Medalon (20 page)

Tarja and Brak rode in silence towards Testra, timing their arrival for around two hours before noon. Tarja wanted to scout the area before meeting with Draco. He might be walking into a trap, but he wasn’t planning to walk in blindly. Brak rode beside him along the sunlight-dappled road with the ease of one raised in the saddle, a fact that merely added to Tarja’s concern about him. By all accounts the man was a sailor. Sailors didn’t ride so well. Most sailors didn’t ride at all, treating horses with a sort of awed animosity. It was another piece of the puzzle that was Brak.

“You ride well for a sailor,” he remarked. The wind had picked up and a chill breeze tugged at Tarja’s cloak. The bright sunlight was deceptive, with little warmth in it.

Brak glanced at him and shrugged. “I’ve not always been a sailor.”

Tarja hardly expected anything more enlightening, but the man’s answer annoyed him, none the less.

“You came from Hythria recently, didn’t you?” he asked, deciding he was going to find out something
about this man before they got to Testra. His life might depend on him before the day was out. He wanted to know what sort of man was watching his back.

“Yes,” was Brak’s unhelpful reply.

“What were you doing there?” He hoped he sounded as if he was just making conversation, but he suspected Brak knew what he was after, when the older man suddenly smiled.

“I was advising the Sorcerer’s Collective on matters of policy,” he said.

Tarja felt a little foolish for being so transparent. “I deserved, that, I suppose. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Yes, you did. You’re burning up with curiosity about me. I’ll tell you if you like. Which version do you want, the one that sounds plausible, or the truth?”

Tarja glanced at the older man, wondering at his question. “Is there a difference?”

“A vast one,” Brak told him. “I doubt if you’d believe the truth, though. The plausible explanation is far easier to live with. Particularly for a man with your prejudices.”

Thoroughly bewildered now, and rather sorry he had ever broached the subject, Tarja frowned. “If you’ve nothing to hide, what need for anything other than the truth?”

“What need, indeed?” Brak agreed.

Tarja could feel his patience wearing thin. “If you’ve no wish to tell me about yourself, then don’t,” he snapped. “I’m only concerned that you are who you claim you are.”

“Then I give you my word that I am,” Brak replied.

The silence was strained after that. Tarja kicked his horse forward a few paces, angry at himself for losing patience so easily, as much as Brak’s reticence. He didn’t trust the man and their conversation had done little to ease his mind. Brak had joined them so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that it was hard to credit he had any abiding belief in their cause. He professed to be a pagan, yet his attitude to the gods that the pagans held in such high esteem was almost contempt.

And now he was riding into an almost certain trap with Brak at his side. It was no wonder he was feeling uneasy, he told himself.

After letting Tarja brood for a few moments, Brak caught up with him. “I left Medalon a long time ago, Tarja,” he said, as if there had been no break in their conversation. “I did something that meant I couldn’t return to my family. Don’t ask what it was, because I won’t tell you. I’ve roamed the world ever since. I’ve spent time in Fardohnya working in the diamond mines, even in Karien as a wagon driver, although no one in their right mind spends long in that country without being seen to convert to the Overlord. For the past few years I’ve been working a fishing boat in the Dregian Ocean south of Hythria.”

“What made you come back?” Tarja asked.

“My family asked me to do something for them. I have to find someone very important to them who is lost,” Brak told him carefully.

“Yet you joined us,” Tarja pointed out. “Shouldn’t you be looking for this lost soul? Or do you expect to find him in our ranks?”

Brak was silent for so long, Tarja thought he was not going to answer the question.

“I…believe this person is someone close to you,” Brak said finally, as if it had been a major decision to admit such a thing.

Tarja was astonished. “How do you figure that?”

He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Call it the will of the gods. You are the demon child, after all.”

Tarja glared at Brak in annoyance. “Surely you don’t believe that nonsense?”

“That you are the demon child? Of course not. Although it was a clever tactic,” he added. “It must be driving the Sisterhood crazy.”

“Don’t credit me with any cleverness,” Tarja objected. “I’ve no idea who started that rumour but I’d like to throttle whoever did.”

“Well, anyone who understands the nature of demons won’t believe it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Demons have a reputation that far outweighs the damage they can actually do,” Brak told him. “As a rule, demons only cause trouble when their insatiable curiosity traps them in something they can’t figure a way out of.”

“You sound quite the expert.”

“Hardly that,” Brak disagreed. “But I can tell you this much: young demons have limited intelligence and absolutely no sense of direction. If the demon child were truly part-demon, they would be a half-witted troublemaker with just enough power to snuff out a candle.”

