“Yes.”
“Then what are
you
worried about? You’ve got an advantage some men would kill for. The rest of us have to muddle through the hard way, son.”
“I’ll go,” Rorin hastened to assure them, but he still seemed very uncertain. “I’m just not sure I’m the right person for the job, my lord.”
“The right person for any job is the one who gets it done,” Charel Hawksword informed him gruffly. “And that’s usually,” he added, holding his cup out to Tejay for a refill, “some poor sod in the wrong place at the wrong time who gets left with no other option than to be a hero.”
B
rakandaran the Halfbreed shivered a little as the sun slipped down into the shadows behind them. It had been a cold day; spring merely a distant hope here in the foothills of the Sunrise Mountains. He hadn’t been much past Winternest in the last twelve years and it seemed strange to be walking the roads of Hythria again, particularly as he was here as a Fardohnyan spy.
Brak had always liked the Hythrun people, and it concerned him a little to think he was aiding a tyrant like Hablet of Fardohnya to overrun their country. But despots come and go, he knew. In the long run, Hythria would benefit much more by not losing what remained of this devastated generation to a useless war that would do nothing but entertain and empower the God of War.
Such dark thoughts plagued Brak as he walked. They were heading toward the village of Urso, some eighty miles from Cabradell. The capital of Sunrise Province was surely the most logical place to muster their troops if the Hythrun knew anything of Hablet’s invasion and they were planning to defend their border. Brak’s travelling companion was a young man named Ollie Kantel. Nineteen years old, swarthy and well-muscled, he was one of Chyler’s countless nephews who’d grown up in the Sunrise Mountains around Westbrook. Like Brak, he’d made the journey over the mountains into Hythria numerous times. This was the first time, however, he had ventured so far east.
They stopped on a small rise overlooking the village, a picture-perfect little hamlet nestled among the tall mountains. With roofs steeply sloped to shed the winter snows and smoke rising out of the chimneys making the air taste faintly of wood smoke, it seemed hard to believe plague or pestilence of any kind had ever blighted this land.
“Do you think there’s much chance the Hythrun know we’re planning to invade them?” Ollie asked, shifting his pack to the other shoulder.
“Not by the look of Urso,” Brak replied, casting his gaze over the sleepy little hamlet. He adjusted his own pack a little and moved on, heading down the deserted road. “Still, we’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.”
“How?” Ollie asked, hurrying to catch him.
“We’ll stop at the local inn tonight.”
“Is that a good idea?”
Brak glanced at him curiously. “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”
“Well, we’re spies …”
“Say it a little louder, son. I don’t think they heard you down in the village.”
The lad let out an exasperated sigh. “You know what I mean! Shouldn’t we be sneaking around, listening at keyholes? Stuff like that?”
“Ah!” Brak said. “You mean shouldn’t we act suspiciously so everyone will know we’re Fardohnyan spies, instead of acting like two simple travellers who have nothing to hide and need information about the road ahead?”
Ollie stopped and frowned. “Oh. I hadn’t actually thought of it like that.”
Brak kept on walking. “Which is why they hired me to do the thinking and you to do the leg work, Ollie, my lad.”
Obviously concerned, the boy hurried after him again. “So what are we going to tell people in the village, then? About who we are?”
“We’ll say we’re two simple travellers who need information about the road ahead.”
“Won’t it look suspicious? Us coming from the border, I mean? With it being closed and all?”
Brak shrugged. “We’ll tell them we got sick of waiting at Winternest for the border to reopen and decided to take the long way home.”
Ollie’s eyes lit up approvingly. “That’s a really good story, Brak. Have you done this sort of thing before?”
“There’s not much I haven’t done, Ollie,” he told his young companion. “Just lots of things I’d rather not remember doing.”
And with that cryptic comment, Brak left Ollie staring after him with a puzzled expression as he continued on down the road into the peaceful village of Urso.
Maybe Patanan, the God of Good Fortune, was looking out for them, because when the two spies arrived they discovered a travelling apothecary in town, with the unlikely name of Kelman Welman, who’d recently come from Cabradell. With only one tavern in the small village and only one meal served nightly to all the patrons who frequented the inn, Brak and Ollie found themselves seated at the long table in the taproom, several hours later, opposite the garrulous old man who seemed determined to provide them with all the intelligence they wanted, for nothing more than the pleasure of an audience who hadn’t heard all of his tales at least three times already. The table was lit by several fat candles and his old face looked quite flushed in their flickering light.
