Medalon (42 page)

The First Sister saw them as soon as she entered the compound. Jenga stood beside her. He had probably briefed her on the ride to the compound from the docks. Draco was just as silent and withdrawn as always. Tarja worried a little about him. Would he object to anything Joyhinia ordered? It was hard to tell with Draco.

Joyhinia scowled at Tarja and then looked at R’shiel. With the knowledge of her true ancestry, it would be hard to miss her Harshini heritage. She spared a glance for the rebels who were slowly gathering behind him, silently and expectantly, as they stepped forward. Joyhinia must be wondering what she had to do to discredit him. The thought gave him a measure of satisfaction.

“So this is what you have come to?” she asked scathingly as they stopped before her, hand in hand. “I see you have even stooped to incest.”

“I’d not go down that road if I were you, Joyhinia,” he advised. “If R’shiel is my sister and her father is Harshini, what does that make you?”

Joyhinia’s expression darkened. Had she known the truth about R’shiel? By the look on her face, Tarja doubted it.

“I might have known you would be taken in by a Harshini slut.”

“Better a Harshini slut for a lover than a heartless bitch for a mother,” R’shiel snapped.

“I should have drowned you at birth!” she hissed, low enough that only those closest to her could hear. “Both of you!”

“Why didn’t you, Joyhinia?” Tarja asked. “Didn’t have the heart to, or was it that you hadn’t added murder to your repertoire yet?”

Joyhinia slapped his face, the crack ringing out across the silent compound. His head snapped back at the force of the blow, but when he looked at her, he was smiling.

“Feeling better now?”

Joyhinia was livid as he stood there defying her. With a visible effort, she forced a smile.

“Very much, thank you,” she replied. “I’ve been meaning to do that for a long time.” She glanced back at Jenga, who stood next to Draco watching the exchange with a stony expression. “How many did you capture?”

“Two hundred and eighty-seven in total,” Jenga informed her. “Including the innkeeper who was harbouring them and Sister Mahina.”

At the mention of her predecessor, Joyhinia looked back at the gathered rebels. Hearing her name, Mahina stepped forward.

“You are a stain on the honour of the Sisterhood, Mahina. I don’t understand how you can stand there
amid these criminals and still call yourself a Sister of the Blade.”

“The Sisterhood’s honour was in trouble the day you rose to power,” Mahina retorted. “No stain I’ve inflicted on the Sisterhood will be noticed against the background of your grubby footprints, Joyhinia.”

Rage threatened to overcome the First Sister. She had not expected to face these defiant and unrepentant agitators. She turned on her heel and walked toward the gate.

“What are your orders regarding the prisoners, your Grace?” Jenga asked.

Joyhinia stopped and looked first at the Lord Defender, then at her son and the daughter she had renounced, then at the old woman she had defeated, who was all but laughing at her. A black rage seemed to fill her whole being. Tarja could see her trembling to hold it in.

“Kill them,” she ordered.

“Your Grace?”

“I said kill them! All of them. Put them to the sword!”

Jenga hesitated longer than he should have. He looked at her for a moment, wavering indecisively. The compound was deathly quiet as three hundred rebels and more than a hundred Defenders waited for the Lord Defender to give the order. The sun was high in the sky and beat down on the gathering relentlessly. Tarja could hear the distant singing of birds among the trees on the other side of the field. Jenga slowly unsheathed his sword and held it before him.

“Kill them all!”
she repeated, just to ensure there was no doubt regarding her intentions.

“No.” Jenga’s sword landed in the dirt at her feet with a thud.

Joyhinia stared at the man in disbelief. “You dare to question my orders?”

“No, your Grace,” Jenga said. “I refuse. I’ll not put three hundred men to the sword on your whim.”

“They are criminals!” she cried. “Every one of them deserves to die!”

“Then let them be tried and hanged as criminals under the law. I’ll supervise their hanging if they are found guilty, but I’ll not murder them out of hand.”

“What difference does it make, you fool! I am ordering you to pick up your sword and do as I say or, so help me, you will join them!” Joyhinia was screaming, beyond caring.

“Then I will join them,” Jenga said quietly.

“Your brother will pay for your treachery, Jenga!” Joyhinia warned.

The Lord Defender shrugged. “Dayan is dead, your Grace. You cannot use that threat against me any longer.”

