The Warlord's Daughter (4 page)

Aral’s throat hurt too much to allow him a gulp of shame. He was fifteen. He’d not yet been with a woman.

Another blow. “Move, boy! Do you need me to show you how?”

Horror and self-loathing sickened Aral. He refused to show his fear. Showing fear always made it worse.

“All right, then. If you can’t make her cry out, I will.” His father brought a knife to the woman’s long, slender neck and pressed the edge to her jugular….

“A
H, FATES
.
N
O
!
”
Aral lurched upright off the chaise upon which he’d fallen asleep, expecting to see his open, shaking hands glistening with blood. There had been so much of it.

Aral’s pulse hammered in his skull as he blinked to awareness. He was in his luxuriously appointed, shipboard quarters. Alone. He’d merely sought a few hours’ rest.
You should know better.
Just when he thought he was safe, his past would bring him to his knees. He’d tried every kind of tranq and sleeping elixir over the years, and any targeted nanomeds he could beg or steal from the Coalition. None worked. None made his nights a time of rest.

He’d learned to compensate for the lack of sleep by strengthening his body. For Aral there was an added benefit to working out—a few dreamless hours of rest. But it took sheer exhaustion to get him there. He
savored the pain, took it in. This pain he controlled. This pain
he owned.

Self-inflicted torture, his second-in-command Kaz argued. Perhaps. The stronger his body, the more finely honed his muscles, the more he could hold off the effects of his tortured thoughts. His impending madness, he often feared. Perhaps he was deluding himself, but if anything, physical exertion placed his focus where it did some good—his crusade.

He stalked to the shower and stood under the gush of water, seeking elusive peace as the blood still roared in his head. A weapon lay within arm’s reach. He’d far outlived the lifespan of a traitor and a spy. Well aware was he of that fact, every blasted minute of every day. Guards watched over him around the clock, but one must never become complacent or trust fully. He’d not dreamt of the rape in some time. Of all the incidents in his life orchestrated by his father, that one had been the most disturbing. It was a turning point. It was the day that had started him down the road that led to here and now.

The nightmare reiterated his greatest fear: losing Awrenkka to Karbon. She was more like him than anyone alive, a product of evil who had somehow held on to her humanity. She needed his protection as much as he was compelled to offer it to her. He’d find her, and in doing so he’d save them both.

He hoped he wasn’t too late.

The memory of the day he met her remained crystal clear. His beating earlier that morning had been particularly harsh. Ever mindful of other’s opinions, his father had pumped him with enough nanomeds to erase the visible bruises. Why, they were about to have an
audience with the Supreme Warlord of the Drakken Horde, after all. Impressions were everything. One couldn’t have their sons limping or bleeding, could one? Especially a son on the short list of possible marriage candidates for the warlord’s daughter.

Aral had been forced to stand there with the battlelords as the warlord paraded the girl in to tantalize the men. The older men had recoiled in unison at the shy, undersized girl and her huge thick glasses. “She looks like an insect,” Karbon had remarked later when they were in private.

The girl had walked past their group, noticeably unsure of herself as she sneaked peeks at the men. Then her focus landed on Aral and stopped. She may have been wearing cumbersome eyeglasses, but he scarcely noticed them at all. Her eyes were the clearest, purest violet-blue, and utterly unguarded. That gaze grabbed at his heart, stealing his breath.

She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

But it was more than that. He saw a girl much like himself, both of them completely cowed by their fathers, in their thrall and utterly terrorized. Like him, she must have thought there was no escape. He quite remembered thinking: what if
he
were her escape? He, Aral Mawndarr, would rescue the warlord’s daughter.

Then he panicked. Ridding his face of any traces of besotted fascination, he aimed his coldest expression possible at her. She appeared stung, then disenchanted. He knew then his tactic had worked. After all, he’d had the best example in the galaxy from which to learn such a glare.

He’d wanted to find her and pull her aside outside the ears of her chaperones. He’d explain everything. But of
course, that was impossible. If he showed any interest at all in her, his father would have noticed and campaigned to marry the girl himself, if only so Aral couldn’t.

Marrying Karbon would have been the death of her—if not physically, then of the spirit. He’d saved her. She just didn’t know it yet.

Exiting the shower, he scoured a towel over his skin as he glared outside a nearby viewport. Outside was a dark, frigid void, much like him. His reflection glowered fiercely back at him. He looked too much like Karbon. Those looks had served him well when he’d needed them to. Being feared made him more efficient.

She’ll fear you, too.

Most likely, yes. But her alternatives were worse.

