Wolfblade

WOLFBLADE

TOR BOOKS BY JENNIFER FALLON

The Hythrun chronicles

THE DEMON CHILD TRILOGY

Medalon
(Book One)

Treason Keep
(Book Two)

Harshini
(Book Three)

THE WOLFBLADE TRILOGY

Wolfblade

Book one of the wolfblade Trilogy

JENNIFER FALLON

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

WOLFBLADE

Copyright © 2004 by Jennifer Fallon

Originally published in 2004 by Voyager, an imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers
, Australia

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Map by Ellisa Mitchell

A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Tor
^®
is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

ISBN 10: 0-765-30992-0
ISBN 13: 978-0-765-30992-1

First U.S. Edition: January 2006

Printed in the United States of America

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For Glennis,

and, as always,

Adele Robinson

I
t was always messy, cleaning up after a murder. There was more than just blood to be washed off the tiles. There were all those awkward loose ends to be taken care of—alibis to be established, traitors to be paid off, witnesses to be silenced . . .

And that, Elezaar knew, was the problem. He’d just witnessed a murder.

A slight, humid breeze ruffled the curtain in the alcove where the dwarf was hiding, the tiled floors of the mansion echoing to the sound of booted feet. The faint, fishy smell of the harbour lingered on the wind, rank and uninviting. Or perhaps it wasn’t the nearby bay Elezaar could smell. Maybe the decay he smelled was here. Maybe the swords of his master’s killers had opened a vein somewhere and the stench came from the moral decay that seeped from the very walls of this house and permeated everything it touched.

Still trembling at the narrowness of his escape, Elezaar moved the curtain a fraction and looked into the room. His master’s corpse lay across the blood-soaked silken sheets, his head almost severed by the savage blow which had ended his life. On the floor at his feet lay another body. A slave. She was so new to the household Elezaar hadn’t even had time to learn her name. She was only twelve or thirteen; her slender, broken body in the first bloom of womanhood. Or it had been. The master liked them like that—young, nubile and terrified. Elezaar had lost count of the number of girls like her he had seen led into this opulently decorated chamber of horrors. He’d listened to their screams, night after night, playing his lyre with desperate determination; he provided the background music to their torment, shutting out their cries for mercy . . .

This was no subtle assassination, the dwarf decided in a conscious effort to block the memories. This was blatant. Done in broad daylight. An open challenge to the High Prince.

Not that the attack was entirely unexpected. Elezaar’s master, Ronan Dell, was one of the High Prince’s closest friends—assuming you could call
their bizarre, often volatile relationship “friendship”. In Elezaar’s opinion, his master and the High Prince shared a passion for perversion and for other people’s pain rather than any great affection for each other. There were few in Greenharbour who would lament the death of Ronan Dell. No slave in his household would miss him, Elezaar could well attest to that. But even if the slaves of Lord Ronan’s house stood by and cheered the men who had stormed the mansion—was it only an hour ago?—their change of allegiance would do them little good. Slaves, even expensive, exotic creatures like Elezaar, were too dangerous to keep alive.

Particularly when they could bear witness to an assassination.

Wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers, Elezaar stepped out of the alcove and made his way cautiously through the chaos of shredded bedding and broken glass to the door. He opened it a fraction and peered out. But for a toppled pedestal and a shattered vase, the hall was deserted, but there were still soldiers in the house. He could hear their distant shouts as they hunted down the last of the household staff.

Elezaar waited in the doorway, torn with indecision. Should he stay here, out of sight? Out of harm’s way? Or should he venture out into the halls? Should he see if he could find anybody left alive? Perhaps the assassins had orders to spare the innocent. The dwarf smiled sourly. He might as well imagine the killers had orders to set them all free, as imagine there was any chance the slaves of the house would be spared.

Perhaps
, Elezaar thought,
I should stay here, after all. Maybe the soldiers won’t torch the place when they’re done
. Maybe he could escape. Maybe Crys had found somewhere to hide. With their master dead, perhaps there was a chance to be truly free? If everyone thought Crysander the
court’esa
and Elezaar the dwarf had perished in the slaughter . . .

I have to get out of here. I have to find Crys
.

Elezaar froze at the sound of footsteps in the hall, hurried yet fearless. He shrank back against the wall, holding his breath, his view of the hall beyond shrinking to a slit as he waited for the danger to pass. A figure moved in his limited field of vision. His heart clenched . . .

And then he almost cried with relief when he realised who it was.

“Crys!”

The tall
courtf’esa
turned as the dwarf called out to him in a loud hiss.

“Elezaar?”

“Thank the gods you’re still alive!” Elezaar cried, looking up and down the hall furtively as he emerged from behind the door.

“It’s a miracle
you’re
still alive,” Crys replied, apparently unconcerned about the danger he might be in. “How did you get away?”

“I’m small and ugly, Crys. People either don’t see me or they think I’m stupid. How come you were spared?”

For a moment, Crys didn’t reply. Elezaar looked up at him curiously. The
brothers had always been close, even though their status as slaves had seen them separated more often than not since childhood. In fact, this was the first household they had ever served in together. Both played down the relationship, however. It didn’t do to give a master any more leverage over you than he already had; particularly a master like Ronan Dell. Crysander was such a handsome young man, with his dark eyes and long dark hair. He was also blessed (or cursed) with the slender type of physique that so appealed to masters who wanted their slaves to have all the skills of a well-trained
court’esa
and yet still manage to give the impression they were an adolescent boy. Crys had suffered much in Ronan Dell’s service; almost as much as Elezaar. But in different ways. And for different reasons.