to hold the boat steady. Tarja judged the distance between the ferry and the riverbank and realised it was too far to jump. He glanced up as a crack of thunder rumbled over the river. The sky was so low he felt he could almost touch it. Back in the square the Kariens were still too disorganised to even notice the ferry, let alone realise its strategic importance.
“They can't hold the ferry in that current much longer,” Cyril noted.
“It's going to rain again any moment,” Tarja added. “At least we'll have that small measure for cover.”
“Aye,” Cyril agreed as thunder shook the ground. Jagged lightning brightened the dull afternoon for an instant. “Those knights will rust if they don't get indoors.”
Tarja glanced at the older man, wondering if he was trying to be humorous, but his expression was grim. “If we can't destroy the ferry, we may have to settle for cutting it adrift.”
The rope that secured the ferry on this side of the river was tied to a massive pylon sunk deep into the ground about ten paces from the landing. To cut through it would be time consuming and dangerous. The rope was wet and they had only their swords, which, although razor-sharp, were not designed for such a task. Even if they could attempt it unnoticed, it would take several long, exposed minutes to sever the rope, and the ferrymen who waited anxiously to haul the barge ashore were unlikely to let them attempt such a feat without objection. Surrender or not, the river was their livelihood. Crouched by the edge of a small warehouse, Tarja debated the issue for a moment then turned to his squad.
“Lavyn, take Byl and Seffin and go pick a fight with the ferrymen. I want them too busy to notice what we're up to. Cyril, you stay here with the others and keep an eye on those knights. If they pay us no attention, stay out of their way. If they look like going anywhere near that ferry, call them out. Insult their mothers, if you have to. Whatever it takes to keep them off our backs.
“And remember,” Ulran added with a grin, “if you truly want to insult a Karien, make sure you mention his god, his mother and at least one dog.”
Tarja shook his head at the knife-fighter, but allowed himself a small smile. “Ulran, you're with me.”
The small man grinned and produced a wicked, serrated dagger from the side of his boot. The blade was nearly as long as his forearm. “You think this might do the trick?”
Tarja nodded, more relieved than surprised to find Ulran carrying such a vicious weapon. His sword would have been as blunt as a butter knife after hacking through so much wet hemp.
“Let's move!” he ordered. The men slipped away to their assigned positions and Tarja followed Ulran down the slight slope towards the landing. The three men he sent to distract the ferrymen were ahead of them, shouting aggressively at the unsuspecting river-folk as they approached. Their words were drowned out by another bellow of thunder as Tarja drew his sword and turned his back to Ulran to protect him while he cut through the massive line.
Lightning split the clouds for a moment and then icy rain began sheeting down, blurring Tarja's vision and soaking him in seconds. He glanced over his shoulder at Ulran, who was sawing the rope, wiping the rain from his eyes as he worked. A strand unravelled and then another as he hacked at the rope, the weight of the ferry pulling it as taut as a harp string one moment, slackening the next, as the ferry rocked against the current. Somewhere over the rain he could hear angry shouting, but if it was the men on the ferry, the boatmen Tarja had sent the others to distract, or the Karien knights, he could not tell. He couldn't see more than a few paces in front of him. All he could do was stand on the balls of his feet, his sword at the ready, hoping that if they were attacked, he would see it coming.
Ulran sawed frantically at the rope as time slowed to a crawl. Tarja risked another look over his shoulder. Half the rope was severed now, but it was taking much too long.
“Hurry, Ulran!”
“You think you can do this any faster?” the rebel shouted over the downpour as another strand unravelled. He was panting heavily with the effort of sawing through the wet hemp, his muscles bunched under his wet shirt, his lips blue with the cold.
The shouting seemed closer and Tarja turned back in time to see a Karien knight riding down on them. Cyril had fallen near the edge of the square, the puddle he lay in red with blood. He could not make out the rest of his men through the sheeting rain, but the spectre of a massive Karien warhorse loomed over him as one of the knights, suddenly realising what they were attempting, rode straight at them.
“Out of the way!” Tarja shouted.
Ulran slipped and fell as he scrambled to get clear. Tarja swung his sword like an axe and struck the taut rope with every ounce of strength he could muster. The Karien was almost on him, the sound of hoofs on the cobbles almost louder than the rain. He swung again, wincing as the blow jarred his arms to the shoulder. The Karien was only a heartbeat away and still the rope held. Tarja swung one last time and the rope finally gave way under the strain of the ferry pulling against it. Rain swallowed the shouts of the panicked ferrymen as it whipped free; the barge suddenly swinging into the current, at the mercy of the hungry river.
Tarja barely had time to turn as the Karien rode him down. He had no time to recover his fighting stance or bring his sword around. He saw the blow coming, saw the flat of the Karien's blade aimed at his head and knew there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Pain blinded him.
Then there was blackness as unconsciousness swallowed him whole.
CHAPTER 22
There had been some dissension over whether or not Damin should be allowed to take up residence in the High Prince's Palace, his opponents fearing that his possession of it might imply their tacit agreement to his claim. Marla had put an end to the argument by pointing out that the palace actually belonged to the Wolfblade family, therefore she had a perfect right to be there and invite whoever she wished to guest with her.
That had been yesterday. Cyrus Eaglespike was evicted as the Wolfblades reclaimed their palace. Adrina had been shown to her apartments, the same quarters she had used when she visited Greenharbour for Lernen's birthday almost three years ago, and seen nobody since.
She paced the sumptuous rooms impatiently, striding past tall, diamond-paned doors that opened out onto a balcony overlooking the harbour. They allowed what little cooling breeze there was to sigh through the room, gently billowing the sheer curtains that screened the windows against insects. The screeching gulls circling the fishing boats grated on her nerves. The air was humid, worse even than Talabar.
Adrina hated not knowing what was going on. She knew there had been some sort of confrontation with Cyrus Eaglespike, and that R'shiel had somehow temporarily defused the situation, but other than that she was completely in the dark.
The door opened and Tamylan slipped into the room, bearing a tray with a silver jug beaded with condensation. She placed the tray on the gilded table by the door, then turned to her mistress.
“You should be resting, Your Highness. You look exhausted and there is more than yourself to consider now.”
“I can't rest,” she declared, stifling a yawn. “What news?”
“Not much, I fear. The city seems quiet. R'shiel has gone to the Sorcerers' Collective to meet with the High Arrion and the Harshini.”
“Where's Damin?”
“With Lord Bearbow and Lord Hawksword. I believe Princess Marla is with them also.”
“So I'm to be excluded from their council, am I? Where are they meeting?”
“Adrina, I really don't think you should —”
“I don't recall asking what you thought, Tam. Where are they meeting?”
“Downstairs in the throne room.”
“Then I think I shall join them,” she announced. Squaring her shoulders, she marched to the door and flung it open, only to have her way blocked by two heavily armed Raiders wearing Damin's wolf's head crest. “Out of my
