Warlord

by Jennifer Fallon

  “He is grateful,” Wrayan Lightfinger announced, stepping between them, perhaps thinking this wasn’t really the time or place to settle this. Or maybe Wrayan recognised something in Starros’s tone that didn’t augur well for their friendship. Starros had been so surprised to find Damin returned, he hadn’t even noticed Wrayan. The thief looked even more tired than Damin. In fact, he looked as if he’d aged ten years. That was remarkable in itself. Wrayan was part Harshini. He simply didn’t get tired. And he hadn’t aged in all the time Starros had known him.

  “Wrayan! I thought you were still in Greenharbour.”

  “I heard what you were doing to my city,” the thief said with a disarming smile. “Thought I’d better come back and see if I still had a job.”

  “Excuse me,” Damin interjected nasally, his head tilted backwards as he pinched his nose with his left hand to halt the blood flow. “But it’s actually my city, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not yet it isn’t,” Starros warned.

  “Only until I get to the palace,” Damin assured him.

  Starros studied him warily. He must have hit Damin in just the right spot. His nose was gushing blood as if he’d opened a vein. “Are you all right?”

  Damin glared at him and then suddenly smiled. As peace gestures went, it wasn’t much, but Starros knew Damin well enough to know it was probably all the apology he was ever likely to get. “I’ll live.”

  Someone handed the prince a length of rag and he held it against his face to stanch the blood. Damin would go to his grave, Starros realised, thinking he’d done him a favour by selling his soul to the God of Thieves.

  “It won’t be easy, Damin. We’ve gotten the people out and as many Raiders as we dared, but Mahkas is still firmly in control of what’s left and any troops still in the city are loyal to him. The only thing that’s kept us safe so far is that he’s been too sick to notice what’s been going on. But Xanda tells me he was planning to be up and about this morning, so I don’t imagine we have long before he realises what’s happened.”

  “Where is Xanda, by the way?”

  “He went back to the palace to find Luciena.”

  “Travin mentioned something about that. Why didn’t she leave when she had the chance?”

  “Xanda thinks she went back for Bylinda.”

  Damin thought for a moment before he spoke again. “If the real danger to Krakandar is Mahkas calling out the remaining Raiders when he realises there are no people left in the city, then we need to get to him before he does it.”

  “Now you’re back, your highness, it shouldn’t take much to get the remaining Raiders to lay down their arms,” Luc North suggested, looking around at the circle of thieves, many of whom nodded in agreement.

  “It’ll be even easier if we can arrange for them not to pick them up in the first place,” Damin pointed out. “But to do that, we need to remove Mahkas.”

  “Exactly what do you mean by remove?” one of the other thieves asked a little warily. Starros understood his concern. Even in support of the rightful heir, killing a Warlord was not something one undertook lightly.

  “The High Prince has formally lowered the age of majority to twenty-five,” Damin informed them. He took the rag away and gently probed his nose again. The bleeding seemed to have finally stopped. “I’m going to advise my uncle of this and ask him to stand aside and allow me to take up my birthright.”

  “And when he refuses?” Starros asked.

  “Then as the legitimate Warlord of Krakandar, I’m well within my rights to kill him.” Damin glanced around the circle of thieves as he tossed the bloody rag away. “Mahkas is my problem, gentlemen. I won’t ask any other man to deal with it for me.”

  “Well, if you’re looking for volunteers, my lord, there’re plenty of thieves left in the city who’d cheerfully kill Mahkas Damaran for you. If you need the help, that is.”

  “Thank you,” Damin replied. “I’ll keep that in mind. In the meantime, can we get to the palace without going through the main gate? Through the sewers, perhaps?”

  Starros changed his mind as he watched Damin. He’d thought nothing had changed about his old friend, but he was mistaken. There was an indefinable air of command about him now. When he’d first come home to Krakandar, the young prince acted as if he expected nobody to take him seriously. Now it was as if he knew he would be listened to, as if he expected to be followed. It was a subtle difference, but it was unmistakable and it sat so easily on the young man’s shoulders that Starros suspected it took Damin far less effort to maintain this side of his personality than the frivolous and flippant façade he’d maintained prior to Leila’s death.

