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Authors: Jennifer Fallon

Warlord (8 page)

BOOK: Warlord
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“I met him once. Quite a disagreeable man, as I recall.”
You mean he’s a Patriot
, Alija corrected silently. But she smiled and stepped back to let the princess pass. “I’m sure Lady Acora will appreciate making the acquaintance of the High Prince’s sister. It will increase her social standing a great deal, if you single her out.”
Marla raised an eyebrow. “And get her invited to more gatherings like this? Lucky girl.”
The princess moved off towards Acora Marsh before Alija could respond. The High Arrion let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and glanced around the room. The low hum of conversation and the generally convivial atmosphere of the small gathering was very encouraging.
In fact, the only sour note Alija could find all evening was the speculative look on Galon Miar’s face as he pretended interest in whatever Lord Marsh was saying while he followed Marla Wolfblade across the room with his eyes.
 
A
cora Marsh was a plain-looking girl, pale and plump, squeezed into the latest fashion of tight bodices and wide skirts which did nothing but draw attention to her bulk. She looked desperately unhappy, obviously suffering from being newly wed to a man she barely knew and trapped in a plague-ridden city far from home.
Even though she’d offered to speak to the child simply as an excuse to get away from Alija, Marla’s heart went out to her. It was unlikely Acora had had the benefit of someone like Jeryma Ravenspear to take her aside on her wedding day, as Marla had, to tell her she was special. More likely her father was glad to be rid of her. A youngest daughter wasn’t easy to dispose of, particularly when she didn’t have any outstanding beauty or wealth to recommend her. Julyen Marsh would have seemed a godsend to Acora’s father. He was wealthy, anxious to bolster his family’s name by linking it with an old, if somewhat impoverished, line and willing to take the plain youngest daughter off Lord Buckman’s hands.
Nobody, Marla was quite certain, would have bothered to consult Acora about the transaction.
The girl blushed crimson as Marla approached and dropped into an awkward curtsey. “Your highness!”
“Please, Acora, there’s no need to be so formal in a gathering like this.”
“I’m sorry, your highness,” the poor child gushed, her eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Marla took her by the arm to help her up and smiled encouragingly. “You’ve done nothing of the sort, my dear. Please, don’t be frightened. I don’t bite, you know.”
The young woman glanced nervously past Marla at the group of men where her husband was talking with the others. “Julyen, I mean, my husband … he said I wasn’t to speak to you, your highness, unless he was with me.”
“Why not?”
Acora looked away uncomfortably. “He was afraid I’d say something that might embarrass him, I think.”
That amused Marla so much, she forgot about Alija for a moment. “And what terrible utterance are you likely to make, Lady Acora, that you can’t be trusted alone with me?”
“It’s nothing really, your highness.”
“I seriously doubt it’s nothing. Does your husband consider you an imbecile, Acora, or do you hold opinions likely to offend the crown?”
Inexplicably, Acora smiled. It changed her whole appearance. “To be honest, your highness, it’s probably a little bit of both.”
For no reason she could explain, Marla decided she liked this girl. And her curiosity had been piqued, wondering what Acora must have said to her husband that would have prompted him to forbid her to speak to Marla unsupervised. She was not going to find out this evening, however. Lord Marsh must have seen who his wife was talking to, and hurried over to intervene before Acora could say anything more.
“Your highness! What a pleasure to see you again! And looking so well.” He was a thin man with wispy hair that he parted just above his left ear and combed over his shiny pate in a vain attempt to disguise his baldness.
“As are you, Lord Marsh,” Marla replied. “I was just getting to know your new wife.”
He took Acora’s arm and squeezed it, but the gesture appeared more threatening than affectionate. “Your generosity is commendable, your highness, but really, you don’t have to bother yourself. Acora is very shy, and doesn’t like to mix much.”
“Then we’ll have to do something about that,” Marla announced, annoyed by the way he was trying to dictate to his young wife. “I was just inviting her to lunch tomorrow at my townhouse. You will make sure she gets there on time, won’t you? At noon?”
To refuse would be to gravely insult the High Prince’s sister and—Patriot sympathiser or not—Julyen Marsh wasn’t certain enough of himself to risk doing that. He bowed in reluctant acquiescence, his smile forced. “Of course, your highness. My wife would be delighted and honoured to join you.”
