Tarja saw them approaching and held up his hand to halt the fight. His opponent lowered his sword and glanced at Mikel and Ghari. Realising that their appearance heralded the end of their bout, he raised his blade in salute to Tarja with a weary smile.
“You’re getting slow, Tarja. I can still stand up.”
“I’m getting slow,” Tarja laughed as he returned the salute. “More likely some Karien knight is going to make a trophy of your hide.”
The older man chuckled. “Perhaps, but he’ll have trampled you getting to me.” Captain Alcarnen picked up his shirt off the ground and wiped his forehead with it, then threw it over his shoulder. “Ghari,” he said with a nod as he walked past the young man.
“Captain,” Ghari replied, with a surprising amount of angst. Mikel looked at him curiously. He didn’t like Nheal at all, that much was obvious.
“You didn’t come looking for me for the pleasure of my company, I suppose?” Tarja asked. He slipped his shirt over his head but did not bother to tuck it in to his trousers.
“No,” Ghari agreed. “There’s a bit of trouble brewing in the followers’ camp. I thought maybe you could do something.”
The captain did not seem pleased. “What is it this time?”
“Some of our people tried to set up a temple to Zegarnald. The Defenders tore it down.”
“Heathen worship is against the law, Ghari. You know that and so do they.”
Ghari placed his hands on his hips and glared at Tarja. “Damn it, Tarja, we followed you here to save Medalon from the Kariens. You told us things would change, that we’d be free to worship our gods —”
“All right, I’ll speak to Jenga,” Tarja promised, obviously not pleased by the prospect then he turned his gaze on Mikel, who shivered with apprehension.
“And what of you, boy?” he asked abruptly. “What are you doing here?”
“Sister Mahina... she sent me to... a messenger came... from the front... she said...” Mikel could have cried as he stuttered under the scrutiny of the captain.
“I gather that means Sister Mahina has received a messenger from the front and she wants to see me?” he translated condescendingly. Mikel’s hatred surged through his veins like lava. I will kill this man one day, he swore silently. Tarja seemed oblivious to his animosity. “This could mean things are about to get interesting.”
“You think the rest of the Kariens have arrived?” Ghari asked.
“Either that, or they’ve packed up and gone home, which would be too much to hope for,” he said, sheathing his blade. “Has anyone told —” Tarja’s words were cut off by an ear-shattering whoop as the Hythrun Raiders suddenly thundered past them at a gallop, leaving them coated in a cloud of fine dust. Tarja glared at the troop angrily, spitting grit as he watched them vanish into the dust. “What in the name of the Founders are they up to?”
Ghari wiped his eyes. “Something’s caught their attention.”
Tarja shook his head in annoyance and followed the path of the Raiders. He strode ahead of Ghari and Mikel, who had to run to catch up. The Raiders had not gone far. They were milling about, shouting incomprehensibly a mere fifty paces from the edge of the camp, kicking up a cloud of dust as thick as a winter fog in Yarnarrow. Mikel watched the Raiders curiously, coughing as the dust tickled the back of his throat. He glanced over his shoulder and discovered most of the men on the training ground had stopped what they were doing and had turned to see what the commotion was about.
Tarja strode on, then suddenly stopped, frozen to the spot, as three figures began to materialise out of the dust. All three were on foot, and Mikel immediately recognised the figure in the centre, leading his lathered golden stallion, as the Hythrun Warlord who had been missing these past weeks. The man on his left Mikel had never seen before, but he was tall and lean with dark hair and walked with long, easy strides. Damin Wolfblade was grinning like a fool, obviously enormously pleased with himself. The tall man beside him simply looked satisfied. The figure to the right of the Warlord made Mikel gasp. It was a woman, he realised, wearing close-fitting dark leathers that showed every line of her statuesque body in startling detail, an outfit that would have seen her stoned had she dared wear it in Karien. As she neared them, the Warlord and the other man stopped and waited, letting her walk on alone. She was very tall and had long, dark red hair that fell in a thick braid to her waist. She was the most beautiful woman Mikel had ever seen, even when he was at court; prettier even than the Lady Chastity, who was supposed to be the most beautiful woman in all of Karien.
He glanced up at Tarja, whose expression had changed from anger to awe. As the woman walked towards him, Mikel thought he could have killed Tarja, had he a knife, and the captain would not have noticed, so enthralled did he seem at the sight of the pretty lady.
“By the gods!” Ghari breathed softly behind him. “She’s alive!”
Ghari apparently knew who the pretty lady was, but his words seemed to break the spell that held Tarja motionless. The captain walked out to meet her, and as soon as she saw him, the pretty lady broke into a run. She collided with Tarja, who swept her off the ground and spun her around in a full circle with an inarticulate cry. He was kissing her before her feet touched the ground, a deed that had the gathered army cheering and Mikel blushing with embarrassment at such a wanton public display.
“Who is she?” Mikel asked Ghari. He looked up at the young man and was startled to see his eyes misted with tears.
“R’shiel,” Ghari explained, although the name meant nothing to him. Ghari glanced down at him and ruffled his cropped hair with a grin. “She’s the demon child. She’s come back to us!”
That description meant as little to Mikel as the lady’s name, but it seemed fitting that a man as evil as Tarja would be attracted to a demon. The crowd flowed past him as the soldiers all converged on the returning Warlord and his companions. He quickly lost sight of Tarja and R’shiel as the crowd swallowed them.
Mikel turned away, his heart heavy. It was bad enough that these Medalonians seemed so organised and battle ready, but it was patently unfair that Tarja Tenragan was allowed to be happy, or that they had demons on their side. He impatiently brushed away tears of anger and said a silent prayer to Xaphista.
Help me, he prayed. The demon child has returned to help our enemies.
Mikel had no way of knowing if Xaphista had heard him or not.
He would have been astonished and delighted to know that he had.
Chapter 20
The Karien war camp proved to be as uncomfortable as Adrina had feared. Cratyn’s army was slow in gathering and many of his knights had been here far longer than they ever intended. The sixty days they owed their king was long past. What kept them at the border now was the hope of recovering some of the cost of their expedition once they reached Medalon, and the exhortations of the priesthood that this was a holy war. When one feared eternal damnation, it was easier to stay and fight. Food was scarce and so was fuel; winter was fast approaching. Nobody had expected the Defenders to be waiting on the border when the knights arrived.
The original force of five hundred had been deemed sufficient to cow the unprepared Medalonians and punish them for their temerity. Instead they were met by a large force of Defenders with Hythrun allies and defences that left the knights gasping. There was nothing hurried or hastily thought-out about their earthworks. Even to the inexperienced eye it was obvious that the Defenders planned to force the battle along a path of their choosing. Although Adrina heard some of the knights boast that the first sight of an armoured charge would send the Defenders scurrying, she knew better. Whoever had planned the defence of the Medalon border had planned this long ago – and planned it well. Taking Medalon was not going to be easy, despite the Kariens’ numerical superiority and the much-talked-about blessing of the Overlord.