connect the nice young couple on their way to visit their families in the south with the deserter and his
runaway sister they were pursuing. Tarja didn’t think the Defenders quite so easily fooled, but it seemed a wise precaution, so he didn’t make an issue of it.

Joyhinia’s Purge further complicated matters. Defender patrols were everywhere, despite the weather, in places they had not been seen for years. They had a narrow escape in the village of Alton, a small hamlet in central Medalon that consisted of a handful of families, all so interrelated that it was impossible to tell where one family began and another ended. They had just settled down for the evening. R’shiel was huddled close to him for warmth, drifting into a light doze to the pungent smell of the warm stable. He had grown used her sleeping next to him over the winter.

He was weary and stiff from an afternoon spent swinging an axe when the sound of horses reached him, jerking him awake. He peered through the split wood of the loft and discovered a Defender patrol milling about in the street below. The lieutenant in charge was asking something of one of the villagers. Perhaps they were not looking for them specifically, but that would soon change if they were discovered here. Even his horse, stabled below, would give him away. The distinctive breeding of a Defender cavalry mount was easily recognisable. He shook R’shiel awake, motioned her to silence and pointed down towards the street. She understood immediately and quickly pulled on her boots, then gathered their meagre belongings, hastily throwing them into saddlebags. Once down among the horses, Tarja threw their saddles over their mounts, loosely cinched the girths, and quietly led them out of the stable by
the back door. They didn’t stop to saddle the horses properly until they were well into the trees outside of the town. They rode until the sun came up and then only rested for an hour or so, before moving on.

It was a hell of a way to live.

The incident in Alton forced Tarja to reconsider his plans. Although they had avoided pursuit thus far, the very isolation of the villages they rode through made them stand out. Strangers were rare enough to be commented on. Sometimes, it was the only noteworthy event for weeks. They decided it might be safer if they cut across to the Glass River, where the towns were more populous and strangers were the norm rather than the exception. So they had turned southwest and made their way slowly towards the river, avoiding patrols and villages as much as they could. He hoped they had left a clear enough trail that the Defenders would continue to search for them away from the river.

By the time they reached the small village of Reddingdale, the first tentative signs of spring had begun to manifest themselves. The air was warmer, the days a little longer and the lethargy of winter was slowly being shed by the townsfolk. Tarja and R’shiel had ridden into the village at dusk and had chosen the first inn they came to. They were both tired of sleeping on the ground and they worked out that they could afford one night in a warm bed with a fire and a belly full of ale and hot stew.

It was well into the night when the Defender patrol burst into the tavern and began rounding up the patrons, demanding names and occupations. They were sitting near the back of the taproom, having
chosen the place carefully, both for its view of the front door and its proximity to the kitchen, which would offer a quick exit if they needed one. As the Defenders burst in, Tarja shrank back against the wall, judging the distance to their escape route. The taproom was quite large and it would take the Defenders several minutes to get around to where they were sitting. R’shiel was edging her way along the bench slowly, to avoid attracting attention, when one of the Defenders hit the tavern keeper across the jaw with the hilt of his sword, presumably for some insult.

The rest of it happened so quickly, Tarja had trouble recalling the details later. A boy of about twelve or thirteen, the innkeeper’s son Tarja guessed, ran at the Defenders from the kitchen, yelling something incomprehensible. He clutched a small dagger in a hand still chubby with baby fat. His face was red and tear-streaked. He lunged at the man who had struck the tavern keeper. The Defender reacted instinctively to the threat and thrust his sword out to block the boy’s attack. The child ran onto the blade before he knew what had happened to him.

A high-pitched, heart-rending cry of agony rent the air. Screams of the tavern wenches, the tavern keeper and shouts of the Defenders yelling for order filled the smoky taproom. With a shocked expression, the Defender jerked his blade free and the child fell to the floor, blood spurting from the wound. Somebody else, Tarja had no idea who, tried to attack the Defenders and was dealt with as efficiently as the child. Tarja knew these men, if not personally, then at least how well they were trained. A taproom full of villagers stood no chance against them.

