Medalon (37 page)

“Did you really speak with a dragon?”

Tarja glanced at the captain. The Fardohnyan gripped the wheel of the riverboat, steering it with unconscious skill as the
Maera’s Daughter
flew southward. Running with the current and under a full set of sails, the small boat was making astounding speed. They had travelled through the night, although even Drendik had baulked at doing that under sail, settling for running with the current instead. As soon as dawn broke, the Fardohnyans and the rebels had set the sails and a crisp breeze had sprung up, snapping the canvas sharply and pushing the boat on. Drendik had assured Tarja it was proof that the gods favoured their mission. Tarja privately considered it nothing more than luck, but he was not about to offend the Fardohnyan’s beliefs.

“Yes, I truly spoke with a dragon.”

During the long night and the following day, Tarja had related most of his tale to the Fardohnyans. He had finally managed to sleep earlier this morning and had come up on deck to find them
much further south than he would have thought possible. Drendik was confident that they would overtake the Karien boat by nightfall. He had seen it in his travels and gave Tarja a long list of reasons why it wouldn’t move very fast, starting with the basic stupidity of its design and finishing with the incompetence of its crew. But more than anything, Drendik was enchanted by the idea that Tarja had met a dragon.

“You are truly blessed by the Divine Ones, if they allowed you to speak to a dragon,” Drendik assured him. “Even our most powerful magicians only claim to have heard of them. I never met anyone who actually spoke to a demon meld before.”

“Neither have I.”

The big Fardohnyan laughed. “You’re all right for an atheist.”

“Where are we?” Tarja asked, glancing at the rolling grasslands that faded into the distance on either side of the river. The sun hovered low over the jagged purple horizon in the distance that was the Sanctuary Mountains.

“About four days from Bordertown at this speed,” Drendik told him. “We should find them soon.” He glanced at the setting sun on the western horizon. “They will pull into the bank for the night.”

Tarja was willing to believe anything Drendik told him that meant they would catch the Karien Envoy before he left Medalon, although Drendik’s assessment was more than likely correct. Unfamiliarity with the Glass River was a prime cause of accidents on the vast waterway. Even Tarja, who had spent little time on the river, knew that.

“And when we find them? What then?” Tarja asked. “If you help us storm the boat, it will be considered an act of piracy.”

Drendik shrugged. “Storming a Karien boat to rescue a Divine One would be considered an act of great chivalry where I come from.” He slapped Tarja’s shoulder companionably, almost knocking him down. “You are kind to worry, but we were heading south anyway. We only make this trek once a year. By next year they will have forgotten about us.”

“You don’t have to help,” Tarja assured him. “We can do it on our own.”

“What? You, the young hothead and the old man?” Drendik said, highly amused at the idea. “I admire your courage, rebel, but not your commonsense.”

“Just thought I’d offer.”

“That’s settled then,” Drendik announced, glancing at the rapidly setting sun again. “Aber! Reef that mainsail! At this rate we’ll sail straight past them!”

They sailed on as darkness settled over the river and the night-time chorus of insects struck up their evening song. The
Maera’s Daughter
slipped silently through the water on the very edge of the current. Tarja glanced up at the main mast where Aber was perched precariously, watching for the telltale lanterns. Ghari and Gazil were in the bow, watching for any sign that would betray the presence of the Kariens. Tarja stood with Padric and Drendik, who skilfully kept the riverboat hovering between the still waters of the river’s edge and the powerful current in
the centre. They sailed on in the darkness for hours, in the same state of nervous anticipation, until Tarja was certain they had either passed the Karien boat, or Drendik was wrong in assuming they would stop for the night.

A low whistle from Aber caused them all to look up. The sailor pointed to the western bank and Tarja quickly followed his arm. Almost too faint to make out, several small pinpoints of light twinkled in the darkness.

Drendik wrenched the wheel of the boat around towards the western bank and Tarja cringed as she creaked in complaint. Aber and Gazil raced to set the gaff sail as Drendik cut sharply across the current, angling towards the opposite bank. They were running without lights, but Tarja was certain someone on board must see them as the current took them closer and closer. The bulk of the top-heavy Karien ship took shape in the darkness.
Maera’s Daughter
seemed tiny in comparison. Drendik eased the little boat into the bank and Tarja felt it bump gently against reeds. A small splash sounded as Gazil dropped the anchor and Aber scurried down the mast in the darkness. The men gathered on the deck and looked at Tarja expectantly.

