Warlord

by Jennifer Fallon

  Rorin bowed as he entered the open pavilion and approached the prince. “Your highness, Lord Lionsclaw sent me to check if you have any further orders.”

  Lernen took his eyes off the battle long enough to glance down at Tejay, who was securing the wounded young soldier more safely to her saddle with her back to the tent. “Why doesn’t he come here and ask me himself?”

  “The Fardohnyans are overpowering the weaker cavalry on the right,” Kraig informed them, saving Rorin from having to answer. Kraig had taken the news about his reassignment to the High Prince’s entourage rather stoically, but as he took just about everything rather stoically, it was hard to tell what he really thought about it.

  “Warhaft’s men?” Rorin asked. He turned, shielding his eyes against the lightning, and stared down over the battlefield. “Already?”

  “I know that name,” Lernen mused, the battle momentarily forgotten. “Why do I know that name?”

  “He’s a vassal of Lord Hawksword’s,” Rorin reminded him. “His wife, Lady Kendra, has petitioned you, your highness.”

  “Why?”

  “She wants you to grant her a divorce.”

  “Doesn’t she like her husband?”

  “She wants to marry your nephew Narvell, your highness.”

  “Hmmm …” Lernen replied thoughtfully. “It would really be much better for everyone if he died in battle then, wouldn’t it? Much neater. Less argument.”

  “I … er …” Rorin replied, having no idea how to answer such a suggestion. “I suppose …”

  “I tell you what,” Lernen announced. “We’ll let the gods decide. If she’s to be rid of this husband she no longer wants, let the gods take him in battle today. If he survives the day, obviously the gods think she should keep him.”

  “That’s a very … interesting solution, your highness.”

  Lernen smiled. “I’m very wise. It’s because I’m the High Prince, you know. What were we talking about?”

  “Your court’esa was just noting that the Fardohnyans are overpowering the weaker cavalry on the right. Lord Warhaft’s mean.”

  “Well, there you go, then. The gods have …” In a sudden burst of panic, Lernen forgot all about the Lady Kendra and her marital problems and grabbed the big Denikan by the arm. “Hang on … does that mean … are we losing?”

  “No, your highness,” Kraig assured him. “This is as it is meant to be.”

  “Are you sure?” Lernen asked nervously. “It doesn’t sound like we’re winning. Doesn’t the enemy overpowering us mean we’re losing?”

  “We want them to break through, your highness,” Rorin reminded him. “This is just a feint, remember?”

  “But that means they’ll come this way, doesn’t it?”

  “We’ll be long gone before the Fardohnyans reach us, your highness,” Kraig assured the High Prince. “But your presence here is required to disguise the ruse, just as you fleeing at the right moment will reinforce the notion your forces have been routed and you believe they are defeated. This will draw the enemy into our trap.”

  “So … I’m doing something important, then?” Lernen asked, with sudden childlike excitement. “This whole battle, this clever ruse … it’s all up to me?”

  “Most assuredly,” the Denikan replied solemnly.

  “Well, in that case,” the High Prince announced, squaring his shoulders manfully, “tell Lord Lionsclaw to get back out there and at least try to give the impression he’s fighting this damned war! Off you go!”

  Rorin glanced at the Denikan, rolled his eyes, and then bowed to the High Prince. “My lord is currently escorting a wounded Raider to the medical pavilion and was hoping, on his return, to have the honour of escorting you to the fallback position, your highness. Once you give the order, of course.”

  Lernen frowned and looked up at the Denikan slave. “Is that a good idea?”

  “An excellent idea, your highness,” the big man agreed.

  “Oh, well … all right then, you may tell Terin Lionsclaw he can wait and escort me when the time comes.” The prince turned to Kraig. “When will that be?”

  “A good hour at least,” Kraig predicted. “Any sooner and your enemy will smell the trap.”

  What followed was the most nerve-racking hour of Rorin’s life. Miraculously, the rain held off while on the plain below both infantry masses were caught in a bloodbath that was part cut and slash and part pushing and shoving. The actual fighting was only going on between the first ten or so ranks of men. The rest of the battle seemed to be made up of the troops at the rear trying to push their way into the fight, even if it meant trampling their own dead and wounded to do it.

