Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

Marla leaned her head against the cool glass, glancing out over the lawns. Travin was on his hands and knees, letting Damin play horsey again. They were chasing Xanda now, who stopped every few paces to let them catch up.

  “Nash said Laran wouldn’t care if I had an affair. He said he’s probably expecting it. He said Laran doesn’t expect me to turn away a chance for love just for the sake of Hythria’s throne.”

  “It’s in the interest of any man trying to seduce a woman to have her believe it’s inevitable. That doesn’t make it true, your highness. Or untrue, either, for that matter.”

  “Do you think Laran expects it?”

  “I’m not in a position to guess the mind of a Warlord,” he replied evasively.

  “Nash called my marriage a loveless, gilded cage.”

  “Which is not an unreasonable assessment.”

  “So you think I should—”

  Before Marla could finish, the door to the nursery opened and Almodavar stepped into the room. That in itself was not unusual. He was responsible for the security in the palace, after all. What was remarkable, however, was that in his arms he was holding a dirty, thin child with saucer-sized eyes who seemed about three years old. Rather than the stern expression the Raider captain usually wore, he looked quite uncertain.

  “Er . . . your highness?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is the child we spoke of.”

  “The what?” she asked in confusion.

  “I mentioned him the other day, your highness,” he reminded her. “When you went into the city? I mentioned I might know of a child who would be suitable to be fostered in the nursery?”

  Marla remembered now, wishing that Almodavar could have found a better time to bring the child to her. Like all noble houses, it was common to raise a number of children in the nursery of the same age and gender as the heir, in the hope of foiling an assassin should one find their way through the palace defences. Laran had been at her for months to find some appropriate children with which to surround Damin, but as she thought the practice quite cruel—unless the child of palace functionaries or staff, the poor things would rarely see their own families again—she’d had little interest in doing anything about it. A few days ago, Almodavar had mentioned that he knew of a suitable child. She had told him to bring the child to the palace so that she could check him over. But why now?

  “This is the child?” she asked with a sigh.

  “Yes, your highness,” he said, bringing the boy closer. He was an underfed, scrawny-looking thing, with fair hair and bright blue eyes. He smiled at Marla then buried his face in the armoured shoulder of the Raider.

  “He looks half starved. What’s he called?”

  “Starros.”

  “That’s an odd name. Does he have a last name?”

  “No, ma’am. His mother was a working court’esa.”

  Working court’esa was the polite euphemism for whore, Marla knew. She wondered what Laran would think if the first “suitable companion” she chose for their son was some whore’s bastard that Almodavar had picked up off the streets of the Beggars’ Quarter.

  “And what’s your interest in this child, Captain?” Elezaar asked with a canny look.

  “Pardon?” Almodavar looked startled that the slave was questioning him.

  “There are a thousand homeless orphans out there, Captain. Why do you think this one deserves to be raised in the palace?”

  “His mother died recently. Was killed, actually, quite brutally. By one of her customers. The boy has nowhere else to go.”

  “A sad tale, but hardly an exceptional one. Why do you care what happens to the child?”

  Almodavar glared at the slave and turned to Marla with a pleading look, but she was just as interested as Elezaar in the captain’s answer. Realising he would get no help from that quarter, he shrugged uncomfortably. “There is some chance . . . a good chance, that the child is . . . a relative of mine, your highness.”

  Marla smiled. So Almodavar has a bastard. It seemed everyone had a secret lover, even the stern and loyal Almodavar.

  “Of course he can stay,” she told him, thinking it would be much easier to convince Laran that Starros was suitable if he knew the child was Almodavar’s. “Although he’ll need a good bath and some decent clothes. How old is he?”

  “Nearly five, your highness.”

  “But he’s so small!” she exclaimed. “He’s hardly much bigger than Damin.”

  “And therein lies the difference between a prince’s diet and a pauper’s,” Elezaar remarked. He waddled over to Almodavar and held his arms out to the child. “Come, young Starros. I think I’ve got some friends outside you’re very much going to like to meet. Although I’m not sure what the Witches of Krakandar are going to have to say about this.”

