Treason Keep

by Jennifer Fallon

  The smell hit them even before they reached the fallen soldiers. The heavy stench of blood and excrement hung in the still air, making her gag. Shadowy figures moved among the corpses. Men looking for fallen companions, camp followers looking for loot, women searching out missing loved ones, grim-faced Defenders seeking dying horses, ending their suffering with a quick sword thrust. Others searched for living bodies, friend and foe alike, for the life they might save or the hostage they might take. Huge bonfires on the far side of the battlefield threw a pall of black smoke over the whole nightmarish vista.

  “We’ll have to lead the horses,” Adrina said as they reached they first of the fallen Kariens. “We can’t ride through this.”

  Tamylan and Mikel complied silently and they began to pick their way forward, holding cloaks across their faces against the smell. The ground was treacherous, pockmarked with deep holes, dead soldiers and broken horses. There was not a red coat among them. The Defenders had either taken few casualties or their wounded had already been removed.

  The battlefield covered a vast area. As they doggedly trudged on, hour after hour, Adrina began to wonder if it would never end. She stumbled along and tried not to think about the death surrounding her, or the grief that she had damned up inside for a time when she would have the luxury of giving it voice. Instead she pressed on, thinking only of placing one foot in front of the other, ignoring the soldiers who reached out to her, crying for help, or the lifeless eyes that stared accusingly at her as she passed by. This was not her war. It was not her fault.

  The night went on forever and the smoke grew thicker as they neared the bonfires. Mikel was yawning, wiping streaming eyes, when Tamylan suddenly gasped. Adrina looked back and discovered the slave had stopped walking. She was staring at the fires, her expression horrified.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re burning the dead!”

  She had heard of the barbaric Medalonian practice of cremation, but had never seen it practised. The sight disgusted her. But she needed to be strong. Their survival depended on it.

  “There are too many men to bury, Tam. Anyway, what do you care if they cremate a few Karien corpses?”

  “It’s not right!”

  “No, but neither is it our concern. Now keep moving.”

  Adrina tugged her horse forward and didn’t look back to see if Tamylan was following.

  Sometime later, they reached the first Fardohnyan corpse. It was a young man with vaguely familiar features, although Adrina couldn’t put a name to him. He lay on his back, his foot still trapped in the stirrup of his dead horse who had fallen beside him. A long, red fletched arrow was embedded in his boiled-leather breastplate. His eyes were wide open and he stared at the sky, as if engrossed in the strange constellations of the northern sky.

  “Oh, gods!” Tamylan breathed as she drew level with Adrina. “Lien Korvo.”

  “Was that his name? I didn’t know. I hardly knew any of them.”

  “And yet they died for you.”

  Adrina looked up sharply. “They didn’t die for me, Tam. They died for Cratyn. A debt I intend to make him pay.”

  Tamylan looked around with a shake of her head. “If we survive this.”

  “We’ll survive.”

  “The Overlord will watch over us,” Mikel added.

  Adrina resisted the temptation to turn on the boy. If this was the Overlord’s work, she wanted no part of it. But she needed the child. They still had to get past the Defender’s camp, and he knew its layout.

  “I’m sure he is, Mikel. Come on. We have to keep on.”

  The closer they came to the edge of the field, the more Fardohnyan bodies they encountered. Adrina didn’t look at them, afraid of what she would see, afraid of who she would find. Tristan was here, lying dead on this foreign plain, killed by a godless Defender. Her anger increased with each step, divided equally between the Kariens, who had condemned her brother to death, and the Medalonians, who had carried out the sentence. She would have vengeance for this slaughter, although how or when she did not know. But one day, she vowed, Karien, Medalon and even Hythria, would pay for the life of her brother and those of her Guard.

  “Here! What are you after?”

  Adrina stopped and turned her head toward the voice. It was a red-coated Defender although, as she knew nothing of their insignia, she didn’t know if he was a private or a commandant.