“You believe there is a demon child, then?”

“I know there is,” Brak assured him. “And
when the demon child is finally revealed, you’ll be there at the forefront of the action, I suspect.”

“I’m a little surprised to hear you speak so knowledgably about demons,” Tarja remarked suspiciously. “I wonder sometimes that you even believe in the pagan gods.”

“Oh, never fear on that score,” Brak assured him. “Nobody knows better than I that the gods exist. Whether I believe them worthy of adoration is an entirely different matter.” He was silent for a time, then added, “I met someone who knows you in Hythria.”

The news startled Tarja. He had no friends in Hythria that he was aware of. “Who?”

“Damin Wolfblade,” Brak said. “He misses you, actually. Says life’s been pretty dull since you left the border.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a few Centuries of his Raiders now,” Tarja muttered. It suddenly occurred to him that with Hythrun allies he could truly threaten the Sisterhood. A few hundred Krakandar Raiders would tip the scales in their favour. He was flattered that the Warlord remembered him, and that he held him in such high regard. It was a sign of how far he had fallen, he decided, that he could wish for aid from a nation that was so recently his enemy. Then another thought occurred to him and he looked at Brak with narrowed eyes. “How is it that you were speaking with a Hythrun Warlord?”

“I was travelling north and so was his party,” he explained. “Nobody in his right mind travels Hythrun roads alone. It’s a long trip. We got talking. There’s no need to look at me like that. If I was a Hythrun spy, I’d hardly be boasting of having met a Warlord, would I?”

Tarja looked at his companion warily. “I don’t know, would you?”

“You know, if you treated this meeting with Lord Draco with half as much suspicion as you treat me, I wouldn’t be nearly so concerned about it. Save your doubts for those who deserve them, Tarja.”

With that, Brak kicked his horse into a canter and rode on ahead.

The River’s Rest Tavern appeared no different from any other dockside tavern along the Glass River. Its painted shutters were thrown wide open, to air out the previous evening’s aromas of stale beer. The faint sounds of furniture being dragged across the wooden floor indicated someone was probably laying out fresh rushes. The docks on the other side of the street were as raucous and chaotic as normal. Tarja and Brak watched the tavern for over an hour from the shelter of the wharves and saw nothing that would indicate a trap. There was no sign of Ghari or his companions either. That meant one of two things: either they had already been caught in the trap, or they had finally learnt something from all the training and lectures Tarja had been forcing on them. Trying to curb youthful enthusiasm and replace it with discipline and commonsense was not easy.

“There’s no sign of the lads,” Tarja remarked, a little concerned.

“That could just mean they picked the wrong tavern,” Brak replied without looking up. “Those boys aren’t the most reliable advance guard.”

Tarja nodded in agreement. Any number of things could have happened to them that had nothing to do
with the present situation. He glanced at Brak who was whittling away at a piece of driftwood with a small knife, looking for all the world like the sailor he professed to be.

“It’s almost noon,” Tarja said, glancing up at the sun, which had warmed little as it journeyed across the sky.

“Do you want me to go in first?” Brak asked.

“Yes,” Tarja agreed, his eyes not leaving the tavern for a moment. “Take a seat near the door. Don’t try to be a hero. Just back me up if I need it. If worst comes to worst, just get clear and warn the others.”

“I’m not the heroic type,” Brak assured him, as he stood up, brushing wood slivers from his trousers. “If anything happens to you, I’ll be on the next boat to Fardohnya.” Tarja glared at him. “I was joking, Tarja.”

“I’ll see you inside.” Tarja said, wondering when he had lost his sense of humour.

Brak crossed the street with a swaggering walk that marked him as a sailor as surely as his tan and his rough linen shirt. He wandered up to the tavern and disappeared inside. Tarja waited expectantly, but nothing happened. For a moment he wondered if he had gotten the day wrong, or if Draco’s ship was late and he had yet to arrive in Testra. Or perhaps Joyhinia had changed her mind. As the doubts began to pile up, he fought them back with an effort. He waited another few minutes, until the bell in the distant Town Square tolled midday. Swallowing down a lump of apprehension that had lodged in his throat, he crossed the street to the tavern.

Brak wandered casually across the street, carefully drawing on his power as he neared the tavern, his eyes darkening as the magic filled him. He didn’t draw much. He only wanted to be inconspicuous, not vanish completely mid-stride. He drew a simple defensive shield around himself that protected him against being noticed. It made people’s eyes slide past him, preventing them from finding purchase on his form.