Desperately, Joyhinia turned as the sound of another sword hitting the ground distracted her. It was the young captain, Harven, standing near Tarja, his expression serious but defiant. A few more followed hesitantly, then suddenly it seemed all the Defenders were hurling their blades to the earth in support of their commander.

Joyhinia stared at them, aghast at the implications of such treason. Tarja’s expression was one of awe. He couldn’t believe they had chosen to defy her. R’shiel stood close beside him, her body touching his and she smiled.

Joyhinia turned to Draco frantically. “Draco, I am appointing you Lord Defender. Place Jenga and these other traitors under arrest and carry out my orders.”

Draco hesitated. Tarja watched the man, wondering which way he would jump. Would he follow Jenga’s lead and defy Joyhinia, or would a lifetime of duty override his conscience?

“As you wish, your Grace,” he said finally, in a voice completely devoid of emotion.

“This is murder, Draco,” Jenga told him. “Not justice.”

“I am sworn,” Draco replied.

“Aye,” Jenga scoffed. “Just as you were sworn to celibacy, yet the proof of your oath-breaking stands before us all.”

The Lord Defender pointed at Tarja and for a moment, he didn’t understand what Jenga was implying. Joyhinia seemed to pale as she glared at Draco. The realisation hit Tarja like a blow. It accounted for so much. It accounted for Joyhinia’s inside information, even long before she had joined the Quorum. It accounted for something else, too. Tarja knew now, who had ordered the village of Haven put to the sword. He looked at the man who had fathered him and felt nothing but abhorrence.

“How many more oaths have you broken, Draco?” Jenga asked. “How many others have you murdered at Joyhinia’s behest? Was she blackmailing you, too? Or are you just craven?”

Draco unsheathed his sword and held it before him. For a moment, he glanced at the son he had never acknowledged. Tarja stared at him. He had not
expected to learn who his father was this day. Nor had he expected his father to be the instrument of his destruction. Draco looked away first, distracted by the thunder of hooves as a red-coated Defender galloped into the yard.

“Lord Jenga!” he cried, throwing himself out of the saddle before his lathered mount had skidded to a halt. “We’re under attack, sir!”

“Attack?” he demanded. “By whom? The rebels?”

Breathing heavily from his desperate ride, the trooper shook his head. “No, my Lord, it looks like the Hythrun.” The news sent a wave of disturbed mutters through the gathering, particularly among those Defenders who had just thrown down their swords in support of Jenga. “They’re coming in from the south. Two full Centuries, at least. I don’t know what they’re riding, but they’re making incredible speed. They must have crossed the river further south. Captain Alcarnen said to tell you they’ll be here within minutes.”

Jenga turned to Joyhinia. Tarja expected her to relent in the face of this unexpected crisis. There was no time now to apportion blame or seek revenge. Not with two hundred Hythrun riding down on them. He wondered how they had come this far into Medalon without being discovered.

Jenga bent down to pick up the sword that lay at Joyhinia’s feet.

“Draco! Carry out my orders! Kill them. Now!”

This time, even Draco baulked. “Your Grace, perhaps we should wait…”

“Kill them!”
she screamed, her rage driving her beyond all reason.

Tarja was astounded at Joyhinia’s intransigence. “Didn’t you hear him? We’re under attack, Joyhinia. Let the Defenders do their job.”

“It’s a lie! A trick! There is no attack! This is just a plot to save your miserable lives! Kill them, Draco! All of them! Kill every miserable wretch here, including those traitors who threw down their swords. Now! Do it now!”

Draco looked at Joyhinia uncertainly. The woman had stepped over the edge into blind, insane rage, and Draco may have been many things, but he was not a fool. He shook his head. “I’m sorry Joyhinia, not this time.”

Looking first to Draco and then at Tarja, Joyhinia’s fury knew no bounds as she saw the look of quiet triumph that Tarja couldn’t hide. She screamed wordlessly, snatching up Jenga’s sword that lay in the dirt at her feet and rushed at him. Her sudden attack seemed to wake the Defenders from their torpor. Tarja was vaguely aware of other shouts, other voices. R’shiel cried out. Joyhinia thrust the heavy blade forward as R’shiel stepped in front of him, taking the blade just below the ribs. Lacking the strength to run the blade all the way through the protective leather, Joyhinia twisted the blade savagely as she was overpowered.

Tarja caught R’shiel as she fell with an agonised scream, clutching at the jagged wound, dark blood rapidly spilling over her hands on to the dusty ground.