  “We were just looking for loot,” she said, in her best Medalonian. “A girl has to look out for herself, y’know!”

  “Who are you? What are your names?” the man demanded. He peered at them suspiciously.

  “We’re court’esa. From Hythria. I am Adrina, and this is Tamylan. The boy is our servant.”

  “Aye, I’ve heard of your kind. Fancy whores is all you are,” he said, sounding a little disgusted. The man stared at the jewelled collar. “I’d have thought that trinket ’round your neck would be enough for you, without you needing to loot the dead, as well.”

  “Don’t you touch her!” Mikel cried as the Defender reached out to touch the collar. Adrina could have slapped the child. Now was not the time for bravado.

  The Defender laughed sourly but made no move to come any closer. “Quite a bodyguard you ladies have. Now clear off! Lord Jenga has ordered all the looters off the field.”

  “Don’t worry, sir, that’s exactly what we planned to do.”

  The Defender nodded and watched them as they pulled their mounts forward. Mikel glared at the man defiantly, but held his tongue. Adrina’s heart was pounding as they walked away, expecting him to call them back. She risked a glance over her shoulder and discovered the man had moved away towards another group of looters. She let out a breath she had not realised she was holding and glanced down at Mikel.

  “That was very noble and very foolish. In future, try to curb your enthusiasm for protecting me.”

  “But your Highness, I—”

  “Don’t call me that!” she hissed. “You must call me Adrina. At least until we are away from here. We are trying to be inconspicuous!”

  “I’m sorry, your…Adrina.”

  “That’s all right. Just be on your guard.”

  “Seems a bit rough,” Tamylan said, as she trudged along beside Adrina.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You just told an enemy officer your real name, yet you chastise the boy for trying to protect you.”

  Adrina stared at the slave for a moment, not sure what surprised her most—Tam’s blatant criticism or the fact that she could have been so stupid.

  “I never thought…”

  “Not thinking is what got us into this mess,” Tam pointed out grumpily. “First you don’t think if you can sail a ship. Then you don’t think about threatening the Karien Crown Prince. Then you drag us across a battlefield in the dead of night—”

  “That will be enough, Tamylan. You forget yourself.”

  “Not as often as you do,” the slave muttered under her breath, but loud enough that Adrina could hear her.

  It was almost dawn by the time they passed the last of the bodies, but Adrina’s relief was short lived. At least the men on the battlefield had been mostly dead. Now they would have to get through the Defenders and the Hythrun who were alive and on their guard.

  They swung into their saddles and moved off toward the scattered crowd heading away from the field. With luck, they could mingle with the other camp followers and go unobserved. A few people glanced at them enviously. They were mounted on Fardohnyan horses, but Adrina had decided she would claim they had rescued the beasts from the battlefield if they were challenged.

  Daylight finally turned the sky the colour of pewter as Adrina and her companions left the battleground behind. They rode at a shambling pace amidst the looters and the walking wounded, tired, hungry, thirsty and emotionally drained. The war camp and the tent city lay before them, and beyond that, another two or more weeks to the Glass River. Perhaps there, with luck, a Fardohnyan trader wo
uld be waiting, making the most of the profits of this war, before Hablet joined the fray and turned the Medalonians into enemies.

  Nobody challenged them, or even cared about them, it seemed. The only time anything caught the interest of the people around them was when a man and a woman galloped past on glorious golden horses. Both were tall in the saddle and rode with the ease of those born to ride. The young woman wore dark leathers, much as the old tapestries depicted the Harshini. She had a thick long braid of dark red hair, and both she and her companion wore grim expressions. At their passing, several civilians fell to their knees, but the pair didn’t notice.

  She looked at Mikel, who was on the verge of falling asleep in his saddle.

  “Mikel, do you know who they are?”

  “Who, your…Adrina?”

  “That man and woman who just rode by.”

  Mikel looked in the direction of the rapidly dwindling figures of the horses and shook his head. “I’m sorry, your…Adrina. I didn’t see.”

