Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  You couldn’t hang a man for that . . .

  The patrol Mahkas led towards the palace was made up of the remainder of the troop that had left for the border more than ten days ago. They were few in number—barely twelve men left of the twenty who had ridden out of the city—so not many people marked their passing. A few curious souls cast a glance over the horse he led, but nobody really understood the significance of the covered bundle tied to the saddle.

  It was almost dark by the time they reached the inner ring. The guards waved them through without stopping them. Inside, the road opened out into a vast courtyard surrounded on three sides by buildings. To the left and right of the square were the government buildings, three storeys high, gracefully symmetrical and uniform in their construction. In front of them lay the sweeping steps of the palace itself, which rose up majestically, commanding a view of the entire city. Mahkas saw the palace as he’d never seen it before, with an air of possession he’d never dreamed possible until now.

  Because now, there was nothing standing in his way but a child not yet two years old, his mother, a slip of a girl still in her teens and the High Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective, his uncle, Kagan Palenovar.

  Orleon came out of the palace to greet them, holding a torch high against the gloom. Mahkas remembered thinking as a child that the steward had some sort of magical power. It didn’t matter what time of the day or night it was, Orleon always seemed to know when somebody arrived at the palace and was there to greet them. He walked down the steps a short way, recognised Mahkas, then looked around with alarm in the fading light when he couldn’t see Laran among the other faces in the troop.

  Orleon’s eyes alighted on the horse Mahkas held by a lead rope and he shook his head in disbelief as understanding slowly dawned on him. “Surely not . . .”

  Mahkas dismounted, his expression grim, as Orleon hurried down the steps.

  “By the gods,” the old man muttered. “It cannot be . . .”

  Mahkas stood back to let the steward look at the bundle tied to the pack horse, then glanced over his shoulder at Raek Harlen, who was still mounted. “Find Almodavar,” he ordered quietly. “Tell him what’s happened.”

  Raek nodded and wheeled his horse around, heading for the barracks. Mahkas turned back to Orleon, who had untied the cloak covering the corpse tied to the pack horse. Laran’s body was not a pretty sight. His face and limbs were swollen and black where the blood had pooled after death. Orleon just stood there, shaking his head.

  “It cannot be . . .” he repeated, too stunned to think of anything else to say.

  “I share your shock and grief, Orleon,” Mahkas said, placing a comforting hand on the old man’s shoulder.

  His words seemed to galvanise the steward. Orleon squared his shoulders and looked at Mahkas. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I will arrange to have my lord laid out in the appropriate manner, and begin to make the funeral arrangements. Do you wish to inform her highness?”

  “I suppose I’d better. Is my uncle here yet?”

  Orleon nodded. “The High Arrion arrived two days ago from Greenharbour. Lord Hawksword is also here.”

  So Nash was here. That was a good thing. He was friendly with Marla. With another shoulder to cry on, Mahkas wouldn’t be required to console his sister-in-law. He still had enough honour left to consider himself the worst kind of hypocrite if he stood there sympathising with a young woman, when his actions (or lack of them) had made her a widow. Mahkas pushed the thought away. Now was not the time to start reliving the gory details of Laran’s death. He had a lifetime to do that.

  Or he would have provided Kagan hadn’t shared his news with anyone. Mahkas was still hopeful. Orleon had come to meet him alone. If Kagan had told anybody what he knew about Darilyn, there would have been a troop waiting to arrest him.

  Orleon sent a Raider into the palace to get some help while he supervised the other men unloading Laran’s body. It wasn’t an easy task. Laran had been a big man and, with Orleon crying out in horror every time he thought them too rough in their handling of his dead lord, it was no mean feat getting him off the horse and laid out whilst trying to be respectful.

  Mahkas watched the proceedings with a heavy heart. It should never have come to this. But the die was cast and he would see it through. And it really wasn’t his fault.

