Page 1 of Prize of the Warlord
1
I’m used to being left behind. It doesn’t bother me anymore. Especially not today.
My family left me behind in our stronghold because I’m sick, as I often am during the winter. Too sick to go with them to Cheimhold and make the final arrangements for my wedding to Prince Havil.
If I were feeling healthy and strong, I’d be huddled under furs in the carriage with my mother, my father, my sister, and my brothers. It would be uncomfortable, steamy, and damp. My sister Joss would spend the whole journey sniping at my brothers, while my parents debated border defense tactics in low voices. I’d be miserable, uncomfortable, and bored out of my mind.
Sleet flings itself at the leaded glass of my bedroom window. I hate sleet. Nasty malevolent stuff, too warm to be snow and too cold to be rain. I snuggle further into my nest of puffy pillows. Deep under my covers, my maid placed a hot stone wrapped in towels, and I press my toes against it to keep them warm.
The book in my hands is a lovely fairy tale, full of glimmering candlelight and sparkling gowns and elegant men who know how to dance the perfect waltz. Men like Prince Havil. My heart does a tiny pirouette of pleasure when I think of him. I’ve known him as an acquaintance for years, and we’ve spent more and more time together during the past several months as our parents spoke of the potential engagement.
My family isn’t royal, exactly. My father rules a small independent territory, one of four districts that form the Confederation of Efhwen. We’re allies with Prince Havil’s kingdom, and a closer connection there might mean more aid with the defense of our beleaguered northern border.
“The arranged marriage between the Crown Prince of Terelaus and the princess of Brintzia seems to have gone well,” my mother told me months ago, back when the idea of my engagement was first being discussed. “Their two countries are at peace. In fact, Terelaus has ceased attacking other nations. And it is said that the newlywed royals are madly in love. So you see, strategic marriages can be a wonderful thing.”
“But it was a forced marriage between enemies,” my sister Joss cut in. “By that logic you should be marrying her off to one of those vile northern warlords who keep raiding our borders. Those are our real enemies. But you’re pairing her with one of our allies, a mild milk-toast slip of a prince, not even theCrownPrince, just the third Prince.”
“IlikeHavil,” I said stoutly, frowning at Joss. “He’s gentle and quiet. He likes books and fine tea and beautiful clothes. And since he won’t take the throne, he doesn’t have to worry about producing an heir, so he doesn’t mind that I’m not very strong.”
“You could be stronger,” muttered Joss. “If you’d quit lilting about the house with your embroidery and your music and your books. You should take up some kind of exercise or training.”
“Your sister doesn’t care for such things,” my mother interrupted. “She has always been more delicate than you and your brothers.”
“You coddle her,” Joss said under her breath as she swept out of the room.
I can only imagine what Joss would say if she could see me now, snuggled up with my book and my tea, with a warm fire on the hearth. She would probably sneer and charge off to the training ring to practice in the harsh weather. She’s the kind of person who considers self-indulgence a weakness, who drives herself hardest when she’s feeling low. What she doesn’t understand is that sometimes, self-indulgence is necessary to move through weakness, to get past it.
But Joss can’t disturb me tonight, and the sleet can’t touch me in my cozy room, halfway up the corner tower of our family fortress.
I submerge myself in stories, barely registering the sharp whine and whistle of the gale outside. But when those whistles begin to be followed by loud cracks and crashes, I lift my eyes from the book and notice odd orange flashes somewhere in the dark, far past my window. Some kind of lightning, maybe?
A low thud sounds from below, and a thunderous rumble shakes the whole room. An earthquake and a thunderstorm combined? No, that’s not possible.
I set aside the book and push back the covers, but I can’t bear to pull my feet out of their warm hole, so I lunge across the bed and tug the cord to summon my maid.
A violent crackling smash, an explosion of fire, and my window blows in with a blast of acrid heat. A black boulder smashes onto my floor, cracking the glossy white tiles. I recoil with a scream, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing—not a boulder, but a grappling hook of coarse black metal, launched through my window and attached to a thick chain. The hook skids backward, raking up more tiles until it lodges secure against the window ledge.
I toss the covers aside and hurry for the door of my room—but something whirs past my ear—a knife, thunking into the wall by the doorjamb. Shrieking again, I cower and cover my head. A quick peek backward reveals hulking figures clambering through my bedroom window.
Raiders, invaders—rovers from the north, the ones who constantly pillage and plunder the disputed border territories. They’ve never come this far into our district—certainly not to my family’s ancestral stronghold.
What could they possibly want?
2
I scoot backward on my bottom, away from the advancing figures. They’re enormous—like giants. Cold air eddies around them, filling my cozy room with its icy breath.
“Go away,” I screech, tears starting in my eyes. A stupid thing to say. I can’t stand up—I’m shaking too hard, so I rise on my knees and scrabble for the door handle, planning to throw myself out into the hall, where there are bound to be guards who can protect me—
But as I press the handle, giant fingers engulf my wrist, and another hand clamps around my waist. In half a second I’m spinning, whirling in midair as the big ruffian slings me over his shoulder.
“Go,” he grunts to the other two massive shapes. They’re all bundled in so much fur and armor plating and leather I can’t make out much of their bodies, and their faces are shrouded by hoods, fur hats, and shaggy manes of hair. They look beastly.
Draped over the metal pauldron of the ruffian, I can’t breathe very well. I struggle, but feebly. My breath comes short sometimes, even on the best of days, and right now I can scarcely sip enough air to push back the darkness threatening to consume my vision.
My heart is kicking into a frantic tempo I know all too well—one that usually sends me into a faint if I don’t sit still and breathe methodically for a while.
“Please,” I gasp. “I—I can’t—”
