Medalon (6 page)

“A Purge achieves two things, your Grace,” Garet told her. “It publicly acknowledges the existence of the heathen cults, which is what the Kariens need to legally cross our borders, and it ties up even more of the Defenders on internal matters. We cannot win. If you refuse to instigate a Purge, then you are not taking action against the heathens. If you start one, then you are admitting that the heathens are a
problem. Either way, the Kariens can claim we have not adhered to the terms of the treaty.”

“And if what you say is true, we have not the Defenders to repel an attack?”

“Not at present,” Tarja agreed, “but we could establish a civil militia.”

Mahina looked at the younger man steadily. “A civil militia?”

Tarja nodded. “A civilian force to take care of the internal policing of Medalon. Nearly half our military force is currently engaged in routing out small groups of heathens, who, for the most part, don’t even know how to fight. It’s a waste of men and training. We are a small nation jammed between three very large ones. We cannot afford to have our fighting force arresting farmers and confiscating chickens.”

“How would this militia function?” Mahina asked. Tarja reached for one of the scrolls he had brought with him, but Mahina waved it away. “Tell me Tarja, in your own words. I’ve no doubt your figures are sound, but if you want me to sell this to the Quorum, I need to know how you feel about it.”

Tarja put down the scroll. “Each town would have its own unit, commanded by an officer of the Defenders. The militia itself would be made up of volunteers—locals who would be trained by the officer in charge to undertake whatever action was deemed necessary to free the area of heathens. The Defenders would then be free to do something about our northern border. If necessary, you can claim the militia was established as a long-term alternative to a purge.”

Mahina sighed. “Every now and then, Tarja, you prove you really are your mother’s son. Or has four
years of staring at the Hythrun from the wrong side of the border sharpened your instincts? I don’t remember you being so astute.”

Tarja did not like to be reminded that he might have inherited anything from his mother. “It’s good commonsense, your Grace.”

Mahina shook her head. “Good sense is far from common, I fear, Tarja. However, you have given me much to ponder.” She waved a hand in the direction of the scrolls. “These are your detailed plans, I assume?”

“And their estimated cost,” Garet added.

Mahina smiled appreciatively. “A well thoughtout battle plan, I see. If you attack our enemies as effectively as you have attacked me, Medalon will be well defended. I will study your proposal, gentlemen. And you’d best be prepared to defend it. I cannot take anything this radical to the Quorum without being certain.”

“I will be happy to provide any other information you require,” Jenga offered. His expression was stern, but inside he was filled with relief. For the first time since Garet and Tarja had approached him with their assessment of the Karien treaty almost five years ago, he had a woman in charge who was prepared to listen to him.

“R’shiel! Hurry up!”

R’shiel forced her eyes open and squinted painfully as the bright wall greeted her with its silent, glowing panels. Her pounding headache had abated somewhat, but she still felt groggy and listless. She rolled over on her narrow bed and stared sleepily at Junee.

“What?”

“Hurry up!” Junee urged from the open doorway. “We’ll never find a good seat if we wait much longer.”

Understanding came slowly to the younger girl. “Oh, at the Arena, you mean?”

“Yes, at the Arena,” Junee repeated with an impatient sigh. “Come on!”

R’shiel swung her feet to the floor and gingerly lifted her head. With relief, she discovered she could move it without too much pain. She must have slept the worst of it off. Her headache was the third one this week. R’shiel had almost reached the point of doing what her mother ordered by seeking help from a physic. She slipped on her shoes and stood up as
Junee tapped her foot impatiently by the door. She caught sight of herself in the small mirror over the washstand and grimaced. Her skin was waxy and there were large dark circles under her eyes. Even her grey tunic hung on her loosely these days. R’shiel tried to recall the last time she had eaten. Every time she neared the Dining Hall and smelled the meat, she found herself running in the opposite direction. The last time she had forced herself to eat, she had thrown up. Her tummy rumbled and complained, but she ignored it. Hunger was preferable to the alternative. She picked up her grey knitted shawl against the chill of the late autumn evening and followed her roommate down the corridor of the Probate’s dormitory.

“Hey! Wait for us!”

R’shiel and Junee stopped and waited for the three girls who called after them from the other end of the hallway. Tonight was an event of some note at the Arena and R’shiel was already regretting her decision to join Junee. Every Novice and Probate in the Citadel, every Defender not on duty and probably a good many of the Sisters and civilians would be there. Georj had taken up the challenge that Tarja had refused. Everybody knew about it. Everybody wanted to be there.

Rumour had it that the only man Georj Drake had never beaten in the Arena when he was a Cadet was Tarja. Brash and good-looking, with a shock of golden hair, Lieutenant Loclon had been the undisputed champion of the Arena for months now. It would be a fight worth seeing, the other girls insisted—perhaps the best seen in the Arena for years.

Normally, R’shiel was not terribly interested in the fights in the Arena. She had grown up at the Citadel and her brother was a Defender. There was little romance or excitement for her, watching men hack at each other with blunted swords. The fights had begun a century or more ago as training exercises. They were now the main form of mass entertainment and no longer restricted to the Cadets. Many officers and enlisted men continued to fight in the Arena long after they graduated to the ranks of the Defenders. Occasionally a brave civilian entered a bout, although the Lord Defender discouraged such rash bravado, even though the swords were blunted and the worst injury gained was usually a nasty bruise or the occasional broken bone. Tonight would be different, however. There would be no blunted swords and no quarter given.

