Medalon (7 page)

R’shiel could feel the tension draining out of Tarja and his friends as Georj attacked.

And then, so quickly R’shiel hardy even saw it happen, Georj over-extended himself and left Loclon an opening. With a startled cry, Georj lowered his sword and glanced down at his left arm where a long, shallow cut marked his forearm. Blood dripped slowly onto the sand. He looked stunned that Loclon had gotten through his guard. Loclon bowed to Georj raising his sword in salute.

The fight was to first blood.

And Loclon had won.

The crowd was quiet for a moment, shocked into silence, before it erupted into a thunderous cheer for the young lieutenant. Around R’shiel, Loclon’s friends were laughing and congratulating each other as Loclon turned a slow circle, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd. R’shiel watched him with a frown, then glanced at Georj. Her stomach lurched as she saw the look on his face. She read murderous intent in his eyes.

“Tarja!” she cried, but it was too late. Georj raised his sword as Loclon turned his back to him, accepting the adulation of the spectators. With a wordless yell, Georj charged.

Perhaps he heard Georj’s cry over the roar of the crowd, or perhaps he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, but Loclon turned at the last minute, bringing his sword up to deflect Georj’s blow. The crowd fell silent as the fight resumed, sensing the change in the combatants. This was no longer a fight to first blood, no longer an argument between two officers trying to prove a point of honour. This was deadly.

Loclon defended himself with the same blinding speed that he had shown the first time he had attacked, but he was no longer playing to the
audience. Georj was intent on murder as much as victory. R’shiel’s stomach cramped as she watched the men trade blows, watched cuts appear on both men go unnoticed in their frenzy.

“I think we should put a stop to this, Tarja,” a quiet voice said behind her.

R’shiel glanced over her shoulder and discovered Garet Warner standing behind her. She wondered for a moment where he had been, but found her eyes drawn back to the Arena. Both men looked tired and bloodied, but neither was willing to concede victory as blade struck blade hard enough to throw sparks.

“Georj will never forgive us if we stop this before it’s resolved,” Tarja replied, although to R’shiel he sounded more angry than concerned.

“Someone is going to get killed,” Garet warned. “I’m sure Jenga would rather have a couple of peeved officers than lose a good man. It’s gone on long enough. Besides, Georj lost. He should know better.”

Tarja glanced back at Garet and then nodded. “You’re right.”

R’shiel held her breath as they stepped into the Arena, wondering if Garet’s rank and Tarja’s authority would be enough to overcome the bloodlust consuming both men. The crowd began to jeer as they realised what the appearance of the two officers meant. They were enjoying the spectacle. They didn’t want it to stop. Not when it had just got interesting.

The Arena was huge and Tarja was still about twenty paces from the pair when Georj stumbled and fell backwards. Loclon was on him in an instant, swinging his sword in a wide arc, slicing his blade across Georj’s throat in a spray of blood.

The crowd fell silent in horror as Georj screamed. R’shiel’s stomach cramped again as she watched Loclon standing there, gloating. Tarja and Garet broke into a run, followed by the men who had been waiting in the tunnel entrance. Almost faint with disgust, R’shiel clutched at the cold stone wall of the tunnel as she watched Tarja run towards his fallen friend. But he scooped up Georj’s discarded sword, left his friend to the ministrations of his seconds, and turned towards Loclon. Garet was calling for a physic, in a voice that carried surprisingly well, considering how softly spoken he normally was. As Tarja neared Loclon, the young man raised his sword again, preparing to take Tarja on. R’shiel bit through her bottom lip as another cramp seized her. Her fear was bitter enough to taste, mingled with the salty taste of her own blood.

Loclon crouched expectantly as Tarja walked towards him. The crowd held their breath. Georj had refused to cede the fight, and Loclon’s act was unforgivable, but it might not be over yet. The only sound that filled the Arena was Georj’s screams.

Tarja stopped just out of Loclon’s reach. The young man was panting heavily. He was waiting for Tarja to move. Tarja hesitated for a moment then brought up his sword. Loclon blocked the blow easily, but before he could recover his balance, Tarja struck again. Lulled by Georj’s deliberate movements, Loclon was unprepared for Tarja’s speed or strength. This was no ceremonial Citadel captain fighting for his honour. This was an angry, battle-hardened veteran. Loclon was disarmed before he knew it. The sword flew from his hand as Tarja contemptuously
flicked his blade, opening a savage cut from Loclon’s left eye to his mouth. The lieutenant dropped to the ground screaming, clutching at his ruined face. Tarja left him there, turned on his heel and walked back towards the tunnel where Georj was being rushed out by his seconds and a blue-skirted physic who had run to his aid from the crowd.