“Can you all swim?” he asked, as it occurred to him that his grand rescue would fall rather short of the mark if his small band of heroes drowned before they got to the Karien ship. A series of nods reassured him his plan was workable and he quietly issued his orders. Aber and Ghari were to take the bow, Gazil and Padric the stern, leaving the midships for
Drendik and Tarja. It was likely that R’shiel was being held below decks so Tarja and Drendik would make their way below while the others took care of any resistance above. The men nodded silently in the darkness, not questioning his orders.

“Let’s go then,” he said.

“You have forgotten something,” Drendik reminded him. “The priest.”

“What about the priest?” Padric asked. His eyes looked haunted in the darkness, as if he bore some terrible guilt.

“Kill the priest,” Tarja said. “If we do nothing else, we kill the priest.”

Drendik and the Fardohnyans nodded in agreement. Padric seemed equally content. Only Ghari glanced at Tarja with a doubtful look. Tarja shrugged, as if to tell the young man that he had no idea why it was so important to kill the priest, but that the Harshini and the Fardohnyans both thought the world would be a better place without him.

The water was icy as Tarja slipped into the shallows next to
Maera’s Daughter
and gently pushed out into the river. With a borrowed Fardohnyan sword strapped to his leg and a viciously barbed Fardohnyan dagger between his teeth, Tarja swam towards the bulk of the Karien vessel. He could make out the bobbing heads of his companions as they moved toward the ship. The length of rope he carried over his shoulder was quickly becoming soaked and he could feel it weighing him down as the river deepened near the hull of the bigger vessel. He looked up at the deck as he unhooked the rope, wondering how he
could get enough swing up to hook the rope over the railing, which towered over him. A soft whistle caught his attention and he turned. As if sensing his dilemma, Aber held up the grappling hook attached to his own rope and began circling it overhead, letting a little more of the rope out with each revolution. Finally, he flung the rope up, letting the momentum of the swing and the weight of the hook carry the rope upwards. It landed with a clatter on the deck and wrapped itself around a carved upright. With a silent nod, Tarja thanked the boy for his demonstration and followed suit. He winced at the sound of the hook scraping across the deck, but it seemed to attract no attention from above. Tarja tugged on the rope to assure himself it would hold and began to pull himself up, hand over hand, onto the deck.

The main deck was deserted, which worried Tarja, as he hauled himself over the railing and dropped into a low, dripping crouch. He grasped the dagger in his left hand. He saw Drendik climb over the starboard rail and glance around, his beard dripping, a curious shrug greeting the absence of any guards.

Tarja pointed to the large carved door amidships, below the poop deck. With a nod, they moved silently towards it. Tarja glanced around again before trying the gilt handle. He cried out as a white-hot bolt of pain tore through his arm, leaving it numb to the shoulder. Almost as soon as he triggered the magical alarm, the deck came to life as a dozen or more armed Kariens emerged from their hiding places. A flare of light split the night from the poop deck. The small band of invaders backed up
nervously, staring up at the spectre of the Karien priest who stood on the poop deck clutching a blazing staff in one hand and holding R’shiel by the hair with the other.

“Is this what you have come for?” the priest crowed, jerking R’shiel’s head back. In an instant, any lingering doubt Tarja had about the fate of the priest vanished. “Drop your weapons!”

Reluctantly, the Fardohnyans and the rebels did as they were bid. The Karien sailors rushed forward to herd the would-be pirates together as Tarja stared up at R’shiel. There were no marks on her that he could see, but she looked dazed and limp. Blinded by the magical light from the staff, it was more than likely that she didn’t know who her erstwhile rescuers were.

As they were gathered together, Tarja realised that Padric had not been apprehended. He was to have taken the poop deck with Gazil. Was he dead already, or had the priest revealed his presence before the old man could haul himself aboard?

As if in answer to his unspoken question, a yell came from the poop deck as Padric ran at the priest, his sword held high, aimed squarely at the priest’s exposed back. The priest turned and threw R’shiel aside as he raised his arm to ward off the attack. Almost casually, the Karien Envoy stepped forward and ran the old man through.

Tarja and his companions didn’t waste time grieving for him. The startled priest dropped the staff and the boat was suddenly plunged into darkness. They dived for their weapons as the Kariens milled in confusion. Tarja tripped on the pile of discarded
weapons. He found a sword, scooped it up with his left hand and ran it into the shadow that appeared before him, relieved that he had not run through one of his own men by mistake, when the man screamed a Karien curse. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he ran towards the companionway, his only thought to get to R’shiel before the priest could retrieve his staff and light the boat again. By the time he reached the poop deck, his eyes were accustomed to the dim starlight, although his sword arm still hung uselessly by his side, numbed from the magical blast. The priest was on his hands and knees, feeling about for the staff that lay just out of his reach. The Envoy was standing at the head of the companionway on the far side of the deck, fighting off a determined attack from the Fardohnyan captain. R’shiel lay near the fallen staff.

