Treason Keep

him burning with curiosity regarding the Crazy Lady’s identity.

The third week into Mikel’s internment in the Defender camp, Mahina sent him to find Tarja. A messenger had arrived from the front with news, and she wanted to see him. It must be something important, he knew, but he was sent away before he could learn what it was.

While Mikel dreaded the thought of seeking Tarja out, he was looking forward to the opportunity to visit the training ground legitimately. He hurried through the camp, ignored by Defenders who considered him not worth noticing. The day was quite cold and still. Swirls of dust floated through the camp like smoke eddies. Mikel all but ran, knowing the quicker he got there, the more time he could spend watching the Defenders before he had to approach Tarja.

The training ground covered a vast area north of Treason Keep. It was dusty and noisy, the long grass scuffed bare by the boots of thousands of men training for war. He slowed as he reached the field, weaving his way cautiously between groups of men charging with pikes at targets nailed to posts buried deep in the ground. A little further on another troop bearing red-painted shields was practising a set of striking sword blows. The sergeant in charge bellowed impatient instructions about turning hands, and standing side-on, and told one hapless young man that if he continued to use his shield as a counter-balance instead of protection he would undoubtedly have the honour of being the first trooper to die in defence of Medalon.

A little further on Mikel watched in awe as a troop of Hythrun Raiders practised, mounted on their beautiful golden steeds. They were shooting into melons mounted on short poles, which exploded in a ruddy mess as wave after wave of them galloped towards the targets; they loosed their arrows side-on, reloaded and fired at the next target without missing a beat. The Raiders steered their horses with their knees and rode as if nothing could unseat them. Karien knights picked their horses for their ability to carry the weight of an armoured man. Agility and speed were secondary concerns. Mikel thought of Lord Laetho’s huge and very expensive warhorse, which looked clumsy and cumbersome compared to the sleek Hythrun mounts, and wondered how he would fare in a battle.

He moved on in the direction Mahina had told him Tarja would be, watching the Hythrun horsemen over his shoulder as he hurried forward. He stopped again for a moment to watch another group attacking a number of armoured targets, practising slowly and deliberately as they aimed for the vulnerable places in the armour with deadly precision. Mikel frowned as he watched them. Although every man here was training for war, these men were specifically training to kill or disable the knights who would lead the charge. He shuddered at the thought. The Medalonians seemed to be taking this war a lot more seriously that his own people. But then they had to, he reminded himself. They were outnumbered and they did not have the Overlord on their side.

“Here, lad, what are you doing hanging about the field?”

Mikel jumped guiltily and turned to the man who had challenged him. It was Ghari, he discovered with relief. Ghari did not frighten him nearly as much as the Defenders.

“Sister Mahina sent me to find Captain Tenragan.”

Ghari placed his hand on Mikel’s shoulder with a friendly smile. “Let’s go find him then, shall we? I’m looking for him too.”

Mikel nodded a little uncertainly and let Ghari lead the way. He watched the man out of the corner of his eye, expecting to see some sign that Ghari’s friendliness was feigned, but the young man simply glanced down at him and smiled again. Mikel could not understand these people at all.

Tarja was on the far side of the training ground, stripped down to trousers and boots and sweating in the cold sunlight. He was training with another man, a little older than he, and both men were breathing hard, dust clinging to their sweaty skin as they traded blows. Both had the musculature of men who spent hours with a sword, but Mikel was astounded to see Tarja’s back scarred with the unmistakable mark of the lash. He was savagely pleased to think that someone had lashed Tarja. He would like to meet the man and thank him.

The sound of metal against metal rang loudly as Tarja and his opponent moved back and forth, neither man trying to gain the advantage, simply working muscles to the point of fatigue and beyond to strengthen them. Mikel had heard one of the Medalonians say that it was the training you did after you reached the point of exhaustion that really counted. Everything you did up to that point was just warming up.

