The Warlord's Domain

Note from the Author:

“While being written, I considered this book to be the
The War Lord
; given the titles of the three books which preceded it, that made a lot of sense. For reasons which I’ve never fully understood, it was published by the original British publisher as
The Warlord’s Domain
.
DAW
Books has now done me the courtesy of re-publishing it under its correct title.”

For Diane,

This book,

This world,

And all the others.

With thanks to Liza Reeves and Jean Maund for a light hand with the blue pencil

“...thus it happened that
LORDE
ALDRIC
bye his craft and witt did fall in with
GOTH
, he being Generall of ye Emperor hys Armies.

And being close to this Goth and aware of his coun-sells secret, ye
LORDE
did contryve to bee a partye most close unto a plot close-woven by that Generall: whereby he should maken endeavour to preserve and save from close confyne within ye Red Tower of Egisburg that most noble lady
MAREVNA
, Princess of ye Empyre and very sister unto ye Emperor, and soche dyv-erse others of her suite that were enprisoned there.

And by soche a deed should he, that most noble
LORDE
, and so also
RYNERT-KING
of Alba, be seen to shew their favour unto ye Emperor hys Party. And by soche favour should it be seen and discerned that all support should be ygranten unto ye party of Peaece, who desyred not conquest of other landes. And so it should be seen that those of the
WAR-LORDES
party had ne prospering of ye Empyre at their hearts, but myght and advancement only for themselves: there being no War, and so ne place ensetten among ye Great for those that did command it, they desyred naught save war against all and any whosomever it may be.

But whenafter ye Firedrake
YMARETH
had enacted most bravely in favour of
LORDE
ALDRIC
, then he, being still deep within those landes of ye Empyre, was sore betrayed by one in whom he had most placed his trust…”

—Ylver Vlethanek an-Caerdur
The Books of Years, Cerdor

There was a pavement of white marble beneath him, treacherously slick under a covering of trampled, dirty snow, and the wind that slashed at his face and body was edged with such a cold as more fortunate men might only dream of.

Pain, and the gaudy spattering of blood across cracked milk-white marble. Snow falling, drifting, a white shroud across a leaden winter landscape. Out of that stillness, the sound of tears and a buzz of glutted flies. The smell of spice, and incense, and huge red roses
... ,

The marble paving-slabs where he knelt hurt his knees; he didn’t know whether that came from the shattered stone or from the crushed and dented armor encasing his legs, and in any case such a small annoyance was entirely swallowed up in the thin, hot pain—both present and anticipated—of the dirk-point which pricked skin a finger’s breadth below his breastbone.

“Heart-line,” said the voice of Esshau the weapon-master in his ears. “Here, young sirs, in, upward and a half twist of your blade for a quick kill. Or for suicide.” Esshau, a stocky, dark, sardonic Prytenek who had been his model and his hero for years, had never dignified the act of
tsepanak’ulleth
with its formal title. He had never called it other than what it was. Esshau had disapproved of waste, and had made that disapproval outspokenly plain. Only his talent with weapons and in teaching their use had kept him employed at Dunrath…

Why Esshau? He’s been ashes ten years now… ?

Why not? You’ll be joining him soon enough
—
though he’ll not like the way you chose to do it
.

Blood runneled between the crooked claws that had been his fingers; he could see its vivid spots on the marble paving, and soaking into the snow. But for all there was so much, he couldn’t smell it. A deep breath drew only the winter’s chill into his lungs, and riding on it the unseasonal scent of roses. With snow inches deep on the ground, there should have been no such smell… yet it was there, impossibly strong, incredibly sweet, a perfume that made his senses swim like wine.

Issaqua
. ...

A rose as red as blood, thorned with demon fangs. Hungry. Eager. Vengeful… And waiting for its due and proper gift of death.

O my lady, O my love…

He dared not look at her, for fear that the sight of her face would steal away the courage and the small store of determination he had gathered together, to help him… do what he was about to do. To give a gift freely, rather than see it stolen. To die a willing victim, in the full knowledge that with that death others would have life.

He drove the
tsepan
home, and agony consumed him.

Liquid heat flooded his hand and wrist, making his palm slippery, preventing him from giving that twist to the knife which would speed him on his way. For a moment he could taste his own blood rising in his throat. For a moment he could see her face, shock-white, appalled.
I
love you though I leave you, my sweet lady
, his look said; there was neither time nor strength for the luxury of a spoken word.
Think kindly of me now and then
. ...

And he could see that other face, thin, fine-featured, pale as the death that had refused to accept him; still unable to believe, rejecting what he saw even at this moment when denial and rejection lost their meaning. That face, all the faces, all the world, slid sideways into a black mouth that reeked of roses.

Oh Lord God, why don’t they prepare you for how much a
tsepan
hurts
... ?

And then there were no more faces and no more thoughts, but only fire and snow and blood and darkness, and the darkness filled the world, and devoured him, and he died…

Go past the Mountain and through the valley, the old man had told them.

That much was easy.
En Kovhan
, the Mountain, was a huge and shadowy triangular bulk on their right side as they rode south. The sword-hand side, the old man had said. Aldric had thought his tone and choice of words were ominous then—and downright threatening now. Yet the country seemed soft, gentle, its contours smoothed by millennia of slow-turning seasons until it was very different from the harsh outlines of
Glas-elyu Menethen
in Alba. Very different indeed. Even now in the depths of winter an occasional patch of green still showed through the snow; none of those greens were the somber pine-dark of the Jevaiden, and he was thankful for that at least. Thankful that his memories were allowed to rest, this once.

