Harshini (14 page)

“You can’t hold a Convocation without all seven Warlords,” Damin pointed out.

“Actually, cousin, I merely need a majority.”

“Which you don’t have,” Narvell reminded him.

“A situation that will be remedied as soon as Tejay Lionsclaw arrives.” Cyrus looked to Rogan with a frown. “I see you have chosen whose bed to lie in, Lord Bearbow. I’ll remember your choice when I’m High Prince.”

“That’s an empty threat, Lord Eaglespike. You don’t have the numbers.”

Cyrus smiled with oily contempt. “You might be surprised, my Lord.”

The two men glared at each other like lions facing each other over a recent kill. R’shiel sighed impatiently.

“Founders! I’ve had enough of this! Damin, how soon can we hold this Convocation?”

Damin didn’t answer her. He was glaring at Cyrus with such venom that R’shiel was afraid he was going to call his cousin out, right here in the plaza. Despite how satisfying it would be to witness him beat the arrogance out of Cyrus, she knew this had to be resolved legally. Damin could vent his anger later, once he was High Prince.

“Damin!”

“What?”

“I said, how soon can we hold this Convocation?”

“As soon as Lady Lionsclaw arrives.”

“Fine. Send someone to fetch her. In the meantime, I want every Raider off the streets. The Collective can go back to guarding the city. I assume you all have sufficient control over your men that you can keep them out of trouble until this is sorted out?”

Cyrus opened his mouth to object then decided against it as R’shiel turned her black-eyed gaze on him.

“Very well, we have a truce until the Convocation,” he agreed reluctantly. “But don’t think this has changed anything!”

“Damin?”

“A truce,” he agreed, almost as reluctantly as Cyrus.

“Fine, that’s settled then. Now get rid of these soldiers!”

“This is not finished, demon child!” Cyrus hauled his reins around sharply, taking his anger out on his horse as he rode at a brisk canter back to his men. Behind him, the dome of light wavered and shimmered brightly for a moment, as if sprinkled with a billion tiny stars, then it faded away to nothing as the Harshini finally succumbed to exhaustion.

“That was close,” Narvell muttered.

“We’ll sort him out soon enough, brother,” Damin promised savagely.

“Aye,” Rogan agreed. “And the more painfully the better.”

R’shiel glared at them impatiently. “You’re all as bad as each other,” she snapped, then turned her horse and continued towards the Sorcerers’ Collective—and hopefully the answers she sought.

The weather was bitterly cold as Tarja and his squad rode north as hard as they could push their horses without them foundering. The small band of saboteurs made good time retracing their journey of a few weeks ago, staying close to the Glass River, camping at night under whatever meagre shelter they could find. Their good fortune lasted until a day south of Cauthside, when a savage thunderstorm forced them to take shelter in an abandoned boathouse next to the remains of a small dock jutting precariously into the swift flowing water.

When they arrived, Tarja found a surprise for which he was completely unprepared. The boathouse was already occupied by a score or more Fardohnyans; the remnants of Adrina’s Guard who had fled the border with them. Damin had given them supplies and maps, and ordered the Guard to make for Fardohnya weeks ago. What they were doing here, this far north, when they should have been almost home by now, completely baffled Tarja. Getting the story out of them proved something of a trial too, as none of the Fardohnyans spoke
Medalonian, and nobody in his troop had more than a passing acquaintance with their native language. In the end, they conversed in Karien, as it proved the only language they had in common.

Second Lanceman Filip, the young man who had surrendered the Guard to Damin on the northern border, told the story. They had taken Damin’s advice and headed for Cauthside and the ferry there, only to discover the town crammed with refugees. Not only could they not converse with anyone in the town, their mere presence had caused no end of trouble, some people mistaking them for Kariens. Explaining they were Fardohnyan, not Karien, had done little to help their cause. The townsfolk had turned on them. They’d been forced to fight their way clear of the town rather than risk the remainder of their small band in a civil riot. Filip and his men were now hiding in the boathouse while they waited for their wounded to recover sufficiently so they could continue south to Testra and attempt to cross the river there. They had lost three men getting out of Cauthside.

Tarja allowed the men to light a fire with what dry fuel they could find, satisfied that the weather offered them adequate protection from accidental discovery. The fire cheered the troop considerably. Even the Fardohnyans seemed a little more spirited. They sat around the small blaze, his own men discussing tactics and speculating on what their captain had in mind, the Fardohnyans talking softly among themselves.

Tarja stood by the small window looking out over the dark water, uncaring of the rain that splattered
his face. He could hear the low murmur of conversation over the storm outside and knew he would have to decide quickly what to do with the Fardohnyans. It was also time to tell his troop what he was planning.

Mandah was still the only person in his small squad who knew exactly what he had in mind. She was right when she claimed that she knew how to behave with the careless arrogance of a Sister of the Blade. Disguised as a Blue Sister she had commandeered the ferry in Vanahiem with remarkable ease. He hoped she could do the same in Cauthside with as little effort.