  “No matter.”

  Adrina put the pair out of her mind and allowed herself one glance over her shoulder before fixing her eyes forward. She didn’t need to be reminded of the past hours. The images of the battlefield would stay with her forever.

  CHAPTER 31

  In the cold morning light, Damin Wolfblade surveyed with disgust the carnage that was the remnants of their first serious engagement with the Kariens. It was not what he expected at all. The air stank of smoke and death. Even the sky was grey with low, sullen clouds that gazed with disapproval over the battlefield. Like Tarja, he had never faced a battle on such a scale, and the aftermath left him strangely unsettled. Although he couldn’t fault the tactics of the Defenders, this had not been a real battle. It was like killing cattle in a corral. There had been no opportunity for personal glory, no chance to fight for the honour of the War God. He had lost one man to injury and that through a fall. The Defenders had lost a dozen men and perhaps fifty were injured. It had been a thoroughly unsatisfying affair.

  Lord Jenga was well pleased, though. He had faced down a numerically superior enemy and not just prevailed, he had triumphed. The Defenders were in a buoyant mood. The Kariens were decimated, the Fardohnyan contingent destroyed. Of course, the Kariens still had countless men to throw at them, but they might think twice before launching such a suicidal frontal assault again.

  Damin suspected the reason for the victory lay as much with the coercion laid on the enemy by their own priests, as with the brilliance of the Medalonian defence. Even when the odds were hopeless, the Kariens didn’t have the wits about them to retreat. All they could do was keep moving forward into the arms of certain death.

  “My Lord.”

  Damin turned to his captain wearily. He had not slept in two days and it was starting to tell on him. “What is it, Almodavar?”

  “Lord Jenga wishes to see you. There’s some disagreement over your orders regarding the Fardohnyans.”

  Damin nodded, not surprised by the news. He turned his mount and rode toward the command pavilion at a canter. The sooner this was sorted out, the better.

  “Lord Wolfblade, is it true you ordered the Fardohnyans buried?” Jenga demanded as soon as he appeared in the entrance. The tent was crowded with Defenders, most of them congratulating themselves over their victory.

  “I did. They are pagans, my Lord. It is sacrilege for them to be cremated. You may do as you wish with the Kariens, but the Fardohnyans deserve better.”

  “They fought with the Kariens,” Jenga retorted. “They deserve nothing. In any case, I’ve not the men or the time to spare burying anyone. I’ll have an epidemic on my hands if that field isn’t cleared soon.”

  “Then my men will bury them, my Lord. And I’ve no doubt there are plenty of pagans in your camp who would aid us.”

  Jenga snorted something unintelligible and turned to an officer seeking his signature. He signed the document before turning back to Damin.

  “Very well, bury them if you must. I’ve broken enough laws lately for another to mean little. But do it away from here. And don’t use my Defenders. Not that there are many who would countenance such a barbaric practice.”

  “Your respect for our religious customs is touching, my Lord.”

  Jenga frowned but didn’t reply. Annoyed, Damin strode from the tent. His men had fought as long and hard as the Defenders. They wouldn’t be pleased with an order to bury nearly five hundred Fardohnyans in this cold, hard ground.

  “Damin!”

  He stopped and waited as R’shiel caught up to him, surprised to find her here. He had expected her and Brak to be long gone. “I heard what you said to Lord Jenga. You did the right thing.”

  “Then perhaps you could persuade him to lend me some assistance.”

  “I doubt it. Burial is outlawed in Medalon, Damin. You’re lucky he agreed at all.”

  “I know. But sometimes I wonder about this alliance. I have more in common with the Fardohnyans and the Kariens than I do with these people. Were it not for the gods…”

  “Were it not for the gods, none of us would be in this mess,” she finished with a frown.

  Not sure what she meant, Damin shrugged. “You would know better than I, demon child.”

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “I’m sorry. Although I’m a little surprised to see you here. I understood you were leaving for the Citadel.”