R’shiel stood back against the cold stone wall as they hurried past her. Georj had stopped screaming. Carried by four of his comrades, he was unconscious now—from shock, or loss of blood, and his head lolled backwards as the blood spurted from severed arteries. Another crippling cramp seized R’shiel and she realised that it had nothing to do with seeing so much violence. So much blood. Something else was wrong.

As Tarja approached the tunnel, she shrank back from the anger in his eyes. He did not appear to notice her as he strode past, too consumed by rage to notice anything. Another cramp, even worse than the last one, twisted her belly and she cried out. The sound must have cut through Tarja’s fury. He stopped and glanced back at her.

“I warned you to go home,” he told her.

R’shiel didn’t answer him—couldn’t answer him. Pain ripped through her like a gutting knife. She held out her hand, as she felt a warm rush between her legs. She looked down and was surprised to find herself standing in a puddle of bright blood.

“Founders!” Tarja rushed towards her as she fell. He caught her and scooped her up into his arms. The last thing she remembered before falling into a swirl of blessed darkness was Tarja holding her. Running. Calling for help.

The Greenharbour docks were a chaotic mix of sounds and smells, of tar and curses, of rank fish and screeching fishmongers, salt water and damp sails. A forest of tall masts stretched around the harbour as far as the eye could see. There was a vibrancy that set this port apart from any other Brak had visited.

The crescent-shaped, natural bay was striped with different shades of blue, marking the deep channels that led out to the Dregian Ocean. The ships anchored at the wharves were a haphazard mixture of Hythrun square-riggers and Fardohnyan oared traders, and occasionally, a garishly painted Karien galleon squatting nervously between her pagan neighbours. Further around the bay, moored at the dock reserved for visitors to the Royal Enclosure at the foot of the huge white palace, Brak noted the sleek lines of a Fardohnyan oared warship displaying a Royal Standard. He spared the ship barely more than a passing glance. At last count, King Hablet of Fardohnya had enough offspring to populate a fair-sized town. Any one of his children might be here to seek guidance from the Sorcerers, Collecture make an
offering at the Temple of the Gods, or just cause trouble.

There was no other port quite like Greenharbour and Brak fervently wished that he had not been forced here this time. In his experience, Greenharbour meant the Sorcerer’s Collective and that meant they wanted something of him. Something he undoubtedly didn’t want to give them. But he could hardly blame Captain Soothan for his decision to head for the lucrative Greenharbour markets. Finding a rare school of blue-finned arlen at this time of year was a gift from the gods. Arlen was a prized delicacy in Greenharbour. That one catch alone would see him through the rest of the year.

Brak had been at sea long enough to know that finding a school of blue-finned arlen in such warm waters was not unusual—it was damned near impossible! He kept his suspicions to himself about the source of this unexpected bounty, collected his pay and his bonus, and left the ship as soon as it docked. His prudence was well founded. The ship was in port less than half a day before it was visited by a smartly dressed troop of soldiers from the Sorcerer’s Collective. Brak watched them from the safety of a dockside tavern, downed his ale in a gulp and slipped away while he still had the chance.

Greenharbour only had two seasons—hot and muggy or unbearably hot and muggy. With the northern winter approaching, fortunately it was just hot. It was also the High Prince’s birthday and the white, flat-roofed city was crowded to overflowing with visitors from every Province in Hythria. Merchants and slavers, farmers and thieves, prostitutes
and gamblers, the jaded and the awestruck—all descended on the Hythrun capital this time every year. All seven Warlords were in the city to make their annual offering at the Temple of the Gods. By law, they were restricted to three hundred Honour Guards each, but that was more than enough to cause trouble. They would need little encouragement to brawl with their enemies, and their enemies were any poor sod wearing the colours of another Province. Brak despaired of Hythria. Two centuries ago, they had been a proud and enlightened nation. Now they were little more than barbaric warmongers.

Zegarnald, the God of War, had much to rejoice in, he thought sourly. But it was not the God of War’s fault that Hythria had fallen into a constant state of armed conflict. Like any primal god he merely took advantage of the circumstances. The blame lay squarely with the Harshini who had withdrawn unexpectedly and left these people without guidance. Neighbouring Fardohnya was just as bad. The current Fardohnyan king was a profiteering opportunist whose facility for changing sides left the casual observer’s head spinning. Maybe that accounted for the Fardohnyan ship in the harbour, Brak mused. Perhaps Hablet had decided that his antagonistic attitude towards Hythria for the past three decades was no longer profitable and had sent an envoy to make peace. Brak doubted it, but anything was possible.