Then Kyrin eased her gray gelding to a standstill and rose in her stirrups, looking swiftly from side to side, and all the old wariness came back to Aldric with a rush. He realized that his hand had closed on his sword-hilt with neither intention nor conscious command. It was enough to make a man embarrassed.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, turning after a moment to look at him for some sign of agreement. And that was all she said.

“Yes.” He made himself say it, made himself relax, made his fingers unwind from Widowmaker’s braided leather grip. Aldric grinned a sour little grin.
You’re jumpy
, he thought, silently critical. But another, unbidden voice inside his head said,
and with good reason
...

They were in the valley now, with forested slopes rising steeply to either side—but Aldric was only too well aware that they weren’t steep enough to inconvenience a mounted ambush, nor so thickly wooded that archers would be unable to shoot. He stared suspiciously at it, watching the evening drawing in, stretching out fingers of shadow from the deeper shadows underneath the trees.

“We’re going to be late,” said Kyrin. There was disapproval in her voice.

“But I sent a message. We’re expected. And anyway, it’s not my fault.” That came out defensively, as a protest, no matter what he might have intended for it. “If we’d had a map…” He left the rest unfinished, knowing quite well that Kyrin would add whatever else she felt was necessary. He wasn’t disappointed.

“If.” She stared at him a moment, then shrugged. “Yes. Quite…”

To be called to conference at all during the holiday season was undesirable, and an imposition. To be called to conference at midnight, in winter, with snow on the ground, was little short of scandalous and scarcely to be borne. The Alban Crown Council assembled with poor grace in the corridors of the Hall of Kings, exchanging irritable mutters—and then were shocked even beyond scandal by the words of the very junior officer-of-Guards who appeared before them with discomfort written in large letters on his face.

“My apologies, my lords,” he said, ducking a perfunctory bow toward them, “but you must leave your swords with me…”

There was silence for perhaps a minute, murmured disbelief for maybe as long; then noisy outrage. Never since the Clan Wars five hundred years before had any Alban royal councillor been asked to give up his blades before a meeting. The right to keep and bear arms in the king’s presence was a privilege seldom granted, and one guarded most jealously by those who held it. To be requested, no matter how courteously—though flanked as he was by six fully armored troopers, the young officer’s request was no more than a nicely-worded order— to give up that privilege was tantamount to insult. Alban clan-lords were
not
insulted, even by their king; and that a king would dare the risks—which history had proven to be very real—of giving insult singly and collectively to so powerful a group of men suggested that the matter for council attention was far more delicate than they had been led to believe. The thought occurring simultaneously to several brought a sudden silence to the group.

Lord Dacurre moved first. Old, gruff and well-regarded, he knew that from the instant his age-mottled hand lifted toward his weapon-belt all eyes were on him. That wrinkled, sinewy talon paused for a moment near the hilts of
taipan
and
taiken
as he considered the implications of what he was about to do. Aymar Dacurre had been adviser to three kings in his long life, but a personal friend of only two. This present ruler, Rynert, seemed incapable of either engendering or returning warmth. But he was still the king. Dacurre looked at the other lords one by one, his gaze slow to move away from each face. Just as slowly he unhooked the longsword and its shorter twin from his belt, offering them both, sheathed and horizontal on open palms, to the young officer. “These blades,” he said quietly, “are seven centuries old. Respect them as they deserve.” Then, over-shoulder to his companions: “My lords, best do it. Then perhaps we’ll find out
why
.”

They filed into the great vaulted hall, every man among them irritable and on edge. There was an uneasiness not merely about themselves and the situation, but about the very place in which they were to meet. Its echoing emptiness was not so well lit as was customary, most of the scant illumination coming from the great log fires which spat and crackled in the nine hearths lining the walls, and from the few oil-lamps set along the length of the table whose polished surface was the only bright thing in a hall over-f of shifting shadows. It was a long refectory table of dark, waxed oak, lined with chairs for the twenty-odd
kailinin-eir
and with long-stemmed cups and flagons of wine arrayed across its surface like soldiers on parade. Such furnishings were used for councils in the Drusalan Empire—but never in Alba, where men were presumed able to control their passions without the need to surrender their weapons, or to sit behind a table so that its timbers might serve to keep them from one another’s throats. They stared at the offensive gleam of wood with expressions ranging from disdain to unconcealed outrage; it was just another facet of the evening’s strangeness… and something more to be stored away in the memory of men to whom a reckoning would have to be made, sooner or later.

There was a clatter, loud in the angry silence, as a door was flung open and troopers of the Bodyguard marched in: two files of them, armed, and wearing full battle armor. Rynert the King walked between them to his seat at the head of the table; and he alone of all the high-born in the hall wore a sword. It was a
taipan
, with a faint curve to it which told of great age, and like the dirk beside it at his belt was unrelieved vermeil even to the metalwork of hilt and scabbard. Note was taken not merely of the weapon’s presence, but of the color chosen for its mountings. Some of the lords who had been at Baelen Field recalled Kalarr cu Ruruc, and in that recollection found little of ease or comfort.

Rynert wasted no time on preamble; he laid both hands flat on the surface of the table and said simply, “Aldric Talvalin, my lords.” And after that he said no more until someone—sitting quite still, he didn’t even turn his head to see who spoke—made the necessary request for elaboration.