  “I’m looking for Tarja to say goodbye. Brak and I are leaving this morning.”

  “With Garet Warner?”

  She nodded. “You don’t like him much, do you?”

  “Not in the least. Nor do I trust him. Be careful, R’shiel.”

  She slipped her arm through his companionably and walked with him. Damin found her easy familiarity disconcerting. This girl was a living legend; the embodiment of a myth he had grown up with. He had never expected to find himself counted among the demon child’s friends. When they reached his horse R’shiel let go of his arm and patted the stallion fondly.

  “What’s he thinking?” Damin asked curiously.

  “He’s thinking it’s too cold to be standing around gossiping. He wants his breakfast.”

  “So do I.”

  She looked at him with a shake of her head. “How can you even think of food, at a time like this?”

  “Armies fight on their stomachs, R’shiel. Starving myself won’t bring anybody back to life.”

  “I feel sick just thinking about it.”

  Before he could answer her a Defender lieutenant approached them, saluting Damin smartly before turning to R’shiel. His uniform was grubby and soot-stained from a night collecting and burning the dead.

  “Captain Tenragan said to ask you to wait for him, my Lady. He’ll be along once he’s taken care of the last of the looters.”

  “He’s wasting his time,” Damin remarked. “Looters and war go together like sand and sea.”

  The young lieutenant drew himself up and glared at him. “I understand it’s a common practice in Hythria, my Lord. Even your court’esa aren’t above it. In Medalon, however, such a practice is considered to be barbaric and disrespectful.”

  “This from a man who burns his dead,” Damin muttered, then he glanced at the young man curiously. “What makes you say my court’esa aren’t above it? There are no court’esa here.”

  “Perhaps they belong to one of your men, sir, but I stopped two of them last night. Laden down with bundles of loot they were. All dressed up too, with those jewelled collars and dresses that left nothing to the imagination.”

  “No man of mine could afford court’esa like that. Are you certain?”

  “Aye. I spent time on the southern border. I’ve seen them before. There was no mistaking them.”

  R’shiel looked at him expectantly as he pondered the news. “What’s the matter?”

  “Probably nothing. Did you get their names, Lieutenant? Where they were from?”

  The man thought for a moment. “One was c
alled Tam-something, I think. The other one said her name was Madina, or something like that. I didn’t really take much notice of them once they moved on…”

  “Which way were they headed?”

  “South, with everyone else, I suppose.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  He saluted again and headed toward the command pavilion.

  “What’s bothering you, Damin?” R’shiel asked with a faint smile. “That there were Hythrun court’esa looting the battlefield, or that you don’t own them?”

  “I just seems a bit strange, that’s all. Court’esa as valuable as that don’t roam battlefields unescorted.”

  “What’s all this about court’esa?” Tarja remarked as he walked up beside R’shiel. His eyes were bloodshot, no doubt from supervising the funeral pyres through the night, and his shoulders were slumped with fatigue. Damin wondered for a moment if he looked as haggard.

  “One of your men stopped two court’esa looting the battlefield last night. Hythrun court’esa, complete with court collars, he claims.”

  “You didn’t bring any court’esa to the front, did you?” Tarja asked.

  “No.” He shrugged. “It’s probably just your men confusing some whores from the followers’ camp. Besides,” he added with a laugh. “What self-respecting court’esa would call herself Madina? They usually give themselves far more exotic names.”

  “Assuming he got the name right,” R’shiel added. “She could have said her name was Adrina, for all we know.”

  Tarja’s eyes narrowed. “Adrina…Damn!”

  “What?”

  “The Fardohnyan captain I faced yesterday. He begged me with his dying breath to warn his sister that they’d been betrayed. In the heat of battle, it never occurred to me…”

  “What are you talking about?” R’shiel asked impatiently.

  “Let me guess,” Damin said. “His sister’s name was Adrina?”

  Tarja nodded. R’shiel looked first at Tarja and then Damin with growing annoyance. “So?”