  Almodavar set him down beside the little man and, remarkably, the child went to the dwarf without hesitation. The two of them headed out into the gardens.

  “The Witches of Krakandar?” Almodavar asked.

  “That’s Elezaar’s name for Lirena and Veruca.”

  The captain smiled. “Thank you for this, my lady.”

  She returned his smile, feeling quite proud of herself. It wasn’t often Marla got to make a decision that might make a real difference in someone’s life. “Well, we can’t have a relative of the captain of the Krakandar Raiders begging on the streets now, can we?”

  “The boy doesn’t . . . he thinks I was just a friend of his mother’s,” the captain explained uneasily. “I’d prefer it if he kept believing that.”

  “As you wish.”

  The captain bowed. “You’ve done a good thing this day, your highness. I’ll not forget your kindness.”

  Almodavar departed the nursery, leaving Marla looking after him thoughtfully. The door to the gardens opened and Elezaar waddled back in. She glanced over his shoulder when she realised he was alone.

  “Where’s Starros?”

  “Playing horsey with his new best friends,” Elezaar explained. “That was very well done, by the way. One of the most influential men in Krakandar’s army now owes you a very big favour. A classic application of the Twenty-Fifth Rule of Gaining and Wielding Power.”

  “The Twenty-Fifth Rule?”

  “Be merciful when it doesn’t matter; ruthless when it does.”

  “I’m sure you make these damn rules up as you go along, Elezaar.”

  He raised a brow at her and assumed a mysterious air. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?”

  She smiled wearily and glanced out at the boys playing in the gardens. Starros had evened the numbers up and now Xanda was on all fours with the newcomer on his back. Damin was laughing so hard he almost toppled off his cousin’s back as he and his faithful “horsey” Travin chased the other pair around the lawn.

  “What am I going to do about Nash, Elezaar?” she sighed, taking a seat on the windowsill.

  “I can’t advise you, your highness,” the dwarf replied, coming to stand beside her where he could watch over his charges.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re not asking the right questions.”

  “You’re always saying that.”

  “Ask me if I think you have a right to be happy and I’ll answer, of course you do. Ask me if I think Nashan Hawksword is the man you should find that happiness with and I’ll you I don’t know. Ask me if I think you should consider if he has another motive in pursuing your affections, and I’d answer, absolutely. But ask me what path you should take and I really couldn’t say. I know you’re not happy. But neither are you married to a man who beats you, or forces himself on you, or even takes that much notice of you.”

  “So you’re saying I shouldn’t risk a lifetime of mediocrity for a few moments of bliss?”

  “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I’m saying you need to think about whether those few moments of bliss are worth the lifetime of mediocrity you could be throwing away in pursuit of them.”

  “A momen
t in the sun or a lifetime in the shadows. That’s my choice, isn’t it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  The door opened before she could respond. It was Almodavar again, making Marla wish she’d found a better place than the day nursery to discuss anything so private and sensitive with her court’esa.

  “You haven’t had second thoughts about Starros already, have you, Captain?”

  “No, your highness,” he replied. “I bring news you’ve been waiting on.”

  “My husband has returned?” she asked hopefully, thinking that would put an end to her dilemma very smartly. If Laran was home there was no decision to make. No question of what she should do . . .

  It was then that she realised Elezaar was right. She had already made up her mind.

  “Unfortunately not.” Almodavar said with the faintest of smiles, no doubt thinking her anxious question was prompted by affection for her lord and husband. “But it’s news almost as important. I’ve just received word from the Captain of the Outer Ring, your highness. The High Arrion, Lord Palenovar has arrived.”

  chapter 66

  B

  y the time Laran led the raid over the border into Medalon to “liberate” the cattle they needed for the Feast of Kalianah, Mahkas had worked himself into a frenzy. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that Kagan Palenovar had discovered how Darilyn had died and had come to Krakandar to expose him.