  As Rorin watched, the Pentamor and Greenharbour infantry that made up Hythria’s centre line slowly but inexorably yielded before the pressure of the numerically superior Fardohnyans, until they had pushed deep into the middle of the Hythrun troops. The flanks, made up of Izcomdar’s light cavalry and a smattering of Elasapine horse, gave every indication it was barely holding on, but hold on they did, while more and more Fardohnyans poured into the funnel.

  All we need to do now, Rorin thought, is spring the trap before the Fardohnyans realise they’re in it.

  “Your highness,” Kraig suggested abruptly. “Now might be a good time to issue the order.”

  The High Prince looked at the Denikan blankly. An hour was a long time in Lernen Wolfblade’s world. “What order?”

  “The order to retreat, your highness. We must make the enemy think they have routed your army.”

  “But … isn’t retreating … just … you know … running away?”

  “This is not running away, your highness. Remember? This is withdrawing to a strategically superior position.”

  “No!” Lernen announced petulantly, crossing his arms like a defiant child. “I’ve been thinking about this. We’re staying right here. The people of Hythria look up to me! The soldiers of Hythria need a leader! I will not be seen to do anything so cowardly!”

  Kraig looked at Rorin with exasperation. The young sorcerer shrugged. He had no more idea than the Denikan as to how they should deal with Lernen Wolfblade in this mood. Damin was the expert when it came to handling the High Prince.

  “Rorin!” an impatient voice hissed.

  He turned to find Tejay Lionsclaw standing on the slope behind him, still disguised in her armour, waiting for Lernen to implement the next phase of their plan. She had been gone this whole time, and had returned leading both her and Rorin’s horses. Presumably, the young man she’d risked her life to rescue was safe in the hands of the physicians now.

  “Tell him to give the order!” she urged in a loud whisper, obviously having overheard Lernen’s foolish declaration. “Now!”

  Rorin shrugged helplessly and turned back to the High Prince. “Your highness, you must sound the retreat and then abandon this place,” he begged as the noise of the battle grew even closer. “The Fardohnyans have to believe they’ve routed us, or they won’t follow our troops into the ambush.”

  “An ambush is a cowardly way to win a war!” Lernen Wolfblade declared. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Oh! For pity’s sake!” Tejay snapped. “An ambush is the only way to win a war when you’re outnumbered two to one, you old fool.”

  Rorin debated trying to stop her, but Tejay was in no mood to allow anyone to stand in her way. She pushed past Rorin and planted herself in front of the High Prince, hands on her hips, glaring at him through the narrow eye-slits of her helmet.

  “You give that order right this minute, Lernen Wolfblade, then get your arse out of here and back to the real command post, or so help me I’ll put you over my knee as if you were one of my boys and slap some sense into you myself. We’ll see how cowardly your pasty-white backside looks to the Fardohnyans then, eh?”

  Lernen squinted at her in surprise. “Lady Lionsclaw?”

  There being no further point in subterfuge, Tejay lifted the helmet from her head, letting her thick blon
d hair tumble out.

  Lernen gasped in shock. “My lady! You’re pretending to be a Warlord?”

  “So are you, Lernen Wolfblade,” she accused. “Now give the damned order!”

  Lernen studied her fearfully and then nodded, as if too scared to defy such an angry woman. Relieved beyond measure, Rorin signalled to one of the waiting messengers to pass the order along. A few moments later the horns rang out, sounding the retreat.

  The troops below, waiting for the command, immediately broke and ran in chaotic disarray. After a moment of stunned disbelief a cheer went up from the Fardohnyans as they realised the enemy was on the run, and then, just as they planned, the Fardohnyans followed.

  “Axelle Regis has now lost control of the battle,” Kraig remarked to Rorin, watching the retreat with satisfaction.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because the Fardohnyans are following our soldiers without waiting for orders,” Tejay answered for him. “Once men move as a group in a direction you haven’t sent them, you no longer own the battlefield.”

