Warlord Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PART ONE - DUTY, DESTINY AND JUST DESSERTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  PART TWO - TRAITORS, TRICKS AND TREACHERY

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  PART THREE - WAR GAMES

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  PART FOUR - FOR PRIDE AND GLORY AND THE TRUTH

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  EPILOGUE

  Tor Books by Jennifer Fallon

  Praise for Jennifer Fallon’s Work

  Teaser chapter

  Notes

  Copyright Page

  For the adopted ones

  PART ONE

  DUTY, DESTINY AND JUST DESSERTS

  PROLOGUE

  Damin Wolfblade had no need to stand sentry duty. With an army of more than two thousand men at his command, and while still in his own province, there wasn’t even a need to post sentries at all. But Damin had been taught well. Just because an attack was improbable didn’t mean it was impossible. So despite the fact they were still two days from the Elasapine-Krakandar border, and hundreds of miles from their nearest enemy, Damin had set sentries around the camp for the night and made a point of checking on their disposition personally.

  The night was clear and crisp, the stars providing more than enough light to see by. He made his way forward accompanied by the busy sounds of night creatures and insects, without any attempt at stealth, his progress leaving a cautious silence in his wake. Damin’s purpose for checking the sentries wasn’t to catch them out. He wanted to alert them to the possibility that, at any time, their prince might happen by and they’d better be ready for it. It was a trick Geri Almodavar had taught him, one he claimed Laran Krakenshield was fond of. Damin didn’t know if the old captain was just saying that to validate his suggestion, or if it really was a tactic favoured by Damin’s late father, and in the end, it didn’t really matter. It was a good thing to do, whoever thought of it.

  Without warning, a silhouette detached itself from the thin line of trees ahead, resolving into a man shape, a sword raised threateningly in Damin’s direction.

  “Halt! Who goes there?”

  “Your prince.”

  The silhouette advanced, showing no sign of friendliness. “Show yourself!”

  Damin did as the sentry ordered and stepped out of the shadow of the trees. The sentry studied him closely in the starlight and then sheathed his sword.

  “Your highness,” he said with an apologetic bow. “I didn’t realise it was you.”

  “Don’t apologise for doing your job, soldier.”

  “No, sire.”

  Damin stepped closer, surprised at how young the sentry seemed. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

  “Been with the Krakandar Raiders long?”

  The lad shook his head. “Joined up so I could get out of the city.” And then as he remembered who he was addressing, he added hastily, “Your highness.”

  Damin smiled wryly. “So did I.”

  “Sire?” the lad asked, looking confused.

  “Nothing,” he sighed. “Stay alert, eh?”

  “Yes, your highness.”

  Damin patted the lad on the shoulder and continued along his way, thinking he should have thought to ask the boy his name. Almodavar would have done that. Then again, he probably didn’t need to ask. Damin suspected Almodavar could address every Raider in Krakandar by name, and there were thousands of them. He probably knew the names of all their wives and children, too.

  There’s more to being a good general than knowing how to win a battle, Almodavar had often told him when he was a lad. It’s about knowing your men. Knowing what drives them. And sometimes it’s knowing how to avoid a fight.

  Strange advice, really, he mused, coming from a man so devoted to the God of War.

  Damin’s thoughts were distracted by a faint light ahead of him through the trees. He stopped, wondering if the next sentry had been thoughtless enough to light a fire. He doubted it. Any man willing to do something so foolish wouldn’t last long in any army over which Almodavar held sway.

  Then again, the last sentry looked barely old enough to dress himself without his mother. Perhaps, with the Raiders’ numbers so drastically reduced by the plague, there were raw recruits out here without the sense to realise how stupid such an action was. Drawing his sword, and fully intending to give the young man the fright of his life, Damin started forward, this time making as little noise as possible.

  As he neared the light, he discovered it wasn’t where the next sentry should be standing guard but some way off to the left, in a small clearing set back from the open grassland that marked the edge of the camp.

  Curiosity replaced annoyance as Damin neared the clearing. A harsh white radiance beckoned ahead, not the warm yellow glow of a wood fire. Raising his sword a little higher, he felt himself drawn toward the light, the compulsion to discover the source of this strange illumination driving all thoughts of stealth or caution from his mind.

  When he stepped into the clearing, Damin stared at the figure waiting for him and automatically fell to one knee, laying his sword on the ground in front of him.

  “Divine One!”

  “Scion of Wolfblade.”

