Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

“Two things. You will swear fealty to my House and promise to fight to the last man standing in Sunrise Province to see that Damin becomes the next High Prince of Hythria.”

  “Suppose your son grows up to be an incompetent fool?”

  “That will never happen,” she declared flatly. “I won’t allow it.”

  Chaine smiled. “I believe you wouldn’t. And the second thing?”

  “When Laran spoke to Hablet after Riika died, he negotiated a deal for three million rivets to pave the Widowmaker Pass at Winternest.”

  “I know. We’ve had surveyors up in the pass all spring working on it.”

  “I want a guarantee that all the building material used in the construction of the pass comes from Krakandar. I want my share of that three million.”

  “I can get granite cheaper, and faster, from our local quarries. Even Elasapinc travertine would be less expensive than transporting red granite all the way from here, and arguably a better material for the job. And then there’s the other costs involved. The weight of the wagons alone would mean construction of new roads, new bridges and the gods know what else between here and Sunrise.”

  Marla knew that, although it had been Elezaar who pointed it out to her. It was much of the reason she was making this demand. Ensuring Krakandar was a major trading partner in the Widowmaker Pass construction meant a great deal more to Damin’s province than selling a lot of red granite.

  “That may be the case, Chaine, but think for a moment of what I’m giving up by surrendering your province and all the wealth that goes with it. Sunrise controls the only two navigable passes from Fardohnya into Hythria. This might cost you, but you certainly won’t starve from it. If you want Sunrise, that’s my price.”

  He studied her for a moment, then shook his head in wonder. “If you don’t mind me saying so, your highness, you’ve changed a great deal since that morning we spoke in Highcastle.”

  “The day you offered to be my friend?”

  “You remember?”

  “I never forget a kindness, Chaine. No matter how small.”

  “And I appreciate the sentiment, truly I do, but can you deliver, your highness? Do you have the power to grant me this?”

  “I believe I do.”

  “And you would trust the word of a baseborn son?”

  “I trust the word of a Ravenspear, Chaine.”

  “I’m not a Ravenspear, my lady. Glenadal denied me that, even in death.”

  “Then you should start your own dynasty,” she suggested, slipping her arm companionably through his. “Why not pick a different name? One that is truly your own and not a legacy of the man who refused to acknowledge you.”

  Chaine frowned thoughtfully. “You would allow me to do that?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What does ‘perhaps’ mean?”

  “It means that unless I have your word, you’ll never find out, because I’ll not say a thing to my brother about the lordship of Sunrise Province without it.”

  He barely even hesitated before he nodded his agreement. “Then you have my word, your highness.”

  “On what, exactly?” she asked, determined to do this right from the outset.

  “Fealty to the house of Wolfblade from me and my descendants,” Chaine promised. “And Krakandar becomes the major supplier of construction materials for the Widowmaker Pass.”

  It was as easy as that.

  Sunrise Province, however, proved to be the least of Marla’s woes. Lernen agreed to her proposal with surprisingly little argument. Despite the profit he’d made allowing it to happen, he’d never really been happy with letting one Warlord rule two provinces, and neither had the other Warlords who were not part of Laran’s original alliance. It was an open secret that Chaine was Glenadal Ravenspear’s bastard; he had a good reputation as a soldier and had done a competent job as governor these past two or more years. Nobody was really surprised when Lernen announced he was granting Chaine the province and elevated him to the status of Warlord, except perhaps Jeryma, who seemed quite taken aback by the arrangement, accepting it with ill grace. Chaine adopted Lionsclaw as his House name, and although there were a few rumblings that he should have taken the name Ravenspear, they were minor gripes, in the face of an overwhelmingly popular decision. The only other person who really objected was Mahkas, who was furious when he heard the news. Marla tried to explain it to him, but in the end decided it best not to mention that Lernen had rewarded Chaine at her request. He seemed a little too upset to take the news as calmly as she’d hoped he might.

