Authors: Jennifer Fallon

Warlord (36 page)

BOOK: Warlord

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N
ot since he was twelve years old had Rorin Mariner spent so much time dodging large numbers of Fardohnyan soldiers who would cheerfully hang him as a Hythrun spy if they caught him. He wouldn’t be dodging them now, he knew, if not for the rank stupidity of Terin Lionsclaw.

The trip to Winternest had been bad enough. Terin brought along a small army of retainers, suffering under the sorry delusion that a large entourage somehow made him look more important. Nothing Rorin said seemed to convince the man this excursion behind enemy lines was to gather intelligence, rather than impress people. Terin was a Warlord and Rorin was simply a commoner, the Warlord pointed out tersely, even if he was a member of the Sorcerers’ Collective. In the end Rorin gave up trying. There was nothing he could do or say that was going to change such a vain man’s mind.

He’d had one small win, however, which had led Rorin to this rock he was hiding behind this night, as yet another troop of Fardohnyan soldiers in their blue and grey livery marched through the Widowmaker Pass. Terin Lionsclaw crouched beside him, glaring at the soldiers as if the presence of every single man was a personal affront to his lordship over Sunrise Province. Rorin silently prayed he’d remain quiet until they passed. They were barely a mile beyond Winternest and it was.a minor miracle they hadn’t been spotted heading into the pass, only the darkness and the confusion of a fortress overwhelmed by too many troops to feed and house providing cover for them to slip through the darkness and into the Widowmaker itself.

“How many do you think there are?” Terin hissed as the troops filed past in a seemingly endless line.

“At least two hundred in this lot,” Rorin replied softly, wishing Terin would just shut up and wait until the danger was past before he started with the questions. They were very close to the road. It would take little more than a snapped twig and one alert Fardohnyan for them to be discovered.

“I mean all up,” the Warlord corrected. “How many troops do you think they’ve gotten into Hythria so far?”

That was a much more difficult question to answer. In the past couple of weeks Rorin had almost lost count of the Fardohnyans he had seen as they dodged and weaved and dived off the road into the bushes more times than he could recall. The enemy were well past Winternest and gathering on the slopes of the Twin River Valley a few miles to the southeast of Winternest—a narrow stretch of fertile farmland flanked by the foothills of the forested Sunrise Mountains in the west, the Saltan River to the north and the Norsell River to the south. Strategically, it was a brilliant place to muster. There was ample food, lots of water, and no way to sneak around behind the invaders or cut off their supply lines to the west. Rorin didn’t know who had command of the Fardohnyans, but whoever it was, he was nobody’s fool.

“Hard to say,” Rorin whispered. “Twenty, maybe thirty thousand.” He watched the troops marching past. “And they seem to just keep on coming.”

This lot, he guessed, were the last contingent sent through the pass this morning from Westbrook, hence the reason they were still marching after dark. He turned to look at Terin, hoping he was finally in a mood to be reasoned with. “We need to get this information back to Prince Damin, my lord, don’t you agree?”

“Your precious prince will have a much better chance of winning this war if we have an accurate assessment of the final numbers Hablet is likely to throw at us,” Terin hissed, repeating a phrase so well worn now that Rorin could have answered his own question.

At the outset, he didn’t know why Terin was set on this suicidal notion of sneaking through the Widowmaker into Fardohnya to report on troop numbers. Given the Fardohnyans were making no secret of their location, it would have been (and still was) a simple matter of placing scouts in the hills around the Twin River Valley, to watch from there. They weren’t likely to make a move until all their troops were through the pass, so there was plenty of time.

But Terin had insisted on this mission and finally Rorin had agreed to come along, mostly because he didn’t want to face Tejay Lionsclaw and explain to her how he lost her husband (although he suspected if he did lose him, her period of mourning would be mercifully brief). He’d managed to convince Terin to send the rest of his entourage down to the Twin River Valley to set up an observation post to report on the troop numbers from there while the two of them made this insanely dangerous foray into Fardohnya.

When Terin readily agreed to that idea, Rorin finally worked out what was going on. Terin wanted to be a hero and heroes did brave and noble things, usually alone and always against incredible odds. Sneaking into Fardohnya might not help their cause much, but it was far more dashing than sitting on a hillside counting camp fires.

Rorin, who was quite content with the notion that he didn’t have a single heroic bone in his entire body, had regretted agreeing to Terin’s ludicrous suggestion from the moment Winternest came into sight just before sunset earlier today and nothing had happened in the intervening hours to change his opinion.

Finally, the last Fardohnyan trooper marched past. They waited a few moments longer to ensure there were no stragglers before emerging from behind the rocks that had concealed them from the enemy.

“My lord,” Rorin said softly while they waited, hoping he might yet change Terin’s mind. “We’d be far better served by getting this information back to Cabradell.”