  “We can go through the fens,” Starros told him. “And from there through the back gate and into the slaveways via the palace storerooms behind the kitchens. I even have the master key.”

  Damin eyed him curiously. “Taking your new career a little seriously, aren’t you?”

  “And whose fault is it that I have a new career, Damin?”

  “What about afterwards?” Luc asked, before Damin could respond to the accusation.

  “Afterwards?” the prince asked, the question catching him off guard. He was still staring at Starros, obviously hurt his friend wasn’t more grateful for the way he’d saved him from certain death.

  “He means after you take back the city,” Starros explained. “The Thieves’ Guild has been instrumental in handing your city back to you, Damin. Instead of a sealed city with four or five thousand Raiders that you’d have to lay siege to for months, you’ve got a clear run to the palace, the prospect of few, if any, civilian casualties, and an opportunity to take the whole damned province without shedding more than a few drops of Mahkas Damaran’s blood. That’s got to be worth something.”

  Clearly unhappy about it, Damin hesitated before he answered. “We’ll talk about it once the city is mine.” He glanced around the circle of faces, expecting agreement, and then began heading toward the warehouse doors.

  “If you want the help of the Thieves’ Guild, we’ll talk about it now, your highness,” Starros informed him.

  Damin stopped and turned to look at him, before he turned to Wrayan, who—significantly—hadn’t followed the prince either. “You need to have a little chat with your newest recruit, Wrayan. The Thieves’ Guild doesn’t rule Krakandar.”

  “They do tonight,” Wrayan replied, stepping up to stand with Starros. “And I’m afraid I have to agree with my newest recruit. How exactly are you planning to reward the Thieves’ Guild for delivering your city to you, my lord?”

  Damin was clearly shocked to find himself confronted with such a question. Years of friendship had lulled him into forgetting Wrayan ruled the dark underbelly of Krakandar City. That Damin had accepted the aid of the Thieves’ Guild as his due didn’t surprise Starros. Wrayan backing him against Damin without hesitation did, however.

  Damin studied the two thieves in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

  “Nobody’s laughing.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What are you offering?”

  Damin glared at Starros, and took a threatening step closer. “How about I offer not to leave any marks?”

  Starros didn’t flinch. “You’ll have to do better than that, Damin. We’ve risked everything for you.”

  “Horseshit!” Damin exclaimed. “According to Travin, you organised this evacuation as some sort of glorious prank to honour your god. There’s more than a few refugees out there who think you did it just so you could sack the city in peace. You didn’t even know if I’d get your message, let alone be here tonight. Don’t try to make your little escapade appear noble, Starros, just because I happened to turn up at a convenient time for you to claim the glory.”

  Starros shrugged. “I’m a thief now, Damin. Thanks to you. I’m compelled to steal anything I can. Even glory when the chance arises.”

  Damin turned his impatient gaze on Wrayan. “We don’t have time for this, Wrayan.”
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  The sorcerer smiled, apparently amused by this power struggle going on between the two old friends. “Then I suggest you give him what he wants so we can get on with the real reason we’re here.”

  Exasperated, Damin threw up his hands. “What do you want?”

  “A general amnesty,” Starros informed him. “No thief is to be held accountable for anything that goes missing until your rule of the city is established.”

  “So you are planning to sack the city?”

  “Only a little bit of it.” He shrugged. “And only from the people who can afford it.”

  Damin glared at him. “Let me get this straight. In return for the help of the Thieves’ Guild, you want me to turn a blind eye to you and your little friends looting the rich houses of the city, until I can wrest control of it from Mahkas?”

  “That pretty much covers it.”

  The prince thought about it and then, with a great deal of reluctance, he conceded defeat. “Very well. Until I open the gates of the city and let my army back in, you have a free hand.”

  Starros smiled. “See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

  “That gives you about three hours, Starros. Make the most of them.”

  “You think you can remove Mahkas and regain control in three hours?”

