interrogation cells or in the company of the guards, but man to man.
Jenga was an honorable man, and his pride in the Defenders had sustained him for most of his life. He truly believed that they had a solemn duty to protect Medalon and the Sisters of the Blade. But he was finding it hard to reconcile his duty with his oath. For a while, when Mahina had been First Sister, he had positively relished his position, as he watched her trying to bring about some genuine change. Her reign had been all too brief.
Satisfied that the Defenders would be ready to move out in the morning, Jenga made his way back to his quarters. He picked up the letter on his desk and read it again. It was from Verkin on the southern border. Jenga had read it so often in the past few days, he knew its contents by heart.
So Dayan was dead. The manner did not surprise him, only that it had not happened sooner. He grieved for his brother, but his death finally freed him from his debt to Joyhinia. He read the letter again, then threw it on the fire and watched the flames consume it. When it was nothing more than white ash he dug out a bottle of illegally distilled potato spirit and for the first time in twenty years, drank himself into insensibility.
chapter 48
Tarja climbed to his feet warily as Ghari approached, pushing aside his despair in the face of a more immediate threat. They both knew that in a fight, Tarja would be the victor. He was bigger, stronger, and far better trained – a professional soldier – where Ghari was a farm-boy-turned-freedom-fighter. But the younger man wanted him to fight. Tarja could see it in his eyes. He wanted Tarja to resist so that he could take out some of his frustration and anger on the man who had once been his hero. Tarja was in no mood to accommodate him. Neither was he particularly enamored of being hanged.
“I didn’t betray you, Ghari,” Tarja repeated, partly as a plea and partly to distract the younger man long enough to get his bearings. Out in the yard, he heard voices again followed by horses leaving at a gallop. Padric leaving with R’shiel. How long would it take the old rebel to reach the Kariens? The faint beginnings of dawn lightened the sky through the dusty window.
“I don’t listen to traitors.” Ghari carried a sword but made no attempt to draw it. “Are you going to come peacefully, or kicking and screaming like the miserable coward you are?”
“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”
Ghari glared at him for a moment then motioned toward the door. “After you, Captain.”
Tarja walked toward the door, Ghari watching him warily. He was level with the young rebel before he brought his elbow up sharply into Ghari’s face. The young man barely had time to call out before he dropped to the floor, his hands clutched to his broken nose. Tears of pain filled his eyes as he opened his mouth to call out again, but Tarja silenced him with a second blow to the side of his head. He checked the pulse in Ghari’s neck to assure himself the lad was still alive. The young man had been about to escort him to his hanging. He had nothing about which to feel guilty. He quickly relieved the unconscious rebel of his sword and turned to face the door. Either Ghari’s cry had not been heard, or the rebels outside had not recognized the sound for what it was.
Tarja moved to the window and glanced out into the rapidly lightening yard. A dozen or more rebels were still out there, most of them concentrating on putting together a workable noose and pushing an unhitched wagon underneath the tree limb where the noose had been thrown. Mandah stood watching them, but her back was to him. Knowing he had only seconds, Tarja ran toward the back of the house and the cellars. He had supervised the construction of this stronghold and knew its every secret. He barreled down the stone steps into the wine cellar and ran through the gloom toward the last huge barrel. As raised voices reached him from above, he knew Ghari had been discovered. Tarja forced himself not to rush as he felt along the wall in the darkness for the concealed latch. Pushing down on it, he waited as the barrel swung slowly outward. He squeezed into the narrow opening and pulled it shut behind him, dropping the locking bar into place.
Muffled voices reached him in the darkness as the rebels searched the cellar. Tarja ignored them, and, stooping painfully, he felt his way along the tunnel. The darkness was complete. He could not even see his hand in front of his face. Forcing himself to stop for a moment, Tarja tried to remember all he could about where the tunnel led. It opened out in the vineyard, he knew that much, but how far from the house he could not recall. It was pointless worrying about it any case. He would just have to rely on the fact that if he had had enough brains to create an escape route, he also had the sense to make the exit a safe distance from the house.
Several nasty bumps on his forehead convinced Tarja that crawling on his hands and knees was the safest way to negotiate the suffocatingly dark tunnel. Scuttling insects scurried beneath his fingers as he crawled along the dank floor. More than once something dropped on him, and he brushed the unseen creature away with a shudder.
Time lost all meaning as he cautiously made his way through the tunnel, and he began to understand what it was to be blind by the time he discovered the exit by crawling headfirst into it. He let out a yelp of pain as he cracked his forehead on the rough wooden barricade. He touched his forehead and felt the wet, sticky blood with a sigh. Sitting back on his heels, he felt along the rough planking that was sealed with turf on the other side. The roots grew through the gaps in the planking and brushed his seeking hands like ghostly tentacles. He found the latch and forced it down, not really surprised when nothing happened. Pushing on the trapdoor proved fruitless. With a curse, he maneuvered himself around until he was lying on his back, then brought up both feet and kicked the door solidly. He winced at the sound in the close confines of the tunnel, praying there was nobody outside to hear it. A second kick brought a spear of light from a small crack in the opening. Several more kicks forced the trapdoor clear. Light pierced his eyes painfully as he turned his head away, giving himself a few moments to adjust. It would be pointless to get this far, just to stumble blindly out of the tunnel into the arms of his former comrades.
When he could finally face the light without squinting, he crawled clear of the tunnel into the open air. Tarja threw himself on the ground and took several deep breaths, the air clear and pure after the musty tunnel. His face pressed into the turf, he smelled the fresh dampness with unabashed delight. Nothing had ever smelled better.
Finally, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and looked back toward the farmhouse, astounded at the distance the tunnel had covered. It must have taken him hours to crawl through it. Glancing up at the sky, Tarja discovered the sun was quite high overhead. His elation vanished as he realized how great a start Padric had on him. He pushed himself up to his knees and looked around, suddenly aware of a deep rumbling that seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere. For a moment he stopped to listen, unable to place the sound, sure that it sounded like nothing so much as someone breathing. Someone very large, admittedly, but breathing, nonetheless. As he identified the sound, he glanced at the tree trunks that grew in front of the tunnel. Their roots spread out evenly like claws gripping the fresh turf. Two coppery-scaled trunks, glinting in the sunlight, grew from the clawlike roots. About the same time it occurred to Tarja that he wasn’t looking at tree trunks, he thought to look up.
The massive dragon’s head lowered itself slowly until its plate-sized eyes were almost level with his head.
“Are you human or worm?” the dragon asked curiously.
chapter 49