“If you’ve not the stomach for this, sorcerer, go back.”

Terin truly had no concept of the danger he was courting, Rorin realised.

The Warlord squared his shoulders manfully and rose to his feet, his expression determined. “We’ll see who’s the bigger man.”

Rorin had a strong suspicion the Warlord wasn’t referring to him. He watched as Lord Lionsclaw pushed past him, convinced he was being a hero. Rorin studied his retreating back, thinking if he had any brains, he’d turn around right now and head back through the pass while it was still dark and he had some hope of slipping past Winternest without being detected. But if he did that and something happened to Terin, he’d have to explain it to Damin—and worse, to Lady Lionsclaw. Neither of them would be terribly happy if the only thing Rorin Mariner had to report on his return to Cabradell was the capture or death of Sunrise Province’s Warlord.

With a sigh, Rorin glanced over his shoulder to be certain none of the Fardohnyans were heading back their way, and then stepped out from behind the rocks to follow Terin. He could hear nothing in the darkness that might indicate they were not alone.

He’d barely taken a step, however, before he froze, stunned at the sudden appearance of something he hadn’t seen since he was twelve years old.

In front of him, perched on a rock a few feet away, was a little grey creature with huge black eyes and drooping ears, staring at him with interest.

“Hello, Rory.”

“Lady
Elarnymire
?”

“How many other demons are you on first-name terms with?” the little demon asked, blinking her liquid black eyes at him.

“What … what … are
you
doing here?”

“I don’t have time to explain.”

“Then what the … ?”

“Run away.”

“
What
?”

“Run away, Rory. Right now.”

“But I …”

“Don’t argue with me, boy,” the demon commanded crossly. “Just do as you’re told. Turn around and run away, as fast as you can.”

Only in times of the direst need had the demon Elarnymire appeared to Rorin. The last time he’d laid eyes on her was more than twelve years ago, at the other end of this very pass, when she’d talked him into surrendering to the Fardohnyan authorities in Westbrook, while he waited to be rescued by Wrayan. For her to suddenly materialise now meant the danger must be dire, indeed.

And immediate. Rorin hesitated only a moment, before doing what the demon ordered. He’d only taken three steps, however, before he stopped and turned back, cursing savagely.

“
Now
what?” Elarnymire demanded impatiently.

“My companion … Lord Lionsclaw … I have to …”

“You don’t have time, and from what I’ve seen, he’s probably not worth it. Get away from here, Rory, this minute, or you will die.”

No sooner had Elarnymire spoken than a low rumble reverberated through the pass. Almost simultaneously Rorin felt his skin prickle. Somebody was using Harshini magic in the vicinity, which probably accounted for the demon’s unexpected presence here in the Widowmaker. Rorin couldn’t imagine who it would be. As far as he knew, the only other soul alive capable of wielding Harshini magic besides himself was Wrayan Lightfinger and he was a thousand miles from here, with Kalan and Princess Marla in Greenharbour.

“Who’s doing this?” he asked the demon, stumbling as the ground began to tilt. The only other distant possibility, excluding the Harshini, was Brakandaran the Halfbreed and even Wrayan wasn’t completely convinced he was still alive.

“Run away and you might live to find out, someday,” Elarnymire suggested.

Rorin hesitated a moment longer, his skin beginning to burn as the intensity of the magic increased. Whoever was making this happen was drawing far more magic than Rorin or Wrayan could manage. But he didn’t have time to figure out who was causing the earth to shake, any more than he had time to go after Terin, assuming the demon would even allow him to take another step further. The ground was trembling even harder and loose rocks were beginning to tumble down the steep walls of the pass.

“Can you find my friend and warn him?” he asked the demon, not wishing to simply abandon Terin to his fate, no matter how tempting the notion might have been ten minutes ago.

“Only if you promise to turn around, run away as fast as you can, and not look back.”

“I promise.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” The demon shrugged, and then she vanished into thin air.

Rorin turned and ran. Sending Elarnymire to look for Terin was the best he could do, he assured himself, dodging larger rocks the ground tremor had worked loose higher up the slopes. As he rounded the bend, a deep boom rolled over the mountains and echoed through the pass, the terrifying sound amplified by the steep rock walls. It was followed a moment later by a deafening crash as tons of rock and debris smashed together and fell down into the Widowmaker.

A massive dust cloud, thicker than a Karien fog, billowed out of the darkness, choking Rorin. Going flat out now, his eyes watering as he ran, he managed to stay a few steps in front of the avalanche of rocks and trees tumbling into the pass. Coughing to clear his tortured lungs, Rorin knew he wasn’t going to make it through without help. Urgently, he grabbed for the source and felt the magic infuse his body. With his eyes as black as the surrounding night, he jumped fallen trees and dodged falling rocks, using his ability to move things magically to clear a path for himself and prevent some of the larger falling objects from crushing him.