“Is there much plague in Cabradell?” Ollie asked when he learned the man had arrived from there recently. The boy wasn’t the least bit frightened by the notion of being hanged as a spy, but he was terrified of catching the plague.
“It seems to be on the wane wherever I go,” the old man replied. “No doubt they’ve taken my cure and now find themselves immune to the pestilence.”
“You have a tonic that provides immunity?” Ollie gasped.
“Actually, young man, I do. It’s made of—”
“Horse shit,” Brak cut in.
“I beg your pardon!” Kelman demanded, hugely offended.
“Horse shit,” Brak repeated, taking a mouthful of stew. “If your tonic’s as effective as you claim, then it’s probably made of horse shit.”
“Brak .
. .” Ollie gasped, appalled at his bad manners.
“I’m not trying to insult the man, Ollie,” Brak explained. “I’m just stating a fact. The plague is carried by fleas and fleas hate anything to do with horses. It’s quite simple, really. You smell like a horse, the flea’ll jump on someone else. The Harshini have known that for thousands of years.”
Kelman Welman smiled indulgently at Brak. “You shouldn’t fill the lad’s head with fairy stories about creatures of myth, sir. Your tales of the Harshini are more romantic than the science of my cures, I don’t doubt, but far less effective.”
“The Harshini didn’t think so.”
“And you, I suppose, are some sort of authority on the Harshini?”
Brak shrugged. “I’ve studied them a little.”
“Well
I
, young man, have studied them extensively and my tonic is a direct result of that research. I won’t go into specifics—you wouldn’t understand them—but I can tell you it involves achieving a delicate balance of the four humours to enable the body to fight off infection.”
“I’m sure you must be doing a roaring trade,” Brak agreed. “In fact, I’m curious about what you’re doing here in Urso, Master Welman. Surely, with a cure for this blight at hand, you’d be better off in a larger town? Perhaps even Cabradell itself?”
Kelman shrugged selflessly. “I believe all people should be allowed access to my cures.”
“But Brak’s right!” Ollie gasped, eagerly swallowing every word this old charlatan uttered. “People would be throwing gold at you, surely, if they knew of your cure!”
“I’m a modest man, Ollie. I have no need for great wealth, only the joy I gain from helping people wherever I can. Besides,” he added, reaching for a trencher of bread, “there’re too many people in Cabradell these days for my liking. Particularly since the prince arrived.”
“The prince?” Brak enquired, between mouthfuls of the surprisingly good stew.
“Lernen’s heir, young Damin Wolfblade,” Kelman explained. “He arrived a bit over a week ago with his brother, the Hawksword boy, five thousand of their troops and some wild tale of a Fardohnyan invasion. It’s nonsense, of course, but with the High Prince’s heir in the city, the authorities were less tolerant of those of us who honour the gods using … unconventional … healing methods.”
Loosely translated, Brak guessed the old man had been either run out of the city or had fled before his lies about a plague cure were exposed. Still, it was interesting news about Lernen’s heir.
So much for the Hythrun not putting up a fight.
“Five thousand men, you say?” Brak asked. “Hardly an overwhelming force.”
“That’s what I thought,” Kelman agreed. “Hell! It could have been his entourage, for all I know! He’s Lernen Wolfblade’s nephew, after all.
There’s
a family who knows the meaning of excess.”
“Then the stories about the perversion and debauchery of the Hythrun court are true?” Ollie asked, more than a little scandalised at the notion.
“The wildest stories you’ve heard, lad, probably aren’t even the half of it,” Kelman told him with the relish of a man who loves to gossip. “Why even on their way to Cabradell they say the Wolfblade heir saw another man’s wife, took a fancy to her, and had her kidnapped right out of her husband’s castle.”
“Surely
not!
”
“It’s true, I tell you!” the old man confirmed. “Lady Kendra Warhaft is her name! A rare beauty, I hear she is, too. They say Wolfblade hasn’t spared her from his foul lechery for a single night since stealing her from her husband. And poor Lord Warhaft is forced to ride with the prince’s company in a vain attempt to rescue his wife, but to no avail. Rumour has it Wolfblade’s placed her in the care of an evil black sorcerer, and cast a spell on her so she’ll look at no other man.”
“An evil
black
sorcerer?” Brak asked. “What the hell is that?”