By now Coalition intelligence had swarmed into the palace and ransacked the warlord’s records. After all, he’d all but handed them the keys to the palace on a platter. Evidence of another child would shock them. Paranoid to the extreme and ashamed he’d produced a daughter before a son, the warlord had never officially recorded the existence of his eldest. The public knew only of Rorkk, a younger brother. Learning of Awrenkka was one thing. Finding her would be another matter, however. The warlord had been quite smug telling Aral of the false leads he’d left for anyone who tried to find his daughter.

It wouldn’t stop the Coalition from casting a galaxy-wide net to catch her. Aral was banking on his arms being the very last place they looked.

T
HE STARSHIP
in Barokk’s main square rumbled ominously. Men’s shouts told of soldiers patrolling the streets—Coalition soldiers—all because of the warlord’s kidnapping of Queen Keira for Rorkk’s wife. Did he not consider the effect such a brazen crime would have on the balance of power in the galaxy and the faith of trillions of people? Did the man’s ambition have no bounds?

Wren swung between being in awe of her father, despairing she could never live up to his expectations, and the insinuations Sabra had made of his true nature. If the warlord was truly this evil, this despicable, then what did that make Wren? Whose blood dominated—his or her mother’s? She knew nothing of Lady Seela other than that she was a great beauty. It was obvious Wren didn’t take after her at all. She was her father’s daughter, then. “Perhaps those wanting to see me dead are justified. Who’s to say the warlord’s evil doesn’t flow in my veins and simply hasn’t manifested itself yet?”

Certainty stole over Sabra’s features. “Impossible.”

“I fear what may lurk inside me.”

“You have a pure and open heart, dear one.”

“You can’t be certain.”

Sabra lifted a hand to Wren’s cheek. “Do you re
member, long ago, returning from your father’s battle-cruiser after he broke your glasses?”

“Yes. I was sick to my stomach.” Wren adjusted her glasses. More than space sickness had nauseated her that day. Meeting all those potential husbands; seeing grave, young Aral Mawndarr’s gaze change from openly curious to cold; knowing she’d humiliated herself in front of him and the others, as well as disappointed her father, she’d tried to bury the memory without success. Yet, Sabra had remained constant then and all these years since, her anchor, as she was now.

“I didn’t know how you would manage without the glasses. Then you told me that you saw the world though my eyes, and that you always had. Ah, sweetling. You trusted me utterly. I saw it in your face. I felt it in my soul. It brought me clarity for the first time. I saw my true mission—to protect you, to keep you innocent of evil. It changed everything.” She was rummaging through boxes Wren had never known they owned, choosing some items, discarding others. “Your father never thought past his reign. He never planned for an overthrow. So when you were small, Ilkka and I decided that we’d make sure you got to safety in the event anything happened to him.”

“You mean making sure I went with loyalists. A battlelord.”

Awkwardness tempered Sabra’s grave nod as she opened a small box filled with a small cache of jewels. “That was then. My view of what I considered safe changed. It changed when I changed. I love you like a daughter. Gods save my soul. I’m taking you on that Coalition ship.”

“Does Ilkka know?”

“She will. We’ll all go. We’ll disappear amongst thousands of others just like us. It’s the only way. I’ll not sentence you to a life of misery.” She drew a dagger out of a leather case and brought the blade to Wren’s hair. “It must be shortened—to your chin or higher.”

Wren might be the most wanted woman in the galaxy, but it seemed if her guardian had anything to say in the matter she’d soon be the most unrecognizable.

“Wait.” She grabbed her guardian’s wrist, stopping her. Dark, gleaming brown with more than a hint of flame-red, her hair swung loose just above her bottom. It was one of the few physical attributes about herself in which she took pride. Cutting it off seemed so…drastic. “It’s all happening so fast.”

Will you take charge of your life, or will I always have to care for you?
The question—the dare—burned in the woman’s eyes.

A flash of weak sunlight preceded Ilkka ducking into the shed with them. She closed the door behind her. The tall rangy guardian was left silhouetted against the light seeping though the wall slats. More than Sabra’s friend, she was a backup caregiver in case anything happened to Sabra, as well as the only other person on Barokk who knew Wren’s true identity. “I’ve readied the hopper. It’s hidden behind the grain tower. We’ll fly out from under their noses. We’ll wait on the southern continent for loyalists to come.”

Loyalists. The word alone was chilling enough, let alone contemplating a future with no free will.

“Plans have changed,” Sabra informed Ilkka. “We’ll evacuate with the rest. She’ll be safer in that camp than in the clutches of someone we don’t know, or trust.”