Before he acquired an additional twenty-four Fardohnyans, the plan had been to burn the ferry then swim to safety. If the rain kept up like this, they would have no chance of burning anything. Nor would they be able to risk swimming the river.

“Tarja?”

He turned as Mandah walked up beside him, hugging a borrowed Defender’s cloak around her against the cold. She reeked of damp wool, her fair hair hanging limp and wet against her head, yet her eyes were bright with the excitement of the adventure.

“You should stay near the fire and dry off,” he told her.

“I’ll be all right. I’ve been checking the Fardohnyan wounded. The one in the corner with the belly wound, I’ll be surprised if he makes it through the night. The others should be fine to travel when we leave tomorrow.”

“So you think we should bring them with us?”

“They’ve a better chance of getting home eventually if we do.”

He shook his head but didn’t answer, thinking she would have said the same if they were stray cats.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I was just thinking about tomorrow. It won’t be easy if this weather keeps up.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Can you stop it raining?”

“I could pray to Brehn, the God of Storms, but I’m not sure he would listen to me. You need the demon child if you wish to speak directly to the gods.”

“Well the demon child isn’t here, is she?”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

He looked at her for a moment then shrugged. “No, it’s not such a bad thing, I suppose.”

Mandah laid a gloved hand on his arm and smiled encouragingly. “You’re far too hard on yourself, Tarja. Come to the fire and get warm. You won’t stop the rain by staring at it.”

She was trying so hard to cheer him. He didn’t have the heart to deny her. Mandah could not bear to see any creature in pain, human or beast. He thought of R’shiel: of her temper, her anger and her willingness to manipulate others to get her own way. There was no comparing the two women and it hardened his suspicion that the memories that haunted him could not possibly be real. The old man in the tavern had summed it up neatly. They were doing this for R’shiel. He was still trying hard to convince himself she was worth it.

“Pity I
can’t
stop the rain by staring at it,” he replied, making an attempt to sound light-hearted. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the men
around the fire. “It’s time I told the men what our mission is, anyway.”

Mandah took his arm as they approached the fire. The others moved aside a little to make room for them. The Fardohnyans withdrew to the corner of the boathouse, sensing that this didn’t involve them. Tarja squatted down and glanced around the circle, satisfied he had picked the right men. There were few Defenders in his squad. Those he had left to Denjon and Linst. The men he had chosen were rebels for the most part, men he had fought with before; men who understood how to frustrate a numerically superior enemy without confronting them head on.

“We’re going to burn the Cauthside Ferry,” he announced as they looked at him expectantly. “If we’re not back in Testra within a month, the commander of the Testra garrison will destroy that ferry, too. If all goes well here, we’ll destroy it ourselves, once we’ve completed our mission and are back on the other side of the river.”

“You think that will stop the Kariens getting to the Citadel?” Ghari asked.

“No. But it will delay them for a time.”

The rebels looked anxiously at each other. Ulran, a small, dark-eyed man from Bordertown, and the best knife-fighter Tarja had ever met glanced around the gathering, gauging the mood of his companions before he spoke.

“That’s going to hurt more than the Kariens, Tarja. There’s a lot of people who depend on those ferries.”

“How much trade do you think there’s going to be once the Kariens get across the river?” Torlin asked.

The same age as Mandah’s brother Ghari, he was one of the rebels captured in Testra who had followed Tarja to the northern border. Slender and surprisingly quick-witted, he would have made a good Defender.

“Torlin’s right,” Rylan agreed. He was one of the few Defenders in the squad—solid and dependable. “The Kariens are foraging their way south. They’ll strip Medalon clean. There won’t be anything
left
to trade by the time they’ve passed through.”

Ulran nodded his reluctant agreement. “I suppose. It just seems a pity to destroy a perfectly good ferry, that’s all.”

“Well, if you’re feeling so noble, Ulran, you can come back and build them a new one after the war,” Harben suggested with a grin. Harben worried Tarja a little. His enthusiasm for destruction was matched only by his refusal to take anything seriously. He reminded Tarja a little of Damin Wolfblade.

“I’ve a feeling we’ll all be in our dotage before that day comes,” Ulran retorted, then turned back to Tarja. “So, we burn the ferry. How?”

As if in answer to his question, the night was lit by jagged lightning, accompanied by the rattle of thunder. The rain began to fall even more heavily, pounding on the battered shingles of the boathouse so hard that Tarja could barely hear himself think. He looked up, shook his head and looked back at his men.

“I was hoping one of you would have a bright idea.”

