Warlord

by Jennifer Fallon

  The conversation halted when the man Starros had sent for ale returned with a jug and poured one for Xanda, and then let himself into the other room where they were holding Clayne. Xanda took a long swallow before fixing his gaze on Starros. “So, what is this treasonous plot you wish to implicate me in, old friend?”

  “I want to evacuate Krakandar.”

  “Wouldn’t we all,” Xanda agreed sourly.

  “I’m serious. Mahkas Damaran stole the thing I loved most in this world, Xanda. I want vengeance. Real vengeance, not some token of it. So I plan to take away the thing he loves most.”

  “I’m not sure he actually loves the people of Krakandar, Starros. Come to think of it, I’m not sure he actually loves anybody.”

  “He loves the power the people of this city represent.”

  “True enough.”

  “Then you’ll help me?”

  Xanda rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’d love to. But what exactly do you expect me to do? If you want me to unseal the city, you’re wasting your time. Luciena would have nagged me into it weeks ago, if it was even remotely possible. Every time I suggest it, Mahkas gets more obstinate about it.”

  “We don’t need to unseal the city,” Starros assured him. “The Thieves’ Guild has other ways to get past the walls.”

  “They do?”

  “Don’t ask me for details, Xanda, you’re better off not knowing.”

  He took another swallow of ale. “I don’t doubt that. Are you going to tell me how you plan to get the people out?”

  “That’s something else you’d be better off not knowing.”

  Xanda looked at him curiously. “Then why exactly did you bring me here? To brag about it?”

  “I need to make certain we’re not interfered with; that the soldiers in the city don’t start looking into anything out of the ordinary. I don’t want them tipping off Mahkas to our plans.”

  Xanda raised a brow at him. “You want me to quietly put it about that the Krakandar Raiders should turn a blind eye to your criminal activities?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You don’t want much, do you?”

  “Only vengeance,” Starros replied.

  Xanda barely hesitated before agreeing to grant the favour Starros asked for. “I can probably do what you ask, but I have a condition of my own.”

  “Name it.”

  “Among the first people you smuggle out of the city will be my wife, my children, and the Lionsclaw boys. Promise you’ll get them to my brother in Walsark and I’ll burn down the damned palace myself as a diversion, if need be.”

  “I’m not sure we need anything quite so drastic. I do appreciate the offer though. But you have my word that Luciena and the children will be among the first to leave the city. Do you think Travin will mind twenty thousand-odd refugees in his borough?”

  Xanda smiled thinly. “Not if you promise to make them all buy at least one piece of his wretched porcelain.”

  The young thief was mightily relieved. “I’ll make it a condition of every citizen’s exit from the city. And thank you. I thought it would take hours to convince you of the cleverness of my diabolical scheme.”

  “Nothing’s too much trouble for an old friend,” Xanda said, draining the last of his ale. “You really are taking this whole Thieves’ Guild engagement rather seriously, aren’t you?”

  “Not really my choice, Xanda. Damin traded my soul to the God of Thieves when he should have let me die. I’m stuck with this.”

  “And you’re too well brought up to do a sloppy job on anything,” Xanda noted wryly. “I wonder what Almodavar will make of the new Starros when he gets back.”

  “I dread to think,” he said. “Can’t imagine he’ll be too impressed by my change of circumstances. On the other hand, it’s hard to tell with Almodavar, and there’s no proof he’s actually my father, you know.”

  “No proof he isn’t, either.” Xanda put his tankard on the seat beside him and looked across at Starros. “I’ll need to be getting back soon or they’ll come looking for me. There’s really no need for the whole beating-me-senseless charade, you know. I can fake it.”

  “If Mahkas suspected for a minute …”

  “I can deal with Mahkas,” Xanda assured him. “You take care of your end of things and let me deal with the maniac.”

  Starros was surprised at the sudden feeling of melancholy that washed over him. “I remember a time when we all thought Mahkas Damaran was the most wonderful man we knew.”

  “That’s the worst thing about childhood illusions,” Xanda agreed. “They really hurt when you discover how wrong they are.”

