Warlord

by Jennifer Fallon

  Her first task as Warlord would be to get the Widowmaker open again. If she could manage that without further bloodshed, if the trade routes could be re-established in a reasonable time, and the Fardohnyans returned home for a suitable ransom that compensated the Hythrun Warlords for the inconvenience of having to go to war, Damin was fairly certain she’d have no trouble holding on to her province.

  As for Axelle Regis, his fate remained an open question. Traditionally, the generals of opposing armies were ransomed back to their sovereign, or given the option of falling on their sword, either of which seemed patently inappropriate in this case. Axelle could have won this war if Hablet had supported him—or if his daughter, Her Serene Bloody Highness, the Princess Adrina, hadn’t decided to cut Axelle adrift once her interest in him waned. Damin silently thanked all the gods he could name that the succession in Fardohnya was through the male line and he’d never have to deal with the prospect of a Queen Adrina on the throne of Fardohnya when he someday became High Prince of Hythria. Hablet was bad enough. By the sound of it, his eldest daughter was infinitely worse.

  The closure of the Widowmaker still bothered Damin more than he wanted to admit. Rorin insisted the pass had been closed by magic, which had given Damin more than one sleepless night since the surrender, wondering if the avalanche had been merely a lucky coincidence for Her Serene Highness when she decided she was done with Lord Regis, or if she’d somehow found a way to arrange for the Widowmaker to be magically destroyed.

  The latter was almost too frightening to contemplate. There was a certain level of responsibility that came with being a prince and having access to sorcerers willing to do your bidding. Damin was fortunate, he knew. Because of their contact with the Harshini, neither Wrayan nor Rorin would ever do anything they considered immoral. Adrina of Fardohnya didn’t appear to be nearly so restrained and if she’d found a sorcerer to do her bidding, the future was very bleak indeed.

  They still had no idea who had been responsible for the damage—other than Rorin’s suspicion the Halfbreed was involved because Elarnymire had appeared to warn him of the danger. Wrayan had done nothing to reassure Damin, either, when Rorin was telling them about his little adventure in the Widowmaker, commenting that if the princess in question was beautiful then it certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Brak might aid her if, in fact, the two had crossed paths.

  But on hearing the full story, Wrayan had cautioned them not to read more into the situation than actually existed. In his experience, he assured them, Brakandaran steered clear of the halls of power and was more likely to be amusing himself with a whore than a princess. That left Damin right back where he started, wondering if the avalanche had been a lucky coincidence, or if Hablet’s daughter had somehow found a way to arrange for the Widowmaker to be destroyed by a sorcerer.

  Some of his other problems were easier to resolve. He made certain Narvell would keep an eye on the High Prince and not let him do anything too outrageous. Like all Marla’s children, Narvell enjoyed the trust of the High Prince—when he was in the mood to trust anyone, at least. Although he wasn’t quite as adept as his older brother at getting what he wanted out of Lernen, Narvell was certainly capable of arranging to get him back to Greenharbour in one piece, and with the war all but done for now, that was the best place for him.

  On hearing the news of his mother’s death, Cyrus had done exactly what Damin was doing, heading home immediately to deal with more pressing problems. Unlike Damin, however, he hadn’t left his troops behind to help in the aftermath, but had withdrawn every Dregian Raider from the field.

  He’d have taken Greenharbour’s and Pentamor’s troops with him as well, if he could, but, as Wrayan had predicted, Conin Falconlance was still grateful enough for his sudden elevation to Warlord to feel he owed Damin something, so he decided to stay and do the right thing by his new allies. Toren Foxtalon of Pentamor stayed for entirely different reasons. He’d allied himself with Cyrus because until the battle at Lasting Drift, Eaglespike had always appeared the strongest Warlord. Since the battle, however, since there were suddenly three more Warlords whom he’d foolishly never bothered with, he found himself quite lonely with only Cyrus for support. With his only ally’s mother being blamed for countless crimes against Hythria he had a sudden attack of Royalist sentiment and decided he should remain where his help was needed most.

  The Warlord of Pentamor’s decision to stay eased the last of Damin’s fears about what might happen if he didn’t get back to the capital immediately. No Warlord was permitted to enter the city with more than three hundred troops, and his fear had been that if Conin Falconlance and Toren Foxtalon left with Cyrus Eaglespike, the Dregian Warlord would have had almost a thousand men with which to attempt to avenge his mother. That wasn’t going to happen now. Not even Cyrus was going to attack the Sorcerers’ Collective with only three hundred men at his back. He would have to fight to clear his mother’s name the hard way—through the law.

  That had left Damin free to act on the disturbing news Brose Rollin brought from Krakandar. He’d invited Kraig along for the ride because he’d promised to see him safely back to Greenharbour Once this was done, once Mahkas was dealt with, that was where Damin was headed. If the worst happened, and he didn’t survive the coming confrontation, Wrayan had promised to see the prince and his bodyguards over the border into Medalon. They could find a ship in Bordertown to take them south to a Fardohnyan port where they had a much better chance of finding a ship heading to Denika.