Rorin didn’t know how long he ran. The only thing he knew was that eventually the tall towers of Winternest appeared out of the choking dust, the road clogged with both Fardohnyan soldiers and Hythrun captives drawn out by the massive explosion in the pass. He dodged them, too. Drawing every ounce of power he could manage, it was no trouble to add a glamour that made him effectively invisible to a casual glance.

But as he stumbled past the spectators, he wondered why he’d bothered. Nobody was looking at Rorin Mariner. They all stared into the pass, their mouths open, stunned by the realisation that the Widowmaker Pass was no longer there.

CHAPTER 47

N
ot surprisingly, the presence of Cyrus Eaglespike in the war camp sent the High Prince into a frenzy. Forgetting all about Alija’s recent assurance the Patriots had abandoned their quest to unseat him, he was torn between the notion that Alija had sent Cyrus to kill him or that he was a Patriot spy sent to threaten his throne. The two fears were one and the same to Damin—he couldn’t quite see the distinction—and there was nothing anybody could say that would change Lernen’s mind about the Dregian Warlord.

Damin didn’t think his distant cousin was plotting against the High Prince. At least not directly. Cyrus tended to follow his mother’s lead and Alija was back in Greenharbour. Without someone to do his plotting for him, Cyrus was just a monumental pain in the backside, in Damin’s opinion, rather than a murderous one.

To add to his growing list of woes, Lernen was also convinced—at least for the past week—that if he didn’t come up with a brilliant tactical plan to defeat the invaders, people might suspect he wasn’t a very good general. Damin didn’t have the heart to tell him there wasn’t a soul in Hythria who thought he was any sort of general, let alone a good one.

The High Prince had taken to sitting up half the night, working on his plans, and then summoning his nephews the following morning to explain his ideas and get either Damin or Narvell’s seal of approval. Narvell begged off as often as he could. Unlike Damin, he found it hard to keep a straight face when Lernen started explaining his plans and didn’t want to offend his uncle by laughing out loud at some of his more outrageous suggestions.

Damin, being Lemen’s heir, didn’t have that luxury. When Lernen called, Damin answered. That was the way of things and they would stay that way until his uncle died and he became High Prince.

It was in response to such a summons that Damin and Kraig had come to visit the High Prince this morning. In the middle of the night, Lernen had gotten the notion that the Fardohnyans were afraid of fire and that the obvious solution to their invasion was wait until the summer months and the warmer weather arrived, and then set fire to the slopes of the Sunrise Mountains and drive the Fardohnyans back across their own borders where they belonged.

“Such a fire would be uncontrollable,” Damin pointed out, after Lernen proudly finished explaining his latest strategy. “Not to mention hideously expensive.”

“Why expensive?” the High Prince asked. “How much can a few torches cost?”

“I was referring to the timber we’d lose. Some of those forests have stood since the Harshini were here and a good half of Sunrise Province’s population earns their living, either directly or indirectly, from logging. And there’s no guarantee the prevailing winds would favour us on the day. Cabradell Valley acts like a funnel for the wind coming off the mountains at the best of times. Set loose a wildfire and you may well kill the city and everyone in it, instead of driving the enemy back, which is kind of doing the Fardohnyans’ job for them, don’t you think?”

Lernen glanced down at the map table with intense disappointment. “So you don’t think it’s a good idea, then?”

Damin shook his head. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something much more inspired soon, Uncle.”

The High Prince frowned but before he could actually come up with something more inspired, one of his slaves appeared from behind the screen that led to the private areas of the massive pavilion to inform his master that his bath was ready. Without a word to his nephew, Lernen hurried off to take advantage of his bath while it was still hot, almost as if he’d forgotten Damin was there.

Damin watched him leave, and then turned to Kraig, who was waiting patiently by the door. Lernen seemed to have forgotten his initial fear of the big Denikan by the following morning, so Damin often brought Kraig to Lernen’s tent these days, partly because it enhanced the reputation he was trying to foster and partly because, much to Damin’s delight, Cyrus Eaglespike was almost as intimidated by the Denikan as the High Prince and if he tried to ingratiate his way into Damin’s private daily meetings with his uncle, Kraig’s presence actually scared him off.

With a sigh, Damin glanced down at the map. “You know, the Harshini have an old saying,” he remarked as he began pinching out the candles Lernen had placed on it to indicate his great plans for a wildfire. “
War is the easiest hell to get into and the hardest to escape.
”

“Not an inaccurate assessment,” Kraig agreed.

