The Defenders had been far less accommodating. They resented the presence of the Hythrun and made no secret of it. Tarja thought that much of the impressive discipline the Defenders displayed was designed to show the Hythrun how things were done in a “proper” army. The Defenders despised mercenaries, and most of Damin’s Raiders were just that. Tarja was a little more tolerant. Had the rebellion not intervened, he would likely be a mercenary himself, by now. But feelings ran strong between the two camps and fights broke out frequently. In the beginning, Tarja and Damin had organised training bouts between the two armies, ostensibly to foster some sort of cohesion between the two forces. Three fatalities put paid to that laudable sentiment, and Jenga had ordered them stopped. Now the training was strictly segregated.
He reached the centre of the Hythrun camp and discovered a large number of the Raiders in a cheering circle, obviously wagering on some sort of contest. As he neared the group a cheer went up, almost drowning out an unmistakable cry of pain. Tarja dismounted curiously, threw the reins over Shadow’s neck and pushed his way through the crowd.
The source of the Hythrun entertainment proved to be two boys, both bloodied and wounded. The brawl must have been going on for quite some time, by the look of the two combatants. The older of the two was a well-muscled, fair-haired Hythrun lad of about sixteen, an apprentice blacksmith that Tarja had seen once or twice around the forge. The younger boy could not have been more than ten or eleven and was unmistakably Karien, but despite the difference in their sizes, he appeared to be giving a good account of himself, although he was clearly on the brink of collapse. His freckled face was almost totally obscured by blood, his clothes torn, his eyes burning with hatred. He was staggering to his feet as Tarja pushed through to the front of the crowd.
Tarja winced sympathetically as the older boy ran at the disoriented Karien lad and delivered a kick to the boy’s chin that snapped his neck back almost hard enough to break it. With a pain-filled grunt, the Karien boy dropped to the ground. Breathing heavily, the apprentice laughed, triumphantly standing over his vanquished foe. He reached down and snatched the pendant from around the boy’s neck and held it up high to the cheers of the spectators. The five-pointed star and lightning bolt of the Overlord glittered dully in the afternoon light. Someone started up a cry of “Finish him!” which was quickly taken up by the rest of the spectators. The apprentice grinned at the chant and pulled his dagger from his belt. Tarja glanced around the Hythrun and realised, with horror, that they were serious.
“Enough!” he shouted, stepping into the clearing, his red jacket stark against the motley browns and black chain mail of the Hythrun.
Silence descended on the circle of Raiders. Only then did Tarja wonder about the advisability of walking into the centre of thirty-odd Hythrun Raiders crying for blood. The Raiders stared at him, their stillness more threatening than their chanting. He covered the distance to the startled apprentice and snatched the dagger from his hand.
“Get back to work, boy,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument.
The Hythrun boy glared at him, but stepped away from the fallen Karien. A discontented mutter rippled through the men, until one of them, a slender man, with a puckered scar across his throat that looked as if he had survived having it cut, stepped forward.
“You’ve no authority here, Defender,” he said. “Go back to your pretty-boys and leave us to deal with the Karien scum as we wish.”
Tarja could feel the animosity from the Hythrun mercenaries surrounding him. He was far from his own troops, and Damin’s restraining influence had weakened in his absence. With a jolt, Tarja realised he may not get out of this alive. The mercenary stepped closer and Tarja did the only thing he could think of, under the circumstances. He brought his elbow up sharply into the Hythrun’s face and then kicked the stunned mercenary’s legs from under him. The Hythrun hit the ground before the others could react. Tarja slammed his boot down across the man’s scarred throat and then looked up at the startled Raiders.
“Anyone else?” he asked with an equanimity he did not feel. The man beneath his boot squirmed desperately, gasping for air, lack of oxygen draining his strength to escape the pressure of Tarja’s boot.
“I think you’ve made your point, Captain.”
Tarja had to consciously stop himself from sagging with relief as Almodavar appeared in the circle. The Hythrun captain barked a harsh order at his men in their own language and the circle dissolved. Tarja took his boot off the throat of his challenger and the man scrambled to his feet and ran off without looking back, clutching at his neck. Almodavar smiled grimly.
“I never thought you had a death wish, Captain,” the Hythrun remarked with a shake of his head. “You should know better than to interfere with Raiders when their blood is up.”
“Your Raiders should know better than to encourage cold-blooded murder,” Tarja retorted, turning to the prone form of the Karien boy. He knelt down beside the lad and was relieved to see his eyes fluttering open blankly.
The Hythrun captain looked down at the boy and shrugged. “Don’t blame my Raiders too quickly, Captain. That one asks for it daily. He wants to die for his Overlord.”
Tarja pulled the boy to his feet. Far from being grateful, the boy seemed disappointed that Tarja had saved him. He shook himself free and staggered a little before drawing himself up to his full height.
“I need no help from an atheist!” he spat defiantly in broken Hythrun. He had obviously been in the camp long enough to pick up some of the language. He would never have learnt a heathen language in Karien.
Tarja glanced at Almodavar and then back at the boy. “Ungrateful little whelp, isn’t he?” he said in Karien, so the boy would understand him.
Almodavar, for all that he looked like an illiterate pirate, spoke Karien almost as well as he spoke Medalonian and Fardohnyan. Damin held that understanding an enemy’s language, was the first step to understanding an enemy. He had been surprised to learn that most of Damin’s Raiders spoke several languages. His Defenders, the officers at least, could speak Medalonian and Karien. It had been considered polite to converse with one’s allies in their own language, but few bothered to learn the languages of the south. It was a lesson Tarja had taken to heart, although trying to convince Jenga that the Defenders should learn to speak Hythrun was proving something of a chore.
“Aye,” Almodavar agreed, easily falling into the language of their enemy. “This isn’t the first time, and I’ll wager it won’t be the last, that he’s caused trouble. He and his brother were the ones who brought the news of the alliance. His brother isn’t much trouble, but you’d think this one planned to defeat us single handed.”
Tarja studied the boy curiously for a moment. “This is the Karien spy?”
The boy bristled at Tarja’s amusement. “Atheist pig! The Overlord will see you drown in the Sea of Despair!”
“I’m starting to regret saving your neck, boy,” Tarja warned. “Have a care with that mouth of yours.”
“The Overlord will protect me!”
“I didn’t see him around just now,” Almodavar chuckled, and then he changed back to speaking Medalonian without missing a beat. “You wouldn’t consider taking him back with you, I suppose?” he asked. “I doubt he’ll last much longer around here with that attitude.”
Tarja frowned. The last thing he needed was an uncontrollable ten-year-old reeking havoc in their camp in the name of the Overlord. But Almodavar was correct in his assertion that he would not last long among the Hythrun. He pondered the problem for a moment then turned to the captain.