Warsworn

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  Dear Reader,

  Here we are, together again. Well, as together as we can be through the written word. Maybe you’re standing in a bookstore, sneaking a peek behind the cover? Or have you just opened that box in your living room after ordering my book online? Perhaps you’re waiting to check out, and browsing before you pay for your purchases?

  Whatever way this book came into your hands, once again you’ve allowed me to work my magic spell and attempt to enchant you. For there’s still fantasy in the world, here in my written words and the theater of your mind. You and I can journey to the Kingdom of Xy and the Plains of the Firelanders, to be drawn again into the lives of Lara and Keir.

  For the Warlord and his Warprize have taken the first steps down a path that will lead to further adventures and a greater understanding of each other. But there is a saying on the Plains—and it’s a universal truth—if you wish to hear the winds laugh, tell them you plans.

  So why are you lingering here? Everyone has gathered to hear the tale. Marcus is waiting, with hot kavage and food. Hurry! I don’t want to be on the wrong side of his tongue. Turn the page, and join us!

  Elizabeth

  Advance praise for Warsworn

  “Warsworn is a moving continuation of Warprize. Bravo.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jo Beverley

  Praise for Warprize

  “I loved Warprize! Keir is a hero to savor, and Elizabeth Vaughan is an author to watch.” —Claire Delacroix

  “Vaughan’s brawny barbarian romance re-creates the delicious feeling of adventure and the thrill of exploring mysterious cultures created by Robert E. Howard in his Conan books and makes for a satisfying escapist read with its enjoyable romance between a plucky, near-naked heroine and a truly heroic hero.” —Booklist

  “The most entertaining book I’ve read all year.”

  —All About Romance

  “Warprize is simply mesmerizing. The story is told flawlessly . . . Keir is a breathtaking hero; you will never look at a warlord the same way again.”

  —Paranormal Romance Reviews

  “Ms. Vaughan has written a wonderful fantasy introducing two memorable characters. The story is well-written and fast paced. Run to the bookstore and pick up this debut novel by Elizabeth Vaughan. You won’t be disappointed by the touching relationship that grows between the Warlord and his Warprize.” —A Romance Review

  TOR ROMANCE BOOKS BY ELIZABETH VAUGHAN

  Warprize

  Warsworn

  Warlord*

  *forthcoming in 2007

  ELIZABETH VAUGHAN

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  WARSWORN

  Copyright © 2006 by Elizabeth Vaughan

  Teaser copyright © 2006 by Elizabeth Vaughan

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Edited by Anna Genoese

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 0-765-35265-6

  EAN 978-0-765-35265-1

  First edition: April 2006

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Jane Lackey,

  friend, neighbor, and sister

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, to my readers. The last year has been a delight, getting e-mails and knowing that you are looking forward to the publication of this book. Your enthusiasm has kept me writing, and I thank you for it.

  Thanks to Dr. Mary J. Gombash, MD, who patiently sat and let me ask her question after question over lunch. I think I ‘what if’ d’ her to death. Thanks must also go to my cousin, Cindi Young, who shared her love of horses with me. She gave this city girl a bit of insight and I deeply appreciate it. To Barbara Doane, who shared with me her love of natural dyes and fabrics, and then found out the hard way why it isn’t a good idea to loan me books. Sorry, Barb.

  But for all the help that I’ve received, and all the research that I’ve done, any mistakes are my fault, and mine alone. I am perfectly capable of making horrible and embarrassing errors without any assistance.

  The members of my writer’s group, who told me all the painful truths that a writer needs to hear. This group consists of Spencer Luster, Helen Kourous, Robert Wenzlaff, Marc Tassin, Keith Flick, and Mike Szymkowiak.

  Once again, Kandace Klumper, Patricia Merritt, and JoAnn Thompson were essential to the process, offering me constant reassurance and support. Tom Redding and Mary Fry read the final drafts, catching more mistakes than I care to mention. Phil Fry, Cathie Hansen, and Deb Spychalski are my long suffering co-workers, and I thank them for their love, support and patience.