Damin glanced at him over his shoulder. “I think the first part of that saying has been lost over the eons. I suspect it used to be:
When being led by a fool, war is the easiest hell to get into and the hardest to escape.”

“I would agree your uncle is not a … military man,” Kraig remarked tactfully.

“Really?” Damin gasped in amazement. “What
ever
gave you that idea?”

Kraig smiled, which was a rare thing for the Denikan. “You, on the other hand, I sense … have been trained with just such a conflict in mind. And your uncle’s incompetence frustrates you enormously.”

“Well, all that brilliant training doesn’t do me a whole lot of good with him in charge.”

The Denikan walked to the map and looked down at it thoughtfully. “There are four things that always affect a battle,” he noted. “They are immutable and, if you understand them, the key to winning any conflict.”

A little fed up with the Denikan’s insistence that he was an expert in everything, Damin’s first reaction was to ignore his advice. But something Zegarnald had said to him stuck in his mind.
I ask nothing of you that you are not capable of
, his god had assured him.
And I will see you have what assistance you need.

The Denikan prince spoke with an air of authority Damin had rarely heard from anybody but Almodavar. Perhaps this was the assistant Zegarnald promised. He certainly couldn’t think of any other reason why the gods might have thrown these Denikans across his path.

“What four things?”

“The first is how you move your men,” Kraig explained, leaning on the edge of the table to get a closer look. “Your ability to put them where you want them, have them hold as long as you need them, and have them respond to changes as quickly as you need them to.” Kraig studied the map closely as he spoke. “The second is your ability to be flexible. Victory always falls to the leader who can change his strategy when it’s clear the planned one isn’t working.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that.”

“The third quality is a leader’s ability to innovate. It’s all well and good to study the history of other men’s battles, but the
reason
you study them is because they were the first to think of a particular manoeuvre or strategy.” He glanced at Damin and added, “Which is usually
why
they won the battle you end up reading about.”

Damin nodded in agreement. “And the fourth?”

“Ah, that is something much less tangible but no less important. You must claim victory over men’s minds before you can take it from their bodies.”

“Do you mean the army’s morale?”

Kraig shook his head. “It’s more than that. And it’s not just your own men. Certainly, you need them to believe you can win, but you need your opposition to suspect you can, too.” He shrugged and stood up straighter. “Still, in that, at least, you have the advantage. Men fighting for their own land always have a lot more to lose than the men invading it.”

“Have you been in many battles?” Damin asked curiously.

“A few.”

“Did you win?”

“In Denika, we don’t take prisoners. I am here discussing the matter with you, your highness. You can, therefore, safely assume I was victorious.”

Damin smiled, wondering if Kraig was trying to be humorous, or if it was just his intense seriousness that always struck Damin as funny. “So what do you advise, Kraig? If you were fighting this battle for the House of the Rising Moon?”

Kraig barely even hesitated before pointing to the map. “I would force my enemy to confront me here, at this place you call Farwell.”

Damin glanced down at the map. “That’s right between the Saltan and Norsell rivers. If they muster there we’re in trouble. There’s no way to get around behind them and no way to cut off their supply lines.”

“But if you owned this crossing on the Saltan and that bridge on the Norsell, you could draw the invaders down into the far end of this valley, come in behind them and trap your enemy with the rivers on either side of them and your forces in front and behind them. You would control the battleground.”

“That’d be useful.”

“And necessary,” Kraig agreed. “Given the enemy will probably outnumber you significantly. If I was in command, I would play on their assumption of superiority and let them break through the centre of my lines. It would then appear to the attacking forces that they have managed a rout. Even better, I would have my flanks withdraw in as much chaos as I could manage. My enemy would taste the victory, and keep pushing on toward the hills here at Lasting Drift …”

“Where you’d have the rest of your forces waiting on the other side of the rivers,” Damin finished for him, seeing immediately where the Denikan was going with this. “That might actually work.”

“You sound surprised.”

“You want to see surprised? Come talk to me
after
we’ve won.”

“Excuse me, your highness.”

Damin turned to find one of Tejay’s house slaves standing near the entrance to the pavilion, clutching a small folded note. “Yes?”

“Lady Lionsclaw bade me deliver this, your highness.”

Damin accepted the note, opening it curiously. It was unlike Tejay to interrupt him when he was meeting with the High Prince and once again, he feared it might mean the worst for Adham, who still teetered on the brink of real danger with his slow-healing belly wound.

“What is it?” Kraig asked, as Damin read the note.

“Tell Lady Lionsclaw I’m on my way,” he ordered the slave. As soon as the young man was gone, he turned back to the Denikan prince. “We have to get back to the palace:”

“Is there a problem with your brother?”

“Rorin’s back,” Damin told him. “And according to Tejay’s note, he’s come back without Terin.”

BOOK: Warlord

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