Testra’s red roofs came into view mid-morning, and the sight raised Brak’s spirits considerably. He was exhausted from the effort of keeping the Hythrun Raiders hidden from view. He had been drawing on his power continuously for weeks now and the sweetness of it had long moved from intoxicating to nauseating. His eyes burned black and felt as if they had been branded with hot pokers. The trembling that had begun a few days ago was so fierce he had trouble keeping his seat. Damin watched him worriedly, but said nothing. The Warlord had agreed to come to his aid, and in return, Brak had agreed to see them safely through Medalon. He had not realised what it would cost him to keep such a foolish promise.

Arriving in Krakandar on the back of an eagle larger than a horse had a gone a long way to convincing the Warlord to follow him. But ever since that day, Brak had suffered through being referred to as Divine One, men falling to their knees as he approached, and women begging him to bless their newborn babies. He accepted it as part of the price he must pay to keep his word to Korandellen.

There was no point now, that Brak could see, in trying to pretend that the Harshini were extinct, so he made no attempt to hide what he was. Nor had he hesitated to call on the Harshini for help. There were many of them anxious to leave Sanctuary and move openly in the world once more. When they crossed the Glass River it had been over a magical bridge constructed by Shananara and her demon brethren. On his left rode a slender young Harshini named Glenanaran. His efforts had allowed them to maintain an impossible pace. He had linked his mind to the Hythrun’s sorcerer-bred horses, and through that, gave the beasts access to the magical power they were bred to channel—power the breed had been denied for two centuries.

With Testra so close, Brak finally let go of the magic, and two hundred Hythrun Raiders suddenly appeared, as if from nowhere, in the middle of the road. Their pace did not falter. It meant nothing to the Hythrun that they had been hidden from sight. They were invisible to casual observers but not to each other. Brak sagged as the power left him.

“What’s wrong?” Damin asked, as Brak clutched at his pommel to prevent himself from being pitched from the saddle.

“I’ve let go of the glamour. They can see us now.”

Damin nodded, his eyes scanning the countryside, but they were in no danger yet.

They rode on towards the town with the Glass River glittering silver on their right. Brak wondered if they would get there in time. He had no clear idea what Tarja had planned. All he knew was that it was likely to be dangerous. He had not come
this far to see R’shiel destroyed. Brak slowed them to a trot as they reached the squatters’ hovels on the edge of the town. Damin looked around with interest. He had never travelled this far north before.

“So this is where we will find the demon child?”

“I hope so.”

“What is she like?”

Brak thought for a moment. “Like me, I suppose.”

“You?”

“It’s not something than can be easily understood by a human.” He was saved from having to explain further by the first sign of the Defenders, although he was a little surprised they had not been noticed sooner. A flash of red and a startled yell and the Hythrun were reaching for their weapons. “Tell your men to stay their hand, Damin. I don’t want a pitched battle if it can be avoided.”

“If they attack, my men will fight.”

“Well, they haven’t attacked yet, so give the order.”

Damin frowned, but he turned in his saddle and signalled his Raiders to put up their weapons.

They rode into a town that seemed oddly deserted for the middle of the day. Although he had expected the townsfolk to run at the sight of the Hythrun, there were few folk around to notice their passage. It made him uneasy, a feeling that only got worse as they turned towards the main square and spied a fair-haired youth standing in the centre of the deserted street, obviously waiting for them.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, riding out to meet the God of Thieves.

“Waiting for you.” Dace looked past Brak at the dark-eyed Harshini and waved brightly. “Hello, Glenanaran.”

“Divine One.”

“You’re heading the wrong way,” Dacendaran informed them “They’re all over on the fields on the western side of town. You’d better hurry, though. I think they’re going to…NO!”

Dace vanished with an anguished cry. Glenanaran looked at Brak.

“Something has happened.”

“What?” Damin demanded. “Who was that child? What’s happened?”

Brak didn’t answer. He urged Cloud Chaser forward at a gallop with Glenanaran close on his heels. Damin and his troop were a little slower to react but soon the sharp clack of hooves against the cobbles sounded in his wake. Brak tried not to think the worst, but only something that touched the consciousness of a god, on a level neither he, nor even Glenanaran could feel, would cause him to retreat like that.