  I can’t say enough about the contribution that my editor, Anna Genoese, has made to this book. Every time she makes a suggestion the story grows stronger and richer. And my deep thanks go to Heather Brady, my copy editor.

  But once again, most of all, credit must go to Jean Rabe, who pushed me into the pool, and to Meg Davis, who found me there.

  1

  “Bloodmoss! That’s bloodmoss, Marcus!” I leaned over, trying to get a better look. I was positive that the grubby little plant I was seeing passing under the hooves of the horse was the rare herb. “Let me down!”

  The horse we were riding danced as my weight shifted and Marcus tightened up the reins. “If you don’t stop wiggling, you’re gonna tumble off, and embarrass Hisself and me.” Marcus groused as the horse pranced under us.

  I tightened my grip on his waist. “If you let me ride by myself, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

  He huffed. “You can’t ride worth a damn, and your feet remain sore. Now sit still! How would it look, the Warprize sprawled in the dirt?”

  “Marcus, I am a Master Healer and my feet are healing fine.”

  “You know from nothing,” Marcus growled. “I will judge if the Warprize is fit to walk.”

  I settled back, frustrated. I might be Xylara, Master Healer, Daughter of the House of Xy, Queen of Xy, Warprize of Keir of the Tribe of the Cat, Warlord of the Plains, but as far as Marcus was concerned I was little more than an unruly child. I sighed, and leaned my head on the back of his shoulder. “I can ride just fine.”

  Marcus snorted. “About as well as you tend your own feet.”

  Therein lay one of my problems. When I’d made the decision to follow the Warlord’s army, I’d done so in the same garb I’d worn for the original claiming ceremony. Since tradition required that the Warprize accept nothing except from the hand of the Warlord, I had walked barefoot behind the army for some time before Keir had discovered what I was doing and reclaimed me. Following my Warlord, challenging his decision, had been the best choice, both for us and for our peoples.

  Choosing to walk barefoot had not been quite so clever.

  Joden, in training as a Singer, said that by choosing to honor the traditions of the Plains, I had made a powerful statement, one that would ring in the songs he was crafting. Marcus had arched his one eyebrow over his remaining eye, and inquired if the fact that my feet had sickened afterwards would be in the first verse or the second.

  I straightened slowly, craning my neck to look around, careful not to disturb the horse this time. We were at th
e center of the Firelander Army, returning to the Plains. Not that Keir’s people called themselves ‘Firelanders’. That was a term my people used. Keir’s people used ‘of the Plains’ which sounded awkward to my ears. In my thoughts, at least, they remained the Firelanders. Of course, I no longer add ‘cursed’ or ‘evil’ or thought that they belched fire. I still had hopes of seeing a blue one, though. There were brown ones, and black ones, and some even had a yellow tinge to their skin. Who knew what further wonders awaited me on the Plains?

  Xy was really a large, wide mountain valley, that spread out all around us. I’d never been this far from Water’s Fall before, never seen the furthest reaches of what was now my kingdom. The trees were starting to turn, their colors all laid out below us as we traveled.

  Marcus and I were surrounded by horses and riders, which spilled out beyond the road as we rode. Keir had ordered that I travel at the center of this moving mass of warriors and horses. Even so, I knew that my guards would not be far away. Rafe and Prest were ahead of us, I could just see their backs. “Rafe!”

  Marcus jerked his head under the hood of his cloak, and muttered. Fall was upon us, but the day was fine, and the sun warm on our backs. But not for Marcus. He’d suffered horrible burns at sometime in the past that had left him disfigured, taking away his left eye and burning his left ear completely away. So Marcus always rode cloaked, wrapped well lest the skies be offended by his scars. Yet another aspect of these people that I didn’t understand.

  Rafe turned and waved, and he and Prest slowed their mounts so that we could catch up with them. Marcus grumbled, but maneuvered his horse between them.