“Excellent, I shall see you tomorrow then, Acora, and we’ll finish our conversation.”
Lord Marsh bustled Acora away before she could say anything more, which left Marla smiling faintly at the notion that she may have struck a blow—however slight—for the cause of female emancipation in Hythria.
“You do like to stir the pot, don’t you, your highness?” a voice remarked behind her.
Marla turned to find herself face to face with Galon Miar. Alija was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s rude to eavesdrop, Master Miar.”
“I’m only a common man, your highness. I was never groomed in the social niceties of the highborn.”
Marla took a step back, feigning disdain to cover her uneasiness. She wasn’t sure why Galon Miar made her feel so uncomfortable, but whatever the reason, she certainly didn’t like it. “In my experience, Master Miar, good manners and a sense of nobility are inherent qualities in all good men, and not restricted to those of high birth.”
The assassin smiled. “Surely you’re not mistaking
me
for a good man, your highness?”
“Well, you apparently keep Alija satisfied,” she replied dismissively. “So you must be good at something.”
He leaned a little closer. “Care to find out?”
Marla was shocked, not because he had made such a suggestion, but that he dared it here, under Alija’s roof, with his lover very probably in the next room. She shook her head, taking another step back, aware he had effectively cornered her and she had nowhere else to go. “Loyalty’s not really your strong suit, is it, Master Miar?”
“I’m loyal enough to those who pay me.”
“Alija’s not getting her money’s worth, I’d say.”
“But then, she’s not paying me.”
Marla laughed, hoping her scorn would wound this man’s impossibly high opinion of himself. “You’re here out of real affection, I suppose? How quaint. How romantic even, that a man like Galon Miar desires a well-worn woman, more than ten years his senior, like Alija Eaglespike. You
have
been blessed by Kalianah, sir.”
If he was insulted, Galon gave no indication. If anything, he seemed amused. “You know, for two women who claim to be friends, you say rather unflattering things about each other.”
“Is that right?”
“You call her well worn. She calls you cold as a blue-finned arlen. Strange, don’t you think? For friends, I mean.”
Marla refused to be drawn. “Why don’t you ask your lover?”
“I’m having rather more fun asking you.”
She smiled, in spite of herself. “You like to live dangerously, don’t you, Master Miar?”
“Call me Galon.”
“And you may call me your royal highness.”
He laughed. “You know, you may actually be as tough as your reputation suggests, your royal
highness.
”
“Continue to irritate me,
Galon.
I’m sure you’ll find out.”
The assassin bowed and took Marla’s hand, kissing her palm. “There’s a great deal I’d like to find out about you.”
“And absolutely nothing I care to know about you,” she replied, extricating her hand quite deliberately from his grasp and making a point of wiping it on her skirt. He didn’t miss the gesture. While Marla was quite certain Galon Miar had some terribly witty comeback on the tip of his tongue, fortunately she was saved from having to think up a response by Alija’s steward stepping into the room to announce dinner was served.
Before the steward had even finished speaking, old Lord Axfardar, her dinner escort this evening, hurried over to her side, his cane tapping on the tiles impatiently. He pushed himself between Marla and Galon, rudely moving the assassin out of the way, and offered Marla his arm, completely ignoring the younger man. “Come, come, your highness, they’re seating us for dinner. I’m starving and Alija tells me I mustn’t let you out of my sight if I’m to be a gentleman.”
“The gracious hostess, as always,” Galon remarked, stepping back. “My lord. Your highness.” He bowed to Lord Axfardar and Marla, then turned and walked away, no doubt to find Alija so he could escort her to the table.
Marla took Lord Axfardar’s arm and with painstaking slowness—Axfardar was ninety, if he was a day—they headed for the dining room. The old lord glared at Galon’s retreating back as his cane tapped out their progress, shaking his white head. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to, your highness. Common assassins mingling with the highborn as if they were equals! It’s all your fault.”
“My fault?” Marla asked in surprise.
“You married that damned sailor and then you married a wretched shopkeeper afterwards. Now every woman in Greenharbour thinks
she
should have a commoner as an accessory, too. They’re popping up everywhere. Can’t even go to a dinner party these days without having to rub shoulders with one of them.”
