Warlord

Chapter One 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. "He's not happy," Fee remarked unnecessarily. "Would you be happy waking up to find the woman you love is dead and your friends have sold your soul to the God of Thieves?" Fee shrugged. "In Starros's place, I'm not sure what I'd be feeling right now." Fyora didn't seem all that interested in discussing it further. She left Kalan standing in the small front room, disappearing through another door near the staircase. The smell of something delicious cooking wafted in from the kitchen when she pushed open the door, and then faded again as it swung shut behind her. A few seconds later the door to the other room flew open and slammed against the wall, making the whole house shake. Starros stalked toward the front door, clearly planning to leave the house, but he stopped when he saw Kalan. "Come to check on your handiwork, I suppose?" he asked, his voice heavy with scorn. "Take a good look, Kalan. You must be feeling very proud of yourself. See! Not a mark! Of course, I don't seem to own a soul any longer, but what the hell? Who needs a soul, anyway?" He was right about his remarkable recovery. Three days ago they'd brought him here on a stretcher on the very brink of deathbroken, bloodied and barely recognisable. The young man standing before her now was whole and unmarked, showing no sign of Mahkas's days of torture and bFallon, Jennifer is the author of 'Warlord', published 2008 under ISBN 9780765348715 and ISBN 0765348713.