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Authors: Jennifer Fallon

Warlord (51 page)

BOOK: Warlord
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“I would have been disappointed if there had been,” Galon said, making no attempt to pick up the letter. “But confessing to the murder of Ronan Dell? That’s a different kettle of broth, my lady.”
“My
confession
, as you call it, is worth nothing if a dead man and an assassin are the only witnesses.”
“Ah, but that’s the beauty of this plan, my lady,” Kalan Hawksword announced, stepping out from behind the Seeing Stone. “They’re merely the players in this little theatrical act. Perhaps you’d like to meet the audience?”
Before Alija had a chance to react to the surprise appearance of Kalan Hawksword, the Lower Arrion, Bruno Sanval, and the Sorcerers’ Collective’s Chief Librarian, Dikorian Frye, emerged from their concealed hiding place behind the massive monolith, their expressions grave. She stared at them, realising what their discussion must have sounded like to these men.
These men whose integrity was beyond reproach.
These men who could impeach her.
“This is ludicrous!” she exclaimed, staring Kalan down. “You can’t possibly imagine this little charade proves anything other than your mother’s willingness to do anything to destroy me.”
Bruno’s brow furrowed. “Kalan’s mother? The Princess Marla? This has nothing to do with her, Lady Alija.”
Alija shook her head in disbelief. “Show yourself, Marla!” she shouted, her words echoing off the temple walls. “You’ve had your fun! Now come out here and face me!”
“My lady …” Dikorian began. “Really … there is nobody here but us.”
“Have the guts to face me, you craven bitch!” she screeched to the empty hall.
There was no answer, of course. Marla wasn’t there.
She didn’t need to be, Alija realised with a sinking heart.
Was never going to be.
Once again, Alija had fallen into a trap set by Marla, this one disguised by another trap so devious nobody would think to look further for the real poison that lay at the heart of it.
Alija turned and faced her accusers. “This was never about the Fardohnyans, was it?”
“You must have thought us all deranged fools, my lady,” Kalan replied, apparently quite amused by her gullibility. “Why would we bother to concoct such an absurdly complicated plot, when your own actions condemn you far more thoroughly than anything we could have thought up?” The young woman smiled even wider, unable to hide her glee. “I can’t believe you actually fell for it.” She glanced across at the assassin, and bowed in acknowledgment of his skill. “You’re a better salesman than I suspected, Master Miar.”
Kalan’s smug superiority was enough to make Alija nauseous, but the assassin’s betrayal was incomprehensible.
“What of you?” she demanded of Galon. “How long have you been part of this conspiracy?”
“Since the day I found my father’s head cleaved in two by your henchmen, Alija.”
“That was more than twenty-five years ago!”
“Timing is everything, don’t you agree?”
“You lied to me!” she hissed.
“Never once,” he told her. “You just never asked the right questions.”
“And you?” she asked Wrayan, finally. “This is your idea of vengeance, I suppose?”
“Actually, I harbour much less angst toward you than you’d imagine,” he told her with a shrug, his black eyes a constant reminder of her helplessness. “You did try to kill me, admittedly—the details of which I’ve been more than happy to apprise these gentlemen of—but thanks to you, I got to meet the Harshini. So I suppose, in a twisted sort of way, I should be grateful.”
“He’s been to Sanctuary,” Bruno added, his voice filled with awe.
“And you
believe
such nonsense?” she asked, turning on the old man, recognising the light of fanaticism in his eyes. Wrayan must have spun quite a tale indeed to get Bruno on his side. “You’re a senile fool, Bruno, who’ll swallow anything that lets him think his lifelong quest hasn’t been a complete waste of time! What’s your excuse, Dikorian? Did I once run over your dog in my carriage, or are you Kagan Palenovar’s long lost twin, emerging out of hiding after all these years to seek vengeance for his death, too?”
“You killed your predecessor, too?” the librarian gasped. The big man shook his head with a heavy sigh. “I thought I couldn’t be any more surprised by your viciousness, my lady.”
“My
viciousness
?” she demanded. “Everything I have done, I have done for my country!”
Dikorian was unmoved by her declaration. “You just admitted you killed the former High Arrion, Kagan Palenovar. You attempted to kill Wrayan Lightfinger, a member of the Sorcerers’ Collective, my lady, and I just heard you confess you ordered the murder of over thirty other innocent souls, including a ruling lord, not to mention commissioning yet another murder in our presence only a few moments ago. I have no need of some vague notions of vengeance to recognise a homicidal tyrant when I see one.”
She couldn’t believe they were condemning her for things she had done to save Hythria from ruin. “I have done nothing but try to protect my nation from a despot! And you dare to call me
homicidal
? Have you done a head count of the palace slaves lately? How many has Lernen killed while you cheerfully turned a blind eye to his excesses?”