  It was the best he could do under the circumstances. Although he was more than a little grateful for the Denikan’s assistance during the battle, Kraig was a long way down Damin’s list of priorities at the moment.

  What he had done, however, was remove their slave collars as soon as they were clear of the war camp. Nobody in Damin’s province seriously thought the Denikans had brought the plague to Hythria, so there was no need to disguise them for their own protection here. Kraig had earned the right to be treated according to his rank. Damin was determined to ensure that the Crown Prince of Denika returned home with a good impression of at least some small part of Hythria, even if it was only the small part of it that Damin was personally able to influence.

  There was another reason for the small size of their party. They were all riding sorcerer-bred horses, having commandeered almost every mount in the war camp that had enough of the fabled bloodline in them to make them susceptible to magical manipulation. With Wrayan linked magically to the horses, they’d covered the first two hundred and fifty miles back to Krakandar in less than two days.

  He made a silent promise to himself as they rode that he would find a way to equip every Raider in Krakandar with a sorcerer-bred mount if he could manage it. The ability to move at incomprehensible speed would give him a tactical advantage over his enemies that he’d be a fool to ignore. Of course, he’d need a sorcerer to make such a miracle a reality, but Wrayan lived in Krakandar and could probably be prevailed upon to aid his prince when the occasion called for it. Or he could bring Rorin to Krakandar. Provided Kalan would allow it.

  Damin had cause to re-think his clever idea by the time they reached the Walsark Crossroads. Wrayan’s ability was taxed to the limit controlling six horses. Each time he linked with the horses, Damin could see the toll it took on him. He trembled constantly, and when his eyes weren’t burning like black coals from the power he was channelling, they were red-rimmed and watery.

  When he looked at the thief as the crossroads appeared on the horizon just on dusk of the fifth day of their frenzied journey north, Damin realised that for the first time he could remember, Wrayan had visibly aged.

  There was a delegation waiting for them on the edge of the sprawling refugee camp headed by Damin’s cousin, Travin Taranger. Xanda’s older brother greeted Damin with relief and brought him up to date on the evacuation over a small camp fire just out of sight of the main camp.

  The evacuation had begun three nights before
Damin arrived, his cousin informed him, and Travin’s best guess was that almost thirteen thousand people had already fled the city. Many of the refugees had made their way to Walsark, but many more had gotten as far as the crossroads and simply sat down to wait it out. Something had to happen; even the most ignorant beggar knew Krakandar was too strategically important to simply abandon it to a madman. Their prince would come to save them, they reasoned, or eventually the High Prince would send an army to secure Hythria’s northern border. One way or another, something would have to give and the refugees had apparently decided the Walsark Crossroads was as good a place as any to wait for it to happen.

  Travin Taranger was now left with the monumental and unenviable task of catering for the refugees and making certain they didn’t starve to death, or worse, bring on another wave of the plague or some other devastating disease, by being crammed too close together in a disorganised and unhygienic refugee camp that sprawled as far as the eye could see in every direction around the crossroads.

  “Do you have news of Xanda and Luciena?” Damin asked, when Travin finished his report.

  “The children are safe in Walsark,” Travin assured him. “My niece and nephews were among the first to leave the city, along with another four small boys who I believe belong to Tejay Lionsclaw.”

  “She’ll be relieved to hear they’re safe,” Damin said. “In fact, you could probably make arrangements to send them straight back to Cabradell. I know their mother misses them.”

  “If only all our refugees were so easily taken care of.”

  “What about Xanda and Luciena? Didn’t they come out with the children?”

  Travin shrugged. “Xanda always intended to stay and help. Luciena was meant to come out with the children, but according to her slave, Aleesha, the moment they stepped through the last tunnel, she gave her orders to bring the children to me, and then vanished back the way she’d come.”

  “So they’re both still in the city. What about Bylinda?”

  “No sign of her, I’m afraid. I’m not even sure she was privy to the plan.”

  “That’s an understandable precaution. Can we get into the city the same way the people have been coming out?”

  Travin shrugged. “Probably. They’re still trying to get the stragglers out, but those who are left now are either the diehards or the lunatics. You know, the little old ladies refusing to leave their homes for fear they’ll lose them. And the opportunists who think Mahkas may yet prevail.”

  Damin looked up at the sky. It had grown dark while they talked, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It would be midnight before they reached the city even on fresh horses. Given Wrayan’s exhaustion, Damin had no intention of asking the thief to get them to Krakandar any faster. He’d well and truly done enough.

  He did want him with .them when they entered the city, however. This mammoth effort was being coordinated by the Thieves’ Guild. Damin wanted their leader with him when it came time to assert his own authority over the city again. If the guild started entertaining ambitions above and beyond honouring their god, Damin wanted Wrayan there to nip it in the bud.

  He didn’t really think Starros was going to be a problem, certain by now his best friend would have forgiven him for selling his soul to the God of Thieves. It just never hurt to take precautions.

  “Do you have any news of Mahkas?” Damin asked finally, wondering what his reaction to this blatant challenge to his authority might be.