  The pain in Xanda’s voice surprised Starros. He’d thought he was the only one suffering intolerable grief. “Just how bad is it up there?”

  “You can’t begin to imagine,” Xanda sighed. “Mahkas can only speak in a hoarse whisper, even when he’s yelling. It drives him crazy. He thinks everyone is secretly plotting to bring Damin back to unseat him. It’s most of the reason he won’t open the city gates. Nothing anybody says will convince him Damin rode off to war against Fardohnya. Mahkas is convinced Damin merely stopped out of sight at the Walsark Crossroads and is waiting for his opportunity to come back and take the city by force.”

  “Has it occurred to Mahkas that Damin was in the city not so long ago and could have taken over any time he pleased, if that was his intention?”

  “Ah, now that sort of conclusion requires a degree of rational thought. Mahkas isn’t real big on rational, right now.”

  “What about Bylinda?”

  Xanda shook his head in sorrow. “She’s the hardest one to watch. Leila’s death has destroyed her.”

  Starros wasn’t surprised to hear Xanda’s news. “I know what you mean. I saw her a few weeks ago. In the slaveways.”

  Xanda looked at him in alarm. “In the slaveways? Do I want to know what you were doing in the slaveways, Starros?”

  “Probably not. But I do understand what you mean about Bylinda being destroyed by grief. She looked like a wraith when I spoke to her.”

  “That’s a pretty fair description, actually,” Xanda agreed unhappily. “Luciena’s desperately worried about her. We all are, for that matter.”

  “Well, I’d offer to help, but I don’t think my presence in the palace would do anything to ease matters.”

  Xanda forced a weary smile. “There’s an understatement if ever I heard one. But I’m glad you survived this, Starros. There’s been enough death in this family to last a lifetime. And you appear to be adapting remarkably well to your sudden change in circumstances, even if your life is turning in a direction you didn’t anticipate.”

  “I still haven’t convinced myself this whole ‘let’s sell Starros’s soul to the God of Thieves’ plan isn’t Damin’s idea of a sick joke.”

  Xanda looked around the small main room of the safe house, nodding with approval. “Well, you’re on your way to a fine career as a thief, I’d say. Your own minions. A nice lair. What more could a thief want? You’ll be giving Wrayan a run for his money soon, won’t you? How long before you’re the head of the Krakandar Thieves’ Guild?”

  “Never,” Starros said and then, before he could stop himself, he burst out laughing as something else occurred to him, something so ironic it was almost painful.

  Given the serious nature of their conversation only a few moments ago, Xanda wasn’t nearly so amused. “I don’t get the joke, I’m afraid.”

  “It just occurred to me—I used to complain Orleon would live forever and I’d never get to be Chief Steward of Krakandar Palace.”

  “Oh, yes, I can see how you’d think that was hysterically funny.”

  “Don’t you see the irony?” Starros laughed, unable to help himself. “Even if I wanted Wrayan’s job, it wouldn’t make any difference. I’ve sold my soul to a god and I’m still no better off than I was in the palace.”

  “I don’t get the joke.”

  “Wrayan’s part Harshini, Xanda
,” he reminded him. “There’s a good chance he really will live forever.”

  Xanda smiled. “That is kind of funny, when you think about it.”

  Starros wiped his eyes and forced his laughter under control. “I’m sorry. You’re right, it’s not that funny. I don’t know what … you know, I think that’s the first time I’ve laughed since Leila … since she died.”

  “I think it’s the first genuine laugh I’ve heard since then, myself,” Xanda replied. “Don’t feel guilty for being alive, Starros.”

  “I don’t …

  “Yes, you do,” the older man scolded. “You think it’s not fair that you’re still here and she’s gone. And maybe you’re right, given the manner in which you were saved. But you can’t live like that, Starros. I know. After my mother died, I spent months thinking she’d hanged herself because of something I did. Absurd, I know, but I was only six at the time. I used to walk around clutching that damned ceramic horse and knight Mahkas mended for me, reliving those last few moments in my mother’s room before our uncle sent me and Travin out, wondering what I’d done to make her so upset she’d kill herself.”

