The Defenders’ camp spread out across the plain in neat lines of identical tents, radiating from the old keep in the centre, which served as the temporary command post for the Medalonian forces. The Defenders called it Treason Keep, which Mikel thought the strangest name. It was here that Mikel did his chores for Mahina. It was here that Lord Jenga, Tarja Tenragan and another dangerous looking man called Garet Warner met with the savage Captain Almodavar and a passionate young man called Ghari, to make their plans. Mikel had not worked out exactly what Ghari’s position was in the Medalon forces, but he was often called in to discuss matters of import, although he had little to offer in the way of tactical advice. He seemed to be in charge of all sorts of other things – tasks that were vital to the war effort but not directly involved in the fighting.
Mikel was amazed at how little time the Medalonians spent discussing actual battle plans. They spent a lot more time worrying about supplies and ammunition and feed for the horses and securing enough fuel to see them through the winter. He supposed it was because they did not have the Overlord to protect them. Such mundane matters were rarely discussed in the Karien camp. The Overlord would provide.
Mikel had a natural ear for languages, and it was not long before he could make sense of what they were saying. Astonishingly, once Mahina realised he could understand what was being said, far from discouraging him, she took time out to give him lessons and even boasted to Tarja at how quickly he was picking up the language. Tarja had actually smiled!
Of all things in the Defenders’ camp that confused or surprised Mikel, the strangest by far was the Crazy Lady. She had rooms in the restored upper level of Treason Keep, heavily guarded by Defenders and a sad looking man called Lord Draco who said little and kept to himself in the chambers above the great hall. Lord Draco frightened Mikel, and not simply because of his physical resemblance to Tarja. The man had an air about him that spoke of emotions Mikel was too young to define. The only redeeming features that Mikel could see were his devotion to the Crazy Lady and the fact that any time Lord Draco and Tarja were in the same room you could almost see the hatred between them like streaks of jagged lightning. He did not know why Tarja hated Lord Draco and was too afraid to ask anyone the reason, but it made him feel a little better to know that all was not as perfect as it seemed in the Medalonian camp.
The Crazy Lady never left her room. Mikel had seen her once, when Mahina had sent him to her chamber with a document she had to sign. The guards had opened the door for him and Affiana, the tall, no-nonsense woman who seemed to be the Crazy Lady’s nurse, had met him inside. Affiana had relieved him of the scroll and bustled him out the door, but not before he caught a glimpse of the Crazy Lady sitting on the floor in the centre of the chamber, clutching a ragged doll and humming tunelessly. The guards outside had shooed him away, leaving him burning with curiosity regarding the Crazy Lady’s identity.
The third week into Mikel’s internment in the Defender camp, Mahina sent him to find Tarja. A messenger had arrived from the front with news, and she wanted to see him. It must be something important, he knew, but he was sent away before he could learn what it was.
While Mikel dreaded the thought of seeking Tarja out, he was looking forward to the opportunity to visit the training ground legitimately. He hurried through the camp, ignored by Defenders who considered him not worth noticing. The day was quite cold and still. Swirls of dust floated through the camp like smoke eddies. Mikel all but ran, knowing the quicker he got there, the more time he could spend watching the Defenders before he had to approach Tarja.
The training ground covered a vast area north of Treason Keep. It was dusty and noisy, the long grass scuffed bare by the boots of thousands of men training for war. He slowed as he reached the field, weaving his way cautiously between groups of men charging with pikes at targets nailed to posts buried deep in the ground. A little further on another troop bearing red-painted shields was practising a set of striking sword blows. The sergeant in charge bellowed impatient instructions about turning hands, and standing side-on, and told one hapless young man that if he continued to use his shield as a counter-balance instead of protection he would undoubtedly have the honour of being the first trooper to die in defence of Medalon.
A little further on Mikel watched in awe as a troop of Hythrun Raiders practised, mounted on their beautiful golden steeds. They were shooting into melons mounted on short poles, which exploded in a ruddy mess as wave after wave of them galloped towards the targets; they loosed their arrows side-on, reloaded and fired at the next target without missing a beat. The Raiders steered their horses with their knees and rode as if nothing could unseat them. Karien knights picked their horses for their ability to carry the weight of an armoured man. Agility and speed were secondary concerns. Mikel thought of Lord Laetho’s huge and very expensive warhorse, which looked clumsy and cumbersome compared to the sleek Hythrun mounts, and wondered how he would fare in a battle.
He moved on in the direction Mahina had told him Tarja would be, watching the Hythrun horsemen over his shoulder as he hurried forward. He stopped again for a moment to watch another group attacking a number of armoured targets, practising slowly and deliberately as they aimed for the vulnerable places in the armour with deadly precision. Mikel frowned as he watched them. Although every man here was training for war, these men were specifically training to kill or disable the knights who would lead the charge. He shuddered at the thought. The Medalonians seemed to be taking this war a lot more seriously that his own people. But then they had to, he reminded himself. They were outnumbered and they did not have the Overlord on their side.
“Here, lad, what are you doing hanging about the field?”
Mikel jumped guiltily and turned to the man who had challenged him. It was Ghari, he discovered with relief. Ghari did not frighten him nearly as much as the Defenders.
“Sister Mahina sent me to find Captain Tenragan.”
Ghari placed his hand on Mikel’s shoulder with a friendly smile. “Let’s go find him then, shall we? I’m looking for him too.”
Mikel nodded a little uncertainly and let Ghari lead the way. He watched the man out of the corner of his eye, expecting to see some sign that Ghari’s friendliness was feigned, but the young man simply glanced down at him and smiled again. Mikel could not understand these people at all.
Tarja was on the far side of the training ground, stripped down to trousers and boots and sweating in the cold sunlight. He was training with another man, a little older than he, and both men were breathing hard, dust clinging to their sweaty skin as they traded blows. Both had the musculature of men who spent hours with a sword, but Mikel was astounded to see Tarja’s back scarred with the unmistakable mark of the lash. He was savagely pleased to think that someone had lashed Tarja. He would like to meet the man and thank him.
The sound of metal against metal rang loudly as Tarja and his opponent moved back and forth, neither man trying to gain the advantage, simply working muscles to the point of fatigue and beyond to strengthen them. Mikel had heard one of the Medalonians say that it was the training you did after you reached the point of exhaustion that really counted. Everything you did up to that point was just warming up.