  There was an even more urgent problem looming on the border, in which—oddly enough—Marla’s gender actually aided her for once. Several days after Laran died, Raek Harlen and a few of his Raiders had taken another party over the border, this time to seek vengeance for the death of their Warlord. They had killed several Medalonian civilians and burned a number of farms before heading home full of self-righteous bravado.

  Marla was furious when she heard of the attack; even more so when the notorious Defender, Captain Palin Jenga, led a retaliatory expedition over the Hythrun border and burned several of their farms, firing the crops and poisoning the wells.

  It just got worse from there. With the Krakandar Raiders’ blood up and the Defenders itching for a fight, the border skirmishes were rapidly escalating into a full-blown war. That didn’t bother the men of Krakandar one bit, Marla noted with concern. They worshipped the God of War above all others and thought it a wonderful idea to honour him with as much Medalonian blood as possible.

  And then, just at the point where Marla thought the whole disastrous mess might get completely out of hand, the Medalonians sued for peace.

  Mahkas claimed it was simply further proof that women shouldn’t be allowed to rule a country, but in private the women of Krakandar breathed a collective sigh of relief. The letter from the First Sister, delivered under a flag of truce, demanded the Hythrun send an appropriate woman of rank (Lady Trayla refused to deal with the High Prince, or any Hythrun male for that matter) to meet with the First Sister at a rendezvous in Bordertown, some four weeks hence. In the meantime, there would be a cessation of hostilities until a suitable agreement could be negotiated.

  The offer of a truce sparked a power struggle the likes of which had not been seen in Hythria before. At least, not among its women.

  Jeryma wanted to be the one to lead the delegation, desperate for an opportunity to spit in the eye of the woman responsible for the Defenders who had killed her son.

  Alija Eaglespike, who had been remarkably demure up until the letter arrived from the First Sister, demanded that she be the one to represent Hythria, as the only female member of the Sorcerers’ Collective available. Jeryma pointed out that if the Sorcerers’ Collective wanted to send a delegate, then the highest-ranked female sorcerer was not Alija, but Tesha Zorell, the Lower Arrion, and that four weeks was plenty of time for her to get here.

  Marla finally got sick of listening to the others argue about it and offered to go herself. She was the High Prince’s sister, after all, and outranked the whole damn lot of them. Rather to her surprise, Lernen readily agreed to the notion. Elezaar suggested the real reason Lernen agreed was that the Hythrun weren’t big on peace treaties at the best of times. Kagan had probably advised the High Prince that any agreement negotiated by his young and inexperienced sister was going to be fairly easy to weasel out of if the need arose at a later date.

  As the date for the meeting drew closer, Marla had more and more visitors, each of them full of advice on what she should and shouldn’t agree to when she met with the First Sister of Medalon. One day she would be advised to cede them nothing; the next to give the Medalonians whatever they wanted if it meant keeping the peace. Elezaar attended all the meetings—nobody objected; people rarely thought him anything other than a Fool—and he and Marla discussed her options long into the night, examining and discarding ideas, until they finally had what they believed to be a workable offer that kept Krakandar
secure and didn’t cede too much to Medalon in the process.

  Marla didn’t share her plans with Lernen, or the High Arrion, Jeryma or Alija, or any of the visiting Warlords who kept offering her their wisdom and refusing to go home with such an important meeting on the horizon. She simply nodded in meek acquiescence to anything they suggested and kept her own counsel.

  Besides, Marla had another problem that overshadowed the threat of invasion from Medalon, and this one wasn’t going to be solved by clever politics, sly manoeuvring or slippery diplomatic tactics.

  Because, several weeks after Mahkas brought her husband’s body back from the Medalon border, Marla realised she was pregnant, and that Laran Krakenshield couldn’t possibly be the father of her child.

  chapter 77

  T

  he closest human settlement to Sanctuary was a small logging village called Haven, some three days down the mountain to the south of the Harshini fortress. Brak planned to make their way down past Haven and across the plains of central Medalon to the city of Testra, then take a barge south on the Glass River to Bordertown, where they would cross into Hythria and make their way south to Greenharbour.

