The Warlord's Daughter

by Susan Grant

  There was no time to waste. She’d go right to the bribe without any preliminaries. “I want to buy passage on your ship.” She fumbled for one of the bags of gems. “I will pay half now, and the other half upon arrival.” She sounded so matter-of-fact as preternatural calm flooded her. Desperation did that. It was life or death now, and she was making a very risky bid for life.

  Vantos hesitated as if her offer had caught him completely by surprise. “There’s more where this came from,” she said.

  “More than that bounty?”

  Her heart almost stopped. He wanted the bounty. Of course he did. Everybody did.

  “More,” she said, “than that.”

  “It’s fifty million queens.”

  “Pocket credits compared to what I can give you if you get me out of here.” She hoped she was right. She honestly didn’t know what kind or how much treasure waited to be unlocked, or where she’d find the mysterious Ara Ana.

  “Go on,” he said. “I’m listening.”

  Her spirits leaped. Dangling her bait, she’d appealed to his greedy side and caught him. Now all she had to do was reel him in by convincing him that her offer trumped the Triad’s. “I have a key to a treasure. I need transportation there. In exchange, you’ll get a percentage.”

  “You still haven’t told me how much.”

  “Riches beyond your imagination.”

  “You don’t know my imagination. It’s pretty big. Where is this treasure?”

  “No more answers until I’m safely on your ship. And don’t think you can steal the key and keep the treasure for yourself. I have to be present to open it.”

  “You’d better be telling the truth. When we get to the treasure and there’s nothing for me, it won’t go well for you, sweetheart. I guarantee that.”

  When. He’d said when. “So, you’re in.”

  “Hells, yeah, I’m in. I know a win-win situation when I see it. Let me see that key.”

  “I’ll show you on your ship. Not a moment before.” Fates, she thought, growing light-headed from the heat and nerves. What had happened to the quiet mouse?

  She disappeared weeks ago.

  Whatever doubts he’d had earlier, he’d conquered them. “Let’s go.” He started walking her away.

  “Vantos! Where are you going?”

  “To complete a business transaction.”

  “What about her eyes?”

  “Give me her data square back. They won’t see her without it.”

  “No can do.”

  Wren sensed tension ratchet up in Vantos. It put her on alert. She was desperate, but she’d make blasted sure her instincts were right about him before she set foot on his vessel. Why was he suddenly her champion? He’d jumped in to help her even before she’d brought up money.

  “My job’s to keep you and everyone else in this camp from obstructing justice. I can’t make exceptions, even for you, Vantos.”

  “Come on. This isn’t justice.”

  “How do you know? This camp is crawling with criminals. We just haven’t the time or resources to find them all. Not that you’re one of them, sister,” she assured Wren. “But we have to be cautious.”

  It didn’t matter. If the guard put enough doubt in the trader’s mind, he’d never consider her proposal.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Vantos. I’ve got agents on the way. They’re armed.” Ellie paused. “And I’m armed.”

  He choked out a laugh. “You’d shoot me, Ellie?”

  “I swear, Vantos, you are going to spend the night in the brig if you don’t stop interfering.”

  “It’s me, Ellie.” He banged his fingers against the center of his chest. “Me.”

  “That’s the only reason your ass isn’t already in jail, you crazy runner. In fact, I’m inclined to throw you in one cell and her in the other when I bring her in.”

  Jail. Wren imagined a cell with no way out but the executioner. Suddenly she felt weak in the knees. The black spots floating in her vision ballooned and she wobbled on her feet.

  The heat and terror had finally caught up to her. Her skin went cold despite the sun baking down. The scene spun, her ears whooshing.

  “I’ve got you,” an unfamiliar voice said. Strong arms catching her was the last thing she remembered before she became aware of sitting on the ground in the shade with her head lowered between her knees. She heard Vantos some distance away, arguing with the guard. Several pairs of boots kicked up dust next to her.