“A sorcerer who practises the dark arts,” Kelman informed them, lowering his voice ominously.
“There are no
dark
arts,
” Brak pointed out, irritated at the way these rumours got out of hand so easily. “Just idiots who believe in
fairy
stories about creatures of myth.”
The apothecary bowed his head in acknowledgment of Brak’s wisdom. “I take your point, Master Andaran. You are correct, of course. If there are no creatures of myth, there can be no black sorcerers, either.”
“Which means Wolfblade probably didn’t kidnap anybody’s wife.”
“Ah, now in that, I beg to disagree, sir. Lady Kendra and her husband are most definitely in Cabradell, and Lady Kendra travels with Lord Wolfblade’s entourage. As did Lady Lionsclaw, too, I hear, after leaving her husband and running straight to the arms of her young lover in Krakandar.”
“Sounds like this young Wolfblade prince of yours is going to be far too busy having his way with the entire female population of Hythria to have time to do anything about a Fardohnyan invasion,” Brak remarked. “Imaginary or otherwise.”
Kelman shrugged. “I can do no more than report on what I know, Master Andaran.”
If he confined himself to just reporting on what he actually knew,
Brak thought,
Kelman Welman’s tales wouldn’t be nearly so entertaining.
“Well, when we get to Cabradell, Master Welman, we shall make a point of checking on this dissolute prince of yours and ascertain for ourselves if he matches your dire description of his character.”
“We’re going to Cabradell?” Ollie asked in surprise.
Brak gave the young man a look that spoke volumes. “If we’re going to try and get back to Fardohnya, young cousin, by travelling overland through Hythria and catching a ship in Bordertown, then it’s on our way.”
“Oh,” Ollie said. “I forgot about that.”
Brak covered his annoyance at Ollie’s clumsy earnestness with another mouthful of the delicious stew and wondered what small grain of truth lay at the core of the apothecary’s wild tales.
He wondered too, how the Hythrun had learned of Hablet’s plans for them. And what would be worse for Hythria—an army led by her useless High Prince or his young and inexperienced nephew.
F
or King Hablet of Fardohnya, departing the Summer Palace in Talabar was never easy, particularly if one was going off to war. There was all that gnashing of teeth, and wailing and breast beating—and that was just his chamberlain. The women of his harem were a thousand times worse. They jockeyed for position among themselves, turned on each other and betrayed their best friends over the most minor infractions, all to bring their names to the king’s attention and get themselves invited to the Winter Palace in Qorinipor: They all wanted out of the harem, even for a few months, and every one of those silly bitches in the harem was doing whatever they thought they had to, to achieve that aim.
Everyone, that is, except Adrina.
Hablet’s eldest daughter seemed to be quite content at the notion she would be left behind in the Summer Palace. She hadn’t once asked her father to take her with him. She hadn’t tried to bribe anybody; she hadn’t even thrown a tantrum. All she’d done was smile at the antics of her stepmothers and her siblings and make subtle enquiries she didn’t think her father knew about, regarding how long he was likely to be out of Talabar.
The certainty she was up to something was so strong even Lecter Turon was more nervous than usual, probably because he couldn’t work out what she was scheming. After several nervous nights, tossing and turning, imagining all manner of trouble she could cause in his absence, Hablet decided there was only one thing for it. He called his daughter before him and informed her she would be joining him at the Winter Palace for the duration of the Hythrun campaign and there was nothing she could do to change his mind. Although she tried to hide it, she was bitterly disappointed, which reinforced the king’s opinion she was planning something deceitful the minute his back was turned and that it was a damn good thing he was taking her out of the capital and removing the devious little minx to a place she could do no harm.
It wasn’t until they reached Qorinipor that Hablet realised how skilfully he’d been duped. The moment she stepped out of the carriage, Adrina’s bad mood vanished. Her sour disappointment at being taken against her will from the Summer Palace miraculously turned into unabashed delight at her escape from the harem. As Adrina watched them unloading her trunks, she began issuing instructions to her slave, Tamylan, regarding her plans to go sailing on the lake, hunting in the foothills of the Sunrise Mountains and even hinted a shopping expedition into the markets of the city might be on the cards.
Lecter Turon was furious, Hablet noted. He kept glaring in the direction of the princess as their large entourage milled about in confusion on the delightful chequerboard paving of the Winter Palace’s inner courtyard. Finally, the eunuch issued orders to move the luggage inside, and put another two underlings in charge of getting everyone settled. Then he sidled up to Hablet.