The fight was to first blood. Loclon had formally challenged the captains and Georj Drake had accepted on behalf of his brother officers.

As she hurried along the street to the amphitheatre with her friends, R’shiel worried about Georj. He had not been in the Arena for several years, whereas Loclon fought there almost every week.

By the time the five Probates reached the amphitheatre, the crowd had grown considerably. A chill wind blew across the side of the small hollowed-out hill. With a shiver, R’shiel pulled her shawl tighter. Her headache had receded to a dull, throbbing pain at the back of her eyes, which she could ignore if she didn’t think about it. Junee grabbed R’shiel’s arm and pulled her forward, pushing through the crowd. When they reached the top of the grassy hill, she glanced
around and then pointed at two red-coated figures leaning on the white painted railing.

“That’s your brother, isn’t it?” she asked.

R’shiel squinted into the setting sun and followed Junee’s pointing finger. Tarja stood talking with Garet Warner.

“Where?” Kilene asked excitedly, pushing her way forward to stand next to R’shiel on the other side. “Let’s go down there. Then you can introduce me.”

R’shiel glanced at Kilene and shook her head, understanding now why she and her friends had been so anxious to join her and Junee. “I’m sure Tarja doesn’t want a bunch of giggling Probates hanging around him. Besides, he’s with Commandant Warner. The last thing you want to do is bring yourself to his attention.”

Kilene looked uncertain for a moment, but her desire to meet Tarja outweighed her fear of Garet Warner. “Come on,” she urged. “We’ll never find a seat if we wait here.”

R’shiel sighed and followed Kilene, Junee and the other girls down into the amphitheatre. As they neared the two Defenders, the other girls’ bravery deserted them and they stopped, waiting for R’shiel to catch up, before they approached the men. Tarja looked up as she neared him, his smile of recognition fading into a frown as he looked at her.

“Founders, R’shiel! You look awful.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Tarja.”

“Sorry, but you’re as thin as a hoe handle.”

R’shiel could feel an impatient tugging on her shawl, which she loftily ignored. “I’ve been getting headaches, that’s all.”

“She won’t eat, either,” Junee informed Tarja, forcing the introduction that she could feel her companions itching for.

“Tarja, Commandant Warner, this is my roommate Junee. And this is Kilene, Marta and Wandear,” R’shiel said with a resigned shrug.

“Ladies,” Tarja said with a gracious bow. Garet looked over the young women with vast disinterest, nodded politely, then turned back to the Arena.

“Can we sit here with you?” Kilene asked boldly, ignoring Garet as being too old and not nearly handsome enough to warrant her attention.

“You’re more than welcome to sit here,” Tarja told her “However, I will be down below with Georj. In fact, we were just on our way there, weren’t we, Commandant?”

Garet glanced at Tarja and then at the girls. “What? Oh! Of course! We’d better get a move on. Lovely meeting you all.” Garet strode off without waiting for him.

“I have to go, I’m afraid, although I’m glad you found me, R’shiel. Georj wants you to wish him luck.” He took her arm and before she could protest steered her away from the other girls towards the Arena. He opened the gate that led from the seating area to the sandy floor then took her the short distance into the tunnel which led into the caverns that honeycombed the hill underground. R’shiel could hear male voices coming from somewhere to her left. As they entered the gloomy tunnel, Tarja stopped and spun her around to face him.

“You don’t look awful, R’shiel,” he said with concern, “you look like death. What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know, Tarja. I keep getting the worst headaches and every time I smell meat I want to throw up.”

“Have you told Joyhinia?”

“She told me to see a physic,” R’shiel admitted, a little reluctantly.

“For once, I agree with her,” Tarja grumbled. “Why not go home, R’shiel? You don’t need to be here. Get some rest. Try to eat something.” Then he smiled at her and R’shiel understood why half the Probates in the Citadel wanted to be her best friend. “I’m sure Georj can redeem the honour of the captains without you cheering for him.”

R’shiel frowned. “He will beat Loclon, won’t he?”

“He’d better!”

“Can I see him, before I go?”

“Of course,” Tarja said, taking her arm. “I’m sure if he’s planning to die tonight, the last thing he’d rather see is you, in preference to our ugly faces.”

He led her into the cavernous rooms below the amphitheatre, which had been built to house and train the fabled magical horses of the Harshini, who, like their owners, were long extinct and barely remembered, except for a few pitiful heathens who insisted on following the old ways.

The Sisterhood scoffed at rumours of magical horses, just as they denounced the idea that the Harshini were anything more than licentious tricksters. Their magic, according to the Sisterhood, was nothing more than clever parlour tricks, their horses simply the result of good breeding. She wondered, sometimes, how a race as morally bankrupt and as supposedly indolent as the
Harshini had ever managed to build anything as impressive as the Citadel.

