Treason Keep

“My name is Peny,” she said.

Loclon turned to her, his eyes cold. “No. Tonight your name is R’shiel.”

The woman shrugged. “If you wish.”

“Come here.”

She complied willingly enough, and began to unlace her shift as she approached.

“No. Leave it.”

“What would you like me to do, then?” she asked.

“Beg for mercy,” he replied and then he hit her. She cried out, but nobody would come to her rescue. Fifty rivets bought silence along with Mistress Heaner’s whores. He hit her again, in the face this time, throwing her back against the carved bedpost. She cracked her head and slumped on the expensive blue quilt, too stunned to protect herself from his blows.

“Beg for mercy, R’shiel!”

If she replied he didn’t notice. His rage consumed him as he took out his frustration on the hapless court’esa. The desire to beat her into submission left no room for any other thought.

Chapter 6

Damin Wolfblade was drunk. He knew he was drunk because the walls of the tent were starting to spin, and he could no longer feel his toes. Tarja Tenragan was even drunker. He had been at this longer, and was drinking to drown his sorrows. Damin, on the other hand, was simply drinking to be sociable.

“A toast,” he declared, as Tarja uncorked another bottle. The floor of the tent was littered with empty flagons – an impressive testament to the amount of alcohol they had consumed. “To... to your horse. What’s his name?”

“Her name is Shadow,” Tarja corrected. He wasn’t even slurring his words. Damin was impressed. The man must have a stomach lined with lead.

“To Shadow, then,” Damin declared, raising his cup. “May she carry you safely into battle.”

“I’d be happier if she carried me safely out of it,” Tarja remarked, taking a long swig from the newly uncorked flagon.

Damin laughed and downed the contents of his cup in a swallow. He held out his cup and Tarja refilled it with a surprisingly steady hand.

“I’ll drink to that, too! May she see you safely home again.”

“You’ll drink to anything. I’m surprised you haven’t started toasting the gods.”

“The night is young, my friend,” Damin laughed, relieved to see that Tarja appeared to be coming out of the deep melancholy that had possessed him all day. The Medalonian captain had good days and bad days. Today had been particularly bad. “And when we run out of gods, we can always start on my brothers and sisters.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather we stuck to the gods,” Tarja said, taking another mouthful. “You’ve enough of them to keep us going for days.”

“True, true,” Damin agreed, silently cursing himself for bringing up the topic of brothers and sisters. Tarja’s grief was centred on the woman he once believed was his sister. Reminding him of that was the last thing Damin wanted at this point. “To the gods, then!”

He downed his cup and glanced at Tarja in concern. The man had not touched the flagon, but was staring at him thoughtfully.

“What?”

“Your gods. They’d know if she’s still alive, wouldn’t they?”

Damin shrugged uncomfortably. “I suppose.”

“How do we ask them?” Tarja demanded.

He shook his head. “It’s not so simple, my friend. The gods do not speak directly to the likes of you and me. Perhaps, if Brak were here...”

“Well, he’s not here!”

Brak had vanished only days after the Hythrun had ridden into Testra, some five months ago. Nobody had seen or heard of him since.

“Hey, isn’t Dace a god? He spoke to us. Hell, he travelled with us. Can’t we contact him?”

“If you have a reliable way of contacting the gods, then enlighten me, Tarja. Dacendaran appears when the mood takes him, as does any other god. I doubt if putting the mind of a non-believer at ease about whether the demon child lives or dies is enough to warrant even the fleeting attention of the God of Thieves.” He placed his cup on the small table next to the guttering candle. “If R’shiel is still alive, she’ll be back some day. If not, do your grieving and be done with it. Either way, you can’t spend the rest of your life moping about the girl.”

“When I need sanctimonious advice from you, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, mind your own damned business.”

“It is my business,” Damin replied, “when your misery affects the decisions you make. Particularly when it concerns the safety of my Raiders.”

“Your Raiders?” Damin could see the anger, the pain in the other man’s eyes. “Your damned Raiders are nothing but a bunch of cutthroat mercenaries. And I’ve done nothing to endanger anybody.”

“That’s for certain,” Damin retorted, deliberately goading him. “You’ve done nothing at all but sit here on the border and lament your great and tragic loss. Well, I have news for you, Captain. There’s a Karien army heading this way and they don’t give a pinch of pig-shit about your tender sensibilities. Dead or alive, R’shiel is gone, and you can’t afford to sit here wallowing in self-pity.”

The punch came out of nowhere as Tarja threw himself across the table, sending Damin backward off his stool. He rolled to the side as Tarja lunged for him, tangling himself in the tent as their brawl spilled outside. The candle fell from the overturned table and landed in a puddle of spilled wine, where it quickly caught and began lapping at the canvas tent walls. By the time they staggered to their feet in the clearing, the blazing tent provided a ruddy backdrop to their fight.

They were both drunk, so the blows they traded lacked the strength or accuracy of sobriety, but Damin was still surprised at the force behind Tarja’s fist. Damin had time to wonder if it was guilt, even more than grief, which was eating up Tarja, before the Medalonian charged him with a wordless cry.

By now their altercation had drawn the attention of the other men occupying the surrounding tents, who quickly formed a cheering circle of red-coated Defenders, brown-shirted rebels, and leather-clad Hythrun Raiders, cheering on their officers as they brawled liked a couple of drunken sailors.

Damin didn’t know who was getting the better of the fight. Tarja was a professional soldier, but he was operating on instinct as much as anything. Damin knew his own battle-trained reflexes were the only thing saving him from serious injury. His mind was too wine-muddled to think anything through, other than trading hit and miss blows with his equally inebriated adversary. He felt his bottom lip split as Tarja’s fist connected with his face, snapping his head back, but he blocked the next blow with his left arm and slammed his fist into Tarja’s gut. The other man grunted in pain, but kept his feet and came at him again, a feral grin on his face that looked all the more evil for being blood-streaked and illuminated by the blazing firelight from the tent. He ducked another blow and landed a glancing hit on Tarja’s jaw, as the breathtaking shock of icy water brought the conflict to an abrupt halt.

Damin staggered backwards, shaking the water from his drenched fair hair, as Tarja did the same, looking about for the source of the interruption. Mahina Cortanen stood not two paces from them, empty bucket in hand, her expression thunderous. Lord Jenga stood just behind her, and a pace or so behind Jenga stood the suddenly quiet spectators, their faces ruddy in the flickering light of the burning tent.

“Is this something you gentlemen need to discuss privately?” she asked, with a voice that was colder than the water she had thrown on them.

Damin glanced at Tarja, whose grin was now rather more sheepish than feral. Both of his eyes were