“You’ve been had, your majesty,” he pointed out crossly.
Hablet glanced at his daughter, smiling proudly. “Rather expertly, Lecter. Damn, she would have made a fine son, don’t you think?”
“You should send her back to Talabar immediately.”
“Why?” Hablet asked.
“She’s made a fool of you, sire.”
“She’s made a fool of all those women back in the Summer Palace who promised me the soul of their firstborn child in order to escape the harem for a few months,” he chuckled.
“What is one supposed to do with that, do you think?”
He looked at Lecter in confusion. “What?”
“A soul, your majesty. What is one supposed to do with a soul, if one is lucky enough to secure it? I mean, does one put it on a shelf somewhere, and bring it out on special occasions? For that matter, how does one extract a soul … ?”
“Have you been drinking, Lecter?”
“No, sire,” the eunuch sighed. “Just considering the logistics of the problem so the next time you’re given a choice between the Princess Adrina’s company and the soul of someone’s firstborn child, I’ll be ready to aid you in the latter so we might be spared the former.”
Hablet laughed. “Admit it, Lecter, you’re just vexed because you’ve been outfoxed by a girl.”
“She outfoxed you too, your majesty.”
“And I’m actually quite proud of her for that. Which reminds me of something else. She’s not to have any sort of contact with Axelle Regis while she’s here.”
“I wasn’t aware Her Serene Highness and General Regis were acquainted.”
“They’re not,” Hablet assured him. “And I’d like it to stay that way.”
“Do you doubt Lord Regis’s loyalty, sire?”
“Not at all,” Hablet said. “But all the qualities that make Regis a good general are all the reasons I don’t want him for a son-in-law.”
“He’s made an
offer
for the princess?” Lecter gasped in shock, no doubt furious at the thought he hadn’t received a kickback from the transaction.
The king shook his head. “I wouldn’t have put him in charge of a detail digging latrines if he had. The problem is
what
he is, Lecter, not anything he’s done.”
Lecter smiled slyly as he realised what his king was implying. “You mean he’s rich, ambitious, intelligent and unmarried. All the things you fear the Princess Adrina is looking for in a husband.”
“Exactly. Until I have a legitimate heir, any man with those qualities allied with my eldest daughter could easily threaten my throne. So let’s just avoid the issue and make sure they never meet, eh?”
The eunuch bowed, delighted by the prospect of foiling any sort of plans the young princess had made, even those she may not have thought of yet. “As you wish, your majesty.”
“And send a message to Regis. Tell him I’d like him to join me for dinner.”
“If he’s near the front lines, that may not be possible, your highness. A messenger would take the better part of a day just to find him.”
“At his earliest convenience, then.” Hablet shrugged, turning for the broad steps that led into the palace. “Just make sure that whatever day he gets here, it’s the day Adrina decides to take her meals in her room.”
It was nearly a week before Axelle Regis appeared at the Winter Palace in response to his king’s summons. The general arrived with only a small guard in tow, just before lunch, fortunately while Adrina was out on the lake.
Hablet greeted him warmly. The king of Fardohnya valued genuine talent—while doing his best to make sure it never got too close to him—and he’d always had a soft spot for Lord Regis. It was just the danger to his throne that a man like him represented that worried the king. It was the constant torment of all rulers, Hablet lamented.
You need men like Regis to get the job done, but afterwards, it’s always better if they’re remembered as dead heroes rather than live focal points for those disaffected subjects who think a change of leadership might be in order.
After a sumptuous lunch of boar’s ribs, fowl dressed with spiced maize flour and delicate little fish-pasties followed by an elaborate starch pastry served with fresh fruit, Hablet and the general took a turn through the carefully manicured gardens that stretched down to the edge of the lake to aid their digestion. The lake’s choppy surface was a brilliant shade of sapphire in the clear mountain air, shimmering in the crisp breeze coming off the tall Sunrise Mountains in the east.
“So everything is ready for the invasion?” Hablet asked.
“As ready as I can be without better intelligence,” Regis agreed. “I’ve recruited some bandits who used to make their living in the Widowmaker Pass and sent them across the border to see what we’re facing. My preliminary reports are all good. It seems the Hythrun have no idea we’re coming.”
Hablet nodded approvingly. “What about Highcastle?”
