Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  R

  iika’s body had been laid out with care. It lay on a carved bier in the centre of the small Qorinipor temple under a shroud. Glittering dust motes hung in the cool winter sunshine from the narrow line of windows that circled the base of the domed ceiling. Laran approached the bier cautiously, hoping there had been some mistake, but knowing with sick certainty that there wasn’t. Riika was gone and the girl who had been kidnapped was dead. It couldn’t be anybody else.

  The body was covered with a thin cloth embroidered in gold. Laran hesitated before touching it, knowing that when he did, he would no longer be able to keep his grief at bay. His last chance to pretend this wasn’t happening was about to be taken from him, the moment he lifted that shroud and confirmed Riika was dead.

  Cursing his own cowardice, Laran snatched at the corner and jerked it from the body.

  They had dressed her in a simple white gown, its high neck almost, but not quite, covering the wound on her throat which had obviously been washed clean when the body was prepared. Riika’s expression was lifeless; rigor mortis had long passed. Her face was not frozen into a terrified rictus of fear. It simply looked dead, the bloodless flesh so pale it was almost translucent.

  How could this have happened?

  A few days ago, Riika was playing in the snow with her nephews. Today she lay dead, her young life snuffed out before it even began. Laran had seen plenty of death in his time, but this seemed so senseless. It was the opportunity lost that made him want to scream with outrage. The life that never really got a chance to start.

  And for what? Because Riika had the misfortune to share the physical description of my wife?

  He could imagine the rumours. “There’s a girl at Winternest.”

  “She’s only fifteen or sixteen. Pretty. Blonde.”

  “And guarded by Krakandar Raiders.”

  He had sent Riika into a death trap without even realising it, thinking any danger to her would come from Hythria. It never occurred to him that somebody in Fardohnya might mistake Riika for Marla.

  Although he believed that much, Laran was fairly certain the rest of Lecter Turon’s tale was an outright lie. He couldn’t prove it, though, and in the end, even if he could, what good would it do Riika? He couldn’t bring her back to life. He couldn’t undo what had been done. Hablet was obviously fearful of his reaction. Lecter Turon’s continued assurances of their innocence was enough to prove Hablet both culpable and willing to pay his way clear of his guilt.

  There would never be a better time, Laran realised, to make Hablet come to the negotiating table. With so many troops massed on the Hythrun side of the border and Fardohnya so patently unprepared for war, Laran could force Hablet to sign a treaty. He could probably demand he pay for the construction of a paved road through the Widowmaker Pass, for that matter, so anxious was the Fardohnyan monarch to absolve himself of any blame in the affair.

  Laran looked down on Riika’s lifeless form, another wave of guilt washing over him for thinking of politics at such a time.

  “I’m so sorry, Riika,” he whispered in a choked voice. “I should have taken better care of you. I promised Glenadal I would and—”

  Laran couldn’t go on. His own guilt in putting Riika in harm’s way was intolerable. What marvellous conspirators we’ve been. Laran, Glenadal and Jeryma; Kagan and Charel Hawksword, Nash, Mahkas, even Chaine and eventually Lernen Wolfblade. All our noble sentiments about helping Hythria; all our great plans and schemes seem trivial now. All of it seemed so trite now the price had proved so high.

  Riika was an innocent bystander. She shouldn’t have had anything to do with this at all.

  The door opened at the end of the hall and booted footsteps echoed across the tiled floor, stopping a few paces from the bier. Laran looked up to find Raek Harlen standing there holding a covered tray. The young lieutenant’s expression was set and hard as he forced himself not to look down at the body of his former mistress.

  “What’s that?” Laran asked, fairly certain the young man had not brought him refreshments.

  “It’s a gift from the King of Fardohnya, my lord.” Raek knelt on one knee to place the tray carefully on the floor, then rose again, lifting off the cover. “The head and the balls, believe it or not, of Symon Kuron.”

  The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook’s freshly severed head stared sightlessly up at Laran, who almost gagged. The bloodied objects either side of the head didn’t bear thinking about.