Brak pushed his way through the streets thinking about the current state of affairs in Hythria and Fardohnya. The Harshini king had thought only to leave Medalon to its own devices; to save lives by vanishing from sight so the Sisterhood would think
their Purge successful. When the continued Harshini presence in the southern nations alerted the Sisterhood to their survival, the Purge in Medalon had gained savage momentum. Every Harshini in Hythria and Fardohnya had eventually been called home, leaving the southern courts without the calming influence of Harshini advisers, and the Sorcerer’s Collective without teachers and mentors.

Brak nimbly sidestepped a fistfight that spilled out into the street from a tavern across the way. As he did so, he wondered if Lorandranek had ever thought what the Harshini withdrawal would do to the nations of the south…Brak was sometimes sorry he had never asked him. Then he remembered that he had not given Lorandranek a chance to say much at all. Brak pushed the thought away. He had been running from that memory for almost two decades. He turned down the next street, and walked straight into the High Prince’s birthday parade.

Cursing, Brak tried to step backwards, but the crowd swept him up and carried him forward along the wide avenue lined with golden palms. Children clung like limpets to their ringed trunks in an effort to see over the heads of the crowd. Brak was taller than most men, and over the spectators’ heads, he could see the High Prince’s grandiose retinue slowly wending its way towards the royal compound overlooking the harbour. With a frustrated sigh, Brak gave up fighting against the crush. He let the throng carry him along and settled for watching the High Prince instead.

The prince was an old man now, a fact which startled Brak. He had not set eyes on him for years.
Seeing how the man had aged reminded him sharply how he was different from normal men. Brak himself looked no older now than he had when he first seen the High Prince as a young man; whereas Lernen Wolfblade was in his dotage.

The High Prince rode in an open carriage; a pretty young man by his side—no doubt Lernen’s latest plaything. Brak was a little surprised to think the old man still had it in him. Perhaps it was just habit, these days, which substituted for lust. Brak frowned as he watched the carriage roll by, Lernen smiling absently and waving at the masses. The High Prince’s predilection for young boys was, indirectly, another reason to fear for Hythria.

This nation had grown used to High Princes who had little but ceremonial value, and in that respect Lernen Wolfblade had fulfilled his duties better than anyone could have hoped. The Warlords valued their independence and the once-powerful house of Wolfblade had degenerated over the past two centuries. Lernen epitomised the depth of their descent into depravity. The weakness of successive High Princes allowed the Warlords to rule their provinces as they saw fit, without interference. And Lernen was childless. From what rumour and gossip Brak had heard over the years, he had no interest in producing an heir, not even for the sake of his country. Consequently, the heir to the throne was not a simpering, court-raised dandy, as the Hythrun heir had been for a century or more. The current heir was Lernen’s nephew. The son of his only sister Marla, he had been raised far from court in Krakandar Province and was already a Warlord
in his own right. Brak silently and fervently wished Lernen a long, long life as he disappeared from view.

The Warlords of Hythria did not want a strong High Prince and by all accounts, Damin Wolfblade was unlikely to be anything else. There were tough times ahead for these people. What was currently a nation of Provinces constantly niggling at each other could well explode into a full-blown civil war.

The elaborate open carriage that followed the High Prince answered Brak’s earlier question about the identity of the Fardohnyan from the ship bearing the Royal Standard in the bay. It was a young woman in her mid-twenties, undoubtedly one of Hablet’s countless daughters. She rode in the carriage and waved to the passing crowd with the experience of one raised to perform such mindless ceremonial duties. A raven-haired beauty with a bored expression, Brak wondered which daughter she was. A young couple standing in front of him, stretching up on their toes to see over the crowd, answered his unspoken question as they watched her carriage pass by.

“That’s Princess Adrina of Fardohnya,” the young woman sighed. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

Her companion laughed. “I heard she’s such a shrew, Hablet can’t find a husband brave enough to take her on.”

“Maybe that’s why she’s here,” the young woman suggested. “To find a husband?”

“Well, I hope she doesn’t have her eye on poor old Lernen,” the young man chuckled. “She’d be wasting her charms on him.”

Brak listened to the conversation with a faint smile. It seemed the Hythrun were under no illusions about their High Prince.