  “Rafe, see that plant?” I tried to point it out to him as we moved.

  “Plant?” Rafe looked in confusion at the ground. “Warprize . . .”

  “The pale one; the one that looks like moss, but it’s butter-colored.”

  Rafe shrugged. “Wouldn’t it be easier to pick it yourself?”

  I rolled my eyes in frustration. “Marcus won’t stop!”

  Rafe let his laughter ring out, then Prest reached over and grabbed the halter of our horse. Marcus exclaimed bitterly, but Prest guided us out of the crush. I had to smile, even in my frustration. Rafe always had a grin for me. He was a smaller man, thin, with fair skin and deep black hair and brown eyes. Quite a contrast to my other guard, Prest. Prest was much larger, and a quiet one, with skin of brown, and black hair in twenty thick braids that fell to the center of his back. More a man of action than words, he calmly guided the horses off to the side, where we could stop.

  I started to wiggle off, but Marcus would have none of it. “You are to stay off those feet, you are.”

  “Marcus—”

  Rafe swung down off his horse. “Point it out to me, Warprize and I’ll get you handfuls.”

  Epor and Isdra came up beside us. “Problem?” Isdra asked, her long silver braid hanging down her shoulder. Her skin was a light gold in the sun, and her slanted grey eyes were quietly amused. Epor didn’t bother to hide his smile. His bright gold hair and beard shown like the sun. He always reminded me of the paintings of the Sun God in the temple back home.

  “Herself wants to be picking weeds.” Marcus grumbled.

  “Bloodmoss.” I corrected him. “That’s the one, Rafe. Let me see.”

  Epor snickered slightly as Rafe bent to the task of getting the plants. I noticed that Isdra gave him an amused look and reached over to nudge his leg. He caught her hand, and raised it to his lips. I look away, embarrassed at such a public display.

  Rafe held up a handful of leaves and plants, their torn roots dangling. “Which one, Warprize?”

  I heard a pounding of hooves behind us, even as I reached for the plants. Marcus heaved a sigh. “That’ll be the young’un’.”

  It was Gils, all right, riding his horse at breakneck speed along the army, grinning like a madman. It cheered me to see his simple pleasure in racing his horse like the wind. Marcus grumbled, but the others smiled and made room as Gils galloped to my side.

  “Cadr came to see me, Warprize! To ask for help with a bad boil.” He smiled broadly at me, his curly red hair dancing in the breeze, his words spilling out. “I told him that I would ask you, that I had to consult with my Master.”

  I grinned back at him, the young Firelander who had declared himself my apprentice. While Keir had decreed that he had to keep his place as a warrior for now, his secondary duties were to act as my helper. At least until we reached the Heart of the Plains. I’d used every spare minute to give him lessons. “Good. With any luck I can show you how to lance it. But first, Gils, remember what I told you about bloodmoss?” Gils nodded, but I didn’t give him time to answer. I grabbed the soft yellow leaves out of Rafe’s hands, scattering the rest. “It’s there, right there, Gils. Get some for me.”

  The army continued past as he swung down to join Rafe in picking the plants. The others had gone on alert, something I doubt they were even aware of, moving their horses to encircle us. Even though we were traveling in the center of the Warlord’s army, their instincts were to safeguard. There was no danger in being left behind, since the army was moving at a walk, and was spread out over what seemed to me to be miles.

  “Prest, do you have any ehat leather to spare?” Epor asked.

  Prest cast him a look over his shoulder. “You have a need?”

  “The handle of my club needs rewrapping.”

  “He fancies ehat for the grip.” Isdra explained.

  “Would take a piece the size of an ehat to wrap that fool weapon of yours.” Marcus groused.

  I glanced over at Epor, who had his club fastened to his back in a harness. It was a long thick piece of wood, half again as long as my arm, with metal studs along the length of the top and leather wrapped high on the handle. “What’s wrong with his weapon?” I asked.