“Maybe if the highborn men of Greenharbour hadn’t so bravely fled the city to avoid the plague, my lord, the women wouldn’t need to look elsewhere for companionship.”
“We have
court’esa
if they want companionship, your highness. This is all about keeping up with the Wolfblades. Promise me you’ll set things to right. Promise me your next husband will be a man of impeccable character.”
Marla squeezed the old man’s arm affectionately. “By all means, Lord Axfardar. Find me a man, highborn or low, of
impeccable
character and I’ll marry him tomorrow.”
“Don’t patronise me, young lady. Other women look to you to set the fashion. I expect you to take that responsibility seriously.”
Marla smiled. Her eldest son was almost twenty-five. It was a long time since she’d been called “young lady.” “Perhaps
you
would consider remarrying, my lord?” she teased.
Axfardar looked at her and grinned suddenly, exposing his toothless gums. “I’ve worn out eight wives already. I doubt you could keep up.”
“Then I shall just have to remain a poor widow until I meet a man who can compare with you, my lord,” she declared with a woeful sigh. “I’m going to die alone, I’m sure of it.”
He patted her hand with a fatherly smile. “You’re a sweet girl, your highness, to humour an old man. But I’m only half joking. You will have to marry again. For your sake—and Hythria’s sake—be careful who you choose.”
“I’m always careful, my lord,” Marla assured him as they took their places for dinner. “Hythria can’t afford me to be anything else.”
 
T
he exact position of the border between Elasapine Province and Krakandar Province was anybody’s guess, so Narvell Hawksword chose to position his forces well inside his own border, across the entrance to a wide ravine on the western side of the village of Zadenka. Positioned just on the other side of the three-sided intersection on the main road that led through the narrow cutting to Byamor in the west, Zadenka Manor to the north and Krakandar in the east, the site offered protection from any flanking manoeuvres but enough room to move if it came down to close-quarter fighting. Lining the top of the steep sides of the ravine on both sides were Elasapine archers overlooking the village and the crossroads; Narvell’s cavalry was arrayed across the narrowest part of the road behind a hedge of long, sharp pikes, held by his regular infantrymen.
Damin surveyed the disposition of his brother’s troops from horseback on a small rise leading down into the village, cursing softly. This late in the afternoon, the sun was behind his brother’s forces, sitting on the edge of the distant Sunrise Mountains, making Damin squint. Captain Almodavar rode up beside him, as puzzled as Damin was about this strange turn of events.
Tejay Lionsclaw and Adham Tirstone had a different take on the problem. They seemed to think the idea that any of his brothers would seriously declare war on him quite the most implausible thing they’d ever heard and were convinced this was Narvell’s idea of a practical joke.
“Well, somebody was a good boy and paid attention to his lessons on battle tactics, I’d say,” Tejay remarked cheerfully, looking down over the battleground. “And right by an inn, too,” she noted, where a small crowd of nervous villagers had gathered outside the substantial roadhouse to watch the opposing armies converge on each other. “It’s always nice to have somewhere to retire for a drink after a long day’s carnage.”
“Narvell
had
to pay attention to his lessons on
everything
, my lady,” Adham informed her, sounding highly amused. Like Tejay, he seemed to think this whole situation was terribly funny, Damin noted with a scowl. “It was the only way to stay one step ahead of Kalan.”
Damin glared at his stepbrother, but said nothing. For once, he was having difficulty finding any humour in the situation.
Smiling broadly, Tejay nodded in agreement with Adham. “Pity she’s not here now. I’m sure she’d march right down there, box Narvell’s ears, tell him to get out of her way—”
“After reminding him that she is twenty whole minutes older than he is,” Adham interjected.
“Naturally,” she agreed. “And that would be the end of it.”
“Well, she’s not here,” Damin pointed out. “So do either of you jolly little souls have something constructive to offer, or are you just going to sit there and make fun of this mess?”
Adham and Tejay looked at each other questioningly, before Adham turned to Damin with a cheerful grin. “No, I think we’re just going to sit here and make fun of it.”
“Go down and talk to him, Damin,” Almodavar advised, shaking his head at Adham’s frivolous reply. “Something’s going on, but I doubt Narvell will have you shot before he has a chance to explain.”
“You
doubt
it?”