By the time the parade had passed, the crowd began to thin a little, and Brak was able to push his way through to a tavern a few streets over that he had last visited more than three decades ago. He was relieved to find it still standing and pushed his way inside to the cool interior. The establishment’s clientele had moved up a notch or two since his last visit, he noted idly.

The owner was new and eyed his rough sailor’s clothing warily as he entered. However, one look at Brak’s full purse was enough for the innkeeper to put aside her concerns. Brak took a room, ordered a bath and settled down to wait.

He knew that if his old friend, Wrayan Lightfinger, was aiding their search—the one man in Greenharbour who could sense his presence—it wouldn’t take them long to find him.

Brak was sleeping when they burst into his room. He was dreaming of home; of white walls and peace and a forgiveness that he could never accept. It was a pleasant dream, one he rarely allowed himself. It was too easy to slip into, too hard to leave. The pull he felt towards home, that filled him like a dull ache every waking moment, flared into white-hot desire if he allowed himself to feel too much. Better not to dream of it. Better not to think about it.

The crash of the door being kicked in jerked him awake. Before his eyes were fully open the room was
full of soldiers and he was pinned to the bed, the sharp point of a sword at his throat. The soldiers were from the Sorcerer’s Collective. They were smartly dressed in their silver tunics and there were enough of them to take a Harshini by surprise. They asked no questions, certain of his identity, and gave him no chance to deny it. He wondered at the advisability of trying to escape. It would be easy enough. These men were soldiers, not sorcerers. He could cast a glamour over himself that would make him vanish before their eyes and walk out of the room unchallenged. He was still debating the matter when a sorcerer entered the room.

“Gently, Sergeant,” the young sorcerer warned the soldier holding the blade to his throat. “Lord Brakandaran is an honoured guest.”

The pressure of the blade eased a little, and Brak found himself able to breathe again. He looked at the young man. He wore a long black robe with the hood pushed back. He was fair-haired and older than he looked, Brak guessed. One did not normally wear the black so young.

“Honoured guest?” he asked dubiously.

The sorcerer shrugged apologetically. “Would you have come if we simply sent a message, my Lord?”

“No. And I’ve no intention of going anywhere with you now.”

“My Lord, it grieves me that you feel that way,” the Hythrun sighed. “I am under instructions to see you delivered to the High Arrion and she simply won’t take no for an answer.”

“She?” Brak asked curiously, despite himself. He had been away longer than he thought.

“Kalan of Elasapine has been High Arrion for the last two years, my Lord,” the sorcerer informed him. “I am Rorin, the High Arrion’s personal seneschal. She begs me to inform you that while she appreciates your desire for anonymity, she must insist on an audience. And, might I add, on a personal note, I am honoured to be in your presence, Divine One.”

That did it. Brak pushed the sergeant away angrily. The man raised his sword threateningly, but lowered it instantly as Brak’s pale blue eyes began to darken to almost black.

“Get rid of them,” he snapped.

Rorin ordered the men out with a wave of his hand. They left as quickly as they could without running. Brak could taste their fear like the tang of metal on his tongue. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed as his eyes returned to their normal colour. He took a deep, calming breath, a little surprised that even after all this time, his power was still enough to frighten other men.

“Let’s get something cleared up right now,” he said. “I am not a Divine One.”

Rorin’s expression didn’t change. “As you wish.”

Brak shook his head with frustration. “Don’t give me that look! I’m a half-breed, nothing more. I know you pray for the return of the Harshini, but don’t look to me for your salvation. I’m not the one you want.”

Rorin listened politely. “My Lord, I know of you, by reputation at least, and if you wish to deny your divinity, that’s fine by me. But I must insist that you accompany me back to the Sorcerer’s Palace.”

“Do you have some sort of hearing problem, young man?” Brak asked irritably. “Have I not explained myself clearly enough for you? Give my compliments to the High Arrion and tell her I declined her invitation.”

“I would if the invitation came from her, my Lord.”

“If not the High Arrion, then who?” Brak snapped, afraid he already knew the answer. He had suspected it ever since the remarkable arlen catch in waters where they had never been seen before. Such a feat was beyond the simple tricks and spells of the Sorcerer’s Collective.

The sorcerer glanced over his shoulder, pushing the door shut to ensure they could not be overheard. That action alone confirmed the worst of Brak’s fears.

“The Seeing Stone spoke for the first time in almost two centuries, my Lord,” Rorin told him with a hint of awe in his tone. “His Majesty, Korandellen, King of the Harshini, appeared to us.”

It was odd hearing Korandellen referred to by his full title. Uncomfortable, too, particularly for the man who had made him king. Brak frowned at the news.