  “With all due respect, Hablet’s a sick bastard, my lord,” the young man remarked.

  “He’s pretty good at covering his arse, too,” Laran noted.

  Gently, Laran drew the cover back over Riika’s body before turning to the lieutenant. He looked down at Symon’s grimace of terror and shook his head.

  “Fardohnyan justice is quick, I’ll grant Hablet that much.”

  “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “Give it back to Hablet. I’m not interested in keeping any man’s head as a souvenir.”

  Raek nodded and bent to pick up the tray that was awash with blood draining from the severed skull. He paused for a moment, studying the head curiously.

  “I recognise him from somewhere, you know. I thought that the first time we met him in Westbrook. I’m sure I’ve seen him in the customs hall a few times. I thought he was a slaver.”

  “Do you know if he spoke to anyone?” Laran would find out who betrayed Riika if it was the only thing of import he ever did in this life.

  “I can’t recall. But it’ll come to me. Eventually.”

  “I want to know as soon as it does, Lieutenant. In the meantime, get your men organised to depart. We’re leaving at first light tomorrow.”

  The young man rose, holding the tray, and looked down at the covered bier. “We’re taking Lady Riika home, sir?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

  Laran nodded, feeling his heart was made of lead. “Yes, Raek. We’re taking Riika home.”

  “Would you object if I posted a vigil here tonight, sir?”

  Laran looked at him in surprise.

  “She shouldn’t be left alone. Not in this place.”

  “Thank you, Raek. I think Riika would like that.”

  “I don’t suppose we’re going to be allowed to murder every one of these Fardohnyan bastards for doing this before we leave, are we, sir?”

  Laran smiled humourlessly. “I appreciate the offer, Raek, truly I do. And you have no idea how much I’d like to take you up on it. But we have the head of the man who kidnapped Riika, a plausible excuse for how it happened and the sworn promise of a king that he had nothing to do with it.”

  “Even though you know he’s lying?”

  “Yes.”

  “That isn’t justice, my lord.”

  “I know,” Laran agreed heavily. “But without a war that’s going to kill thousands of other innocents for no good reason—both Hythrun and Fardohnyan—we’re going to have to settle for it, I fear.”

  They left Qorinipor at first light the following morning. Along with Riika’s body laid out in a beautifully lacquered carriage Hablet had donated for their journey home, Laran was taking back a guarantee from the Fardohnyan king that there would be no further recriminations regarding Lernen’s broken promise about Marla. He had also extracted a guarantee that there would be no unauthorised incursions into Sunrise Province for at least the next ten years. And a promise of three million Fardohnyan gold rivets towards paving the Widowmaker Pass.

  Laran had no idea of the cost of the venture, but three million had sounded a nice round number and he would never again have Hablet in such a cooperative mood. He had also secured a separate payment for Jeryma to compensate her for the loss of her daughter of another five hundred thousand gold rivets. As Hablet agreed to each of his increasingly absurd demands with barely a murmur of protest, Laran became more and more convinced of the Fardohnyan king’s guilt in Riika’s death.

  He learned one other thing that disturbed him; so
mething that, even now, he wasn’t sure he should believe. As they were preparing to depart the Winter Palace, Lecter Turon had sought Laran out and drawn him away from his men. They stopped under an archway between two of the palace outbuildings near the bridge linking the palace to the mainland, where they were out of earshot of the rest of his troop and the Fardohnyan guard of honour Hablet had laid on for their return to the border.

  Both suspicious and curious about what the eunuch wanted of him, Laran waited for Lecter Turon to speak.

  “There is one other thing I wish to give you, Lord Krakenshield,” the chamberlain told him, looking around furtively.

  “You don’t give anything away, Chamberlain Turon.”

  “That’s true,” he conceded with a thin smile, fixing his gaze on the Warlord. “Think of this as a favour then; a favour you might be able to repay someday.”

  Laran wasn’t sure if owing Lecter Turon a favour was a good idea, but he was really curious now. “What have you got for me, then?”

  “Some intelligence, my lord.”