He glanced at the kitchen door and then caught the look on R’shiel’s face. Before he could stop her, she snatched his dagger from his belt and hurled it with astounding accuracy at the Defender who had killed the child. The blade buried itself in the man’s chest with a solid “thunk”. The man cried out, dropping his sword with a clatter as he fell. Tarja barely had time to wonder where she had learnt such a deadly skill as the Defenders turned on them. He kicked the table over, ramming it into the oncoming Defenders and unsheathing his own sword all in one movement. R’shiel rolled to the side, pulling a sobbing serving wench with her as she went, to give him room to fight. He was on the attacking Defenders before he had a chance to stop and think about what he was doing. The first man fell with a bone-crunching thump as Tarja smashed his elbow into his face, driving splinters of bone up into the man’s brain, killing him instantly. He snatched the sword from the Defender’s fist and threw it across the room to a young man who had charged into the fray and was trying to hold off two Defenders with a table dagger and a gutful of courage. The lad caught the sword in mid-air and swung it wildly, his unpredictability making up for his lack of skill. In almost the same movement, Tarja turned on the remaining Defenders.

There was a startled moment of recognition as the lieutenant realised who he faced. They stood in a tense island of stillness amidst the chaos as it dawned on the officer that he was vastly over-matched. It didn’t stop him attacking. Neither did it save him. Tarja parried his strike and countered it so effortlessly that he wondered for a moment at the dwindling standards of
the Defenders. The man should never have made it to lieutenant. He would never make it to captain.

It had taken only moments, but the sergeant of the troop called the retreat before the carnage got any worse. Tarja recognised him. A battle-hardened man with more skirmishes behind him than his dead lieutenant had years. The Defenders were hampered by the tight quarters, the screaming civilians and the fact that the men they faced seemed to care little if they lived or died. He ordered his troops back and they battled their way to the door, fighting off both the men in the tavern who had leapt into the fight and the women who were hurling mugs, plates and food at them, screaming hysterically. As the last Defender withdrew, Tarja lowered his sword and leant on it, his chest heaving as he looked at the carnage that surrounded him. There would be no mercy for them now. R’shiel was climbing to her feet near the kitchen door. She looked angry. The rage she nursed against Joyhinia and anything to do with her was back and burning ferociously.

“Did you see them run!” cried the young man who had caught the sword, his eyes glittering. He stood on one of the few tables left standing, brandishing the weapon bravely. The letdown would come later, Tarja knew, when his blood had cooled and he had time to consider his own mortality. “We made them run!”

“They retreated because the fight was pointless,” Tarja said, wiping his blade off before he replaced it in its scabbard. “If you’ve any brains, you’ll do the same thing. They’ll be back, and next time they’ll be prepared for resistance.”

“I fought them off once!” the lad boasted. “The next time—”

“The next time they will cut your throat for being a fool, Ghari,” the tavern keeper snapped. He was sitting on the floor, cradling the head of the child in his lap, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked at Tarja, his eyes bitter. “I thank you for your intervention, sir, but I fear you have made things worse. They will be back.”

Tarja squatted down beside the older man. “If you’ve done nothing to be guilty about, then the Defenders will be reasonable.”

The man shook his head. “How little you know them, sir. There was a time when that might have been the case, but not now. My son attacked a Defender. That is all the proof of guilt they need. Jelanna cannot protect us now.”

Jelanna. The pagan Goddess of Fertility. “Then you really are heathens,” he said, with the bitter irony of knowing that he had killed Defenders to protect a heathen. He glanced up and looked at R’shiel but her expression was unreadable.

“When this is justice according to the Sisters of the Blade,” the man retorted, stroking the fair hair of his dead son, “do you blame us?”

Tarja didn’t answer. Everything he believed in had taught him that the heathens were a danger to Medalon. He had spent a large part of his adult life stamping out pagan cults. He had never expected to find himself fighting to protect them.

“What will you do?” R’shiel asked, picking her way through the wreckage toward them.

“Flee,” the man said with a shrug, looking around at the ruins of his tavern. The cries of the wounded settled over the taproom like a blanket of misery.
A woman in the corner was making an attempt to right some of the overturned stools. Others just stared, aghast at what had happened. “What else can we do?”

“Do you have somewhere to go?”

The old man nodded. “Some of us have families in other villages who will take us in. Others, like young Ghari and Mandah there, are far from home. It is the ones like them I fear for. They are the ones the Defenders will hunt down first.”