The wounded Fardohnyan that Mandah was so concerned for died not long after midnight. By dawn the following day the rain had not let up, but Tarja
could not afford to delay, so they hastily buried the dead soldier in the soft ground, packed up their makeshift camp and rode on. After a lengthy conversation with Filip in Karien, it was decided that the Guard would wait on the south side of the town while Tarja and his men sank the ferry. The Fardohnyans would offer cover in case of pursuit and together they would head back to Testra and the ferry there once the job was done. Tarja’s men had shaved and now wore Defender uniforms and Mandah sat astride her mare in Sisterhood blue. They were stiff with the cold and soaked to the skin by the time they split from the Fardohnyans and turned towards the northern river town.

Cauthside was normally a quiet town, but now it was filled with refugees fleeing the advancing Kariens. When Tarja had last seen it over two years ago, he was with the late Lord Pieter and his entourage. That fateful journey had led to most of the trouble he now found himself in, he thought sourly. The town had been preparing for the Founders’ Day Parade. Streets he remembered decked out with blue bunting were now crowded with lost souls, waiting a chance at the ferry to get to relative safety on the other side of the river.

“Tarja, what will happen to these people?” Mandah asked as they dismounted and led their horses towards the landing through the press of bodies. “They’ll be stranded once we’ve…you know.”

“It can’t be helped,” he told her. “Better a few stranded souls on this side than the Kariens in control of the Citadel.”

“There’s more than a few people here, Tarja. There must be thousands of them.”

Tarja nodded, but found himself rather unsympathetic to their plight. These were the camp followers who had ridden on the heels of the Defenders hoping for a profit from the war. He didn’t intend to feel guilty because things had not turned out as they planned.

“You can’t help them, Mandah.”

She nodded reluctantly as a child of about eight or nine with large, sad grey eyes ran up alongside them, tugging hopefully on Mandah’s blue sleeve. She was clutching a bedraggled, tan-coloured puppy to her chest and both of them were shivering.

“Are you here to save us, Sister?”

Mandah looked down and shook her head. “I’m sorry, child. I’ll—”

Tarja grabbed her arm and pulled her away before she could say anything else, or offer to adopt the puppy, which was the sort of thing Mandah was liable to do when left to her own devices.

“You’re supposed to be a Sister of the Blade.”

“That doesn’t mean I have no compassion.”

“No, but it does mean you keep your damned head down,” he reminded her. “We’ve a job to do, Mandah. You’ve already adopted a score of lost Fardohnyans. You’ll have to save orphans and stray dogs some other time.”

“But—” she protested indignantly.

“That’s an order,” he told her harshly as he shouldered his way through the crowd. “Now do as I say. Keep your head down and don’t make eye contact with anyone…or any
thing
.”

“You’re a heartless fiend, Tarja,” she hissed as she followed the path he cut through the throng. “How can you just stand by and watch—”

“Mandah!” Ghari warned from behind, saving Tarja the need to scold her further. He glanced back at his men to make sure they were still behind him. The young woman glared at him but said nothing, obviously offended. They pushed on through the crowded streets and into the small town square, which had the look of a refugee camp. There were hundreds of tents set up, crowded close together, their pegs driven into the gaps in the cobblestones.

“This is madness,” he muttered, mostly to himself, as he surveyed the square. A drizzling rain had begun to fall again and the air was biting, even through his Defenders’ cloak. He glanced over his shoulder and beckoned Ghari forward. The young rebel threw his reins to the man beside him and pushed his way between the horses to Tarja’s side.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know yet. You and the others stay here. Mandah and I will make our way down to the river and see what’s happening. We’ll never lead the horses through this.”

Ghari nodded and took their reins. Tarja took Mandah’s arm and led her through the chaos, stepping over guy ropes, small children, washing lines and smoking cook fires that hissed defiantly at the rain that threatened to extinguish them. The landing wasn’t far, but the closer they got, the thicker the crowd grew, until they reached a wall of densely packed bodies that no amount of pushing and shoving could penetrate.

Being taller than average, Tarja could see over the heads of the crowd. What he saw didn’t please him. The ferry was halfway across the river, loaded almost beyond capacity with passengers, sluggishly making its way against the current to the other side.

“What do you see?” Mandah asked, her view blocked by a solid wall of bodies.

“The ferry is making a crossing. It’ll be hours before it returns and even then we’ll have no hope of getting near it.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We’ll have to fall back on my other plan.”

“What’s your other plan?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I think of it,” he said with a frown.

By mid-afternoon the ferry had returned to Cauthside. Tarja waited with growing impatience as the barge made its way laboriously across the rain-swollen river under a sky as dark as tarnished silver. The crowd grew restless as it neared the bank, surging forward as the refugees tried to push to the front of the line. Short of taking to the crowd with swords and cutting their way through (and even then he wasn’t certain that would work), there was no way they could get near the landing.

More frustrated than angry, Tarja pushed his way through the mob and walked back to where Mandah and the others waited under the eaves of the local inn. His expression told them what they wanted to know, even before he got close enough to speak.