“Lord Wolfblade,” Adrina told him.
“The Lord Wolfblade?” He had obviously not been aware of the importance of his prisoner. Adrina nodded, rather amused by his expression. Denjon turned back to the sergeant. “Bring Lord Wolfblade to me. And do it tactfully, Sergeant. The last I heard he was supposed to be on our side.”
“Sir!” The man saluted and turned to go, but Denjon called him back before he had taken more than two steps.
“Send someone to fetch Captain Kilton and Captain Linst, too. I’ll be in the Infirmary.”
The sergeant left to carry out his orders and Denjon turned back to R’shiel.
“I have to warn you, he’s in a bad way.”
“Just take me to him, Denjon.”
“As you wish.”
The captain turned and led the way through the camp followed by R’shiel, Brak, Adrina, Mikel and the curious eyes of a thousand Defenders who sensed that something very significant had just occurred.
Just how significant it was would not be known until the officers had decided what to do now that they were effectively free of Karien control. They had two choices, R’shiel knew: obey their orders and continue on to the border, or defy them and choose a much more dangerous path.
She was certain the latter was what they wanted to do, but she was not at all certain that they would act on it. The Defenders took their duty very seriously. Of all the men she knew in the corps, only Tarja and Jenga had ever had the strength to defy their oath when faced with something they found they could not stomach.
As Denjon pushed back the flap to the large Infirmary tent and the sickening smell of blood and death washed over her, she could only hope that Tarja’s brother captains, when it came to the crunch, were made of the same stuff.
Chapter 65
The first thing that R’shiel noticed in the long tent was the absence of any physics. An occupation almost entirely restricted to Sisters of the Blade, it did not seem possible that the Defenders would undertake such a journey without some of them in attendance. When she questioned Denjon about them, he shrugged.
“It was Lord Terbolt’s decision. There are no sisters in the camp at all. I don’t think he trusts them. Besides,” he added. “We were simply escorting him to the border. We weren’t expecting any trouble.”
“Why would Terbolt want a thousand-man escort? That seems a bit excessive, even for a Karien.”
“Because when the Fardohnyans cross the southern border, the Defenders will send for reinforcements,” Damin remarked, pushing through the tent flap behind them. “If the troops are in the north, even if the Sisterhood wanted to, they couldn’t send help. What the Kariens don’t know is that Hablet is playing his own game. He’s not coming to help the Kariens, he’s heading for Hythria.”
Adrina spun around at the sound of his voice and flew at him. Damin caught her in a brief hug then held her at arm’s length. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. R’shiel came through in the nick of time.”
At the mention of her name, he looked up, unable to hide his shock. With her hair cut close and her eyes black with the power she refused to relinquish, she must look nothing like the girl he remembered.
“Where’s Tarja?” he asked.
The sergeant must have told him what was happening, or what little he knew, at any rate.
R’shiel glanced at Denjon, who pointed to the narrow pallet at the far end of the tent. Only a few of the beds were occupied, and the men in them all looked seriously injured. The Defenders had a fairly generous definition of “walking wounded”. If a man could stand, he wasn’t sick enough to be confined to bed. These men were simply the worst of the night’s casualties. There would be many more out in the camp suffering the effects of Tarja’s abortive rescue attempt.
Afraid of what she would find, she pushed past Denjon and the medic in attendance and approached him cautiously. Her throat constricted as she neared him. He was paler than death and barely breathing.
“If you’ve anything important to say to him, make it quick,” the medic suggested with cold practicality. “He’s going fast. Lost so much blood it’s a wonder he’s still got anything for his heart to do.”
R’shiel stared at the man in horror then sought Brak out among those crowded into the tent. He had released his hold on the power and his faded eyes were clouded with doubt.
He knew what she wanted. She did not have to ask.
“I don’t know, R’shiel.”
Adrina still clung to Damin but she looked at them both with wide eyes, confused by their doubt.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re Harshini. You can heal him, can’t you? R’shiel fixed me up with just a touch.”
R’shiel knelt beside the bed and placed her hand on Tarja’s forehead. His skin was cold and clammy. He was deeply unconscious, a step away from death and heading in the wrong direction. The power seemed to both sharpen and deaden her senses at the same time. She could feel the life slipping away from him, but she was insulated from the grief somehow. Perhaps it would hit her later, once she let the power go.
“Get out,” she ordered softly. When no one seemed inclined to heed her, she looked up, her eyes blazing. “Out! All of you!”
Startled by her tone, they did not argue. As they filed from the tent, she turned back to Tarja, wishing she knew where to start. Healing Adrina’s fresh, uncomplicated arrow wound was one thing. Bringing someone back from the brink of death was quite another.
R’shiel waited until she knew she was alone, except for the one person she was certain would not leave her while she was drawing on this much power. She didn’t know if it was loyalty or distrust that kept him there. Nor did she care.
“I can’t do this, Brak. I don’t know enough about healing.”
“I’ll not be much help to you, R’shiel. Like yours, my talent lies in the other direction.”
She looked up sharply, wondering how he could be so callous.
“I have to try.”