“Lernen Wolfblade has never killed anyone who wasn’t his slave,” Dikorian pointed out. “That is his right. However, nobody, not even the High Arrion, has the right to kill free men. Or to kill a man to open up an opportunity for promotion. If you think you can justify your actions, then by all means, do so. But you’ll have to do it at your trial, my lady. It is the proper forum.”
“A
trial
? Don’t be ridiculous! Who will preside? The High
Prince
?”
“Uncle Lernen will like that,” Kalan said with a smug little smile. “You know how he likes to dress up.”
“You have no authority to do this to me!”
“A sorcerer may be accused and forced to answer to a trial by her peers,” Bruno reminded her. “It is the law.”
“I see only three of you.”
“Wrayan Lightfinger never formally left the Sorcerers’ Collective, my lady,” Kalan pointed out. “He’s still a member. That’s the law, too. I looked it up.”
Alija took a step back, gathering her power to her. “I will die before I allow you to dishonour me or my family name in this manner!”
“That can be arranged, my lady,” Kalan offered. “In fact, it would be much cleaner for everyone if you just fell on your sword. Does anybody have a sword handy?”
“Behave, Kalan,” Wrayan scolded. “We’ll handle this the right way.”
Dikorian took a step closer and raised his arm, indicating she should precede him out of the temple. “If you please, my lady. Let’s not make this any more difficult than it already is.”
“Make me!” she dared him defiantly.
“I will have you physically removed from the temple if you force us,” Bruno assured her, his voice filled with regret. “I beg you, my lady, retain what dignity you have left. For your sons’ sake, if not your own.”
With a scream, Alija let out a burst of power that sent both Bruno Sanval and Dikorian Frye slamming into the Seeing Stone. Feeling Galon move behind her, she spun around and used another burst of power to toss him across the temple, his body sliding along the polished mosaic floor, until he came to rest against one of the decorated pillars that supported the high domed roof. Then she turned her attention to Kalan and Wrayan, who stood side by side, watching her fury but apparently unmoved by it.
“You’re next!” she announced, pointing at Kalan. “Your mother seems to deal with losing husbands and slaves well enough. Let’s see how she deals with losing a child.”
Alija raised her hand, gathering what she had left of her power, aware that she was draining it faster than she could replenish it. It made no difference, she decided. She was done for, whatever happened. Besides, Wrayan—the only one here who could challenge her magically—was part Harshini. He might be more powerful than she was in theory, but he could do no harm, which was the only thing she could think of that would account for his lack of action thus far.
Or she might have been too quick for him. It had taken her only seconds to incapacitate her foes.
“I’m not going to let you hurt Kalan,” Wrayan informed her calmly, stepping between Alija and her intended victim.
“Do you really think you can stop me?”
Wrayan didn’t answer her verbally. He didn’t have to. Almost before she’d finished speaking a headache of monumental proportions began building in her skull. Taken completely unawares by the sudden pain, Alija clutched at her head and collapsed to her knees.
Alija looked up at Wrayan, but his unnaturally youthful face was expressionless. The pain kept on building in her head, the pressure beyond description. She felt a trickle coming from her nose and realised it was bleeding. There were tears in her eyes from the pain, but when she tried to wipe them away she realised they were tears of blood, not brine. With her brain feeling like it was set to explode, she cried out in agony as her eardrums splintered and blood began to spill from them, too. All the while, Wrayan watched her impassively, Kalan Hawksword standing just behind his shoulder, her expression just as distant. Just as unforgiving.
“No …” Alija gasped helplessly, doubled over with the agony. This was beyond torture, beyond pain. A red haze swam before her eyes, but she couldn’t tell if it was blood or pain that caused it. “Stop …” she gasped. “
Mercy
…”
“Enough, Wrayan,” she thought she heard Kalan say. “You’re killing her.”
“Isn’t this what you wanted?”
Alija thought Wrayan said the words to Kalan, but then she realised the words came from inside her mind.
Isn’t this what you crave, Alija? Access to the power of the Harshini?
Wrayan had entered her mind, she realised, as effortlessly as a knife slicing through warm butter.
Panic filled her at the realisation that he could do such a thing so easily.
What have you done to me?
I’ve done nothing, Alija, except open your mind to the possibilities. This is the power you wanted. Don’t you recognise it? It’s the same power you accessed the time you burned out my mind. Pity you’re only an Innate, though, and don’t have that spell to protect you from it this time. Didn’t Brak tell you how dangerous it was, for a human Innate to attempt to access the power of the Harshini? It could kill you, you know.
Truly filled with fear for the first time since she discovered she was one of those rare humans who could skim the surface of Harshini magic, Alija tried to pull away. But it was too late. The power had a hold of her and it was drawing her down. She had no natural defences against it.
The pressure kept on building in her mind, blood vessels bursting under the strain. Consciousness was slipping fast. It was all she could do to remain on her hands and knees. Her fingernails were bleeding now, too, and she had lost the power to speak, her mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood mixed with immeasurable terror.