Brak found the compound easily enough and ignored the Defenders who tried to block his way. He galloped into the enclosure with Glenanaran at his side and skidded to a halt as the shocked Defenders suddenly realised there were two hundred Hythrun Raiders riding into their midst.

Brak flew from his saddle toward a cluster of rebels and Defenders, pushing them out of his way. His fears seemed to solidify into a core of molten lead that burned through his chest. Tarja knelt on the ground nursing R’shiel. He was covered in blood. R’shiel’s blood.

“What have you done?” he demanded of the gathered humans.

No one answered him. R’shiel was unconscious, her skin waxy and pale, her breathing laboured. Glenanaran pushed through to kneel beside her and Brak felt his skin prickle as the Harshini drew on his power. The laboured breathing halted and then stopped completely.

“I’ve stopped time around her, but it’s a temporary measure only,” the Harshini explained. “She needs healing beyond even our power.”

They knelt in the circle of stunned Defenders and rebels. Brak looked up and saw two rebels holding back a woman whose eyes burned with hatred. Joyhinia Tenragan, he guessed. Her white gown was splattered with blood. On the other side of the circle stood the Lord Defender. Even if his braided uniform had not given him away, Brak thought he would know him simply by his air of command. At the appearance of the Hythrun, Jenga had began yelling orders. Defenders were scooping up blades that inexplicably lay on the ground in front of them. As soon as they moved for their swords, the Hythrun reacted. Short recurved bows quivered as the Raiders waited for the order to loose their arrows into the closely packed Defenders and rebels.

“Damin! No!” Brak called, as the Warlord raised his arm to give the signal. Brak turned to Jenga urgently. “My Lord, tell your men to put up their swords!”

“Who are you to give such orders!”

“I am the only hope this girl has! Put up your swords!”

Jenga made no move to comply. Damin Wolfblade had but to drop his arm and there would be a massacre.

“Dacendaran!”

The god appeared almost instantly, which surprised Brak a little.

“There’s no need to yell, Brakandaran.”

“Do something about these weapons. Please.”

The boy god’s face lit up with glee. In the blink of an eye, every sword, every knife, every arrow, every table dagger in the compound vanished, leaving their owners slack-jawed with surprise.

“What trickery is this!” Jenga bellowed.

“It’s not trickery, it’s divine intervention. Lord Defender, meet Dacendaran, the God of Thieves. If I ask him nicely, he may even give your weapons back, but don’t count on it.”

Jenga clearly did not believe the evidence of his own eyes, but Damin Wolfblade and his Hythrun looked to be in the throes of religious ecstasy. They would be no trouble for the time being. Brak turned back to Glenanaran. “How long do we have?”

“Not long at all, I fear.”

“Let her die!” Joyhinia screamed. “I warned you! Didn’t I warn you the heathens were still a threat! This is the price of your treachery, Jenga!”

“Who
is
that woman?” Dace asked.

“The First Sister.”

“Really?” Dace walked towards Joyhinia who fell thankfully silent, her eyes wide with fear as the god approached.

Brak wasted no more time worrying about her. He knelt down beside R’shiel. Tarja still held her as if he
could hold her life in, simply by refusing to let go. While she was held in Glenanaran’s spell she had not deteriorated, but his magic couldn’t save her, merely postpone the inevitable.

“Will Cheltaran come if we call?” he asked the Harshini.

“He will come if I tell him to.”

His head jerked up as the newcomer approached. Brak glanced around and discovered the humans in the compound frozen in a moment between time. Only he, Glenanaran and Dace were free of it. Zegarnald towered over everything, even the mounted Hythrun, dressed in a glorious golden breastplate and a silver plumed helm. He carried a jewelled sword taller than a man and a shield that glinted so brightly it hurt to gaze upon it.

“Zegarnald.”

“You were supposed to bring the demon child to us, Brakandaran,” the War God said. “Would it have been too much to expect you to deliver her alive?”

Brak stood and looked up at the god. “You’ve known all along where she was, Zegarnald. You, Dacendaran and Kalianah. Maera knew. Kaelarn must have been in on it,” he added, thinking of the blue-finned arlen catch that had set him on this path. “Even Xaphista knows of her. You didn’t need me. Why?”

“No weapon is ready for battle until it has been tempered.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“The demon child must face a god, Brakandaran. For that she must be fearless. She must have ridden through the fires of adversity and out the other side. Otherwise, she will not prevail.”

“The fact that your tempering has probably started a war doesn’t hurt a bit either, I suppose?”