  Rafe popped up next to my leg, bloodmoss in two hands. “Marcus doesn’t approve, Warprize.”

  Marcus grunted. “Too slow and unwieldy.”

  “For you,” Epor responded, as if this were an old argument. “I prefer a weapon where if I hit the enemy, the enemy goes down and stays down.” Epor gave me a saucy grin and a wink.

  I gave Rafe a questioning look, and he laughed at my confusion. “Warprize, a club is a two-handed weapon, best used by a big man with strength in his arms and chest. Like Epor or Prest.”

  “Not you?” I asked.

  Rafe shook his head. “I’m one for speed. Quicker with a sword or dagger. Isdra, Gils or I would strike twice for every one of Epor’s blows.” His eyebrows danced as he gave Marcus a quick glance. “Or once for every three blows from Marcus with those daggers of his.”

  Epor laughed, his blond hair gleaming in the sun. “Ah, but in need, even you or Isdra could use it two-handed.”

  Rafe nodded. “Maybe. If I were desperate.”

  “Or insane,” Isdra added.

  Prest dismounted, and dug through his packs, pulling out a fold of dark leather. He handed it to Epor, who nodded his thanks. “I’ll replace it, Prest, after the next ehat hunt.”

  “What exactly is a—”

  Gils popped up and handed me a bunch of leaves, laughing up at me. “How much of this do you want?”

  I smiled at him. “As much as I can get, Gils. Do you remember what it can do?”

  He gave me a scornful look. “I’s know, Warprize.” He bent to his task, his voice taking on a chanting tone. “Bloodmoss is for packing wounds. It grows at the site of great battles. It will not bind to the flesh, will not stick in the scabs. It seems to aid healing, prevent souring of the flesh and will close the wound. It absorbs as much blood as it can, and when you are done with it you should scatter it about, for the plant will use the blood to take root and grow.” He stood, his hands full of more leaves.

  Marcus groaned. “A blood-sucking plant. More knowledge than I need.”

  I was pleased. But Gils’s memory had never been a problem in his lessons. Firelanders were blessed with perfe
ct memories, since they had no written word. No, it was the practical application of the information that had been Gils’s difficulty. My feet had been a good example.

  It’s one thing to talk about cleaning and treating a soured wound. It’s another to work on a wiggling patient who couldn’t help but jerk her feet at every touch. Finally, in frustration Marcus had me lie on my stomach, and he and Keir held my feet as Gils cleaned them. The boy had done the best he could, but the right foot had become an angry, red, and pus-filled wound. Which forced poor Gils to try to clean it out with an angry and worried Warlord of the Plains hanging over his shoulder, watching his every move.

  I leaned forward, holding my hand in front of Marcus’s face. “It’s wonderful, Marcus. Give me your knife and I’ll show you how it works.”

  “Skies above.” Marcus jerked his head back and the horse danced beneath us. “It’s more like you’ll cut your hand off. Not with my knife!”

  Isdra laughed, and moved her horse closer. “Show me, Warprize.” She pulled her knife and sliced deep into the meat beneath her thumb. Blood welled up quickly.

  I took the leaves and twisted them, crushing their fibers. A strong scent of mold rose into my nostrils. “Take this and press it to the cut.”

  Isdra wiped her blade clean on her trous and sheathed it, then used her fingers to press the mass to the cut. The leaves turned color almost immediately as they drank up the blood, changing to a pale green. Gils craned his head to see, and Isdra lowered her hand to let him get a good look. At my nod, she pulled the leaves away. The skin was healed, with only an angry red line left to show she’d been hurt. Isdra held her hand up to show the others, and let the used leaves fall to the ground.

  Prest and Rafe were clearly impressed, and Rafe started to gather the crop in earnest. Gils squatted, staring at the bloody leaves intently. I watched for a minute, then smiled. “Gils, I don’t think it will take root while you watch.”