  Kraig inclined his head in agreement. “We should leave now. Another few minutes and those soldiers will be on us. Your highness?”

  Still staring at Tejay Lionsclaw in dismay, with hardly any resistance at all, Lernen let Kraig lead him to his waiting horse, where the big Denikan picked him up and sat him in his saddle like a father lifting his child onto a pony.

  A few minutes later, the command pavilion abandoned, Rorin was mounted again, following Tejay Lionsclaw, the High Prince, Prince Lunar Shadow Kraig of the House of the Rising Moon and the few trusted retainers Damin had appointed to watch over his uncle as they cantered away from the scene of the first engagement.

  “Where do you suppose the Fardohnyan cavalry are?” Rorin asked Kraig as they urged their horses toward Lasting Drift a few minutes ahead of the fleeing Hythrun and the advancing Fardohnyans.

  “Gathering as we speak,” the Denikan predicted grimly.

  It was only as the rain started to hit Tejay’s armour beside him with a metallic plinking sound—even before he felt the first drops on his face—it occurred to Rorin that even though he had sailed through this battle untouched, there were probably two or three thousand men on the field, from both sides, either dead or dying behind them.

  And the tragedy of it, he knew, was that unknown to the Fardohnyans, whooping victoriously in the wake of the fleeing Hythrun, the worst was yet to come.

  CHAPTER 65

  When the message arrived from Galon that the meeting with Marla’s Fardohnyan agent was finally arranged, Alija couldn’t help wondering if she was trying to be too clever by half. Although she knew Galon hadn’t lied to her, the sting of discovering from Ruxton Tirstone’s dying mind how she’d been duped so comprehensively by Marla in the past had eroded her confidence.

  That she had received no communication from Cyrus was equally concerning. Surely, by now, he would have found the time to write? Of course, all the official dispatches went to the palace, which meant they went to Marla, but she should have received some word from her son by now about what was happening in Sunrise Province and the war with Fardohnya.

  But she could worry about the war later, once Marla was taken care of. Once it fell to the High Arrion to govern the city in the absence of the High Prince and his advisors, which—if everything went according to plan—should be sometime this afternoon, she would have time to discover the truth about what was really happening at the front.

  Forcing her concern about her son’s fate to the back of her mind, Alija read through the letter once again. It was addressed to Hablet of Fardohnya and should have spelled out, in no uncertain terms, that the High Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective expected him to win this battle and that in return for the obliteration of the Wolfblade line, she was prepared to guarantee the cooperation of the Eaglespike family, provided the King of Fardohnya recognised her son’s claim to the Hythrun throne and accepted him in such a role—as a vassal of Fardohnya, of course.

  But Alija was nobody’s fool. The letter stated quite the opposite. It was nothing more than a declaration of her loyalty to Hythria and her High Prince once one got past the flowery introduction that went on for a page or more. She’d deliberately designed it that way. Alija needed to confront this Fardohnyan Marla had found to carry her message to the enemy and gain his trust sufficiently to touch him. While he was wading through the flowery prose—and before he got to the gist of the letter—she could get inside his head. Once she was in the Fardohnyan’s thoughts, even if he didn’t know Marla personally, Alija was quite certain she had the ability to make him testify that he did.

  Let her squirm her way out of that one, Alija thought. Her supposedly incriminating letter would be destroyed as soon as it had served its purpose—Galon had promised her that. Trust me, he’d assured her, as he took her hands in his, understanding that through the contact she would know if he was deceiving her. I will not—under any circumstances—allow your letter to fall into the wrong hands.

  “And I do trust you, Galon,” she murmured softly. “Up to a point.”

  “My lady?”

  Alija looked up from the letter. “Yes, Tressa?”

  “Master Miar is here.”

  “Send him in.”

  The slave bowed and backed out of the room. A few moments later, Galon walked into the High Arrion’s office. He glanced down at the parchment she was holding. “All set?”

  She rose to her feet. “Where is the meeting to be held?”

  “In the Temple of the Gods.”