  “About?”

  “About the spy in your household who told Kuron’s men where and when they would find your sister in the mountains.”

  Laran snorted sceptically. “You’d expose your own spy?”

  “The spy was never mine, Lord Krakenshield. He or she—and I honestly don’t know which it is—was the Plenipotentiary’s creature.”

  “If you don’t even know the gender of this spy, Chamberlain, how do you know their identity?”

  “I know only what the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook confessed before he died, Lord Krakenshield. The spy who betrayed your sister—according to Symon Kuron—was a member of your own family.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Well, that’s a judgment I’ll leave to you, my lord. I just thought you might like to know what he said.” The chamberlain bowed and walked away, leaving Laran to ponder his words.

  And ponder them he did. He had thought of little else since leaving Qorinipor.

  The chances were good that the eunuch was lying and had simply suggested such a dreadful thing hoping to eat away at Laran’s confidence in those closest to him. Or it might be true. And if it was, who in his family hated Riika enough to wish her harm?

  No closer to an answer when Westbrook came into sight than he had been when they rode out of Qorinipor days ago, Laran sent Raek and two other Raiders on ahead with a letter to Mahkas—the one person Laran trusted implicitly—to warn him they were coming home and of the terrible burden they brought with them.

  Laran made only one promise to himself. Once he had arrived at Winternest, he would find out who had betrayed Riika and, when he did, the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook’s fate would seem merciful in comparison.

  chapter 56

  W

  ell,” Hablet sighed heavily as he stood on the wall-walk of the Winter Palace of Qorinipor watching Laran Krakenshield and his escort as they crossed the delicately wrought stone bridge connecting the palace to the mainland. The lake glittered in the early morning sun, almost too brightly to look upon in places, and the air was crisp this high up, the wind snatching at his cloak with greedy, grasping fingers.

  The carriage carrying Riika Ravenspear’s body was at the centre of the column, surrounded by the twenty-man guard Laran had brought with him, who were, in turn, escorted by another hundred men Hablet had assigned to accompany the Hythrun Warlord back to the border. He wasn’t just being polite. Hablet wanted to make sure Laran Krakenshield went home. The hundred-man guard was there to persuade him it would be dangerous to think of doing anything else.

  Hablet was going to miss that coach, too. Exquisitely lacquered with the royal insignia inlaid in real gold on the doors, it had cost a small fortune and he’d only used it once.

  He turned and glared at his chamberlain. “Your ‘Let’s Kidnap Marla Wolfblade and Make a Fortune’ plan turned out to be a complete waste of time and money, Lecter.”

  “It didn’t turn out exactly as I envisaged,” the chamberlain conceded.

  “Three and a half million gold rivets, Lecter! Where am I going to find that sort of money?”

  “Where you find most of your money, sire,” the eunuch suggested. “In the coffers of your subjects.”

  “I could impose a tax for paving the Widowmaker Pass, I suppose,” the king mused. “In fact, come to think of it, I probably should impose a tax. It’s the merchants using the pass who’ll get the most out of this. They should contribute at least part of the cost.”

  “Not to mention how popular it will make you,” Lecter reminded him. “There’s been talk of doing something about the Widowmaker Pass for years. Now that Glenadal Ravenspear is dead and you have been able to force his successor to the negotiating table, the long overdue construction can finally begin.”

  “But it wasn’t my idea, Lecter. Krakenshield forced me into it.”

  “The general population doesn’t need to know that, sire.”

  Hablet smiled. “And there’s nothing like major capital works to make the people think I care about them.”

  Lecter Turon nodded. “Of course, now that Marla Wolfblade is no longer a viable option as your wife, we do have the problem of finding you another, your majesty.”

  “Who did you have in mind?” Hablet asked, certain Lecter wouldn’t have raised the issue if he didn’t have at least one candidate he’d accepted a bribe to promote.

  “Princess Shanita, sire.”

  “Who?”

  “The only daughter of Prince Orly of Lanipoor,” Lecter informed him. “The family’s royal lineage dates back before Greneth the Elder. It is a very ancient and noble line.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Very, so I’m led to believe.”

