"Jennifer Fallon - Demon Child 01 - Medalon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fallon Jennifer)

Jenga’s patience was rapidly fading. “Draco was absent at the time, R’shiel. Trayla fancied she was able
to deal with a miserable pagan youth and ordered him out of the office. Now, is that all you wanted?”

“No. I was just curious, that’s all.”

“Then be specific, child. I have other business to attend to. I have an assassin to hang, letters to write,
and orders to issue ...”

“And banished officers who offended Trayla to recall?” she suggested hopefully.

Jenga shook his head. “I can’t revoke the First Sister’s orders, R’shiel.”

“The First Sister is dead.”

“That doesn’t mean I can rearrange the world to my liking.”

“But it does mean you can rearrange the Defenders,” R’shiel reminded him. She turned on her best,
winning smile. “Please, Lord Jenga. Bring Tarja home.”



chapter 2



Tarja Tenragan lay stretched out on the damp ground, looking out over the vast empty plain before him.
The earth smelled fresh from the morning rain and the teasing scent of pollen from the myriad wild flowers
tickled his nose, daring him to sneeze. Nothing but the distant call of a hawk, lazily riding the thermals,
disturbed the early afternoon. The rain had increased the humidity but done nothing to relieve the heat.
Sweat dampened the linen shirt under his soft leather jerkin and trickled annoyingly down his spine.

The border between Medalon and Hythria lay ahead. It was unmarked—merely a shallow ford across a
rocky, nameless waterway that everyone, Medalonian and Hythrun alike, simply referred to as the
Border Stream. Tarja listened with quiet concentration. After four years playing this game he knew that
out there, somewhere, was a Hythrun raiding party.

Suddenly, the silence was disturbed. He looked over his shoulder as Gawn marched purposefully
toward him, his smart red coat stark against the brown landscape.He might as well have a target painted
on his chest, Tarja fumed. As soon as he reached Tarja’s position, he grabbed Gawn’s arm and pulled
him roughly down to the ground.

“I told you to get rid of that damned coat!” he hissed.

“I am proud of my uniform, Captain. I am a Defender. I do not skulk through the grasslands in fear of
barbarians.”

“You do if you plan to survive out here,” Tarja told him irritably. His own jacket was tucked safely away
in his saddlebag, as were the red coats of all his men. He was wearing an old shirt and comfortably
broken-in leather trousers and jerkin. Hardly the attire for a ball at the Citadel but infinitely preferable to
being shot by a Hythrun arrow. Tarja absently brushed away a curious beetle come to investigate his