Harshini

be surprised if he makes it through the night. The others should be fine to travel when we leave tomorrow.”

“So you think we should bring them with us?”

“They've a better chance of getting home eventually if we do.”

He shook his head but did not answer, thinking she would have said the same if they were stray cats.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I was just thinking about tomorrow. It won't be easy if this weather keeps up.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Can you stop it raining?”

“I could pray to Brehn, the God of Storms, but I'm not sure he would listen to me. You need the demon child if you wish to speak directly to the gods.”

“Well the demon child isn't here, is she?”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

He looked at her for a moment then shrugged. “No, it's not such a bad thing, I suppose.”

Mandah laid a gloved hand on his arm and smiled encouragingly. “You're far too hard on yourself, Tarja. Come to the fire and get warm. You won't stop the rain by staring at it.”

She was trying so hard to cheer him. He did not have the heart to deny her. Mandah could not bear to see any creature in pain, human or beast. He thought of R'shiel: of her temper, her anger and her willingness to manipulate others to get her own way. There was no comparing the two women and it hardened his suspicion that the memories that haunted him could not possibly be real. The old man in the tavern had summed it up neatly. They were doing this for R'shiel. He was still trying hard to convince himself she was worth it.

“Pity I can't stop the rain by staring at it,” he replied, making an attempt to sound light-hearted. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the men around the fire. “It's time I told the men what our mission is, anyway.”

Mandah took his arm as they approached the fire. The others moved aside a little to make room for them. The Fardohnyans withdrew to the corner of the boathouse, sensing that this did not involve them. Tarja squatted down and glanced around the circle, satisfied he had picked the right men. There were few Defenders in his squad. Those he had left to Denjon and Linst. The men he had chosen were rebels for the most part, men he had fought with before; men who understood how to frustrate a numerically superior enemy without confronting them head on.

“We're going to burn the Cauthside Ferry,” he announced as they looked at him expectantly. “If we're not back in Testra within a month, the commander of the Testra garrison will destroy that ferry, too. If all goes well here, we'll destroy it ourselves, once we've completed our mission and are back on the other side of the river.”

“You think that will stop the Kariens getting to the Citadel?” Ghari asked.

“No. But it will delay them for a time.”

The rebels looked anxiously at each other. Ulran, a small, dark-eyed man from Bordertown, and the best knife-fighter Tarja had ever met glanced around the gathering, gauging the mood of his companions before he spoke.

“That's going to hurt more than the Kariens, Tarja. There's a lot of people who depend on those ferries.”

“How much trade do you think there's going to be once the Kariens get across the river?” Torlin asked. The same age as Mandah's brother Ghari, he was one of the rebels captured in Testra who had followed Tarja to the northern border. Slender and surprisingly quick-witted, he would have made a good Defender.

“Torlin's right,” Rylan agreed. He was one of the few Defenders in the squad - solid and dependable. “The Kariens are foraging their way south. They'll strip Medalon clean. There won't be anything left to trade by the time they've passed through.”

Ulran nodded his reluctant agreement. “I suppose. It just seems a pity to destroy a perfectly good ferry, that's all.”

“Well, if you're feeling so noble, Ulran, you can come back and build them a new one after the war,” Harben suggested with a grin. Harben worried Tarja a little. His enthusiasm for destruction was matched only by his refusal to take anything seriously. He reminded Tarja a little of Damin Wolfblade.

“I've a feeling we'll all be in our dotage before that day comes,” Ulran retorted, then turned back to Tarja. “So, we burn the ferry. How?”

As if in answer to his question, the night was lit by jagged lightning, accompanied by the rattle of thunder. The rain began to fall even more heavily, pounding on the battered shingles of the boathouse so hard that Tarja could barely hear himself think. He looked up, shook his head and looked back at his men.

“I was hoping one of you would have a bright idea.”

* * *

The wounded Fardohnyan that Mandah was so concerned for died not long after midnight. By dawn the following day the rain had not let up, but Tarja could not afford to delay, so they hastily buried the dead soldier in the soft ground, packed up their makeshift camp and rode on. After a lengthy conversation with Filip in Karien, it was decided that the Guard would wait on the south side of the town while Tarja and his men sank the ferry. The Fardohnyans would offer cover in case of pursuit and together they would head back to Testra and the ferry there once the job was done. Tarja's men had shaved and now wore Defender uniforms and Mandah sat astride her mare in Sisterhood blue. They were stiff with the cold and soaked to the skin by the time they split from the Fardohnyans and turned towards the northern river town.

Cauthside was normally a quiet town, but now it was filled with refugees fleeing the advancing Kariens. When Tarja had last seen it over two years ago, he was with the late Lord Pieter and his entourage. That fateful journey had led to most of the trouble he now found himself in, he thought sourly. The town had been preparing for the Founders' Day Parade. Streets he remembered decked out with blue bunting were now crowded with lost souls, waiting a chance at the ferry to get to relative safety on the other side of the river.

“Tarja, what will happen to these people?” Mandah asked as they dismounted and led their horses towards the landing through the press of bodies. “They'll be stranded once we've... you know.”

“It can't be helped,” he told her. “Better a few stranded souls on this side than the Kariens in control of the Citadel.”

“There's more than a few people here, Tarja. There must be thousands of them.”

Tarja nodded, but found himself rather unsympathetic to their plight. These were the camp followers who had ridden on the heels of the Defenders hoping for a profit from the war. He did not intend to feel guilty because things had not turned out as they planned.

“You can't help them, Mandah.”

She nodded reluctantly as a child of about eight or nine with large, sad grey eyes ran up alongside them, tugging hopefully on Mandah's blue sleeve. She was clutching a bedraggled, tan-coloured puppy to her chest and both of them were shivering.

“Are you here to save us, Sister?”

Mandah looked down and shook her head. “I'm sorry, child. I'll —”

Tarja grabbed her arm and pulled her away before she could say anything else, or offer to adopt the puppy, which was the sort of thing Mandah was liable to do when left to her own devices.

“You're supposed to be a Sister of the Blade.”

“That doesn't mean I have no compassion.”

“No, but it does mean you keep your damned head down,” he reminded her. “We've a job to do, Mandah. You've already adopted a score of lost Fardohnyans. You'll have to save orphans and stray dogs some other time.”

“But —” she protested indignantly.

“That's an order,” he told her harshly as he shouldered his way through the crowd. “Now do as I say. Keep your head down and don't make eye contact with anyone... or anything.”

“You're a heartless fiend, Tarja,” she hissed as she followed the path he cut through the throng. “How can you just stand by and watch —”

“Mandah!” Ghari warned from behind, saving Tarja the need to scold her further. He glanced back at his men