Almodavar shrugged. Even the old captain seemed to be biting back a smile. “You can never tell, my lord. He could be down there on Charel Hawksword’s orders, or it might be something more personal. Have you done anything to upset your brother lately?”
“I haven’t even seen him in six months.”
“Well, then!” Tejay declared. “Off you go! You trot down there and find out what’s going on and we’ll wait here to see if Narvell orders one of his lads to take a shot at you. That should give us a good indication of how serious he is about blocking our progress into Elasapine.”
Damin gathered up his reins and glared at his companions. “You think this is funny, don’t you?”
“Not at all,” Adham assured him. “We’re all desperately worried for you, Damin. Really.” He leaned across and nudged Tejay. “Aren’t we, Lady Lionsclaw?”
“Oh! Absolutely!” Tejay agreed.
Damin swore under his breath and kicked his mount into a canter, heading down the road to where the Elasapine forces were arrayed, cursing all relatives in general, but his brothers in particular. As he approached the Elasapine forces, a single horseman broke away and rode out to meet him. Damin breathed a sigh of relief when he realised it was his younger brother.
“Narvell!” Damin greeted him, as they moved close enough to speak without being overheard by their forces. “What in the name of the gods do you think you’re doing here blocking my way?”
Narvell glanced over his shoulder to survey his troops as he reined in and then turned to Damin, grinning proudly. “Pretty impressive, don’t you think?”
“Pretty stupid was my first impression, actually,” Damin retorted.
“Aw, come on, Damin, don’t be angry with me,” Narvell pleaded with an ingenuous smile. “This wasn’t my idea.”
“Whose idea was it?”
“My grandfather’s.”
“Charel
Hawksword
sent you out here to declare war on me?” Damin shook his head in disbelief. Narvell was his half-brother and the Hawksword family was probably the Wolfblade family’s closest and most trusted ally. “What did I ever do to upset your grandfather?”
“Well … nothing, really …”
“Then why the hell are you declaring war on me?”
“You’re so damn touchy, Damin. It’s nothing personal. And stop exaggerating. I’m not declaring war on you. I’m making a stand.”
“Is this because you’re afraid we’re bringing the plague with us?”
“It’s because Grandpa thinks if I just let you march your army into Elasapine without raising a finger to object, for the rest of my life,” Narvell explained, “people will be whispering that Narvell Hawksword is afraid of his big brother. It may not mean much now, but someday, when I’m Warlord of Elasapine and you’re the High Prince …”
“You
cannot
be serious! I’m here to protect Hythria, not challenge you! Hablet’s massing for an invasion, for pity’s sake!”
“We don’t know that for certain.”
Damin looked at his brother, suddenly suspicious. “I know what’s going on here. Charel’s lost his mind, hasn’t he? And you’re covering for him.”
“He’s got a valid point, Damin.”
“He’s senile.”
“Not
my
grandfather,” Narvell chuckled. “He said to say hello, by the way. He’s looking forward to seeing you again when we get to Byamor.”
Damin scowled at his brother. “That’s rather moot, don’t you think, given you’re blocking my way with an army.”
Narvell shrugged, unconcerned. “I suppose he meant
after
I beat you.”
“Beat
me
?” he asked. “Now I
know
you’re joking.”
Narvell sighed. “Can’t you do me a favour, just this once? We can have a bit of a skirmish, I’ll kick your royal rear enough to make it look convincing and then in a magnanimous act of nobility, I’ll invite you into Elasapine to show there’re no hard feelings. Nothing could be simpler!”
Damin let out an exasperated sigh, convinced he’d never heard anything more preposterous in his entire life. “Except that if I let you beat me, Narvell, for the rest of
my
life, people will be saying that Damin Wolfblade is afraid of his little brother.”
Narvell studied him hopefully. “Well … aren’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Not even a little bit?”
“Even if I was afraid of you,” Damin replied, “which I’m
not …
I’m not going to risk the lives of my Raiders fighting yours when I need your men
and
mine, fit and ready to fight Hablet.”
“Fine,” Narvell agreed with a shrug. “Let’s do it the oldfashioned way, then. Single combat.”
Damin peered at his brother closely. “You’ve been waiting out in the sun too long, old boy. It’s starting to affect your judgment.”
“I’m serious!”
“I know you are,” Damin agreed.
Narvell’s good humour suddenly faded, as if he knew what his brother was thinking. “You think I can’t win, don’t you?”