  Mahkas lay awake all night, rejecting excuses that might explain away any accusation the High Arrion could level at him. He intended to claim someone else murdered her and that he was merely an innocent—duped, like everyone else, into believing it was suicide.

  Or perhaps there was a witness. That was probably more easily taken care of than any other problem. I am the trusted brother of the Warlord of Sunrise and Krakandar Province. My word is worth ten times more than some slave or castle flunky who may have seen more than they should.

  But there was no witness, Mahkas was certain of that. He’d been so careful. There was no way anybody could have seen him hauling on that harp string.

  Of course, he may have made an error when he used the harp wire. Kagan had expressed some concern over the depth of Darilyn’s wounds when he examined her body before they buried her.

  He’d been so careful not to get any blood on himself, too, as if by remaining untouched by it, he was somehow guiltless.

  But feeling guiltless wouldn’t help Mahkas much if the first thing Kagan did when they arrived back in Krakandar City was to announce to Laran and Mahkas that he had proof their sister was murdered.

  Mahkas needed to find a way to stop Kagan and Laran speaking with each other, although how he could arrange such a thing, stuck out here in the wilderness, was beyond him. Had he been at home, he could have engineered a message, recalling the High Arrion to Krakandar. Or he could have arranged for Laran to be urgently needed in Cabradell. There were any number of diversions he could have arranged. But he was powerless. There was no chance to do anything . . .

  Except he did have a perfectly good excuse to go home. All the Raiders in the troop had been mocking him about how nervous he’d been this trip. Mahkas had heard every expectant father joke known to man at least three times in the past week. Laran had even suggested before they left that Mahkas might want to stay in the palace this time and wait for his wife to give birth, rather than take part in a raid. But the idea of listening to Bylinda heaving up every meal until she delivered the brat seemed a poor choice when faced with a chance to do a bit of cattle thieving. A trip away had seemed just the thing. Therapeutic, almost.

  Until he heard the news about Kagan . . .

  Did Laran keep that from me? Deliberately?

  “What do you think, Mahkas?”

  He snapped his head up at the mention of his name and realised he was so wrapped up in his own woes he’d not heard a word Laran said. Mahkas quickly looked down at the diagram Laran had sketched in the dirt, then glanced around the circle of twenty stubbled, grubby faces staring at him, waiting for him to offer his opinion. The sun was just on the rise and Mahkas was looking into it, so he couldn’t see the expression on his brother’s face, but he guessed Laran would be annoyed if he thought Mahkas—of all people—wasn’t paying attention.

  “Are we certain there are no Defender patrols nearby?” he asked, fairly sure he was on safe ground. The Hythrun Raiders made a point of not attacking when the Medalonian Defenders were in the vicinity. In fact, nobody in their right mind tackled the Defenders when there was a chance to avoid them. With a well-trained standing army and an officer corps who started their training at the age of thirteen, they were not a force to be trifled with.

  There is honouring the War God, Zegarnald, after all, Glenadal used to say, and then there is just plain stupidity.

  “They’re headed back into Bordertown,” one of the scouts assured him, turning up the collar of his cloak against the chilly spring dawn. “They left a couple of days ago.”

  “That’s the patrol we know about,” Mahkas warned. “If Jenga’s out there, that could just be the one they wanted us to see. What about the patrol that didn’t make quite as much noise?”

  Palin Jenga was probably the most feared Defender captain on the border. He was both a fearless soldier and a clever one, commanding begrudging respect even from his Hythrun enemies. Laran often claimed Jenga would be Medalon’s next Lord Defender after Korgan, a state of affairs that Mahkas was actually looking forward to. It meant the bastard would be recalled to the Citadel and would leave the border region, making it a safer place for everyone.

  “Weren’t you listening, Mahkas?” Laran asked. He sounded a little annoyed to be repeating himself. He pointed to the diagram on the ground. “They’re here. Watching the Border Stream.”

