Warrior

WARRIOR

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)

Warrior
(Book Two)

WARRIOR

JENNIFER FALLON

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

WARRIOR

Copyright © 2005 by Jennifer Fallon

Originally published in 2005 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.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Fallon, Jennifer.

Warrior / Jennifer Fallon.—1st ed.

p. cm.—(The Wolfblade trilogy ; bk. 2)

“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”

ISBN-13: 978-0-765-30990-7 (alk. paper)

ISBN-10: 0-765-30990-4 (alk. paper)

I. Title. II. Series: Fallon, Jennifer. Wolfblade trilogy ; bk. 2.

PR9619.4.F35W37 2006

813’.6—dc22 2006044462

First Edition: September 2006

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Sue Irvine,

who understands the

true meaning of courage

STRANGE ALLIANCES

Damin Wolfblade wasn’t sure what had woken him. He had no memory of any sound jarring him into instant wakefulness; no idea what instinctive alarm had gone off inside his head to alert him that he was no longer alone. Straining with every sense, he listened to the darkness, waiting for the intruder to betray his presence. He had no doubt it was an intruder. Uncle Mahkas or Aunt Bylinda had no need to sneak around the palace. Any other legitimate visitor to his room at this hour of the night would have announced themselves openly.

It might be one of his stepbrothers, Adham or Rodja, looking for a bit of sport, Damin thought, as he inched his hand up under the pillow, or even his foster-brother, Starros, trying to frighten him.

Maybe his cousin, Leila, or one of the twins had sneaked into his room via the slaveways, hoping to scare him. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d tried. There was a great deal of amusement to be gained by sneaking up on an unsuspecting brother and making him squeal like a girl. Then again, it might not be one of his siblings. It might be an assassin.

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time in Damin’s short life someone had tried to kill him.

Damin’s fingers closed over the wire-wrapped handle of the knife Almodavar insisted he keep under his pillow, the hilt cool and reassuring in his hand. There was still no betraying sound from the intruder, a fact that made the boy dismiss the idea the trespasser was simply one of his friends looking to play a joke on him. There would have been a giggle by now; a hissed command to be silent, a telling scuff of a slipper on the highly polished floor. But there was nothing. Just a heavy, omnipresent silence.

Not even the sound of someone breathing.

Damin opened his eyes and withdrew the dagger from under his pillow with infinite care, the thick stillness more threatening than the shadows. There should have been a guard in the room. For as long as he could remember, Damin had slept with subtle sounds of another human presence nearby.

The faint creak of leather as a watchful guard moved, the almost inaudible breathing of the guardian who stood over him as he slept—they were the sounds he associated with the night. With safety. With comfort.

And they were gone.

Was that what had woken him? Had they already killed his bodyguard? Any assassin worth his fee should be able to take out a single guard silently, Damin knew. It also meant there was little point in trying to raise an alarm. His room was large—a suite fit for a prince—and the nearest guards would be out beyond the sitting room in the hall. Even if a palace patrol was in the vicinity and they heard him on his first cry, the chances were good he would be dead long before they were able to get through the outer room and into his bedroom.

There was no help from that quarter. Damin was going to have to deal with this himself. Alone.

Forcing his breathing to remain deep and even, Damin cautiously brought the knife down under the blanket and ever so carefully changed his grip so the blade lay against his forearm. He flexed his fingers and wrapped them around the hilt again, to make certain he had a good grip. Then he froze as the faintest sound of leather on polished stone whispered through the darkness.

It was close. Very close.

There was no longer any doubt in Damin’s mind. There was an assassin in the room and his bodyguard was probably dead.

How he had got into the palace was a problem Damin had no time to worry about right now. He judged the man to be almost at the bed, which meant he had only seconds before the assassin’s blade fell.
Do the unexpected
, a voice in his head advised him. It was one of Elezaar’s infamous Rules of Gaining and Wielding Power, but the voice sounded suspiciously like Almodavar, the captain of Krakandar’s Raiders, his weapons master, instructor and mentor.

Where is he now?
Damin wondered.
When I actually need him?

Another barely audible scuff of leather against stone and Damin realised he had no time left to wonder about it. He felt, rather than heard, the intruder raise his arm to make the killing stroke. With a sharp, sudden jerk, Damin threw back the covers, tossing them over his assailant, blinding him. Then he rolled, not away from the assassin and his blade, but towards them, slicing the man with all his might across where he thought his midriff might be, before kicking his legs up and ramming them into the space where he thought the assassin’s head was located. It was impossible to tell if his aim was true between the darkness and the man fighting to get clear of the bedcovers.

The pounding of his pulse seemed loud enough to be heard in the hall.

Damin’s blade had sliced across hardened leather and made little impact on his assailant’s chest, but the boy was rewarded with a satisfying grunt as his heels connected with something solid, presumably the assassin’s head. He sliced with his arm again, this time a little higher, hoping to wound the man. The intruder leaned back to avoid Damin’s blade and momentarily lost his balance.

His blood racing, filled with a strength born of desperation and fear, Damin threw himself at the assassin, knocking the man off his feet. He landed on top of the killer, slamming the man’s head into the stone floor with one hand as he changed the grip on his knife with the other and raised it to plunge his dagger into the throat of his assailant. He drove the blade downward, his heart hammering . . .