  Laran had led them into that ambush, stampeding the cattle ahead of them. The arrow that had knocked him off his horse wasn’t even fatal. It had taken him in the right shoulder, making his sword arm useless, but leaving him very much alive and able to fight. The red-coated Defenders had closed in on Laran with alarming speed. He’d struggled to free his sword with his left hand and then turned to face his attackers. The first man fell to a wild, undirected blow. Laran staggered. He was losing blood, but was still a formidable enemy. Another Defender attacked. Laran fought him off valiantly, but couldn’t know there was yet another coming up behind him. Mahkas cried out a warning. With his hands reaching for his short bow and an arrow, Mahkas used his knees to turn his mount. He charged across the small battlefield, desperately trying to reach his brother before those Medalonian bastards could take him down . . .

  And then the world seemed to slow down around Mahkas. The sounds of the battle faded away to nothing. He no longer tasted the dust, could no longer smell the blood. The lowing of the panicked cattle, the squealing of terrified horses, the grunts and cries of the soldiers, the sound of metal on metal—all of it dimmed to a distant background noise that made little impact on him.

  Mahkas slowed his mount almost unconsciously, lowering his short bow with its black-fletched arrow that was nocked and ready to fly. With the instrument of his brother’s salvation resting across his lap, he watched Laran fight off the Medalonian. In a state of detached numbness, he watched his brother take a knife in the back from the other Defender who attacked him from behind.

  Through it all, Mahkas did nothing. He didn’t raise his bow; didn’t attempt to stop the Defenders attacking his brother. And he could have. Like most Hythrun Raiders, Mahkas was an excellent marksman. He’d made the rank of captain on merit, not simply because he was Laran’s half-brother. In his heart, he knew he could have stopped the man three paces from Laran. But it seemed easier this way. Less complicated . . .

  And then the battle seemed to come alive around him again. A Defender charged at him, screaming at the top of his lungs. Mahkas calmly lifted the bow, drew back the arrow and took the man through his left eye. Then he fought his way through the mêlée to Laran’s side, determined to recover the body.

  It was important, after all, that he bring Krakandar’s Warlord home.

  chapter 69

  T

  hey gathered in Laran’s study as soon as word got around: Kagan, Bylinda, Mahkas, Nash and Marla. They all look so shocked, Marla thought. So blank and uncomprehending.

  It wasn’t that nobody here had experienced death before. It was just that nobody expected it. Not like this. Laran had been on a hundred cattle raids across the border. They were a sport among the Krakandar Raiders. There were rarely any casualties. Three or four a year perhaps. To lose Laran to something so ordinary was too bizarre to be real.

  It was simply unbelievable.

  It had not really registered yet with Marla that she was a widow. She was too shocked even to shed a tear. Instead, she had retreated into practicality. She had ordered the flags lowered to half-mast. She had cancelled the feast and ordered the banquet hall cleared so that Laran’s body could be laid out in state. She’d ordered the Raiders to select an honour guard to watch over his body until the funeral. She’d also arranged for notices to be posted throughout the city, advising the citizens of Krakandar their Warlord was dead and that they should place a candle outside their doors to light his soul on its way to the underworld in case it wandered down their street.

  Marla had been issuing orders like a little general ever since Orleon had interrupted dinner to break the news.

&
nbsp; It was all she could think to do.

  Mahkas looked terrible. He must be tearing himself apart with guilt and grief, she realised. That he had been there on the border and unable to save his brother was an almost unbearable torment. As he told them of the battle, he kept apologising, as if he could somehow make amends for something that was plainly not his fault. Bylinda tried to comfort him, but there was little she could say to her husband that would console him. Mahkas had lost both his sisters and now, just when things appeared to be settling down, he had lost his only brother.

  Kagan was just as devastated. The High Arrion looked old, as if the loss of so many of those close to him had beaten him down, a little at a time, until he almost seemed to be stooping. Marla had asked him to compose the letter to Jeryma informing her of Laran’s death and requesting her immediate return to Krakandar.

  Marla would take care of informing the High Prince herself.