  “I’m not six years old, Xanda.”

  “I know. But the guilt is still there, no matter how old you are, or how hard you try to deny it. All suicides are the same, Starros. It’s the ultimate act of selfishness. Suicide offers a release to the one who dies and a lifetime of grief and pain to those who have to go on.”

  “Leila wasn’t being selfish,” he objected, a little surprised to hear Xanda say such a harsh thing about his own cousin. “She was the most unselfish person I knew.”

  “She killed herself to get back at her father, Starros,” Xanda reminded him. “I know you loved her, but you need to remember that. And someday you’ll get over your grief, too. And you need to accept it’ll happen and not feel guilty about that, either.”

  Starros rose to his feet, uncomfortable discussing anything so intensely personal, even with an old friend, particularly with his grief still so raw. “I appreciate the advice, Xanda, but really, I can deal with this on my own.”

  “Vengeance won’t make the pain go away.”

  “I don’t want the pain to go away,” Starros told him. “Because when it does … then she’ll truly be gone, Xanda, and I’ll finally have to accept that no matter how hard I wish for it, Leila is never coming back.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Nobody was more surprised to see Brakandaran the Halfbreed than Chyler Kantel and the Fardohnyan bandits hiding in the Sunrise Mountains, where Brak had spent much of the last twelve years keeping Dacendaran happy.

  He arrived at the bandit camp high in the mountains a bit over a week after Zegarnald had so inconsiderately dumped him back in Fardohnya, figuring there wasn’t much point in reporting to Axelle Regis, as the general was probably already on his way through the Widowmaker Pass (if not already well into Hythria) by the time Brak arrived in Westbrook.

  Still cold enough at this altitude to make his breath frost as he trudged upward toward the light, it was quite late when he found the thieves’ camp. He didn’t mean to frighten anyone, but his sudden appearance out of the darkness had the bandits gathered around the small camp fire hastily reaching for their weapons until they realised who the intruder was. Chyler seemed the most shocked of all and after a brief round of greetings to his old compatriots, she bundled Brak away to her tent, to find out what he’d been up to since he left.

  Sitting cross-legged in her small tent, his head brushing the steeply sloped hide roof, Brak sipped the hot herbal tea Chyler made for him and told her about his expedition into Hythria, how he’d sent Ollie back to Qorinipor and exactly how he’d arrived back in Fardohnya. Chyler was a good listener and interrupted little as he related his tale, but her expression was grim, and by the time he was finished, more than a little confused.

  “You mean the God of War just picked you up and carried you back here magically?” she asked, her eyes wide with the notion Brak had been transported anywhere by the God of War.

  “It was a little more immediate than that, but it’s basically what happened.”

  “But … even after everything you’ve just told me, I still don’t understand why.”

  “I irritate him.” Brak shrugged. “I tend to do that a lot.”

  “But why is the God of War mad at you? You told me you had no interest in this war. Didn’t you tell him the same thing?”

  “I really don’t have an interest in this particular conflict,” he agreed. “It means nothing to me that Hythria and Fardohnya are fighting again. They’ve been doing it on and off for the past thousand years. Life just wouldn’t be the same if it didn’t include at least one Hythrun-Fardohnyan skirmish every century or so.”

  “But …” she prompted.

  “He’s interfering a little too directly,” Brak told her. “Not enough to annoy the other gods yet, but more than enough to get up my nose.”

  Chyler smiled, amused, it seemed, by his annoyance with the immortals. “And just exactly how does a god manage to get up your nose, Lord Brakandaran?”

  “By making sure the Hythrun put up a decent fight.”

  “Wouldn’t they do that anyway?” she asked with a puzzled look. “I mean, the Hythrun teach small children how to hold a weapon. I can’t see the world’s most dedicated followers of the War God suffering an invasion from anybody without objecting to it.”