  She was so parched and hot that all she wanted to do was to lie down and go to sleep. It was too dangerous. She might not ever wake up, but the temptation to give in was strong. Only the need to get out of Zorabeta alive kept her conscious.

  A straw snicked between her lips. “Drink.” Cold water squirted in her mouth. She choked and managed to get some down her dry throat. “More.”

  She shook her head, but he didn’t take no for an answer. At his insistence, she drank her fill. Thankfully it stayed down.

  The man crouched behind her. The smells of leather, dust and faint tang of sweat filled her nostrils. “Listen closely. You are not under arrest. This is a rescue operation. A raid.” He spoke close enough now for her to feel the warmth of his breath on her ear. Her body reacted with equal parts interest and alarm. “Obey my orders and you’ll get out safely.”

  “Out of the camp?” she asked, not believing it could be true. Vantos had helped her, but how could she be sure about him? How could she be sure of this man? Suddenly everyone wanted to help her. Something was wrong. On the ground she was vulnerable. Blind and cornered, she wouldn’t let it end this way. As it ended for her father—blind to his enemies, a prisoner on his own ship. An inner voice urged her to run. She dragged her boots under her and pushed.

  Hands heavy on her shoulders kept her in place.

  “Let me up.”

  “Do not fight me. For one, you won’t best me. Second, I’m not the enemy here. They are.”

  They are. Since Sabra had died, she’d been a solitary player in a terrifying game. No one had been on her side. She tried to wrest free.

  “Awrenkka,” he warned low and soft in her ear.

  She froze. He knew her name. Her real name. It startled her out of her daze. She blinked, swinging her gaze around. For all the good it did her. She couldn’t see. But she could hear and finally noticed what she should have before: the hint of the inflection characteristic of a noble-born Drakken in his voice. “You’re a loyalist,” she hissed. They’d finally found her. He claimed he was on her side. The words were seductive, all right. He knew just what to say. But this man was no rescuer, no savior. He was a self-absorbed, power-hungry crony of her father’s, the kind of man to whom her spirit, her feelings, meant nothing. She wanted nothing to do with the spoiled rich of the Hordish nobility, their rampant snobbery and class-awareness, their grating, suffocating attitudes on the subject of monogamy and commitment—one-sided, of course, to be obeyed only by the woman forced to marry them—which she’d decided long ago was a dangerous proposition for any sane-minded female. Growing up, she knew that marrying a battlelord was as inevitable as death; it would eventually claim her. Avoidance was futile. Had she found freedom only to stumble back into this trap: an ur-wolf dressed in trader clothing? Part of her wanted to throw herself on the mercy of the camp guard and plead for help. The other part of her knew it was too dangerous. Publicly making a connection with her and this loyalist could very well expose her true identity.

  “A loyalist?” The man’s soft laugh was as weary as it was bitter. “I have no allegiance to the empire. I never did. I did however do what I had to do for us to be together.”

  Us? He was delusional. She felt faint all over again.

  His voice was low, too low for others to hear, and close enough to tickle the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck. It raised bumps on her flesh. “The entire galaxy’s searching for you. We’ll find a way out. I am going to save us both.”

  We’ll find a way out.

&nbs
p; She twisted in his arms, her heart slamming hard against her ribs as she thrust a hand at his face. He didn’t flinch, didn’t fight her as she used her fingertips to “see,” tracing with no gentleness whatsoever the length of his nose, the jut of his cheekbones, the hard line of his jaw. The dimple denting the very center of his square chin stopped her. Her fingertips hesitated, an unintentional caress. Aral…“Aral Mawndarr.” Her lost boy.

  “Your legal husband.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “HUSBAND?” Awrenkka spat out the word as if it were a bad piece of meat. She scrambled to her feet, shoving away his attempt to help. Disbelief blazed in her eyes, her chest heaving. “There was no decree. There was no joining ceremony in absentia. There is no marriage.”

  “There is a provision in Hordish law that allows for a marriage-by-proxy in the event of the warlord’s death. I was your father’s choice.”

