beginning to blacken, and blood streamed from his nose and the corner of his mouth. His normally immaculate uniform was torn and muddied. Damin had no doubt that he looked just as bad.
“We were discussing... the differences in Medalonian and Hythrun... hand-to-hand combat, my Lady,” Damin explained, as he gasped for air, with a quick grin in Tarja’s direction. “We had just moved... from a theoretical discussion to a more... practical demonstration of the techniques involved. A... most useful exercise, I must say.” With the back of his tender hand, he wiped the blood from his mouth, and smiled ingenuously at Mahina. The spectators, Defender, rebel and Hythrun alike, nodded their agreement.
Mahina glared at him then turned on Tarja. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”
Tarja hesitated for a moment, his chest heaving, before he straightened up and smiled through his split lip at the former First Sister. “I’d say... both techniques were useful, given... the right circumstances, however —”
“Oh, spare me!” Mahina cried. “Perhaps now that you’ve finished your
Damin rubbed his tender jaw and glanced at Tarja, who seemed the better for their fight, despite his physical condition. Damin made a mental note to make certain that the next time Tarja felt the need to hit something, he arranged for somebody else to be the target.
“I believe we can accommodate you, my Lady,” Damin said, as if accepting a dinner invitation. “Shall we, Captain?”
“Certainly.” He looked around at the gathered spectators, suddenly noticing them for the first time. “Did you men want something to do?”
Several Defenders had taken it upon themselves to douse the blazing tent. The rest of the Defenders and rebels faded into the darkness with impressive speed. One look in the direction of his Raiders was enough to have the same effect on them. Looking idle was a thing to be avoided at all costs; every soldier in the camp knew that. Lord Jenga stood behind Mahina, a rare smile on his contour-map face as he watched the troops vanish back into their tents. Mahina glanced over her shoulder at him. He quickly wiped the smile off his face.
“Something amuses you, my Lord?”
“Youthful high spirits always amuse me, my Lady,” he replied evenly.
“Is that what you call it? I can think of a better description.” She turned back to the two combatants with a frown. “Clean yourselves up, then meet me in the Keep.” She turned on her heel, still clutching the wooden bucket, and stormed off into the darkness.
“Has something happened?” Damin asked the Lord Defender. Mahina was fairly even tempered as a rule. Anger seemed strange in a woman who looked like somebody’s grandmother.
“We have a visitor from the Citadel,” Jenga told them.
“Who?” Tarja asked. The shock from Mahina’s bucket of water seemed to have sobered him. Damin wished he could recover so quickly.
“Garet Warner.”
Damin turned to him, trying to think of an intelligent question. It was quite depressing to be drunk under the table by a Medalonian. He had to give at least give the impression that he could think straight. “Is he on our side, this Garet Warner?”
Tarja shrugged. “That remains to be seen.”
Garet Warner proved to be a nondescript-looking man of average height, who wore the red jacket of a Defender and the rank insignia of a commandant. He had a balding head, a deceptively quiet voice and a piercing mind. The Warlord studied him by the torchlight of the hastily reconstructed great hall of Treason Keep. Damin was unsure where the name had come from. It certainly wasn’t officially named that, and one referred to the ruin as “Treason Keep” in the Lord Defender’s hearing at their peril. It seemed fitting, though. The Defenders were here to protect their nation from invasion, but they had broken any number of oaths to get here.
The ruin was deserted when they arrived some months ago, and a much sturdier and strategically more useful keep, closer to the northern border, would soon replace it. In the interim, Treason Keep was the closest thing to a permanent structure on the open, grassy plains of northern Medalon.
The commandant’s expression gave away nothing as Tarja and Damin entered the hall. Garet Warner stood in front of the huge fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back as they walked toward him. Mahina sat in a chair on his right; Jenga in another chair opposite the former First Sister.
Tarja nodded warily to Garet when they reached the hearth. “Garet.”
“Tarja,” Garet acknowledged. “You’ve a knack for keeping your head on your shoulders, I’ll grant you that.”
Tarja smiled faintly, which made Damin rest a little easier. There was something about this visitor that marked him as dangerous, although Damin wasn’t thinking clearly enough to define the feeling exactly. He hoped this man was on their side. He would be a bad enemy.
“I can’t help being hard to kill. Commandant Warner, this is the Warlord of Krakandar, Damin Wolfblade.”
“Our new and somewhat unexpected ally. My Lord.”
“Commandant,” Damin greeted him. “You come from the Citadel, I hear. Do you have news?”
“Questions, more than news,” Garet replied, his glance taking in all of them. “The Quorum is understandably suspicious about the First Sister’s extended absence from the Citadel. The orders arriving at the Citadel, under her seal, seem rather at odds with her... previous decisions.”
“The First Sister has had a change of heart in recent months,” Tarja said.
“Is she still alive?”
“Of course, she’s alive,” Jenga declared. “Do you think I would be a party to murder?”
“I’m not here to give my opinion, my Lord,” Garet told him with a shrug. “I am here to investigate the issues raised by the Quorum. And there is plenty of reason to be suspicious. You left the Citadel with an army to capture and execute an escaped convict. Six months later, here you are, sitting on the northern border with that same escaped convict pardoned and a member of your staff, a foreign warlord, as your ally, preparing to fight a nation we very recently considered our friend. All with the approval of the First Sister, who, it is widely acknowledged, was in complete disagreement with you on all of those matters. The remarkable thing about all this is that they haven’t sent someone to investigate sooner.”
“There’s a perfectly logical explanation,” Damin offered helpfully.
“And I look forward to hearing it,” Garet told him. “It will be fascinating, I’m sure. But first, I must insist on seeing Sister Joyhinia.”
“You doubt my word, Garet?” Jenga asked.
“Not at all, my Lord. But I have my orders.”
“Very well,” Jenga agreed, with some reluctance. “You shall see her. Perhaps once you have, things will make a little more sense.”
“I hope so, my Lord.”
“Sister Mahina? Would you be so kind as escort Commandant Warner to the First Sister’s quarters?”
Mahina frowned. “I don’t like to disturb her this late at night.”
“It cannot be avoided, I fear. I doubt the commandant wants to wait until morning.”
“Very well,” Mahina agreed. She stood up and pointed toward the narrow staircase that led to the upper level. “If you will follow me, Commandant.”
Damin and Tarja stood back to let them pass, watching the old woman and the Defender until they vanished into the gloom. Once he was certain they were out of earshot, Tarja turned to Jenga with concern.
“This could be awkward,” Tarja said, leaning on the long table for support. The movement heartened Damin. Tarja was not nearly as sober as he pretended.
“Awkward? This is bloody impossible! I have never been happy with this subterfuge! Something like this was bound to happen, sooner or later.”
“Do you have a better alternative?”
“But to send orders to the Citadel? Under Joyhinia’s seal? Orders that anybody in their right mind would know did not come from her?”
Damin found himself stepping between the two men, and between an argument that had been unresolved for months. “With all due respect, my Lord, the orders