  “Yes, well, Orly would say that, wouldn’t he? Is she educated?”

  “Not excessively.”

  “Good. There’s nothing worse than a bored wife with an educated mind. How much is he paying you?”

  “Enough that I feel compelled to raise the matter with you, your majesty.”

  Hablet smiled. “That much, eh? What about her dowry?”

  “I believe Orly mentioned a figure in the vicinity of three hundred thousand, sire.”

  “As a dowry?” Hablet asked in surprise. “Is she cursed and turns into a monster after sundown, or something? Nobody offers that sort of money for a dowry. Not for a princess, anyway.”

  “The offer was first made some months ago while you were still considering Princess Marla. I believe Orly was trying to make a more attractive offer than Lernen.”

  “That wouldn’t have been hard. Lernen was expecting me to pay him. Which, I might add, thanks to your bungling, I ended up doing anyway and still don’t have anything to show for it.”

  “It is the nature of a gamble that one sometimes loses, sire.”

  “Interesting that you’ve now decided it was a gamble,” Hablet remarked. “After I lost three and a half million gold rivets. You claimed it was a sure thing when you first proposed the idea. And the only reason it didn’t work, I might add, was because you had the girl killed. I should take the cost of this disaster out of your hide, Lecter. If you’d left Riika Ravenspear alive we could still have got a ransom for her. Maybe even as much as for Marla. The Warlord of Krakandar actually felt something for his sister. Lernen Wolfblade’s sister means little more than a rather expensive court’esa to Laran, I imagine.” Hablet laughed suddenly, as he pictured the frivolous young girl he met in Greenharbour and the serious, dour Warlord of Krakandar trying to hold a meaningful conversation.

  “Don’t despair, sire. There are other ways of making sure a son of the Wolfblade line can never take the throne of Fardohnya.”

  “And how much is it going to cost me?”

  “One simply has to ensure that no child of Marla Wolfblade’s ever reaches maturity. If there are no heirs, there is no problem.”

  “Krakenshield threatened to turn Fardohnya into a killing field
if I even thought about harming another member of his family, Lecter. What do you suppose he’d do if he found out I’d killed a son of his?”

  “Are you afraid of Laran Krakenshield, sire?”

  “Of course I am!” he declared. “The man has the two most dangerous qualities possible: the innate belief in the righteousness of his opinions and unlimited power to back them up. I’d be a fool not to fear him.”

  “Then my way is infinitely better, sire. Children die all the time. Provided it’s the result of childhood illness, or can be disguised as an unfortunate accident, you need never be connected to the tragic loss of such an important child.”

  “Childhood illness?” Hablet scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous! Who ever heard of anything as idiotic as trying to use diseases to kill people deliberately? How would you control it? How would you stop your own people getting caught in an epidemic?” He put his hand on the eunuch’s shoulder. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Lecter. If you’re looking for a new innovation in assassinations and warfare, you should talk to my engineers when we get back to Talabar. They tell me there might be a way to turn the powder used in fireworks into something more . . . dangerous.”

  “But, sire, Fardohnya’s last successful incursion into Hythria during the time of your great-grandfather was only fruitful after he lobbed plague-infected body parts into Winternest Castle, forcing them to open the gates.”

  “Yes,” the king agreed. “But what did it get him?”

  “Control over the border?” Lecter ventured cautiously.

  “It got him a visit from a very irate Brakandaran the Halfbreed, Lecter. That was back in the days before the Harshini disappeared completely. I remember my father telling me about it.”

  “Surely you don’t believe such fairytales, your highness? Stories of dangerous halfbreeds and the Harshini demon child are simply something we tell children to frighten them into behaving themselves.”

  “I’m pretty sure the whole demon child thing is a crock,” Hablet conceded. “But I’m not so sure about Brakandaran. Even the nice stories about him claimed the Halfbreed was a dangerous bastard. And by all accounts, Brakandaran was not amused about what went on at Winternest. Damned Harshini.”