Georj was sitting on a three-legged stool in a large torchlit alcove, surrounded by several of his friends. They were all offering him advice, much of which, from the pained expression on his face, he considered useless. He looked up at R’shiel’s approach, and leapt to his feet, pushing away his well-meaning advisers.

“R’shiel!” he said, taking both her hands in his. “Has the thought of my glorious victory finally overcome your aversion to bloodsport?”

“I thought this was a duel, not a bloodsport, Georj,” she scolded.

“Never fear, little sister,” Tarja assured her. “Georj will give young Loclon a lesson in swordplay and a small scar to remember him by, that’s all.”

R’shiel leaned forward and kissed Georj’s cheek lightly. “Be careful, Georj. And good luck.”

“He’ll need all the luck he can get, my Lady.”

R’shiel turned to find Loclon standing behind her, flanked by two other lieutenants. She had only ever seen him from a distance before and decided that the Novices and Probates who spoke dreamily of his looks were, for once, probably speaking the truth. He was young, not much past twenty, and wore plain leather trousers, knee-high boots, a sword and a blue sash tied around his waist. Georj was dressed identically, although his sash was red. Loclon moved with easy grace, his lithe body oiled and well muscled in the torchlight. Georj was taller and heavier than the younger man, who reminded R’shiel of a leopard feigning indifference to its prey before it closed in for the kill.

Loclon stepped forward. “Is this your sister, Captain Tenragan?”

Tarja did not appear too pleased that he had forced an introduction. “R’shiel, this is Lieutenant Loclon.”

“Lieutenant,” R’shiel said, with a barely civil curtsy. Something about this handsome young man set her teeth on edge. There was an air about him that spoke of arrogance, of cruelty.

“My Lady,” Loclon replied. “I would be honoured if you would wish me luck as well.”

“I was under the impression you didn’t need anything as mundane as luck, Lieutenant.”

Loclon flushed as Georj and his friends roared with laughter. The young man’s eyes blazed dangerously for a moment before he composed himself.

“Then you’d best wish all your luck on Captain Drake, my Lady. The old man will need it.” With that, he stalked off towards the Arena.

R’shiel turned to the “old man” who was all of twenty-eight, her eyes full of concern. “Be careful, Georj.”

“Don’t worry about me, R’shiel,” he declared. “Worry for all your friends in the Dormitories who will cry themselves to sleep tonight when I scar that pretty face of his.”

Georj followed Loclon toward the Arena, his seconds in tow, full of laughter and back-slapping camaraderie.

R’shiel turned to Tarja. “Tarja, you can’t let him do this.”

He put an arm around her thin shoulders and hugged her gently. “I couldn’t stop it R’shiel, even if
I wanted to. Don’t worry about Georj. Hard-earned battlefield experience will win out over parade-ground bravado.”

“You’re as bad as Georj. You aren’t taking this seriously enough.”

A muted roar from the stands reached them as the combatants entered the Arena.

“Go home, R’shiel,” Tarja told her gently.

Suddenly R’shiel was no longer tired. “No, I’m coming with you. I want to watch this.”

Tarja shook his head, but didn’t argue the point. Together they walked back through the tunnel to the rectangle of light that was the entrance to the Arena.

The fight started slowly at first—a tentative clash of blades, each man testing his opponent. R’shiel could tell Georj had the longer reach, but Loclon had speed and agility on his side. She stood in the entrance to the tunnel, watching the duel with Tarja, Georj’s companions and the two lieutenants who had accompanied Loclon. The crowd fell silent as the first blows were struck, the air charged with anticipation.

Loclon circled the sandy arena slowly, in a half-crouch, perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. He flicked his sword out now and then, with a speed that seemed to take Georj by surprise. The captain was no longer smiling, his expression set in a mask of concentration. Georj was an accomplished swordsman. One could not rise to the rank of captain in the Defenders and be anything less, but he spent more time in the saddle than the Arena these days. He held his own easily enough. Loclon was unable to get
through his guard, but he was fighting defensively. It was Loclon who had the initiative.

“Why doesn’t he just attack?” the captain standing next to Tarja muttered impatiently.

“Georj never rushes into anything,” Tarja replied, although R’shiel could tell he was wondering the same thing. “Give him time.”

Loclon suddenly launched himself at Georj. His blade moved so fast it was a silver blur in the twilight. Georj held off the younger man, but he was being pushed backwards, step by step. The roar of the crowd was thunderous as Loclon pushed the captain. The sound of metal on metal was almost lost in the din of the three thousand or more spectators who had gathered to watch someone shed blood. Their cries irritated R’shiel. They didn’t really care who won. They just wanted to see a man bleeding.

Georj held off the attack well enough, but he appeared to be struggling a little. Loclon suddenly pulled back and turned to acknowledge the adulation of the crowd, a gesture that sent them wild. Georj recovered himself quickly, however, and the moment Loclon turned back to face his opponent Georj was on him, using his superior height and weight to push the younger man back. Loclon might have had speed, but Georj was as unstoppable as a rock in an avalanche. Loclon’s face lost its smug expression as Georj bore down on him. The blows from the bigger man obviously jarred his sword arm every time he blocked a stroke.