“R’shiel!”

She ignored the priest for a moment and turned towards him. As Elfron reached for the staff, she suddenly seemed to come alive. She kicked it away from him and scrambled to her feet. A Karien sailor behind him distracted Tarja for a moment. He turned, banging the railing painfully with his useless right hand and kicked the man in the face, throwing him backward into two more Kariens who were trying to follow him up the companionway. When he turned back, a blinding light split the night again, but it was R’shiel who held the staff, not the priest.

Screaming, she grimly clung to the staff, as if holding it caused excruciating pain. The priest screeched an agonised protest. With an incomprehensible cry, she swung the staff in a wide arc and smashed it against the mizzenmast.

The light from the staff died in a moment of complete darkness, then the mast suddenly burst into flame. Within seconds the flames spread along the boat in strange green lines of fire. Tarja jumped back from the rail as it flared beneath his hand. The magical fire consumed the wards protecting the ship like they were lines of lamp oil, blistering the garish blue paint and eating into the wood beneath. In less than a minute, the entire ship was ablaze.

“Tarja!” R’shiel screamed, as she dropped the broken staff, holding her burned hands out in front of her. He ran towards her, leaping the rising flames that stood between them. Only the fact that he was drenched from his swim saved him from the inferno. Drendik reached them about the same time. The Karien Envoy lay at the head of the companionway, the Fardohnyan’s sword embedded in the centre of his decorated armoured chest. Tarja spared the captain a glance, wondering at the strength of the man. The Karien’s amour might have been ceremonial, but it still took a great deal of strength to pierce it. As he reached R’shiel, she collapsed into his arms. Pins and needles attacked his numb right arm as the feeling began to return. Tarja threw his sword to Drendik. The Fardohnyan snatched it from the air and turned on the priest, slicing the man from shoulder to belly where he stood. Without hesitating, Tarja ran for the side of the boat, crashing through the flaming rail into the darkness and the safety of the river below. R’shiel, the loose cassock aflame, screamed as she felt them falling. Then the dark icy water swallowed them, pulling them down into its glassy depths.

In the dawn light, the smouldering hull of the Karien boat looked forlorn, floating near the shore amid the burned flotsam of what had once been a mighty, if rather cumbersome vessel. It had burned to the waterline. Another smoking pile smouldered on the shore, where the bodies of the Karien sailors had been cremated. Gazil, Aber and Ghari spent the remainder of the night at their grizzly task, gathering the bodies from the water’s edge and throwing them on the impromptu funeral pyre. The Fardohnyans were not pleased with the cremations but were willing to make an exception for the Kariens, particularly when Tarja pointed out what would happen if the bodies washed up downstream. The body of the Envoy had not been recovered. Tarja supposed he had sunk into the muddy river, weighted down by his ornate armour. The body of the priest lay separate from the pyre. Tarja wouldn’t let them burn it, not yet. They were all tired and filthy, worn out by the night’s exertions and suffering the typical let-down of men who had faced death and then discovered, somewhat to their surprise, that they had survived.

Tarja scanned the western horizon again, expectantly, but the sky remained clear. With a sigh, he turned back toward the small fire Drendik had built, away from the sight of the funeral pyre. R’shiel sat beside it, wearing the charred remains of a cassock and wrapped in a grey woollen blanket, her eyes vacant. Tarja was desperately worried about her. She had said nothing since they had dragged her ashore. She flinched whenever somebody touched her, even accidentally. Her hands were burned where she had gripped the staff, and another deep burn scarred her right shoulder.

Ghari walked up the small rise to stand beside him.

“You know the irony of all this,” Tarja remarked to the young rebel, “is that we’ve started a war despite ourselves. When the Kariens learn their Envoy was killed on Medalon soil, they’ll be over the border in an instant. The alliance is well and truly broken.”

“I think Padric knew it, too,” he said. For a moment they shared a silent thought for the old rebel. His body had been one of the first they recovered.

“Will she be all right?” Ghari asked, glancing at R’shiel’s hunched and trembling figure.

“What happened on the boat was magic, and I don’t know anything about it. Hell, I don’t even believe in it.” He studied her for a moment and added, “She needs her own people now.”

“Did you call them?”

Tarja nodded. “Hours ago.”

Ghari scanned the horizon, just as Tarja had been doing a few moments before, then he turned to Tarja.
“You said it was magic? I thought the Kariens hated magic more than the Sisterhood?”

“So did I.”