  “I think I can take care of Mahkas a lot sooner than that. As for the rest of the city, the army is already on their way. Travin promises me they’ll be here by daybreak.”

  Starros was impressed. He didn’t think Damin would think to do that. Mind you, he reminded himself, I didn’t think he’d agree to the looting, either.

  Damin didn’t seem amused Starros had forced such a concession from him. “You need to watch your back, Wrayan,” the prince warned. “I’m not the only one with a realm in danger of being taken away from him by a madman.”

  Wrayan glanced at Starros and smiled. “I don’t think I have too much to worry about. Besides, I’m not quite as attached to my kingdom as you are to yours. If I lose it to someone younger and smarter, I can always find another.”

  The comment surprised Starros a little, but before he could puzzle out what Wrayan meant, another group of thieves emerged from the tunnels, leading two Denikan women wearing unfamiliar leather clothing and a rather alarming array of weapons and following them, the largest man Starros had ever seen. The thieves automatically fell back as the big Denikan and his companions stepped out of the tunnel and into the circle of torches.

  “So this is your city, Damin Wolfblade,” the Denikan remarked, looking around the warehouse and its motley occupants with open curiosity. “Not exactly the reception I was expecting.”

  “Nor I,” Damin agreed, looking pointedly at Starros. “What are you doing here, Kraig? I thought I asked you to stay with Travin until I’d secured the city?”

  “Your cousin has far too much to do to be hindered entertaining foreign dignitaries, your highness. We thought we would be more help here.”

  “You and two girls are going to help us take a whole city?” a sceptical voice asked from behind Starros.

  Damin glanced around at the thieves, who were all staring suspiciously at the newcomers. “This is Prince Lunar Shadow Kraig of the House of the Rising Moon, the ruling house of Denika,” he announced, “and his bodyguards Lady Lyrian and Lady Barlaina. Prince Kraig has already aided us a great deal in devising a strategy to defeat the Fardohnyans when we were outnumbered two to one.”

  Starros studied the strangers curiously, wondering how Damin had come by such odd companions. “Well, if they’ve already helped you defeat thousands of marauding Fardohnyans, the few stragglers left in Krakandar shouldn’t even raise a sweat. Are you sure you and your new best friends here even need the help of the Thieves’ Guild?”

  Damin stared at him and then inexplicably, he smiled. “I know what’s going on here. And you haven’t beaten me tonight, Starros. I’m letting you win because it suits me.”

  The prince might have acquired an air of command, but some things never changed. He still couldn’t bear to lose. Not even on some vague point of honour. Starros shrugged, knowing his indifference to his friend’s score keeping would drive Damin crazy. “Whatever.”

  “And if it takes me ten years,” Damin added, “I’ll find a way to get even with you for putting me in this position.”

  Hearing Damin admit that was really all Starros wanted. He hadn’t got one up on Damin Wolfblade since that day twelve years ago, when they’d fought in the fens over Leila—the day Princess Marla had come home and found them fighting. It wasn’t exactly recompense for having his soul sold to a god without his permission, but it was something. He was content he’d proved his point.

  “Are we going to take this city or stand around here talking about it all night?”

  Damin hesitated, obviously debating whether or not to push the issue, and then seemed to thrust the problem aside as he nodded in agreement.

  “You’re right, old friend,” he said. “Let’s go take my city back.”

  CHAPTER 76

  Mahkas Damaran had realised there was something seriously amiss when he couldn’t find Emilie after dinner. His great-niece had been a godsend these past few weeks, helping ease the pain of Leila’s dreadful death, even helping him forget The Bastard Fosterling for a time, the man responsible for her suicide.

  At least, he consoled himself, The Bastard Fosterling is dead.

  Xanda had assured him of it; so had every other man and woman in the palace that he’d questioned. They all agreed Starros was dead. And they all swore they had no idea where he was buried.

  Not knowing the location of his body ate at Mahkas. He wanted to see The Bastard Fosterling’s rotting corpse for himself. He wanted to be sure the filthy pig was dead. He needed to see an unmoving chest, feel the lack of breath, assure himself there was no pulse. If The Bastard Fosterling was dead, Mahkas wanted to be absolutely certain of it.