By the time he reached the swinging tavern door, the only person in Testra who was aware of him was Tarja, who had watched him cross the street. His eyes blazed black as the power consumed him, its sweetness like an intoxicating tonic. Why had he denied himself, he wondered, even as the answer came to him. He pushed his past and the ever-present ache away to focus on the now.

Nobody looked up as he entered, nobody remarked on his presence or even noticed it. He took a seat near the door and sighed as he realised that the illusion would prevent the tavern keeper from seeing him. He was thirsty, too.

They were waiting for Tarja, as Brak had suspected they would be. Not obviously, of course. There were no red uniforms in sight, no conspicuous weapons. Two men sat at tables either side of the door, their stiff posture and nervous expressions giving away more than they imagined. Near the rear of the large, low-ceilinged taproom, two more men waited at a long scrubbed table. One was an older man with an unconscious air of authority. Brak wondered about him for a moment. He thought he might be Lord Draco, but there was something familiar about him that Brak couldn’t quite put his finger on. No doubt the younger man with him was a captain. He wore his civilian clothes uncomfortably. How long had they been here, he wondered, waiting for Tarja to walk into their trap? The men kept looking at the door expectantly. Brak resisted the urge to follow their gaze. Tarja would get here in his own good time.

As he waited, Brak wondered again about the disgraced Defender. Tarja didn’t trust him, but that was understandable, Brak supposed. He had experienced a few uncomfortable moments when he listened to Tarja instructing the rebels to treat betrayal as a capital crime, the Defender’s eyes firmly fixed on the Harshini as he spoke. But, despite Tarja’s distrust, he had helped the rebels as much as he could and that had actually been fun. Or it would have been, had not R’shiel kept urging the rebels to even more aggressive acts of defiance.

Brak tried not to think about the demon child too much. He had not come to terms with Kalianah’s distressing revelation and was rather relieved he had
not had to confront her yet. There would be time for that later, once this day was past.

Although he would leave the rebels soon to take R’shiel back to Sanctuary, Brak had enjoyed these past few months. Frustrating the Sisterhood was a worthy pastime for any Harshini. His full-blooded cousins would not have agreed with him. Their willingness to sit back and take whatever was thrown at them was one reason he had never really fitted in.

The door to the tavern swung open and Tarja appeared, squinting blindly as he moved from the bright sunlight to the gloom of the tavern. A bubble of tension began to build in the room. Tarja stood on the threshold for a moment, until his eyes adjusted to the dimness, then he walked into the room. He spotted Draco and the captain immediately, but if he noticed the other ill-disguised Defenders around him, he gave no sign.

Brak watched him, as Tarja stepped toward Draco and the captain, seeing immediately what had bothered him about Draco earlier. The resemblance between the two men was unmistakable and it concerned him that Tarja had made no mention of it. Was Draco an uncle perhaps? Or a cousin? The Spear of the First Sister swore an oath of celibacy, so it was unlikely he was Tarja’s father. On the other hand, if he was…

Brak pushed the thought away. He would ponder Tarja’s parentage some other time. For now, he had to concern himself with the safety of the rebellion and this ill-advised meeting with the First Sister’s closest ally in the Defenders.

The human part of Brak was telling him Tarja should have simply ignored the note from Joyhinia. The Harshini part of him was advising patience. Some things were meant to be.

Lord Draco did not rise from his seat as Tarja approached—a deliberate insult—although the captain with him did. Tarja stopped a few paces from the two men and looked at them expectantly. The silence in the tavern was heavy. The tavern keeper and his wenches had made themselves scarce. There was nobody left in the room who was not directly connected with this meeting.

“Tarja,” the captain said finally, breaking the thick silence.

“Nheal,” Tarja replied with a cautious nod. “Lord Draco.”

Draco glared at Tarja.

“Fetch them,” Draco ordered.

Nheal disappeared into the kitchen as Tarja and Draco continued to look at each other with open hostility. He returned in a few moments with several other Defenders, dressed in their distinctive red uniforms. Between them, they dragged Ghari, Rodric, Tarl and Drenin, the four rebels who had ridden into Testra the night before to ensure Tarja was not walking into a trap.

Brak shook his head. They were all too young, too enthusiastic and too hotheaded for this sort of work. The young men were bound with heavy ropes and all bore evidence of beatings. Ghari looked the worst, but he had probably resisted the most, so it was hardly surprising he had fared the poorest in custody.

As the rebels were hustled into the room, a sudden change came over Draco. He stood up and approached Tarja.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said, as if the younger man was his best friend, his most trusted ally. “You’ve been a great help. The First Sister will no doubt give you a hero’s welcome when you return to the Citadel. Did they never suspect you?”