“Have you considered the possibility that this was meant to be?”
“What do you mean?” He could not meet her eye. “Brak! What do you mean?”
“Death decides when one’s time is up, R’shiel, not you, or me, or anyone else for that matter.”
“You’re telling me Tarja’s time is up?”
“I’m telling you Death doesn’t negotiate.”
She pushed the hair from Tarja’s forehead gently. “What if I speak to Death? Can’t I ask him not to take Tarja?”
“Not without offering a life of equal value in return.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because that’s what happened when the Harshini healed you, R’shiel. Death demanded a life in return.”
“Whose life? Who could make that kind of decision?”
When he did not answer she looked up, her face drained of colour. “It was you, wasn’t it?” R’shiel looked down at Tarja for a moment then slowly climbed to her feet. “Was it Tarja, Brak? Is that why you want me to let him die? So you can fulfil your bargain with death?”
“R’shiel —”
“Tell me, Brak!” she cried, turning on him angrily. “Who is going to die? Whose life did you trade for mine? You bastard! How could you do such a thing?”
“I couldn’t let you die, R’shiel.”
“You think I want to live knowing some poor sod carries a death sentence so I can keep breathing? Who, Brak? Who did you condemn to death? It was Tarja, wasn’t it? Tarja has to die, so I can live. A soul of equal value, you said...”
Brak grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. Hard. She stopped her tirade and threw her arms around him, sobbing.
“It wasn’t Tarja,” he told her gently as he held her.
She pulled away from him and wiped her eyes. “Who was it, Brak?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Yes I do.”
“No, you don’t. And I’m not going to tell you, at any rate. See to Tar
ja. Perhaps he’s destined to die, perhaps he isn’t. I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe in destiny.”
“Which accounts for most of the trouble you’ve found yourself in lately.” He led her back to the pallet and knelt beside her, studying Tarja’s unconscious form with a much more experienced eye. “He’s close to death, R’shiel. Even Cheltaran would find it hard to bring him back.”
“I have the power to flatten mountains, Brak, you said that yourself. If you could just show me...” She stroked Tarja’s clammy forehead, her desperation almost severing her hold on the power. “Can’t you do what Glenanaran did for me? Stop time?”
“And hold him on the edge of death to what purpose, R’shiel? The problem isn’t the wound, it’s the blood he’s lost. You can knit bones and flesh easily enough, but not even the gods can manufacture blood out of thin air.”
“But I can feel him dying!”
“I know.”
“Then tell me what to do!” she cried. “Should I call Cheltaran? He’s the God of Healing. He should —”
“He won’t come, R’shiel,” Dacendaran told her miserably, as he appeared at the foot of the bed. “Zegarnald won’t let him.”
Anger surged through R’shiel, its edge honed by the power she held. How dare Zegarnald deny Tarja his only chance at life? “What do you mean? He won’t let him come?”
The young god shrugged uncomfortably. “He said something about you taking the easy way too often.”
“You mean Tarja is dying as some sort of test?” she gasped furiously. “What sort of sick breed are you, Dace? That’s inhuman!”
“Now you finally begin to understand,” Brak said.
Dace tugged on a loose thread on his motley shirt, avoiding R’shiel’s accusing eyes. “It’s not my fault. I’m not even supposed to be here. But Kali likes Tarja, so she’s keeping Zegarnald busy.”
“What did Kalianah say, Dace?”
R’shiel looked at Brak, wondering at the question.
“She said to tell R’shiel that love will prevail.”
“Oh, well that’s a big help,” R’shiel scoffed.
“Don’t be like that. I’m just the messenger. She said to tell you that you have guardians that protect you and that protection will embrace all who love you truly. That’s why she did what she did, I think. She knows things sometimes...” Dace trailed off with a sigh. “I’m sorry, R’shiel. I have to go. I wish you’d been a thief. I could have helped you a lot more.”
R’shiel felt the god leave, but she was too concerned about Tarja to care much. She was terrified that he would slip away before she could intervene, and afraid of what would happen if she did. Living without him would be hard enough; contributing to his death would be intolerable.
“You should never ignore a message from the gods, R’shiel,” Brak warned. “Particularly one as powerful as Kalianah.”
“Love will prevail,” she repeated caustically, in a fair imitation of Dace.
“She also said you have guardians that protect you, and that protection will embrace all who love you truly.”
“What guardians?”
Brak did not answer. He merely waited for the answer to come to her. When it did, she could have cried, but whether from anger at her own stupidity, or sheer relief, she could not tell.
“The demons!”
She had barely framed the thought when Dranymire popped into existence at the foot of the bed. His appearance was followed by a high-pitched squeal, as the little demon who had grown so fond of sleeping in their bed scrambled thoughtlessly across Tarja and jumped into her arms. The little demon appeared to have recovered from her ordeal in the Citadel. She hugged the creature and turned to Dranymire.
“We were wondering when you would remember us,” the demon said in his unnaturally deep voice.
“I’m sorry, Dranymire. But after the Gathering... so much has happened...”
The demon shrugged. “You have nothing to apologise for, except perhaps for not thinking of us sooner. What grieves you, demon child?”