  “A handshake between the warlord and his crony?” Her hands were balled into fists. She’d squeezed all the blood out of her knuckles. “He’s dead. The war is over. The arrangement is void.”

  Aral drove a frustrated hand through his hair. He’d assumed that shocking her with the news would work in his favor. She’d accompany him to his ship if not meekly then at least out of tradition and respect. She argued every one of his points. He missed his battlelord days on the bridge, when everyone in his sight was required to follow his orders or else. It had become apparent quite quickly that his best-laid plans were laughably insufficient. He’d acted true to the battlelord he once was and as if Awrenkka were the obedient daughter she once was. The old molds no longer fit.

  They never did, he thought. That was why they were here.

  “Peace alone doesn’t void the agreement. Else you’d have marriages dissolving across the galaxy with the end of this war.”

  “A victory for all Drakken women in that case. Marriage is a man’s invention. Another word for life sentence.”

  “Some people marry for love, Awrenkka.”

  The note of candor, of hope, he knew slipped into his tone caused a deep and telling blush in her. It wasn’t he that she despised, he realized, but the concept of their marriage—and that it had been done without her consent. He’d never considered her consent. It was implied. Apparently not.

  What did he know about women? Other than Kaz, that was. Awrenkka was in a different category entirely. She was a wife. This marriage business was far more complicated than he’d ever imagined.

  “I have choices now,” she railed at him. “I will not go anywhere or with anyone unless it is of my own free will. I’m a free woman.”

  “Free? Is that what you think you are?” Her misguided sense of independence nearly stole the last of his patience. He redoubled his efforts to hold onto his temper. “You aren’t free. Nor am I. No Drakken is. Peace is the word bandied about nowadays, but the war lasted a thousand years. That’s an eternity. The rancor, the distrust—on both sides—will be with us for some time to come. The Triad, for all their good intentions when it comes to unification, intends to keep us Drakken confined to our home planets or in these camps for a good long time.”

  “Not me. I’ll live on the run if I have to.”

  “Living on the run isn’t freedom by any means.” He heard the weariness in his voice. He was tired of running, and it damn well showed.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Her mouth was firm, her eyes determined. Then she seemed to crumble. “Fates, I’m married.” She cast her gaze around with the desperateness of a trapped animal. Her dread yanked at his heart, and made his skin crawl at the same time.

  You’re imposing your will on this woman. Blast it. He was not a monster like his father. Or like her father. They were different.

  Weren’t they?

  A believer’s cheery voice shattered the tension between them. “Good day to you, priestess.” A small child accompanied him, thin and hollow-eyed. “Sister, please bless my daughter. She’s been ill. The camp medics have given her nano…nano…”

  “Nanomeds,” Aral supplied.

  “Aye, a miracle. She’s already improved. But the blessing of the goddesses is what she needs most.”

  Awrenkka’s smile was genuine as she circled her thumb over her heart. “May the goddess heal your child.”

  “Thank you. Thank you. May the goddess be with you, sister.”

  “And also with you.”

  The man returned the sign of the goddess and departed. Awrenkka was incredibly convincing. The robe looked as if it belonged to her, as if the calling came naturally. If they remained in the camp any longer, he might very well have a full-fledged priestess on his hands.

  When he’d rather have a wife in his hands.

  Her cheeks were streaked with dust and perspiration, not tears. A lesser woman would have wept by now. Awrenkka was made of stronger stuff. That strength only intensified his desire to protect her, to care for her. To make her his. The look on her face when she recognized him revealed all he needed to know. Mixed in with her qualms about him and his intentions and her well-founded abhorrence of loyalists had been a bright spark of relief and joy. Seeing her reaction, feeling her warm hand on his face, he’d nearly lost control, something he’d held to without fail all these years. It had taken everything he had not to sink his fingers into her flame-dark hair and pull her close. He wanted to do so now. If not for being toughened by denial and self-discipline, and the indisputable fact he was in the middle of Zorabeta refugee camp with a woman who looked as if she wanted him dead, he’d have done it.