  Brak and Wrayan left Sanctuary the same day they killed the Karien interlopers. Wrayan knew that Brak considered him too inexperienced to shield his mind from the Harshini and was determined to get the young human out of Sanctuary as fast as he possibly could, before Wrayan could betray their dreadful deed—no matter how well intentioned—to his gentle hosts. That was the excuse Brak gave for their hasty departure at any rate, but Wrayan knew it was much more complicated than that. Brak wanted the young human gone from Shananara’s tempting presence more than he feared Wrayan’s inability to shield his thoughts. So, with a few hasty goodbyes and little ceremony, Wrayan found himself back in the real world, his brief sojourn among the magical Harshini at an end.

  As a travelling companion, Brak was excellent. He wasn’t particularly talkative, but he answered any question Wrayan put to him and knew the Sanctuary Mountains in a way that only a man with several lifetimes to roam their tall slopes could come to know them. With Wrayan heading back into the human world to fulfil a promise he still couldn’t recall making—to become the greatest thief in all of Hythria—Dace often tagged along, nattering away cheerfully as they walked, annoying Brak with his ceaseless questions. Eyan and Elebran insisted on accompanying them too, despite the fact that Brak ordered them back to Sanctuary every time they appeared. The young demons always complied, their ears drooping miserably, when Brak told them to scat, only to appear a few hours later hoping Brak might have forgotten his earlier command that they return home.

  It was just on sundown on the third day after they’d left Sanctuary, with the evening chill setting in rapidly, when Dace disappeared mid-sentence. Puzzled by his abrupt departure, Wrayan and Brak rounded a curve in the faint game trail they were following and found themselves face to face with a tall, balding woodsman carrying a large and lethal-looking axe. Standing with him was a boy of about twelve, similarly armed. The woodsman glared at the two men, both of whom were still dressed in their Dragon Riders’ leathers, and blocked their path, hefting his axe in a decidedly threatening manner.

  “Who would you two characters be?” the man demanded suspiciously.

  Brak smiled disarmingly. “Greetings, friend. I didn’t think we were so close to a settlement yet.”

  “You’re not,” the big man snarled. “Where did you come from? Don’t know of any strangers around here lately.”

  “Ah,” Brak said, glancing at Wrayan. Let me deal with this, he told the young man silently, before smiling even more broadly at the woodsman. “I see. Well, my associate and I are from the Citadel. We are here on a mission for the Sisterhood to investigate reports of Harshini hiding in the mountains around here.”

  “The Harshini are all dead,” the woodsman replied bluntly.

  “A circumstance I am happy to say we now concur with.” Brak said. “In fact, having come to the same conclusion, we were just heading back down the mountains. My name is Brak Andaran,” he added, offering the man his hand. “And this is Wrayan Lightfinger.”

  “J’shon Warner,” the woodsman replied, warily accepting the handshake. “This is my boy, G’ret.”

  The child stared at them, but he seemed more curious than frightened.

  “Maybe they’ve seen J’nel, Pa,” the boy suggested, glancing at his father.

  “What’s a J’nel?” Wrayan asked.

  “Who, not what,” J’shon corrected. “She’s a little girl. Six years old, ‘bout this high, dark hair, big eyes. Been lost for about two days now.”

  “Would you like our help finding her?” Brak offered.

  The woodsman eyed them up and down and then smiled sceptically at the suggestion. “Appreciate the offer, Master Andaran, but I don’t know what a couple of pretty city boys in fancy dress could do when some of the best woodsmen in Haven haven’t been able to find her.”

  “Well, we’ll keep an eye out for her, all the same.”

  “You do that,” J’shon said. “Come, G’ret. We’ve still got time to check the ridge up near Hopper’s Gap before sunset.”

  Wrayan and Brak stood back and let the woodsman and his son pass, waiting until they were out of sight, and out of earshot, before they spoke.

  “Pretty city boys in fancy dress?” Brak scoffed, looking quite offended. “I think I preferred being an evil creature of the night.” He dropped his pack and let out a low whistle, to which Eyan and Elebran immediately responded. The Halfbreed glared at the demons as they materialised in front of him with hopeful expressions on their wrinkled little faces. “I thought I told you two to go home?”