“Maybe it wasn’t magic. Maybe it was their god.”

Tarja smiled grimly at the suggestion. “Ghari, do you honestly think we would be standing here now if a god had intervened on their behalf?”

“I suppose not.” He turned back to study the horizon again. “Tarja! Look!”

Tarja followed his pointing finger and discovered two dark specks in the sky, rapidly growing larger as they approached the river. A coppery glint of light reflected off the specks and removed all doubt about what they were. He nodded with relief and headed down towards the fire.

Drendik was trying to get R’shiel to accept a cup of hot tea, but she stared into the fire, ignoring him. He looked up as Tarja approached with a helpless shrug. Tarja knelt down beside R’shiel and gently took her arm. She jerked back at his touch, staring at him as if he was a ghost.

“R’shiel? Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

She stared at him for a long moment before allowing him to help her up. He led her up the small rise where Ghari waited, hopping up and down with excitement. The Fardohnyans followed them, staring at the growing specks with astonishment.

“Mother of the gods!” Drendik breathed as he realised what he was seeing. The specks had grown much larger now and looked like huge birds, their coppery wings outstretched as they rode the thermals down towards the river.

“Look!” Tarja urged.

R’shiel glanced at him and then followed his pointing finger as the dragons drew nearer. She stared at them as a tear spilled onto her cheek and rolled down towards her lip, leaving a white streak on her soot-stained face.

They waited until the dragons finally landed with a powerful beat of their wings. Lord Dranymire was in the lead, raising a dusty cloud that settled over the humans. The dragon that landed beside him was a little smaller, her scales more green than coppery, her features more delicate. The two dragons lowered their massive heads to the ground to allow their riders an easy descent. Tarja recognised Shananara riding Dranymire and was a little surprised to find Brak climbing down off the other dragon. As the Harshini walked towards them the Fardohnyans fell to their knees.

R’shiel watched the dragons, ignoring everyone around her. She shook off Tarja’s arm and walked down the small slope towards the two Harshini, still clutching the blanket around her. She ignored their greeting and kept walking. Tarja ran after her, but Shananara and Brak stopped him as he drew level with them.

“Leave her be,” Shananara advised. “I want to see what happens.”

Tarja watched anxiously as R’shiel walked toward the larger of the two dragons. She stopped a few paces from him, seemingly unafraid, and stared up at him.

The dragon studied her curiously for a moment. “Well met, Your Highness,” he said in his deep,
resonant voice. Dranymire lowered his huge head towards the girl in a courtly bow.

Finally, R’shiel reached out and touched the dragon with a burned hand. As she touched him, the dragon seemed to dissolve before their eyes. One moment there was a mighty beast standing before them, the next moment it was gone and the ground was swarming with tiny, ugly grey creatures with bright black eyes. Tarja was aghast at the sight.

“You’ve done well, Brak,” Shananara said as she watched the demons falling over themselves to get near R’shiel, who stood frozen in the middle of the sea of grey creatures, too stunned or afraid to move. Tarja glanced at the Harshini and caught the look she gave Brak as she spoke. It was anything but reassuring.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, really.”

“Were you expecting them to harm her?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Tarja glared at the two Harshini suspiciously. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Demons are bonded to Harshini through their bloodlines,” Shananara explained. “Dranymire and the demons can feel the link with R’shiel, just as she can feel the link with them, although she may not recognise it as such.”

If he suspended all disbelief, Tarja found her explanation easy enough to follow. “So if she is bonded to the same demons as you, R’shiel is related to you?” he asked, not sure why that should be such a cause for concern.

The Harshini woman nodded. “So it would seem.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“She’s half-human,” Brak pointed out, watching the girl and the demons with an unreadable expression.

“I’d already worked that out. What’s the problem?”

Brak turned from watching R’shiel and the demons. “It’s the family she comes from. Shananara’s full title is Her Royal Highness, Princess Shananara té Ortyn. Her brother is our King, Korandellen.”

Tarja was not surprised to find out R’shiel was of royal blood. It almost seemed fitting, somehow. But the thought didn’t seem to please Brak or Shananara very much.

“That’s not the problem though, is it?” he asked intuitively.

“Actually, it is,” Shananara told him. “She is Lorandranek’s child.”

The name stuck a chord in Tarja’s mind. He recalled what he had heard about Lorandranek and turned to Shananara, his eyes wide. Seeing from his expression that he had made the connection, the Harshini woman nodded.

“That’s right. She is the half-human child of a Harshini King.”

“Behold the demon child,” Brak muttered darkly.

Brak surveyed the destruction Tarja and his Fardohnyan allies had wrought with a shake of his head. “Does the expression ‘minimum force’ mean anything to you?” he asked.