Tarja’s expression was puzzled for a moment, until he realised what Draco was doing. Ghari, however, understood immediately what Draco was implying and lunged forward in his captor’s arms toward Tarja.

“You lying, traitorous, son-of-a-bitch!” he cried. “You’re a spy!”

“Draco is lying,” Tarja warned Ghari, his tone admirably even under the circumstances. Brak thought he sounded shocked, as if he couldn’t believe a Defender would be capable of such a blatant lie. In his own way, Brak thought, Tarja could be remarkably naive. “He’s trying to make you believe I betrayed you. Don’t listen to him.”

“Come now, Tarja,” Draco laughed. “There’s no need for pretence any longer. I’ll wager you’re looking forward to getting home, eh?”

Tarja glared at Draco. “This is your idea of negotiating peace?”

“What peace?” Draco shrugged. “The pagans must be destroyed. And you are sworn to the Defenders until death. Did these fools really believe you would betray your oath so readily?”

Draco turned to Nheal. “Let one of them go. When they hear the news about Tarja the blow to
their morale should be devastating. Take the rest to the boat. We’ll hang them when we get to the Citadel.”

Nheal saluted, then bustled the prisoners out of the room. As soon as they were gone, Draco stepped closer to Tarja and delivered a stinging blow across the former captain’s cheek. “You are a disgrace to the Corps. I would kill you myself, if the choice were mine.”

Tarja took a step backwards, unsheathing his sword in one fluid movement. As soon as he touched his weapon, the disguised Defenders sitting by the door leapt to their feet, ready to take him from behind. Draco held up his hand, forestalling them. He looked at Tarja contemptuously. The rebel was poised on the balls of his feet, ready and anxious to fight his way clear. There would be no negotiations. Brak wondered if Tarja was regretting his decision to come or simply concentrating on getting out of the tavern in one piece.

“I’ll not give you the satisfaction of throwing yourself on a blade,” Draco told him. “If you resist, I will slit the throats of the prisoners now. Put down your sword or watch your heathen comrades die. The choice is yours.”

Tarja hesitated for a moment, his blue eyes blazing with anger and frustration. Brak felt for him, but made no move to intervene. Thanks to Kalianah’s ill-timed intervention, Tarja was linked to R’shiel more closely than he could imagine. Kalianah, having gone to the trouble of making him fall in love with her, would not allow anything as inconvenient as a death sentence ruin her plans. Tarja might suffer a little, but Kalianah would not permit him to die.

Tarja glanced around the taproom quickly, no doubt looking for Brak, but the illusion he had drawn around himself made his eyes pass over Brak without pause. Once Tarja had lost sight of him on entering the Tavern, he wouldn’t find him again until Brak willed it. He saw the look of disappointment and betrayal that flickered over Tarja’s face and knew that the next time they met, he would have a lot of explaining to do.

“You’re going to kill them anyway,” Tarja pointed out. “What difference does it make?”

Draco considered the matter for a moment then nodded. “A valid point. Sergeant, fetch the innkeeper.”

The man in question must have been listening at the door. Almost before Draco had finished speaking, he appeared, wiping his hands on his apron, anxious to be of service, his balding head sheened with sweat.

“My Lord?” he asked obsequiously.

“Come here,” Draco replied evenly. Without warning, he grabbed the innkeeper’s arm, and jerked the man off his feet. As the innkeeper hit the rush-covered floor with a startled cry, Draco snatched his own sword from its scabbard and placing a booted foot on the terrified man’s chest, held the point just above his throat. He glanced up at Tarja.

“Perhaps a few civilian corpses will change your mind,” he remarked callously. “The innkeeper first, then his daughters, perhaps? I’m in no hurry.”

Brak could imagine what was going through Tarja’s mind. He could almost see him calculating his chances of reaching Draco before he plunged his sword into the innkeeper’s throat, judging distances out of the corner of his eye, marking the position of
the men behind him. The odds were hopeless. Brak said a silent prayer to Jondalup, the God of Chance, that Tarja would realise it.

Jondalup must have heard him. Tarja hesitated for a moment then threw his sword down. The two men behind him were on him in an instant. Brak winced as he watched Tarja overwhelmed with brutal enthusiasm by the soldiers. Draco stood back and let the innkeeper scramble to his feet and flee the room. He sheathed his sword with an expression of intense satisfaction and ordered Tarja taken out the back way. Brak debated following them, then decided against it. He would be better off helping Ghari and the others escape. It would ease his conscience a little, at any rate. For now, Tarja was on his way back to the Citadel, and that was exactly what Brak wanted.

All he had to do now, was find R’shiel.