I’ll tell them you died in an magical accident,
Wrayan’s voice assured her.
That you tried to draw too much power to yourself. No need for anybody outside this temple to learn of your disgrace.
Except Marla,
came the unbidden thought,
She’ll know.
Yes,
Wrayan agreed.
She’ll know.
The pain was so intense she wondered that she was still able to form a coherent thought. But she had room for one idea. One final
wish.
Curse you, Wrayan Lightfinger. And a curse on the Wolfblades, too. All of them.
 
“D
amn this rain!”
Already the sound of the approaching battle could be heard in the distance. Damin looked out over the rolling hills around Lasting Drift, frustrated that he had no way of knowing if everything was going according to plan. They were gathered on the knoll of a small hill just out of sight of the Norsell River, waiting for the signal that the Fardohnyans were moving into their trap, but it was a long and frustrating wait and Damin was going a little bit crazy with impatience. Thunder rolled off the distant hills and rain was spitting down in large, sporadic drops, a warning of what was yet to come.
“It’s going to make it hard to see,” Narvell agreed, looking up at his brother. The Elasapine heir was squatting beside Almodavar, watching the wily old captain draw something in the dirt.
“Do you think it’ll help them or us?”
“Neither,” Almodavar concluded. Damin had thought he was doodling on the ground with a stick, but on second glance he realised he was drawing out a map of the battlefield. Damin glanced down at it, wondering what he was up to.
“How long do you think we have before they get here?”
The captain shrugged. “Not long. The scouts will let us know. The trick isn’t them getting here, though. It will be getting across the bridges and closing the pincers behind them at the right time
after
they get here.”
Damin smiled. “I remember Elezaar telling me once that the enemy invariably attacks on one of two occasions, when you’re ready for him …”
“And when you’re not ready for him,” Narvell finished for him.
Damin studied the map in the dirt and then looked down at Almodavar. “Where do you suppose Regis is now?”
The old Raider looked up at Damin and pointed to the map he’d sketched in the dirt.
“You old fox,” Damin chuckled, as he realised why Almodavar was so interested in his rough map of the surrounding terrain.
“What?” Narvell asked, a little confused.
“Unless Regis is one of those fools who likes to lead from the front and get himself killed in the first few moments of the fight, I’m guessing he’s back here somewhere,” Almodavar surmised, poking a stick at the location. “With his cavalry. He’ll want to see how the battle goes before he commits them.”
“Then our brilliant ambush may not be as brilliant as we’d like,” Damin agreed, “if he’s got another five or six thousand fresh troops who can come up behind us.”
“You mean if he hesitates before he commits them?” Narvell asked.
Almodavar nodded. “When he sees our flanks that were so easily broken in the earlier part of the attack suddenly starting to regroup, he’s going to know what’s going on.”
“By then he may have no choice but to follow,” Narvell suggested.
Damin shrugged. “Perhaps. His only other option will be to abandon his infantry and try to get away with his cavalry intact.”
“A man who runs from a fight he can’t win is a man still looking for a fight he can,” Almodavar reminded them.
“So is Regis the type to cut his losses and run, or the sort who’ll fight a glorious but futile battle to the bitter end?”
“I’m guessing the former,” Almodavar said. “Hablet’s a nasty piece of work, but he knows real talent when he sees it. If this man was smart enough to get command of Hablet’s army for this campaign, he’s not the selfless, self-sacrificing type. I suspect he’ll cut and run in the hopes of either making it back to Fardohnya or making a last stand somewhere he can do some real damage.”
“Back up the valley,” Damin concluded. “There’s nowhere else he can go but west.”
The old captain looked up at Damin. “We probably should do something about that.”
Damin grinned at the old man. “We probably should, shouldn’t we?”
Narvell looked at his brother and then the captain, shaking his head as it dawned on him what the others were suggesting. “No way! You’re not leaving me here to fight the battle while you two go off chasing rainbows!”
Because Damin had brought only cavalry with him from Krakandar, his troops and the remainder of Narvell’s Elasapine light cavalry made up most of the left flank that would close in behind the Fardohnyans. Cyrus Eaglespike and his Dregian cavalry made up the right flank, while across the end of the valley at Lasting Drift, the remainder of the infantry—the most’ experienced men drawn from every province in Hythria—and the re-formed Sunrise archers waited for the oncoming army with growing impatience. Discipline held them in check, however, just as it would ensure they moved at the right time; of that Damin was quite certain.
They should have had another two or three thousand Raiders to deploy but there had been no sign of them, nor word from Krakandar about why they’d never arrived. It was a problem that niggled at the back of Damin’s mind constantly, but one he couldn’t spare the time to deal with right now. This battle had to be fought with what they had at hand, not what might have been.