  And just as nobody could tell him where Starros was buried, so nobody seemed to be able to tell him where Emilie was this evening, either.

  He’d promised to take her riding again, as soon as he was better. His arm still ached abominably, but the pain and high fever of the infection was a rapidly fading memory. He still remembered Emilie sitting on the bed, holding his hand to comfort him, while Darian Coe sliced into his infected flesh. She was a good girl, Emilie Taranger. So innocent. So full of hope. So full of promise.

  So much like Leila when she was a child.

  And that was going to be a problem, Mahkas feared. Emilie’s similarity to Leila was a tragedy waiting for a place to happen.

  The weak and misguided ministrations of her foolish mother had allowed Leila to be seduced by The Bastard Fosterling. Mahkas had convinced himself of that. Now he intended to make certain the same didn’t happen to his beloved niece, Emilie. And it would, he was convinced, if he didn’t take precautions. Luciena Taranger wasn’t a fit mother; a blind man could see that. She was common-born, for one, just like Bylinda. The daughter of a sailor and a whore. Not a fit mother for the great-niece of the Warlord of Krakandar.

  Although his wife had come from the wealthy merchant class, Mahkas realised now that money didn’t make up for breeding. You couldn’t buy class, any more than you could buy respectability. These commoners just didn’t understand what it meant to be highborn; they had no real grasp of the privilege or the duty that went with being one of the ruling elite.

  He’d been planning to talk to Xanda about it for days now. Once he was well enough, Mahkas intended to take his nephew aside and point out to him how his daughter was being ruined by her mother. He intended to use his own tragedy with Leila as an example of the perils of ignoring the warning signs. Xanda would be grateful for his advice, naturally, and would—Mahkas was in no doubt—immediately take steps to remove Emilie from the dangerous influence of her mother.

  Of course, none of his advice would be any use unless he found Emilie so he could save her, and despite sending for her at
least three times this evening, there was still no sign of the child. Finally, he decided to look for her himself. If her mother suspected Mahkas was about to have her excluded from any further contact with her daughter, she might be trying to prevent it by hiding Emilie from him.

  He couldn’t allow that, he determined, as he hurried along the broad hall to her room. Emilie was his niece, his own flesh and blood. Her mother had no right to her at all. Luciena was simply the common-born breeding cow Xanda had used to give his precious daughter life.

  He reached Emilie’s room, full of righteous indignation about the way Luciena was spoiling his niece, muttering about her low birth in his rasping, whispery voice, the voice so cruelly destroyed by that ungrateful whelp, Damin Wolfblade.

  Once he started thinking about Damin, Mahkas became so wrapped up in his own anger he didn’t notice there were no guards on Emilie’s room. He threw back the door and stalked through the darkened outer room and into the bedroom, only to discover her bed was still made and obviously hadn’t been slept in.

  He stared at the empty bed, the unlit candles, puzzled by what they might mean, and then he hurried out into the hall and glanced up and down the corridor. There were no guards at all, he realised. Not on any of the bedrooms.

  And it was quiet. Unnaturally quiet. There were no slaves going about their business. No Raiders standing guard over the sleeping members of their ruling family.

  It was as if he was the only living soul still in the palace.

  Mahkas grew increasingly concerned as he checked each of the bedrooms, only to find exactly what he’d found in Emilie’s room. The beds were made, nobody had slept in them. Even the young Lionsclaw boys were missing. He tried to call out, tried to summon Orleon to demand an explanation, by his voice couldn’t be heard ten feet away, let alone echo through the palace commanding attention.

  Angrily, he kept searching the rooms until finally he had a stroke of luck. He found Luciena in Bylinda’s rooms. She was in the outer room by the settee, on her knees in front of his wife, begging her to go somewhere. The moment he saw Luciena, he knew his suspicions about a conspiracy were well founded. Everything about her—her words, her tone of voice, her anxious demeanour—all reeked of treachery.