The War God shrugged. “I can’t help it if circumstances conspire in my favour every now and then.”

Brak shook his head in disgust and glanced down at R’shiel. She might be better off if she didn’t survive.

“What will you do?”

“I have no need to explain myself.” Brak glared at the god. He was in no mood for Zegarnald’s arrogance. “You have been…useful…however, so I will indulge you. I will take her to Sanctuary. Cheltaran will heal her. Then the tempering can continue.”

“Continue! Hasn’t she been through enough?”
Haven’t we all
, he added silently.

“She knows what she is but does not accept it. The tempering will be complete when she acknowledges her destiny.”

“Well, I hope she’s inherited her father’s longevity,” Brak snapped. “I’ve a feeling you’ll be waiting a long while for that day.”

“Your disrespect is refreshing, Brakandaran, but it tries my patience. Give her to me.” There was no point in refusing. Zegarnald would see R’shiel safe, if only to ensure she lived to face Xaphista. Glenanaran hurried to comply, lifting R’shiel clear of Tarja whose face was frozen in an expression of despair. The War God bent down and gathered R’shiel to him with surprising gentleness.

“You must ally the Hythrun with the Medalonians and move north,” Zegarnald ordered. “Xaphista knows who destroyed the staff. The Overlord can use
the power of the demon child as readily as we can, should he find her before she is prepared. His attempts to bring her to him by stealth have failed. His next attempt will not be nearly as subtle and your human friends have given him the perfect excuse. So, Brakandaran, it seems you must serve me again, however reluctantly.”

“Don’t be such a bully, Zeggie.”

Kalianah appeared beside the War God in her most adorable aspect, although she barely reached his knee. An eternity of trying had not convinced her that Zegarnald wouldn’t come around eventually, and love her as everyone else did.

“This is none of your concern, Kalianah. Go back to your matchmaking. You have interfered too much already.”

“
I’ve
interfered! Look who’s talking! You’re the one doing all the interfering. If I didn’t—”

“Hey!” Dacendaran cut in. “R’shiel is dying, while you two stand there arguing,” The gods stared at him in surprise. Without a word, Zegarnald vanished with R’shiel. Kalianah followed with a dramatic sigh. Brak turned to Dace in surprise. The boy-god grinned. “It’s not often I get a chance to put those two in their place.”

Brak had no chance to reply. With the departure of the gods, the humans woke from their torpor. Tarja leaped to his feet, searching for R’shiel. To him, it would have seemed as if she had simply disappeared between one moment and the next.

Tarja glared at him suspiciously. “Where’s R’shiel? What have you done with her?”

“She’s safe. I’ll explain later.”

“What is happening here?” Jenga demanded.

“I am wondering the same thing,” Damin said, moving his horse forward. “What happened to the girl?”

Brak took a deep breath. This was going to take some explaining. “My Lord, I am Brakandaran té Carn of the Harshini. This is Lord Glenanaran té Daylin. And this is Damin Wolfblade, the Warlord of Krakandar. I believe you and Lord Wolfblade already know each other, Tarja.”

“We’ve not been formally introduced,” the Warlord said. “But we know each other well enough. Who harmed the demon child? Point me to her assailant and I will make him suffer for an eternity.”

“Thanks, but I plan to take care of that myself,” Tarja said.

“Tarja,” Jenga began. “What is—”

Tarja held up his hand to halt Jenga’s questions and turned to Brak. “Is attacking us with the Hythrun your idea of helping?”

“Attacking? Captain, you woefully misunderstand our intentions!” Damin objected. “We are here to offer you assistance. Lord Brakandaran informs me there is an invasion of Medalon impending. If the Kariens get through you, then Hythria is next, specifically, my province of Krakandar, which borders Medalon. I’d far rather stop the bastards on your border, than mine.”

Tarja turned to look at Jenga. “My Lord?”

Things were happening far too quickly for Jenga. Brak watched the old man look around him, at the Defenders poised for action, the nervously alert Hythrun. Tarja stood by the Warlord, waiting for his answer. He saw Draco, his expression
bewildered, standing beside Joyhinia. The First Sister stared into the sky, her face a portrait of wonder. There was something very odd about the way she smiled. Something childlike and innocent and so totally unexpected, that it made Brak uneasy. Dacendaran stood beside her, tossing a glowing ball in his hand, grinning mischievously.