“Can you show me how to heal Tarja?”
“Did you learn nothing at Sanctuary?”
“But he’s lost so much blood!”
“Don’t human bodies make their own blood?” Dranymire asked curiously. “They certainly spill enough of it to make one think it was readily replaced.”
“He’ll die before his body can replace what he’s lost,” Brak explained.
“Then you need blood to keep him alive, long enough for his own body to repair itself.” He looked at R’shiel with his too-big eyes. They were filled with compassion. “This human’s death would cause you much pain, I suspect.”
“More than anything I have ever suffered.”
Dranymire nodded solemnly. “We could do nothing to protect you from pain the gods imposed on you, but we can do something to prevent this.”
“What can you do? I don’t understand.”
“We shall be his blood.”
“What?” R’shiel began to wonder if she had slipped back into the realms of her living nightmare.
“We shall meld and become the blood that he requires.”
“You can do that?” She looked at Brak for confirmation. The idea was too bizarre to comprehend.
Brak nodded. “Wounded Harshini have been saved by their bonded demons entering their bodies until they could reach help. It’s not unheard of.”
“It is where I come from.”
He smiled faintly. “You still have so much to learn, don’t you?”
“Will this really work?”
Brak glanced at Dranymire who shrugged. “Humans and Harshini are not so different.”
“Then let’s do it,” she announced, reaching for the thin blanket that covered Tarja.
Brak laid a restraining hand on hers. “A word of caution, R’shiel. This will mean that until he’s recovered enough to survive on his own, Tarja will be literally possessed by demons. Not even Dranymire knows what that will do to him if he survives. Are you prepared for that?”
She thought for a moment before replying.
“One problem at a time. I’ll deal with the consequences later.”
He shook his head. “Just so long as you understand that you could be making a big mistake.”
R’shiel did not reply. Rather she pulled the blanket down, revealing the blood-soaked bandages that bound Tarja’s midriff.
“I mean it, R’shiel.”
She looked up at him and shrugged. “I don’t make mistakes, Brak. Everything I’ve ever done in my life seemed like the right idea at the time.”
Chapter 66
Denjon led Adrina and the others away from the Infirmary tent, obviously glad to be gone from such blatant proof of the continuing existence of the Harshini. R’shiel had obviously been acquainted with the captain and he seemed to know Tarja quite well, too. It was more than likely the reason he had not struck them down when they emerged from Terbolt’s tent. On the other hand, if Jenga’s reaction had been anything to go by, surrender was an alien concept to these men. Perhaps R’shiel had merely provided them with the excuse their training and their oath denied them.
Whatever the reason for their cautious cooperation, three other captains awaited them outside Terbolt’s tent. Denjon introduced them as Dorak, Kilton, and Linst. The men all wore that same serious, wary expression that she had come to associate with the Defenders. Between that and their identical uniforms, she found it hard to tell them apart.
“The Karien Prince is dead,” Dorak told Denjon, casting a wary eye over Adrina and Damin as they approached. “He was stabbed. Terbolt’s dead too, although there’s not a mark on him. It could have been poison.”
“It wasn’t poison,” Denjon replied. “Are they still in there?”
Dorak nodded.
“Let’s talk in the mess tent. I’d rather this wasn’t overheard.” He glanced at Mikel meaningfully.
The child followed Adrina like a faithful shadow, afra
id to let her out of his sight.
“Mikel, why don’t you go down and join Captain Almodavar and the others. I’m sure he’ll look after you until we finish here.”
“Am I a prisoner now?”
“No. Just go down and tell him everything will be sorted out soon,” Damin added, with surprising gentleness. “Your brother’s down there somewhere too. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
He nodded doubtfully. “Is he all right?”
“Why don’t you go and find out?”
With one last cautious look, the boy turned and ran towards the picket lines.
The captains led the way to another long tent. The only difference between this one and the infirmary was the interior. The mess tent was lined with collapsible tables and benches rather than beds. The smell was marginally better, too. Once inside, Denjon dismissed the cooks and waited until he was certain they were gone before he turned to the others.
“We have a decision to make, gentlemen.”
“Then perhaps you’d like to tell us what’s going on?” one of the captains said. It was Linst or the other one. Adrina really couldn’t remember which one was which.
“I would if I knew. Perhaps you could enlighten us, your Highness?”
After so long among the Kariens, who considered the input of a woman no input at all, Adrina wasn’t really expecting to be included in the conversation. But these men served the Sisterhood. They suffered no illusions about the ability of women. She glanced at Damin who squeezed her hand in encouragement.
“I want to know what happened to my slave, first.”
“What slave?” Denjon asked.
“The young woman who was with me when we were captured.”
The captains glanced at each other and shrugged. “There were no other women captured, your Highness. She probably escaped in the confusion.”
“Could you send some men out to find her, Captain? She’s alone in a foreign country and not equipped to survive on her wits. Not in the wilderness, at least.” Denjon nodded to Linst, who left the tent to issue the order. That worrying detail taken care of, Adrina felt a lot more secure about her future among these men. “Thank you. Now what did you want to know?”
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