Treason Keep

“That’s the most uncommitted excuse for an agreement I’ve ever heard.”

“Be satisfied with it. It’s the best you’re likely to get until you show me something devised by brains, not wishful thinking.”

Damin glanced at the two of them and shook his head. “Let’s just push him off the cliff and be done with it, Tarja,” he suggested.

“I hear you have a reputation as a cunning warrior, Lord Wolfblade. I can’t for the life of me imagine how you came about it.” He pushed past Damin on the ledge and began to climb down to the narrow trail where their horses were tethered below.

“If this man was not your friend, Tarja...” Damin began.

“He’s just testing you. We need him.”

“No, you need him. I’d just as soon see him dead. And I warn you, every moment I spend in his company, the idea becomes more attractive.”

Damin slammed the delicate looking glass back into its leather case and began to follow the path that Garet had taken.

Tarja shook his head. The last thing they needed was Damin Wolfblade threatening to kill Garet Warner. With Garet’s assistance, it would be far easier to fool the Quorum into believing all was well with the First Sister and his help was essential if they were to eventually replace her. And if the Kariens really had allied with Fardohnya, their only hope of preventing a southern incursion was Damin’s Hythrun Raiders.

Not for the first time since Joyhinia had won the First Sister’s mantle, Tarja wished he had let her hang him. He would never have become involved in the rebellion. He would never have led the raid to rescue R’shiel that resulted in the death of the Karien Envoy, and they would not be facing an invasion. But what hurt most, when he let himself think on it, was R’shiel. If not for him, she would be alive and probably in blissful ignorance of what she really was.

But then again, maybe nothing would be different, even if he had died. The Harshini had known all along what R’shiel was and had sent Brak to find her. Garet and he had identified the Karien threat long before any of these other events took shape. Whichever way he looked at it, he was caught in circumstances that seemed to be constantly spiralling out of control. He remembered thinking, more than a year ago, when he was riding toward capture in Testra at the hands of Lord Draco, the man who turned out to be his father, that life was no longer certain.

He was starting to wryly think of those times as the good old days.

The ride back to the Defender’s camp was tense. Damin was angry and Garet silent. Tarja wished he could think of something to say that would bring some sanity to the situation. He had always liked and respected Garet Warner, yet he had found a rare friendship with Damin Wolfblade – ironically, a man he had spent four years on the southern border trying to kill.

It was late afternoon when Treason Keep appeared on the horizon. Although the engineers had done their best, it was unlikely the Keep would ever be useful as anything but a temporary headquarters. Tarja wondered what had happened to Bereth and her orphans. There was no sign of them at the Keep. Had they survived? Or had Bereth found a safer place for her brood? Tarja wished he had the time to discover their fate.

The tents of their army covered a vast area surrounding the old ruin. The Hythrun were camped on the western side of the plain, and as they neared the sea of tents, Damin reined in his mount and studied the camp thoughtfully. Tarja stopped beside him. Garet rode on, not interested in the view.

The Defender’s tents were laid out in precise lines, each housing four men, with spears and pikes stacked in neat piles between them. Their camp was as neat and orderly as Defender discipline demanded. The much smaller Hythrun camp looked like a motley collection of warriors out on a hunting expedition. No two tents were alike, and they had been erected anywhere the Raiders felt like making camp. A pall of smoke hung over the camp from the cook fires and the huge open-air forge built against the southern wall of the Keep. Even from this distance, Tarja could faintly hear the rhythmic ringing of the smiths’ hammers as they pounded the metal into shape. The need for additional swords, pikes and arrowheads was urgent. Jenga had decided that making them on site was preferable to shipping them from the Citadel, although the lack of fuel for the hungry fires almost outweighed the advantages of being able to make and repair their weapons at the front.

North of the camp lay the training grounds, marked by a vast expanse of scuffed ground and lines of tall hay bales, to which rough outlines of man-shapes had been secured to give the trainees something to aim at. Mounted, red-coated sentries patrolled the camp perimeter in pairs. The Hythrun sentries were out of sight, hidden by the long grass.

To the south was the sprawling tent city that housed the rebels, the camp followers and anyone else in Medalon who thought there was a quick fortune to be made in a war. Jenga had given up trying to make them leave.

“The Fardohnyans have me worried,” Damin admitted eventually, once Garet was out of their hearing. “Karien knights are fools. They expect everyone to play by the same rules as they do, and are therefore predictable.”

“And the Fardohnyans?” Tarja had never fought them. In his experience they preferred trade to conflict. But an enemy that caused the Hythrun Warlord concern was an enemy to fear.

“Hablet keeps a huge standing army. His troops are well trained and they think on the run,” Damin warned. “They won’t play by the same rules as the Kariens. It’s one of the reasons Hythria has avoided an open conflict with Fardohnya. And then there’s Hablet’s cannon...”

“What do you suggest?”

Damin shrugged. “I think we need help.”

“Point me at it,” Tarja said wearily.

Damin glanced at him and then laughed. “I think it’s time I spoke to my god. I am, after all, His most worthy subject. Zegarnald owes me a favour or two.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know how to contact the gods?”

“I believe I said I didn’t know how to contact the God of Thieves. The God of War is a different matter entirely. He speaks to me often.”

“What does he say?” Tarja asked curiously.

“Ah, now that is between me and my god. You return to the Keep and try to keep things under control. I will see what I can do about some divine assistance.”

“Damin!” Tarja called uselessly, as the Warlord spurred his magnificent stallion forward. Damin ignored him and galloped toward the camp.

Tarja watched him go, wondering about the wisdom of allying himself with someone who thought the fickle Primal gods could help them against the might of the Karien army, allied with the almost uncountable Fardohnyans.

Garet was right, he thought heavily as he spurred Shadow on towards the camp. He was trying to win a war with wishful thinking.

Chapter 11

The Isle of Slarn was a miserable, bitter place; shrouded in mist and surrounded by a treacherous reef that made even the most seasoned sailor nervous. Adrina watched the island growing larger through the mist, shivering in the chilly spray that splashed over the bow in the grey, overcast morning.

“It’s a great honour,” Cratyn told her solemnly, “to be allowed to visit Slarn.”

“You think so?” she asked, gripping the rail tightly. “I’ll try to remember that as I’m being dashed against the reef, just before I drown.”

Cratyn looked at her unsmilingly. He had solemn eyes in a not-unpleasant face, but he had no sense of humour that Adrina had been able to detect thus far.