“We’ll make the first feint through there to throw the Hythrun off our main objective,” Regis confirmed. “But realistically, despite the advantage of being able to disembark troops at Tambay’s Seat from the sea, the southern pass is too narrow to move troops into Hythria in any useful number. If I recall my history lessons correctly, Laran Krakenshield blocked the pass with a simple avalanche once, didn’t he, which effectively sealed the border well into the following spring?”
Hablet scowled at the reminder. “So your main attack will be through the Widowmaker? How do you intend to get past Wintemest? The place is impregnable.”
“And terrified by the fear of plague,” Regis reminded him. “My information is that on Chaine Lionsclaw’s orders the fortress was sealed against refugees fleeing the plague into Fardohnya months ago, even before you closed the border, and nobody’s thought to countermand the order since. Winternest is rapidly running out of food and morale.”
“They’re still not going to take kindly to an army marching past their front gate.”
“Which is why, as soon as I have confirmed the location of Hythria’s forces,” Regis told him, “I’m sending the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook through the pass with a small delegation and several wagonloads of supplies to relieve their suffering.”
Hablet smiled at the deviousness of the plan. “How thoughtful of you, Axelle. I never realised what a humanitarian you were.”
“Once we have people inside the fortress, your majesty, it will be a simple matter to open the gates to our forces. With a foothold established at Wintemest, Hythria will be ours for the taking.”
“Bring me the heads of Damin Wolfblade and Narvell Hawksword, Lord Regis, and I’ll see you get what you deserve,” Hablet promised.
Regis bowed to his king. “I live only to serve, your majesty.”
Hablet was considering the unfortunate prospect that Axelle Regis might have to die to serve him, too, when he spotted someone heading along the path toward them from the direction of the lake. With the sun reflecting off the bright water, he had to squint to see who it was.
It was too late, by the time he realised it was Adrina, to avoid her.
“Hello, Daddy,” she said as she reached them, eyeing his companion with open curiosity. She looked stunning—windswept and flushed from sailing on the lake, her skirts blown against her body, outlining every tempting curve, and those dangerous emerald eyes. Her whole being radiated a sort of raw vitality that Hablet had no doubt Axelle Regis would find very beguiling.
“Adrina.”
She waited expectantly. There was no way the king could avoid an introduction without offending Lord Regis, and right now, he needed him too much to risk offence.
“This is Axelle Regis,” he told her with extreme reluctance. “Lord Regis, this is Her Serene Highness, the Princess Adrina. My eldest daughter.”
Axelle bowed with courtly grace and took the hand Adrina offered him, kissing her palm in a perfectly proper manner. “Your highness.”
“So you’re father’s latest general, are you?” she asked.
“I have that honour, yes.”
“You must be very competent,” she remarked, looking him up and down speculatively, the way one might examine a naked
court’esa
they were looking to purchase in the slave markets. “Or you’ve paid Lecter Turon a fortune.”
Regis seemed a little unsettled by her forthright manner. “I … I’d like to think it’s the former, your highness.”
“For the sake of every man under your command, I’d like to think so, too,” she replied. “Will you be joining us for dinner, my lord?”
Regis looked at his king questioningly. Hablet shrugged, giving no indication that in reality, he would very much like to strangle his daughter for leaving him no alternative but to invite the general to share another meal with them. “Of course he will, my dear. Will
you
be joining us?”
“Naturally.”
“I thought perhaps, after a morning on the lake, you might be too tired …”
Adrina smiled brightly. “It’s all right, Daddy. I’ve never felt more invigorated.” Then she turned to Regis and lowered her eyes demurely. “I will look forward to speaking with you at greater length over dinner, Lord Regis.”
“As will I, your highness.”
The princess leaned forward to kiss her father’s cheek. “Thank you so much, Daddy, for bringing me to Qorinipor so I can meet all these really
fascinating
people.”
The king and Lord Regis stood back to let her pass. Adrina gathered up her skirts and continued on the path back toward the palace. Regis followed her with his eyes, his gaze openly admiring.
“The stories I’ve heard about your daughter don’t do her justice, your majesty,” he remarked. “She seems quite charming.”
“You mean the ones about her being a screaming shrew?” he asked, annoyed at the way Adrina had once again outsmarted him. “Oh, they’re true enough. I had her mother beheaded, you know. She tried to murder a
court’esa
and one of my other children. Do you suppose that sort of inclination runs in families?”
A little taken aback, Regis frowned. “I couldn’t really say, your majesty.”