  “Then how do we get the cattle away? That ford is the only level crossing between here and Bordertown.”

  “Didn’t you hear anything I just said, Mahkas?”

  “Probably dreamin’ of his missus,” one of the Raiders chuckled.

  “Well, he’s been daydreaming about something,” Laran agreed. “So let’s go over this again, shall we? For the benefit of those who were asleep the first time. We’re going to cross the border further north, here, across the Bardarlen Gorge and then double back once we’ve found our cattle. We want about ten head, no more. They’ll be too hard to keep together when we drive them across the stream, otherwise.”

  The Bardarlen Gorge was a narrow cutting some ten miles north-east of their current position. Although deep and treacherous, at its closest point it could (theoretically) be straddled by a man on horseback. A Hythrun horseman could jump it, at any rate. With their sorcerer-bred mounts and their far superior skills in horsemanship, the Hythrun Raiders were able to make what the Medalonians considered to be a dangerous if not impossible leap across the gorge from Hythria into Medalon. They were so convinced it wasn’t possible to breach Bardarlen Gorge that it had still not occurred to the Defenders how the Raiders managed to cross the border when they watched the known passes so closely.

  Of course, it wasn’t possible to return that way. No steer would attempt to jump the gorge, but it was a quick and easy way into Medalon that allowed the Krakandar Raiders the chance to miss the Defender patrols and gather the cattle they wanted, leaving them fresh and ready to fight their way back into Hythria at the Border Stream where the Defenders were undoubtedly waiting for them.

  “The Bardarlen Gorge it is then,” Mahkas nodded, glancing at Laran.

  “And no killing,” Laran added. The orders weren’t prompted by any particular nobility on Laran’s part. It was a coldly practical decision. The Defenders might try to stop the Hythrun raiding their cattle, but while nobody died it was just an irritation. Once over their own border, the Defenders tended to let them go, not pursuing the Raiders much further than a couple of miles into Hythrun territory.

  If they started killing Medalonian civilians, however, the Defenders got rather peeved.
They started taking Hythrun lives in retribution. Hythrun farms became the target of Defender reprisals, and because Laran couldn’t allow any attack on his citizens to go unavenged, it wouldn’t take much after that to plunge them into a full-scale war.

  They all knew Laran didn’t want a war. He just wanted a few head of cattle for the Feast of Kalianah and it had become something of a tradition for Krakandar to serve Medalonian beef at the feast.

  “Mount up,” Laran ordered, after glancing around to make certain everyone knew what they were supposed to be doing. The Raiders hurried to their horses while Laran kicked over the sketch in the dirt, obliterating it. Then he glanced at Mahkas, a little concerned. “Are you all right, brother?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “You seem a little . . . I don’t know . . . distracted?”

  “I guess I can’t stop worrying about Bylinda,” he shrugged. “I keep thinking I should have stayed with her.”

  “Women don’t want their menfolk hanging around at a time like this.”

  “But still, I was thinking, Laran . . . maybe I should go back . . .”

  His older brother slapped him on the shoulder comfortingly and led him towards his waiting mount. “She’s in good hands, Mahkas. The midwives know what they’re doing and, between them, Lirena and Veruca have probably delivered half the noble-born babies in Hythria. You’ve no need to worry.”

  “But Laran—”

  “Stop fretting,” Laran said with a laugh. “And that’s an order. Your wife will be fine. She’s as healthy as a horse and strong as an ox. So forget about Bylinda and let’s go honour Dacendaran with some prime Medalonian beef.”

  Mahkas nodded unhappily and swung into the saddle. He gathered up his reins and turned his horse to follow the others towards the Bardarlen Gorge, thinking things were just going from bad to worse.

  The best he could hope for now, Mahkas thought miserably, was that Laran misjudged the jump at the Bardarlen Gorge, saving Mahkas from having to face his brother’s wrath when he learned the truth about Darilyn and Riika.

  Which gave Mahkas another, even more terrible idea . . .