chapter 17
Tarja left the Citadel in the storm that beat at the city with angry whiplashes of lightning, taking the chance that Jenga had offered him without giving much thought to the consequences. He took only his horse, his sword, and the clothes on his back, with the exception of his distinctive red Defenders jacket, which he left folded on his bunk. He rode out of the Citadel in the rain, dressed much as he had been when he was fighting on the southern border.
R’shiel was waiting for him at the small village of Kordale, cloaked against the rain, riding her long-legged gray mare with a pack thrown over her shoulder. She had fled the Citadel taking with her only a change of clothes, a few personal belongings, and every single coin Joyhinia had in her apartment. Her decision to run away appeared to have been far easier than his. She was bound by no oaths, hampered by no thoughts of treason. But she was nursing a smoldering rage which manifested itself as stubbornness. He had no more hope of convincing her she should turn back than he had of convincing himself.
At first, R’shiel’s determination and the coin she had stolen had sustained them. Of course, she did not consider it stolen. If Joyhinia was prepared to sell her to the Kariens, she told him, then she was entitled to a share in the profits. They rode south for want of a better direction. North was Karien. To the south lay Hythria and Fardohnya. Both countries were big enough to lose themselves in. Tarja was, after all, a professional soldier. There were plenty of openings for men with his skills, particularly in Hythria, where the seven Hythrun Warlords constantly waged war on each other. R’shiel was well educated, and there were plenty of noble families in the south who would pay well for a Medalonian governess, or even a bookkeeper. As Bereth had pointed out, the Sisters of the Blade were the best-trained bureaucrats in the world. Without even discussing it, they found themselves heading for Hythria.
They were on the road for a week or more before Tarja realized he had unconsciously decided to seek out Damin Wolfblade and hire himself out as a mercenary. The Defenders thought mercenaries the scum of the earth, but in Hythria, they were a necessary part of life. The southerners considered an army far better manned by career mercenaries, whose survival depended on their battle skills, than resentful slaves, or conscripts whose first concern was their farm or their sweetheart back home. Tarja found himself having to revise his own opinion. He no longer had the luxury of taking the high moral ground. He was a deserter. His life would be forfeit should the Defenders apprehend him, and he did not doubt that Joyhinia had ordered them to hunt him down relentlessly until they did. He had humiliated her in public. That thought almost made defying her worthwhile.
But it was a long way to Hythria, and what coin they did have would not last long if spent on inns. Besides, they were too well known in the lands around the Citadel to risk such creature comforts. So they cut inland, away from the Glass River, across the low Hallowdean Mountains and the Cliffwall, through the isolated farms and villages of central Medalon.
For most of the winter they survived by R’shiel’s wits and Tarja’s hunting skills or by hiring themselves out for a few days at a time to farmers, who would gladly trade a warm stable and a hot meal for chores around the farm. They dared not stay in one place too long. News of his desertion was only hours behind them. It would not take much for the farmers to recall the tall redhead and the dark-haired stranger who had stopped at their holding at a time when few people chose to travel.
R’shiel’s anger abated after a while, although Tarja suspected it would take little to fan it back into life. She began to treat their desperate flight like some grand adventure. She was pleasant company for the most part, provided they stayed off the topic of Joyhinia. R’shiel never complained, never shirked any task he asked of her. She had surprised him at the first farm where they sought shelter, when she had introduced herself as his wife rather than his sister. The Defenders were hunting for them, she explained when they were alone. If they questioned the farmer later, they might not connect the nice young couple on their way to visit their families in the south with the deserter and his runaway sister they were pursuing. Tarja didn’t think the Defenders were quite so easily fooled, but it seemed a wise precaution, so he didn’t make an issue of it.
Joyhinia’s Purge further complicated matters. Defender patrols were everywhere, despite the weather, in places they had not been seen for years. They had a narrow escape in the village of Alton, a small hamlet in central Medalon that consisted of a handful of families, all so interrelated that it was impossible to tell where one family began and another ended. They had just settled down for the evening. R’shiel was huddled close to him for warmth, drifting into a light doze to the pungent smell of the warm stable. He had grown used to her sleeping next to him over the winter.
He was weary and stiff from an afternoon spent swinging an axe when the sound of horses reached him, jerking him awake. He peered through the split wood of the loft and discovered a Defender patrol milling about in the street below. The lieutenant in charge was asking something of one of the villagers. Perhaps they were not looking for them specifically, but that would soon change if they were discovered here. Even his horse, stabled below, would give him away. The distinctive breeding of a Defender cavalry mount was easily recognizable. He shook R’shiel awake, motioned her to silence, and pointed down toward the street. She understood immediately and quickly pulled on her boots then gathered their meager belongings, hastily throwing them into saddlebags. Once down among the horses, Tarja threw their saddles over their mounts, loosely cinched the girths, and quietly led them out of the stable by the back door. They did not stop to saddle the horses properly until they were well into the trees outside of the town. They rode until the sun came up and then only rested for an hour or so, before moving on.
It was a hell of a way to live.
The incident in Alton forced Tarja to reconsider his plans. Although they had avoided pursuit thus far, the very isolation of the villages they rode through made them stand out. Strangers were rare enough to be commented on. Sometimes, it was the only noteworthy event for weeks. They decided it might be safer if they cut across to the Glass River, where the towns were more populous and strangers were the norm rather than the exception. So they had turned southwest and made their way slowly toward the river, avoiding patrols and villages as much as they could. He hoped they had left a clear enough trail that the Defenders would continue to search for them away from the river.
By the time they reached the small village of Reddingdale, the first tentative signs of spring had begun to manifest themselves. The air was warmer, the days a little longer, and the lethargy of winter was slowly being shed by the townsfolk. Tarja and R’shiel had ridden into the village at dusk and had chosen the first inn they came to. They were both tired of sleeping on the ground, and they worked out that they could afford one night in a warm bed with a fire and a belly full of ale and hot stew.
It was well into the night when the Defender patrol burst into the tavern and began rounding up the patrons, demanding names and occupations. They were sitting near the back of the taproom, having chosen the place carefully, both for its view of the front door and its proximity to the kitchen, which would offer a quick exit if they needed one. As the Defenders burst in, Tarja shrank back against the wall, judging the distance to their escape route. The taproom was quite large, and it would take the Defenders several minutes to get around to where they were sitting. R’shiel was edging her way along the bench slowly, to avoid attracting attention, when one of the Defenders hit the tavern keeper across the jaw with the hilt of his sword, presumably for some insult.
The rest of it happened so quickly, Tarja had trouble recalling the details later. A boy of about twelve or thirteen, the innkeeper’s son Tarja guessed, ran at the Defenders from the kitchen, yelling something incomprehensible. He clutched a small dagger in a hand still chubby with baby fat. His face was red and tear- streaked. He lunged at the man who had struck the tavern keeper. The Defender reacted instinctively to the threat and thrust his sword out to block the boy’s attack. The child ran onto the blade before he knew what had happened to him.
A high-pitched, heart-rending cry of agony rent the air. Screams of the tavern wenches, the tavern keeper and shouts of the Defenders yelling for order filled the smoky taproom. With a shocked expression, the Defender jerked his blade free and the child fell to the floor, blood spurting from the wound. Somebody else, Tarja had no idea who, tried to attack the Defenders and was dealt with as efficiently as the child. Tarja knew these men, if not personally, then at least how well they were trained. A taproom full of villagers stood no chance against them.
He glanced at the kitchen door and then caught the look on R’shiel’s face. Before he could stop her, she snatched his dagger from his belt and hurled it with astounding accuracy at the Defender who had killed the child.