  “Here?” Alija asked in surprise. “In the Sorcerers’ Collective? How did Marla arrange that?”

  “Marla didn’t,” Galon told her. “It was Kalan’s idea. Apparently there’s some ancient notion of the Temple of the Gods and the Sorcerers’ Palace being neutral ground?”

  “Nobody’s invoked that rule for a century or more.”

  He shrugged, unconcerned. “I gather this Fardohnyan we’re going to meet is a tad skittish. Understandably, I suppose, given we’re at war with them.”

  She didn’t like this. And there was some other unfinished business she still wasn’t happy about, either. “You were supposed to arrange for me to see this man calling himself Wrayan Lightfinger before the meeting,” she reminded him.

  “No need,” the assassin replied. “He’ll be there. Are you ready?”

  Alija hesitated one last time, wondering if she was allowing her arrogance and her desire for vengeance to get the better of her. This was insanity, really, thinking she could pull this off. So many things could go wrong. The risk was unthinkable.

  But worth it, she reminded herself, a vision of Marla standing in her parlour, gloating over Tarkyn Lye’s bloodsmeared collar suddenly filling her mind. If it brings that bitch down, the destruction of my own world would almost be worth it.

  “I’m ready,” she told Galon. “Are you?”

  “I’ll be right beside you the whole time, Alija.”

  She walked around the desk, folding the letter as she went, quite certain that he was telling her the truth. “I won’t forget your assistance in this matter, Galon.”

  The assassin opened the door for her. “I don’t doubt that, Alija. Shall we go and destroy an evil, twisted, bitter little woman with delusions of grandeur?”

  Alija smiled at his description of Marla. “I’ll bet you didn’t whisper that juicy little sweet nothing in her ear when you were trying to seduce her.”

  “You’ve got that right,” he chuckled, offering his arm. “My lady?”

  Alija took his arm, searching his mind as her skin touched his. Galon’s mind was full of hope, of anticipation and the excitement that came from knowing vengeance was finally within his grasp.

  She understood exactly what he was feeling.

  What she didn’t understand, and what she intended to ask him later, once this was done, was why he was so eager to exact vengeance from Marla Wolfblade in the first place.

 
; The Sorcerer’s Palace sat high on a bluff overlooking everything in Greenharbour, even the Royal Palace. Although everyone called it the Sorcerers’ Palace it was actually a complex of temples and residences, encircled by a thick white wall, constructed of stone quarried from the chalk cliffs west of the city, their fragile strength reinforced by ages-old Harshini magic. It had stood for over two thousand years, almost as long as the Citadel in Medalon. Old Bruno Sanval surmised the two complexes were very similar in design and was planning to undertake a study of the possibility, once he located Sanctuary. Alija couldn’t have cared less. Although men like the Lower Arrion lived for the day the Harshini might return, she always considered the notion they might come back rather more of an inconvenience than an occasion to look forward to.

  Alija climbed the steps of the Temple of the Gods with Galon at her side, the letter burning in her hand. She clung to it tightly, tight enough to turn her knuckles white.

  The temple was almost empty, but for a solitary figure standing in front of the large crystal Seeing Stone. With Galon a pace behind her, Alija strode down the centre of the temple, her footfalls echoing loudly on the mosaic-tiled floor. The Seeing Stone in the Temple of the Gods—a solid lump of crystal as tall as a man mounted on a black marble base—loomed over the waiting figure. Candles set in solid silver sconces lit the altar, reflecting off the Stone with flickering rainbow light, shadowing the features of the man until she was right in front of him.

  Alija stopped a few feet from the Seeing Stone and stared at the man waiting for her. This was no Fardohnyan agent.

  “Alija.”

  For a moment, she was too surprised to speak. Galon hadn’t lied when he said this man looked far too young to be the man she remembered, but neither could she deny the evidence of her own eyes. The young man who stood before her was undeniably Wrayan Lightfinger. Even if his physical appearance hadn’t told her that, the fact that his eyes were as black as polished onyx would have given him away. He was channelling Harshini magic, not flirting with the edges of it, like Alija did, but actually channelling enough to affect his eyes.