  “But you just called us back,” Elebran or Eyan—who could actually tell?—pointed out smugly. “So you can’t get mad at us.”

  There was no arguing with that sort of logic. “There’s a little lost human girl around here somewhere,” Brak informed them. “Go find her.”

  “Can I be the bird?” the other demon asked quickly, determined to get in first this time.

  “You can both be the bird,” Brak told them impatiently. “Just find her. She’s been out here two days and the sun’s going down. Now scram!”

  Oddly enough, it was easier to tell the demons apart when they changed form. Eyan melded into his large, ungainly sparrow, while Elebran turned into a speckled crow with a vivid purple plumage Wrayan was certain no self-respecting crow would ever have willingly owned. As the birds flapped and squawked and flew off in opposite directions, Brak relaxed against the bole of a large pine and took a swig from his water skin, before tossing it to Wrayan.

  “Will they find her?” Wrayan asked, after he’d drunk his fill.

  “I give them less than an hour,” Brak predicted confidently. “If she’s still alive, mind you. They’re no better than you or I at finding inanimate objects.”

  “What happens if they find her?”

  “We’ll see her home and then continue on our way,” Brak replied. “Why? What did you think was going to happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Wrayan shrugged. “I suppose you never struck me as the type who takes time out to be a hero.”

  Brak smiled grimly. “Just your average, ordinary, everyday halfbreed Harshini killer, eh?”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  But Brak didn’t seem offended. “There’s a balance in this world, Wrayan, and the gods like to keep it that way. We kill a few Kariens; we get to rescue the odd little girl. Keeps things nice and even.” He pushed off the bole of the tree as Elebran’s embarrassingly garish crow flew towards them. He alighted on the branch over Wrayan’s head, changed back into demon form and promptly fell out of the tree. “See, I told you it wouldn’t take them long.”

  “I found her! I found her! I got there first!” the demon cried excitedly as he righted himself on the ground.

  “Where?” Brak asked.

  “Follow me.”

  The chi
ld was lying beneath a massive elm almost half a mile away, but close enough to her village that they could smell the wood smoke from the cooking fires. Obviously she’d almost made it home before exhaustion overtook her. She was unconscious and blue with cold, a pretty, waif-like little thing with dark hair and long slender limbs. Brak examined her gently then looked up at Wrayan. “She’s suffering from exposure, but she should be all right.” He smiled down at the little demon and rubbed his head fondly. “You did good, Elebran.”

  “Does that mean I can stay?”

  “No.”

  Brak’s eyes darkened and Wrayan felt him drawing on his power. While he was wielding magic, Brak looked as Harshini as Lorandranek, his eyes totally black and alien. He placed his hand on the child’s forehead and slowly her colour began to return. After a few moments her eyes fluttered open. They were an unusual shade of violet, and when she stared at him Wrayan felt she was seeing beyond his flesh and blood outer skin and into his very soul.

  “Are you the fairy people?” she asked, unafraid. Wrayan supposed they must look odd to a child in their dark dragon leathers.

  Brak smiled at Wrayan and nodded to the little girl. “I suppose we are. Your name’s J’nel, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, sat up and looked around the clearing. “Where am I?”

  “On your way home,” Brak told her. “It’s just down there. Through the trees.”

  “Did you want to come with me? Aunt B’thrim makes a really good rabbit stew.”

  “Thanks, but we’ll be fine, J’nel. Besides, your aunt might not like the idea of entertaining fairy people.”

  She climbed to her feet and brushed the leaves off her skirts before leaning forward and placing a kiss on Brak’s cheek. “The shining soldier was right.”

  “Shining soldier?”

  “The one in my dream. Last night, when I couldn’t find the village, I started to cry and then I went to sleep, I think, and the shining soldier came and told me the fairy people would find me.”

  Brak frowned. “Did he have a helmet on? With tall red plumes?”