  Nash’s reaction was harder to gauge and she didn’t dare look at him. Laran had been his closest friend, but that hadn’t stopped him coveting his best friend’s wife. If he was feeling even half the guilt that Marla was currently burdened with, then Nash would be ready to throw himself on his sword.

  A moment in the sun or a lifetime in the shadows.

  That had been her choice.

  Well, you had your moment in the sun, she told herself harshly. And look at the price you’ve been asked to pay for your folly.

  Laran’s death, she suspected, was the beginning of her long descent into the shadows.

  “Has anybody thought to let Jeryma know?” Nash asked in the uncomfortable silence that followed Mahkas’s tale of Laran’s last moments.

  “I’ve asked Lord Palenovar to take care of it,” Marla replied tonelessly.

  “The High Prince will need to be informed, too,” Bylinda pointed out unnecessarily.

  “I’ll take care of that.”

  Mahkas glanced around the room, wiping away the tears he had tried to hold back while relating his version of events. “I know this will sound harsh at a time like this, but have we thought about Chaine Tollin?”

  “What about Chaine?” Marla asked, thinking that the last person she would have thought a problem at this dreadful time was Glenadal’s bastard.

  “We have two provinces without a Warlord,” Mahkas pointed out. “Chaine may finally decide to take what he thinks should be his.”

  “He’s been content to act as Governor of Sunrise Province up until now,” Nash pointed out.

  “That’s because defiance meant facing a Warlord. Do you think he’d baulk at facing an army under the command of a toddler?”

  “The Collective will assume control of Krakandar,” Kagan said heavily. “As we did when Laran’s father died.”

  “No!” Marla said, without even thinking about it.

  Everyone looked at her in surprise, particularly Mahkas who looked astonished.

  “Why not?” Kagan asked.

  “The Sorcerers’ Collective only needs to assume responsibility for a province when there’s nobody else to rule it because either the heir is too young or there is no clear heir at all. Damin is the heir to Krakandar and he has an uncle more than capable of ruling as his regent. Mahkas will look after things for Damin until he inherits.”

  “Damin is the High Prince’s heir, Marla,” Nash pointed out, as if she didn’t understand the way these things worked. “He can’t inherit Krakandar, too.”

  “He is Laran’s only son.”

  “Yes,” Kagan agreed, siding with Nash. “But we never intended for him to be the Warlord of Krakandar, Marla. The province, by rights, should have gone to Laran’s second son.”

  “Laran has no second son.”

  “Actually, he doesn’t even have a first son,” Kagan added. “Lernen adopted the boy. Your son is Damin Wolfblade, your highness. He’s legally not even a member of the Krakenshield family any longer.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Marla insisted. “He’s still Laran’s only son.”

  “The High Prince will never agree,” Nash warned.

  “The High Prince is my brother,” she reminded them. “He’ll do whatever I want of him.” She wasn’t actually sure such a boast was true, but the others didn’t need to know that.

  “The Convocation won’t allow it,” Kagan declared.

  “My brother has already overruled the Convocation of Warlords once, Lord Palenovar. At your behest, as I recall. He can do it again.”

  She turned to her brother-in-law for support. If Mahkas didn’t back her on this, she would look like a fool. But she needed to do this, she knew with a certainty that bordered on illogical. Her job was to secure her son’s inheritance. And she had no intention of letting anybody outside the family have a hand in Damin’s fate. Admittedly, Kagan was Damin’s great-uncle, but he wouldn’t always be High Arrion and it was more than twenty-eight years until Damin could inherit his birthright. She intended to make certain it was kept safe for him. It was hard to tell what Mahkas was thinking, though. He was looking at her with something akin to awe.

  “What say you, Mahkas? Will you become the Regent of Krakandar until Damin comes of age?”

  “I would be honoured,” Mahkas replied without hesitation.

  “Mahkas,” Nash began, appealing for reason, “think about what you’re taking on.”

  Laran’s younger brother shook his head determinedly, refusing to be swayed. “Marla is right. Damin is Laran’s heir and I will fight all of you, if need be, to keep that inheritance safe for him.”