  The voice was rich, the timbre so deep it resonated along his spine, prickling his skin with goosebumps. Even if he hadn’t grown up surrounded by statues and paintings of his family’s favourite god, Damin could feel the awesome presence of the gilded figure before him. Tall and proud, his shoulders broad, his long cloak billowing in the still air as if it was accompanied by its own breeze, and wearing armour Damin had only seen depicted in ancient Harshini murals, this was—he knew with a certainty—Zegarnald, the God of War.

  It bordered on intoxicating to be in his presence, but for s
ome reason, Damin found himself unsurprised. Maybe because he knew Wrayan Lightfinger spoke to the gods, he wasn’t as shocked to meet one as he might have been. Whatever the reason for his calm acceptance of the miraculous, it made no difference now. He shielded his eyes against the light as he stared at Zegarnald in wonder and then bowed his head. “You honour me beyond words, Divine One.”

  “Yes,” the god agreed. “I do.”

  As awestruck as he was, a small part of Damin wanted to smile at the god’s solemn reply, but he thought better of it. Zegarnald was credited with many qualities, but a sense of humour wasn’t among them.

  “How can I serve you, Divine One?”

  “You are riding to war.”

  Damin risked a glance upward, still squinting at the god’s bright countenance, not sure if that was a question or an observation.

  “We fear a Fardohnyan invasion, Divine One.”

  “Fear it?” Zegarnald asked. “Or welcome it?”

  “I welcome it!” Damin assured him. Admitting he feared war wasn’t what the God of War wanted to hear, he guessed.

  Zegarnald appeared pleased with his answer. The god’s light faded a little and he became easier to look upon. “You will honour me well, I think, young Wolfblade.”

  “It won’t be for lack of trying, Divine One,” Damin assured him, cringing a little at how trite he sounded. Where was Wrayan when you needed him? He was the expert when it came to talking with the gods.

  Fortunately, Zegarnald took Damin at his word, seemingly unaware of any nuance of tone or meaning. “And I expect you to succeed. I expended much effort to ensure you were provided with the right guidance as a child.”

  Damin stared at the god in surprise. “You did?”

  “I am well within my rights to do this, Scion of Hythria. Your father offered me your soul the night you were born.”

  “Every warrior in the country offers his firstborn son to you the night he’s born, Divine One,” Damin reminded him respectfully. “It’s a tradition older than time. I claim no special privilege from it.”

  Zegarnald studied him with a frown. “Do you question my right to arrange circumstances favourably for my disciples?”

  “Of course not, Divine One,” Damin hurried to reply. “It’s just … well, you’ve got millions of disciples in Hythria and Fardohnya. Do you take a personal interest in the education of every boy offered to you?”

  “The Hythrun heir is not every boy.”

  “But … I’m not the first Hythrun heir to be offered to the God of War, either,” he pointed out, wondering as he said it why he was arguing with his god. If he had any sense he’d simply take this honour for what it was. But this wasn’t about sense, Damin knew. Wrayan had taught him enough to make him a little suspicious, along with honoured, by the appearance of any god. There had to be a reason for this. The heirs of the last fifty-odd generations of Wolfblades had been sworn to Zegarnald the night they were born. To Damin’s knowledge, the God of War had displayed a singular lack of interest in any of them until now.

  “Your soul was offered to me by a true warrior, a man who genuinely and devoutly honoured his god,” Zegarnald replied. Then he added in a somewhat more wistful voice, “It has been a long time since any Wolfblade prince truly honoured the God of War.”

  Damin fell silent as he realised Zegarnald meant Laran Krakenshield, suddenly humbled by his father’s legacy. Laran had been a devout follower of the War God—Damin knew that much, even though he was barely two years old when his father was killed—and he could well imagine how Zegarnald would have reacted to a soul so earnestly proffered, no matter how trite the custom seemed to those who didn’t believe.

  “I hope I can prove worthy of your patronage, Divine One,” Damin said, lowering his head. “To honour both you and my father’s memory.”

  Zegarnald seemed pleased with his answer. “You will not disappoint me.”

  Damin couldn’t tell if that was an order or a prediction, and wasn’t brave enough to ask. He bowed his head again. “What must I do to serve you, Divine One?”

  “Give me a decent war,” the god replied.

  Damin glanced up. “Pardon?”

  “I have set the scene, Scion of Hythria. The game is now in your hands.”

  “I’m not worthy, Divine One,” Damin declared with genuine despair at the thought that the entire weight of the coming conflict might rest on his shoulders.

  “I ask nothing of you that you are not capable of,” the god assured him. “And I will see you have what assistance you need.”

  “Assistance?” Damin asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice. “You mean more men?”

  “I mean you will have assistance,” the god repeated. “More than that, you do not need to know. Do not fear your ability to honour me, young Wolfblade. War and death suit me just as well as victory.”