  Travin shook his head. “He’s been very ill, I know that much. I’m fairly certain the bulk of the population got away before he realised what was happening. And we’ve got over two thousand Raiders in the camp by now. But I’ve no news on what his reaction has been. Certainly no word about reprisals, which is something to be thankful for.”

  Damin frowned. “That means there are still another couple of thousand Raiders in the city. Who’s in command of the men out here?”

  “I don’t know that anybody is. Most of the officers are still in the city.”

  “Then I’m putting you in command, Travin. Do you think you could have my Raiders outside the city walls by tomorrow morning?”

  “Your Raiders?” Travin asked with a raised brow. “Last I heard, Mahkas was Regent of Krakandar, cousin, and you’re just the heir-in-waiting with another six years of twiddling your thumbs ahead of you before you can claim anything.”

  Damin smiled. “Haven’t you heard? The High Prince has lowered the age of majority to twenty-five.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “About a week ago.”

  “How convenient for you, Damin.”

  “I thought so.”

  “And when exactly do you turn twenty-five?”

  “I’m glad you asked that, Travin, because it just so happens that tomorrow is my birthday.”

  Travin looked impressed. “How convenient for you, Damn.”

  Damin didn’t rise to the bait. “Can you do it, Trav? Get them organised and have them there by the morning?”

  His cousin nodded. “I’ll have them there. Will you have the gates open by then?”

  Damin grinned at him. “It won’t be much of a birthday party if the guests can’t get in, now will it?”

  Travin sighed at Damin’s flippant reply. “In that case, my lord, we’ll see you in Krakandar.”

  Damin looked at him oddly. Nobody ever called him that. “My lord?”

  “Get used to it, cousin. It’s the correct way to address a Warlord.”

  “I never really thought about it.”

  “Then your opponent has one up on you, Damin, because I suspect a day hasn’t gone by in the past twenty-three years that Mahkas hasn’t dreamed of what it means to be Warlord of Krakandar, and the winner of any prize is usually the one who wants it most.”

  CHAPTER 75

  Empty of its population, the city of Krakandar was eerily quiet as Starros hurried through the darkened streets of the Beggars’ Quarter in response to the summons he’d just received, demanding his presence at the entrance to the route leading through the sewers and out under the walls of the city. It was past midnight and he was exhausted. He hadn’t stopped in three days. He’d been running back and forth like a madman, coordinating the various teams charged with getting everybody out of the city as quietly and efficiently as possible.

  It was almost done now, however. The only people left in Krakandar didn’t want to leave, and there was little Starros, the Thieves’ Guild, or any other guild could do to convince them otherwise.

  He wasn’t sure what the problem at the tunnels was, and was hoping it was only a minor disaster awaiting him. He suspected it wasn’t. Luc wouldn’t have sent for him if it was something minor. He would have dealt with it himself.

  When Starros arrived, he found a number of his men, who should have been stationed as lookouts, gathered around the tunnel entrance, which was housed in a warehouse near the outer wall of the Beggars’ Quarter, normally used as a base by the slaves responsible for keeping the sewers free of debris. They’d commandeered the barn-sized building a few nights before the evacuation began, ensuring the cooperation of the slaves in question by promising the men their freedom once the job was done.

  “Are we not worried about keeping a lookout any longer?” he enquired loudly, slamming the warehouse door behind him to get the men’s attention. They were gathered in a tight, excited circle near the tunnel opening in the floor and if he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn they were gambling.

  The sound of the door slamming had the desired effect, however, and the men broke apart guiltily as he approached. He opened his mouth to demand an explanation and then realised he didn’t need one. As the men fell back to allow him through, he discovered what was causing all the fuss.

  “Damin Bloody Wolfblade.”

  The young prince turned to greet him. “Still using my name as a curse, I see.”

  Damin offered Starros his hand, but he didn’t accept it, eyeing him up and down. The prin
ce looked travel-stained and a little tired, but if battle had wrought any other changes on Damin Wolfblade, he could see no sign of them. “What are you doing here?”

  Damin withdrew his hand with a puzzled look. “I got your message. Thought you could use some help.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in Sunrise Province saving us from an evil swarm of Fardohnyans or something?”

  He grinned. “Done that already.”

  “That didn’t take long.”

  “The gods were on our side,” he replied. “You’re looking well.”

  “Yes,” Starros agreed, unconsciously flexing his fingers as he neared the prince. “I am, aren’t I? We need to have a little chat about that at some point.”

  “We do?”

  Without warning, almost without thinking, Starros hit him. He’d been too well indoctrinated on fighting techniques as a lad by Almodavar to try punching Damin in the jaw, so he aimed for his nose. It was just a single punch, short, sharp and eminently satisfying. Damin staggered backwards, crying out in both pain and shock at the unexpectedness of the attack, but he didn’t try to retaliate. Interestingly, none of the gathered thieves watching these two old friends settle their differences made any attempt to intervene, either.

  “You sold my soul to the God of Thieves without asking, Damin.”

  The prince looked quite wounded by Starros’s lack of appreciation, probing his bloody nose gingerly. “I thought you’d be grateful.”