“Clutches.” Ilkka rolled her eyes. “Such drama, Sabra. Please. She cannot be allowed to fall into enemy control. You of all people know that. The loyalists are our future. Her future.”

“My destiny is not yours to decide—not anymore.” Wren’s protest drew surprised glances from both women. The quiet mouse had spoken. She quite liked the feeling, yet a small voice warned her to keep control, to not complain, to
be good.
“There will be no husband. I’m free now.”

“Free?” Ilkka laughed. “The warlord’s daughter, free.” Her expression turned frighteningly serious then. “Your bloodline is too precious to lose. Don’t you understand? There
will
be a marriage, and you will do it for your people. Your empire.”

Wren had long since accepted the fact that she’d be married off to a stranger, one who viewed her as a possession and a marker of his status, not as his love, his wife. Once, she thought there was hope for her dreams when she met Aral Mawndarr, but he turned out to be like all the rest. She’d accepted her fate without much complaint, never admitting the true extent of her terror. Now everything had changed. Her future was even more uncertain and dangerous than before, yes, but it was
hers.
For the first time the prospect of freedom danced before her, and by the fates, she wasn’t going to let Ilkka, the greedy old crone, take it away from her.

“Give me the dagger.” Wren extended her hand. Sabra offered her the blade. This time, no convincing was required. Wren grabbed a handful of thick, glossy hair and sliced through it.

The first cut was raspy and loud. The rest she refused to hear. A few hacks later her beautiful hair lay in a pile at her boots. What was left tickled her neck, falling just shy of the bottom of her chin. Wren removed her glasses to blow off bits of hair from the lenses with a puff of air.

Sabra gathered the rest of their things while Ilkka paced angrily by the door. “Drakken currency is worthless now,” Sabra explained. “There is some jewelry.” She tied one pouch to Wren’s belt and the other to hers.

“Thank the fates you thought of bringing valuables.” Mortified, she realized she would have run with only the clothing on her back. Everything on Barokk had always been taken care of—arranged, repaired and pushed along. She’d never had to do anything, to plan. “Without you, I’d be lost, Sabra,” she whispered.

Sabra crushed Wren close, wrapping her in strong arms. “Whatever happens, child, I am here for you. I will die for you.”

Wren shook her head violently. “If anyone dies because of my kin, it will be me.”

“Come on, come on, or we’ll all die here,” Ilkka urged.

Sabra pushed a travel cloak into Wren’s shaking hands. “Keep your eyes down and let me do the talking for you.”

Through the slats, she saw how quickly the fog had thickened, magnifying the rumble of a starship. It was a day to stay inside, sip warm soup and read, not fly away into the unknown. Her stomach rolled. The memory of her space sickness on the journey to see her father hadn’t faded. She grew queasy with the mere thought of leaving the ground and all the accompanying forces on the body the feat required. What choice did she have? The ship was her only escape.

They headed for the door. Ilkka took Sabra by the elbow urging her to the side. “I’m no traitor. Allowing her to board the Coalition ship…it isn’t right.”

“It is
my right.
I’m her guardian. I’m entrusted with her survival.”

In the background, the Coalition ship idled noisily. The other villagers were loading. They should be amongst them. It was Wren’s chance to escape before her enemies caught up to her. “Sabra,” she said. “We have to go.”

“We will.”

Sabra’s assurance drew a disbelieving glare from Ilkka. “Think about what you’re doing. She has the key to the treasure.”

“
I
have the key. It’s in my safekeeping.”

“I’m not stupid, though you clearly think me to be. Only she can unlock it. The value is unimaginable. You cannot release it into Coalition possession. It’s the last thing of worth the Empire has—besides her.”

“The treasure doesn’t belong to us. It belongs to Wren.”

“And she belongs to the Empire.”

Wren’s gaze jumped from woman to woman as they played tug-of-war with her. The argument about treasure sounded too far-fetched to be real. It was like the old days when she’d tell Wren bedtime stories. Wren was wiser now. “You never told me about a treasure, Sabra.”

“Because she wanted it in her control, not yours,” Ilkka said.

“A lie!” Sabra’s face was flushed with anger. The two former warriors faced off. Tension crackled. “It was too dangerous for her to know. I will tell her when it’s safe to do so.”

Ilkka shook her head. She turned to Wren, almost
with pity. “She kept it all to herself, didn’t she? You don’t know any of it—what Sabra is. What you are.”

Wren shook her head.