Tarja frowned at the implied criticism. “About as much as ‘you can count on me’ means to you.”

“You killed the priest, then?” He walked over to the shore, where the body of the Karien priest lay. The river had washed the blood from the corpse. In death he looked barely human, like a flaccid, blue sea creature brought up from the depths.

“Drendik killed him.”

“What happened to his staff?”

“R’shiel destroyed it.”

Brak looked at him sharply. “She
what
?”

“She destroyed it. Smashed it against the mizzenmast. That’s what set the ship on fire. How she burned her hands.”

“Gods!” Brak muttered. The Harshini turned and headed toward the demons, leaving Tarja standing by the bloated corpse.

“What?” Tarja called after him.

Brak made no reply. He just kept walking.

The she-dragon was amusing herself by talking to the Fardohnyans, who stood before her reverently, like worshippers at a huge, animated altar. The demons that had been the other dragon had dispersed into smaller clusters, constantly changing shapes in a way that made Tarja’s head swim. They seemed to be entertaining themselves by changing into numerous other forms, as simple as birds or small rodents in some cases. A few of the larger groups appeared to be attempting more complex forms that changed with blinding speed and were only sometimes recognisable as creatures of the world Tarja was familiar with. As they approached, a small figure detached itself from one of the groups and waddled over to them.

“Something disturbs you, Lord Brakandaran?” the demon asked. The same booming voice that had
belonged to the dragon sounded bizarre coming from this grotesque little gnome. Brak bowed to the demon respectfully, which surprised Tarja a little. It was odd seeing him so humble in the presence of an ugly little imp who only came up to his knee.

“If I may seek your counsel, Wise One?”

Tarja wondered at Brak’s sudden turn of manners.

“I will help if I can,” the demon agreed. “What is it that troubles you?”

“R’shiel destroyed the Karien priest’s staff.”

“The Staff of Xaphista is not a thing to be tampered with lightly.” Tarja could have sworn the wrinkled face, with its too-big eyes, was furrowed with concern. “Was the priest already dead?”

Brak glanced over his shoulder at Tarja questioningly.

“No,” Tarja told them, walking forward to stand next to Brak. “Drendik killed him after she smashed it.”

Lord Dranymire was silent for a moment. “She is of té Ortyn blood,” the demon said eventually.

“Does that matter?” Tarja asked. There seemed to be so much that Brak and the demon knew, it was as if they were only having half a conversation, leaving out all the important bits.

“All magic is connected through the gods,” the demon explained. “Xaphista is an Incidental God, but a god, nonetheless, like any other.”

So what?
he wanted to yell at the demon.
What difference does it make?

Sensing his lack of understanding, Brak finally, if a little reluctantly, came to Tarja’s rescue. “He means that Xaphista would have felt the staff being destroyed. If
the priest was still alive when it happened, then he could have used the priest to discover the identity of the destroyer.”

“So the Karien god knows who R’shiel is?” Tarja asked.

“Xaphista has probably known of the demon child’s existence for some time.”

“The priest’s vision!” Tarja exclaimed. “Elfron said he had a vision about R’shiel. That’s why they wanted her!”

“Xaphista knows the demon child is coming,” the demon agreed.

“But why should that bother him?” Tarja asked. He had given up trying to puzzle out whether or not the gods existed. It was easier, at the moment, just to assume they did.

“Because she was created to destroy him,” Brak said

“You want R’shiel to destroy a god? You can’t be serious!”

“This has nothing to do with you, Tarja. If you have any sense at all, you will just walk away and leave her be. You don’t believe in the gods, even though you’ve met one. You simply aren’t equipped to handle this. Leave it to those of us who know what we’re facing.”

Tarja looked back at the Fardohnyan riverboat, where Shananara had disappeared with R’shiel several hours ago. The two women had not emerged since.

“I won’t let you do this to her.”

“The decision is not yours, human,” Dranymire reminded him. “It is up to the child. Only she can
decide to take up the task for which she was created.”

“And what if she refuses?” Tarja asked. Brak didn’t answer him, but glanced at the demon who turned his wrinkled head away. Dread washed over him as he read the reluctance of the Harshini and the demon to answer his question. He grabbed Brak by his leather vest and pulled him close, until their faces were only inches apart. “What happens if she refuses?”

Brak met Tarja’s threatening gaze, undaunted by his anger. “It’s not up to me, Tarja. I’m not her judge.”

Tarja let Brak go with a shove. “Not her judge, perhaps. More like her executioner, I suspect.”

Brak shook his head, but he didn’t deny the charge.