breathtaking shock of icy water brought the conflict to an abrupt halt.
Damin staggered backwards, shaking the water from his drenched fair hair, as Tarja did the same, looking about for the source of the interruption. Mahina Cortanen stood not two paces from them, empty bucket in hand, her expression thunderous. Lord Jenga stood just behind her, and a pace or so behind Jenga stood the suddenly quiet spectators, their faces ruddy in the flickering light of the burning tent.
“Is this something you gentlemen need to discuss privately?” she asked, with a voice that was colder than the water she had thrown on them.
Damin glanced at Tarja, whose grin was now rather more sheepish than feral. Both of his eyes were beginning to blacken, and blood streamed from his nose and the corner of his mouth. His normally immaculate uniform was torn and muddied. Damin had no doubt that he looked just as bad.
“We were discussing…the differences in Medalonian and Hythrun…hand-to-hand combat, my Lady,” Damin explained, as he gasped for air, with a quick grin in Tarja’s direction. “We had just moved…from a theoretical discussion to a more…practical demonstration of the techniques involved. A…most useful exercise, I must say.” With theback of his tender hand, he wiped the blood from his mouth, and smiled ingenuously at Mahina. The spectators, Defender, rebel and Hythrun alike, nodded their agreement.
Mahina glared at him then turned on Tarja. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”
Tarja hesitated for a moment, his chest heaving, before he straightened up and smiled through his split lip at the former First Sister. “I’d say…both techniques were useful, given…the right circumstances, however—”
“Oh, spare me!” Mahina cried. “Perhaps now that you’ve finished your discussion , you might attend me and the Lord Defender in the Keep? A matter of some urgency has arisen that requires your attention, gentlemen. If you can find the time, of course.”
Damin rubbed his tender jaw and glanced at Tarja, who seemed the better for their fight, despite his physical condition. Damin made a mental note to make certain that the next time Tarja felt the need to hit something, he arranged for somebody else to be the target.
“I believe we can accommodate you, my Lady,” Damin said, as if accepting a dinner invitation. “Shall we, Captain?”
“Certainly.” He looked around at the gathered spectators, suddenly noticing them for the first time. “Did you men want something to do?”
Several Defenders had taken it upon themselves to douse the blazing tent. The rest of the Defenders and rebels faded into the darkness with impressive speed. One look in the direction of his Raiders was enoughto have the same effect on them. Looking idle was a thing to be avoided at all costs; every soldier in the camp knew that. Lord Jenga stood behind Mahina, a rare smile on his contour-map face as he watched the troops vanish back into their tents. Mahina glanced over her shoulder at him. He quickly wiped the smile off his face.
“Something amuses you, my Lord?”
“Youthful high spirits always amuse me, my Lady,” he replied evenly.
“Is that what you call it? I can think of a better description.” She turned back to the two combatants with a frown. “Clean yourselves up, then meet me in the Keep.” She turned on her heel, still clutching the wooden bucket, and stormed off into the darkness.
“Has something happened?” Damin asked the Lord Defender. Mahina was fairly even tempered as a rule. Anger seemed strange in a woman who looked like somebody’s grandmother.
“We have a visitor from the Citadel,” Jenga told them.
“Who?” Tarja asked. The shock from Mahina’s bucket of water seemed to have sobered him. Damin wished he could recover so quickly.
“Garet Warner.”
Damin turned to him, trying to think of an intelligent question. It was quite depressing to be drunk under the table by a Medalonian.
Damin staggered backwards, shaking the water from his drenched fair hair, as Tarja did the same, looking about for the source of the interruption. Mahina Cortanen stood not two paces from them, empty bucket in hand, her expression thunderous. Lord Jenga stood just behind her, and a pace or so behind Jenga stood the suddenly quiet spectators, their faces ruddy in the flickering light of the burning tent.
“Is this something you gentlemen need to discuss privately?” she asked, with a voice that was colder than the water she had thrown on them.
Damin glanced at Tarja, whose grin was now rather more sheepish than feral. Both of his eyes were beginning to blacken, and blood streamed from his nose and the corner of his mouth. His normally immaculate uniform was torn and muddied. Damin had no doubt that he looked just as bad.
“We were discussing…the differences in Medalonian and Hythrun…hand-to-hand combat, my Lady,” Damin explained, as he gasped for air, with a quick grin in Tarja’s direction. “We had just moved…from a theoretical discussion to a more…practical demonstration of the techniques involved. A…most useful exercise, I must say.” With theback of his tender hand, he wiped the blood from his mouth, and smiled ingenuously at Mahina. The spectators, Defender, rebel and Hythrun alike, nodded their agreement.
Mahina glared at him then turned on Tarja. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”
Tarja hesitated for a moment, his chest heaving, before he straightened up and smiled through his split lip at the former First Sister. “I’d say…both techniques were useful, given…the right circumstances, however—”
“Oh, spare me!” Mahina cried. “Perhaps now that you’ve finished your discussion , you might attend me and the Lord Defender in the Keep? A matter of some urgency has arisen that requires your attention, gentlemen. If you can find the time, of course.”
Damin rubbed his tender jaw and glanced at Tarja, who seemed the better for their fight, despite his physical condition. Damin made a mental note to make certain that the next time Tarja felt the need to hit something, he arranged for somebody else to be the target.
“I believe we can accommodate you, my Lady,” Damin said, as if accepting a dinner invitation. “Shall we, Captain?”
“Certainly.” He looked around at the gathered spectators, suddenly noticing them for the first time. “Did you men want something to do?”
Several Defenders had taken it upon themselves to douse the blazing tent. The rest of the Defenders and rebels faded into the darkness with impressive speed. One look in the direction of his Raiders was enoughto have the same effect on them. Looking idle was a thing to be avoided at all costs; every soldier in the camp knew that. Lord Jenga stood behind Mahina, a rare smile on his contour-map face as he watched the troops vanish back into their tents. Mahina glanced over her shoulder at him. He quickly wiped the smile off his face.
“Something amuses you, my Lord?”
“Youthful high spirits always amuse me, my Lady,” he replied evenly.
“Is that what you call it? I can think of a better description.” She turned back to the two combatants with a frown. “Clean yourselves up, then meet me in the Keep.” She turned on her heel, still clutching the wooden bucket, and stormed off into the darkness.
“Has something happened?” Damin asked the Lord Defender. Mahina was fairly even tempered as a rule. Anger seemed strange in a woman who looked like somebody’s grandmother.
“We have a visitor from the Citadel,” Jenga told them.
“Who?” Tarja asked. The shock from Mahina’s bucket of water seemed to have sobered him. Damin wished he could recover so quickly.
“Garet Warner.”
Damin turned to him, trying to think of an intelligent question. It was quite depressing to be drunk under the table by a Medalonian.
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