“I think if you’re trying to prove something to your grandfather, little brother, you need to pick a fight you
can
win.”
“I
will
beat you, Damin.”
“No,” he replied confidently. “You won’t. Not even if I let you choose the weapons. You’ve never been able to beat me, Narvell.”
“I’ve learned a few tricks since we were children.”
“And I grew four inches taller and forty pounds heavier than you. Still,” Damin added, with a resigned sigh as he swung his leg over the pommel of his saddle. “If we’re going to do this, we might as well get it over with.” He jumped to the ground, pulled off his riding gloves and began to unbuckle his breastplate.
Narvell looked at him in confusion. “
Now
?”
“Waiting isn’t going to make a difference.”
Narvell thought about it, shrugged, and then jumped to the ground. “Damn right! Let’s do it now. Choose your weapon!”
“No weapons,” Damin told him. “Somebody might get hurt.”
Amused, his brother began to remove his armour. “You don’t have to worry about me, Damin.”
“I’m not,” he replied, lifting the breastplate over his head. “This is a new shirt. I don’t want you getting in a lucky strike and tearing it.”
Narvell grinned. “Whatever you have to tell yourself, Damin. Just let’s do it quickly, eh? The light’s fading and I’m hungry. Once we’re done we can retire back to Zadenka Manor for dinner and …” He stopped fiddling with the buckles on his shoulder and glanced past Damin to where the others were supposed to be waiting on the hill. “Is that Adham up there with Almodavar?”
“Ah, yes,” Damin said, glancing back toward the rest of his forces. Seeing their prince dismount, they must have decided to find out what was going on and the three of them were trotting past the inn toward the brothers, an act that prompted several officers from Narvell’s waiting cavalry to do likewise. Behind them, the troops began to move forward, down toward the village. “The gang’s all here.”
“Lady Lionsclaw!” Narvell cried delightedly, when he realised who rode beside Adham. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Hello, Narvell,” she replied cheerfully as she reined in her mare. Tejay glanced over his troops and then looked back at the young man. “I see Charel gave you an army for your birthday.”
“Well, what else do you give a man who’s got everything?” Adham joked, reaching down to shake Narvell’s hand.
“Is Kalan with you?” Narvell asked, looking back over the advancing force hopefully as he shook the sorcerer’s hand. Although he’d never admit it (nor would Kalan, Damin knew) the twins missed each other desperately when they were separated for too long.
“She’s headed back to Greenharbour with Wrayan,” Tejay told him with a frown. She glanced at the prince. “Didn’t Damin tell you about …”
“We haven’t actually got to that bit,” Damin announced, as he tossed his greaves aside and began rolling up his sleeves. “First, we have to let my little brother prove his manhood.”
Tejay looked at Damin in surprise. “You’re going to fight Narvell?”
“No, I thought I’d tickle him to death,” Damin retorted impatiently.
The Warlord’s wife nodded in understanding. “Charel’s concerned the people of Elasapine won’t think you independent of your brother’s influence once you’re a Warlord,” she surmised. “He’s right, Narvell. You should fight Damin. And beat him.”
“Tejay!” Damin objected. “Don’t encourage him!”
In reply, Tejay moved her mount around, placing the bulk of the horse between Damin and Narvell. She leaned over, placed a hand on his shoulder and drew him even further away from the others. When she spoke, it was in a low, urgent voice that seemed at odds with everyone else’s jovial demeanour. “Do you remember that conversation we had about you being intolerably competitive, Damin?”
“What of it?”
“Try to control it. Narvell needs to win this fight. Or at least give a good account of himself.”
“Tejay …”
“I mean it, Damin. Charel’s right to be concerned. His heir needs to prove he can stand up to you. Charel needs to believe he can do it, his men need to see that he can do it, and perhaps, most importantly, Narvell needs to believe he can, too.”
“You want me to let him win?” Damin found the idea almost impossible to contemplate. He shook his head emphatically. “No way.”
“I want you to let him keep his honour,” she corrected. “You’re bigger, stronger and a whole lot meaner than you used to be. I know everyone’s joking and laughing about this, but it’s far more serious than you realise, Damin. You run the risk of making a friend or an enemy in the next few minutes. Don’t get it wrong.”
BOOK: Warlord
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