“For one, your mother, Lady Seela, was—”

“Don’t say it!” Sabra shoved Ilkka away. She extended her hand to Wren. “Come—come now. Hurry.”

Ilkka regained her footing and grabbed Wren by her shirt, throwing her backward before her fingers met Sabra’s. Wren fell over a crate of harvest tubers, spilling the pile of shorn hair and landing thankfully clear of the dagger. Her glasses were lost somewhere underneath her sprawled legs. Blurred figures and grunts of effort warned her of the worst—the two guardians were fighting over her.

Panicked, she hunted for her glasses on her hands and knees. She needed to see. She needed to—

A low, guttural cry of utter agony and despair filled the shed and chilled Wren to the core.
Sabra…
Wren’s fingers closed around her glasses. She shoved them on. The scene came into focus: Sabra was down, writhing. Ilkka loomed over her, her arm raised high. Something metallic glinted in her hand.

Outrage built in Wren’s chest, a breath-stealing swell of red-hot fury. Doubt evaporated in the fire of anger. It filled her with the desire to protect. To punish. Her pulse drummed it. She’d never felt an emotion so pure. The dagger was in her hands before she even formed the thought of what she intended to do with it.

Ilkka glanced over her shoulder. Not a smidgen of remorse appeared in her cold blue eyes. That coldness changed to disbelief as the dagger sailed across the shed and sank deep into her back. She made no sound. Her eyes
remained accusingly on Wren for a few seconds more. The spark of life dimmed, lingered for a fraction of a second, then winked out as she crumpled to the ground.

Ilkka had died where she stood, holding the gaze of her killer. It was the most dreadful sight Wren had ever seen—life leaving a human body. Life that
she had taken.

A moan had her wild gaze swerving back to Sabra. She was alive! Her heart clenched with raw despair as the echo of Sabra’s cry repeated again and again in her mind. She dropped the dagger and ran to her guardian’s body, crouching next to her. Sabra was panting as if in terrible pain.

“Where is the wound?” She slid frantic hands under her cloak. Her fingers collided with the blunt end of a dart embedded in the woman’s stomach.

She yanked it out. It was a thin, bright blue cylinder.

“Poison,” Sabra explained in staccato gasps. “Deadly.”

“Fates. What do I do? Is there an antidote?”

Sabra was quivering from head to toe, sweating profusely. “My pouch. The p-pendant.” She paused to cry out softly.

Frantic, Wren removed Sabra’s pouch and dug inside. Her fingers closed around a chain. The metal was unusually cool to the touch. She pulled it out. A flat, black oval pendant hung from the chain. On its flawless surface, five tiny points of light glittered like stars on a summer night. Like a tiny constellation, they formed an obvious pattern—two lights on each side and one at the very tip. A little arrow. Despite her racing heart, despite her fear, the piece was eerily mesmerizing. “Here—”

“
Yours.
The key.”

“To that treasure.”

“And all that is lost…”

“But I don’t want riches,” Wren insisted, and choked up. “I want you.”

Sabra’s lips trembled. She, too, fought emotion. “Find Ara Ana. Make the galaxy whole.” The words made little sense, but the ferocity in the dying woman’s eyes told her that every word was important, terribly so. “Promise me.” She grasped at Wren’s blouse weakly, willing her cooperation with that intense gaze.

“All right. I’ll find Ara Ana. I will.”

Sabra nodded, the tension going out of her pain-racked body. Her eyes closed.

“Who is she? Sabra—where do I find her? Tell me.”

The woman shuddered and went still.

“Sabra!” Wren gave her a hard shake. She pushed on Sabra’s chest then blew into her mouth, filling the woman’s lungs with air. Panicked, she pumped her chest some more. It was no use. Sabra was gone, wasting her last bit of strength on talk of treasure, of keys,
of nonsense.
“Blast your secrets! Blast you!” Grief lanced Wren’s heart. “I don’t know where to go.”

Soldiers yelled to one another in the streets. Their Coalition accents sounded crisp, foreign. It jolted Wren from her grief. She lifted her glasses to wipe away tears then looked around the aftermath in the shed. Ilkka lay facedown, the dagger in her back.

Several soldiers walked by the shed close enough for her to hear the sound of gravel grinding under their heavy boots as they went door to door, yard to yard, looking for stragglers. She couldn’t be found here amongst the bodies. It would generate questions. Questions were dangerous.

She was dangerous. She saw the life fading from
those blue eyes all over again. She barely remembered the act itself, she’d been so driven to kill in that moment.
The beast was rattling the cage.
Shame heated her face and pressed on her soul. She was her father’s daughter.