Tarja saw them approaching and held up his hand to halt the fight. His opponent lowered his sword and glanced at Mikel and Ghari. Realising that their appearance heralded the end of their bout, he raised his blade in salute to Tarja with a weary smile.

“You’re getting slow, Tarja. I can still stand up.”

“I’m getting slow,” Tarja laughed as he returned the salute. “More likely some Karien knight is going to make a trophy of your hide.”

The older man chuckled. “Perhaps, but he’ll have trampled you getting to me.” Captain Alcarnen picked up his shirt off the ground and wiped his forehead with it, then threw it over his shoulder. “Ghari,” he said with a nod as he walked past the young man.

“Captain,” Ghari replied, with a surprising amount of angst. Mikel looked at him curiously. He didn’t like Nheal at all, that much was obvious.

“You didn’t come looking for me for the pleasure of my company, I suppose?” Tarja asked. He slipped his shirt over his head but did not bother to tuck it in to his trousers.

“No,” Ghari agreed. “There’s a bit of trouble brewing in the followers’ camp. I thought maybe you could do something.”

The captain did not seem pleased. “What is it this time?”

“Some of our people tried to set up a temple to Zegarnald. The Defenders tore it down.”

“Heathen worship is against the law, Ghari. You know that and so do they.”

Ghari placed his hands on his hips and glared at Tarja. “Damn it, Tarja, we followed you here to save Medalon from the Kariens. You told us things would change, that we’d be free to worship our gods —”

“All right, I’ll speak to Jenga,” Tarja promised, obviously not pleased by the prospect then he turned his gaze on Mikel, who shivered with apprehension.

“And what of you, boy?” he asked abruptly. “What are you doing here?”

“Sister Mahina... she sent me to... a messenger came... from the front... she said...” Mikel could have cried as he stuttered under the scrutiny of the captain.

“I gather that means Sister Mahina has received a messenger from the front and she wants to see me?” he translated condescendingly. Mikel’s hatred surged through his veins like lava. I will kill this man one day, he swore silently. Tarja seemed oblivious to his animosity. “This could mean things are about to get interesting.”

“You think the rest of the Kariens have arrived?” Ghari asked.

“Either that, or they’ve packed up and gone home, which would be too much to hope for,” he said, sheathing his blade. “Has anyone told —” Tarja’s words were cut off by an ear-shattering whoop as the Hythrun Raiders suddenly thundered past them at a gallop, leaving them coated in a cloud of fine dust. Tarja glared at the troop angrily, spitting grit as he watched them vanish into the dust. “What in the name of the Founders are they up to?”

Ghari wiped his eyes. “Something’s caught their attention.”

Tarja shook his head in annoyance and followed the path of the Raiders. He strode ahead of Ghari and Mikel, who had to run to catch up. The Raiders had not gone far. They were milling about, shouting incomprehensibly a mere fifty paces from the edge of the camp, kicking up a cloud of dust as thick as a winter fog in Yarnarrow. Mikel watched the Raiders curiously, coughing as the dust tickled the back of his throat. He glanced over his shoulder and discovered most of the men on the training ground had stopped what they were doing and had turned to see what the commotion was about.

Tarja strode on, then suddenly stopped, frozen to the spot, as three figures began to materialise out of the dust. All three were on foot, and Mikel immediately recognised the figure in the centre, leading his lathered golden stallion, as the Hythrun Warlord who had been missing these past weeks. The man on his left Mikel had never seen before, but he was tall and lean with dark hair and walked with long, easy strides. Damin Wolfblade was grinning like a fool, obviously enormously pleased with himself. The tall man beside him simply looked satisfied. The figure to the right of the Warlord made Mikel gasp. It was a woman, he realised, wearing close-fitting dark leathers that showed every line of her statuesque body in startling detail, an outfit that would have seen her stoned had she dared wear it in Karien. As she neared them, the Warlord and the other man stopped and waited, letting her walk