  She smiled at him, relieved that she had at least one person she could rely on totally. Laran had always trusted Mahkas and Marla was beginning to understand why. He was a stalwart in a sea of uncertainty; a solid and dependable bastion in a world that was suddenly crashing down around her. Anyway, she needed Mahkas’s support more than he realised. As a widow, Marla would have little power and even less say over her own future. Without Mahkas on her side, life might get very awkward indeed.

  “But Mahkas,” Kagan said, adding his objections to Nash’s, “if you only thought about it—”

  “Do you mind?” Bylinda cried angrily, jumping to her feet. “Laran’s body has barely even cooled down! Could we argue over the best way to divide up his legacy after we’ve buried him?”

  Everybody stared at her, looking shamefaced. Bylinda so rarely raised her voice that her outburst was all the more remarkable for its ferocity.

  “And in case anyone is interested,” she added with a quiver in her voice, effectively putting an end to the discussion, “I think I’m about to have the baby.”

  It was past midnight before Marla found her bed, and even then she discovered it was impossible to sleep, so she paced the room in darkness, hugging her arms around her against the slight chill.

  Despite Marla’s fears of it being a difficult birth, Bylinda had delivered a healthy baby girl about an hour ago. Mother and child were fine, although Mahkas was disappointed, Marla could tell, but he covered it well in front of his wife and made all the right noises about how beautiful she was and what a sterling job Bylinda had done in having the baby so easily.

  But on the way out of the birthing room with Marla, he had let some of his disappointment show, even if only to her.

  “Perhaps next time a boy, eh?”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed, noncommittally.

  “I was going to call him Laran,” Mahkas told her, a catch in his voice.

  She squeezed his arm comfortingly as they walked down the hall together. “It’s all right, Mahkas. You mustn’t keep blaming yourself.”

  “I know . . . it’s just . . .” Mahkas hesitated for a moment, before adding, “I can’t help but wish Kagan had picked a better time to visit.”

  “In hindsight, he couldn’t have picked a better time,” Marla replied sadly.

  “Has he said why he came all this way?” Mahkas asked casually.

  “Something to do with Darilyn’s will,” she told him. “She’d made s
ome fairly specific requests about what she wanted to happen to the boys, should anything happen to her. Apparently, she expressly stated she didn’t want them raised in Krakandar. The High Arrion was going to talk to Laran about it when he got back. He thought if Laran appealed to the High Prince, my brother would overrule the will and leave the boys here, where they were obviously happiest. I suppose we’ll still have to deal with that, too, even with everything else that’s happened.”

  Mahkas had gone deathly pale. Perhaps the shock of the past few days had finally caught up with him.

  “And that’s all he wanted?” Mahkas asked, his voice choked.

  “It seems so trivial really,” Marla agreed. “Although now you have a child, I suppose you’ll need to think of making the same sort of provisions for your daughter.”

  “Bylinda wants to call her Leila,” he said in a strangled voice, as if it was all he could do to hold back his grief. “After her mother.”

  Marla’s heart went out to him. “It’s a lovely name.”

  He glanced down at Marla then and smiled distantly. “Perhaps Leila can marry Damin someday, eh?”

  “Let’s wait for her to grow up a little before we start sending out the wedding invitations, Mahkas.”

  “Of course . . . I don’t mean to be insensitive, Marla. With all this happening . . . with Laran dying . . . you must be distraught.”

  She was feeling distraught, but not for the reasons Mahkas imagined. “I’ll get by. We Wolfblades are hardier than we look.”

  Marla could see him battling to contain his emotions.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For asking me to be your son’s regent.”

  “You are the only one I would consider for the job, Mahkas.”

  “I know. It’s just sometimes . . . well, I don’t think Laran ever truly saw me as anything other than his little brother.”

  “I chose you because you’re the only one I can truly count on.”

  He nodded, and lifted her hand to his lips. “And you can count on me, Marla. I promise.”