“You can handle the left flank without my help, little brother,” Damin assured him. “Think what Charel will say when he hears about your glorious victory!”
“Think what Cyrus Eaglespike will say when he finds out you ran away from the fight, Damin.”
“Think what the fool will have to say when we capture the Fardohnyan general and his damned cavalry,” Almodavar suggested.
Narvell glared at both of them. “You’re as bad as he is, Almodavar.”
Damin frowned, a little annoyed to think Narvell assumed he was suggesting this just for a bit of light entertainment. “I’m not just doing this for fun, you know, Narvell. If Regis gets away today with his cavalry intact, we’re going to have to do this all over again, either tomorrow or a week from now, or a month from now. This damned war will drag on for ages. Let’s be done with it, here and now.”
“You
are
doing this for fun,” Narvell accused. “I don’t care how many clever ways you’ve come up with to rationalise it. And since when did you care if the war drags on for a bit, Damin? You like war.”
“I like the idea of killing Mahkas better.”
“What’s Mahkas got to do with it?”
“The last discussion Mahkas and I had about Leila and Starros was interrupted by the unfortunate need to keep him alive. I believe we have some rather important unfinished business.”
Narvell stared at his brother, and then turned to the captain.
“Don’t look at me for help,” Almodavar warned. “I think he’s right.”
“You’re both mad,” Narvell announced, rising to his feet. “How many men are you taking or do you think the two of you are enough?”
“No more than a dozen,” Damin told him.
“You really are insane.”
“I’m not trying to confront the Fardohnyan cavalry, Narvell, or capture them single-handedly. The idea is to find Regis and have him surrender them. A small band can move faster and has a much better chance of slipping through the enemy lines than a whole century of Raiders. Besides, you need them here.”
“I need
you
here,” his brother pointed out unhappily.
“No, you don’t,” he assured Narvell with an encouraging slap on the back. “Think of this as your opportunity to show the world what you’re made of. One that doesn’t involve you and I having to shed each other’s blood at regular intervals.”
“Cyrus is going to explode when he hears about this,” Narvell warned.
“Only if we fail,” Damin pointed out reasonably. “Think you can handle things here?”
Narvell sighed at his brother’s folly, and then he seemed to change his mind after thinking about it for a time. He shrugged, perhaps accepting the futility of trying to dissuade Damin when Almodavar was supporting him. “You’d better be right about this, brother, or you’re going to look like a coward
and
a fool.”
“I am right,” Damin promised. “And by this evening, we’ll have the Fardohnyan surrender. You mark my words.”
Skirting the thinly forested foothills of Lasting Drift, Damin, Almodavar and their handpicked men got a unique overview of the battle from the heights. For the average soldier in the thick of it, a man’s view was rarely more than his own fight for survival and what was happening in the few feet surrounding him. The big picture was something he learned about afterward, something gleaned by anecdote and rumour, sitting around the camp fires after the day was won.
The view Damin received was vastly different as he watched the battle progress while they made their way northwest to where they assumed (and fervently hoped) Axelle Regis was directing the conflict.
As the enemy passed the river crossings and reached the ambush at Lasting Drift, the Hythrun mobilised the remaining cavalry and the pincers began to close, advancing against the Fardohnyan infantry on the wings which, until then, had only skirmished with the Izcomdar light horse. Attacked on both sides, the Fardohnyans were taken completely by surprise, their progress checked as soon as the echelons emerged from hiding.
By the time Damin and his handpicked squad turned toward the small valley where they figured Axelle was holding his cavalry in reserve, the Fardohnyans had been forced to a halt, fronting the enemy on all sides.
After that, it was—as Damin had predicted—like spearing fish in a barrel. The low foothills rang with the sounds of battle as the enemy was attacked every way they turned by the Hythrun infantry with short swords, by the cavalry with javelins and by the devastating accuracy of the mounted Hythrun short bows, the Raiders rarely missing in the densely packed mass.
“It’ll be all over soon,” Almodavar remarked, urging his mount up the slope beside Damin as they watched the Fardohnyans being pushed back, relentlessly crowded together. Without hope of relief, they probably expected death and fought as if their only hope of salvation was to honour the God of War before they died. The carnage sickened Damin a little. It was one thing to win a glorious victory, but there came a point when triumph moved to slaughter, then war no longer seemed quite as splendid as one imagined.
“We need Regis to surrender before this war is done. And we need to stop him sending in his reserves in a last-ditch attempt to save the day. He could still take this if he can move his cavalry up quickly enough.”
“If he’s watching this and has even the slightest humanity in him,” Almodavar disagreed, “he’ll already be considering surrender.”
“Let’s go make it easier for him, shall we?”
The old captain nodded and turned his horse away. Damin followed a few moments later, thinking how easily the shine came off a glorious victory once it became tarnished with blood.
BOOK: Warlord
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