  Damin hesitated, thinking that sounded a little ominous. “I will seek victory in your name, Divine One.”

  The god looked as if he expected nothing less. “You face a numerically superior enemy led by an experienced and intelligent general,” the god warned. “You will have much opportunity to honour my name, Wolfblade. Do not disappoint men.”

  He knows where the Fardohnyans are, Damin realised. How many they are. Who is leading them … He desperately wanted to question Zegarnald further about the enemy, but the god either knew his thoughts or guessed his intentions and held up his hand to forestall him.

  “Do not ask anything more of me,” he warned. “It is enough to know I favour your endeavours. Any more than this would cheapen your victory.”

  Which is just fine by me, Damin thought irreverently. If it means we’re going to win.

  But he didn’t say it aloud. He lowered his head again and, taking his dagger from his belt, pricked the tip of the fourth finger on his left hand. Some warriors—those who considered themselves particularly devout—sliced their forearm or their palm, even their thigh, when offering a blood sacrifice, but Damin had been raised by more pragmatic men. The God of War wants the taste of your blood so he can know you in the heat of battle, Almodavar used to say when he was a child, not his disciples incapacitated and unable to fight.

  As the blood beaded around the small incision, Damin held his hand out to Zegarnald. “I live to serve and honour you, Divine One.”

  The god’s countenance flared momentarily, perhaps because of the fresh blood so close by, and then he looked down at Damin with a grimace the young man thought might have been intended as a smile. “I accept your sacrifice, Scion of Hythria. Do not give me reason to regret it.”

  Damin bowed his head, closing his eyes to receive his god’s blessing, but when he opened them again the clearing was dark. The night was unchanged—clear and crisp, the air still, the darkness filled with the sounds of nocturnal creatures going about their business.

  Still on one knee, his sword on the ground in front of him, Damin wondered if he’d imagined Zegarnald had been here. And then he looked down at the bead of fresh blood dripping from the end of his finger, proof that he had been visited by his god.

  Nobody’s going to believe this, he thought. If I go around telling people I’ve met Zegarnald, they’ll think I’m as crazy as my uncle.

  Studying his cut finger for a moment longer, he cursed softly and wiped the blood away on his trousers. He wouldn’t tell anyone, he decided. Not until he was certain himself that the pressure of command wasn’t making him hallucinate.

  Damin smiled grimly, thinking they hadn’t even left Krakandar yet. If the pressure was getting to him already, there wasn’t much hope for winning this war, no matter how much the God of War expected of him.

  Feeling more than a little perplexed, Damin leaned forward and picked up his sword, sheathing it as he rose to his feet. What had Zegarnald said?

  It is enough to know I favour your endeavours.

  That’s something, Damin decided as he turned from the small clearing. The God of War favours our endeavours.
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br />   Which would have been a lot more comforting, Damin thought as he resumed his patrol of the sentry positions, if he hadn’t added that bit about war and death suiting him just as well as victory.

  CHAPTER 1

  Kalan Hawksword had discovered a great deal about herself in the past few days. And a great deal about her friends and family, people she thought she knew almost as well as herself. She’d learned her uncle Mahkas had a capacity for cruelty that defied reason and that her brother, Damin, wasn’t nearly as asinine as she’d feared. She had learned her cousin Leila was capable of taking her own life out of despair, and that the coolest head in a crisis that she had ever encountered was Tejay Lionsclaw. She had learned Rorin Mariner’s healing power had severe limits and that if you asked the gods for help, you’d better be prepared for the consequences if they said yes.

  But mostly, she’d learned nothing was ever as simple or straightforward as it seemed.

  Kalan glanced furtively along the narrow, crooked street before knocking on the door of the safe house. She wore a plain cloak over her silken gown to hide its obvious quality, but she suspected it meant little down here where the very air smelled of watchful suspicion. Although she’d left her horse with its silver-trimmed tack and imported Medalonian saddle back at the stables of the Pickpocket’s Retreat and walked the few streets to the safe house, strangers were noticed down here in the back streets of the Beggar’s Quarter. The locals might not know who she was, but they were certain she didn’t belong here.

  Fyora opened the door for her. Wiping her muddy feet on the coir mat, Kalan slipped into the small, unremarkable house as Fee closed and locked the door behind her. The court’esa’s face was grim as she pushed past Kalan and the narrow staircase into the dim main room with its barely adequate fire. Two narrow benches were lined up at right angles to the hearth and a rough wooden table with three stools was shoved against the wall on her right, but there was no sign of Starros. For a moment Kalan feared the worst. Before she could say anything, however, she heard something breaking in the other room and raised voices. Turning to Fyora, she raised her brow with a questioning look.