  “Ten years, Aral,” she said. “Ten years since all those old men, rubbing their hands together at the prospect of me as their wife, their trophy for their good service to the warlord. Then I saw you.” A gentler note crept into her tone. “You looked so sad. So alone. I knew just how you felt. I thought I’d finally found someone like me. The next minute, you were just like the rest of them, dismissive and stuck up.”

  “I wanted to keep you safe from my family.”

  “By humiliating me? By making me feel stupid and plain and clumsy?”

  “I thought none of those things.”

  “I saw it in your eyes, Aral.”

  “What you saw was a young, inexperienced man whose breath was taken away by a beautiful girl.”

  Awrenkka went still, her voice softer. “Beautiful?”

  Real feelings for him glowed in her eyes before she lowered her lashes and retreated behind their thick veil. “You acted like you despised me.”

  “To protect you. To keep you far away from my family. If Karbon had seen any interest in you at all, he’d have competed for your hand until he won it.”

  “I wouldn’t have given it to him.”

  “It wouldn’t have been your choice. It would have been the warlord’s choice. I would not have been able to bear your suffering at my father’s hands. You have no idea what he’d do to others. No idea.” Old, dark memories screamed. Aral stopped himself. He needed to reassure her, and he couldn’t be doing a more piss-poor job.

  “They’re ruined, I’m afraid.” He rested the mangled remains of her eyeglasses in her hands. “I bent them into shape as best I could.” The right lens was gone. The left was cracked but seemed to be intact enough to allow her to see. He slipped them onto her face. Almost shyly he adjusted her glasses until she took over, pushing the crooked frames higher.

  She squinted up at him as if she found the awkward tenderness of his gesture strangely endearing. Him endearing? Bah. His wife was bringing out many attributes he never knew he had. Negotiation, for one. Years of being a battlelord had acclimated him to having his way, being in control. He hadn’t felt in control for one blasted moment since reuniting with her.

  Kaz strode up to them. Concern tightened the edges of her mouth, a sign of anxiety he wasn’t use to seeing. She showed her fears only rarely since Bolivarr’s death. His relief at Awrenkka’s fractional softening toward him evaporated with the certainty she bore bad news. He’d sent her to proc
ess Awrenkka’s booking at the port authority office to speed up their departure. It should have been a simple task. Her appearance told him it had been anything but. “Rumors are flying about the fight. It’s all over the camp. They’re calling her the boxing priestess. The head sister is going through the ranks, trying to find out who it is.”

  Without hesitation, Awrenkka pulled the priestess robe over her head. She balled up the fabric and shoved it under her cloak. “If they try to find her, they won’t find me.”

  “Unless they are looking for a pregnant woman.”

  The disguise was brilliant, if unintentional, Aral thought. “I have your data square. Do not show it for any reason unless we agree.”

  “And no more gladiator matches.” Kaz observed Awrenkka, her hands folded at the small of her back. “You can kick some serious ass. I’m just glad it wasn’t mine. Were you trained in martial arts? Or do you come by beating a man to an inch of his life with a food tray naturally? They say the gornut never falls very far from the tree.”

  Shame sparked in Awrenkka’s eyes at Kaz’s goading. Fury, too. As much as the warlord’s daughter wanted to distance herself from her sire, she had her pride, and perhaps more than a touch of his temper. She was, after all, her father’s daughter, whether she liked it or not.

  Just as he was his father’s son. It seemed they both despised their genetics: both wanted to escape it, and yet found themselves trapped by their ancestry more often than not.

  “Perhaps I am more like my father than I want to be, but I offer you my genuine apology for calling attention to you, as well as to me. Take it. That’s more than the warlord ever gave me or anyone else.”

  Kaz nodded. He suspected her respect for Awrenkka had grown from her original impression of a spoiled, sheltered girl. She turned to him. “There’s more, Aral. They’re looking for a battlelord. The warrant was generated by outside authorities. High up, judging by the buzz going on in there. What I know, I only overheard, but it came from the Ring.”