“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.
CHAPTER 21
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 did not 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 did not have the heart to deny her. Mandah could not bear to see any creature in pain, human or beast. He thought of R'shieclass="underline" 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 did not 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.