  “But they’ve been decimated by the plague,” he reminded her. “If things were left to progress naturally, Axelle Regis would be lucky if he encountered even a token resistance between here and Greenharbour. The end result would change the political climate of the whole continent, but the cost in lives would be negligible.”

  “And now?”

  “The God of War is stacking the odds. He tells me he’s taken a personal interest in the Hythrun leadership and is crowing about it as if it were a grand idea. I suppose to him it is. If the Hythrun manage to rally themselves and put up an effective defence, there’ll be a bloodbath and the more blood the better as far as Zegarnald’s concerned.”

  Chyler still didn’t see the problem. “Will it make that much difference, though? Hablet’s amassed a force of over eighty thousand men. Even a brilliant and experienced general would have trouble making much of a dent in our forces with fewer than fifteen thousand to throw against us.”

  Brak shook his head. “Actually, a brilliant strategist and fifteen thousand men could cause untold damage, given the right circumstances. And that’s exactly what Zegarnald is banking on. To put up any sort of effective resistance, the Hythrun are going to have to decimate the Fardohnyans every chance they get, preferably with minimal casualities on their side. The only thing holding up this massacre he’s arranged to keep himself amused is the insanity of Lernen Wolfblade, who’s decided to lead the Hythrun forces himself.”

  “How does that help?”

  Brak smiled grimly. “Ollie could probably mount a successful campaign against the High Prince of Hythria.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”

  “Zegarnald won’t allow such a situation to last,” he assured her, shaking his head. “Lernen’s just bought us some time. Sooner or later, Zegarnald will get impatient and he’ll intervene, either directly or indirectly, and then we’ll have our massacre. Count on it.”

  Chyler frowned. “I think I’m beginning to understand. You’re not worried about the Hythrun so much as all the Fardohnyans who are going to die in this conflict, are you?”

  “I’m half Harshini, Chyler. I have this unfortunate tendency to despise the futile waste of human life.”

  “But I’ve seen you kill without hesitating.”

  “I said futile waste. I don’t have a problem with the necessary stuff.”

  She leaned forward to top up his tea from the pot sitting over the tiny stove she used to warm her tent. “I know this is going to be hard for you, Brak, but I really think you need to accept that you can’t fight
the will of the gods.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Who says I can’t fight the will of the gods? I do it all the time.”

  Chyler was unimpressed by his boast. “So what are you going to do? General Regis has shifted a good thirty thousand men through the pass in the last month alone. Winternest is in Fardohnyan hands for the first time since it was built. The behemoth is on the move. Even someone with your talents is going to have trouble stopping it.”

  She was right, of course, which didn’t make Brak feel any better. But he was convinced of one thing. Even if he couldn’t stop the war—which seemed unlikely now—he was determined to do something to limit the damage. Every life saved was one less Zegarnald could feed on.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I suppose the only way to slow this down now is to find a way to even the odds a little. If the Hythrun aren’t confronted with overwhelming numbers, they’re more likely to fight a traditional war, rather than go looking for new and creative ways to annihilate large numbers of their enemy in one fell swoop.”

  “You can’t do that unless you can convince Hablet to stop sending his troops through the Widowmaker.”

  “Should I ride down to the Winter Palace, do you think?” Brak suggested. “And inform his majesty that I’m the fabled Brakandaran the Halfbreed and I’d very much like him to stop invading Hythria, please, because I’m having a disagreement with the God of War?”

  Chyler laughed. “Oh, definitely! That’s bound to work.”

  Brak smiled. “And to think I thought stopping this wretched war was going to be a problem.”

  “Well, if anybody can find a solution, Brak, I’m sure it will be you.”

  He studied her in the flickering light of the small lamp. “I thought you’d be violently opposed to me doing anything to aid the Hythrun.”

  “You’re not really aiding them, though, are you? You’re trying to find a way to limit the number of Fardohnyan casualties. Besides,” she added with a scowl, “this damned interruption to trade between Hythria and Fardohnya is costing me a lot of business. With all these troops on the move, we haven’t been able to rob a decent caravan travelling through the Widowmaker in months.”