argument with Jenga. The Lord Defender was trying to hold together a disparate force, Tarja knew that, and the knowledge that he was doing it through deception weighed heavily on him. But it didn’t excuse his intransigence over the matter of attacking the Kariens. The Lord Defender was willing to defend his border, but he refused to make the first move. He wanted to wait until the Kariens invaded. Tarja disagreed. The Karien camp had grown considerably from the five hundred knights that had been camped there all through summer. They should be taking the fight to the enemy and they should do it now, before the Karien force grew so large that they would simply be overrun.
Jenga was furious when he heard that Tarja had crossed the border. Using the same Hythrun tactics that were so effective in the south, on their numerous cattle raids into Medalon, he had taken a handful of men into Karien under cover of darkness and stampeded the enemy’s horses through their camp. The ensuing destruction had been extremely gratifying – it had probably set back their war effort by weeks. He’d only lost three men to injury, and had considered the entire affair a small, if significant, victory.
Jenga did not see it that way. He had exploded with fury when he learnt of the attack, accusing Damin of being a reckless barbarian for suggesting the idea, and Tarja of being an undisciplined fool for listening to him.
Following his desertion two years ago, Tarja had often longed for the chance to return to the security and brotherhood of the Corps. But now that he was back, he discovered it was not the easy ride he had hoped. He had
They still had only six thousand of the twelve thousand Defenders they could count on, and a thousand Hythrun Raiders from Krakandar. As he thought of the Hythrun, he wondered, as he had already done countless times, where Damin Wolfblade was.
Nobody had seen the Warlord for nearly a month – not since the argument with Jenga after the raid, when he announced that he was going to speak with his god. If Almodavar knew where he was, he wasn’t saying. The grizzled Hythrun captain seemed unconcerned by his Lord’s absence. If Damin wished to speak with the God of War, to seek his blessing, then his troops were not about to object. They fervently believed Zegarnald would help them. They were counting on it, in fact.
When he reached the camp, on impulse Tarja turned toward the scattered Hythrun tents. Perhaps Almodavar had heard something. It was becoming increasingly difficult to reassure Jenga that Damin had not simply deserted them.
He rode through the camp, acknowledging the occasional wave from the Hythrun troops. The Raiders were much less respectful of rank than the Defenders. Among the Raiders, one earnt respect through battle, not promotion or pretty insignia. But some of these men had faced Tarja on the southern border. They knew him for a warrior and found nothing strange in their Warlord’s alliance with his former enemy.
The Defenders had been far less accommodating. They resented the presence of the Hythrun and made no secret of it. Tarja thought that much of the impressive discipline the Defenders displayed was designed to show the Hythrun how things were done in a “proper” army. The Defenders despised mercenaries, and most of Damin’s Raiders were just that. Tarja was a little more tolerant. Had the rebellion not intervened, he would likely be a mercenary himself, by now. But feelings ran strong between the two camps and fights broke out frequently. In the beginning, Tarja and Damin had organised training bouts between the two armies, ostensibly to foster some sort of cohesion between the two forces. Three fatalities put paid to that laudable sentiment, and Jenga had ordered them stopped. Now the training was strictly segregated.
He reached the centre of the Hythrun camp and discovered a large number of the Raiders in a cheering circle, obviously wagering on some sort of contest. As he neared the group a cheer went up, almost drowning out an unmistakable cry of pain. Tarja dismounted curiously, threw the reins over Shadow’s neck and pushed his way through the crowd.
The source of the Hythrun entertainment proved to be two boys, both bloodied and wounded. The brawl must have been going on for quite some time, by the look of the two combatants. The older of the two was a well-muscled, fair-haired Hythrun lad of about sixteen, an apprentice blacksmith that Tarja had seen once or twice around the forge. The younger boy could not have been more than ten or eleven and was unmistakably Karien, but despite the difference in their sizes, he appeared to be giving a good account of himself, although he was clearly on the brink of collapse. His freckled face was almost totally obscured by blood, his clothes torn, his eyes burning with hatred. He was staggering to his feet as Tarja pushed through to the front of the crowd.
Tarja winced sympathetically as the older boy ran at the disoriented Karien lad and delivered a kick to the boy’s chin that snapped his neck back almost hard enough to break it. With a pain-filled grunt, the Karien boy dropped to the ground. Breathing heavily, the apprentice laughed, triumphantly standing over his vanquished foe. He reached down and snatched the pendant from around the boy’s neck and held it up high to the cheers of the spectators. The five-pointed star and lightning bolt of the Overlord glittered dully in the afternoon light. Someone started up a cry of “Finish him!” which was quickly taken up by the rest of the spectators. The apprentice grinned at the chant and pulled his dagger from his belt. Tarja glanced around the Hythrun and realised, with horror, that they were serious.
“Enough!” he shouted, stepping into the clearing, his red jacket stark against the motley browns and black chain mail of the Hythrun.
Silence descended on the circle of Raiders. Only then did Tarja wonder about the advisability of walking into the centre of thirty-odd Hythrun Raiders crying for blood. The Raiders stared at him, their stillness more threatening than their chanting. He covered the distance to the startled apprentice and snatched the dagger from his hand.
“Get back to work, boy,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument.
The Hythrun boy glared at him, but stepped away from the fallen Karien. A discontented mutter rippled through the men, until one of them, a slender man, with a puckered scar across his throat that looked as if he had survived having it cut, stepped forward.
“You’ve no authority here, Defender,” he said. “Go back to your pretty-boys and leave us to deal with the Karien scum as we wish.”
Tarja could feel the animosity from the Hythrun mercenaries surrounding him. He was far from his own troops, and Damin’s restraining influence had weakened in his absence. With a jolt, Tarja realised he may not get out of this alive. The mercenary stepped closer and Tarja did the only thing he could think of, under the circumstances. He brought his elbow up sharply into the Hythrun’s face and then kicked the stunned mercenary’s legs from under him. The Hythrun hit the ground before the others could react. Tarja slammed his boot down across the man’s scarred throat and then looked up at the startled Raiders.
“Anyone else?” he asked with an equanimity he did not feel. The man beneath his boot squirmed desperately, gasping for air, lack of oxygen draining his strength to escape the pressure of Tarja’s boot.
“I think you’ve made your point, Captain.”
Tarja had to consciously stop himself from sagging with relief as Almodavar appeared in the circle. The Hythrun captain barked a harsh order at his men in their own language and the circle dissolved. Tarja took his boot off the throat of his challenger and the man scrambled to his feet and ran off without looking back, clutching at his neck. Almodavar smiled grimly.
“I never thought you had a death wish, Captain,” the Hythrun remarked with a shake of his head. “You should know better than to interfere with Raiders when their blood is up.”
“Your Raiders should know better than to encourage cold-blooded murder,” Tarja retorted, turning to the prone form of the Karien boy. He knelt down beside the lad and was relieved to see his eyes fluttering open blankly.
The Hythrun captain looked down at the boy and shrugged. “Don’t blame my Raiders too quickly, Captain. That one asks for it daily. He wants to die for his Overlord.”
Tarja pulled the boy to his feet. Far from being grateful, the boy seemed disappointed that Tarja had saved him. He shook himself free and staggered a little before drawing himself up to his full height.
“I need no help from an atheist!” he spat defiantly in broken Hythrun. He had obviously been in the camp long enough to pick up some of the language. He would never have learnt a heathen language in Karien.
